#its fine water had a great time until i realise i lost my dispeller

[plsleafmelon]

ohhh paradise lost fucking kills you

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 4 - “Have You Seen My Son?”

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

Note: So uh, apparently my previous chapter scared one of my readers who was reading it at night. So I changed the warning below -

Warnings: Don’t read this fic at night 

Have You Seen My Son?

...

...

[It is estimated that 8 million children around the world go missing each year]

...

...

When it's almost sunrise, a Vullaby squawks somewhere in the distance and you turn to Leon and give him a little shake. "Leon, wake up."

He's lying on his back and up close you can see his long eyelashes and angular features and you feel bad for waking him up considering how comfortable and peaceful he looks. He begins to stir in his sleeping bag and murmurs and groans under his breath before he opens his eyes wearily and glances up where he sees you looking at him from above. His eyes grow wide.

You notice that he's staring but you turn away to roll your sleeping bag properly. "It's almost time to watch the sunrise. It's freezing, so wear something warm."

"Oh, right," Leon croaks out groggily as he moves to sit up, then he throws a glance to you as you get ready, pulling the straps of your bag over your shoulders and tugging on them firmly. He rolls out of his sleeping bag and you leave the tent, letting him get changed in private.

It's extremely chilly outside as you wait for him and your damaged coat isn't doing very well in the frigid air so you rub your arms in an attempt to keep warm, teeth chattering as you stand shivering on the spot until Charizard creates a fire for you so you thank him, hop over and warm yourself until Leon emerges from the tent in his white, woolly sweats and looking very warm. His long hair is a tangled mess though, sticking up in all possible directions which makes you giggle.

"...Mornin'," Leon greets you rather gruffly; his voice is slightly hoarse.

"Good morning. Here, have some water," you unscrew the lid off a flask and give him it; he accepts it with a mutter of thanks and downs one big gulp.

Then he slips on his shoes and grabs a comb from his bag, using it to quickly tame his unruly hair before he decides to tie it in a low ponytail. "I'll be back in a few minutes..."

He wanders off with a small drawstring bag which he slings over one broad shoulder, possibly to brush his teeth and wash his face which you had done so in the morning. Charizard goes with him, probably to ensure he doesn't get lost along the way. You wait by the fire and Zorua wakes up, stretching on her frontal paws before she looks at you and you feed her some berries and play with her.

Leon returns shortly, looking slightly more awake. "Should we go?"

"Do you want something to eat first?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay, let's go then. I know a good spot. Follow me."

Zorua leaps on top of Charizard's head as you and Leon begin your trek. He definitely seems more awake now as he walks with Charizard though your journey is spent in silence. The spot for watching the sunrise is a grassy hill which isn't far away from your campsite at all so in a few minutes down the path and you locate the hill and turn to Leon with a grin.

"Here we are."

Leon offers you a gentle smile and you both head up. It's not steep at all and it's not rocky in the slightest, but Leon gives you his hand just in case. You smile at him awkwardly as you slip your hand in his and he helps pull you up though it's not necessary.

Eventually, you arrive at the top of the hill and head to the edge before you carefully lower yourself to sit cross-legged with Zorua in your lap whilst Leon sits beside you and Charizard plops down beside him.

Though not as stunning as the view from the Meetup Spot, the hill grants a breathtaking view of the Wild Area from the Grove where you can see a huge stretch of grassy pastures below, including various rivers and lakes bathed in darkness.

In the horizon, the sun peeks out from the mountain and the sky is streaked with orange and red hues. The breeze is stronger and colder and you let out a sneeze.

As you mutter a quick 'bless me' under your breath and rub at your nose with a tissue, Leon quickly pulls off his sweater and drapes it around your shoulders and over your back. You go still, wide-eyed.

"This'll keep you warm," Leon says as he tucks the sweater in and loops the arms around your neck.

You end up shrinking away from him which you hope he doesn't notice. "...Thanks, Leon."

"You're welcome."

Leon's sweater is wrapped tightly around you and he is left in this tight, long-sleeved black shirt but the cold doesn't seem to affect him. Charizard watches your interaction with the champion from the corner of his eye before he snickers under his breath in wheezy huffs.

"Were you up all night?" Leon adds when he notices that you appear slightly drained, and you nod. He winces slightly at your response but you shrug.

"I'm used to it. I'm the equivalent of a Noctowl. How about you? Did you sleep okay last night?"

"Yep!" he says cheerfully.

"Good," you reply, as it appears he didn't hear the radio going off last night, and your wristwatch beeps, indicating the sunrise is due to start.

You and Leon grow silent and focus on the magnificent view before your very eyes as the sun begins to creep up over the mountain and light pours into the valley. It dispels the darkness easily, the light growing brighter and brighter until the clouds are dissolved in a tawny, gentle hue. As the sun begins its gradual ascent, the sky brightens up entirely and bathes the landscape with a warm glow. The sunlight becomes so intense that you have to shield your eyes and Leon does the same.

When the light becomes bearable and the atmosphere grows slightly warmer, you lower your arm, close your eyes and inhale a deep breath, holding it in for a few seconds before exhaling with content. The sunlight feels nice on your face.

"Getting to see the sunrise is the best part of my day," you murmur under your breath as you re-open your eyes, curling your fist before you hold it triumphantly in the air, "In the end, light will always conquer darkness."

Leon ponders your words carefully then he says, "I once told myself I would see the sunrise with someone special," Upon realising what he'd just blurted out, he begins to attempt to correct himself.

You let out a loud laugh in response, "It's fine, Leon. You can bring your special someone here next time. Just don't tell them I showed you this place first."

"Ah...y-yeah."

The sunrise is over so it's time to head back. Your trip back to camp is in silence which you don't mind and you return Leon's hoodie to him and he mumbles his thanks. It looks like Leon has not recovered from what he'd unintentionally let slip despite your reassurance.

Although it's time for you to split ways, Leon asks if you want to stay for some breakfast which you agree to after your stomach rumbles loudly in front of him. He laughs (much to your embarrassment) and brings out some food for you and Charizard to start cooking whilst he finishes stowing away the tent and pack the majority of his camping supplies into his bag.

When he's completed his task, he returns to the cooking area where you have all gathered, cooking some beans and slices of toast in the metal pan. Charizard waits with his bowl whilst Zorua sits beside you with her legs folded and her tail wagging in the air, watching. Gengar stays in your shadow, unwilling to come out or be active during the day.

Once you have finished heating the beans and toasting the bread, Charizard hands you his bowl.

"It must suck not having thumbs," you utter as you empty some beans and toast into the bowl, which you then hand to the flame pokemon. You do the same, slipping in some food for Leon which you hand to him.

As you begin to eat, you notice it's actually been a while since you have eaten breakfast with someone who wasn't Sonia or Professor Magnolia. You crunch your toast, musing to yourself. You want to say something to Leon but you discover you are quite nervous though you do spare him a quick sideways glance to see what he is up to every now and then, only to realise that he has been staring at you and when he realises he has been caught, he hastily looks away.

The same tension from last night is returning.

After you finish eating, you wash up quickly and Leon packs the remainder of his belongings before extinguishing the fire. The campsite is now empty. It is as though no-one had stayed here.

Zorua is the first to leave.

She has decided to return to the manor and has assured everyone that she can make her way on her own. She transforms herself into a little rosy-cheeked, pigtailed farm girl so not to draw attention to herself nor does she want to risk being captured by some plucky trainer. You give her an additional helping of Pecha berries in a small ziplock bag to take away and enjoy but she ends up carrying the bag in her mouth and gleefully scampers through the woods on all fours and out of sight.

You and Leon watch before you sigh haplessly.

It's also time to take Leon back to the Dappled Grove where you will split up but the trek will take roughly two or three hours maximum.

You're about to set foot onto the trail until the sounds of wooden wheels rolling over the gritty path coupled with the rhythmic trotting of hooves heading towards your direction forces you and Leon to turn round.

A grizzled-looking Tauros is pulling an old-fashioned wagon towards your direction. A man in a loose flannel shirt, matching slacks, brown jacket and grey flatcap is perched at the front of the carriage with a frail-looking woman by his left, his wife presumably, and once they spot you, they get Tauros to come to a gradual stop.

"Easy there, Toro," the man drawls, before he turns to Leon and tips his hat, "Good mornin'. What're you doin' all the way out here, Mr Champion?"

You recognise the man. He is one of the farmers who works for Turrfield Orchards, a popular supplier of produce. You are aware that this farmer makes regular trips to Motostoke in the early hours of the morning from a farm somewhere in the Rolling Fields and you've seen him various times when you leave the Wild Area at dawn but he never speaks to you.

"Good morning, mister," Leon says cheerily with a grin; he tips his snapback in response, "We're on our way to the Dappled Grove."

"What a coincidence, we’re on our way there too. Ain't that right, dear?" the farmer barks out jovially, turning to his wife with a chuckle. "If you walk, it’s gonna take about three hours tops. Why dontcha hitch a ride wi' us? We'll get you there in no time!"

"Thanks!" Leon replies, and he glances at you with a grin before he heads over to the side of the caravan which is transporting several bales of hay and huge pots of berries. Leon recalls Charizard then throws his bag into the awaiting carriage. You can only smile at him awkwardly as you trail after the champion.

However, the farmer turns to you and you freeze up, hesitant in approaching the wagon. You know something is wrong when the farmer appears to regard you with disdain in his eyes.

He says, "We only got space for one."

A stunned expression appears on Leon's face whilst you blink blankly at the group, before you throw a downtrodden glance to the floor, biting down on your lip.

The farmer leans towards Leon and although he employs a hushed tone, you can hear what he says. "This girl is trouble. She's bad luck round these parts. People say she's cursed. If you know what's good for ya, stay away from her."

You heard everything loud and clear and you're quick to retreat, taking a few steps backwards, knowing all too well that you are not welcome onboard the Tauros wagon.

"It's okay, Leon. Go ahead. I can make it back on my own." You mumble. This farmer doesn't like you and you don't like him very much either.

"You heard the lady. Come on, Mr Champion."

Leon stares intently at you and his expression slowly becomes unreadable. However, he grabs his bag, hauling it out of the caravan. "No, I changed my mind. Thanks for your generous offer, but..." Leon promptly returns to your side with his bag, "We can manage on our own, thank you very much."

Following that is a rather strained silence as you and the farmer stare at Leon with widened eyes.

"Leon...?" you croak out.

Leon turns and smiles warmly at you. "Let's go."

The farmer snorts under his breath at the rejection. "Suit yerselves." With the reigns in his hands, he flicks them with a turn of his wrists and Tauros picks up speed again, galloping down the path and out of your view.

You cannot believe what had just happened and you gawk at the champion beside you. "Leon, why did you do that? You could've gotten a ride."

Leon smiles at you gently. "Well, I'd rather stay and walk with you."

And your heartbeat soars, your stomach doing backflips.

"Are you alright?" Leon asks, "your face is really red."

You snap out of your reverie. "O-oh! Yeah, I-I'm fine.." you stutter, trying to smile in response. "And he's wrong, I'm not bad luck!" you add, until something weighty smacks you in the back and you go stumbling forwards; although Leon grabs your hand, you still drop over the dirt, collapsing on your front.

Lifting your head up, you see a Hoothoot flying above you in a circle before it perches itself in the branch of a tree to your left, crowing with mirth. You wonder if it's the same Hoothoot from last night that had also harassed Leon when he was taking a bath.

"Arceus, you Hoothoot are the worst!!" you moan out before you can help it, cursing the Hoothoot.

Leon steps over you carefully to hoist you up though he ends up lifting your back off the ground and you remain sitting in the mud, feeling somewhat defeated. "You okay?"

You nod weakly.

Leon chuckles as he kneels beside you and helps dusts you down, wiping some flecks of dry mud from your shoulders and back whilst you shake your hair free of earth. "You have some dirt on your face."

"Where?"

"Right here." He says, but before you can move, Leon uses his sleeve to wipe at your cheek gently. His white sweater now has a mud patch but he grins to himself whilst your heart pounds furiously once more. Smiling at you, he says, "Let's go."

"...Okay."

You both continue making your way together through the forest until you reach the familiar landscape of the Dappled Grove. You have finally arrived. As though a stone has dropped in the pit of your gut, you throw your glance down sadly as you realise you will be parting ways with Leon for certain.

"Well, this is it." you say morosely as you gesture to the Dappled Grove's wooden signpost. It contains a few arrows pointing to various locations, outlining the directions to Rolling Fields and West Lake Axwell. "Wherever you're headed to next, you can use this."

Leon joins your side to inspect the sign. "Great! Thanks for all your help."

"No problem."

"It was really nice meeting you," Leon adds, sticking his hand to you and your face falls.

Oh.

A handshake.

Your heart plummets when you realise you were the only one who had been blushing and feeling butterfrees in the stomach the entire duration you had been together and you can't help but feel silly...

Leon has treated you as he would treat anyone, any regular fan. He was just being himself...he is kind and friendly to everyone, fans, friends and foes alike. You're no different than the rest.

It hurts in some sense upon realisation but nevertheless, you steel your nerves and slip your hand into his palm; his hand is so large, your little fingers are bundled up within his and his hand is also extremely warm despite the cold temperature. He proceeds to give you a firm shake and you force yourself to smile. Leon has some serious grip.

"Same. It was very nice to meet you," you reply, when you let go and your fingers are tingling from the contact.

"This is for you," Leon brings out his wallet and pulls out two ten thousand pokedollar bills, "For the coat."

"Ah, right...but um, my coat didn't cost twenty thousand. Let me give you some change for that..." As you fiddle around with your bag and pull out your pulse, Leon chuckles.

"Please, I want you to keep it. I insist," he adds, before he reaches for your hand and presses the money into your palm, forcing your fingers to curl over the money.

You're reduced to a blushing mess again from the contact. "O-oh...well, thanks...I appreciate it."

"What's your blog called? May I have a look?"

"Sure..." you utter the name of your website and also spell it out to him which he saves onto his phone.

"Thanks! I'll be sure to check it out."

You nod, cheeks growing warm, “When's your next match by the way?"

"In a week."

"I'll cheer for you."

His face goes pink and he slides his gaze to the ground. "Thank you. Do you want a ticket? I'll get you one."

"No need, I'll just join the rest of the rabble and sign up, go through the League's official website and try my luck in getting one."

"Usually my matches are sold out in seconds and people resell the tickets at inflated prices..."

"Well, you never know, I might get lucky."

Leon chuckles in response as you shrug, "I'll get a ticket for you," he reaffirms, and he sounds quite adamant in getting you one. "So...what are you planning to do now?"

"Hmm, I'm actually looking for a Grimmsnarl, Dusclops or Dusknoir. I heard there are some in the Stony Wilderness but I can never find one."

"I can help you with that. Let me know when you need assistance."

"Thanks, Leon. That sounds awesome. I'll give you a call, okay?"

He nods, his smile widening.

"Bye, Leon."

"Bye! Good luck with your research!"

"Thanks!"

It feels awkward as you wave at him and Leon and Charizard wave in response as you split up.

You take a few steps before you decide to throw a glimpse over your shoulder and you notice that he has done the same and now he is looking at you; your heart leaps in your throat and you should really look away but Leon grins and waves again. You meekly wave back and you're first to turn away, your breath caught in your throat.

Instead of heading towards the Meetup Spot to get the train that will take you to Wedgehurst, you call for a Corviknight taxi. You wait at least fifteen minutes, sitting on a tree stump and searching online using your Rotom phone on 'signs that a guy likes you'.

You couldn't help yourself.

When the search results load, you click on the first available result that you see on Rotom's search engine, which is an online article detailing ten telltale signs when a guy like a girl.

Sign one: the guy will want to spend his time with the girl and make an effort to contact her. You ponder to yourself but you don't know Leon well enough to fully know if he wants to spend all his time with you so you ignore this one.

Sign two, body language. If a guy like a girl, he's either very nervous, intimidated or shy and he might even make an attempt to touch her. When you read this, you recall how Leon got all flustered and nervous around you on several occasions but you earnestly believed this was because Leon wasn't used to girls. He did seem to touch you a lot though. Unfortunately, you cannot really tell so you move onto the next sign.

Sign three, the guy will ask questions and remember little details. Having only met Leon for one night, it's natural if Leon asked you plenty of questions and it's too early for him to show that he has remembered your every little detail. You will only find out if you ever meet him again. Emphasis on if.

Before you can read the rest of the article, the Corviknight taxi arrives and you bookmark the page to be read later and put Rotom away.

The cabbie opens the carriage door for you and you climb in, poking your head out the window; you ask to be taken to Wyndon which would take twenty or so minutes. The cabbie climbs on the massive bird and you're off. The carriage is lifted high in the air and you buckle up for the bumpy ride. Once you're seated properly, you peer out the window where you see the huge stretch of greenery below you.

You are glad to have left the Wild Area.

It's not a kind place. Although you're prepared, you are thoroughly exhausted, drenched with sweat and caked in dirt. Travelling through the Wild Area really takes a toll on you and challenges one's mental and physical strength.

That being said, you worry about Leon and you wonder if you can see Leon and Charizard down below but ultimately, you can't.

You're too high up.

Sighing, you roll the window down and rest your elbows on the sill to stare at the sky where you see singing Gossifleur and Eldegoss floating in the air and you wave at them and they wave at you in response. Some bird pokemon fly past too and you wave to them. The ride back to civilisation is a soothing and calming one.

Eventually, the barren land of the Wild Area gradually disappears behind you and you see buildings ahead. Corviknight zooms past, heading towards the direction of a huge Ferris wheel that looms in the horizon and grows closer and closer into view, followed by towering skyscrapers. This is your prime indication that you have now arrived at Wyndon.

Corviknight drops you off in front of the fountain. You hop out, pay the cabbie and check Big Bill, the clock tower of Wyndon. It is now almost ten am and the city is very busy.

Your first task is to buy a new coat. The streets are bustling as you make your way to the boutique. You got your coat from here so you're going to buy yourself a new one. Leon's generosity won't be forgotten. You step inside the shop and head over to the outerwear section and you're hoping to get a coat that is identical to your current one but unfortunately the design is no longer for sale and so you settle for a basic but warm and waterproof, black parka that costs eighteen thousand.

You part with your muddy, burnt coat and emerge from the changing room in your new threads.

"Well, it was a good run," you murmur as you fold your ruined coat and slot it inside the clothing recycling bin.

Wyndon Stadium is your next destination so you make your way over, passing the river and the ferris wheel and once you arrive at the enormous, dome-shaped building, you head through the clear glass doors. Although Leon has informed you that he has no matches until a week later, you're stunned to see that it is full of tourists and locals.

Once you're inside, Rotom sounds off and you absent-mindedly check the screen. It's a message from an unknown person and it says:

Unknown: Hi, this is Leon. Did you make it out of the Wild Area ok?

You reread the message a second time and your heart starts pounding viciously. You cannot believe your eyes. The Champion of Galar has messaged you! You are so stunned, you completely stop in your tracks. You are about to type a reply though you pause briefly, wondering if you are replying to his message way too quickly. You don't want to come across as an Eager McBeaver nor do you want to look like a sad sport who does nothing but look at their phone every single minute of their day.

Nevertheless, you decide it's best to send a reply since you don't want to leave it too late to reply that it becomes awkward....therefore you quickly type a quick message and hit send.

You: Yep! I made it out alive :')

With the reply sent, you excitedly add Leon to your contacts, thus increasing the number of contacts in your phonebook to a total of five which is a vast improvement compared to two or three years ago and then you put Rotom away, slightly worried about what the Champion's reply would be and how long he might take to reply.

The text from Leon has elevated your mood to an unimaginable extent. Glancing around the stadium lobby, there are plenty of people ogling the glass cabinet displays that contains the many trophies and awards won by past Champions of Galar. Leon's trophies take up two entire rows and there are also tonnes of posters with his face on them decorating the walls of Wyndon Stadium.

He's everywhere you look.

It's inescapable, and a merchandise kiosk that has just opened up grabs your attention and you head over immediately. You're first in line and the clerk is stacking up some stock on the shelves until she spots you, pausing in her activities to head over to the counter.

"Good morning, how may I help you?" she asks with an absurdly cheerful smile on her face.

You look at the random items she was placing on the shelves. As expected, it's all got Leon's face printed on it. There is a Leon mug, a Leon tumbler, a Leon flask, a Leon scarf...even a Leon mousemat too.

There's Leon everything.

"Wow, this must be Leon heaven." you say, incredibly overwhelmed.

"It is! This is the Leon-exclusive merchandise stall."

"Oh really?" you suddenly have the urge to buy something with his face on it so you say, "I'd like to buy a poster of Leon, please."

"Of course! Which one do you want? Leon on his own? Leon with Chairman Rose? Leon holding a beer? Leon with an ultra ball? Leon with Charizard?"

"Just Leon on his own will be fine."

"With or without an ultra ball?"

"Leon with no ultra ball, thanks."

"Got it!" the clerk cheerfully ducks underneath the counter for a split second and quickly stands back up with a rolled canvas under her arm. "This one?"

And she proceeds to unravel it, revealing Leon striking his famous Champion pose; the canvas is also at least one metre long.

"Wow. It's perfect. How much?" you ask, digging a hand into your bag to fetch your purse.

"Five thousand."

You hesitate but this is official merchandise so you suppose it is value for the money so you count your bills and hand over the cash; you want to show that you support Leon in the best way possible and what is the best possible way to do so other than buy overpriced merchandise? The clerk happily hands you the poster which is too big for a bag so you hold the rolled up print under your armpit.

"We also have a Leon action figure for sale! This is the new and improved version of Leon with his signature snapback and fully rotating arms for impressive ball-throwing action!" the clerk grabs the Leon figurine she was describing off a random shelf and holds it up to you, "Charizard and accessories sold separately."

"That's a bit of a ripoff." you utter, rubbing your chin as you take the figurine off her to inspect it further.

The figurine comes with an exact replica of his Champion attire, his snapback (which appears to be inseparable from his head and hair) and he also comes with a red cape lined with fur. You look at his little white Champion booties and laugh.

"But this one is limited edition and it's also the last one in stock!"

"Last one in stock?"

"Correct."

"Limited edition?"

"Indeed."

"Hm. Alright. How much?"

"Usually it's twelve thousand nine hundred but today, I'll give it to you for ten thousand."

"Alright fine, I'll take the action figure too."

"Thank you, young lady, you won't regret it!"

"I just spent fifteen thousand quid on Leon merchandise," you mutter to yourself as you rummage through your bag for your wallet once again, "I have no regrets."

"Spoken like a true Leon fan!"

You're pretty sure the clerk's claims of the Leon figurine being the 'last one in stock' were falsified so you would experience increased pressure to buy it but you vehemently don't care; the Leon figurine looks sturdy, well-made and the resemblance to him is uncanny. The clerk puts the figurine away into the box and carefully eases it into a large bag with the Macro Cosmos logo on it.

"Perhaps you'd be interested in a huggable Leon body pillow too?" she asks, brows wiggling suggestively.

"Uh...I think I'll pass."

"Mm-hmm, suit yourself.....but how about this pair of Leon night slippers?"

"Slippers? Can I have a look?"

Behind you, you suddenly hear a loud groan of frustration.

"Are you finished yet, lady? You're holding up the goddamn queue!" a voice screams behind you and you turn round to see that there is a small line of teenage girls standing behind you.

"Okay, okay, I'm done, geez..."

You leave the kiosk with poster and bag in hand and return to the lobby, glancing at a bunch of kids running up to Ball Guy who stands near the sofas, waving his arms around happily in the air, a perpetual grin on the round mascot mask.

"Hey, hey, hey kids! I'm your friendly neighbourhood Ball Guyl!" he greets them joyfully as they circle him, his voice muffled behind the mask.

"I don't give a Raticate's ass! Give me my free ball, loser!" one of the kids scream.

"Hurry! Make him faint and take his experience points!" another kid yells before he kicks him in the shin.

Ball Guy reels from the impact and emits a pained grunt before he falls to the ground, clutching his knee to his chest. Once he's down, the children scream and yell as they surround and clamber over him; their little hands ransacking his pockets before they run off with a bunch of capsules.

You glance around, wondering if anyone else had witnessed this but it appears no-one had bothered to pay Ball Guy any attention. You walk up to him as he continues rolling around on the floor in agony.

"Yep…children are the future…" you hear him groan weakly.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks for asking..." Ball guy mutters, and you give him your hand. He looks up and then gasps. "Huh? Oh hey, chuck, you're back!"

You grin as he takes your hand, jumps back onto his feet and grabs the rim of the mask, tearing it off with a loud pop to reveal a young man with a mop of messy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He shakes his hair in the same manner that reminds you of a shampoo commerical before he gives you an affable, friendly smile.

A few customers are shocked to see the true face of Ball Guy whilst some of the younger children with their parents start screaming about Ball Guy's head being ripped off. However, he is oblivious to them and you exchange a brief hug.

"How was it? Did you find the house? Did you perform any exorcisms?" he asks enthusiastically.

"I'm not an exorcist, Jace," you mutter, "But yes, I found the house and I sealed away an evil spirit too."

"And you say you're not an exorcist? Hello?! You sealed an evil spirit."

"Well, yeah, but it was nothing."

Jace pointedly rolls his eyes in response to your laidback reply and crosses his arms. "Pfft. It was 'nothing'. What's that you got there anyway?"

"Oh, these?" you lift up the poster and the Macro Cosmos bag with the Leon figurine, "Just some stuff. Here, hold this for a moment." You give him the poster to clutch so you can put the figurine on the floor and grab the broken radio from your bag. "Unfortunately this happened too."

Swapping your poster for the radio, Jace holds the device limply in his hands, turns it round and raises a brow. "What happened?"

"Gengar threw me into a wall and it broke," you reply nonchalantly with a shrug whilst Jace blinks numbly at you, "Oh yeah. I almost forgot. Hey Gengar, I want you to meet Jace."

Following that, Jace looks up and around until Gengar appears from your shadow on the ground and rises into the air, emitting an evil cackle as he floats high above you and Jace's complexion goes a tad paler than usual as he makes eye contact with the pokemon.

"Oh..." he gulps, knees going weak as Gengar proceeds to circle him, "A ghost pokemon?"

"Yep, and he's decided to stay with me," you say happily, when Gengar stops and returns to float by your side. You and Gengar grin at each other before he decides to jump into someone else's shadow, his red eyes gleaming from within.

"I think he'll be a wonderful pokemon partner. Suits you, too."

"Thanks. We haven't really had the chance to get to know each better yet but that's okay, we can chat later. So... uh, the radio. Can it be fixed?"

"Of course! Give me a few days though."

"Sure. Thanks in advance. Oh, I also met the Champion last night too."

Jace's jaw drops at you revelation. "What? You met the Leon!!! Really? What's he-"

"BALL GUY!"

You and Jace wince under the loud voice and throw your glances to the far end of the lobby to see a red-faced and bloated-looking, blob of a man in a suit that looks like it's far too tight for him, standing at the closed doors that would lead to the pitch. It's the manager of Wyndon stadium. He watches the two of you with his arms crossed over his chest, tapping one foot impatiently over the ground.

"Ball Guy, get over here now! And put the damn mask back on!"

Jace acknowledges his boss with an apologetic nod and fixes the mask back over his head. "Sorry," his voice has gone back to being muffled, "I need to go back to work now but I'll take care of your radio. I'll call you when it's fixed."

"Thanks Jace."

"No problem. See you."

"Bye-bye, have fun at work! Remember, if you hear any voices from the radio, don't respond."

"Yep, I hear ya. Hey duckie, take this before you go," Jace scoops a Dusk Ball from his pocket and plops it into your hand, then gives you a thumb up.

"Thanks!"

Jace returns to his Ball Guy persona, wiggling his arms in the air and entertaining the customers whilst you leave Wyndon Stadium to head home. On the way to the train station, you pass Wyndon Police station, one of the biggest branches of Galar Police.

It's a large building opposite the river with many floor-to-ceiling windows, the walls painted in blue and red to fit in with the majority of Wyndon's more contemporary architecture and design.

Once you near, you spot a small group of women outside the gates, yelling over each other and waving flyers and League cards in their fists. A few policemen with a Herdier and Grapploct in uniform, badge and hat are keeping the noisy crowd at bay.

"Calm down, you lot!" they're doing their best but the women are hysterical, screaming about their missing sons. "They're gym challengers, madam, that's normal-"

The women are unappeased, condemning the officers for their lack of empathy and compassion and that on this occasion, it is abnormal for gym challengers with fully functioning Rotom phones to go missing or unreachable for such a long time.

The policemen sigh heavily. "We've already taken your testimony, and we 'ave officers on the case and patrollin' as we speak. You're all best to go back to yer homes and wait for us to contact you, you hear me?"

As you pass them, an iron grip seizes your arm and you are promptly halted in your path. A crumpled flyer is shoved in your face with the words 'HAVE YOU SEEN THIS YOUNG MAN?' stamped on the front and you blink at the photograph of a random boy. It is slowly lowered, revealing a woman with a peaky face and mousy eyes.

"Have you seen my son?"

"No, ma'am, I haven't," you murmur, though you take the flyer off her to study the face of the missing boy; it's the photo from his league card, a smiling, young face full of freshness and simplicity. He appears to be sixteen years old at least. "...Hmm, where was the last place he was seen? The Giant's Seat, perhaps?"

She looks at you in bewilderment though you had casually uttered those words under your breath. "How did...how did you know???"

"Lots of people have gone missing there," you add, "It's a case I'm working on right now."

Immediately, the group of shrieking women go silent and all heads turn to you. Everyone's staring keenly at your direction all of a sudden, even the policemen and the pokemon. It only takes a matter of seconds for you to become swamped by the women who are now shoving their flyers or League cards of their missing sons in front of your face, demanding if you know anything about their missing whereabouts and if you could help them with this seemingly hopeless situation.

The policemen chat to themselves briefly until you see the group heading towards your direction and this doesn't look very good; you believe they might apprehend you and you might be questioned but you are saved in time when a gentleman in a suit with an Arcanine and Manectric plodding beside him appears at the gates and stops the officers before they can even take one step forwards.

They immediately salute him upon his arrival. "Chief!"

"It's alright, let her go," he drawls, "She knows what's she doing and she's done work for us before."

The policemen have no choice but to oblige and let you off. Chief successfully ushers the officers away and when he turns to you, he gives you a wink. You mouth a 'thank you' and leave the station vicinity with the group of women who have decided to follow you, hoping that you may be able to help them figure out what happened to their children.

...

[cinnaminsvga]

fox rain | one

→ summary: When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

→ pairing: bts x reader (feat. seokjin) → genre: college!au, crack, fluff, angst → warnings: none unless you count overly graphic descriptions of how stupid seokjin is (i’m sorry for always making him so dumb) → words: 10.4K → a/n: i know i say this a lot, but this literally the STUPIDEST thing i’ve ever written in my life. i’ve lost maybe ten braincells per word in this fic, and i’m proud of it gdi!! some of my best jokes are in this mess, and that’s saying a lot considering my whole life is a joke. also: check bio for the chapter links for now!

— • masterlist | prev | one | next • —

When you feel yourself awakening, for a moment, you think you might have been hungover. The usual disembodiment you feel after a night out of drinking is what greets you when the last dredges of sleep start to fade out of your periphery, added with the insatiable urge to piss the equivalent of the volume of the Atlantic Ocean. There are weights over your eyes, you surmise, because there is no way you will be able to open them long enough to see whether you were actually dead.

But of course, you are still subjected to the curse of human curiosity, which allows you to gather enough strength to squint blearily and access your current surroundings.

You are greeted by the sight of unfamiliar overhead lights and sterile white walls. The window just to your left shows the darkened sky, the moon creeping just behind the evergreen trees. Groaning slightly, you push yourself into a sitting position, a sudden wave of vertigo slamming into you like a supernova. As you survey the room some more, you notice the sound of muffled conversation going on behind the nearby sheer curtain, and the smell of antiseptic wafts its way into your nostrils. You’re in the nurse’s office, you realize belatedly, grasping the threadbare sheets of your university’s barebones version of a hospital bed.

You put your head into your hands, breathing deeply as you try to remember the last thing that happened to you.

Yoongi’s dick. The stupid e-mail. The poem. The conspiracy group. Seokjin on a pedestal giving a TedTalk about himself. Yoongi’s dick. Namboob. Fainting in the utility closet. Yoongi’s dick.

The mental gymnastics that your brain is currently undergoing elicits a sound akin to a dying squirrel from your open mouth, and it must have sounded terribly loud and unnerving because the nurse bursts into the room just a few seconds after. The nurse, who must have been an underpaid med student by the looks of the designer purple handbags decorating her sullen cheeks, looks at you with less genuine concern and more acute abhorrence.

In your drowsiness, you don’t realize that your throat had somehow converted into the Sahara desert when you had fainted, so you are just as surprised as the nurse when you start doing a wonderful impersonation of Sadako instead.

“Hoo bwat meh hey?” you articulate, your tongue feeling like an oversized fist trying to work its way from out of your larynx. At the very least, no one can blame you for not trying your best to sound coherent. Seeing your struggle, the apathetic nurse has the decency to reach behind one of the shelves and hand you a cup of water. You grab it from her, gulping the entire thing in one go all while you proceed to not care about the rivulets of water and drool trailing down your chin and onto your crotch.

“Sorry,” you say, not really knowing why you were apologizing in the first place. Perhaps for existing? “I was trying to ask who brought me here.”

The nurse, unsurprisingly, only gives you an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know. Some gray-haired twink came in with you on his back. Apparently, you fainted in front of him for no reason, and when we checked your vitals, everything seemed to be fine.” She gestures at your ragged form, almost as if she didn’t believe that they hadn’t found anything wrong with you. You are obliged to share her sentiments.

“You’re free to leave whenever you want. Just make sure to sleep more and eat. University is tough on kids like you,” she says, turning to leave without another look in your direction. Somehow, you feel insulted even though the nurse hadn’t really done anything to you. Perhaps her lack of concern for your mental wellness and the fact that your newly acquired PTSD after today’s events only warranted “a good night’s sleep” as a form of treatment. Ah, the woes of having zero healthcare. Regardless, you decide to take her up on her advice and head home in hopes of acquiring some semblance of sleep after today’s traumatic episode.

Exiting the clinic, you find that almost no one is left on campus, save for the occasional student on their way to their evening classes. Being at your university during the evening had always been an odd sensation for you, as it reminds you of all the nighttime finals you have had to take in the past. Whenever the sun set and darkness enveloped the campus, it is always a given that you would be able to hear someone shouting obscenities from somewhere in the distance, especially since your university is well-known for the bars and clubs that litter its outskirts. Nonetheless, you hopelessly pray that you won’t pass by any drunk college kids, especially on this Friday night.

Just as you are about to cross the street to get to your bus stop, you notice a familiar face waiting by the entrance of the clinic. You backtrack, staring at the back of her head as she inconspicuously tries to peer into the curtained windows like some sort of pervert. Knowing her, your assumption probably isn’t that far off.

You approach her quietly, carrying your footsteps so that she doesn’t hear you until you place your mouth just beside her ear. Even at this proximity, she is none the wiser to your presence. You blow gently against her neck, whispering, “Sera. What the hell are you doing?”

As expected, she shrieks at you in surprise, almost landing a karate-chop on your face but you are saved by the fact that she had as much hand-eye coordination as a dead man in a coffin. You step back as you watch her slice through the air for another few seconds, her gaze wild before they finally land on your smirking face. Realizing that she had overreacted, she straightens up in a huff, glaring at you with as much annoyance as she can muster (but really, who can stay angry at your cute face for long?)

“Trying to look for that hot doctor again?” You joke, peering inquisitively at her hunched form. You wouldn’t be surprised to find a pair of binoculars behind her back at this point, given by how many times you’ve caught her “observing” potential boyfriends.

“How dare––!” She splutters, ears turning red from your accusation. When she shifts slightly, you notice a black object passing through her hands and trying to covertly slip into her bag. Ah. The binoculars.

“How dare I what? Accuse you of stalking a poor med student who is probably overdosing on Adderall as we speak? Oh, sorry for overstepping my boundaries,” you drawl, grinning at her affronted expression. “Unless, of course, you happened to hear about me fainting this afternoon and you wanted to offer me a ride home? Since you’re such a good friend, after all?

She looks at you, alarmed. “You fainted? When? How?”

“Oh, so now you’re concerned. I could’ve died with the image of Min Yoongi’s penis tattooed under the backs of my eyelids, and my best friend never would’ve known… Who, then, would avenge me and clear my name? Who, then, would take care of my growing collection of scantily clad women figurines––?”

“Did you just say you saw Min Yoongi’s penis? Holy shit!” Sera shrieks, eyes bugging out of their sockets. You are sure everyone within a 5 mile radius must’ve heard her, but you didn’t even have the energy to be mortified. Death always did sound like a great vacation idea, anyway.

“Sure, just scream it out for everyone to hear. Maybe we can get him to come back and do it again so you won’t think I’m crazy,” you mutter, grabbing Sera by the sleeve and tugging her towards the parking lot. “You brought your car, right? Bring me home.”

“Jeez, you drop this major bomb on me as if you were just talking about your cat taking a shit on your bed or something, and now you’re ordering me to bring you home? Cheeky,” Sera huffs, but she lets you drag her regardless.

Luckily, her car is parked relatively close because you honestly don’t know how much longer you can take before your knees give out from under you. It seems that despite the little nap you had at the nurse’s clinic, you hardly feel refreshed at all. All you want is to pass out on your comfortable bed for an indefinite period of time and pray for the demon under your bed to drag you to its depths and skin you alive. Knowing your luck, even the demon wouldn’t be that merciful towards a gremlin like yourself.

Sera begins backing up the car, stealing looks at you as you slowly became one with the car seat. You clench your eyelids shut, hoping that Sera would have the decency to respect your space for now and save the questioning for later. That pipe dream is immediately dashed, however, when she starts speeding down the empty streets and opens her big fucking mouth, her shrill voice reverberating in the small sedan.

“Don’t you dare sleep on me now, young miss! You have an entire weekend to hibernate so crank up that brain of yours for two more minutes and tell me what the fuck happened,” she says, nearly crashing over a trash bin in her haste to interrogate you.

“My brain? What’s that? Pretty sure that old thing disintegrated months ago. I think I shat it out when we had Taco Tuesday that one time in November,” you say, missing the way she snorts back in response. When Sera pinches your side to force you to face forward, your fatigue addled consciousness doesn’t even register the pain until a few seconds later.

“Ow,” you whine lamely.

“That literally took you five seconds to react,” Sera whistles, running over a child’s bike in the process. Neither of you look back to check the damage. “Damn, Min Yoongi’s penis must’ve been hella impressive if you’re this mindfucked. Are the rumors true? He must be packing down there, am I right?”

“Please stop saying the word penis. I’m getting triggered again,” you groan, slapping her lightly. She guffaws loudly, shoulders shaking at your misery.

“Sorry, can’t help being a horny bastard. But seriously, what’s the context? I wasn’t even aware you still talked to him after first year. He was your RA at your freshman dorm, right?”

“I don’t talk to him,” you say. You fidget in your seat, hands twisting and turning on your lap. “I mean. We were never close or anything.”

“Then care to explain how you managed to stand in the presence of Min Yoongi junior and behold his glory? Were you guys about to fuck before you realized his penis probably isn’t going to fit? Or, holy shit… Is he actually fun-sized like the rest of his body is?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sera.”

“Oh my god, he’s totally fun-sized!” She gasps, snatching up her phone while you two waited at a stoplight. “Wait ‘til Cassandra hears about this––”

Despite your diminished motor skills, you manage to grab her phone away from her before she can spread any misinformation to the rest of the student body. Min Yoongi’s penis is his business, and consequently, it seems to have become your business as well. Cue existential dread.

“Will you shut up for two seconds and let me explain? No, he is not fun-sized. I will not divulge any more information regarding that subject,” you say. Sera deflates noticeably beside you. “And no, we were not about to fuck. I just happened upon him while he was… in the midst of some recreational activities.”

“Oh, he’s into that type of shit. Understandable,” Sera nods, sagely. You have no idea what her tone might be implying, but honestly at that point you were too scared to ask. “How’d you find him like that, then? Did you hear him tugging his meat and decide to join in? Because honestly, big mood.”

“No!” you exclaim hotly, slapping her once again. “I’m not like your perverted ass! I was just––” You halt in the middle of your sentence, recollections of the past hours swimming through your mind and the fear and anxiety that had taken over you this afternoon starts to consume you once more.

“Hey, you alright? You got pale all of a sudden,” Sera notes, slowing down in her driving as she makes her way to park in front of your apartment. The two of you can see the lights of your crotchety landlord’s living room are still on, and you hope to God that he isn’t peering outside his windows and preparing to call the police on your friend (again).

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just,” you sigh, staring ahead of you and into the empty street. You don’t know why you’re hesitant to tell her what had happened earlier today. Normally, you would be exploding at the seams right now, weeping in despair at the sorry state of your existence. Then again, you’re not sure if you’re ready to go through the agony of reexperiencing the worst 12 hours of your life. Also, you just wanted to go pass out in your bed and never wake up.

In the end, you decide to tell her. Maybe she could offer a comforting shoulder to cry on. “Okay, so don’t laugh but… You remember the poem that got posted on the CCU Love Letters Facebook page this morning?”

Sera nods, confused. “Yeah? What about it?”

You take a deep breath, feeling your palms begin to sweat as hot licks of shame run down your back. You whisper, “Well. Yeah. I’m the author.”

There is a tangible silence inside the car. You’re afraid to look at Sera, dreading what sort of expression might appear on her face. Disdain? Pity? Mirth? Whatever it is, her quietness makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in alarm. You’re about to book it out of her car and make some shitty excuse about needing to feed your goldfish when you hear the locks of the cardoors click shut. You whip your head towards her, eyes widening when you saw the smug look on her face.

Not a good sign. At all.

“Do my ears deceive me? Is Miss ‘i’m-never-going-to-date-because-romance-is-dead’ Y/N really the author of the sweetest and most romantic poem of the century?” she singsongs, her smirk growing with each word that leaves her lips.

“Who ever said I was against romance?” You retort, cheeks flushing so hotly that you’re sure there is steam coming out of your ears. Sera cackles loudly, slamming her hand so hard into the car horn that it causes one of the wandering cats to jump up high into the air. You are half concerned when you don’t see the poor cat come back down.

“Oh please! When was the last time you dated anyone? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date anyone the entire time we’ve known each other!”

“We met in freshman year. You didn’t know how I was in high school,” you pout, huffing crossly. “And besides. I write romantic poems sometimes. You’ve read my blog posts.”

“Yeah, I know but,” Sera giggles once more, switching her phone on to search for something. When she finds what she is looking for, her eyes light up as she shows you the damned poem that got you into this mess in the first place. “You literally wrote ‘how wonderful is it to find that the dips in your hands look awfully lonely without mine in them?’ and you’re telling me that you wrote that?”

You push the phone away, groaning into your hands when you happen to glance at the number of likes on the post. “Fucking 2000 likes? Really? I’m gonna commit seppuku with your 13-inch dildo, I swear.”

As you let yourself descend into madness once more, you feel Sera’s hand pat your back comfortingly, though you can still hear her stifled giggles. “Okay. To be honest, I kind of knew it was you. No one else can write sappy lovesick bullshit like that and be sincere about it. Who the fuck compares skin to moonlight anymore? Are we in the 16th century?”

“You just said you didn’t believe that I’d write it,” you say. “I need people to not think it’s me. It’s so embarrassing as it is!”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think people are gonna think it’s you. There are a bunch of people in our Creative Writing class. It could be anyone,” Sera says, pinching your cheek lightly.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, probably.” Sera hums, her thumbs flying on the screen of her phone. She pauses, chuckling lightly at something. “Though, I must say. You’re incredibly lucky. If you had used your actual e-mail address instead of your… burner one, you would have been found out immediately.”

“Little victories,” you say, wondering if the prepubescent version of yourself would have known that creating xXxteamjacobpuppyloverxXx@gmail.com would eventually save your life 10 years later in the future. Probably not, but you’ll take it all the same. “Will you unlock the doors now, please? I’m gonna sleep the trauma away and hopefully not be alive by Monday, but if I am… then I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

“Hold on sister,” she says, restraining you back into your seat with her arm. You cough in surprise, shooting a glare back her way as she keeps you away from your bed longer than you would already like. “If you’re the author of the poem… Then can you tell me who the muse of the poem is? And more importantly, is it someone I know?”

Judging by the salacious look on her face, you know it would be a bad idea telling her. Not that you wouldn’t trust Sera with your life, but––actually, you really would not trust her with anything. Now that you think about it, telling Sera would be the equivalent of giving Kim Seokjin full access to your internet search history, and you have enough brain cells in your inventory to know that some things are worse than death.

“Ugh, can we just drop the subject, please? I really don’t want to have an aneurysm inside your car right now. I can see Mr. Park staring at us through his living room window and we both know you can’t afford bail for the third time this year.”

“Oh shit, you’re right,” she sighs, relinquishing her hold on you and allowing you to unlock the door. “But that doesn’t mean I’m letting this go! You’re telling me everything when we see each other on Tuesday, understand?”

“I’d rather die, thanks!” You call out, slamming the door shut. “And besides, I’m gonna try to kill the rumors as quickly as possible before someone figures it out.”

“How are you gonna do that? Don’t tell me you’re going to go to each of the guys and explain? Maybe tell them it’s a misunderstanding?” Sera asks, watching you curiously. The very thought of doing that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. You gaze downwards at the wet pavement, the feeling of impending doom rapidly becoming familiar.

"That would mean outing myself as the author, so that's definitely a hard pass."

"Suit yourself." Sera shrugs, already beginning to pull away from the driveway. She waves lazily at you, before driving away into the night. You stand outside for a moment longer, sighing deeply as you resign yourself to your new life filled with tomfoolery and bullshittery.

At the very least, there is no where to go but up, right?

[Life Lesson #1: It's important never to test fate with foolish declarations of optimism such as this. It only tempts whatever sadistic force that controls your pathetic human life to do their worst. So of course, it gets worse.]

To your credit, you don't spend your entire weekend wallowing in self-pity and despairing at your current situation. You only spend maybe 90% of it doing just that. The other 10% is used to plan your next plan of action.

Like an idiot, you fill yourself with too much misplaced confidence and Flamin' Hot Cheetos. You think to yourself, "Man! I have the whole weekend to think of something to do! Surely my brain will be able to make some sort of plan by the time Monday comes!"

It is a wonder that you are still somehow standing, in a state that some might say resembles being "alive," with how bad your forward thinking is. As it turns out, the weekend slips past you before you know it, with no more than a seedling of a plan than you did during the peak of your mental breakdown.

Suffice to say, you're in deep shit.

Monday comes just as surely as the sun rises from the east, which is to say that time continues to pass despite how much you'd be willing to pay for it to stop. You could live with one kidney, right? (Fate is probably more of a vegan, you surmise.)

Even when the world is ending all around you, it seems that your 8AM music composition class will wait for no one. And so, there you are: dragging your feet to what is usually one of your favorite classes, but with the added bonus of death clinging to your elbows. Perhaps your cosplay of a corpse is a bit too convincing, because most passersby are quick to step around you. Honestly, this is probably for the best, as you aren't sure what type of state your human compassion is at the moment, should someone dare disturb your "peace."

But of course, there is always that one idiot who manages to ruin your day––for the sole reason that he exists, much to your disappointment and chagrin. Hell, even his voice is enough to make your hairs bristle from just how he lilts his words ever so slightly. It is an absolute shame that the shortest route to your class is past his hair salon, so you can only imagine the speed at which your blood pressure rises when you hear him say––

“Miss Park, your split ends! Oh my word, Miss Park! Whatever shall we do but snip, snip, snip all those wretches out of your life, just like how I snip up all my haters! Aha, this is your cue to laugh by the way!” Kim Seokjin guffaws, his stupid voice unable to be muted by ten inches of concrete. Through the hair salon’s windowpane, you can see Seokjin’s hands make quick work of an elderly woman’s hair, his eyes in crescent moons with how loud he laughs. You mentally make a sign of the cross for the disaster that will soon befall that poor woman’s head.

Now, normally you would make haste to your class, with head bowed and shoulders hunched in hopes of that fool-mouthed ninny from seeing you and engaging in some of his usual buffoonery. For whatever brain cells he lacked, Seokjin always seems to have the ability to rope you into his many harebrained discussions, with topics ranging from “how often do you think people think of sleeping with me?” to “do you think if plants could dream, would they dream of sleeping with me?”

You know. The works.

As it is, today is not an ordinary day, and encountering Seokjin has only made you recall the distressing events from Friday. From your panic induced haze, you can only remember murky images of him holding court amongst a crowd of people, telling them how he must be the muse of your damned poem. The faint memory fills you with abject horror as you are reminded, not for the first time, how big his terribly well-sculpted mouth can be and how he will stop at nothing to make sure that everyone believes what he wants. (Despite how horrendous he is as an organism of this earth, you would be a fool to call his looks anything but mediocre. But that’s as far as anything worth praising concerns the likes of him.)

Something takes over you in that moment, something animalistic. As if your dumb monkey brain is going “hoo hoo eek eek… must… eliminate… AWOOGA… BIG THREAT…” and your sensible and empathetic sides are consequently forced to lie dormant in the meantime.

Hence how you find yourself bursting through Spick and Spock Hair Salon, with no plan whatsoever. All you can think of is Seokjin hanging from his balls on the school’s flagpole, and honestly you weren’t all that concerned with how Point A was going to reach Point B(alls). But we’ll deal with that later.

“What was that?” Miss Park hums, her hearing aid somewhat short-circuited with the sensory abuse it has already had to undergo. To Seokjin’s credit, his hands do not falter despite your loud entrance; however, that could mostly be explained by how much louder his own voice is in comparison, but that’s just your humble onion.

“––and basically, Miss Park, there is this poor soul out there who must be dying with embarrassment because their love poem has been exposed to the world without their consent! Now, I may be Aphrodite incarnate, but I am also a gentleman, and so I do not condone force of any kind,” Seokjin drawls, incognizant of the world around him. He continues to apply the perm solution on Miss Park’s curls, the precision at how he works almost impressive if not for the fact that he was entirely abhorrent.

“That’s nice, Jinnie, but will you please shut up? I’m two steps away from turning off my hearing aid, you know,” Miss Park says cheerily.

“STOP WHERE YOU ARE, KIM SEOKJIN! STOP FEEDING LIES TO THE ELDERLY!” You cry, filled with the same type of distress that a young peasant might feel from their first licks of capitalism. Seokjin, the wicked businessman in this terrible analogy, is the one selling his counterfeit goods to the unsuspecting innocent.

Miss Park gasps, turning to Seokjin with betrayal in her eyes. “Oh, I knew it! My perm does make me look older! Just give me the pink highlights like I told you, Jinnie. I saw the youngsters doing it on Facebook,” she says.

Seokjin turns his head towards you in slow-motion, like an ass, and even takes the care to flick his beautifully styled bangs away from his forehead so he can gaze upon you with faux interest. “Oh? Miss Y/N? In my salon? I knew you’d be back here soon enough, especially with those roots… Come, take a seat. Let me bump your sorry 2/10 looking ass to a 2.5/10 at least.”

“If it were not for the laws of this land,” you seethe, cursing him through gritted teeth. You stalk towards him, rolling up your sleeves to show that you mean Business. (Funnily enough, you were wearing a tank top that day.) “I can’t believe you’re even being considered a suspect of the poem’s muse in the first place!”

Seokjin fakes a contemplative look. “Isn’t it because of my moon-like radiance? People have told me that I glow like a newborn babe.”

“You sure have the brains of one,” you retort.

“I heard from my niece that it was because he was an extra in a play as a moon or something,” Miss Park quips helpfully. Seokjin makes an affronted noise, but does not reject her claim.

“You were, like, a prop?” You snicker, forgetting for a moment what you were doing. You watch with wicked fascination as his ears turn red.

“Everyone has to start from somewhere! And so what? I had to hang ten feet in the air with a wedgie the entire time! My battle scars are what make me stronger.” He sniffs, upturned nose and all. You and Miss Park snort, not at all inconspicuously.

He pours the remainder of the solution all over Miss Park’s head and slaps her not-too gently on the back, clasping his hands together gleefully. “Well! That should do the trick. Relax, Miss Park, and let the chemicals do all the talking or whatever.” You take mental note to never come back to his establishment ever again so long as you live.

“Ma’am, if you’d like to save yourself from listening to the avalanche of anger that I’m about to unleash, I would suggest turning off your hearing aid for a moment,” you say.

She shrugs her shoulders, reclining further into her seat and resting her legs on a nearby bench. “Sure. YOLO, as the kids say.”

At her consent, you promptly slap the hearing aid out of her ear so you can scream at Seokjin in relative privacy. Miss Park doesn’t even seem to notice, and this should’ve been an indicator of how fucked up Seokjin’s salon is if she didn’t even seem slightly shocked by your actions. (How could she, when Seokjin literally just dumped fucking chemicals all over her scalp? Isn’t that illegal?)

“I’m going to sensibly reason with you first,” you scream and jab at his chest, being unreasonable.

“Okay, sounds believable,” Seokjin replies, raising a brow. He gestures for you to follow him to where the cashier is supposed to be, except that it is so early in the morning that the other employee that works with him isn’t even in at the moment. You still have yet to know why Seokjin opens the shop at 8AM in the first place.

“Why the hell are you spreading misinformation to random people like that? You know damn well that the poem isn’t about you,” you huff, crossing your arms. Seokjin, the ever-loving twat that he is, matches your pose to mock you. He even juts out his hip the way that you do.

“Of course it’s about me! How could it not be about me? Did you not read the part about how the author looks at the moon and thinks about my skin? Everyone knows that Etude House is dying to have me as their face mask model!”

The prickling urge to strangle him strengthens. “Listen,” you say, teeth gnashing from the effort of keeping yourself from leaping and ending it all. “For once in your life, is it really that hard to believe that the world doesn’t revolve around you?”

“Oh, you’re one of those heliocentric believers? Jincentric is where it’s at, Miss Y/N!” He laughs, slapping his knee at the pure hilarity of his joke. He does not pause once at your disdainful visage.

“Fine! Believe what you want! But I need you to stop telling everyone that you’re the muse of that poem. The rumor won’t die if you keep stoking the flame with your inflamed ego.”

Seokjin ponders your words for a second, looking at you with a contemplative stare. He does not speak for so long that you’re almost willing to let yourself hope that he has acquiesced, until––”When have you ever done anything for me?”

You gape at his sudden accusation. “Excuse me? I’ve done a lot for you!”

“Like?”

You pause, racking your brain. “Uh. I haven’t killed you?”

“Fair,” he nods, stroking his chin. “But that won’t be enough to stop me. I love being admired, so fuck you for even assuming that I would stop talking about myself. However, I’ll do it for a price.”

“Price?” You groan, fixing him with a glare. “You know damn well that I’m poor, but name it and I’ll try to pay it as soon as you can.”

Seokjin grins, his pearly whites much too incandescent with how dark his soul is. “Invest in my JiHope t-shirt business. I need, like, $500 left to reach the first goal of my kickstarter.”

You stare at him, completely baffled. Is this dude for real, or is he just a caricature turned to life? “You’re a heathen, do you know that?” you say, disgust oozing from every orifice of your body.

“I am feeling quite heathen-ish today, thanks for noticing,” he replies, somber. “Does that mean you accept my proposal?”

You hate how his voice sounds even the slightest bit optimistic, because that means he really does think you’re as stupid as he is. “Can you be serious for once? And before you say it, don’t fucking pull a dad joke on me and say some shit like ‘how can I be serious if I’m Jin?’ because I will not hesitate to bite two inches off your dick.”

“That would still leave 13-inches, so to be honest I should be thanking you.” He shrugs his shoulders, unashamed of existing in this day and age. “And no, I can’t be serious. It goes against my brand.”

“Your brand of being a fucking menace to society?” you grouse.

“Exactly.”

You are seriously ready to explode, and it isn’t going to be pretty. Lord knows that Seokjin would hate having your guts splattered on his overpriced Gucci slides. “Please, can you just stop talking about the poem? It’s bad enough that the original post is getting hundreds of likes by the hour, and if I know one thing, it’s probably mostly from your own influence.”

With a hundred thousand followers under his belt, it probably isn’t that much of a stretch. As much as he is the spawn of Satan, he is rather popular among your peers. Not that popularity has ever been a good measure of compassion. Case in point:

Seokjin grins, misleadingly angelic. “Aw, are you calling me an influencer? That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“You’re insufferable!” you yell, glowering at the overly-smug theatre student. You stomp your foot on the ground, pointing a finger in his direction as your nostrils flare in annoyance. Like hell that you’re going to let this shithead make you his bitch! “If you’re not going to do as I say, then I’m going to pester you throughout your entire shift and follow you to class if I have to!”

Big words from such a weak-willed person such as yourself. It does not take you long to realize how fatal of a mistake it is to make such a promise, because you never really stopped to think about the actual logistics of such a stunt (i.e. having to be around Seokjin for longer than your recommended daily dose). You can only imagine what such an experience would entail.

After a 3-hours of watching a buffoon salvaging humanity’s hair-do’s and don’ts (his words not yours), you feel as if his very demonic energy was sucking your life force with a curly straw. You fear that when you close your eyes tonight, you will be haunted by images of his Pacific-wide shoulders and his head tilted back in maniacal laughter as he snips away with less care than a toddler. Well, at least that’s what he appears to be doing, because occasionally you will zone out but then return to the sight of a fairly satisfied customer with glossy looking locks, so perhaps he isn’t as inept as you had imagined.

Your amazement is short-lived, however, when he opens his mouth and the cycle begins anew.

After finishing his last client for the morning, he makes his way to his first class of the day. You are reminded of the fact that you are missing your own morning classes as a result, but you know that you cannot afford to let him off your sight, lest he make a bigger fool of himself (and consequently, make your life a bigger hell than it already is).

You trudge behind him, ensuring that he never strays further than three feet away from you. It’s pretty easy to keep up with him, due to the fact that he always makes a point to pause whenever he sees his own reflection (in windows, shiny surfaces, some poor boy’s bicycle helmet––his narcissism knows no bounds.)

When he finally makes a full stop outside one of the lecture halls, he intentionally sidesteps in front of you. The suddenness of it causes you to bump against his steely back, bruising your nose enough to make you yelp in pain. You’re just about to cuss him out when he turns to face you, uncharacteristically serious.

“Now Y/N, I need you to stay out here in the corridor like a good girl, okay? There’s a strict rule of having no pets allowed,” he coos, making the fatal mistake of trying to stroke your head. He shrieks when your teeth meets his palm, but you are unrepentant.

When you let go, he tries to appear unfazed, blowing you a kiss instead as he saunters off into the lecture hall. Not wanting to disturb the class anyway, you decide to heed his words and squat outside in the hallway, occasionally looking through the small window to glare menacingly at the pink-haired bastard. Despite the holes you wish you were burning into the back of his skull, he remains aloof to your imaginary death ray as he continues to take studious notes of whatever his professor is saying.

On the other hand, his classmates are a different story. They send each other wary looks, wondering why the hell this random person was doing a Jack Torrance impression. When the clock strikes, they all make a beeline for the exit, clearly avoiding looking you in the eye as they speedwalk to their next classes. Seokjin makes it out last, his gait the picture of perfect nonchalance. He has the audacity to look surprised to see you there, like you were an old friend he had not expected to meet until you both reached the pearly gates (or fiery pits, but that’s unimportant right now).

“You’re still here, Miss Golum? Have you been good? I’m honestly surprised that you are as stubborn as I am.” He whistles lowly, shouldering his backpack with a smirk. He walks down the hall towards the exit, not checking to see if you were keeping up or not.

You proceed to bite his penis in half to keep him in place. Okay, not really, but you know… one can dream.

What you actually do is follow him as he heads to the cafeteria, presumably to sustain the mortal body he has chosen to possess. It takes him an agonizing thirty minutes to decide what he wants to eat for lunch, and another thirty minutes to say his extensive list of food products that he will most likely be consuming within the next hour or so. You’ve never seen a fast food worker look so dead before, and you’re sure the poor college student behind the counter had zoned out after Seokjin ordered his tenth happy meal.

As the two of you stand to the side to wait for his order, he turns to you expectantly. “So,” he begins.

“Fa,” you retort, followed by a gasp of shock from the elder.

“Do my ears deceive me? Your first dad joke… And to think, all it took was for you to hang out with me for four hours to initiate you as an apprentice.” He weeps loudly, faking tears in an impressively short amount of time. That doesn’t stop you from kicking him in the shin, though.

“Don’t worry, I’m already dead inside. There’s no soul left for you to consume,” you reply dryly. He tuts, shaking his head.

“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was just about to ask… As much as I have enjoyed our quality bonding time together––”

“I’ll gladly piss on your grave, don’t forget,” you interject.

“––I was wondering why you’re so adamant to dispel the rumors about the poem? You don’t seem like the type to engage in campus gossip.”

Oh shit. Perhaps there is something more than hot air in that tiny head of his.

You flounder about like a fish for a bit, your mouth opening and closing as you think of an explanation that wouldn’t out yourself in the process. You feel your cheeks reddening, only two seconds away from steam whistling out of your eardrums. Broken stammers are all you can manage as he waits expectantly, but luckily, you don’t have to think of a response when a nearby commotion forces the two of you to back away from each other.

A gaggle of freshmen storm through from out of nowhere, forcing the both of you to be swept away as they all made their way towards a pop-up stand in the middle of the court. Accustomed to the borderline cringey overexcitement of the youngest students in the university, you are quick to dismiss their behavior and decide to search for Seokjin, until you hear one of the little freshmen say something that catches your attention.

"You think the t-shirts are still available? Chaeyeon said the hoodies sold out this morning, so I'm scared that we'll be too late," a young girl says, her hands clutched to her chest as she tries to tiptoe over the crowd to survey the state of the merchants just up ahead.

Her friend pats her back assuringly. "Don't worry. The announcement on the page said they're bringing in the reserve stocks from the backroom, which is probably why everyone's here. We just have to get there first." They proceed to elbow their way through the throng of people, and completely disappear from your view. Where they stood, more people soon took their place until a sizeable swarm has taken over half the area of the floor.

Now, this exchange isn't necessarily a red flag to most people, since many clubs and organizations at your university often sold different types of goods to raise funds for their projects. However, given the circumstances that you have become entrenched in the last few days, you can never be too cautious of innocent utterances such as this.

You take a few steps back, trying your best to see over the heads of the crowd that is steadily growing larger. After a few minutes of fruitless attempts to squeeze through sweaty pits and cacophonous teenagers, you are ready to just give up and let it go when the same pair of girls from earlier exit from the side, with numerous folded up shirts in their arms.

You hasten towards them, barely being able to latch onto their shoulders to stop them from escaping. The shorter of the girls squeals in surprise, dropping her prized possessions onto the floor. She turns to you, anger ready to burst forth from her tongue when she looks you in the face. She softens almost immediately, wrath evaporating in the wind. Confused, you're just about to ask her if she knows you from somewhere when her friend cuts you to the chase.

"Oh my God! It's her!" she squeals, reaching for your hand and shaking it so vigorously that you swear you hear your shoulder bones pop out of its socket. The girl who had dropped her shirts just continues to stare at you in awe, her mouth agape as she remains speechless, apparently from your presence alone.

You feel the dread begin to build in the pits of your stomach. "It's me?" you say, pointing to yourself with your free hand.

"Yes! Miss Y/N, you have no idea how happy I am to meet you! We are big fans of your work on the CCU Pen Blog! Your short story about the talking brick wall honestly brought me to tears," she gasps out, eyes twinkling with unrestrained reverence. Judging from the death grip she has on your hand, you can certainly say that this girl isn't lying.

While you are aware of the small following that you've accumulated over the past two years as one of the top contributors in your university's open writing forum, that isn't to say that you have ever met a fan as fervent as the two before you. Still on edge from everything that has been going on, you still can't let your guard down around them.

After a bit of effort on your part, you are finally able to pry yourself away from the girl's tight hold. Coughing lightly into your abused fist, you fix them with a wary glance. They return it with unnervingly excited stares of their own.

"Um. Thank you very much, ladies. I just wanted to ask you about the function going on over there?" you ask, pointing over at the still bustling shop booth. At your query, the girls actually look confused, as if you are the weird one in this interaction.

"You don't know? I thought you of all people should know about the merch sale happening right now," the quieter girl speaks up, bewildered. She bends down to pick up the shirts she had dropped, turning it over to show you the design that you had previously failed to notice. What a terrible mistake you have committed.

(Was the mistake looking at the t-shirt? Was it waking up today? Was it deciding to live after your mother conceived you in the womb? Truly, where does the blame game truly end in this foul existence that you call your own?)

The scream that is elicited from your throat cannot be described as anything from this world, because you are sure everyone in the vicinity might have stopped breathing for a few seconds after hearing it. The macabre quality of your voice even caused the two girls in front of you to flee in fright, leaving you with the wretched t-shirt in your trembling palms.

There, printed on the t-shirt, right in front of your mortal eyes, is an image you would rather that you had not seen even if it meant having to suckle from Kim Seokjin's teets for all eternity.

In all its poorly printed glory, your face is plain as day. Anyone would be able to recognize that it was you: in the middle of chewing what appears to be a whole turkey leg.

There you were, with ketchup dripping down your cheek, sitting just outside the Fine Arts building as you scarfed down the poor piece of poultry because you had been too lazy to cut up into smaller, more refined chunks. Like the fucking caveman that you are, you had held the leg like a police baton, mouth open so wide that you'd think you might have unhinged your jaw to get the entire thing to fit in there.

You think that's all? It gets worse.

Somehow, the perpetrator of this terrible t-shirt just has to make you look even less attractive than humanly possible. Superimposed beside your sauce-stained self is none other than a PNG image of Jeon Jungkook in his prime. With his sleek black hair pushed back to reveal his forehead, you are sure that this photo is the same one that everyone on campus had swooned over just a few weeks prior, when he had been chosen to model in an advertisement for some club's fundraising event. He is the picture of quiet confidence, which might make you laugh on any other day, since the boy is anything but that in his day to day life. You only ever interact with him when you see him manning the front desk of the library, and he always has his head bowed over a book, unaware of the stares of his many admirers.

Clearly, the injustice of having a literal god beside your hulk-ish photo is downright cruel, but this optical torment does not stop there.

Underneath the photos of the two of you, there is a short line of text that is honestly the worst part of the entire thing. In bold, sans serif font, it reads “Y/NKOOK SUPPORTERS INITIATIVE” with a copious amount of black heart emojis tacked on. In a smaller, but similarly visible manner, it also reads “The Moon Poem is about them and I will stand on this rock until I die!” There are also numerous 100 and fire emojis scattered around the entire shirt.

It’s terrible. It’s downright despicable. It’s the worst thing to ever grace your vision, and that’s saying something, considering that you’ve met your fair share of delusional graphic designers.

Another scream rips from your throat––more livid, this time.

It is at that moment when you realize that maybe Thanos was right––maybe some people really do deserve to die for the betterment of civilization.

Perhaps the crowd of eagerly waiting customers can sense the heat from your unfathomable anger, because they quickly part like the Red Sea as you stomp over to the front of the lines where you will likely find the perpetrator of this heinous crime.

There is a young boy with droopy eyes standing by the tables of merchandise, his hands quickly counting wads of bills as he jams them haphazardly into his pink Hello Kitty fanny pack. He doesn't even bother looking up when you approach him, still busy with his profits, when you clear your throat to catch his attention.

"Are you the one in charge of this fucking circus?" You snarl, fists itching to come into contact with his cheeks. He hums disinterestedly, zipping up his gaudy fanny pack with a tired sigh.

"No, ma'am. I'm just the hired help," he drawls, turning away from you as he gestures vaguely at the mountains of goods still left for purchase. "Are you interested in something or what? There are still 30 people waiting to buy, so I'd rather you not back up the line please."

At the end of your patience, you admit that perhaps grabbing the poor boy by the collar might have been a bit drastic. Still, you're itching to know who the source of all this madness is, so you don't feel all that guilty when he makes a choking sound from your act of brute force. Despite your strong grip on his windpipe, his dead fish-eyes do not disappear. In fact, he looks exasperated more than anything.

"Listen lady, are you going to buy something or what? Who even the fuck are you?"

You splutter, staring incredulously at the younger. Who the fuck are you? You aren't the type to expect people to know who you are but you can at least expect that the person selling goods with your face on it would know who you are! Like, how the hell does he not know that you were the same person on the damned picket fans and keychains?

"I don't––what the hell––" you stammer, speechless for the first time in a while.

"OWO what's this? Is this a new campus couple shipping booth that just opened? Do you guys sell JiHope versions too?" Just in time to witness your second mental breakdown of the day, Seokjin makes his convenient re-entrance as he sidles up beside you. He has two burgers in hand, one of which he is halfway done eating.

You gape at him. "Did you buy a burger for me?"

Seokjin snorts, stuffing the entire remainder of the sandwich into his unfathomably large mouth. "No, you idiot. They’re both for me," he replies, with surprising coherency despite the dribbles of meat and bread product spilling onto his chin. You swear you can see him unhinge his jaw just the slightest bit.

He bends down to pick up one of the fallen pins from the floor, groaning at the sound of his back cracking. "Oh shit, that hurt!"

Unable to help yourself despite still having a freshman in a chokehold, you quip automatically "Yikes, that sounds like a couple of dinosaur bones creaking. You alright?"

Not missing a beat, Seokjin replies "Nah. I just can’t help having a bad back with how big my dick is."

The young boy taps you on the shoulder, reminding you once more of the situation you are in. "Can you let go? My shift is over so you can interrogate the next dude instead," he drawls, having the audacity to yawn at you.

Taking pity on him, you do as he asks. He straightens up, pulling his rumpled collar down before unclasping the fanny pack from around his waist. Another similarly dead-eyed young boy (who was incredibly tall, much to your chagrin––obnoxiously tall young men ALWAYS had agendas, take Seokjin for example) takes the bag from him. He gives you a short once over, no signs of recognition present in his expression at all. When he sees Seokjin, however, his reaction is a lot more than you expected.

"Oh my God, Seokjin? Holy shit, I'm a big fan!" The new boy gasps, pushing aside a customer in favor of reaching over to shake Seokjin's hand. Ever the slut for praise and appreciation, Seokjin shakes his hands with the ease of a seasoned politician.

"Aren't we all?" he laughs, haughty. The other boy laughs too, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained admiration. You sneer in disgust at the hearts visibly emanating from his body.

"My name is Soobin, and I just love your performance in last week's production at the Campus Theatre! Would you mind signing my assh––"

"Hold on," you interrupt, glaring daggers at Seokjin. "Did you fucking do this? Did you make this fucking merch booth of me and Jungkook?"

Seokjin frowns, annoyed that you had been impetuous enough to stop this spontaneous meet and greet session between him and his loyal fan. "No, of course not. Who even the fuck is Dungcock, or whatever the hell that dude's name is."

"You fucking dumb piece of shit––" you say, about to bite off his balls for real when your phone begins to ring, saving Seokjin for the time being. You recognize the ringtone to be the one you set for your alarms, and you realize that after all the commotion from this morning, you have forgotten about the tutoring session you are supposed to have with Hoseok today. Since you had cancelled last Friday's session after your spectacular psychotic meltdown, you know that you couldn't possibly skip this one as well.

Shutting your phone off, you groan, fixing Seokjin with your most solemn gaze. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time. I have to go tutor Hoseok soon, and I've already skipped all my classes today by trying to convince your imbecilic ass to be empathetic for once in your miserable life so I'm begging you for the last time––please stop spreading the rumors about the poem," you finish, tears welling up as you finally register the fatigue weighing down your bones. It's only Monday, and you can't wait for the sweet release of death.

Seokjin is silent the entire while. The merchandise boy, Soobin, has already left the two of you alone, becoming disinterested the moment you uttered the word "listen." You're breathing heavily, bracing yourself for the inevitable sound of his windshield wiper-esque laughter. To your complete and utter surprise, his mocking does not come.

Instead, he puts down his second burger, stuffing it inside his back pocket (presumably for safekeeping). He wipes his hands on his shirt, smearing ketchup sauce on it before levelling you with his gaze. He appears like he is about to acquiesce to your demands.

Is this it? Will you allow yourself to hope? Has Kim Seokjin actually developed compassion during the last 20 seconds of your heartfelt plea? Are you finally going to lay to rest the rumor that he does not actually have a second stomach where his heart should be?

Then, "Okay Y/N. I'll do it."

Hope rises just beyond the horizon.

He raises a finger, "But––"

And just like that, hope takes a pounding to the ass (lubelessly) and dies before it even has the chance to break past the peaks of your mountain of crushed dreams.

"––you have to admit that you're the author of the poem and then I'll stop exacerbating the rumors."

You can feel the demon living inside you just itching to climb its way out of your ass and circle its hands around Seokjin's larynx. Hell, you can't say you wouldn't do it yourself. "WHAT? NO!! THAT'S LITERALLY––I'M NOT EVEN––" you scream, shocked and enraged at the same time.

Seokjin rolls his eyes, placing his perfectly manicured hand on his hip. "Save it, babe. I know you're the author. As annoying and stupid as you are––"

"Hey!"

"––you've always been a pretty good writer and I would recognize your writing style anywhere. Not to say that I read your works religiously or anything, but I mean... I see your writing on the newspapers that I use to pick up my dog's shits, so I guess I read them sometimes," he says, not looking you in the eyes. The tips of his ears are turning red, but you hardly notice his embarrassment when you're more amazed that he even acknowledged your talent in the first place. You guys aren't even friends!

"Wow. I don't even know what to say."

"Just admit you're the author and we're good." Seokjin smirks, patting you lightly on the shoulder.

You frown. "Isn't that counterproductive? I want the rumors to stop, not for them to be related to me."

"Which is a sentiment that I cannot fathom at all, since I crave the attention." He sniffs, glowering at you. "You can imagine the sacrifice I am bestowing upon you by having to relinquish this newfound fame just so your little crush stays hidden."

"How benevolent of you," you deadpan.

"And since you didn't deny it, I'm assuming that you are the author after all. Besides, I just wanted you to tell me the truth, mostly so I can bully you for writing sickly sweet love poems about yours truly."

"Okay, I'll admit. I am the author. You got me," you grunt, rubbing your temples. "But there is no way in HELL that I wrote Moonlight Sonata for you. I'd rather eat my own intestines than write anything remotely flattering about you."

"That's what they all say," Seokjin says, sighing dreamily. "To be honest, I knew you were the author from the beginning and I just wanted to annoy you until you caved. I didn't think you would be that stressed over the stupid poem enough to follow me around for an entire day. That crush must be embarrassing, huh?"

"It's not!" you exclaim hotly. You clear your throat, forcing the blush around your cheeks to die down. "It's just... It was supposed to be private." Your voice breaks off into a whisper, vulnerability lacing your words.

It's true––the only reason you wanted all of this to be over was because it was never even supposed to have happened in the first place. Your words and stories were always open to the public eye. You gave and you gave and you gave, although that has never been a problem. You loved sharing your thoughts and feelings; it was one of the greatest things about being writer. You enjoyed hearing how people related to your experiences because it made you feel seen, it made you feel known. You were not alone in this journey, and that had made all the difference.

This time, however, you had preferred to go through this alone. Mostly because even you were not sure what it was that you were going through. How were you supposed to share this part of yourself with others when you did not even know what it was that you were feeling? You had poured every inch of your soul onto those pages, and to have yourself completely barren to the world like it was nothing––

That had been catastrophic to you. But at the end of the day, there was nothing you can do except to try and silence it.

Seokjin considers your sad form, watching you until a small secretive smile inches its way on his lips. You scowl, not liking the way he looks like he knows something that you don't.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Oh, nothing," Seokjin whistles, winking provokingly. He laughs obnoxiously, not faltering even when you kick him in the sin. "Just that I know you have a crush on me and you're just embarrassed to admit it. Thank God that I'm a great actor, so I guess I'll pretend for your sake."

"You're not my––" you start, before giving up mid-sentence. Was there truly any use to arguing with Seokjin? You'd rather not waste any more saliva than you already have. "Whatever. Believe what you want. All that matters is that you do what I asked you to do."

"Sure thing, Shakespeare," Seokjin scoffs, flicking you lightly on the forehead. "Also, in payment for my services, you are required to watch my next play AND attend at least three of my rehearsals and cheer for me every time I appear in a scene. I require a bouquet of flowers at every appearance."

You're about to argue, (fruitlessly, you might add), when a barrage of buzzes coming from your back pocket stops you in your tracks. You slip out your phone, and you see dozens of texts from a worried Hoseok asking where you are. You reply a quick "otw" to him before focusing back on Seokjin.

"Fine. Whatever. I'll fucking kill you the next time I see you, but... thank you. I know it's hard for you to be kind to anything other than your reflection." You take a deep breath, furrowing your brows. Saying thank you to a troglodyte is harder than it seems. "And thanks for reading my works. We're still not friends or anything, by the way. Hope you remember that."

"Wouldn't dream of forgetting," Seokjin chuckles. "Me? Friends with you? A 10 walking around with a negative 1? Fat chance." He waves goodbye, blowing you an obnoxiously loud kiss before stalking off away from you. The bulge of his smooshed burger has left an unsightly grease stain all over the back of his jeans.

Before you turn to go to the exit, you pass by Soobin who was still busy with customers.  You slip a few bills into his pocket, tiptoeing to whisper into his ear. "Here's twenty bucks. Go kick Seokjin in the balls for me."

When the double doors slam behind you, the beautiful sound of Seokjin's pained howl bids you the cheery farewell that you deserve.

[pardontheglueman]

Glen Campbell - Rhinestone Cowboy

It was the great F. Scott Fitzgerald who, probably after one gin rickey too many at his favourite watering hole, The Willard, famously declared that ‘there are no second acts in American lives’. Fitzgerald, as it turns out, wasn’t much of a fortune teller and his half-baked theory has since been disproved many times over, but for Glen Travis Campbell, pummeling yet another bottle of rum into submission in the backseat of his tour-bus as it snaked through the Australian moonlight, those ominous words must have seemed like his own personal prophesy. Campbell was down on his luck, he hadn’t had a top forty hit since “Dream Baby” in ‘71, his syndicated T.V show with CBS had been pulled from the airwaves in ‘72 and his latest marriage was suddenly on the rocks. He was starting to look like a three-time loser. After all, this was only 1974 and his improbable re-incarnation as the “Rhinestone Cowboy” was still more than a year away.

The first act in Campbell’s remarkable life story, began when he made a name for himself as an ace guitarist with the now legendary Los Angeles musical collective, The Wrecking Crew; a bunch of peerless session musicians who played on scores of landmark recordings throughout the early sixties. Amongst the many milestones were the Righteous Brothers maudlin masterpiece, “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling”, the Monkees teen-trauma “I’m a Believer” and Sinatra’s semi- swansong, “Strangers in the Night”. Campbell also cemented together more than a few bricks in Phil Spector’s palatial ‘Wall of Sound’ before the rise of the Beatles brought it tumbling down. Undeterred, he clambered onto the Beach Boys pop bandwagon, as the touring stand-in for a world-weary Brian Wilson. In the Kingdom of Pop, that’s tantamount to understudying the Son of God. Campbell remained in the fold when the Messiah returned and stuck around long enough to play bass on the historic Pet Sounds.

Although he’d charted in 1965, with an unlikely cover of Buffy Sainte-Marie’s pacifist melodrama “Universal Soldier” (Campbell supported the war in Vietnam), it wasn’t until he recorded John Hartford’s Grammy Award-winning “Gentle on my Mind” in 1967 that he truly crashed Pop’s party. He soon forged an improbable relationship with self-avowed hippie Jimmy Webb, who was in the process of penning a succession of magnificent country-pop ballads that would ultimately launch Campbell on the road to international Stardom. “By the Time I Get to Phoenix”, “Galveston” and, of course, “Wichita Lineman” remain pure examples of pop’s incommensurable faculty for loosening the tear ducts.

For a while Campbell was on easy street – a succession of Grammy’s and gold records, T.V shows and Oscar-winning films, followed in his footsteps, but as the Seventies slipped by, the troubadour began to lose his Midas touch. Even Jimmy Webb’s personal goldmine of heart-breaking ballads had panned out – their 1974 collaboration, “Reunion: The Songs of Jimmy Webb”, came up empty in the desperate search for a hit single.

Campbell needed a break and he got one. Jimmy Webb had often remarked on Campbell’s uncanny knack for identifying a sure-fire hit on first hearing and on that three-week tour of Australia he’d kept playing a song over and over again. “Rhinestone Cowboy” had been written and recorded by Larry Weiss, a songwriter trying to pitch his way out of the minor leagues and was brought to Campbell’s attention by producer Dennis Lambert after both Elvis and Neil Diamond had turned it down. The song reached No1 on the Billboard chart in September of 1975 and also topped the Country chart the same week, becoming the first single to achieve the ultimate crossover since 1961, when Jimmy Dean did the double with “Big Bad John”. The album went to the top of the Country chart too, another first for Campbell.

“Rhinestone Cowboy” opens, as the first unwritten law of song sequencing demands, with its second best track. Written especially to reflect Campbell’s parlous state of mind, by Dennis Lambert and Brian Potter, “Country Boy (You Got Your Feet in LA)” may be an over-familiar tale of a farm boy seduced by the big city, but Campbell infuses it with a real sense of self and his ‘on the money’ vocal confirms an unshakeable faith in the songs deeply personal lyric. “Comeback”, another tailor-made ballad by Lambert and Potter allows Campbell to be more philosophical as he stands at the crossroads of life, “I wrote the book on self- preservation / I’m a firm believer in my peace of mind” he sings with a newfound determination to conquer his demons and resurrect his career.

“Count On Me” finds Lambert and Potter and, by extension, Campbell himself in a forgiving frame of mind, as he pledges undying love to the girl who’s broken his heart. Encouraged by Sid Sharp’s gentle strings, and a catchy, full-throated chorus, Campbell somehow summons up an air of genuine nobility in defeat.

Lambert and Potter’s fourth and final contribution, “I Miss You Tonight” is a rather solemn ballad that doesn’t quite get off the runway. The nostalgia feels a little forced here, and even Campbell’s steadfast delivery can’t dispel the air of sluggish melancholia that pervades the song.

Nevertheless, if the album had continued in this soul-searching vein Campbell might have delivered one of pop’s great concept albums, a countrified Astral Weeks, or a star-spangled Blood on The Tracks. The reflective mood, however, is undermined fatally by the inclusion of Smokey Robinson and Ronald White’s soul-standard, ‘My Girl’. Campbell, as one would expect, handles the number in an entirely professional way, but after hearing the irrepressible Otis Redding knock this song clean out of the ballpark I wouldn’t have volunteered to be next up to bat! Despite the accomplished vocal, the end result is no more than a pale imitation of Redding’s classic version. It sounds like someone put a little too much water in the whiskey!

Suit courtesy of Manuel Cuevas AKA the Rhinestone Rembrandt

“Rhinestone Cowboy” is, without doubt, the emotional lodestone of the album. Whilst it might fall short of the unimpeachable ‘Wichita Lineman’, there’s no denying that, under the right circumstances, it can bring a self-pitying tear to the eye and a lump to the throat as you sing along with Campbell on that super-sized chorus –

“Like a rhinestone cowboy / riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo / like a rhinestone cowboy/getting cards and letters from people I don’t even know"..

On paper “Rhinestone Cowboy” seems a hackneyed tale - the travails of a country boy drawn to the bright lights and the big city - however, Campbell has plenty to work within the shape of an insightful, evocative lyric –

“I’ve been walking these streets so long / Singing the same old song / I know every crack in these dirty sidewalks of Broadway / Where hustles the name of the game / And nice guys get washed away like the snow and the rain”.

Campbell plays it dead straight and he delivers the ‘western’ lyric with all the poise and purpose of a Shakespearean actor.

Time can be unkind to a certain kind of song, just this kind of song, as a matter of fact. The kind of song sung by a man sporting an ultra-white rhinestone suit, the kind of suit that not even Jay Gatsby in his Cotton Club pomp would ever have dreamed of wearing. “Rhinestone Cowboy”, though, transcends time and place, transcends our sickly obsession with image, transcends its source material, transcends even the supposed wisdom of F. Scott Fitzgerald. It’s a starry-eyed song and my guess is that it will continue to orbit rock ‘n’ roll heaven forever.

No sooner have we reached the album’s highpoint than we’re brought back down to earth with a bump, courtesy of a pair of mundane ballads. “I’d Build a Bridge” is a clichéd love song that left me more than a little queasy before its sorry end, while “Pencils For Sale” is laboured from the word go and not even an outbreak of whistling at the songs close (usually a sign of desperation) can salvage this schmaltzy, underwhelming ballad.

Thankfully, Randy Newman rides like the cavalry to Glen’s rescue. Campbell’s interpretation of “Marie” not only reminds us of what a truly wonderful composer Newman is, but it also serves to remind us just how good a singer Campbell could be when he put his heart and soul into it. Recalling the making of the album for the Guardian in 2013, Dennis Lambert summed it up this way “If we could bring something special to the table, he had the artistry and a name to make it really great”. “Marie” is a testament to that, as is the album’s closer, a cover of Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil’s “We’re Over” a scathingly realistic break–up song. Tom Sellers’ arrangement is just the right side of grand and this allows Campbell to give a measured, understated interpretation of a very fine lyric.

As this is the 40th Anniversary Edition, the folks at Capitol have thrown in five bonus tracks for good measure. These include remixes of “Country Boy” and “Rhinestone Cowboy” and more interestingly the quirky “Record Collectors Dream” and, best of all, “Coming Home” a rather likable track that I hadn’t come across before. Released as a single in Japan back in 1975, it has a naively infectious, “Shiny Happy People” feel to it that Campbell wrings every last drop out of –

“Coming home to meet my brother / we’re coming home to one another / we gotta get to know each other now”.

Forty years on, it’s difficult not to see “Rhinestone Cowboy” as something of a missed opportunity. The album’s producers, Lambert and Potter, had a keen sense of the aesthetic environment that would inspire Campbell, that would strike a chord with him and force him to buckle down. However, their quartet of custom-built songs served only to set a standard that the rest of the album failed to live up to. Although the record finishes strongly, with a pair of perfectly realised covers, it’s in the middle section, despite the gigantic presence of “Rhinestone Cowboy” itself, that the album loses its way. With a Mickey Newbury cover here or there, say the heart-rending “ San Francisco Mabel Joy“ or the wistful “Frisco Depot”, “Rhinestone Cowboy” could have been an imaginatively thought through Urban Cowboy concept album (and there aren’t too many of those in anyone’s record collection!) Ultimately, though, Lambert and Potter didn’t quite have the courage of their convictions.