#(ignore my messy apartment it’s been a volatile few days)

[zackstriker]

TIT jacket arrived what do we think phannies does it fuck?

[snowysosturn]

Allies or Affiliates? - Chris Sturniolo Part 5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Pairing : Y/n x Chris Sturniolo

Summary : Law student Y/n’s life takes a turn when she reconnects with Chris, her brief teenage flame who is now a dealer for a dangerous Boston drug gang. As their bond reignites, Y/n is drawn into Chris’s tumultuous world, where rival gangs clash and loyalty is everything. Balancing her love for Chris with her own ambitions, can their connection survive the chaos that threatens to pull them apart?

Warnings : MDNI, mentions of drugs, angst, shooting

Boston’s underworld had always been run by a handful of key players, but none were more notorious than Vince "The Hammer" Moretti and Hector "Hippo" Morales. Vince and Hippo had grown up together on the streets of Charlestown, both products of a harsh environment that carved out two very different men with the same ruthless ambition. They had been best friends once, inseparable, even. But all that changed nearly a decade ago.

Vince and Hippo had gotten into the drug game when they were just 18, barely out of high school, seeing it as their way to climb out of the projects. By their mid 20s, the pair had gained control of the Boston drug trade, a stunt many tried and failed to accomplish. Vince was the brains of the operation – calm, calculating, and deadly when crossed. He earned his nickname "The Hammer" for how swiftly and brutally he’d put down anyone who threatened their dominance. Hippo, on the other hand, was more volatile, a man ruled by his greed and short temper. He was massive, both in size and personality, often using fear as his primary tool to keep everyone in line.

For over a decade, Vince and Hippo controlled everything. They had a near monopoly on the flow of narcotics into the city, from the port of Boston to the streets of Dorchester and Roxbury. The two men seemed unstoppable, until Hippo’s greed got in the way. About ten years ago, Hippo started skimming off the top, undercutting Vince on deals, keeping higher profits for himself. He became sloppy, reckless, and started making decisions without Vince’s input. What had once been a steel bonded partnership was now on the verge of collapse.

The final straw came when Vince discovered that Hippo had been using his contacts to double cross him, dealing directly with Vince’s suppliers behind his back. It was a betrayal Vince couldn’t ignore. The fallout was abrupt, violent, and left a bloody trail across Boston. Vince cut ties with Hippo, taking half the runners with him, forming the Crimson Cartel, while Hippo established his own gang, H Block.

From that moment on, the city became a battleground. Vince ran his operation with precision, focusing on high level deals, ensuring loyalty through a mixture of fear and rewards. The Crimson Cartel quickly gained a reputation for its methodical and ruthless nature, mirroring Vince’s own personality. Meanwhile, Hippo’s H Block was more chaotic, driven by greed and violence, their methods sloppier but no less dangerous.

The two gangs have been at war ever since, battling for control of Boston’s streets. Every few months, a hit would happen, bodies would drop, and the balance of power would shift. Neither side was willing to back down, and both Vince and Hippo seemed content to continue the bloodshed, each trying to prove they were the most dominant force in the city. 

Chris’ POV

The date with Y/n had been a whirlwind. As I sat in my car after dropping her off, my mind spun with memories and emotions I hadn’t felt in years. Seeing her again was like being thrown back into our younger days, the way she used to make me feel when we were 15 year olds. Back then, she was my escape, my light in a life that was already starting to get messy. We’d shared laughs, dreams, and moments that felt so innocent compared to the world I’m in now.

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was falling for her fast. Like, way too fast. It was almost unsettling how quickly all those old feelings came rushing back. She had this way about her, she was kind, smart, and driven, that made me feel like I was missing something in my life. That same pull I felt years ago was stronger now, maybe because I knew I had lost her once before. And once she slipped through my fingers, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d made a huge mistake disappearing on her.

The truth was, when we were younger, I knew I didn’t deserve her. As much as I liked her, I could see the path I was heading down. Nate had just been roped into dealing when I started seeing her, and I knew I wouldn’t be far behind. That world wasn’t for Y/n. I wanted to protect her from it, from me, so I made the decision to just vanish from her life. No explanations, no goodbyes. It wasn’t fair to her, but at the time, I thought it was the only way to keep her safe.

When I saw her name pop up on my phone last week, after all these years, something in me shifted. I hadn’t thought about her for a long time, not really. But deep down, I knew there was still something there. And when we ran into each other in court.. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like fate was giving me a second chance, and I wasn’t about to let her slip away again.

But tonight freaked me out, especially when she told me she was studying law. That hit me like a punch to the gut. A lawyer and a drug dealer? What a fucking disaster waiting to happen. I tried to play it off, tried to act like I was proud of her – which I was, don’t get me wrong – but inside, I was panicking. I couldn’t shake the irony of it. She’s out here studying to defend people like me, and I’m knee deep in the shit she’s probably going to spend her career trying to put away.

It felt like the universe was playing some sick joke on me. I knew I had to keep her at arm’s length. Getting involved with her now, when my life was more dangerous than ever, was a bad idea. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be around her. I wanted to know her, to make her laugh like I used to. The problem was, this life I’m in? It doesn’t leave room for that.

When Vince called me tonight, I knew it was only a matter of time before shit hit the fan. He said there was going to be a hit on H Block, something that didn’t sit right with me. I don’t do that kind of work. I stick to runs and keep my head down. But Vince never calls me for this stuff unless it’s serious, and I knew better than to question him outright.

"Chris" his voice had been urgent, the kind of tone that told me there was no room for excuses. "We need someone to cover a run during the hit tonight. I know you don’t do the other shit, but I need you on this."

I sighed, gripping the steering wheel. "Why do you need me, Vince? Can’t someone else handle it?"

"Because I said so. Be at the spot in an hour. Don’t make me ask twice."

And just like that, the date was over. I hated that I had to cut things short with Y/n. I could see the disappointment in her eyes, the way she tried to hide it but failed. I wanted to tell her the truth, to explain why I couldn’t be the guy she needed me to be right now. But I couldn’t. I had to keep her at a distance, for both our sakes.

As I drove toward the meeting spot, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was dragging her into the same mess I’d tried to protect her from years ago. And the worst part? This time, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull away.

The night air was cold as I pulled up to the spot Vince had sent me. It was an old, run down lot in Somerville, far enough from downtown Boston that we could move quietly, but close enough to the action. I parked my car and killed the engine, my headlights slicing through the darkness before flicking off. I grabbed my green bandana from my side door compartment and wrapped it around my face, I had a bad feeling and I knew I needed to maintain a low profile. The place was deserted, except for a few cars parked near the back of the lot. Danny’s truck was one of them, its dented side glinting under the dim streetlight.

I got out, pulling my hoodie over my head and scanning the area. Danny, Sully, and a couple of the other guys were already there, moving crates from the warehouse to their vehicles. I walked over, hands stuffed in my pockets, trying to keep the unease from showing in my eyes, since thats all they could see.

“Chris” Danny greeted me, nodding as he hauled a large duffel bag into the back of his truck. Danny was Nate’s cousin, and we’d known each other for a while, though we weren’t exactly close. He was a little older than me, with the same family connections that kept Nate locked in this life. Sully, a stocky guy with a shaved head, was leaning against the hood of his car, smoking a cigarette. His eyes flicked up when he saw me.

“About time you showed up” Sully muttered, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot.

“I had things to take care of.” I replied, my voice low.

I popped the trunk of my car and started loading the packages Danny handed me. Each one was tightly wrapped, small but heavy. The weight of them felt like a reminder of how deep I was in now, how this life had a grip on me I couldn’t shake. As I lifted another bag, the headlights of a car suddenly illuminated the lot. The beam cut through the darkness, making all of us pause.

Sully narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell is that?”

I glanced up, watching as the car – a beat up Sedan with tinted windows, slowed as it approached. My pulse quickened, a cold chill running down my spine. Something wasn’t right.

“Fuck” Danny muttered, stepping away from his truck. “That ain’t one of ours.”

The car came to a stop about twenty feet away, its engine idling. For a moment, no one moved. The air was thick with tension, the kind you could feel deep in your gut. Then, just as Danny opened his mouth to speak, the passenger window rolled down and the flash of metal caught my eye.

“Gun!” I shouted, diving behind my car as shots rang out.

The lot exploded into chaos. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete and metal, shattering the quiet night. I heard Sully swear loudly as he ducked behind his car, pulling a gun of his own from his waistband. Danny fired back, unloading rounds toward the Sedan as the other guys scrambled for cover.

The H Block bastards must’ve gotten wind of the hit Vince planned on their crew tonight. They were trying to get ahead of us, throwing the first punch. My heart pounded in my chest as I crouched low, waiting for the spray of bullets to end. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The sedan’s tires squealed as the driver floored it, the car swerving wildly as it sped out of the lot. The gunfire ceased, leaving only the ringing in my ears and the smell of burnt rubber lingering in the air. Slowly, I stood up, my hands still trembling.

“Everyone good?” Danny called out, his voice tense. He lowered his gun, his eyes scanning the lot.

None of us were hit. Somehow, we had all managed to avoid getting shot. But that didn’t mean the situation was good.

Danny walked over to me, still holding his gun as he checked his surroundings. “You alright?”

“Yeah” I muttered, though my chest was still tight with adrenaline. “What the fuck was that?”

“H Block” Sully spat from behind his car, his face contorted with anger. “Those fuckers must’ve heard about the hit we’re pulling tonight. They wanted to get us first.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the unease settling deep in my gut. This was too close. I wasn’t supposed to be part of the violence, just the guy who kept things moving. But now, I was part of it whether I wanted to be or not.

Danny shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans and turned to me, his expression serious. “Listen, man, you need to get the fuck out of here. Go on the run and keep your phone on. We’ll take care of the rest.”

I looked at him, my jaw tightening. “What do you mean, take care of the rest?”

Danny’s eyes darkened. “We’re still pulling the hit on H Block tonight. This shit doesn’t change that. Just get the run done, and keep your head down.”

My stomach twisted as I nodded. Danny and the others quickly piled into their cars, engines roaring as they sped off into the night, ready to finish what had been started. I was left standing in the cold, my car now loaded with the packages I was supposed to deliver. But my mind was somewhere else, on the shots fired, on the faces in that car, and on the fact that everything had just gotten a hell of a lot more dangerous.

As I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, I couldn’t stop thinking about Y/n. She had no idea what I was caught up in, no idea how close I was to a world I’d tried to keep her out of. But now, I wasn’t even sure I could keep myself out of it.

a/n: posting a day early bc i need a social media cleanse tomorrow lol

taglist: @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @maggot3647 @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @lvrsturniolo @slutniolo @spaghetti835928383 @marrykisskilled @sturnsxplr-25 @bxtchboy69 @vickytaa @anikaistg

[bunkernine]

hi pls ignore this if i have mistaken you for someone else and am making a fool out of myself but are you the person who wrote isosceles?? because that fic altered my brain on an abnormal and chemical level way back when and i just remembered it the other day and binged it all again and i feel like i remember there being a few other fics in that universe (one from travis’s pov iirc) and i wanted to know where they are. of course if you are not the person who wrote isosceles i am a fool and feel free to ignore this ❤️

I did, yeah.

I wrote it when i was 14 so at a certain point i didn't want to be associated with it because it didn't reflect me as much anymore. It was my big baby at the time!!! But i divorced from that a few years ago. As for the other universe fics, if i remember correctly: connor, drew, a vers where jason admits to liking him back (some point isos implied that jason DID like leo back but was too confused to do anything).... But i deleted those first because they just weren't as fun, and my own friend group was falling apart so it felt too close.

But yes, you have found me LOLOL. Isos is orphaned, but unfortunately the other fics are deleted fr. Sorry :( but thanks for enjoying it!!! 💖

(ramblings under the cut)

The reason why i didnt delete isos too was because so many people were saying what you are now. If i could, id rewrite it (both with style and plot differences) and do a whole new remastered version. Im not sure why i decided to write his senior year when i was a freshman/sophomore LOL so I always figured I would've came back to it when I was older.... Clearly I did not.

I WAS miserable in high school, at least socially. So Leo was a little TOO personal and it made me mad when i basically did what he did towards the end. I spent some time just doing some random apolleo fics. Capolleo series, so my name should've been capolleon by then? LOLOLOL i had been majorly influenced by some now-deleted fic which is why apollo is even there 💀 but now im apollos age in the fic and im like 'hmm. Yeah maybe not...'

Then there was a fic that was coming out towards the end of isos that i felt was copying me 😭😭😭 ← 14/15 yr old feelings. Who cares! But i would update and then they would update and i was so paranoid 😭😭😭 honestly, the vibe in general for valgrace in 2018 is much different than right now, and it was much more open and varied in topics. This is not to discredit the current valgrace leaders or whatever the fuck, but the vibe is just ... Pretty different.

But yeah. Im sort of using this ask as an excuse to talk about it, but isos was SO big and what i was known for within the small vg circle (outside of the text fic at the same time 💀) so i was constantly reminded of it. And dont get me wrong, i ADORED that fic when i was writing it. I was upset whenever my life was too messy for me to drop the chapter of the month. Double updates felt so ... Um. Mature and awesome, like i was a professional 💀 i wrote leo as bisexual but he had a pretty strong inclination to men because i was figuring I'm out that I wasn't bisexual but a lesbian, but I couldn't really articulate that, especially as I was dating a guy through that fic. That was some cute little endpoint i was gonna have but its reality frightened me so it was dropped... The complexities of piperleojason were insane to think about when i was like, crying at lunch in my bf's car 😭 When it was posting, i left some really crazy A/N's showing how volatile i was at the time, that i eventually deleted. But i was so proud of it and it was a comfort to write. I think the drafts were a lot more raw but people loved it anyway.

Anyway. It's been a while since I've been able to talk about this fic. People have left the most loving comments in the world and it connected with a lot of readers. Its also my only fic that had fanart and playlists and such made for it! I was so proud of that! I dont think people understand how incredible that is and it truly is the dream for fic writers!!! I have other fics that inspired ppl, but isos was the one ppl constantly flocked to or appreciated :)

I used to cry writing some parts of it and now it just feels like an old diary entry. I haven't read it in a while and thought about remaking it (probs... As college kids though) but haven't bothered. Technical-wise, theres so many things that are dropped or forgotten or are just clumsy but thats really just a maturity thing.

Anyway THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!!!!!!!! Ppl dont ask me about my fics like they used to which was the whole reason why i made this account :(((( among other things, lack of interactions in fandom have decreased so much :((((

Love love love uuuuuuuuu

[cr1mson5returns]

"Either your trauma makes you sickeningly mentally ill or it makes you really fun at open mic karaoke night!" Well, mine did both. So.

It's no secret that I'm having really intense emotional shifts right now. A huge part of it is related to medication, which sounds terrible but is actually good news all things considered. I was approved for a patient assistance program to get the medication that works best for me to regulate my moods, which hasn't gone generic because of patents and is really expensive without insurance. $1500 for a 30-day supply at the pharmacy, actually. So I hadn't been on that medication since January, but the one I was prescribed in the hospital in March (2023) wasn't working for me. So I was able to get approved for this assistance program, and I'll be going back on this antipsychotic that's always done wonders for me. I just also have to get off this anticonvulsant that, while ineffective for mood regulation, was still in my system at 50 mg daily. You should never quit taking your meds without your doctor's advice and especially not all at once. My NP gave me the go-ahead to titrate down on my anticonvulsant so I can go up on the antipsychotic when it arrives. I'm just very emotionally sensitive and volatile in the meantime, more so than usual.

Sometimes I get these emotional crashes during the day for relatively minor and inconsequential reasons. Today, the thought of my landlord/housemate possibly thinking that I'm just sitting on my ass all day and not actually trying to get a job so that I can pay my rent hit me so hard that I had to leave the house to go clear my head and have an existential crisis in public for once.

These emotional crashes usually swell and inflame and crescendo until they swell all the way up to a climax point which reveals some previously-subconscious thought or urge or feeling that I can no longer ignore. And now that it's been brought to the forefront, I can relax a little and stew about it. Today, that climactic point was realizing that I don't actually know if I'm a good person.

I'm the type who believes that humanity is generally good. I assume good intentions; I think most people are good at their core and want to do good things. Very, very few people are truly evil or even mostly bad. I love humans so much and it's part of why I wanted to be a counselor to begin with. I just adore humanity. If I was given a choice to do one thing and ensure the survival of humanity, but knowing that I would not solve most of humanity's problems, I would still do that thing because I think our messiness is part of the beauty of us. I believe in the overarching goodness of humanity.

But down to a very specific point in the data - me, just little old me existing out here in my corner of reality - I don't actually know if I'm a good person. And I think it's equal parts identity disturbance from BPD, which is distressing in its own right, as well as the thorough conditioning of Catholicism saying that "apart from God we can do no good." And I don't consider myself Christian anymore, don't even know how I feel about the Christian God because I'm not in a place where I've been able to sit and explore that. So what does that make me?

Growing up Catholic robbed me of a lot. This is just one thing but it's a deep loss.

[shorkbrian]

Plzzz for the love of god I need more bully Bakugo

Prelude - here have some food. Part 1

Pairing - Bully Bakugou X Reader

Warnings - NSFW, degradation, spanking, noncon, dub con, all the cons. Dead dove.

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/4VezGgvwNY3mtTbAEkmRMY?si=NxDxEMfERc-3flSDuq8kpQ

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re such a fucking tease.”

Another slap to your ass, and you’re sure that if Bakugou’s hand wasn’t covering your mouth, you’d be wailing so loud that it could be heard across campus.

You’d been avoiding him after that weekend, after he’d tied you down and edged you for hours, laughing at you, occasionally pulling the vibrating dildo out of you just so he could push his cock into you, make you gush around his length. It had been torture, and scarring, and traumatizing, and you couldn’t even think about going to class for the first few days after he had sent you out of his dorm with a smack on the cheek and a “See you around, little bitch.”

There had been no way you were going to the classes you had with Bakugou. You were avoiding him like the plague, blowing off those classes, only creeping out of your dorm when you absolutely had to.

But you couldn’t avoid him forever, and he had told you as such when he grabbed you, shoving you sideways and into a family bathroom as you walked to one of your classes, head held low, feet hurrying.

“I can’t fucking believe you.” The blonde slapped your ass again, the flesh already raw and bruised. “I have the best weekend of my entire life, and then you fuck off and hide. “

Bakugou had you bent over at the sink, face half-squished against the dirty mirror, his hand clamped over your mouth, the other hand abusing your ass. You had been wearing sweatpants, but they were somewhere by the door, thrown there along with your underwear.

“Keep crying bitch,  you know it just turns me on.” Bakugou chuckled darkly, noticing your tearstained face in the mirror.  “Fuck, you look good like that. You’re so pretty, you made me do this.”

He was so volatile, mood unsteady and often changing for the worse. You couldn’t keep up, just openly sob into his hand.

“How does that make you feel, huh?” He asked, and if you weren’t about to be actively raped, you might’ve laughed. He sounded like a therapist, a fucked-in-the-head, psycho-the-rapist type thing. 

“Knowing that I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t such a pretty little cocksucker. If you weren’t so weak and pathetic, you could fight back. You could even tell someone.” Bakugou laughed again, voice rasping in your ear “But you never do. I bet you secretly enjoy this shit, huh - want someone to fuck you up and make you their little bitch?”

You shake your head, or, at least try to, but Bakugou doesn’t let you. He’s keeping your legs spread with his feet inside of yours, his crotch now pressed against your burning ass, his hand wrapped around your hip to slap quickly at your pussy.

“Yeah, you’re a sick littler fucker, I knew from the second I saw you. Looked like a bitchy little slut, only good for keeping a cock warm. This is all your fault, stupid whore.”

Logically, you knew that what he was saying wasn’t true. This wasn’t your fault, bakugou was just a rapist, a horrible man, this wasn’t your fault at all. But some nasty little part of you reared back at that statement, whispering that maybe it was.

Maybe you had encouraged him by excusing his behavior at first, when the man had first started pushing you around. Maybe it was because you had worn something a bit too revealing, or had done something suggestive while he was looking? You didn’t know what you had done to catch his attention, but you wished on everything holy (and everything unholy too) that you hadn’t. 

You jerked away from his touch as he began groping at your cunt, palming over your mound, slipping his fingers through your pussy lips roughly. Your movements only served to push you back into his crotch, and Bakugou rutted forward, trapping you between his fingers and his cock.

“Tch, you’re a piece of work. Crying like that, almost fuckin’ pissin’ yourself like a little girl. Can’t believe I actually fucking like you.”

All movement stopped. 

Wait, did Bakugou just say he liked you?

Before you had time to even consider that thought (why would he do any of this if he liked you?), Bakugou was swearing, retracting the hand molesting your pussy so he could work on unbuckling his belt, unzipping his jeans, pulling his cock free.

He was having trouble trying to achieve all of that one-handed, so he leaned forward, hissing a threat into your ear before taking his other hand away from your mouth. The second he did that, you sucked in a real breath, nose too stuffy with snot and mucus to be able to take in much oxygen.

“B-bakugou, ple-please... “

“Ple-ple-please what?” He cooed sweetly, mocking you as he worked his cock free of his boxers.

“I don’t wanna do - I don’t want to, I don’t wanna do-“

“I don’t fuckin’ care, ain’t that clear? But keep beggin’, I like that shit.”

His cock was pushing through your folds now, hips roughly rocking you forward against the sink, which you grabbed onto the edges to steady yourself. 

“No, no no no no, no, no-“ you sobbed, unable to say much else. You couldn’t do this, it was too much! His cocked was nudging against your clit on each thrust, and it was sending shocks of pleasure into your belly, making it draw tight. You felt disgusted with yourself.

Bakugou’s hands were on your hips, fingers digging into your skin as his hips worked his cock against you. He was grunting softly, breathing heavily already. And his cock was so hot pressing against your flesh,  and you could feel his precum getting smeared everywhere down there, it was so dirty, you wanted to throw up. 

The family bathroom was dirty too; it smelled weird, and  the mirror had smudges and what looked like a lipstick stain on the bottom edge. There was some kind of crusty buildup around the sink drain, not to mention the discoloration around the toilet. 

The state of the bathroom reflected how you felt inside - tainted, disgusting, used.

“Mmh, You gonna cry harder if I put it in?” Bakugou had his hand wrapped around his cock, tapping it upwards against your pussy, laughing as her flinched with each messy slap.

The man didn’t actually care about getting an answer, or maybe the way you burst into another round of tears was enough of an answer for him. He was leaning forward, draping his weight across your back, pushing his mouth right up against your ear.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna pound your little hole, and you’re gonna watch every second of it in that mirror, understand?”

You looked up at your reflection in the mirror, puffy eyes, puffy lips, top askew, bottom half bare. You tried to pretend that you couldn’t see Bakugou’s cock starting to slide through your folds again. You couldn’t stand this, couldn’t look, so you closed your eyes, bowing your head.

“Ah, ah, ah babe - if you don’t look-“  You heard the sound of the impact before you felt it. But when your bruised ass registered the hit, you screeched, almost crumbling atop the sink. It hurt so much, oh god, it hurt. “-that’s gonna happen. So I suggest you open your fucking eyes, and watch.”

Blearily, you opened your eyes, staring numbly at yourself in the mirror.

Bakugou grabbed a handful of your ass, kneading it roughly before spreading your cheeks apart, hand guiding his cock to line up with your entrance. It felt so awful, all of it. There was pain, and shame, and disgust, and you were mortified that the little candle of pleasure in your stomach was turning into a bonfire. At least Bakugou wasn’t a savage, or at least not interested in seeing you bleed (this time, he’d kneed you in the face once when you tried to refuse to suck his dick and given you a nosebleed) because he went slow. Well, as slow as a guy like him could go.

It was still entirely too fast, the way he entered you, pushing his hips forward easily and filling you up in one rough thrust. 

You watched from the mirror, legs spread apart far enough that you could easily see when Bakugou was balls deep, his hip bones jutting against your ass. Your poor ass, you don’t think you’d be able to sit for a while after this.

The man paused when he bottomed out, breathing heavily, chuckling almost maniacally as he made eye contact with you through the dirty mirror.

“Fucking shit, you’re so goddamn tight. Mmh-“ he jostled his hips, his cock rubbing against your walls deliciously “-So wet too. You’re such a fucking slut, bet you’d gag on any dick you could find.”

You shook your head “No-no, I don’ - don’ do that!”  You wept, but any further argument you were about to make was cut off by Bakugou pulling out, then thrusting into you as deep as he could.

Eyes still focused on where his cock was forcing you open, your jaw relaxed, and you struggled to keep your eyes open. You hated it, you hated it so much, but Bakugou was good at this. He was ramming into you, not fast, not slow, but hard and deep. Every few strokes he would shimmy his hips, and his cockhead hit something inside of you, something that made your legs weak and your pulse jump.

An excruciating pain bloomed across your ass, and your eyes snapped open - when had you closed them? You caught Bakugou’s gaze, and shivered. He was sweating, brows furrowed, intensely focused on watching your face in the mirror. 

The intensity he was exhibiting scared you, honestly. Of course, Bakugou was pretty much always intense in everything he did, from playing football to studying (you’d seen him once in the library, hunched over his books with a scowl that could wilt weeds), but you’d never seen him look at something, at someone, like that.

He noticed you looking back at him, which made his cheeks color, and then another slap was delivered to your ass, and you yelped, jolting forward from the pain.

“Ba-akugo! I didn’ - please, I didn’t do anythingggg.” You openly wept. 

You were ignored, Bakugou choosing to pound you harder rather than respond.

  “Fucking look at yourself, damn. You’re nothing more than a stupid cockslut, a little whore. No one’s ever gonna want you, you’re absolutely worthless.” He spat, threading a hand through your hair, pulling your head back. You had to follow his hand or else he’d rip your hair out, an unspoken threat, so you did, until your back was flush against his chest.  He wrapped a hand under your thigh, hiking it up into the air, forcing you to go on your tiptoes as he hooked your knee over his elbow, spreading you open.

“Look at that. See how wet you are? I can hear it.” He growls in your air, breathing heavily.

He was right, the slick sounds of him messing up your cunt reverberating in the bathroom. You could only watch as his cock hammered into you, his pace picking up quickly. 

You started to cry, really��cry. Ugly, heaving sobs, where you couldn’t breath, your head throbbing towards a horrific headache, hands uselessly grabbing at Bakugou’s arms, not to stop him, there was no way you could - but to steady yourself from the brutality of his thrusts.

“Oh fuck, fucking christ, ‘m close, shit.” Bakugou gasped, and you wiggled in his hold, hyperventilating. You knew it just turned him on more, made him fuck you harder, but you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to dislodge his cock. He couldn’t cum inside, please.

“Not-not inside! Please please please not inside, Bakugou ple-ase!”

Bakugou didn’t respond, just panted in your ear, low groans rumbling through his chest as his hips humped against you, driving his cock into your cunt with a sloppy squelch on each rapid thrust.

You felt him cum.

You felt the first few ropes of warmth shoot inside you, but then the blonde was pulling out, jacking his cock onto your pussy, striping the rest of his cum over the outside of your cunt. It was humiliating. 

But you figured it was better than inside.

“Mmm, fuck bitch. You always know how to get me off. Good little pussy.” He finished humming, giving his wet cock one last tug, before messily slapping his hand over your cunt, rubbing his cum into your skin. It felt disgusting. 

You let him do what he wanted, let him rub circles over your clit, let him abandon the little nub in favor of sticking two of his cum-covered fingers inside of you, rubbing at your walls quickly. It felt good, but you were tired, and you didn’t want it to.

“Alright, I got class. Wanna suck me clean?”

His hands retracted from your body, and he let your leg down, pushing you away from him as gently as he could (which wasn’t very gently). A side step, then he was in front of you, washing his hands underneath the sink. You watched him blankly. 

“Well? You gonna suck me off? Or just stand there like a goddamn fish?”

You slowly dropped to your knees, cringing at the bathroom floor. It was nasty, dirty, probably covered in piss and maybe shit an-

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, I’m gonna be late.” Bakugou was looking at his phone, before his eyes flicked to you. He grabbed a handful of paper towels, dabbing at the mess covering his dick.

“How ‘bout you meet me after my class, and we’ll both get a little treat? Would you like that, stupid bitch?” He crouched down in front of you, pinching your cheek as he talked to you in a cutesy baby voice. 

When you didn’t respond, he grabbed your chin, yanking you forward until you were inches from his face. “Say yes, or you’re not gonna like the shit I’ll do to you.”

“Ye-yes, yes Bakugou.” You spluttered, trying to stop hiccuping on sobs, but failing pathetically. 

Bakugou nodded to himself, before pausing, as if appraising you. His eyes wandered over your face, and the next thing you knew he was kissing you, lips soft, passionate.

When he pulled away, you were left dazed, still kneeling on the ground. The man rose to his feet, stomping over to where his backpack hung on the door. He stopped to pick up your underwear from your sweatpants, pocketing the fabric as he grinned at you.

“Don’t forgot about meetin’ me after class, got it? Make me wait and I’ll beat your ass.” He paused, cocking his head to glance at your backside, before laughing. “Eh, or maybe I’ll just fuck it.” His eyes gleamed as he straightened his head. “So don’t be late.”

And with that warning he was shouldering his backpack, kicking your sweatpants towards you, slipping out the door.

Belatedly, you realized that your clit was still buzzing, that the pleasure clenching up your stomach hadn’t crested. 

With a sob, you let your fingers find their way to your pussy.

[quirklessidiot]

Title: dreary [a miya osamu birthday special] Pairing: gn!reader x miya osamu Genre: mild angst, fluff, drama, age-up!osamu and reader

Synopsis: in which a famous author sees the world in a greyscale but the moment he enters it, he splashes colors onto their dull and dreary world.

Notes: 

will this be a series???? idk probably ksksksks but yeah happy osamu and atsumu day since we have the coward series already, its only respectful that i make a story for osamu because he deserves the love too on this special day (or because im just well, you know a miya simp hA)

ALSO ITS CANON I THINK THAT OSAMUS GOT GREY EYES IDK KSKSKohwellKSKSKD

Warnings: language, smoking, and Y/N being a problematic and arrogant asshole

masterlist

People often wonder how novels come to be, how writers are able to sow a bunch of words together and create such masterpieces. How they’re able to make the hearts of their readers tug or ponder in deep thought, how they’re able to gather a group of individuals and create a passion together. 

You were one of the general census now.

Here you were, in the middle of a messy room, the smell of smoke and black coffee lingering the air as you laid on your couch with papers crumpled on each side and pens strewn across your living room. 

“What the hell?”

You’re immediately greeted by a harsh light without warning, you immediately mumble a bunch of curses underneath your breath, “What the fuck, Mikoto?” you growled, shutting your eyes and covering it with a pillow.

“When you said you wanted to take a vacation at Hyogo I didn’t expect you to be pigging around!” Your agent exclaimed, his fiery red hair mirrored his volatile personality, just like you, he had a temper and everyone did say you can never fight fire with fire. It’s a miracle he put up with you.

You immediately flipped him off, “You better hope I don’t minus that on your paycheck, fucker.” you grumbled beneath the pillow, “Now close the lights, I’m tryna concentrate!”

“Concentrate on what exactly? I gave you two weeks, Y/N.”

“I’m doing it.”

“It’s been two months!” He half-yelled, “You haven’t been out for promotions in two years and you haven’t released a book in the three years, you’re going to be washed up at this point!”

You immediately remove the pillow from your face and stare at your agent, “Washed up? People still buy my books!” You retort.

“Your sales are going down, Y/N.” He placed a envelope in front of you, “You might not even be relevant at the end-”

You immediately grab the files and toss it to the side, it’s contents spilling out, “I have enough money to live a comfortable life.” You clenched your hands tight, what a joke, you paid this man to work for you. Why was he calling you out like he was your father or something? Even your father didn’t call you out this way.

“That’s not the point-”

You ignore him as you place another cigarette in between your lips, “Then what is the point? I pay you to manage my contracts and shit, what I do on my down time is none of your business.” you cut him off.

“If you’d stop being an ass for a moment-”

“You can leave, you know your way out.” You cut him off once again, completely tired of his bullshit despite him just getting here, “Now.”

Mikoto narrows his eyes, “The higher ups are giving you another month, if you can’t give them a draft, they’re letting you go.”

You run your hands through your dry and frizzy hair, still ignoring him. As you hear the door shut, you puff the smoke your of your system and stare at the blank sheets of papers and your battery dead laptop, “What a fuckin’ joke.” you mumble, crushing the cigar on the expensive mahogany table. You slowly shuffle towards the kitchen, wanting to prepare yourself an instant meal yet when you notice that your pantry and ref is empty and that your local delivery doesn’t seem to be available, you’re more annoyed as the moments past.

“What kind of fucking restaurants are these?” you scowled, staring at your phone, you hated going out. The sun was too bright, there would be people around and you hated being a few feet away from any living creature since their breathing patterns annoyed the fuck out of you. You could wait until-

You stop on your footsteps when you hear your stomach growling, “Ah shit.” you cursed, “Really?”

Grabbing the cleanest jacket and pair of darkest shades, you decided that you might as well grab some take-out and get out to find something to eat. Not even bothering to comb the frizzes of your hair or splash some water on your face, you walk down the street with your hood up and shades on. It wasn’t sunny as you recalled, maybe it had been two months already.

It was getting kind of cold compared to the last time you went out.

You stop at the first restaurant you come across, onigiri miya. Sounds interesting, might as well grab a bite since it wasn’t a rush hour here and you didn’t want to walk anymore farther. Opening the shop’s door, you're greeted by Japanese interior and the smell of onigiri and some sauce you can’t seem to point out, “Welcome to Onigiri Miya, why don’t ya grab a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment?” someone calls out.

You nod at the woman as you sit nearest to the exit and stare at the variety of onigiri’s the place has to offer. You never knew such flavors even existed to begin with.

Man, the owner must really love onigiri’s huh?

“Ya ready to order?”

Your thoughts are cut short as you hear a voice, you seem to notice that the woman’s voice is deeper this time and the accent of a local is more evident, odd. Looking up from the menu to tell her your order, you're thrown off guard by a pair of friendly grey eyes staring right at you and it was definitely not the woman from earlier.

He was fairly good-looking with a good build, indicating that he kept his life healthy and unlike you, this one seemed to have his life in order by his clean and pristine appearance, “Fatty tuna onigiri’s please. Five pieces.” you simply say, squinting your eyes behind your dark shades. 

“Would you like anything to drink with that? Sides?”

“No.” You simply replied, you were still staring at him, completely enamored by his presence. He reminded you of something, better yet, he reminded you of a weird feeling. You slowly tap your fingertips on the table, eyes still glazing on him as he said that he’ll be back soon with your order. He didn’t seem to notice your open gaze on him.

Grey eyes.

A mysterious and happy smile.

The tapping on the table turns rhythmic as words slowly start to form in your head and before you know it, you're standing up and asking the nearby woman for a pen and a napkin. The woman looks at you in an odd manner but nevertheless she complies, you hurriedly start to scribble on the paper the first few sentences of what seemed to be the novel that you’ve been desperately trying to write these past two years.

Placing some money on the table for the meal that hasn’t arrived, you immediately run outside and back to your apartment, ignoring the woman behind you and the calls of the waiter who had struck an unfamiliar yet at the same time a familiar chord within you.

The world that was once void of color and inspiration seemed to be overflowing, all because of those grey eyes.

taglist wont be open for this one since im not sure if i should even continue this.

[therewrites]

We Are Who We Are Overall Thoughts *spoilers*

This review will be discussing briefly some of the episodes so far, so SPOILERS

So I started watching the HBO original series, We Are Who We Are, and I am conflicted. When I initially watched it, the dialogue made it hard for me to enjoy it so I stopped. Then after a couple of weeks after its airing, I thought, what the hell? And this time, I was pleasantly surprised. I always maintain the belief that pilot episodes are either boring, messy, or just bad so I try to push past it in order to get to the good shit. The pilot for We Are Who We Are was...I’m not sure how to explain...different? It certainly wasn’t bad and it made an impression on me, but this show as a whole is hard to limit by just a few words. It’s really something that you should watch and experience yourself.

It was only after the first 3 episodes that I began to understand the tone and mood that Luca Guadagnino was trying to convey. A lot of the time, the dialogue is abrupt and choppy and can make no sense. It can be frustrating, especially when you have two characters that aren’t communicating effectively. But I think that was the point. Guadagnino is a very realistic director, he captures the most realistic elements in a film. A lot of the conversations between characters is meant to emulate real life. Like, what the hell do you say when a conversation becomes awkward? Well, nothing sometimes.

While Guadagnino’s typical cinematography may suggest whimsy, in WAWWA’s case the small structured and synthetic model of the military base is juxtaposed to the very concrete characters. When I started to view the show less as simply a televised airing of fictional characters and problems, and instead looked at them as people, I began to really enjoy it. 

Take the main character of Fraser, played by Jack Dylan Grazer. Fraser is meant to be seen as an extremely complex and troubled kid, but the difference between him and every other teen in a coming-of-age drama is that he isn’t polished. His drinking and drug habit isn’t framed as romantic or beautiful, in fact most of the time it’s portrayed as his weakness of sorts. In the first episode, Fraser has one of his mothers drive him home after getting pretty wasted and Luca graces us with a direct shot of him throwing up. And before that, Fraser is stumbling on a bridge when he drunkenly falls and cuts his face. Everything the character does is messy, uncoordinated, yet extremely real and relatable. Hell, in one shot you can clearly see him do a Naruto run!

Caitlin/Harper is a character that I enjoyed watching, as well. Jordan Seamon did a fantastic job and I really connected with their character. Initially we see Caitlin as this mysterious girl, and in the pilot we are meant to assume that their relationship with Fraser is supposed to develop into a romantic one. This is not the case as it seems that Caitlin is trying to come to terms with who they are. The biggest shift in Caitlin’s character isn’t their friendship with Fraser but probably when they get their period. 

This was a moment that even I related to, even though I am cis when I first got my period I didn’t tell my mom until the day after. The possible confusion and shift in their reality that Caitlin felt was only heightened with the conflict of their boyfriend wanting to be more physically intimate, and Fraser’s eventual discover of Harper. I would have like to see exactly why Fraser seemed drawn to Caitlin. I’m assuming viewers were supposed to think that Fraser is attracted to her, or something. But both Caitlin/Harper and Fraser are queer coded and their respective sexualities are alluded to not being straight. It would’ve made their standing as platonic friends more clear if this had been established stronger. 

I definitely think the writer could have devoted more time to giving certain characters proper conversations. It would’ve given more development to certain characters and better context for things. However even without that, there is a lot that the audience is showed that can’t be told through dialogue. The power struggle between Sarah and Richard being one. So far, there hasn’t been any explanation as to why they have a such a volatile relationship other than Richard being a homophobe. 

Through deeper inspection, I was able to interpret it as: Richard may heavily resent the fact the Sarah was promoted to Colonel and not him. It is never made clear who has the better credentials, Sarah or Richard, but assuming that she was the one promoted it is a safe guess. This may be highlighted by the fact that Sarah is a women, and also gay. Even before episode 7, it was clear that Richard did not respect her authority. I also interpreted it as Richard being upset that and openly gay women was promoted instead of him, a black man. 

Of course this is just based on my own personal knowledge of how the U.S. military can be towards people of color and LGBTQ+. Regardless, the competitive tension between two parents is palpable without needing dialogue to explain.  

When conflict happens, I can kind of figure out which characters are going to react and which one’s will stay silent. I think the show is trying to accomplish a drastically realistic and raw series. It took me while to adjust to it, but by maybe the 2nd or 3rd episode, it starts to grow on you. Despite not liking a good majority of the characters, I was very surprised by how invested I was in them. 

Like, Danny is my least favorite character because he displays very abusive and explosive tendencies, and doesn’t seem to care about the world around him. However, getting glimpses into his character and seeing how Richard ignores him for Caitlin/Harper, his suicidal thoughts, and how he is trying to reclaim his cultural and religious background makes me empathize with him. 

Even though I hate his character, I can see that he is struggling. I appreciate the way that this show freely shows dark skinned black boys dealing with mental health issues, and personal development. Rarely are issues like suicide talked about in the black community, so seeing Danny talk about it and Craig offering(admittedly poor)comfort was touching. This is a general vibe that I get from nearly all the characters on WAWWA. I also appreciated the how Danny is actively trying to convert to Islam. In shows, rarely is Islam ever portrayed in a positive manner. Especially when female characters are shown to be struggling with their religion, Islam is shown as this barrier that prevents them from living life. Hopefully it goes without saying that the “taking off the hijab” as a way to show that a female character is “liberated” is overplayed and does not offer any respect to the countless Muslim women who choose to wear hijabs. 

Now I think the pacing of some of the storylines could have been handled a bit more gracefully. Like how we jump from Fraser and Harper being kind of enemies(not really but you know what I mean), to just them hanging out in Richard’s boat was jarring. I would have at least liked to see the scene of them talking on the rocks at the beach. It would’ve given more insight on Caitlin/Harper’s character and also on Fraser too. Also how quickly Maggie and Lu(Jennifer but I love the name Lubaba, it’s my aunt’s name)jump into a physical affair. I just would have liked to see a build up of tension between all these characters but I don’t think this entirely ruins the plot. 

I was very iffy when I learned that the show would be focusing on trans identity and gender and sexuality, but not actually hire a trans male actor. I was afraid that the show would completely botch the experiences of being transgender, and honestly I don’t have the authority to speak on whether or not this affects the quality of the show. I am cisgender, and only can empathize with this particular situation as much as I can. But I would like to hear to the opinion of someone who is trans and elaborate on the ways that they did/didn’t like Jordan Kristine Seamón’s portrayal. 

Now at the time I’m writing this, the season finale has yet to come out. But I’d also like to briefly discuss the most recent episode and how it developed Jonathan and Fraser’s relationship. I was VERY worried that Guadagnino was going to take their relationship in the direction of inappropriate. While nearly all the depictions of Jonathan and his actions have been trough Fraser’s pov, it didn’t stop me from side-eyeing some of the interactions they shared. Of course after it was mentioned that Jonathan was supposed to be in his late 20s, nearing 30 I was immediately uncomfortable with the very flirty behavior he exhibited. 

So when the scene of Fraser going up to his apartment after Craig’s death, I was very on edge. If Guadagnino had gone the extra mile to show an even larger age gap then I would’ve been pissed. While I enjoyed Call Me By Your Name, the implication that sexual relationships between barely legal teenagers and adults well into their 20s was sensual is something that I see as very weird now that I’m older. So seeing Jonathan as the object of Fraser’s affections made me extremely warry. 

And honestly, I’m still surprised that the scene even happened in its entirety. I’m sure that Jack was not in any danger of being exploited but there were definitely points while watching I thought, what the fuck is going on? I was very worried that it would escalate, but I was happy to see that Fraser was the one who stopped it from going further.  It made sense to me that this scene took so many liberties to be as graphic as possible without being too graphic, in order to show why a situation like that would be scary and confusing for Fraser. It wasn’t lost to me that Marta and Jonathan were the one’s initiating all the sexual advances. They held all the power in that scenario, even more so because Fraser is younger and has the tendencies to not make the best decisions. Though it seemed that Fraser was trying, he knew that the situation was fucked up.

I’d like to hear what JDG felt and thought doing this scene. What was his character’s thought process?

I’ve seen a lot of people compare the show heavily to CMBYN, which is fine. Besides certain cinematic parallels that people pointed out, I don’t see the clear comparison. CMBYN is more of a love story and it’s more polished than WAWWA. Now when I say tat, I don’t mean it as a negative. Rather, We Are Who We is obviously more devoted to realism and its characters. I appreciate the inclusion of more LGBTQ+ people and black main characters with development, something that CMBYN lacked. And for some people who didn’t like the show based solely on the fact that it wasn’t a CMBYN tv show, I suggest just going into it with no expectations and enjoy the mess. 

And I’d also like to take a moment to commend Jack Dylan Grazer for his job in We Are Who We Are. All of the main cast are amazing actors and actresses and did a really good job bringing their characters to life. Though, I had always associated JDG with supporting roles that, while highlighted his acting talent, only put him in a one-dimensional light. As good as It 2017 was, JDG’s role of Eddie is only meant to be seen as a comic relief. In WAWWA, I was able to forget that he was teen actor, Jack Dylan Grazer, and really see him as Fraser. It’s worth mentioning that in a GQ interview, Grazer also mentioned how this role made him reevaluate is approach to acting. 

And after reading an interview he did with a Interview Germany, with him saying he spent months in Italy reading the script and trying to perfectly craft this character, I was immensely impressed. I hope that he knows that all his hard work payed off and made a really dynamic and interesting character. I really hope that in the future JDG continues with more mature or multi-dimensional roles because he displayed that he has the talent to do so. Him being so young makes me optimistic in knowing that he is definitely going places in his career. I also hope that there will be a season 2 of WAWWA because despite having hour long episodes, the show still felt way too short. There is a lot about Fraser’s character, and all the others’ characters, that I want more information and analysis on.

[summerofsnowflakes]

Every time (Rafael Casal x Reader)

Word Count: 4.3K

Warnings: Angst, Sexual themes, Heartbreak, Alcohol, Drug Use and Addiction. Wow I really went the full nine yards with this one.... 

This is the first time I have written for Rafa so I hope I did him justice. This is kind of based on Every time by Ariana Grande, I adore the song and kind of felt inspired so I ran with the story.  I really hope it is enjoyed. 

Tags: @braidedchallah as you asked so nicely! Here’s your tag! Enjoy :) 

She awoke up in a groggy haze, blinking a few times so her eyes could focus in the dark room. Her head was throbbing, her hangover from the night before had already arrived and she was aware of the faint snoring coming from the other side of the bed. She didn't need to look to know it was Rafael, she also didn't need to check the under the sheets she was tangled in to know she was naked. The vivid memories of last night flooded Y/n's mind as she laid there. It had started with just texts and then the calls started that pulled each other away from their friends, that led to needing to see one another which always leads to sex. Now here she was, lying in his bed regretting everything as she had so many time before.

This is how almost every night out had ended for the two exes, they resumed this new kind of relationship after their very messy breakup six months ago. As Y/n laid there, calmed by the soft snores she thought back over their relationship. It had been great to begin with, they were made for one another and they feel hard and fast. From the start everything was fueled by raw emotion, Y/n let him see every part of her and he returned this by doing the same. She knew when they got together his mental health wasn't great, but she did all she could to be the sunshine on his dark days. Rafa developed a habit and before Y/n could catch him from falling it became serious. His drinking and drug use only got worse, she couldn't remember a time when he was sober in the last few months they had together. She was hurting so badly and she tried her best to keep a handle on the situation and their relationship, but he had only seen that as her trying to control him. They both reached their breaking point and ended everything in flurry of tears.

She wept silently at the memories, it was all too much to bear for her. She had to get out now, but as she stood up to get her clothes  the alcohol that was still in her system rushed to her head and she tripped over her heels. The noise she made startled Rafa awake and she felt her heart sink. This was not apart of their usual routine, usually the person who stayed over slipped out silently to avoid the sober conversations and the reminder of what could have been. Rafa spoke first, "Hey".

"Uhhh hi, sorry I wasn't trying to wake you." She spoke softly and resumed getting dressed. More successfully this time around.

"Are you okay?" His voice strained as he asked.

Y/n paused in place with her back turned to him. "Bit of a loaded question Rafa." She knew he was asking about the fall but he mind was still stuck thinking about their relationship and she couldn't help the sarcasm in her retort. She hadn't seen the way his demeanour dropped in defeat as the words came out, it cut him deep. She didn't turn to look at him again, she couldn't trust herself not to climb back into bed with him and play happy families. She took a deep breath and spoke again,  "I'll see you soon."

Y/n walked out before he could utter another word. She didn't hear him say "I love you" as she left.

Her second attempt to sneak about that morning failed as she tried to creep into her flat without rousing her flat mates. Everyone knew how volatile Y/n and Rafa had become for one another and for the most part she tried to avoid the topic with her friends. Unfortunately for Y/n they were both in the kitchen drinking their morning coffee and discussing the previous night. She saw the disappointment in their eyes as they bore into hers and she had no explanation for them. She knew they only cared and had her best interest at heart, they had tried to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart, but she wouldn't allow them to. She had excluded herself from all things that normal life had to offer. The only thing she had done for months was sit alone in her room or go out and get drunk. As she stood there in silence and seeing their faces, she had no words and all she could only  stare blankly back at them while they spoke.

Emily spoke first, "Hun, you need to talk to us."

Anita jumped in straight after. "Yeah, we're so worried about you. You don't sleep, you barely eat, you've lost so much weight recently and the only thing you're interested in is going out and drinking."

"I'm convinced you only go out because you know you'll see him Y/n." Em continued.

Y/n felt a lump in her throat, they had it exactly right. "You just wouldn't understand." She whispered in attempt to deflect.

"Then help us understand, we don't want to see you like this anymore."

How could she make them understand? Rafa was the great love of her life, they were so deeply connected. They had shared so much pain together, pain that was still holding them both in place. Maybe this is why she avoided the topic with them. She knew they would get through to her and she wasn't ready to accept it was over just yet. She bowed her head to hide her face and said "I'm just not myself when I am not with him. It's like I lose a bit more of myself every day that we're apart. No matter what I do, I go back every time because for a small amount of time I feel like the old me." She was crying hard now and her eyes were screwed shut. She was shocked by the two sets of arms embracing her as she let it out and they stood there for the longest time allowing her to calm down.

Em grabbed her face so their eyes were in line "I know it's hard Y/n, but you are so much more than your relationship. You had a life before him and you will have one after him." Y/n nodded her head in response and Anita still held on to her lovingly from behind.

For the first time in months she felt as though she could breath on her own and she had to thank her friends for being so amazing. She allowed herself to integrate back in with the girls and they spent the rest of the day cuddled up on the sofa together under a duvet, watching trashy films and eating junk food. That night when the texts started up Y/n blocked his number, it hurt and it was hard but she knew she needed this.

This was the first step to moving on and starting her life afresh, without Rafa.

That sentiment lasted all of two weeks. For fourteen whole days Y/n detoxed herself, she ate three full meals a day, she only drank water and tea. She didn't touch a drop of alcohol to avoid impairing her judgement and calling him and had even missed out two nights out with the girls. If she kept herself busy enough she was almost convinced that she didn't even miss him. She did everything she could think of to avoid thinking about him. She tried to avoid picking up her phone, worried that she would 'accidentally' unblock him.

There was an awkward feeling in her flat that very Saturday two weeks later. Daveed's birthday party was tonight, none of the girls could avoid it. They had all been in the same friendship group once and none of them were about to let him down. Y/n tried so hard not to worry. Unfortunately the anxiety was determined to win and her heart was beating out it's chest uncontrollably. She took a deep breath in allowing it to wash over her, very aware that the longer she fought it the worse it would get.

Quietly she whispered to herself, "You'll be fine, you're going to have a good night." She repeated this to herself again and again throughout the whole getting ready process, until she was finished. She stared at herself and feeling good because she knew she had a killer outfit on and her make-up looked flawless. "I'll be okay."  Y/n had been so nervous that she had already started drinking way before the party. It was the only way she could calm her nerves. Two weeks it had been since she had seen him or let him dominate her thoughts. Tonight he would be unavoidable.

It seemed everyone else had the same idea to turn up a little tipsy or high. When Daveed came over to greet the girls Y/n could smell the alcohol and weed on him. There was no denying it. Rafael wasn't far behind him, red eyed and body swaying, he smiled at her not really noticing Emily or Anita as he walked over. Y/n returned his smile but turned her back on him and walked to the kitchen to fix herself a drink while the girls spoke to Daveed about his birthday. As she poured out her wine into the biggest wine glass she could find, she hadn't noticed that Rafa had followed her into the kitchen.

"Now that is a big glass of wine." His voice startled her as she was lost in her own thoughts momentarily.

"It's been a long week."

"You're telling me, it's been a long two weeks, my dream girl's been ignoring me, she even blocked my number." He said hanging his head dramatically.

"Maybe she had good intentions for both of you." She reasoned and now looking at him she realised how much she had missed him.

"You're probably right, do you think she'll ignore me the whole night though?" He inquired with a bit of hope.

Y/n thought momentarily, still unsure and fighting her tipsy brain to answer logically. She knew she be avoiding him but as he stood across from her, looking so good she knew that she's already lost the battle. "I think you might be lucky tonight."

He laughed, his beautiful laugh, it engulfed her brain and he closed the gap between them, clasping his arms around her. Her nose was met with the smell of weed and the sober part of her sighed sadly as the drunk Y/n took over completely. She knew in the back of her mind that she would be regretting him in the morning.

All the hard work she had done to move forward came undone in seconds and it was completely forgotten. She ignored the looks her friends gave her as they made their way out of the kitchen together and set up camp together on a sofa away from everyone else in the party. They were in their own little world as they caught up, both in very good spirits and not noticing that they were being watched subtly by all their friends, who were all stunned by the sight. They looked like a couple again as if nothing bad had ever happened. The party through itself into full swing, drinking, drugs, dancing and games and for a little while Y/n and Rafa stayed on the sofa ignoring the party go by, Y/n sat on his lap and traced circles on her bare leg.

"Rafa, you down for beer pong, my man?"  Daveed shouted over the crowd, breaking their conversation. Rafa saw Diggs holding a cup and ping pong ball and looked back to Y/n silently asking if she wanted to play too. She nodded and followed him over to the make-shift set up.

"Sorry Y/n, I need my partner in crime back for this game, we an unbeatable team you know." Daveed patted her sympathetically.

"Oh yeah so unbeatable, which is why every time I play against you, you lose." Y/n retorted. She looked around for the girls, Emily was too busy chatting up a very attractive lady, but Anita was free and by her side instantly to be on her team.

Rafa jumped in this time. "Funny, I remember someone crying and throwing a tantrum the last time we played because she lost."

"That's the only time I've lost against you both and I only got pissed off because you said, and I quote 'it's just a game'."

They were both in stiches laughing at her as she got worked up over the memory of losing. Y/n really was a sore loser.. "Fuck you both, just start the game."

The game started off very friendly with the boys taking the lead early on, but the girls easily caught then up. Now it was down to the wire, both teams had one cup left each and the energy around the table was tense. No one spoke as Y/n lined herself up as best as she could now that her head was foggy from the alcohol and she felt herself sway slightly. She took the shot as best as she could but managed to land in the last cup. From beside her Anita jumped and squealed. "You did it Y/n, we won!" Y/n turned and jumped around with her. She momentarily turned back to Daveed and Rafa who looked very pissed off and stuck her middle finger up at them both, laughing a little too evilly.

"I forgot she's just as much of a sore winner as she is when she loses." Daveed said quietly and they walked over to the girls on the other side of the table.

"I didn't." Rafa replied and laughed quietly to himself. Despite losing, he felt a little sense of pride over watching Y/n win. He slung his arm over her shoulder, pulling her into him again.  "Well done baby." He whispered in her ear and once again they slipped back into their own world away from the party.

"Maybe you should consider a new partner in crime for party games. It's clearly not working out for you." She said teasingly.

"You might be right about that."

Unsurprisingly, Y/n found herself back in Rafa's bed that night. The happiness from the party quickly turned into a hungry neediness for one another. Y/n was easily wrapped in Rafa's arms early into the morning, tangled once again in the sheets with her lace underwear discarded on the floor. As they lay there in the post-sex bliss, Y/n softly traced her fingers along his tattoo's, dipping in and out of sleep while rafa sang quietly to her.

"Y/n are you still awake?" He asked, grogginess evident in his voice.

"Just about."

"We always end up coming back to each other, don't we?"

"Every time."

Neither of them uttered another word, nothing more needed to be said.

That was the last time the spoke to each other or saw each other for six months. Something changed for Y/n and Rafa after that night, for Y/n it felt like closure. He remained blocked on her phone and she thought that was for the best. She really had felt like she was moving on, she had been on a few dates, even had a few dick appointments; although, none were as good as him. She told herself it was the best way to move forward, she had been too static for such a long time.

As she sat in front of her full length mirror doing her make-up for a girls night out, a very long overdue night out.

Anita popped her head into Y/n's room. "You ready?"

Y/n smiled, "yeah, let's go."

The three best friends welcomed the others girls in their friendship group around for drinks before they went out and they all shared their intentions for the night. Drinking and laughing, Y/n felt at ease and when it came to her turn she laughed. "To go home alone." She said and they all cheered in response. In this moment Y/n felt the best she had for such a long time.

The girls danced the night away in small and sweaty club, the music vibrating through them and the drinks flowing heavily. At exactly 1AM in a grubby club toilet and all alone for the first time in the night, Y/n made the decision to unblock Rafael's number. She didn't tell anyone she was going to do it but it was at exactly 1AM that she peaked and in her drunken state she wanted to talk to him. She reasoned with herself that it had been long enough and it would be just old friends catching up now, if he answered. She sent him a quick text to see if he was up and within a matter of seconds her phone vibrated in her hand, his name and photo flash up on her screen. Her breath caught in her throat and  she picked up but didn't say anything allowing him to speak first.

"Y/n. Are you okay?" She thought she could hear it straight away, the almost too relaxed tone to voice and just assumed he was high like he always was. She had always just wanted to fix him. "Y/n?"

She let a shaky breath. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Are you out?" He asked hopefully.

"Yeah I'm at Leadmill with the girls."

"Really? I'm in the smoking area, why don't you come and say hi."

"Are you alone?" Y/n inquired, she wasn't in the mood for loads of people right now.

"I'm with Digg's but I'm sure he'll be happy to see you, he's quite faded." He laughed slowly obviously looking at Daveed as he said this.

"I'll be out in a second."

Y/n made her way out of the bathroom very aware of the dirty looks she was receiving as she left for taking so long in the cubicle. She tried to see the girls as she made her way over to the smoking area hoping she wouldn't be caught. She found the two best friends tucked away in the corner,  away from the bigger groups of people. Rafael had found her before she saw them, his eyes lit up at the sight of her, and what a sight is was to see her in thigh high boots and t-shirt dress that was so short it left little to his imagination. Y/n smiled timidly, she could see from his facial expression that he was thinking about ripping her clothes off. She knew that look all too well. He lent against the wall and pulled her into him and holding her close. The feeling of his strong arms made her feel so safe and the smell of her favourite cologne on him had her weak at the knees. She was really surprised that she couldn't smell the all too familiar scent of weed on him.

"Hey you." She spoke softly in his ear.

"Hi." He tightened his arms around her, "it's been a minute, I've missed you."

She smiles to herself, at least the feeling was mutual. She pulled back and turned. "Hey Diggs."

He only nodded at her in response, his eyes closed.  

"He's a man of few words tonight, he wanted to get white girl wasted, and I think he's achieved that." Rafael spoke with pride about his best friend and Y/n laughed in response. He grabbed her hand to turn her back to him pulling her close to him with that same primal look in his eyes. "You look absolutely fantastic tonight Y/n. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw you."

"Shut up." Y/n felt her cheeks heat up and she tried to be coy, even though she felt really good about her look tonight. She moved even closer to him, and put one of his legs in between hers which made her dress ride up slightly. Rafael seemed to catch this and looked down, Y/n following where his eyes went. It was as if no time had passed at all and they slipped back into their groove. She heard the gulp he made as he continued to talk. "No really baby, it should illegal for you to wear that around me, the things I want to do to you..." He trailed off lost in thought but brushed his hand up her leg slowly, teasingly and it sent a shiver down Y/n's back.

Y/n's liquid courage took over. "You want to come back to mine."

He smiled at her, "best offer I've had in months."

From an outside perspective, they just looked like a regular couple. However from the perspective of her friends who were only a stone's throw away from the two, watching the scene play out they couldn't help but feel disappointed. They really thought Y/n had been doing better and they wanted to interfere, stop her from relapsing again, but they knew when she was this drunk it would only cause an argument and push her further into his arms. They watched as they touched each other and smiled like teenagers. They watched as Rafael got Daveed up and mobile enough to go back inside to their friends. He left Y/n for all of thirty seconds and they witnessed as the two stumbled passed them completely engrossed in one another. Just like they disappeared, just as they had so many times before, many moths ago.

They were hungry for one another, this had been longest they had gone without any contact since they had met. Rafa was on top of Y/n within seconds of entering her room. He attacked her body with his mouth, kissing everywhere that wasn't covered by her clothes. Y/n's head was fuzzy with pleasure feeling as though this had been the missing piece in her life. Rafa lifted his head from her neck to meet her lips again.

"I love you." He whispered in between kisses.

"I love you too." She returned in a breathless tone, without any hesitation.

He sat up and pulled her with him, removing his rather tight shirt off and giving Y/n a chance to drink him with her eyes as she caught her breath. He gave her a devilish grin as he pulled her to him. "Take everything except those boots off for me please baby." He spoke in a low tone. Y/n did as he asked and everything he asked of her that night. This night could be added to the countless others that started and ended the same way. Something about this time though, something felt different. Maybe it was the space and the not talking but they seemed to want each other even more than they had before.

When Y/n woke up the next morning he was still there, awake and sober playing with her hair while scrolling on his phone, just like it was a regular Sunday morning. Like they had never broken up. Y/n didn't feel the heavy pang of regret and stupidity and enjoyed Rafa being  there. She leant up to him and gave him a soft and loving kiss, which surprised him. He hadn't realised she was awake and he certainly wasn't expecting such a warm welcome to him still being there.

"Morning." He said, sleep still clear in his voice. "Do you want me to leave?"

Y/n shook her head and pulled him down so she could hug him, he happily held her in his arms. Y/n seemed to have a sudden realisation in that moment as she took in his scent again. "Were you sober last night?" She asked in total shock.

Rafa hid his face in the crook of her neck and nodded. "Uhh… yeah I have been sober for six months now."

"Really? Rafa that's amazing. I'm so happy for you." Y/n spoke with total sincerity and no one spoke for a long time. Y/n was very aware that six months ago they had slept together for the last time and her mind began racing.

"Y/n." He broke her out of her thought.

"Hmm."

"Look there's something I want to say. I don't really know what I am expecting but can I just… speak for a bit."

"Of course."

Rafa took a deep breath in. "Okay, first of all I need to follow my steps and I need to apologise to you for everything I put you through as a result of my addiction. You really tried to do everything to keep me above water and I hurt you, over and over. The last night that we slept together I realised how much damage I had caused and I knew I had to stop sleeping with you so that we could both mend ourselves. I could see last night how much you have changed and grown, you looked even more amazing. I did everything I could to fix myself, I cut all the drink and drugs out, I cut out all the bad in my life. All those guys you always said were bad news, I even went to therapy to get a handle on my mental health." He spoke so quickly that Y/n had a hard time keeping up but he finally took  a breath and continued. "I did this because I wanted to make myself a better man so that if we ever got the opportunity and if you ever wanted to speak to me again I would be in a place to value you for how amazing you really are. I don't know if you want us still but I definitely do and when you said you loved me back last night I felt like I had a little hope to hold on to."

Y/n sat in silence for a couple of minutes so stunned by his words. He stared at her, worried he had ruined the good mood until she looked back at him with a smile on her face that made his heart falter. She threw herself into him and he caught her, engulfing her in his arms.

She broke their silence. "We always come back to each other right?"

He smiled at her, the memory of that night came flooding back to him. "Every time."

[mirrorballls]

* lili reinhart, female + she/her  | you know evan cahill, right? they’re twenty-four, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, their whole life? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to whatta bitch by the regrettes like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole heirloom leather jacket, worn down soft and cracked at the elbows, hard, biting scoff that comes from deep in the chest, and driving home in the dead of the night, having to deny the call of the nearest interstate exit thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is june 24, so they’re a cancer, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

hi.

hehe ooc intro first. my name is liz (she/they, 23, est) and i’m just simply cheesed to meet you.... i’m playing three muses after a hiatus so please forgive me when these are all unintelligible drivel. i would love to plot with everyone after i force myself to finish these. i have a little Pinterest especially for this group here and if it tickles your fancy i would love to make plot at auld liz syne#2288 on discord.com :D without further ado here’s queen bitch.... gorgest baby who can do no wrong and Him coming soon.

basics.

full name:  evangeline rae cahill. answers exclusively to evan. birthday:  june 24, 1996. big three:  cancer sun, capricorn moon, aries rising. sexuality:  bisexual. occupation:  bartender. student (nursing). neighborhood: grew up in lilac ridge, now has an apartment in delphinus heights.

bio.

evan’s parents got married as if to prove a point. they were young and barely knew each other, but they thought they’d be the perfect match, a classic opposites attract. her father was a business student and her mother was studying holistic healing when they met in charlotte. he got her to take her life seriously and she got him to let loose. they moved to irving together after three months of dating because with them, everything always had to be hard and fast (they’re where evan learned it). it felt like a nice middle ground for them and it wasn’t long before they got married and had evan, before her father got involved in local business, before her mother took up a handful of odd jobs to pass the time ---- and something of an affair.

her parents divorce was messy. she was barely three at the time, so she doesn’t remember the moment itself, but the aftershocks of it have rang through her entire life. her father didn’t take the news well, her mother claimed it was all his fault for ignoring her for work anyway, and evan became a casualty of the whole thing. even now, twenty some-odd years later, they can barely stand each other and evan’s always been acutely aware of it. on the one hand, their open vitriol towards one another always made sure she knew she wasn’t the cause of their misery. but it did often times make her wonder if she was just a symptom of it, some reminder of the other person and the fact that they would never truly be able to shake one another.

she grew up living full time with her mother and step-father (her former lover, who she’d surprisingly go on to be married to til this day) and splitting time with her father, who’d go on to remarry and start a new family when she was ten. her home with her mother and step-father and their motley crew began to feel like the family she would willingly claim, as her father made less time for her and she began to feel less at home with his picture perfect family. her real home was messy and chaotic, but it’s where she felt she belonged.

because at her home, in lilac ridge, things weren’t normal, but they were never boring. her mother remained a free spirit and her step-dad much better matched that about her. things got volatile from time to time, but somehow, they always pulled it together. evan almost thought it was cute, in a kind of messed up way.

but regardless of how she felt about her family, there was something about it that set her aside. word travels fast in a town like irving, and while it never brought her ill in lilac ridge, her mother’s reputation and affair didn’t do her much well with her father’s new suburban friends, or the children of the more gossipy pta parents. it made her feel like something of an outsider: not only was she a bit of a weird kid, but her family’s drama was on display for the whole town to give their point of view on. but rather than shrink away from the judgement, she decided to lean into it. if half the town was ready to believe she was the rowdy daughter of this family so far gone, she’d show them just how much that she could be. because sometimes it’s easier embrace what they want you to be than try and rage against it. if you can convince yourself that reputation is all of your doing, in your control, it’s not a weapon that can be used against you anymore. it’s one you can harness to raise a little hell.

so evan made herself an outsider in middle and high school, by design. her plan had worked, she’d gone from weird girl who cared about people understanding her to fully written off and free to live her life as she wanted. it was lonely, but she convinced herself it was freeing. she spent a lot of time reading, heckling her classmates, starting her fair share of fights, and really digging deep into music. it started with rifling through the old vinyls her mom and step-dad had stowed away, then progressed to scribbled lyrics in the margins of her notes, to really and truly getting invested in writing and performing. she burned through her fair share of bands back in the day, because she knows what sound she wants and believes in it so strongly and is literally unwilling to compromise because something inside of her is broken. but music really was the thing that got her through being irving’s little lone wolf.

she had big plans her senior year. she was going to move to nashville, get close to music, and make it big, obviously. she was gonna make it solo and submit herself to stand among the greats: the pattis and nicos and sister rosettas. she was gonna shake whatever preconceived notions irving had for her, even if they were ones she had come to embrace, and get to make a life for herself that wasn’t tainted by her mother’s actions.

but life gets in the way. after she graduated, she worked some odd jobs before she settled into bartending for a quick buck while she tried to get her music career off the ground, but it never clicked like she wanted it to. and she knows that giving up after a few years at it isn’t the way to make it work, but she had bills to pay and a real life to start living. so she decided to go back to school and get a degree in nursing, something she’s genuinely proud of, but it doesn’t keep it from feel like settling. she tries to balance it all: music, school, work, being a menace to the kind folk of irving, but she feels like she’s losing her edge, losing what makes her feel like herself, and always served as a protective shell.

plotting ideas.

step-siblings via her dad!

enemies!

ex band mates, from all the bands she was apart of before being a mean control freak about the music they played got her ass kicked out!

other rowdy girls that she does actually like!

frequent patrons of fannie’s!

hookups!

maybe an almost relationship, from when she let herself not be hateful for 20 minutes and then changed her mind.

maybe someone she dated way too intensely for a little bit, in a way only weird kids can, but since they’ve broken up they’ve kept a decent friendship.

anything literally anything! 

[conelly]

( luke hemmings, twenty-two, cismale, he/him ) did you see BYRON CONELLY walking down main street earlier?  you know who i’m talking about, they’re a DECKHAND.  everybody in town says that they’re SANGUINE & NONJUDGEMENTAL, but have a tendency to be IMPRESSIONABLE & VOLATILE too.  BYRON has been in town for ONE AND A BIT years. c'mon, they’re always requesting SWEET CAROLINE by NEIL DIAMOND at karaoke nights.  well, i’m sure you’ll see them soon! ( ooc: sunny, 22, she/her, est )

hi thanks for tuning in, SUNNY here to tell you all a lil bit about westmere’s very own new nd improved favorite loser below. sorry for this summary being all over the place, it’s kinda how my brain works heh which is kinda perfect bc byron will for SURE be all over the place too ( u can rly tell at a certain point i was like ok i give up + i’m posting mf ). let me know if u have any questions about ‘em and most importantly, lmk if you would like to plot a lil connect or sumn 😙

@westmerestarters​ 

FAMBAM + BACKGROUND

born 14 years after the elder conelly ( wanted brother connect !!! ) entered this word to two parents who didn’t seem to read the job description, it was clear that byron wasn’t planned. and down the line, he’d soon realize through the tumultuous household he was brought up in - perhaps never even wanted.

byron’s parents had one constant - and that was fighting. over anything, all the time. there just wasn’t any love between the two and they stayed together for whatever meaningless reasons until byron hit middle school. ( there might’ve been a super short lull in toxicity once byron was born, but it had to be short as his first memories are nothing shy of toxic. )  it was a messy separation ( they never paid the full legal fees for a full divorce ) - his father moving to the coast of nj & his mother moving to a smaller apartment nearby her own mother ( which, due to the negative relationship among his mother + grandmother, also called for more tension ). he’d often be dropped off @ his grandmother’s house for baby-sitting or when he was ‘ becoming too much to handle. ’ eventually his grandmother moved into his cousin’s house ( MONROE ) and although grateful he made a practically new brother, similar tendencies of feeling unwanted occurred when byron noticed their grandmother praising and coddling and favoriting monroe just a bit more.

( his mother was a struggling addict ( and had been her whole life ), but the loneliness, newfound pressures and whatever excuse she was able to name caused her drinking to spiral worse than byron remembered ( even at his young age ) before. )

( his father was rarely in his life, but when he was, he was THE coolest. always played good cop in any situation regarding his mother, despite choosing not to have an active role in byron’s life. byron looked up to him like no other. when he WAS around, he taught byron how to surf, skateboard, play sports, they’d play video games, they’d eat junk food - honestly anything that byron wanted to do. his dad was an adrenaline junkie and created the stepping stones for byron to be one too. he was a marine biologist & pretty successful at that. passionate,  intelligent, but seemingly finding his newfound life a lot better than his previous - which is why he never wanted byron to stay too long, the boy reminded him of her, of the past. )

( his older brother moved out of the house when byron was just a lil kid, they’re not very close and don’t have much in common ... or so it seems. he lives in nyc and they only talk here and there on holidays. he was never a huge part of his life, but it does bum him out to think what could’ve been / could be. )

TO GET THE GIST 

due to never receiving the attention he craved from his family members, he made up for it tenfold in school. he was always talking to everyone, loud, boisterous, gregarious, life of the party; he wanted people to like him and they did. he become a total people pleaser, molding himself to make sure everyone was content and stayed around. impressionable, adaptable. he felt less this way towards adults and had a bit of a rebellious phase, hanging with the wrong crowd & getting into things he probably wouldn’t do otherwise. old habits die hard and he still tries his best to make everyone crack a smile, to remember him - since he believes he won’t be remembered for much else.

after he just barely skated by in high school ( his grades were never as good as his cousin’s and never lived up to his father’s expectations ), byron felt a bit lost. a lot of people had plans, were heading off to college - but already under the assumption he couldn’t reach any expectation in that realm ( a lil self fulfilling prophecy am i right pals ), he stayed in town - caring for his mother who hardly had anything together, his uncle who got sick very quickly & passed, spending time with his grandmother, while he himself fell into a rut. most of his days meant he drove out towards his dad’s place ( dad hardly there now, out and about with his new family ), surfing, smoking, and grabbing some cash doing odd jobs any way he could. he lost any purpose he once had ( but yall would never know it bc who wants to be in someone’s life who’s a buzzkill ? all smiles, baby, all smiles. )

IN WESTMERE

when his cousin offered the opportunity to travel cross-country in his van, byron had nothing to lose. always adventurous in spirit, he immediately said yes - deciding to ignore that ‘obligation,’ that feeling to make sure they were a-ok that he felt towards his parents. he needed an out and this was it. 

after landing in the small connecticut town for the night, the two fell for it - especially since when they got there along the water, it was a summer night + everything landed into place. they decided to stay there a bit longer ... and that eventually turned into more than a year. still antsy to keep traveling and to move around, byron has been ready to head out ... but stays for a few reasons - and them all being people ( bc lbh the surf is not even on point here ok )

his current job is a deckhand ( on a bunch of boats, ppl prob hired him as word of mouth got around that he knew what he was doing ). prob got that knowledge from being by his dad’s on the water when younger ( he’s ... obsessed with the water ) ! and also he’s just a quick learner ok ( ps: if your charrie has a boat pls let’s make somethin happen )

TO KNOW [ headcanons + more ]

his fav karaoke song is sweet caroline bc he knows everyone will be able to sing nd party along. he does it for the ppl, ppl.

he never saw too many baby / kid pics of himself which was kind of a bummer bc he really only remembers negative times - somehow they overpowered ( i bet lil byron was cute as fuck too fml )

he’s super into drugs, hallucinogenics, honestly you name it. it started off w/ him being impressionable, then bored, and now he just enjoys it. despite his mother’s addiction running through his blood, he still continues to do his thang.  

longboards around town so watch your toes

uses 🤙🤙 all the time and not ironically 

has an existential crisis on the daily about purpose but keeps that to himself most times 

WANTED CONNECTIONS

someone pls give me a sugar mama idc how we plot it out they don’t have to hook up they can idk idc i just want someone giving him money or expensive things it can be so much fun ok ,, pool boy ? idk sign me up

pls if your muse has a boat, let him be the deckhand ok it will also be so fun and potentially angsty if he fucks something up

a fling 100% - even multiple ? idc listen he is currently sharing a tiny VAN with his COUSIN he needs a place - like an actual bed - to crash on at night

can he save someone who was potentially drowning pls??? he used to be a lifeguard, it can be a cool/fun thread to write out

omg off of that can he teach someone how to swim 

look if anyone is into marine bio, can they somehow know byron’s father ?? i feel like that could make room for a cool plot

also i have an older brother connect on the w/c’s page lmk lmk

give me a good influence that will somehow have him open up + tell him that it’s weird to be so sunshiny all the time. maybe someone who witnesses him at his worst + stays, ya know ??

a bad influence plot where y/c takes this impressionable young lad and puts him through the ringer tbh ( srrsly he’d do a lot for ppl, so ask him to do something illegal for them it’ll be fun )

party pals, smoking pals, on the water 24/7 pals, 

co-worker, other ppl that work on the water ( fishermen?? more deckhands?? captains??)

gimmie someone he accidentally bumped into while longboarding ( he’s a large human it might’ve done damage ok )

i want and need enemies ok i know he’s chill as fuck and wants everyone to like him but there’s always a way to find enemies >:o. anything angsty for REAL.

unrequited thing? where he led someone on?? i’m sure he does this constantly

don’t ruin the friendship thing omg plsssss always so fun

look i’m open for it ALL. every plot u have in mind so lay it on me

[sweetlangdon]

Night Terror (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: AU from “Sojourn.” Soft Michael. Angst, hurt/comfort, with a hint of fluff. Michael struggles to resist his father’s influence, and you try to help him. Takes place in the same ‘verse as Lights. 

Suggested listening. 

Word Count: 1.8k

The feeling that something’s wrong permeates your shapeless, incoherent dreams, strong enough to rouse you from sleep. A quiet gasp falls from your lips as you startle awake, hair tousled across your pillow, still drowsy and a little disoriented, limbs heavy. You lift your head to find the digital numbers of the clock sitting on your bedside table and groan at the time. Nobody should be awake at this hour. This hour shouldn’t even exist to you—you should be dead to the world and time itself until the sun brightens your room. But the nagging thought of something keeps your eyes open, the familiar, cramped bedroom slowly coming into focus in the dark.

You think it’s an instinctual reaction, that maybe your cat has broken something in his nightly rituals of terrorizing your apartment. It’s an almost monthly occurrence. It’s also a problem for tomorrow, when you’re not exhausted and you’ve had at least one fortifying cup of coffee before dealing with his shit.

But that was before you gained another roommate. Now, there’s another reason to worry; not that you don’t trust him, exactly—he’s been here for a little two months—but things can get downright volatile with the literal Antichrist under your tiny, insignificant roof.

…You’re still trying to process that, for one thing.

When you coaxed Michael Langdon off the streets with the promise of a hot meal and a warm shower, you never expected the metric ton of emotional baggage that he carried with him into your life. And you never expected to accept it, to try and help him, even if you still have no fucking idea what you’re doing.

He’s been quiet and distant at best and moody and stubborn at his worst. He has powers you don’t really understand and it freaks you out a lot more than you’ll admit to him. There’s been days where his mood shifts fast enough to give you whiplash—a darkness that crosses his face before he pulls you in with a watery, pale blue gaze and a whispered apology. You’ve seen the evil that lurks inside his soul (and fuck, is it terrifying), but you’ve also seen the gentleness, too.

It’s his messy, raw, and entirely human side that makes you determined not to fail him. Michael’s revealed his past in broken fragments over the last few weeks, and you kind of want to throat punch everyone who’s given up on him and used him in his short, confusing life. So far, you’ve kept him from stumbling down a dark path of vengeance and destruction. You don’t know how long it’ll last, and that scares you more than whatever the Devil planted in Michael’s soul. 

You kind of want to throat punch Satan, too.

If only it was that easy.

A muffled whimpering sound floats down the hallway to your bedroom. This time you know for sure it’s not your cat. You wrench back the sheets when panic begins to settle around your lungs like a vice. Your eyebrows knitting together, concerned, as you hop out of bed in a thin long sleeved shirt and pair of loose cotton shorts, your bare toes ice-cold against the hardwood floor. In the short walk down the hall, the cat finds you; he’s nothing but a black smudge in the shadows, a soft trilling sound while he follows your footsteps. You think maybe he’s worried too; that he’s sensed the same cold fear that prickles down the back of your neck.

“Michael?” His name pierces the quiet, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer. You find him, though, in the semi-dark of your living room, his face obscured by shadows, his hair like gold in the pale moonlight that falls across the floor from the windows. He’s a silhouette huddled on the floor in front of your couch, one knee drawn toward his chest, sitting among a nest of blankets and pillows scattered around him.

You notice the violent, wracking movement of his chest from the way he’s trying to stifle his crying. You realize it’s because he never meant to wake you up, and your own heartbreak manages to push away whatever fatigue had been dragging you down a moment before.

“What happened?”

You ask even though you know. He’s had nightmares before, and you’ve pretended not to notice unless he brings it up. You just want to make sure he hasn’t hurt himself.

You approach, slowly, and Michael’s head snaps up from the shelter of his hands. “Stay away from me.”

He sounds hoarse and though he tries for a commanding tone that you should be wary of, he can’t quite summon the energy. He hasn’t sounded this broken since the day he arrived in your apartment with a thousand-yard stare and unsteady legs. You hate it. You fucking hated it then—that tremor in his lower lip, the tears that made trails through the dirt on his face, the fact that you could barely get him to speak for two days—and you hate it even more now.

“Just go.” He waves you off, one hand sliding into his hair. You can’t ignore the tremble in his voice, how desperate he is in the fight against his tears. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  

“You’re not going to hurt me.” You settle on your knees and sit back on your legs in front of him, allowing him a comfortable amount of space. The hand slung over his bent knee is shaking, and some part of you wants to reach out and hold onto him, but you stop yourself. “Talk to me, Michael—I just want to help you. Tell me how…let me help.”  

“No.” It comes out as a sob, and your heart shatters. Michael shakes his head, mussed curls under his fingers moving with him. The silvery moonlight finds the tears on his cheeks, the rosy splotches across his skin and his bloodshot eyes telling you he’d been crying for some time. “He wanted me to kill you.”

The confession makes your mouth go dry and the breath catch in your lungs.

“It’s like an impulse I can’t control, sometimes.” His voice is still rough, wavering between sorrow and exasperation. “I wanted to snap your neck, like I was blinded by all of his anger inside of me. Like I…don’t even fucking recognize myself. It’s so loud…I can’t sleep because I don’t know who I’ll be when I wake up.”

Michael buries his face in his hand and you see more tears trickle across his cheekbones. “I don’t know what to do anymore…how to stop him from whispering in my ear. One of these nights, I’m afraid I’ll have your blood on my hands and that’s it. That’s all I’m meant to do.”

Warm tears spill down your own cheeks, and Michael’s scrawny, huddled form blurs for a moment. “But you didn’t,” you tell him. “You made a choice, right? You were strong enough to resist whatever you felt.”

“What happens when I can’t?” Michael pinches the bridge of his nose as his eyelids flutter closed. “I can’t do this forever.”

“Maybe you won’t have to.” You finally reach over and settle your hand on top of his, and you’re thankful when he doesn’t recoil from your touch. His fingers are impossibly warm under your own. “It’s going to take time, and it’s not going to be easy. You spent most of your life being told what you were supposed to be, Michael, and no one ever asked you what you wanted. No one ever gave you a choice. But you have that now. You get to decide. What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” He opens his eyes and blinks at you, bright blue nearly translucent in the light of the moon. He looks just as lost and solemn as he did the day you found him, and before you can think twice about it, your fingers lace between his on top of his knee. “Anything but whatever he wants from me.”

“That’s a start.” Your thumb brushes over his, and Michael’s fingers tighten around yours. “There’s so much good in you, Michael. I can see it. You just need to be reminded that it’s there. Lucky you have me for that.” You offer him a smile, and he nods at you, sniffling, the last of his tears streaking down his chin. “And you don’t have to do any of this alone. I’m right here. He can’t have you, because I’m right fucking here and he’s going to have to fight me first.”

That gets you a weak smile, an almost imperceptible curve of his lips. “I believe you.”

“You’d better,” you tell him. “I’m not the least bit threatening but I’ll kick his fucking ass for you, I promise.” Even though you don’t really want to, you squeeze his hand before you untangle your fingers. “Try to get some sleep. I know you’re exhausted.”

Michael reaches for your hand again, long, slender fingers curling around your own. He peers over at you in the dark with those soft blue eyes, and all you see is a lost, frightened child; someone who’s done with being abandoned and abused. You don’t want to ever be the one to make him feel that way.

“Stay.” Michael’s voice is small and gentle, a fraught whisper. “Please.”

You nod and crawl over to sit next to him with your back against the side of the couch. The cat is sprawled across one of the cushions above your head, asleep on one of the pillows that hadn’t fallen onto the floor. You know it’s because he prefers to be as close as he can manage to Michael. It’s there, beside him, your knee and shoulder pressed against his, that you notice the sweat that’s matted some of his curls to the side of his face. His shirt is damp, too; soaked through and clinging to his slender frame, dotted with tear stains. You lean into him, drawn to the impossible heat that he radiates.

Michael settles his head against your shoulder, his hair soft as it brushes your cheek. You forget how to breathe for a minute, surprised by the ease in his decision to be so close to you, to trust you, to find comfort in your presence. You feel the ebb and flow of his breathing against your side, and find yourself lulled by it. He’s so warm, you think; you can’t focus on anything else. Maybe you shouldn’t, because you don’t want to dwell on Michael’s sadness and loss and all the different ways that he’s been left unloved. You want to help him, and for the first time, you begin to believe that maybe you can.

Michael falls asleep before you. You follow soon after, your hand resting on top of his, as if you’ll be able to protect him while he sleeps. You hope that it’s enough, for now.

@lastregasolitaria @zeciex @mylippo @thelangdoncooperative @langdonfern @lvngdvns @langdonsgun @langdonsdemon @langdonsrapture

[sugaxjpg]

the consolations of philosophy

⤷ “It doesn’t make you vulnerable to allow someone else to love you, to be kind to you. Most of the time, we are not kind to ourselves, anyways.”

✓ Couple: Jungkook x Reader | ChildhoodFriends!AU and College!AU

✓ Filed under: angst, fluff, implied smut, friends to lovers 

✓ Words: 21,546

Author’s note: Truly one of the most personal-driven and overly emotional stories I have written in a while. Title from this piece.

Also, WRITTEN IN THIRD PERSON! Tell me if you like this format, or if you’d rather for me to stick to second person. All feedback is welcome (also, excuse my extra vocabulary, I promise it lightens up quickly lmao) 

Days passed by monotonously.

At times, they passed in a homogeneous nebula of empty resolutions, a haziness of venomous smoke that permeated her lungs and suffocated her from the inside out. Consolidated, it could be comparable to the vapor that performed slow-motion pirouettes in her bathroom after a shower; the same foretelling of looming storms neighboring the obfuscous skyline. It was the deprivation of vivacity; the apathy for each and every aspect of her mundane chores, those being repeated again and again—a broken record, as she would contemplate, a vexatious rasping noise in the background of her every action, a recurring routine that leisurely strangled her with its hyperborean hands. Again: the outburst of opaque grey that came from cigars on the street; the licking of conflagrant flames that illuminated nocturnal alleyways. At least it was positive for some.

Other instances, it would be detected in the viscous hollowness that dwelled in her chest. We are all born with emptiness inside of us, her mother once verbalized. That pathless sentence was one of those fragments of ruptured dialogues that lived amongst her memories, reverberating and emerging when she least expected it too—yet, when she most necessitated. Some people, the woman speculated, decided to congest such lacuna with carnal desires: sex, drugs, food, alcohol; others preferred to spend hours upon hours haunted by the immersive universes of a good book, a movie, or frequent social interactions. Most, come what may, attempted to fill it up alternatively to properly learning how to endure the feeling. Lack of feeling. Whatever could describe it more properly.  

Not solely monotonously: days passed lethargically, apathetically. Wintery, even—denuded of saturation and warmness. They came and went like self-perpetuating waves to the sands of a godforsaken beachside: crashing, cleaning, wiping away all traces that could have been left there aforetime. Undertow, drought, tormentous tides, and currents that led to the eclipsed oblivion. Comparisons aside, tracing parallels did not make those interminable hours any better; the ocean was still there, just as stupendous and immeasurable. Just as empty.

But of course, those were not all of her days. Some of them, Jungkook was there to keep her company.

Every instance his image effloresced amongst her thoughts, breaking the lifeless circle of her routine, the bliss of his memory induced for her absent-minded thoughts to describe the peculiar set of emotions that took the place of her boredom: nostalgia and longing; but also the euphoria of their shared adventures. Moreover, if the girl permitted herself to dive into those wisdomful recollections, she would discover that she was unable to elucidate someone as complex as Jeon Jungkook, finding herself lacking the proper terms to do so—that is, if there were any. After so many years by his side, traits became quite nebulous when compared to the memories they shared, but also volatile and unexpected, for they were no longer the same kids that wandered, unguarded, around their neighborhood.

There were hollow spaces in her heart only he could fill, that was for sure. Her best friend—companion; partner in crime—made her feel the happiest she would ever be; caused for several laughs to drip in between her smiley lips every instance a silly comment fell from his own. With all her heart, she could not characterize the boy with a mere enumeration of adjectives, since words could never describe the endless universe that opened in between them every time they encountered one another somewhere in the cold, desolated campus.

Yet, no rose is devoid of thorns, and hers was the kind that punctured layers much, much deeper than the barriers of carnality. There was an indiscernible element beyond the caresses of the vermillion petals, an aspect of her sentiment that did not match the ones she felt aforetime.

Pieces of the puzzle had been switched, but they had also fell into a flawless combination, a rearrangement of feelings that caused for her heart to hang by a threat: she had fallen in love with her best friend.

There was not an epiphanic moment like she once imagined it would occur. The genesis of such affection remained as a progressive, accumulative notion that had germinated within her chest without her cognizance and gradually made their way up her reason, blocking it from cutting it short when she was still able to. Before she could ever discern what had outstretched within her chest, the girl had already fallen for his laugh, such symphonious, lighthearted harmony that defeated the rhythm of the mumbling summer breeze. She had fallen for his enthusiastic gaze, grown weak under the aerial, sanctified lineaments of his diaphanous features. Heavens, she was in love with him. So profoundly, breathlessly, euphorically in love with her best friend.

What a fucking cosmical joke.

Truth was: there were more negatives than positives when it came to situations like that. Alternatively to every aspect she had expected, the very second the unwelcome realization fell upon her perception, there was more panic than there was adoration; more denial than acceptance. It was unignorable, threatening; it broke her faith into pieces and caused her throat to grow tight every instance they met. Disconsonant with her pulsating infatuation, she was aware that she could not tell him everything that haunted the walls of her heart, for she felt it bordered on unrealistic to do so. One should not tear a butterfly's wings apart just to keep its beauty, nor she should attempt to keep her best friend to herself in such egotistical manner. Jungkook was not hers, and most likely would never be. Unilateral: she knew it was all unilateral.

No: it was much, much more complicated than that simple-minded decision. It was not so easy to focus on the stars of logic when she had entire constellations of infatuation dancing and forming pulchritudinous images before her; to turn her gaze away from the phantasmal, ivory-like glow of the moon as it entwined every cell of her figure, resonating within her soul the poetic verses of the universe.

The mere act of longing for his presence was so common that it had already turned into a habit, a part of her routine that she could not simply throw away. How could she feel so lonely even when he was right there by her side? His text messages were still there, even if they held the words of cancelled plans or messy excuses. Sweet, the aroma of his perfume still impregnated her clothes, still danced over the cloud-white sheets of her unmade bed. Jungkook was still there—just at the margins of her reach, ridiculing the fact that she would never be fully able to place fill up the empty spaces between his fingers with her own.

Accordant to those claims, the girl would not cut him out just because she was unable to control the tides of her adoration, would not push his embrace away even if the mere compass of his calm heart against her chest caused for her soul to shatter into desolation. That being said, considering it bordered on the executable to ignore or revert it, she learned how to suppress it.

But—hell—some part of Jungkook was always there to torment her.

Memories would appear suddenly, taking her off guard. They connected to one another like insubstantial cords, a map of recurrent dreams that bloomed amongst her measured ponderations. Germinated within her brain in the most random of instances, coming and dragging her away to the fragmented retellings of aforetime meetings. And, amongst the billion pieces of their shared laughs and locked gazes, the girl focused on one special dialogue they had merely a few months ago.

It had been an overcast night, a very silent one at that. The two had dove into the obscuration of midnight, walking amongst the darkness of the asphalt and the dimly-illuminated streets. The same illumination that embraced his drowsy delineations like a spectral candlelight; dancing in his unfocused gaze and scintillating beyond the abysm of his stygian irises. His eyes could hold the entire universe inside, but it all apperated to get as cloudy as the sky above once he was in that situation: drunken out of his mind.

She could recall the small hiccup that erupted in Jungkook’s throat before he dared to bother the quiescence of the night, “Don’t place your happiness upon someone else,” he had told her without forewarning, his arm around her shoulder, voice flowing that way that always sent an explosion of warmth radiating through her chest—between a secretive whisper and a kind advice; almost as if he permitted himself to be wholesomely frank, yet remained to hesitant to share his thoughts with the rest of the word. It was okay, she did not want him to. “No one, you hear me? Value comes within yourself, and no one can take that away from you. Grow it, and the world can’t throw shit your way.”

Philosophical, almost. Did not matter that he was drunk, nor that she had been the only one to offer to guide the boy back to his dormitory. She decided to keep those elements out of focus and, instead, remained attentive to the words he had graced her with: something she needed to learn; needed to feel, “Value is a hard thing to grow,” she had responded, hoping he did not hear her subsequent words. “besides, you make me happier than I probably could ever make myself. I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

She did not know if he had captured her delicate enunciations alongside with the mumbling of the midnight wind, all she knew is that Jungkook closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued walking with difficulty.

Then again, he was not always there for her.

Insomnia was usually the most fundamental element of her late night insights, and most were not as positive as she would like. Once, she came to the hypothesis that those unbelonging, unexpected life lessons that he gave her had a reason other than the lack of filter provided by alcohol: mayhaps Jungkook was sentient to the distance growing between them, the void that pulled the two friends into complete edges of an unfathomable cosmos. They were progressively growing apart with time, losing intimacy, and that was most likely why the boy always made sure to tell her those things: so he could be certain her happiness did not subside after he had departed.

Nothing but a utopian idea, if that had been the true cause. Most of the times, life was not at all that merciful nor rational. Justificatives were just broken, slumberous explanations that germinated amongst the intoxicated soil of her anxiety, no one could guarantee that their fruits were not, too, contaminated by its poison. Running while remaining in the same place, she would continue to attempt to find reasons for their progressive separation—though, just like the emptiness that they held inside, it could not be explained so ingenuously.

To lose a close friend to the world is always, in idiosyncratic levels, a traumatic experience. Primordially, the stages of drawing away were almost imperceptible: the long time to answer messages that before would appear so quickly; the change of demeanor into a more closed-off posture, or even a defensive one at times. Later on, it would be the lack of interest in shared activities; in scheduled plans; and, at last, in the person at the other edge of the spectrum. At times, that distance was usual and even inevitable; mutual or unilateral; purposeful or subconscious. Nevertheless, there was a point in which that separation would become more clear, and the signals would be far too vehement to be neglected or absolved

Jungkook was not someone she lost, per say, more of a companion who gradually creeped to the borders of their progressively evanescing friendship. He was still there, appearing like a lost phantasm amongst her mundane tasks, a shadow at the depths of her routine. His messages still came—some faster, some slower—and they still had nights in which they would spend entirely immersed in futile conversations. A fervent dialogue in which, eventually, more serious and personal topics would emerge, only to be avoided.

In all sincerity, she thought all those other fragments were perfectly normal and healthy—after all, everyone needs their personal space every once in awhile—but the second she noticed the manner he skirted those personal conversations, instead growing irritable, she knew there was something wrong.

Maybe one day she would learn how to breathe without his presence to warm the air that entered her lungs. Maybe there would be a day in the future that the ghost of his presence would not bother her as much; the lack of eurythmic laughs would not feel as sepulcral to endure. In the future, there might exist a day in which the static of the TV did not exasperate her, the emptiness of her dormitory did not appear as gargantuan as the longing within her chest. Surely, that day could be waiting ahead, but, as for now, she had to endure the scars of his departure with the prideful impassibility of her broken heart.

Two weeks before, she had convinced herself that she would, too, take some time for herself. Preposterous excuses and justifications came and went amongst the pandemonium of her confident thoughts, the mantra of her decision repeating over and over—a broken record. If space was what Jungkook desired, she would give it to him gracefully, she would keep her mouth shut and decorated with a smile; keep her ebullient sentiments on a leash; would accept that sometimes that was just the way friendships would unravel. She would not reject him, she would just stop searching for someone that was not even looking for her.

As pathetic as it was, that decision did not last for much more than a week.

Sunrays passed through the viridian leaves with resplendent smoothness, gifting it with a clearer shade of its characteristic pigmentation. In between undulating branches and twigs, came the ethereal radiance of the golden light, dripping past the spaces of the foliage and falling upon the two people sitting by that small circular table. They were the only two outside the establishment, and appeared to be more uncomfortable than other friends that passed by.

Jungkook exhaled, placing his white mug on top of the dark wood. In the midst of his downhearted features, the shadows of the leaves were casted over his serious expression, inducing his mere image to resemble a momentaneous hallucination, “I swear, sometimes it's like you’re a old woman trapped in a young girl’s body,” the outside of the small coffee shop was almost deserted as those words broke the breviloquent silence, dragging along the vague redolence of the cappuccino he had just took a slip of. He had just heard another negation in regards to a party invitation, and he was unable to mask his frustration towards it, “you’ve always been like this, ever since we were kids.” the boy added carelessly.

She could not pinpoint if what she heard in his voice was simple playfulness or if, amongst his light timbre, there were deep cuts of resentment pulsating in silence, “You never told me you were bothered by it,” she dared to say, hoping it would serve as a starting point for him to soothe her baseless worries. Mayhaps, he would sense the traces of shame that ornamented her speech and, if she were to be lucky, Jungkook would look at her with his deep eyes—that could hold the universe inside, from the stygian void to the oscillating specks of anemic stars—and laugh at how absurd she sounded. Light as the morning air, his smile would blow her preoccupations away, and it would all be okay.

However, that was not what that day enventualized. Instead of signals of empathy or the curious glimpse of his puzzled spirit, the boy merely scoffed, looking down at his half-empty mug with skepticism, “Bothered is not the right word, you know?” she did not know, and he never told her what it was, “whatever, we’ll do something else. Again. Can I see you later this week? I’ll be late to class if we stay here for much longer.” he was quick to add, not gifting her with the space she needed to fully absorb his words and construct a response based on it.

Always later—later today, later this week, maybe after midterms?—,always rushing somewhere else. Jungkook always had his mind above his clouds, hardly ever recalled where his feet touched. He was always looking miles upon miles ahead, dwelling in the hue that vacillated between the tangerine and the ochroid. Maybe he did not have time. Maybe he did not have interest. That lovely morning, for instance, the boy had twenty minutes to spend, and the walk to his building would not take more than four. He had time.

She knew it, but accepted his fruitless propoundment regardless of the afflicted laceration that punctured her fast-beating heart, “Later this week. Definitely,” she consented. Neither of them specified a date and, soon after, the girl found herself alone in that table for two.

The lump in her throat prevented her from thinking straight. Part of her mind swore it was merely an overreaction from her part, but the other made sure to vociferate the terrible possibility of her paranoias being close to the truth: Jungkook was gradually moving away from her.

But of course, not all of the days passed by his side were filled with empty promises and the vacant redolence of moments past. There were also the days that showed her just why Jungkook was so important, why the universe had pulled all the correct strings so they could grow up together, claiming ever so childishly to being kings and queens of their own personal glimpses of fantasia. Delightful moments which caused for her infatuation to effloresce to the melody of his vernal voice, for her preoccupations to fall like conflagrant autumn leaves; moments that belonged to the two of them, and them only.

That special Friday afternoon happened to be one of those days.

Comparable to the lively color of honey, the golden luminosity of the resplendent sun melted past the swinging of cream curtains, accumulating in auriferous puddles over the carpet’s extension. The air was slightly cold, but calm, holding to the welcoming aromatic combination of fresh coffee and the vanilla of her perfume; the buzzing sounds of the campus could barely be heard beyond the translucent windows. Peace impregnated each and every fragment of that shared instant, and it was a fantastic sensation to dwell in.

Sitting across from her on that two-chaired kitchen room table, the boy had his eyebrows knitted together in a permanent state of confusion, eager eyes now completely puzzled at the endless lines of ink that stared back at him. Surrounded by such diaphanous luminescence, Jungkook’s image reminded her of those graceful masterpieces produced during the romantic era—the same delicacy of forms; the contrast between his caramel skin and the onyx ink of his hair and eyelashes. His lips, such gentle shade of roseate, mumbled speechlessly the words he read, attempting to find meaning within the sentences that filled his slumberous mind.

Those unexpected glimpses at his beauty usually caught her off guard, causing for her eyes to navigate around his lineaments for a bit longer than necessary. That instant, however, she was somewhat prepared to the exquisite figure that would meet her eager gaze, and was able to dissimulate his effect with a deep inhale.

After a moment of ponderation, the girl placed her book over the ligneous surface, the subsided noise enough to call the boy’s attention to her direction. Even before the words left her lips, Jungkook was aware of what they would be, for that random enunciation of curiosities had turned into a customary part of their study routine, “Did you know that the modern musical notation was created by an italian monk?” she asked, pausing for a second to accompany the way his disquisitive eyes switched upwards, blinking away from the incomprehensible pages of his book. “Guido d’Arezzo was his name. From the basic names to the mnemonic system.”

Leaning back against her chair, she then suspired as if to mitigate the restlessness that had accumulated within her bosom, waiting for his acknowledgement patiently. She had the costume of communicating something along those lines, curiosities or thought-provoking facts that soon dispersed the weight of the overwhelming silence. Jungkook thought it was nothing more than a common idiosyncrasy amongst History students, and considered to be quite captivating, even adorable at times.

So precious, in fact, that the boy could not suppress the smirk that creeped up upon his lips, nor the crystalline engrossment that resounded in the background of his subsequent inquiry, “What? Seriously?” he wondered, incapacitated to camouflage the genesis of his interest.

Humming, she moved around on the chair, her rhapsodic tone causing for her enthusiasm to become transpicuous, “Yeah, it came from the first syllables of the first six half-lines of a religious hymn. To John the Baptist, if I’m not mistaken. Some stuff changed along the years, but the basic notation and the musical breakthrough is his to take,” the girl explained further, holding herself back from diving into more specific characteristics, for she soon noticed the fatigued splashes of violaceous underneath the boy’s eyes. “you, on the other hand, look as if you’re about to fall into the nearest grave. How are things hanging there?”

It was his turn to suspire in never ending lament, running of his hands through the cascade of his ink-pigmented strands of hair. Even so crepuscular, some parts of it still embraced the sanctified hue of the sun, and gifted the boy with a particular, empyrean golden aura, “My brain stopped working around two hours ago, honestly,” Jungkook confessed, his hand then moving to cup the back of his neck. He usually did that as a way to mask his anguish, “It’s Friday, why do I have to study?” then questioned the boy.

She had been prepared for that inquiry ever since he had arrived at her dormitory, around three hours ago. For someone as distinctive as Jungkook, he could be quite predictable at times, “Did you have any other plans?” she counterclaimed, waiting for a second as her childhood friend ruminated on an answer. As the only response she received was a small biting of his lower lip, she smiled, triumphant. “Didn’t think so.”

Jungkook whined, crossing his arms over his open book, “You don't have to be rude,” the boy pouted, placing his head over his arms. In that position, it appeared as if he was as near as possible to merely closing his eyes and taking a long nap—something she was quite aware he would do if she were not there to keep him awake. Jungkook turned his gaze upwards, appearing almost child-like as his vague manipulation spilled from in between his cherry-painted lips. “we have two weeks before finals, we could—”

“—We couldn't,” the girl interrupted his sentence even before his proposition could be enunciated. Secretly, she was a hundred percent certain she would never be able to deny the upcoming alternative, so it was wiser to cut his ideas short before they could grow within her own perceptions. Convincing: Jungkook had always been dangerously convincing when there was something he desired, “Last time I left you to study by yourself, you almost fainted from exhaustion in the middle of the exam. No all-nighters under my watch, Jeon.” she crossed her arms: you will not make up my mind, her body language firmly stated.

Wickedly, his smile grew larger by a few millimeters, “I did get that A, though.” he contradicted with pleasure.

She rolled her eyes, leaning in closer to the boy so she could enunciate her rationalization with smidgens of astringency, “Along with a possible brain damage. Don't fight me on this,” the history student warned, not gifting him with an instant to defend himself. Instead, she looked down upon the open pages before him, attempting to read those jumbled words upside down. “what are you even studying?”

“I'm trying to understand Descartes,” Jungkook responded, meeting the breviloquent coruscation of confusion that flashed over her features, “you know, the math guy. Cartesian coordinate system, analytical geometry...” he elucidated.

She elevated one of her eyebrows and unhurriedly nodded in a unspoken signal of her understanding, recalling her own personal studies in regards of the scientist. Fragments of the so called ‘Dutch Golden Age’ permeated her thoughts—alongside with a brief biography of the man: something about serving for Maurice de Nassau? She made a mental note to check that later on, “Yeah, I think you have told me something about him before,” YN acknowledged, pausing for an instant to recall the correct name of one of his works. “Discourse on the Method, right?”

Once anew, one of his hands ran through the black seas of his hair. He was truly beginning to get nervous, “Something like that, yeah.” he reluctantly agreed, instead thinking it would be wiser to go with the overly simplified title— ‘Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting One's Reason and of Seeking Truth in the Sciences’ was not something that easily rolled off the tongue.

It was her turn to pout. The girl, too, crossed her arms over her disorganized stationary in a subconscious act of mirroring her friend, soon placing her head over the back of her hand. Now much closer to one another, Jungkook could consummately sense the sacchariferous aroma of her vanilla perfume, a scent which induced for his heart to skip a beat as she continued speaking on, “Hey, come on, don’t get sad because of the math guy,” the amicable history student smiled lightheartedly, leaning her head slightly to the left. “tell me what you know, maybe it’ll help you grasping the subject better.”

He disregarded her idea with a scoff, stare flickering towards an orange pencil that had been left over the wooden table. Rather than looking to encounter the welcoming world of her enthralled irises, the boy focused on the minor details of the object close to him; the unnoticeable grooves on the light-colored wood, the dark silver tip of the graphite that ever so dimly shone in a more pallid shade of grey under the weak incandescence, “I know jackshit.” he thoughtlessly mumbled.

The enchantment of her proximity was undone the second that, with a prolonged exhale, she leaned back against the wooden chair; the air that her figure dislocated appearing to have been removed from his own breathless lungs, “Don’t be ridiculous, you've told me tons about his philosophical trips,” she repudiated his claim as easily as one brushes off dirt, confident that it was his despair speaking louder than his logic, “you think, therefore you are. Make René Descartes proud and just tell me what you know.”

Deeply, she hoped she had not misused that quotation, for a momentaneous signal of confusion crossed over his expression. No... not confusion: she knew that face—the face of a mischievous kid; the same expression he had gifted her when they were younger, a few minutes before the school staff crossed the empty hallways with furrowed eyebrows, seeking for her best friend like there was no other culprit possible. Most times, there was not.

Without looking at her, the boy reached for the relinquished pencil, taking it in his hands and examining the sequence of numbers that had been imprinted in one of its sides, “What do I get in return?” mindlessly, he inquired.

“In return?” echoed his best friend, taken aback by the preposterous nature of his question. She swore to the heavens above that, at times, she simply could not comprehend the odd trail of thought that took turns within his mind, “A good grade, for starters.” she responded.

Jungkook shrugged; he, too, moving back to a sitting position. The cantaloupe pencil was placed over the disorganized sheets of achromatic paper and, if she did not know him for so long, she would have swore his disinterested tone meant arrogance, “I get those regardless,” he told her. At last, his gaze flickered upwards and, even if she did not meet it, she could practically feel the way his interested irises burned in expectation. “I was thinking more of a little something from you.”

She ridiculed his sentence with a puff of air that exploded in between her lips, skeptic at the vague proposition that found its way to her ears, “You’re aware that there is nothing I want from you, don’t you? This is the worst trade I have ever experienced,” the girl threw back at him, moving her hands back to the sides of her open book. Sometimes, it was like talking to a child with a superiority complex, going in circles without even understanding why the two had departed from their previous subject. “I’m going back to my own stuff, then. Don’t come crying to me when yo—”

“—Are you feeling like going out tomorrow?”

Just as simply, her voice receded into quiescence. Taken aback by the brusque invitation, the girl did not think her actions through, looking up from the endless ink of her book to encounter the same cimmerian shade that lived beyond the pupils of her company. All that she wanted was to make sure his controlled tone did not betray her, instead disguising a joke from his part, but she was met with more than she ever foresaw.

There it was again: the universes he hid inside, the shooting stars that crossed his ebony gaze every time he glanced at her direction. Again and again, she had wished upon the falling comets that ornamented his gaze for that instantaneous moment to stretch towards the margins of infinity—only to fall back into normality once she realized it was nothing beyond a faint distortion of her position; maybe even the projected necessity to have her feelings mirrored by someone so dear to her.

Each and every time she allowed herself so dive so profoundly into his eyes, a hazy memory would shimmer in her mind: she was laying on her garden, most likely bordering on her ten years of age, and observing the vast, awe-inspiring cosmos that mushroomed right before her infantile perceptions. The girl lamented and sighed continuously, wanting to send a signal up the oscillating stars; to contact the planets that lived beyond the line of her platitudinous atmosphere.

That was how she felt when she was trapped in the spacious infinity of his gaze—under the atramentous skyline of numberless constellations, wishing she could verbalize her sentiment into a brand new, unexplored cosmos. Nonetheless, equiparable to how her story had unraveled back then, she could not find the right words to do so. So, as a final attempt, she merely stood there, hoping the signals could arrive from the other edge of the galaxy’s muted iridescence.

Thought, they never truly did. Not that she could capt, at the very least.

Her pulse quickened, but she was able to mask her breviloquent surprise with the clearing of her throat. Hopefully, he did not perceive the way her fingers trembled against the hard book cover, growing paler at the tips as she attempted to hold down to substantiality—getting her hopes up was a suicidal mission, “What are you talking about?” she managed to say, glad that her tone was not nearly as undulating as her palpitations.

Like the static between two songs, the boy merely shrugged, allowing for silence to be casted over the room as he leaned back against the chair, “It’s been awhile since we went out and had fun together,” it surely took you some time to realize, she thought, but said nothing in return. Jungkook was avoiding her gaze, but nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, her hopes had in fact been raised, for she now felt them falling and crashing down like pieces of a mirror as the boy continued his apathetic speech, “I would invite you to a party, but I know you would deny even before I could finish my sentence.” he said.

She chuckled, even if humorlessly. Her heart felt heavy with despondency, and she convinced herself that she should have grown used to it by now, for it was the harsh reality she had faced for all the years that had passed, “You know me so well. Besides, the last party I’ve been through ended with me dragging a certain drunken someone back to their dorm,” and, with a faint smile—which he rapidly returned—she was sure her decaying sentiment had been flawlessly dissimulated once anew. “what’s your alternative?”

How melancholic was it that the same hand that saved her was the one who clung around her throat and prevented her from breathing? Ironic, at the very least.

Jungkook, regardless, remained unaffected by her subtle comment, “I already apologized for that, I got a bit too carried away,” he spoke out, but his words did not appear to carry any sort of true resentment. The girl did not even need to look up to see that his eyes had grown darker, the same way that happened all the times his mind started to wonder somewhere else, a place she was always unable to reach before it evanesced, rolling into a kindhearted—yet notoriously artificial—phrase. Which was precisely what occurred, “library,  bookshop, museum, theater, movies, whatever you want. Outside is my only request.” he vocalized.

Shaking her head in skepticism, she took a moment to exhale before claiming, “You’re spoiling me,” still a bit hesitantly.

Then, something she did not expect fell from in between his lips. In that very second, the student thought the universe had been constructed for her to observe the beauty of his timid smile, the euphonic accordance of his mumbling voice as he enunciated his devoted confessions, “I’m missing you so bad lately. Missing us. It’s been awhile since we went out to have some fun,” Jungkook shrugged, pausing for a second as if to check the reflection his words had upon her expression: he saw none of the fireworks that exploded within her chest, none of the trembling heartbeats that echoed throughout the threads of her patched-up soul. “I just want to spend my Saturday with my best friend, could I do that?”

On the opposite side of the room, the movement of the curtains followed the rhythm of her own deep breathing—inflating, relaxing—before she responded with the phantasm of a smile, “You could,” the girl nodded, eyes flickering downwards. There was nothing printed amongst those inky lines that could hold more despondency than what resonated alongside with her subsequent words. “I missed you too, Jungkook.”

And, heavens, how acutely, profoundly, passionately did she miss him.

She was not certain if the reverberation of such confession was enough for his heart to suffocate in the same pain she felt within her own chest, but judged it to be sufficient for such peculiar circumstances. Her mind felt less clogged with negative ponderations the very instant that mundane—yet deeply personal—declaration departed from the captive of her incarnadine lips, a glimpse underneath her mask of artificial assuagement. High hopes corroded her spirit from the inside out, but she could not help to cut them off before they begun to germinate within her conceptualizations, infesting her mind with delusional ideas. They were solely friends—and that only—meaning that the concept of a ‘going out’ would not, could not, go anywhere above that definition. As much as it tormented her nature to think so, she had to be realistic, pragmatic even. It was for the best.

Back in the living room that now suffered under the poor, tangerine-pigmented phosphorescence of that lackadaisical day, boy cleared his throat, oblivious to the avalanche that had broke within her body, “That’s—”

“—Now, back to René,” her interruption was immediate, almost unaware that those warm-blooded, panicked words had left her vocal chords. As mercurial as such reaction escaped the grasp of her demeanor, the girl cursed her lack of control over her temperament—that was how she felt: vulnerable and vandalized by her inner, most uncontrollable sentiments. It was almost pathetic, if she were to be utterly sincere with herself, “rationalism, methodological skepticism… whatever that is. Spill your knowledge.” she pushed forward, hoping it would be sufficient for his focus to move away from the previous subject.

Jungkook’s lips parted as if there was something else needed to be said, but, from the space in between them, no sound came out. Even if he would most likely never admit it out loud, there were some sentences he did not know how to enunciate, some words that perished in his throat before they could be verbalized with the gentleness they necessitated. He felt as if his very soul was in dissonance with the commands of his flesh, somewhat out of tune with the instruments of his perception.

It did not matter. Another time, he would discover the most suitable words for his unspoken confessions.

Another time, perhaps—a better one.

According to Jungkook, there were some fragments of the world that could not be characterized solely by the senses, but also by what they caused upon one’s heart and soul.

Of course, if he could, he would go on and on about all the details of that specific piece of campus that felt ever so compelling to him, the way those interminable shelves were inundated by a particular type of classical elegance; the majestic resplendence of the golden sun that sliced the dust-filled air like blades of honey. He would pay close attention to each and every literary work, feeling the pleasant contrast in between each pigment and font, titles that could say everything and nothing at all. From Nietzsche to Voltaire, the ceremonious architecture of renaissance to the pictographic writing of ancient Egyptians; would read everything his tired eyes permitted him, diving into the erudite multiverses that were just at his reach.

As Jungkook stood there, feeling ever so minuscule when encircled by such honorable names of history, he thought of doing just that. Permeated by the fantastic aroma of new and old books, the lukewarm air would embrace his lungs like an amicable hug; the texture of the works underneath his fingertips would cause for his attention to be utterly trapped amongst those unexplored cellulose worlds. And, unquestionably, he could listen to the fumbling of students, and the delicate caressing of paper; the hushed whispers and the immersed conversations—but, then again, the senses alone said nothing beyond the substantial.

And that was when she came in.

It was in between two shelves that the two childhood friends spent around two hours, commenting and desiccating to the bones the most various works of literature that the small bookshop could entrust them. Amongst the turmoil of his ponderations, Jungkook could still notice the continuous repercussion of such discussions, the manner her eyes lighted up time and time again every time she discovered a title that was able to set her heart aflame. That, he thought, could never be explained merely by the response from senses—it was a reaction much more particular than that, an interest that whispered until it was given a chance so scream out, shining behind her eyes as her fingers followed the obsidian-printed letters, lips curling up in a smile that sucked out all the air from his lungs.

Somnolent, the sun unhurriedly moved to sleep beyond the horizon, submerging the campus in a progressive penumbra, guiding its inhabitants into the peaceful chromasia of a clear night. Time slipped through Jungkook’s fingers as the hours went by, remaining imperturbable with the gradual dimness of natural luminescence, then the switching on of the bookshop’s lights. It had always been like that, the absent-minded boy found himself thinking: he always lost his notion of time when he was by her side, dwelling in the comfort of her amicable company.

Moments like those at the relinquished bookstore shook up the margins of his controlled demeanor, causing for an eruption of infatuation to feel like magma in his lungs. It all felt so simple, yet so perfect. To him, importance hid behind the details: the diaphanous lineaments of her focused features to the way her hair embraced promptly the luminescence of the cantaloupe daylight; the gentle symphony of her timbre as her enthusiastic voice waltzed alongside dirt particles in the diffuse atmosphere, carrying along the most unexpected bits and pieces of the history she studied ever so vehemently.

Who was he kidding? It were not the details in those particular instants that enchanted him, but her particularities—hell, it was all of her.

It had always been her.

Jungkook had been in love with his best friend for so long now that he had almost grown accustomed to the quixotic, romantic sensations he held within the walls of his chest. Almost.

During some rare instances, he was able to push those preposterous feelings to the back of his head, attempted faithlessly to convince his infantile optimism that it was absurd—unrealistic, naive—to hold such deep affection for someone who did not see him as anything above a companion from her childhood. The two of you were—and have always been, always would be—merely friends, best friends; closer than anyone else could reach to the margins of their intimacy.

To throw all that away would be equiparable to tearing his soul apart—stitch by stitch, thread by thread, until there was nothing left but the arid interior of a hollow doll. It was best just to ignore it, he convinced himself continuously, forcing his impassioned spirit to move back behind the walls of his cognizance. By holding to reason, he would saving the glory of her company with the coast of his own shattering hope.

Ignore it, for it would all soon go away; forget it, Jeon Jungkook, don't be stupid—the boy repeated like a mental mantra, hoping the baseless frequency of its echoes would be sufficient to make his desperate wishes come to life. He should use logic when drawing possibilities about its consequences: it would never happen. Ignore it, forget it. It would evanesce eventually, and it all would come back to normal.

At times, it almost worked to soothe his worries. Almost.

The boy was cognizant of the fact that she was sharing something with him as he entered those subjective endeavours—most likely another haphazard curiosity about the cinnamon-colored book that rested upon her hands—, but he cursed his own limited mind for being unable to recall perfectly the sequence of words that departed from her lips. He swore he tried to drag his own enchanted mind back to the substantiality of her euphonic voice, but his fragmented attention had been completely shattered under her overpowering aura: so mellow and sympathetic.

And god, it felt like smelling the sweetened aroma of a rose, while remaining eternally oblivious to the way its thorns pierced his skin. To look down upon his ensanguined fingertips and wonder how he had gotten himself in such claustrophobic position; to wish to let go of the gracious flower, but being far too weak—too enamored—to perform such preposterous action. Heavens, it hurt him like the licking flames of inferno; but it was far too compelling to let it go to waste. Jungkook could not—would not—allow for his sentiments to continue to be tied to his reason for much longer. Control had a cost, and his was as painful as the hypothesis of rejection.

There were a million things he wished to have said instead, but all that left his throat was a faint provocation; a delicate, honey-like mockery that he knew would be sufficient to break the daydreams of her statuesque position, “You know, when I offered the bookshop, I wasn't being serious.” the boy smiled.

Blinking, she returned from the land of her phantasies and turned around to stare at her companion. When she smiled back at him, the story repeated itself anew: the same flower efflorescing within his heart, the same thorns piercing his lungs and preventing him from camouflaging the infatuated coral hue that painted his cheeks with such overwhelming heat. She is beautiful, Jungkook thought for what could have been the tenth time that night. She was beautiful: she was the entire ocean he drowned in, and he felt like nothing more than a mere drop of water amongst the fury of the rain.

In her fingers, she closed the literary work with a subdued noise, but did not let go of it, “Don't throw the bait then complain you caught the fish.” his best friend cooled, playful.

At that, he could discard his own reveries for the mere instant that took for a laugh to bubble in his chest, “Did you just compare yourself to a fish?” Jungkook questioned, taken aback by the unbelonging comparison. He felt as if he was floating above the horizon, pulled towards paradise by the force of his adoration.

Scoffing at his reaction—somewhat expected, if she were to be sincere—, the girl rolled her eyes at him, not hesitating for a second before speaking back, “Did you skip high school classes on allusions and metaphors?”

Unable to hold back his silly, love-struck smirk, Jungkook shrugged, taking that battle as lost, “Might as well have.” he agreed, causing for her to chuckle.

Suddenly, the boy felt taken aback with the amicable laugh that she presented him with, being faced with the surface of her divinity, “For a philosophy student, you’re so reckless about education.” her words sliced his impulses short right after, causing for his unspoken confessions to drown in the desert of his throat.

As unconventional as the realization appeared to be, Jungkook understood that he was one misstep away from pouring his inner contemplations out into the open, regardless of the consequences they could bring along. Alternatively to such reckless behavior, however, he merely laughed at her odd phrase, “I don’t see how the two could possibly be connected, but, please, don’t tell Socrates,” he joked back, thinking it would be wiser to switch the subject as soon as possible. So, as he pointed down at the object in her hands, that was precisely what he did. “what do you have there, after all? You’re basically on a date with that book instead of me.”

A date.  

Cherise took over her cheeks like a flower swirling open, covering her skins in vermillion petals. Her lips instantaneously felt shut at the sudden term, mercurial heartbeat resounding in her blank mind with the chaotic rhythm of her surprise. Stop being so naive, he is just joking, the girl convinced herself, claiming on and on how idiotic it was of her to believe his words held any sort of deeper veracity. They were just friends.

Somewhere over the momentaneous shock, she could still hear a faint voice cursing her own infantile reaction. Even more, the suddenness of the term caught her so off guard that she was unable to mask its crystal clear effects as nervousness trembled amongst the syllables of her response, “Uh… what d-do you..." she stopped, and cleared her throat. Looking down at the book in her hands, her eyebrows moved together and, a second later, she was able to verbalize her inquiry better. She felt absolutely pathetic to be acting in such manner. "What do you... think of this one?”

Jungkook hummed and looked downwards in a way to mask the way his own hopes had shattered ever so gracefully. Numb was how his heart felt, for there was no initial signal within his brain that warned him of the term before it dripped from his mouth. Again and again, his demeanor cursed himself for not filtering better his choice of words—what was he thinking, throwing something like that so absent-mindedly? He truly felt like an idiot.

Flickering over the details on the cover, the boy’s eyes took in the odd image of the copy in her hands. Three cimmerian-pigmented words stood out amongst a clear cover—The Black Death—and, right underneath the title, there was a somewhat disturbing painting of what appeared to be a village back in the Middle Ages. In the image’s main focus, laid a woman and her child, both screaming out in a silent lament for that devastating, demonic torture to finally cease. All across the background, more nameless strangers curved in pain, skeletons visible through their feeble skins, and shadowy amethyst blemishes infecting their bodies. The figural simulacrum of death was casted over them, painted in fine brushstrokes of the most humane of angonies.

The choice, as odd as it appeared, no longer impressed her best friend—if anything, was even a bit predictable, “Medieval again? Didn't you read all the existing books on it already?” Jungkook questioned, looking back to meet her expectant gaze. Now compared to the horrendous image of a past long gone, her semblance appeared to be almost sanctified, angelic. She is beautiful, he came to terms once more.

Glancing at her eyes was like envisioning a waterfall, he usually thought. Not because of the tears she had shared with him, but for the way they mixed and transitioned so perfectly between the magnificence and peace of the unexplored scenery; though could also crash down upon his contemplations like the overwhelming ponderation of collapsing water, the impact of the roaring cascades. In that breviloquent moment, his reaction stood somewhere in between the two—admiring their exquisiteness, but also growing preoccupied of his choice of words.

Though, the girl chuckled at his response, lowering her book and pressing it against her chest, “One day, maybe,” she told him, pouting at the incredulous expression that emerged within his traces. “come on, you know it's one of my favorite periods.”

“The night that lasted a thousand years...” Jungkook trailed off, knowing what kind of reaction it would be received. Just as expected, her mouth opened in a silent exclamation of negation, eyebrows coming together in a frown. History students generally became very defensive over the claim that nothing was accomplished throughout the Middle Ages, and she was no different, “I'm joking, calm down. You have your history on check. You can stop with those medieval books.” he made sure to add it quickly.

She huffed, shoulders falling in an unspoken relaxation, “Define ‘on check.’” she spoke back.

It was his turn to roll his eyes, crossing his arms before his figure. Only then did she notice the pleasant contrast between his white shirt and the oceans of obsidian that existed in his hair, falling over his eyes like an obfuscous veil. Even under such delicate, lackluster lights, Jungkook still managed to hold the artistry of a renascentist masterpiece, mischievous eyes coruscating with the vitality of youth, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re both at the top of your class, and you constantly shower me with more historical curiosities than I could ever recall. If that’s not being on check, I don’t know what it is.” he explained.

“I can't see how the two could possibly be connected,” she repeated his phrase from aforetime, quick to move her sentences forward before he could even consider a proper response, “I'm buying it anyways. I don’t have this one, and I want to change that.” she shrugged.

With a suspire, Jungkook accepted his defeat, reaching out of the book, “Fine, hand it over,” the boy requested, soon meeting the crashing puzzlement of her confused expression. “what? I'm paying for it. It’s a gift.”

The girl hesitated as if she had just been faced with a prospect far too unrealistic for her to comprehend immediately, “Did I just enter a parallel universe? You used to be bothered when I had no money to pay for ice cream, and now you’re buying me a book?” questioned the lost history student, moving the back of her hand to touch it against his forehead, “Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever?”

Jungkook moved her hand away with a groan, getting the book from her in a harsh, impulsive manner. He was aware she most likely thought that the blush that covered his cheeks was nothing more than his irritation at her childlike demeanor, but it was specifically because of how dangerously close she had become. Hell, he felt like a teenager sometimes, “Don't get bratty, let me be nice to you before I change my mind,” the boy mumbled, taking a step back. The book felt oddly heavy in his hands, but he gave it no importance—was it hot in there? He was not thinking straight. “I'll be back soon with your stupid Black Plague book.”

Still taken aback by the sudden switch of his temperament, she stood there for an instant and, in an unexpected eruption of staggering words, claimed she would then wait for him on the outside of the bookshop. Jungkook merely agreed with a suppressed hum, then turned around to head towards the cashier—who was staring at the two college students with a certain level of interest.

As she walked towards the exit, she could not organize the confusion that had unraveled within her mind. Longing, her heart induced for her muffled steps to resound amongst the quick beating of her heart; the melody of her affection exploding within her chest in warm ondulations of appreciation. Something about that simple action awakened the love that she was ever so desperately attempting to keep six feet under, causing for a trembling sigh to break in between her curled up lips. Amorous and compassionate, waves of tenderness pulsated through her veins like the cadency of a bird’s wings—quick, precise—and called for her heartbeat to adopt  more of an erratic rhythm.  

As the afternoon air embraced her body, the contact with the chilly winds only made her position become even more corporeal, concrete; as if the sudden change of temperature only served to confirm that those past minutes had not been part of a faithless daydream. Deliquescing into igneous amber, the skyline welcomed the crepuscular indigo of the forthcoming night with open arms. By the side of the humble bookshop, small cerulean flowers trembled under the caresses of the wind, appearing to be far too fragile to endure their characteristic beauty; gradually, they, too, succumbed into the shadows of dusk.

On one of them, a yellow butterfly moved its wings in a lethargic, lackadaisical manner, setting a rhythm disconsonant to the one of the mumbling earth. It beat it once, twice; then flew away, utterly unbothered by the effervescent conversations that gradually resonated around campus. Inside her heart, the same tempo followed.

A date.

Heavens, she could feel the way her pulse trembled underneath the mere connotation of that term, never once used before by him. At the same instant she was aware it did not held the significance she wished, the girl could not shake away the endless sparks that ignited within her spirit once she had heard that term a few minutes ago. She felt so stupid, yet so blissfully happy.

Little did she know that, as Jungkook departed from the inside of that small store, he felt the very same.

Gratitude was plastered all over her features as an alluring smile appeared upon her traces, welcoming the boy as he returned with the small bag. She took it with delicacy, afraid that a brusque movement would be all that it took to shatter the wonderful world of reveries she had immersed herself in, “You're the best person I have ever met.” she spoke, fighting the urge to curl her arms around his body and pull him into a warm hug. Aforetime, that would have been so simple, casual, but now she was not certain that was inside his area of comfort.

Jungkook, regardless, merely responded with a satisfied smirk, glad that his small present had given her that much joy. Even if she could not tell, the affection that scintillated beyond his gaze took in the eternal glow of the stars, bordering on the euphoria he fought to keep inside, “You’re very welcome. If I knew the way to your heart was through lame history books, I would've done this years ago,” then, with a concise pause, the boy placed his hands inside the pockets of his pants, chewing on his following words as his eager eyes traced the details of the falling adumbration, “where to, captain?” he lightheartedly questioned.

Humming, she considered his inquiry as the two began to walk without a destination. She held the bag with two hands behind her back and, with every step, its vague noises resembled the calm melody of the wind that whispered through the trees. Again and again, her partner in crime could only wish to drink the sallow moonlight that bathed her focused features, to listen to her euphonic voice as she distractedly spoke out.

“Let's just... walk around,” at last, her response came. For an instant, the boy forgot what he had asked, but it soon emerged within his infatuated mind. Only then did he allow himself to chuckle in amusement, a reaction she had grown quite used to along the years. “I sense that you have another idea, don't you?”

With that single loose edge, his facade came undone, “I might have one, yes,” Jungkook agreed instantaneously, unable to disguise the sudden excitement that glimpsed within his features. As the two passed underneath the cascades of continuous streetlights, the shadows that melted down his features gifted the boy with an image that bordered on the mystery of his prolonged elucidation, “a certain someone might have the keys to a very empty and unwatched gymnasium.” at last, he said.

“Interesting…” the girl said, allowing for her word to trail off into the vacuum of night. The eternity of that moment reflected within his wicked eyes, dripped in between his cherise lips as a song she would adore to follow—a sailor allowing for a siren to trap him underneath the tempestuous waves of a stormy sea. “did a certain someone steal it?”

From the way Jungkook promptly chuckled at her inquiry, she was certain she had already accepted his unspoken request the very second it had fallen in between their bodies. Weak—she was dangerously weak when he looked at her like that: so meaningfully, yet in such infantile, naive manner, “A certain someone got it from their coach when they were still part of the football team, and then never gave it back,” the philosophy student responded without a trace of hesitation. “what do you think? Worth the shot?”

With a purposefully prolonged suspire, she pretended as if she had pondered upon his idea for an instant. Again, Jungkook was very convincing when he needed to. Or, mayhaps, she was just biased, manipulated by her bottled-up emotions, “Fine. Just because you got me that book.” finally, she accepted.

“Oh, I love how you act as if you're not the tiniest bit curious,” he managed to joke back, thanking the lack of luminescence for masking the roseate hue that burgeoned upon his cheeks. Instantaneously, Jungkook drowned in the oceans she held inside as her euphonic laugh dispersed into the ashen clouds above, her beautiful smile dragging him away from his broken, eclipsed reveries of years past. Once again, he thought about how beautiful she was—it was not as if he had any sort of control over those fascinated observations, anyways. “whatever helps you sleep at night, that's good enough for me. To the gymnasium we go.”

And, without an instant of hesitation, so they did.

Lost amongst the cimmerian shadows of the falling indigo skyline, the two could almost convince themselves that there was no destiny to be reached, merely the path of their intertwined souls; the mesmerizing melting of one color to another, dancing together to form the kaleidoscope masterpiece that was the blazing sundown—then the abysmal nightfall. As one subject progressively transfigured into another, they talked about the most frivolous of interests, jumping from topic to topic with the fluidity of the passing incandescent lights. The overwhelming comfort of something so simple took over their enamored hearts, for it was fantastic to simply go on about everything and nothing at all; the kind of liberty only conversations with him could provide her.

Enthusiastic like the wind, able to move between delicate breezes and the pull of a hurricane. Never once had the girl felt so light, so unrestricted by the ties of her subdued sentiment. As the wind caressed the spacious world that expanded in between their bodies, all her preoccupations dispersed into the nocturnal winds. As strange as it might have seemed, she sensed as if that instant became boundless, as immeasurable as their own story. It was ordinary, but lacking any flaws; momentary, but infinite—it was just the two of them and the perpetual embrace of dawn.

She missed that, she truly did.

So much, in fact, that the sentiment blinded her to the obvious manner her friend stole quick glances in her direction, hoping and praying his admiration would not become translucent through his armor. Even with so much adoration continuously blooming within her breathless chests, the two could not win against the enormous space in between their tentative hands.

Truly, one of the most melancholic kinds of love was the one that remained silent, afraid of never being returned with the same vehemence.  

Jungkook could never quite elucidate the sentiment that sang inside his soul once she was there by his side, absolutely obvious to the mystical effects she had on his soul. Continuously, frequently, hopelessly—Jungkook had envisioned that determining occasion again and again, hoping his courageous spirit could show itself when facing the paralyzing, faceless nemesis of his confession. He had imaged how feather-like her honeyed lips would feel against his own, dwelled in the picturesque smile she would present to him once his idolatrous words dripped in between his clenched teeth.

Three small words never felt so threatening, so invencible; spinning his bravery around like a carousel, giving him the motion sickness of a hypothetical rejection from her part. Jungkook hoped for a smile, but could not face the possibility of a frown, of a confused stare; of an unilateral infatuation.

Uncountable instances aforetime he had considered pursuing the rocky path of a faithful confession. Frequently, he had portrayed the most absurd sequence of events, all of them intercalating the ethereal, paradisiacal glory of mutual feelings to the scalding inferno of a possible humiliation, the burning of being turned down by the one he adored ever so dearly. At some occasions, Jungkook got as far verbalizing the syllables that constituted her name with the harmony of his growing hope, words intoxicated by the same affection that hung ever so sweetly at the tip of his tongue—nevertheless, he never enunciated his love. Never found the sufficient amount of courage to do so.

Returning to the unbearable space that dwelled in between their bodies, Jungkook looked to his side in the internal expectation of meeting her image. Neighboring the otherworldly, there was an extraordinary aspect about the way her gaze was lost beyond the sempiternity of the violaceous skyline, how her skin glowed under the golden, aureate lights of a campus that slowly begun to embrace its nocturnal habitants. Heavens, he had lost himself in her charms so many instances, yet the boy was never entirely prepared for the way her grace monopolized his thoughts, causing for them to metamorphose into anarchy as he attempted to formulate the most basic of sentences.

It was brusque, impetuous—but it was not unnoticeable. Deep in the rampageous turbulence of his inner dilemmas, Jungkook thought that peaceful moment was perfect for his courage to present itself—it would finally arrive, and he would recklessly relocate his reluctancy aside, telling her with unshakable bravery how mindlessly, profoundly had he fell for her. Communicate it to her not as a request, not as faithful attempt for her to experience the same: Jungkook would confess his feelings for the girl as if it was nothing at all, a subject could be overlooked  if she wished to do so. He would make sure to say how it would not change anything, how she had absolutely no obligation to feel the same.

Though, that was all that he could ever wish for.

Suspiring, the girl brought his attention back to the two of them, back to the grey asphalt and the howling of the autumn wind. At last, the prolonged tension of his expectation was broken with the notes of her voice, somewhat embarrassed at the subject being presented, “That chick you hooked up with that last party… the one with the long curly hair, you know?” YN asked, seeing from her peripheral vision how the boy nodded in agreement.

Jungkook looked at her in expectation, taking that brief instant to appreciate the cherubic way her features embraced the streetlights with so much grace—her nose appeared as if it had been outlined by gold, the pallid yellow of the lamps that fought the penumbra just to shine upon her cheeks, down her face, around her roseate, petal-like lips as she continued her reluctant speech, “She came to talk to me yesterday, wanting to see if I could give her your number.”

He frowned, clearly puzzled at the unforeseen prospect, “Did... you?”

Her mouth closed at that, eyes seeking for the answers that hid behind the trees of the silent campus. Guilt was not precisely what she was feeling, but it was the only word that emerged within her mind as she attempted to characterize her position, “I didn't know if you wanted me to, so I made up some excuse about breaking my phone and that I never memorized your number,” the girl confessed those words quickly, as if a part of her was silently begging for him to forgive the sins she never committed. “we ranted for a bit about the technological dependency we have, but she bought the lie just fine. I didn't give your number to her," and, after a pause, she made sure to add that, "I know her, though. If you want, I can reach out.”

Jungkook shook his head in negation, moving his hand in the air as if fanning away the nefarious clouds of his apprehension, “No, no, that's fine as it is,” he was quick to say, forcing his tone to remain somewhat controlled. “I don't even know her name. Don't want to change that.”

From the manner her lips fell back shut in a momentary image of hesitation, he knew there had been some fragments of his rapid negation that resonated with an erroneous chord within her soul, “I... understand. Maybe you should tell her, though,” his best friend counterclaimed, measuring her sentences with infinite care, so they would not show the personal pieces of such carefully constructed puzzle. “it's quite sad to just sit and wait for someone like that. Specially if they're avoiding you.”

The hidden gloominess that embellished the corners of her smile often induced for the boy to discover his limbs suddenly growing stiffer, his lungs contracting in apprehension as he met the wonders that dwelled in the fathomless world behind her gaze. In the captive of his throat, the words he would never say died once again. His confession had its spotlight prepared, but he was terrified of the stage, “Yes, you're right,” was what he proffered instead, masking the anxiety of his missed chance with a quick, almost timid cough, “I suppose I should... tell her.” Jungkook acknowledged.

At that, she only hummed in agreement, but said nothing else. As the terminal syllables of his thoughtful sentence lost themselves amongst the hyperborean atmosphere of the night, neither of them knew if they were still discussing that faceless stranger, or if their inner preoccupations had peeked through the cracks of their pride.

It did not matter. Another time, perhaps.

A better one.

Arriving at the gymnasium was not troublesome, but opening its passageway turned into a much more arduous task than they could have ever envisioned. Jungkook pushed and pulled the doors with just enough force so there would be no obstreperous reverberations, but none of his efforts appeared to cause any sort of change in the fact that such dark metal entrance remained imperturbable, standing in the same place as if it was a loyal soldier in its designed position.

Behind the two explorers, no other living being crossed those parts of the campus, for their Saturday night was reserved to other, more vivacious landscapes. Such unique equanimity became quickly cherished by the curious girl—for there was a secretive element about the forlornness of an universe once so ebullient that appeared to be mesmerizing, a piece of reality only the two could waltz in. To her, even if only as an internal conceptualization, the sands of time had stopped to run so the two could observe the gorgeous navigation of passing clouds, how the light of the moon bleed through the opaque nebulas of such onyx cosmos, then withered into the twilight of those dimly illuminated ambients.

Disregarding all those mystifying aspects, her focus solely resided in the boy before her. Bathed by the consecrated complexion of the caramel streetlights, Jungkook held tightly to the ethereal aura it gifted him, the golden aureole that slipped in between the charcoal strands of his disheveled hair—just like that day at the cafe, he appeared to be a pulchritudinous hallucination; a treasure that flinched away from her grasp continuously.

Fumbling with the newly discovered lock, Jungkook angrily mumbled at the overabundance of keys in his hands, uttering profanities at unseen divinities every instance he attempted to utilize the incorrect one, “Okay, I think I think I got it,” the boy said after a breviloquent instant of expecting silence, his shiny eyes looking at her with the endless stars of his bliss. She did not care the reason why he had grown so happy, for it was the image of his endless joy that brought her such euphoric comfort; memories of their childish years coming back to her like tides of wistfulness.

Repeatedly, she thought that she could still catch glimpses of his younger self slipping between the cracks of his controlled persona, and it was an extremely conflicting sentiment to endure. Youthful, his heart lured her into moments of magic and wonder—yet, they kept crashing down back into reality, turning her position into a much more anguishing one.

At last, an exclamation from his part sliced her reveries, causing for the whine of the opening door to echo in the nocturnal infinity that surrounded the two, “Welcome to the castle, princess,” her best friend joyfully greeted, dramatically moving his arm as if he was a painter presenting his newest masterpiece to eager art lovers. In some level, that was precisely what unfolded, “the world is yours to take.” Jungkook added, taking a step to the side so she could walk in first.

And, God, what a world it was.

Near the ceiling of the gymnasium, an elongated line of rectangular windows stood at the top of the wall opposite to them, allowing for the caliginous illumination of the street to welcome the two into those relinquished lands. The spiritless, aurulent phosphorescence from the neighboring lamps dripped from the dusty glass and caused for the specks of dust to oscillate in the static atmosphere, obtaining the achromatic pigmentation that made them seem like anemic lampyridae against the moonlight.  

Casted away by her momentaneous reveries, the girl released a long sigh; looking all around as if checking any other peculiarities she could have missed at first: the wooden benches by the side of the court; the mountainous bleachers that embraced the blades of luminescence with its phantasm-like semblance; the polished cantaloupe wooden tiles, the bleached demarcations that separated the areas of the court, but also guided the two adventurers to enter its realms. There was something terribly alluring about the entire ambient, which she could not yet elucidate.

“God, I hate how pretty this place is at night," she groaned as she slowly walked towards the center of the court, lamenting how rapidly memorable situations like those could become. That small fragment of campus belonged to them—and them only—for god knows how long. If she could, she would have spent the rest of the night there, merely accompanying the midnight darkness as it grew thicker before, at last, gifting its position to the auric resplendence of the burgeoning sunlight, "have you been here before?” she questioned, turning around to meet his silhouette.

Momentaneously, she considered that an answer could not be exactly what she desired. The mere hypothesis of him taking other girls there was able to make her stomach turn. It was not induced by jealousy, but by the damage of replacement. The hurt of longing for someone who escaped in between her fingers like mercury.

Yet, her inner preoccupations did not appear to have any effect on the oblivious boy, “When it's empty?" Jungkook questioned, almost mindlessly. His friend only nodded in agreement, and he hummed for an instant as his mind worked around its memories. After a few prolonged seconds, he was able to construct an answer, "Only once, when I needed some space to think, but you're the first person I bring here.” he confessed.

Perfectly, she masked her alleviation with a shiny smile, “The honor is endless,” she spoke, those words holding more significance than she ever expected. Truly—the world was theirs to take, “it's... weird at the same time. So empty, devoid of noise.” she shared her thoughts.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Jungkook agreed, placing his hands inside the pockets of his pants as he moved closer to where she stood. Against every fiber of his body, he forced his gaze to remain on the endless lines of pallid windows, avoiding to meet the beauty of the girl amongst the consolidated penumbra of that secluded night, “I'm glad we got this night for ourselves. I really missed it.” he manifested that with so much tranquility that she overlooked the turbulent storm clouds that begun to accumulate within his obfuscous eyes.

Humming, the girl but down on her lower lip, taking a couple steps up the solitary bleachers—against what she expected, her footsteps did not sound like thunder amongst the emptiness of the gargantuan construction, but soft and precise as the heartbeats that pulsated within her veins, “We haven't done this since what, freshman year?” the history student questioned, at last sitting down, closer to the middle. By her side, she placed her new book. “Damn, you used to be bolder back then.”

Jungkook chuckled at her peculiar choice of words, forcing himself to follow his best friend up the steps, “Bolder?” he echoed, somewhat puzzled by such term. Communication appeared to be odd between the two childhood friends, for each syllable shared held a level of ambiguity that made him uneasy. “Are you talking freshman year of college or high school?”

With a sudden glimpse of interest, her eyes widened in the face of an upcoming recollection, “I was thinking about college, but you just made me remember something,” she said, promptly meeting the reluctant expectation that was casted over his focused lineaments as, finally, he stood and sat by her side. “and yes, we're going down memory lane whether you want it or not. Picture this: teenager Jeon Jungkook, climbing up my window in the middle of the winter, having to wait for almost twenty minutes on a tree before I got out of the shower to let you in.”

Of course, he could recall that perfectly. Even with some particularities lost amongst the nebulous trails of his mind, Jungkook could still feel the claws of the gelid winter diving deep in his skin; could recall the sound of her surprised exclamation as she left the bathroom with just a pale blue towel around her body, her widened eyes meeting his own behind the glass window. The scalding roseate hue that exploded in both of their faces was barely noticed under the hushed whispers and fervent curses, his excuses were quickly disregarded and curtains were rapidly moved in front of the translucent surface as she claimed she needed to get dressed. Almost twenty minutes later, the boy was allowed entrance. The price to pay: a couple playful hits to the head.

Back to the present, Jungkook then laughed—one of those free, careless laughs that he allowed himself to present when he are truly, foolishly happy. If anything, the most elementary kinds of bliss were the one he cherished the most, for they were both the most achievable and the most alleviating to experience, “Don't do that to me, that was such a traumatic night,” he confessed with a smirk, feeling as if some part of him had shattered under the ponderation of nostalgia. Their bodies were so close, just a few more millimeters and his hand would be placed over warmth of her own. “though, I remember you sneaking out with me to go to that party. Did you parents ever find out that we went there?”

She paused for an instant, ruminating on her memories. As the nuances of that peculiar nightfall returned to the surface of her chaotic memories, the history student came to the uncommon conclusion that she could remember minute, almost ignorable details about those comforting instants, small quirks and expressions that could never be applied to anyone else but her best friend. In the end, even unable to characterize the boy that now stared at her so patiently, Jungkook was one of the most singular individuals she had met, someone that completed her oh so perfectly.

Memories like those were the kind that remained in the depths of her childish mind and, when they returned, they caused for your heart to flutter under their overwhelming wistfulness. That instance, nevertheless, they only brought her a certain sense of disappointment, accompanied by a sign that appeared to hold the entire weight of the world within it, “Not that I know of,” her negation came with a measurement of hesitation, causing for him to grow preoccupied at what would follow. “it was a pretty terrible night, though. I spent most of it in the couch by myself, groaning at drunk people.”

Jungkook’s primordial response was a smirk, his eyes falling down to the polished court that awaited in the hollow spaced in between the steps of the faded bleachers. There was a certain sorrow camouflaged within his every syllable, and she would have never noticed it if she had not been so attentive to his every minor signal of irritation, “You do that during every party you go to.” he spoke underneath his breath, hoping that the traces of regret within his tone could be sufficient for her to understand his fragile position.

Open, then closed. Her lips moved as if delineating her words in the air, but allowed no sound to run from in between them. There was only silence, only the beating of their arrhythmic heartbeats. Open, closed.  

It was during moments like those that the boy finally understood that the duality she presented him with was nothing but the existence of a melancholic soul in a vivacious personality; the glimpses of hope and despondency that morphed to form the girl he had fallen so deeply for, “Yeah, but you left me alone,” she spoke, breaking his romantic reveries instantaneously. That was not even close to a sentence Jungkook ever expected to receive, far too close to his nightmarish forthcomings for him to promptly take seriously. Paranoia was not all that it was, then: he had truly relinquished the one who he adored the most. “I mean, I get it. You wanted to have fun with your friends, I don't blame you for it. I'm also not saying it was on purpose, but it did make me feel down. For a long time, at that.”

Those words made him feel sick to his stomach, the impact of his guilt absorbing all the air from his already feeble lungs. Jungkook could not put into words how much he hated the fact that the girl felt that way, especially if it was because of infantile and reckless decisions he had once took. He would have done anything to put poetry into her life, to find the lyrism that tied them together with so much perfection. The white rymes, the flawless metric, the correct verses at the specific time. Everything he did not have, that is. Everything opposite to what he had truly given her.

“You never told me it bothered you so much,” he spoke those words with care, almost as if he was scared of the consequences of facing a wild animal. Though, he was aware YN was not even close to a roaring lion amongst the endless fields of the savannah, nor the calculative wolf that awaited for its pray in between the alabastrine snow—she was his best friend, someone that knew him even better than himself, “it's nothing that wouldn't happen nowadays, too.” he quickly added.

Subsequently, he came to realize that it was a calamitous choice of words. It was nothing that would not happen nowadays: he would still leave her alone, “I know. It does happen sometimes,” the girl agreed closely after, bringing his deeper nightmares to life. It was like watching a piece of glass falling to the ground in slow motion: body paralyzed, wide eyes merely awaiting for the crashing impact that would soon arrive. And, duly, it came. “Jungkook, you know I'm not someone that gets comfortable at parties. I only go because you want me to, and every time I think you'll keep me company, which you don’t. I don't demand to be exclusive, it's just kind of exhausting when you drop me to be with your friends or some random girl the very second we walk through the door.”

With her amable voice and the dainty reluctance it provided, Jungkook’s best friend shattered his spirit with the simple pronunciation of those words. Brusquely, all elements of nature he once perceived within her became the natural disasters that would tear him apart—calamities, oh calamities—the same calm breeze had now turned into a merciless hurricane. Paralyzed. Slow motion. He spoke out, “Is that why you... are already gone every time I go search for you?” he seemed unable to find the correct words to formulate his inquiry, but he did it regardless. Jungkook expected that amongst his shaky timbre, she would capt his disguised message: he had gone after her, she had not been simply forgotten nor replaced.

Though, it was much more complicated than a disguised apology and the infantile hope of a benevolent forgiveness, “Yeah, I get tired of waiting, so I just go home.” she shrugged, and moved her gaze away from his own. That was, in a way, the breaking point: a simple misstep that sent him flying down to the abyss of his suppressed frustrations.

Like wildfire, his frustration started to fumble around in his tight chest, taking over the arrhythmia of his heart and burning his logic thinking into ashes. He felt the pressure of the earth shaking beneath his feet as his subsequent words ate his mouth, bringing along a poison that he did not recognize as being his own, “I've seen you talking to some people every once in awhile, though. Some guys.” added the boy, trying to hold back the rivers of his awakening exasperation.

If the hidden connotation of his claims reached for her cognizance, she gave no signals that she had been affected by it, “I'm not socially inapt, Jungkook, I can talk to other people,”  she spoke back with bittersweet aftertaste hanging at the tip of her tongue. She could not explain the reason for his sudden harshness, nor the way that it reflected upon her very temperament. “it's just the same story all over. The guys you see me talking to just want to flirt and fuck around, and I'm not interested in that. Besides, it's not like it's an excuse for you to just leave me like that.”

He frowned, unaffected by her sentence. The thing about resentfulness was the blindness it dragged along, preventing its owner from recognizing the irrationality that slipped through one’s every movement, “Why is that?” he thoughtlessly inquired.

Was that jealousy she perceived within his tremulous phrase? No, she was not being rational: of course Jungkook was not jealous. She supposed that was a common behavior amongst the ones who fell in love to place a special, idiosyncratic meaning in everything their loved one did, for it was much more soothing than to face the hypothesis of it being an one-sided devotion.

As much as she was sure it was the case, some stubborn, hopeful part of her heart expected otherwise, and it was sufficient to prolong her anguish even further. She paused for a second, taking in the vague question, and the curtain of such abstract feeling that had fallen over his eyes, “What do you mean?” she thought it was better to question.

For the first time, she did not see Jungkook as an unexplored mountain, did not force herself to fight the radiance of the sun in a faint attempt to glimpse at the secrets the cloud-hidden apex held. Now, the boy was nothing beyond the best friend she had lost a long time ago, an hesitant and even quite timid kid that was unable to construct his sentences with the correct words. His mouth was opening and closing, his flickering eyes were moving around—everywhere but on her—seeking for the answers that he necessitated. She could almost sense the waves of frustration that emanated from his body, but could not pinpoint the reason for such swift change of demeanor.

Each step forward, the boy felt as if he was taking two steps behind, crawling away from a reality he would forever deny to face. Keeping those thoughts at bay, he forced himself to clear his throat, resuming his speech with care, “Why are you... not interested in any of them?” at last, he reformulated his previous inquiry, his voice a note softer than before.

“I don't know, I'm just not,” she breathed out, allowing herself to embrace the profound waters of his gaze for a momentaneous instant of weakness—in her perceptions, his beauty still resided amongst the harshness of his expression. Fragility reluctantly opened before her like a efflorescing flower, presenting her will the prismatic magnificence of his kind spirit, the kindness that sometimes got eclipsed by his reckless acts. Yes, that piece of a lonely universe was duly was a beautiful ambient, but his presence managed to make it even better. “the heart doesn't pick what it wants, I suppose.”

Taken aback by the pulling currents of his heartache, the boy felt as if he was nothing more than a book with a torn out page: missing an imperative scene, a discontinued trail of thought. Jungkook truly despised how distant he had become, and was unable to direct his anger towards himself. Instead, it dripped in between his mouth like drops of a corrosive liquid, burning his patience to threats, “It really fucking doesn't,” he bitterly agreed. “I'm sorry, okay? I never noticed I was doing that.”

If it had been in any other situation, she would have left that slip. She would have overlooked the pendulum of emotions that guided his posture, would have disregarded his unbelonging frustration as being caused by the subjects the two would much rather avoid—however, that moment, everything switched back to place. The same constrained petulance that deteriorated his heart could be reflected within her own chest, crushing for her reckless speech to reverberate past the static air before she could ever hold it back. Not that she would have, for she was, too, reaching the margins of her patience.

“I told you about this at least two times already, though,” YN continued to say, refusing to acknowledge an apology that was as empty and mechanic as the others he had presented her with. She could see that the boy was compassionate towards her position, so she could not comprehend the reason for the prompt manner he avoided diving deeper into such matters. “you apologized, but the story remained the same. In fact, if I'm being honest, I feel like you purposely avoid me at this point.”

There it was, and there was no way to take it back. Her piercing words felt like cold daggers to his chest, slicing his pride in half and causing for his negation to shatter into reality: Jungkook could no longer escape from those demons. Perhaps, there was not another time—a better one—waiting for him ahead; the universe would not be merciful enough to take that miraculous decision for him, or even to plan the correct, unrealistic instant for his devoted speech to leave his mind. He was losing his best friend at every hollow apology, it was not worth the secret.

At the same time, running over that blame distribution made his limbs hurt, those fragmented opinions and past recollections that only induced for his inner guilt to shine with a new force, “What are you talking about?” Jungkook questioned, aware that he was being irrational, speaking in circles. She was right, and he was searching for signals that held absolutely no verisimilitude. “We're alone in a gymnasium. How is this avoiding?”

“Yeah, I'm as surprised as the next guy,” scoffed his best friend, her calm tone in dissonance with the clear astringency of her measured words. Heavens, he felt as if the paradise of her gaze had just metamorphosed into inferno, oscillating in a middle-ground in which her melancholy appeared ever so clearly. “you're always postponing our plans, always making up excuses to cancel or leave early. And when you do stay around, your mind is miles away, you never even hear what I’m saying.”

Syllables felt arid as a desert as his poorly pronounced negation fell from his mouth, “That's just not true, YN.” was all that he was able to say, even if he did not believe that claim for a mere second.

Truth was: Jungkook had been aware of how the two had followed separate ways, traveled different roads. Ever since they had gotten into college, they were no longer the kings and queens they once pretended to be, just two pathless students amongst an ocean of strangers. More than that, he knew perfectly the way he had purposefully avoided his best friend with the objective of muffling his feelings—which, ironically, only added to his overwhelming longing. She had all the right to be feeling lonely, to be placing the blame on him. God, he hated himself at that moment.

The girl, however, merely shrugged at his words. For the first instance, Jungkook came to the conclusion that her disappointment was so rooted down her mundane chores that she could barely present him any sort of sentiment: it had become part of her routine, “Perhaps not, but that's how I feel.” she humorlessly told him.

Stitch by stitch, his facade was torn apart, lying somewhere in between the broken and the frustrated, “Maybe you should ask me how I feel.” Jungkook said without a second instant of ponderation.

Parts of his forgotten reason still screamed within his mind for the boy to better filter his verbalizations, but he was aware that, phrase by phrase, the damage that was progressively being done could not be fixed so easily. He was certain, one way or another, that the time he had been waiting for now approached at full speed. It felt less and less like a kind embrace, and more like a truck about to hit him in the middle of a deserted road, its phosphorescent lights so strong that blinded the boy to any sort of self-control.

She, too, appeared to grow conflicted at the spectacle that unfolded before her eyes, pursing her lips together in a quiescent instant of hesitation, “Very well,” she agreed after a sigh, placing her hands on top of her knees. Her palms felt horribly cold, even if it ambient was warm, “for starters, why are you getting so defensive?”

“Defensive? I'm not getting defensive, I'm just getting mad,” and he only got himself to blame—the two of them knew that. “seems like every time I'm about to do something right for once, a talk like this blocks the way. We haven't been close ever since we started college, that's normal, but do you have to rub it in my face that it's all my fault?”

At that, her shield of apprehension shattered. Yet anew, the naivety of his younger self shimmered past his staggering tone, causing for the girl to remember that the two had a story far deeper than those shallow years of college, “I never said it was all your fault. Things like this are mostly never unilateral,” her shoulders fell at that, voice growing more delicate. Even if she still blamed the boy for the way he had departed, she could not pretend as if she could not have fighted harder for it. In a way, she, too, appreciated the security of distance. “I know you for too long, Jungkook, I know you wouldn't just cut me out because you're feeling like it. Or, at the very least, I'd like to think so.”

Her words felt like kerosene setting his soul aflame, the sparks that gradually consumed the rope of a dynamite. From the manner Jungkook swallowed his anguish dry, he could tell he was merely a couple steps away from the edge, holding himself back from a road divider he was so frightened of facing, “I would never do something like that, you're my best friend.” Jungkook spoke, but did not fully believe himself. He had done it, after all.

Patient, the girl breathed out, placing her hand over his own. Her touch was like poison ivy, burning every part of his skin and causing for his throat to itch under the bothersome presence of unspoken claims—nothing could ever come close to how much he wanted her at that instant, even if it was to solely feel her embrace, her heartbeat mixing with his own, “And you are mine. You just haven't been acting like it,” she tenderly responded, voice faltering for an instant before continuing with the subject. “what's going on with you lately? You know you can tell me anything, I won't judge you.”

What’s going on with me is that I have no fucking idea how to love you, and it’s tearing me to pieces, the boy innerly responded, but could never find the courage to push those brave claims out of his asphyxiated chest. He was two steps away from crying out mercy, giving up to the fatigue of his suffocated sentiment and merely allowing for it to spill out amongst the breaking thunder of his pride.

Regardless, what he said was the complete opposite, “Nothing’s going on with me.”

Breathing out, she took her time to find the air she necessitated to continue such personal conversation, “Look at me,” requested the girl and, after a concise second of vacillation, the boy glimpsed upwards. Jungkook could swear that it was almost sanctified the way the colorless glow of the moon dripped over her frown, the chimerical traces of her confusion standing out amongst such welcoming persona. Preoccupations painted her features in shadows, and he could tell that there was no way he could turn back from the path they were heading. “tell me what's wrong. We can't fix it otherwise.”

Jungkook scoffed at her sentence, promptly feeling terrible for doing so. His heart skipped a beat the the apathetic temperament that had taken over his spirit, for he was aware his defensive posture would soon get the best of him. For a moment, he found himself inquiring if that would be the last night she would spend by his side, if the subsequent renunciation he would present her with would be enough for their friendship to be ruined forever, “We can't fix everything, YN.” he counterclaimed.

In fact, it would make everything worse. One fallacious advancement, one misspoken sentence. One step out of the chord that divided who they were and who they had become, and the two would downgrade into the vacuum of utter evasion that existed in between.

However, the manner her fingertips curled around his hand in a silent comfort was enough to puncture his heart instantaneously. Her touch, as intoxicating as it was, was also warm as a splendiferous summer morning; welcoming as the oceans that stretched beyond her eyes—seas he had continuously drowned in, being pulled under by the enchanting spell of her voice. His own eyes, however, were again moving away from hers, focusing on the achromatic particles that danced in slow motion against the phantasmal lambency, “Let's at least try.” she told him with care.

Even hours after that scene had occurred, the boy could not pinpoint what it was about that simple sentence that felt like the last drop to him. Self-condemnation had corroded his soul for so long that Jungkook could not do anything but feel infuriated at himself, profoundly displeased by the manner she continued to be benevolent to him even though he had done her so wrong—Jungkook anathematized how much he loved her, how much she made him fall deeper and deeper with every loving touch. He hated how he continued to keep all that as a secret.  

Of course, he was not obligated to.

Groaning in annoyance, he ran one of his hands through his cimmerian-pigmented strands of hair, leaning back against the bleachers as in a silent signal of defeat, “Fine. We're doing this, then,” Jungkook rolled his eyes, an action that felt like hyperborean arrows being shot straight through the walls of her hopeful heart. He was mad, frustrated even. “let's play guessing game, if that’s what you want from me. Guess why your best friend is unable to look you in the eye, guess why he can't stay around for you for long without making an absolute fool out of himself. Guess why I always go to search for you during parties and end up so frustrated that you left that I get the first chick I see in front of me.”

Once, twice—she blinked lethargically, using all the seconds she could to fully comprehend the explosion that had just came from his lips, “I... don't know the answer to any of those questions. That's what I'm asking you, Jungkook,” said the bewildered girl. His name slid off her tongue with so much easiness, so much harmony. It would soon be the end of him.

Of them, even.

Thunder broke once he opened his mouth, bringing along the reverberation of his suffocated misery, “Why do you think I got pissed drunk back in that party, uh? I was trying to man the fuck up and be straight up with you.” Jungkook said, aware that each syllable took him closer and closer to a path of no return. The boy was staring at the barrel of a gun; patching up each and every sliced up fragment of his temperament from which his genuine sentiment could slip through. Nevertheless, some calamities are stronger than the man’s will to control them, and to fight against nature is to lose sooner or later.

The wild winds of his tone shook what was left of her cognizance, his sentence holding meetings far too abstracts for her to promptly grasp, “Be straight up about... what?” strangely, she found that simple sentence particularly challenging to pronounce.  

Like flowers that ruptured the cement, Jungkook's words broke upon his clenched jaw before he could ever measure their inevitable consequences; the ponderation of revealing his most secretive emotions to someone that could tears his very soul to pieces with a mere negation, “Are you that dense?” the boy spat, moving his head back so his eyes could meet the overwhelming infinity of her own: patient, kind, understanding. All at once, it all spilled out from his mouth. “I’m in love with you, YN, how can’t you tell?”

With that, their world withered into quiescence.

Cold and silent, the devastating space between their bodies appeared to grow within the span of a heartbeat, pulling the two lovers towards opposite edges of the ambient. Paralyzed by the connotation of those words, the two impassively watched as their story reached the end of a long-running chapter, turning to a page that still remained blank. Their young hearts faded for an instant and, ever so strongly, fell back to the turmoil of the present.

Encompassed by quivering stars, the moon casted its porcelain aurora on the eternal minutes that prolonged inside that gymnasium, embracing their still bodies in a ghostly, melancholic atmosphere. Ache and bliss irradiated inside her suffocated lungs, inducing for her dry lips part as she progressively absorbed the impact of such abrupt epiphany, “You’re… w-what?”

Jungkook had his eyes lost in the abyss far beyond her position, avoiding her presence vehemently. By her side, the cover of the book appeared to mock his coward nature, causing for the explosion of his devotion to progress into the weight of his words, “Don’t come to me pretending you didn’t hear it,” he spoke those words with weakness, finding it hard to discover the same ruthless he had tasted just before. “I hate this shit: I’m in love with my best friend. I've fallen for the oldest trick in the goddamn book. Fucking fantastic.”

It was sudden, overwhelming—but it was there in all its melancholic glory. The abrupt crash of their shared emotions, the spectral way his thoughtful irises still resembled the ones who stared so fondly at her all those years ago. The confirmation had reached her years, and the brokenness she felt for so long was now silent before the fulfillment of her numb euphoria.

Sincerely, she was planning to verbalize something back at the vulnerable boy—anything she could ever conceptualize, really. As her petal-like lips fell open in the wordless enunciation of a silent exclamation, the girl swore there was a vague idea of which baseless, improvised sentences would come out of her mouth, a broken inquiry or, perhaps, a faraway recollection of her profound reflections. Nevertheless, as her wide-eyed gaze met the beautified lineaments of Jungkook’s anguished semblance, all those blurred thoughts dispersed into a blank canvas, his very image causing for her breath to get trapped in her throat, “J-Jungkook, I—” she stuttered.

“—No, listen to me,” he interrupted vehemently, unsure if the fragile voice that left his lips was truly his own. It felt too rushed, too piercing; too broken, “I know I’m a prick sometimes, alright? I know I end up ignoring you, that I leave you hanging. I know I’m always overprotective of you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I’m aware that’s not healthy, but I can’t work with what I’m feeling,” he spoke those endless confessions like a cascade of reverence, unable to pause and fully ruminate on everything that had been told. He hesitated, then continued after a sigh, “shit, I tried to ignore it, I tried to go out with other girls. But they weren’t... you. As stupid as that sounds, they weren’t you, and you’re the only one that I want, YN.”

Looking at him at that very instant was like losing her balance; equiparable to the absence of gravity that a lost astronaut would feel when floating around the void of space. Everything was so out of focus that she could only pay attention to the odd pattern of sensation that took hold of her: his eyes, that torn-apart gaze of someone who had just pulled the final loose edge of a decaying friendship, pulled her into the blurred hollowness that existed beyond it—no more phantasmal constellations in sight, “Why… why are you saying it now?” was all that she could ever question.

Amongst the fragmented adumbration that painted his features, she could perceive a niveous blanket of tears shimmering over his eyes, “Keeping this inside it’s just too much, alright? It's suffocating me, sometimes I feel like I can't even breathe,” Jungkook was honest with his every sentence, feeling as if it bordered on the inexecutable to respond without losing control of his already staggering speech. “I'm sorry that I couldn’t just pretend as if you weren’t such an important part of my life. I'm sorry I was a coward and that I pushed you away. I'm sorry I fell in love with you and now that I'm throwing it all on your shoulders.”

Once anew, the girl opened her lips to respond, but he silenced her with a quick raising of his hand—an unspoken request for her to continue listening to his unplanned confession, for he was uncertain if he could ever be able to find the correct words to continue if she verbalized something in between them, “I'm sorry I'm a fucking idiot, alright?” Jungkook breathed out, shaking his head. Yet again, his eyes fell to the spacious nothing that existed in between the steps of the bleaches, the hole that he wished could swallow him whole, deleting his existence or merely taking his tormented spirit away from such terrible position. “You deserve someone that will treat you better than this. It’s not fair with anyone.”

After Jungkook’s trepidation had dissolved into the obfuscous eternity of night, she awaited for an instant to check as if he had said everything he wished to. Amidst the soft infinite of the elephantine quiescence, YN melted into the nostalgia of their past, both embracing it and pushing it away from the present that they now dwelled in—for, no matter the ones that they once were, it would be infantile to grasp into moments that could never be replayed, people that had long moved away from those childish imaginations.

The two friends had truly grown up, enough so that he had spilled out his emotions in a momentaneous explosion of devotion, an uncalculated reverie that ended up holding much more significance than the two could have ever foreseen. Now, it was her turn.

Gentle sighs, deep breaths. As the afterglow of his confession tingled in the space between their silhouettes, a pallid shade of roseate burgeoned on her cheeks and she sighed, rupturing those never ending moments with the symphonious tranquility of her timbre, “Can I talk now?” delicately inquired the girl. Only then did she notice that, throughout his eruption of emotion, he had taken his hand away from her own, and the coldness of night felt as venomous and merciless as ever before.  

Jungkook had immersed his demeanor on the unspoken task of maintaining his composure intact, for his pride had long fell like ashes to the ground, combusted by the volcanoes of scalding secrets that had just grown in between the two. Contoured by the waxlike luminescence of buzzing lights, his impassive lineaments did not show even a fragment of the pandemonium that exploded beyond the two simple words that constituted his response, “Go ahead.” he shrugged, hoping that the shame of her refusal would not scar his soul as deep as he expected.

The chuckle that dripped from her lips was enough for his eyes to unwillingly dart upwards, presenting the girl with the opening she needed to continue, “Jungkook, you have to be the denser person I have ever met in my entire life,” she playfully told him, instantaneously recognizing the way his gaze danced in between the confusion of assuagement and the shock of her reaction, “you don’t know if I feel the same? Really? What do you want me to do, wear a T-shirt with your name printed on it? Change my relationship status to ‘it’s complicated’?”

He rolled his eyes, turning his head forwards and staring at the now closed passageway. Meters from where they stood, he could still perceive the vague shimmering of the silver keys scintillating in the air like a solitary astro, guiding him into amenity like a personal north star, “Complicated is one way to put it.” was what he said back, for he felt unable to comprehend her reaction wholesomely.

Placing her hand on his tensed-up shoulder, she called for his attention again, “Hey, Jungkook?” his best friend’s mellifluous tune culminated in a swift movement of his gaze back towards her direction. Suddenly, the smile she presented him with was everything he could see—no dusty gymnasium, no silvery stars—and her sacchariferous timbre was the only melody he ever wished to hear. “Do me a favor and just... shut the fuck up.”

And then, the boy found the softness of her lips pressed against his own.

Kissing her was like having a drink of whiskey—addictive, intoxicating; it was drowning in the mesmerizing sensation of her lips without caring for the hangover that could arise alongside with the morning sun. Feeling her trembling heart against his own was like an earthquake inside his soul, like they were colliding and drowning away, feeling the spacious nothingness between their lips before diving back to it with much more adoration.

And god, the roses! The roses blossomed like galaxies exploding within his chest, the thorns no longer cut his breathing short. It was everything so perfect, so immaculate; a scene that could be part of a formidable romance—a painting, a masterpiece—of two friends finally succumbing to the feelings they have kept inside for so long; souls shining brighter than the lackluster moonlight that was casted over their interlaced fingers, their waltzing mouths.

Honeyed, then astringent. Peaceful, then tormenting. It was perfectly imperfect, flawlessly damaged. It was the two of them, and nothing more.

At last, she departed from his lips with another peck against his swollen mouth, her following words coming out in an infatuated whisper, “I’m in love with you too, Jungkook," the girl confessed in infinite devotion, her tone resembling the faint beating of a butterfly's wings, the rustle of the tall grass beneath its kaleidoscopic colors signaling the blowing of the vernal breezes. "maybe you would’ve noticed it if you weren’t so busy running away from me.”

However, at that instant, nothing about his poorly calculated mistakes mattered.

The bitterness of their past no longer held any sort of relevancy, for the honeyed nectar that danced at the tip of their tongues was sufficient to silence all the howling poltergeists that remained at the back of their heads—at times, things did not have to be so complicated, for the simple, innocent certainty of a shared love was already enough, “You know me, I can’t cope with some stuff. I just avoid it and hope it goes away magically,” the he chuckled at his own words, noticing promptly how pathetic they were after everything that had unfolded, “I guess it was too much at stake. I couldn’t just throw years of friendship out—”

“—Like you just did,” she was quick to interrupt, gaze flickering downwards to meet the contours of his swollen, scarlet-painted lips.

“Like I just did,” Jungkook echoed with infinite adoration, taking one of his hands so he could remove a strand of hair from the front of her pulchritudinous eyes. He paused at that, the warm feeling of  her skin against his own awakening an exquisite emotion amidst the never ending haziness of his mercurial conceptualizations. If he were to elucidate such feeling, it seemed as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep, but his heart continued to waltz on a chimerical cosmos of unachievable reveries. “and I’m very, very glad I did.”

Time and time again, he would find himself getting lost in her details—the way her hair fell around her head, embraced by the aura of the tarnished incandescence; how her smile held the allurement of a thousand renaissance masterpieces, lips moving with the fluidity of a running river, oscillating like petals in the wind to form the most harmonious of notes, “I’m glad you did too.” she repeated, placing her hands on his shoulders in an unspoken cue for him to move even closer.

And so he did.

Breaking him down and building him back up, she used the architecture that hid in her kiss to fumble around with the pieces of his soul, writing unsaid poems on the silk of his mouth and a suppressed, indestructible suspire escaped from his mouth. One of his hand navigated to hold to her waist, touch light as a feather, electric as a lightning bolt that coruscated amidst the raven ink of dawn; as the other continued to cup her cheek, holding her in place as his mouth explored the gentleness of her kiss.

Jungkook swore he could still see her comeliness even with his eyes closed, for it was the same grace he had experienced time and time again throughout the years they had shared. He had fallen in love with her very soul; the color of sunset that it emanated, the heat of the sleeping sun’s radiance—those brief seconds in which the sky was in absolute equilibrium between light and penumbra, waltzing with strands of gold and the sapphire sea; painted in light brushstrokes of white and grey.

It was both an ending and a brand new beginning. When the day reached its ending, night would soon follow and, once the stars were already exhausted of its continuous glow, the everlasting flames of the sun would come to bring them assuagement. Like her, the sun would continue to rise, sunset would continue to embrace him.

The two would meet in the horizon, consoled by the philosophies of its equilibrium.  

At times, Jungkook would catch himself thinking about the meaning of the most introspective of concepts. Often, love and beauty.

Love, to him, came and went in waves, and the movement of the seven seas never ceased. The pellucid waters slipped through his fingers and shone under the sun like they carried along a million diamonds; the alabastrine spume of the caressing ocean fell like a pulled blanket over the sand: crashing, cleaning, wiping away all traces that could have been left aforetime; turning the world into a clear canvas ready to be painted by a brand new story. Undertow; drought; tormentous tides and currents that led to everywhere he could ever imagine.

To her.

And, heavens, he had drowned in those crystalline waters a long time ago.

His most accepted characterization of beauty, however, came solely after a few months the two of them had been together. Not in an epiphany, as he once expected, but in between the tender caresses he had now grown so blissfully accustomed to, combining itself with the other special little word that haunted his contemplations—it was welcomed, regardless. For it was more perfect that he could have ever imagined.

Her lips were like the finest of silk against his own, the warm embrace of two bodies intertwined amongst the sheets of a messy bed. There was something tragically pulchritudinous about it, something so wholesome about the way her arms wrapped around his neck and pressed their chests down together—hearts intertwined, beating in consonance. It was like waiting for years for a rare flower to blossom, only to find yourself overwhelmed with its beauty, taken aback by the nectarous, sacchariferous scent it brought along. It was like home. Like the story they shared. Like her.

She moved apart from the embrace of his kiss with a prolonged sigh, her eyes fluttering open as the afterglow of their afternoon crashed down upon her nude figure, “I swear, this must be the third time we say we’re gonna study, but we end getting carried away,” the girl mumbled, using the snow-colored sheets to cover her chest, as the boy moved closer to her, placing his hand on her waist with a mischievous smile that she quickly recognized, “and don’t even think about saying it, Jungkook. This is not anatomy studying.” she cut his sentence short.

He merely smirked at that, never saying that he would have claimed otherwise, “Well, I’m not complaining,” Jungkook told her, hearing as the sound of the moving bed sheets danced on the stillness of the air.

Behind his figure, the window of his dormitory bedroom presented the girl with the beauteous imagery of the afternoon skies, unrealistically achromatic when compared to the conflagrant leaves of cantaloupe trees, burning like amber, dancing like autumn. The horizon casted an anemic silvery hue over his caramel-painted skin, appearing like a thin white line that contoured the lineaments of his shoulders; that melted in between the strands of his black hair. Many months had passed since the two shared that kiss in that abandoned gymnasium, but his gaze still held the same adoration, the same immaculate love.

“What’s with that face?” She questioned as she moved around, her chest facing his own. There was some sort of odd glorification shimmering inside his attentive eyes, precious metals that lured her into the treasures his soul held inside. Something has switched: they both understood, but could not pinpoint what it was.

Jungkook took the chance to pull her body closer, causing for their arrhythmic heartbeats to overlap one another as their skins collapsed together. As his inquiry reverberated on the thin air that existed in the middle of their lips, she felt as if the weight it carried caused for the gravity in her chest to increase, heart swallowing in infatuation, “What did I do to deserve someone as amazing as you?” he questioned.

She rolled her eyes, taking one of her hands to remove the disheveled strands of hair from her forehead—something she always did once she was trying to mask a reaction, in that case, the appearance of a roseate blush upon her cheeks. Even so messy after everything that had unfolded, her strands irradiated around her head, falling over the pillows like a silky cascade, “Piled up karma from your childhood, most likely.” groaned the girl in a sarcastic manner, hoping he would take her playfulness as a signal not to enter those emotional subjects.

Regardless, Jungkook was never quite able to catch signals from her part. That never truly changed.

“Stop it, I’m being serious,” mumbled the boy, allowing himself to smile just enough so comfort would return to shine within her chest. His nose scrunched up as another euphonic laugh ruptured the equanimity of his cherise lips, eyes shining in interminable amorousness, “I can't believe I have someone like you in my life. I'm being honest when I say that I could hear you talk all day about the invention of musical notes by some random Italian monk or whatever the hell you just discovered, and I'd never get tired of it. That's quite something, especially coming from me.”

Laughing feeling at his odd confession, the girl could only feel feel herself growing lighter again, “You’re being so cheesy, please.” she claimed, almost timidly.

Jungkook pouted at her words, leaning his body closer so his lips hovered over her own—light enough to touch her skin like diaphanous feathers, but not enough to gift her with any sort of pressure, “I don’t care, I’m being honest,” he counterclaimed, allowing for his eyes to flutter shut under the embrace of her presence. Both of them begun to value unpremeditated, filterless honesty more than ever after their unique night at the gymnasium. “just staying by your side… it’s enough to make my day so much better. You’re my everything, you know that.”

She did. It was something Jungkook told her often—not necessarily by spoken words, but by actions, the sudden surprise of welcomed affections and minor details that made their entire day count. It was within his every touch, within every glance that stood glued to her figure for a bit longer than necessary. Heavens, how deeply did she know that, “What about finding value within yourself?” Questioned the his best friend, taking one of her hands to the cataracts of his onyx hair.

Jungkook’s eyes opened at the delicate contact, the line of his lips curling up as if he had been waiting for that question to find its way back to him, “That doesn’t mean someone else can’t make you just as happy,” the boy promptly responded, each and every syllable feeling as if it was the part of an ethereal, gorgeous melody of affection. He looked into her eyes like he was able to envision the entire universe in them, and, in some way, he was. “it doesn’t make you vulnerable to allow someone else to love you, to be kind to you. Most of the time, we are not kind to ourselves, anyways.”

“Here comes the philosophy student,” the girl teased, but took his words to heart. It was true, after all: to love was not what culminated in torment. The element which did was what was done with a such sentiment; at times murdered by the hands of humans who did not know how to grow it, asphyxiated by hearts too feeble to find courage, “thank you, though. You know I feel just the same way.” she made sure to speak further.

And, yes, he truly did know.

Jungkook would not give up the roses that grew in his chest, regardless of the pain that they brought along. Just because the world was a never ending incendium, he would never allow for its blazing flames to consume the hope he held inside; to tear away from him one of the last comforts he still held to so tightly. Heavens, but how could he? How could the boy relinquish the warmth of her presence, how could he overlook the manner even the most gelid and merciless of winters melted under her scalding and welcoming aura?

Only the courageous showed their vulnerability with so much eagerness: they opened their arms and vociferated at the top of their lungs to bring on the pain of humanity—tear me apart, my love, they would bravade, tear me to ashes and throw me out of your life, burn my wings and break my soul apart: I can take it all, for I know the path was worth it. Kiss me like there is no tomorrow, ruin me like there was no yesterday. Show me that we were alive, that we meant something. That we are. Were. Will be.

Show me who you are, and I will be brave enough to show you who I am.

Then and there, she was graceless. She was courageous; vulnerable. She was everything he had imagined and a bit more. She was his. He was hers.

Perfect, gentle, palpitating—oh, God, how the roses effloresced! How their scarlatine hue dripped in between their lips, how their characteristic smell embraced them with the gentle aroma of the welcoming spring. How graceful their delicate petals felt, how perfectly articulated their touch caressed their skin with so much adoration. The roses burgenated; wilthered. Though, they never burned. No, never did.

Jungkook swore he could capture that moment forever, that the words that left his mouth would reverberate for all the years to come, guiding him throughout his times of doubt, “That’s the most fantastic part of it all, isn’t it?” her best friend questioned, hints of a smile daring to blossom in his roseate lips. They had such a sweet, delicate delineation, so perfectly sculpted to feel the graceful details of his features, “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where...” the boy continued, pausing for a second as if to check her reaction.

And there it was: the brief confusion that transfigured into understanding, then the skepticism of his sudden reference, “Is that Pablo Neruda?” asked the history student, finding herself dwelling in the fuzzy sentiments that took over her chest.

With the euphony of her laugh, Jungkook was sure he would tear his very spirit to shreds if that was what it took him to listen to it again; would fight for the rest of this days for that gorgeous smile to remain locked into her features, “The one and only, love,” the boy responded before leaning in.

The reverberation of his heart against her chest increased as his lips met hers once anew, staying there for a moment far too quick for her to fully drown in the nectar they carried. Jungkook placed his forehead against hers, noses touching, and continued the poem as his mouths still brushed against one another line fine strokes of oil on canvas—each word meeting her flesh with awe-inspiring artistry, “I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you...”

The love that irradiated in her chest motioned her to move her head upwards, trapping his enamored words in between a kiss before the poem could reach its ending. Her fingertips, ever so patiently, traced the insubstantial path in between his shoulder blades to the back of his neck, then to the base of his hair, at last intertwining in his silky strands of ebony-painted hair. Jungkook half-smiled and half-sighed against her mouth, his own arms moving from her waist to wrap around her figure. It was so safe, so welcoming. It felt truly like home.

Breaking the kiss with a timid smirk, she closed her eyes. Again and again, she smiled by his side, filling her being with a sentiment she could not yet pinpoint—it did not matter, a label was not necessary, “I swear to god, you’re so cheesy sometimes.” she whined.

With slow, tender movements, the boy’s feather-like fingers caressed the softness of her skin with endless adoration, allowing for him to drown in the profound waters of her eyes as his subsequent words escaped the captive of his swollen, red-bitten lips, “Hm, maybe I am. But you love it.” Jungkook claimed.

She breathed out, taken aback by the hidden veracity of those simple words, “I really, really do.” the girl confessed, unable to hold back the smile that effloresced amongst her features. There was nothing she ever loved more than her best friend, especially during moments like those.

Reason relinquished amidst the diaphanous rhythm of their intertwined hearts, Jungkook kissed her once anew—he kissed her as if the universe was falling down to pieces, as if the shining stars could not reach the sparking incandescence that danced in between their nude bodies. His lips caressed hers as the roaring waters of the seven seas crashed down past her skin, hitting her legs in a silent, tender wish for the two to move closer. Nature was present within their every loving touch, as perfect as ever.

His hands moved towards hers, fingers filling the space between her own. Palm against palm, hearts beating in euphoric arrhythmia; Jungkook felt as if they were as profound and illimitable as the oceans of their naive adoration, lips trembling and caressing one another like the gentle wings of a butterfly beating against the vernal wind. Feeling her mouth dancing—oscillating, trembling—ever so tenderly against his culminated in a bottomless belief of security germinating within his veins. Just then, his arms held tighter to her figure, pulling her even closer.

An ethereal suspire escaped her as he did so. No matter how breaths she took, the girl still felt as if it was impossible to breathe under his embrace; the absolute infatuation the two shared finally exploding around them like polychromatic, soundless fireworks. It was poetic, thoughtless; impossible to be characterized or elucidated by a mere sequence of adjectives—it was Jungkook, and, for her, that was all you truly needed. A friend, a lover. Him.

Drinking the honey of her presence was equiparable to the grace of a dream, he realized. It was completely unreal the way her lips felt against the kiss prolonged itself with patience; absolutely fantasious the form she embraced him with the spell of her mouth. Beautiful, staggering, inspirational. It was the sempiternity of nocturnal endeavours; the tormenting flames of hell and ecstasy of paradise melting at the tip of their tongues. It was a long story that was far, far from reaching its terminal chapters.

Jungkook thought that beauty could be discovered within the simple, common fragments of life. It was breathing in the aspects of daily tasks most would consider mundane, the unnoticeable particulars and technicalities of the universe’s perfection; from the kindest of winds to the colder of dewdrops, the contours of snow-like clouds and the iridescent starlight that casted its glow over the obsidian blanket of dawn. It was the classical proportions of imperishable, timeless artworks, the mathematical precision of the golden ratio; the coordinated symphony of collapsing waves against the shore.

At last, beauty and love coexisted in the natural manner the two closed their eyes and dove into one another, finding synchrony in the oscillating breathing of their overwhelmed lungs. The flowers were there, blossoming like their bodies held spring in their veins, but their thorns were no longer hurtful.

On and on, their days passed beautifully.

[birdofdoom]

Patches

This request was a bit of a challenge because I’m new to writing violence and intimacy, but I enjoyed it all the same. For clarification, things do get steamy, but I wouldn’t classify it as smut. I’m worried that this is low quality and that the pacing may be poor so I’d love any criticism or feedback so I can continue to improve.

The poster requested a Michael x Reader fic in which Michael finds himself in a bit of a bind after getting caught up in the illegal side of the business and runs to the Reader’s house for medical attention and support. As best friends she cares for him and things heat up. 

Michael x Reader

Warnings: mild violence 

He whinged with pain. The crack of teeth and bone echoed continuously in his left ear. The right was consumed by a shrill and disconcerting ringing. His knuckles ached under peeled back skin; crimson peaking through the lily of his flesh. His shoes were damp with blood, and he had long since lost track of whose it was. His woolen socks had swollen, absorbing the claret and making his boots all the heavier. Everything was heavier after a fight. His mind. His body. His breath. It was unbearable and dense because suffering always is. Michael thought it was as if people shoved their burden, their hate, their anger, the very toxicity of life, into every punch and that’s how pain was made. He subconsciously licked at his split lip and was met with stinging.

Welts were forming on his face, creating alien mountains and adding hues of puce and mauve to his alabaster skin. Scrapes bit around his sharp cheekbones and into his eyebrow. His thigh and shoulder bubbled with blood staining his once posh suit. Unlike his cousins, Michael was soft in feature. Smooth skin untouched by the flames of war, coupled with charm and class from a life outside of the family business left him with a cherubic face. Indeed, from afar he appeared innocent; angelic. However, upon further examination, he held the satanically commanding stare of his mother’s side. In fact, that was not the sole Shelby feature Michael possessed in spades. He had a lust for destruction. He found a sadistic joy in violence. Like Thomas, he was calculating and wise, often cold in his devastation. However, when pushed too far, Michael would lapse into the wicked madness found in Arthur’s fists.

He enjoyed his legal and safe career as Chief Accountant with Shelby Brothers Ltd. It appeased his mother and kept him sharp. The pay was more than fair and he enjoyed the platform it provided for his ambitions. Yet, hidden away in a quite room, behind frosted glass and golden nameplates, Michael was deafened by the silence. The position was straitlaced and confining. In turn, Michael squashed feelings of reproach and chaos to keep up appearances of a pristinely legal firm. He bottled up anger and irascibility under high pressure. He was a time bomb. Always perceptive, Thomas had proposed an inconspicuous arrangement for Michael to keep levelheaded. On days when Michael found order overwhelmingly trite and numbing he would ask Tommy for a name. It was always a single name on a slip of betting paper. And for the night, on behalf of the Peaky Blinders, not Shelby Brothers Ltd, Michael gave that name bearer hell.  

It felt good to be hired muscle; to beat the shit out of someone. Michael reveled in the power to strike fear into a person’s being. He loved the catharsis of pain and ache. He could release a week’s worth of exasperation into one sap of a man, all in the name of the Blinders. He was grateful for Tommy’s assistance and discretion. He felt more a part of the family when he fought, but could rest easy knowing his mother was ignorant of his volatility. It was comforting and it was becoming routine. 

That was until tonight. He had always accounted for a single opponent; one man or boy who needed leaning on. For weeks things had gone smoothly. Messages were received, payments made, and Michael could maintain composure at work. But this night he stumbled into a conflicting group of three. Never one to back down or retreat he carried on and as a result, took a beating. More than once he had unsuccessfully reached for his pistol in defense. The three men were stocky and powerful. They bore calloused palms and engorged muscles from time at the BSA. Their fists pummeled resentment into Michael’s saintly face. He could feel his ribs splinter and his lungs scream for air. He threw punches and kicks to little avail, like a hummingbird in a hurricane. Overcome with desperation, Michael’s body began to violently convulse. He lashed out with tenacity, throwing his body about as a weapon. No sooner had he thrown the men off of him, then he thrust his hands into his pockets retrieving small defenses.

Razor blades and daggers danced in the smoggy lamplight, kissing flesh with virgin scars. The brawl was messy and filthy and crude. Metal loops guarded Michael’s punches and his victims’ teeth flew from their gums. As metal made contact with the soft weakness of eyes, screams and blood perforated the night. At one point, the fracture of a skull on cobblestone rang out and everything fell silent. The largest of the three men was sprawled on the street, sanguine liquid pouring from his head. Retching and writhing in agony, Michael could see Death approaching the name on the betting slip. The gravity of the situation was plain. It had escalated too quickly and now the possibility of a murder charge was looming. He looked up at the other two men and saw only witnesses. All three remaining men pulled guns. Four shots broke the silence of the early morning hours. When the smoke cleared and the echoes faded Michael was the only man standing. He heaved as he felt where the two bullets had ripped through his left thigh and shoulder blade. He picked up his brass knuckles that had fallen to the street in the scuffle and felt panic begin to settle in his gut. 

He needed to lay low and get off the street. Fear gnawed at cogent thoughts and pushed forward distraction. Looking at the gore on the cobblestones, he knew it appeared indiscriminate and random. He scanned the perimeter for incriminating evidence and found nothing that explicitly pointed to him or the Blinders. His lungs struggled to inflate against his broken rib unleashing a hellish burning in his chest. He was hurt and scared. Following his heart rather than his head he stumbled a few blocks to [Y/N]’s apartment. He needed a place that felt like home, and as his closest friend, she was it. 

Leaning against the doorframe to [Y/N]’s apartment, he felt blood run down his leg and continue to pool in his shoes. The brown cotton laces were stained a deep port and the leather of his soles creaked in places where blood had begun to dry and restrict movement.  He didn’t want her to see the vileness of his aggression. He was overcome with shame, but pain superseded pride. He rapped on the thick wooden door, weakly calling her name. His head felt light and his breathing was becoming shallow. He could hear a slight clamor within the tiny apartment. Shortly thereafter warm light flooded his face as [Y/N] opened the door.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You need a hospital, Michael. Let me get my coat, I’ll run to Mrs. Paxton’s down the way, she has a phone. I can get an ambul…”

“No time. Please, just…” his voice was hoarse and he began to collapse before the thought was completed. Wrapping his good arm around her petite frame, [Y/N] cradled him inside. She struggled to lift him onto her kitchen table as his mind danced in and out of consciousness. In the short walk from the door to the kitchen, her white cotton nightdress was running damp with scarlet. She hurriedly bolted the door and escaped into the back washroom for provisions. Michael’s usually intense eyes were becoming opaquely glossy. They flitted across the water stained ceiling, looking vainly for redemption. He coughed and was met with volatile burning in his shoulder and chest.

“Fuck… [Y/N]?! [Y/N]?!” he cried for her in a needy whine, like a child for a mother.

“I’m here. I know it hurts, but just give me a sec.” She returned to his side, arms full of ointment, bandages, towels, and a quaint sewing kit. “What the fuck did you do, you little tosser? Completely ruined a good suit is what you did!”

In spite of himself, he cracked a toothy grin. That was why they were friends. She wasn’t afraid of the way morbidity followed his family like a shadow. Her humor was dark and she could hold her drink. Sitting and talking with [Y/N] felt like drinking bottled sunshine. Michael always felt safe when she was nearby. He admired her fearlessness and independence. They would stay up late drinking whiskey from the bottle in the back room of the Garrison talking about life and love. She was his confidant. She was his friend, his best friend.

His eyes followed her as she rushed to the stove, lighting the gas burners. She put a pot of water on, waiting for it to boil. As she rummaged through cabinets in search of supplies, he found himself staring at her. He had never really noticed the way fabric clung nicely to her frame or how the sway of her back gave rise to voluptuous hips. She turned around and was met with blush on his cheeks. For a moment he feared that his peeping was revealed, but she was far too focused on the task at hand. Worry crept into her brow. Even under duress, Michael found her face sweet and her lips tantalizing. She placed the back of her hand on his forehead. 

“You’re burning up. You’ve lost so much blood. I don’t know if this is a good idea. Is it normal to lose this much blood?”

“Well I was shot twice so…” he mumbled.

“Jesus, Michael! Lead with ‘I’ve been shot’ next time!” he winced out a small smile in response to her concern. It felt nice that she worried.  It felt nice to be looked after.

“Shit, I hope there isn’t a next time.” He exhaled through gritted teeth. The water was boiling and she dropped the towels into the pot.  

“I’ll make sure of that. I’m telling Polly. You can’t go…”

“Don’t you fucking dare! She’ll actually kill me.” [Y/N] laughed at Michael’s fear of his mother. She grabbed a half emptied bottle of cheap gin from behind a cabinet door and hastily poured a full glass.

“I’d prefer you sober now, thanks.”

“Cheeky, but this is for you, Mickey, not me.” Opening the sewing kit she pulled out shears. She sloshed them in the economy gin and dried them on her nightgown. “I’m sorry, but I have to get to the bullet. I can’t jostle you too much or I’ll lose it. So the posh pants will have to go.” Before he could ask what she meant, [Y/N] began cutting up his left pant leg until she revealed the crater in his flesh. 

“Christ on a bike.” She revolted. Michael was surprised. He had never seen her so squeamish. 

“Y’know, I’m the one that was shot. I thought this shit didn’t bother you.” “It’s different when you care…” She dropped the shears lazily in the sink and reached for two long hatpins from her sewing. After dunking them in gin, she opened a drawer and retrieved a wooden cooking spoon. 

“Right, so there’s no way about it. Bite down on this.” She placed the spoon in his mouth. “It will hurt, Mickey. I’m sorry.” Using the hatpins as makeshift tweezers, she began excavating the bloody hollow. [Y/N] dug for the metal as gingerly as possible, trying to steel herself against his aching sobs. Drool, sweat, and tears were forming an odd lake on the table around his throat. On the verge of passing out he grabbed at the hem of her nightshirt for comfort. “You’re doing great, Michael. Just a little bit more. Remember to breathe.” Her voice was steady and calming. “We’re gonna pull through. I’m here, don’t worry.” 

When metal finally hit metal Michael screamed. She secured the pins around the bullet and began extraction. He wailed and gurgled back tears while maintaining his bite on the wooden spoon. 

“Got it!” she said with relief plopping the slug into the gin glass. Michael was drained and appeared to be taking a brief respite, spitting out the spoon. [Y/N] seized the opportunity and poured a fair amount of gin on the wound. Michael howled. 

“What the ever loving fuck?”

“I’m sorry, but it needs cleaning. Okay, one more and then we’re all done. If you’re good I’ll give you a sweet after.” He laughed.

“I’m not four and this isn’t a shot. You owe me a fucking drink after.”

“Well, I’m using the last of the gin on you so I’ll have to buy you one at the Garrison.”

As [Y/N] unbuttoned Michael’s shirt, she realized that she was successfully undressing a man that she had feelings for. She blushed, and it didn’t go unnoticed. [Y/N] repeated the process of removing the bullet, this time from his shoulder. Knowing that the hellish sting of gin was coming, Michael quickly grabbed her hand for support. He squeezed tightly and she smiled softly to herself, happy to be needed. She gathered the bandages from the counter and packed both the wounds with gauze. After wiping away excess blood, she dressed the two large lesions. Lastly, she rang water from the towels on the stove and gingerly dabbed ointment on the small cuts on his face.

What seemed like an eternity had passed since he had stumbled through the door.  [Y/N] hadn’t really had time to think. She was tired and sore. Michael’s blood was everywhere; on the floor, on the table, in her hair, all over her clothes, under her fingernails. She needed a bath and a good night’s rest.

“C’mon, you need some kip.” She said, lifting him off the table. “You’re staying here tonight, because face it, you can’t walk. You can sleep in my bed, but we’ll need to find you a change of clothes. I’m not having you stain my sheets.” Michael was too sore to protest. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders while she snaked her arm around his waist to steady him. Leaning on her as a crutch, the pair hobbled into the cramped bedroom. She propped him against the wall, making her way to the wardrobe. [Y/N] shuffled through drawers looking for clothing in vain.

“I don’t think I have anything that’ll fit you. I think the only thing that’ll work is this,” she shrugged handing him a flannel lounging robe. He started to absentmindedly undress, sliding off his unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat. Even injured and covered with blood, [Y/N] found him to be beautiful.

“Enjoying the show?” his voice was strained but playful.

“Oh Jesus, sorry. Spaced out. Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she said too quickly. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She could hear him chuckle as she scurried off to the washroom. [Y/N] took an icy bath, not wasting time to heat the water. She wanted to scrub the blood from her body as quickly as possible. In some places, it had dried like thick paint on her skin, leaving blotchy congealed rubies of violence. She grimaced as the soap and water washed away the reminder of Michael’s pain. The water was bitingly frigid, but the blood was more repugnant than the cold. Finishing swiftly, [Y/N] slipped into clean pajamas, opting now for a Billie Burke set rather than another nightgown. She walked out of the washroom into Michael’s gaze. [Y/N] was still mortified that she had been caught gaping and was trying to play it off. She yawned, feigning ignorance at his stare. When she turned to meet his gaze he refused to look away.

“Do you need anything? I can get you another blanket or a…” In spite of herself, [Y/N] spoke with hurried trepidation.

“I’m fine. I hurt, but I’m fine.”

“Good, well try to get some rest. It’ll help you heal. I’m off to bed. Night.” She smiled and began to leave the room.

“Wait, so where are you going to sleep then?”

“Just the chair in the hall, you need the space. Don’t worry about it. If you need anything, I’ll be right here.”

“I’m not tired yet. Let’s talk a bit, like at the Garrison.” Michael wanted her to stay. He felt an increasing need to have her close. What he had known to be feelings of friendship were blooming into something far more romantic.

“But I haven’t any more gin…”

“It’s fine, can you just… be with me right now?” His voice was tender and exposed.

“Yeah, of course, anything you need.” 

Michael shifted under the duvet, wrapping the flannel robe more tightly around his chest. The white and red of his bandages peaked through the collar of the housecoat, and she was reminded of his discomfort. Michael slowly propped himself onto his right side to face [Y/N]. She apprehensively sat at the foot of the bed, fearing that any sudden movement could be injurious. 

“There’s plenty of space here,” he ran his hand over the sheets to the right.

“Alright,” her voice wavered breathlessly. She lifted the duvet and slid gingerly onto the bed, cautious not to rock it. [Y/N] turned onto her left side, positioned eye to eye with Michael. The tension was palpable.

“So what is it that you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like sleeping.”

“Look, Mickey I don’t ask questions, but I do feel entitled to answers, especially if you’re coming round with one foot in the grave.” Her eyes were honest to a fault and he could see her concern plainly. He sighed.

“It was business… it just got out of hand. I didn’t know they would be waiting for me. Guess I walked into a trap.”

“If it had to do with business, why not go to Pol or Arthur or John? Hell, Tommy’s in Arrow House, but you could have crashed at the betting shop.” He hesitated to respond.

“When I’m scared, I feel most at home with you. I knew you wouldn’t judge me and that you’d piece together how to patch me up. God knows Arthur and John aren’t sober this time of night, and mom would reign hell if she saw me in a state.” She laughed at his frankness. “I also just wanted to see your face.”

“And why would you want that?” she asked coyly.

“Because I need to kiss you.”

He reached up to cradle her cheeks warmly in his calloused hands. He could see her pupils dilate with desire and lust kiss flush into her cheeks. His lips were swollen and tender from the earlier brawl, but he didn’t care. He leaned in letting his mouth softly find hers. The ferrous taste of blood nipped at her tongue. Her fingers slowly laced their way through his mussed hair. Michael’s feet moved forward and their legs gradually intertwined. The kisses were slow and lazy. As the pair innocently explored their newly found intimacy, Michael felt the pain in his left side diminish. She yawned mid-kiss and he knew that [Y/N] needed sleep. He smiled and kissed her forehead fondly.  

“Alright, time for bed.” She moved to get up, but he held her tightly. “Sleep here tonight.”

She smiled.

“Tomorrow I’ll see to that drink and maybe we’ll find some patches for your posh pants,” she quipped.