#junkie scholar | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

minkieater · 3 months ago

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three fates ⟶ khj ⋆ ★

p. kim hongjoong x f!reader w. lots of drug use, and i mean a lot, so please if u don't like drugs don't read this !! 18+ there's smut too, minors dni PLS addiction, consumption, sex while intoxicated, age gap (18 and 22/21 and 24) lemme know if i missed anything!! wc. 13.6k <3

she's finally here <3 my baby!! i am in love with this, this is my favorite thing i've written, city boy joongie is my heart and soul. takes place in the same world as luck & carousel, but none of the characters we've met so far are here !!

♫ — one of these nights, the eagles “i’ve been searching for the daughter of the devil himself i’ve been looking for an angel in white i’ve been waiting for a woman who’s a little of both i can feel her but she's nowhere in sight”

hongjoong is an artist, a creator. everything he’s ever seen, touched, smelled or heard, every little thing he’s ever come in contact with could and has been used in his art in one way or another. he couldn’t help himself, he saw the beauty in everything, from the gloaming atop the horizon of the hudson river on the third day of his bender to the massive rats playing tag in the subway station in downtown brooklyn.

his clothes, his jewelry, his music, his apartment, his friends… everything and everyone is gorgeous, it has to be that way. the well of his creativity never runs dry, not living in this city, not with the life he’s created for himself.

coming from a small brownstone in brooklyn, he lived with his parents and younger sister, a quiet girl that was nothing like him. he was always the rambunctious older brother, could never keep his grades up, couldn’t go a week in school without getting in trouble. she, the scholar, was his parents’ shining star, as well as his own. he hoped she wouldn’t be anything like him, anything like their father.

he’d never compared himself to her, he knew he was just wired differently, a chemical concoction in his head that made him who he was and he loved it. he couldn’t picture his life, himself, any differently. he could never stay focused on one thing, always moving to the next project, always bouncing from opportunity to opportunity.

when he got into high school reality set in of where he lived, who he surrounded himself with, what exactly was accessible to him at all times. from alcohol to drugs to shows to backstages to underground raves, hongjoong learned very quickly the different paths he could take, the routes his life could go in.

he was a junkie, a junkie for adrenaline, for excitement, for anything this godforsaken city had to offer him. so he experimented.

his friends were just like him — loud, outspoken, covered in piercings and tattoos, much too young to have gotten them done professionally. they looked for nothing but a good time, they didn’t care about school, didn’t care about their futures, they cared about a sick guitar riff and how much their dealers were charging for an ounce of weed.

like his father, they introduced hongjoong to good music. growing up he listened to all his father’s favorite bands, from alice in chains to black sabbath to pearl jam, it set a tone for his future, laid the grounds for what the following decade of his life would look like. he spent weeknights, weekends, every night he wasn’t watching his younger sister he’d be at a different show in the city. no name bands, ones that were trying to get a foot in the door to the music industry to DJ sets at underground raves, blinding shows with flashing lights and a thumping bass he’d end up rolling at every damn time.

hongjoong’s friends introduced him to many, many things, but his favorite would have to be cocaine. feeling on top of the world, like he can accomplish anything and everything, hongjoong adored the white powder he often sniffed with a crisp dollar bill. his personality alone was akin to it, he bounced off the walls all by himself, but during a night of drinking the main thing that kept him going, pushing through until sunrise was the bag full of blow in his back pocket.

it got him through high school, it made him pay attention, it made him ask too many questions in class. it gave him confidence, he felt like the most attractive person in the world, like he was at the top of the food chain. it made him optimistic toward his future, he knew he’d become successful no matter what he did whenever he was at the peak of his high.

what he despised about blow was the come down. from feeling untouchable to drained of everything he was worth in about all of forty five minutes, that he couldn’t stand. the one solution, the only solution that every single one of his friends had given him: “joong, you just need to do another line.”

so he did, he always did more, but one thing about cocaine is that you never feel as good as that first line, the one that makes you untouchable, unstoppable, unkillable. he never thought he’d feel that again, that beautiful, unique euphoria, until he was a freshman in college, at a grimey city nightclub’s show of your band’s debut.

he watched you in awe, blown pupils taking in every last detail of you strumming your guitar. how your fingers moved from string to string, black painted fingertips going white from the pressure. how your hair flowed in the air as your head banged to the drums, how your red lips stained the microphone when you sang into it. he grew up listening to music, he spent years listening to great bands and really terrible ones, by now he knew the difference.

he knew then and there what field his career would lay in. dirt caked the floor he stood on, posters and receipts and papers of the sort covered the walls, the disgusting nightclub he now owed everything to offered him two things, you and the chance to make something of himself.

he knew your band was special, knew you had the raw talent to make it big. he wanted to see it, he could picture it now, your faces stretched across a billboard in times square. it was exciting, this feeling that flushed through him, knowing he was watching celebrities perform before they had their break, their break that would come soon if they just had someone to sign them.

he did everything in his power to wait diligently for your set to be over, already knowing that he and his friends would make it backstage, a routine for them every time they came to these shows. his head nodded along to the music, a can of beer in his hand, his hair tickling the back of his neck every time the main singer hit a note he himself couldn’t.

when your band finally made their last bow, thanking the crowd for their attendance and cheers, hongjoong felt the adrenaline in his fingertips. he was so, so close to meeting you, telling your band what he thought, buying you a drink. so close to taking you back to his dorm, untying your skimpy black bikini top, learning your tattoos to memory.

he usually went for the drummer — that he knew by now. after a few lines and a six pack he would ache to be bent over, or be the one bending someone over, that didn’t matter to him. what did matter was that he wanted a good fuck, he planned on it, he craved it, from trial and error his eyes always landed back on the drummer. it hasn’t failed him yet.

he wasn’t sure what made you different, why you caught his eye on the small stage, what stopped him from eyeing up the green haired drummer he couldn’t place. you were magnetic, with your bulky boots, revealing clothes, intriguing tattoos and piercings all up your ears. he wanted to smear the lipstick you wore down your chin, wanted to see it all over himself, prints of crimson running down his torso. he shivered, desire crawling up his spine when he pictured it, it was too easy, your stage presence was like no other.

when he got backstage and first saw you sitting on the torn up couch, handheld mirror in your grasp with three perfectly parallel lines laid across the glass, the confirmation was instant. you had a debit card on your lap, a rolled up dollar bill, sunglasses and that very lipstick he was fantasizing about laid across your thigh. a smile broke out across his face, one wicked and knowing, one that told everyone in the room hongjoong had found his game for the night.

you looked up to him from the amber colored couch, patches of questionable browns and grays mimicking a pattern across the rough material. your pupils were blown, huge and empty, matching the ones that stared back into them. the room backstage was small, a space he deemed claustrophobic, much too boxy for the amount of people occupying it. a mirror, a clothing rack and a couch, not much for a band to prepare for a show. he was impressed to say the least that a band of your aptitude had put on such a good performance in these conditions.

his friends went around the room in commendation, giving each member their own praise, complimenting the band as a whole. hongjoong was excited to do the same when he was in the crowd, but being back here with the adrenaline from the show being thick in the room, a voice told him to stay quiet, something that was close to impossible for him.

“you,” you began, and hongjoong’s neck snapped to you, greeted with a finger pointed directly at himself, “where did you get your jeans?”

“diesel,” he looked down to the ripped denim hugging his skinny legs, “vintage, i thrifted them from the shop on sackett.”

he watched as the eyes he couldn’t see the color of glanced up and down his figure, taking in every detail of his outfit, his body. you glanced back down to the mirror in your palm then back up to him, “you want a line?”

hongjoong’s feet were moving before he nodded yes. he sat down next to you on the decrepit couch, seated on the cushion in the middle. your hand moved under his chin and he could see his reflection in the glass below the lines, rich chocolate blending in with pupils, too wide to be able to tell where they started or ended.

he took the dollar from your raw, discolored fingers and sniffed, taking the line closest to you on the end. he was wide awake then, energy flooding his veins like he’d just slept for fourteen hours and drank three cups of coffee. his smile returned as he glanced at you, watched you do the same, took in every detail.

your hair, tucked behind your ears, laid in front of your shoulders far past the string of your bikini top. your lips were in a tight line, a streak of blood red below your nose, which had the rolled up bill just beneath the surface of your right nostril. he watched you sniff once, twice, both lines disappearing from the glass in your palm, your head tilting back with an additional sniff and a knuckle to your cupid's bow.

he watched in awe, a sparkle in his empty pupils, a flare in the sea of vast darkness. his dick twitched in his pants as he lost himself in the moment, his fogged up yet crystal clear head morphed you into some kind of seductress, a succubus, he had no chance of getting out of whatever spell you put him under, not that he needed one. all he could do, all he wanted to do is succumb.

succumb he did when you pressed him against the front door of your apartment, grabbed him by the throat and took him for everything he was worth. you were nonstop from that moment on the couch all the way to your apartment in queens, hands exploring and lips touching, tasting, giving, taking, there was no moment of question. no time to waste, not a fact to be shared, just a carnal desire that poured out of himself and into you, into your veins, into the blood that shared a color with your lipstick smeared onto hongjoong’s jaw.

he smirked knowing he got what he wanted, knowing he always gets what he wants, he was just that kind of person. shrouded in luck, like he had a guardian angel who refused to leave his side. from where he’s been to what he’s done, there was no way he should be alive, the chances of survival for a guy like him are slim to none.

the first time was in the bathroom of that club, where he pushed you into a stall and bent you over the toilet, your hands gripping onto a wall that you were sure had never been cleaned. markings of sharpie covered every inch, lewd and crude sayings, initials in hearts, phone numbers of random people who wronged the person that wrote it. you took every inch of him proudly, lifted your leg onto the toilet seat, ushering him to hit deeper, to empty himself inside you.

you left that bathroom in heavy breaths and lust darkened eyes, only for the two of you to last one more drink and another key bump before you were below the ground, on the subway to your apartment.

you didn’t get any farther than the entryway where you grabbed him by the throat, ushering for him to give into you, a power he didn’t just give away to anyone. he chuckled darkly and switched your bodies quickly, pressing your face against the art covered wall instead of the front door, smacking your ass with a force that made you cry out. he knew what you were, he could see it when you were onstage, nothing but a pain slut that let him fuck you in one of the dirtiest bathrooms he’s ever seen.

a low laugh left his lungs when he felt your core, fingers slipping through your release and his own cum that you’d been saving for later. he was immediately on his knees, eating it out of you, tasting the two of you mixed into one. the second time was in that very entryway, where he took you against the wall once more, this time with a low dim light peeking through the windows and a clear scent of fresh laundry and vanilla floating through the space. much cleaner, much sweeter, the opposite of what the two of you had endured just an hour earlier.

he ended the night in your bed, where he took you for a third, fourth and fifth, neither of you sleeping a wink. with the sunrise coming in through your half open window, sounds of sirens and cars passed by, drifting through the translucent rose colored curtains making them ruffle and bend to the noise. you had a cigarette between your lips, a tray with four more parallel lines sitting at the foot of the bed. you were naked, your tattoos your only blanket, hongjoong the same beside you.

“can’t believe you’re a fucking freshman in college,” you laughed through the smoke leaving your lips, a saccharine sound mixed with the smell of tobacco and menthol, “please tell me you’ve at least turned nineteen.”

hongjoong nodded, letting his fingers continue to trail your thigh, tracing the outline of the dragon that was soaring through the skin of your hip, “i’ll be twenty in november.”

a lie, one he knew would be believed, one that allowed you to sigh out in relief. he’d slept with much older, your measly twenty two was nothing to him, just another thursday night after a show, another experience to add to his arsenal.

“you said you go to NYU right? what’s an NYU student doing in brooklyn?” hongjoong smiled at that, he loved when people knew absolutely nothing about it him, made assumptions based on one thing they’d heard. he could make up anything he wanted, he could be whoever he wanted to be, not that you’d ever find out the truth. you’d never hear from him again after he stepped foot onto the sidewalk outside, back to his dorm, back to his roommate who would be waiting to ask him a million questions about his excursion.

tonight he was hongjoong, the nineteen year old that’d fucked you five different times in nine different ways, snorted countless lines of blow and hungout with a band he knew would make it. he wasn’t eighteen year old student hongjoong who was going to NYU because his parents were pushing him into accomplishing something, anything, trying relentlessly to get him out of the city’s gutter.

“to be fair, we’re in queens,” he cracked a smile, the corner of his lips lifting, “i grew up in bushwick, i come whenever i can. got lots of friends that still live around here.”

he didn’t know why he was being honest, this was his favorite part. maybe a small part of him was tired of lying, even if he’d done it already, he was ready for truth, ready for it to be laid bare for him, ready for it to point him in yet another direction. he didn’t care which direction it would send him in from your dingy apartment in queens, he just hoped it was upward, to something better than what he came from.

“why aren’t you guys signed yet?” there it was, the question that’s been clawing at him all night, sat fresh on his mind even when he was buried inside of you. the one truth he wanted to know, not your name that he already couldn’t remember, your age that’d already become irrelevant, or your address that he’d never even learned.

you sighed again, running a hand through your hair, collapsing into the plush pillows beneath you, “a few agencies have tried, none have been worth it. contracts are too strict, we won’t get paid enough, the companies aren’t popular enough. yasu handles all of that, i’m just told what we do or what we don’t do.”

“so if the right label approached you, one with money and connections and a contract that was perfect, you’d sign with them?” hongjoong asked, letting his eyes flutter shut, not that he felt tired. he’d need at least twenty milligrams of valium for that and even then it probably wouldn’t lure him to sleep, just enough to take the edge off, to let his head lie still.

you laughed, a bitter chuckle, “like who? republic fucking records? we’re performing in run down clubs across the city, we have miles to go before an agency worth anything takes an interest in us.”

hongjoong smiled through his eyes that stayed closed, that same smile he wore last night, the one that was both wicked and knowing. he could see it in front of him, an idea, a dream, a career. if he didn’t feel like shit he’d call up his parents and thank them for sending him to NYU, thank them for the opportunity to do something right with his life. his roommate would get a kick out of this.

he sat up on the bed and leaned forward, pulling the silver platter on his lap. he picked up the dollar bill that was slowly losing its shape with every sniff and lifted it to his nose, railing two lines from the tray. he tilted his head back and shook it, giving one last sniff before he was off.

“i have class,” he said as he searched for his pants around your cluttered bedroom before remembering he’d undressed in the entryway. you sat up with wide eyes, blinking at his sudden departure after a night of wild sex and snorting all of your coke.

“wait,” you called after him as he nearly ran through the bedroom door, “i want to give you my number, call me if you ever want to come see our show again, or if you want to do this again.”

he smiled from the open door in which the frame towered over him, shooting you a finger that said wait before he went in search of his clothes, phone, and wallet. he returned and saved your number in his phone, leaving the contact name as tattoo girl. in the moment it’d seemed easiest to remember you by.

he never ended up calling you, never ended up seeing another show that you mentioned. he went back to his dorm, to his life, and changed his major with a speed he hadn’t experienced before, despite his whole life being quick. he ate quick, he thought quick, he grew up quick, he learned quick, he did everything at such a rate he’d never experienced whiplash. this was normal.

music technology classes were not easy, but he thought himself lucky for the brain he was born with, his ability to adapt. for once in his life hongjoong wasn’t just good at school, he was excelling.

the connections he formed, his ever growing ability to network himself, show off his extensive knowledge of music itself, its history, the music scene in the city. never in his life had he thought he was born for something, never thought he had a purpose, just thought of himself as an open minded creative person who loved a good time. as he got deeper into his major which he thankfully didn’t change again, he realized there was one thing that remained constant all throughout his life, one thing that stayed with him through every phase, got him through every hump in the road.

when he came home that morning with pupils swallowing his eye color whole and lungs that had no breath left in them, he told his roommate he was changing his major and mingi was relieved. he was relieved and grateful, smiling because the first friend he made at NYU was going to be beside him for more than just sleepless nights across the dorm, letting out a sigh he kept trapped in his lungs because now could keep a better eye on hongjoong. the night before he was worried out of his mind, even if he knew hongjoong was born and raised in the city, mingi was raised in south korea.

mingi was told since he first started mentioning new york city to his friends and family to be careful, he had all of the horror stories told to him in depth, used as a weapon to scare him out of coming to the states. he never thought twice about it until he got here, stood face to face with hongjoong, and learned every dirty secret he had to offer. then he believed the horror stories, he believed that the city’s wretched dark side could really kill someone dead, even hongjoong who had become a good friend to him.

that fear was short lived, it was cut short the moment hongjoong took him to his first show in brooklyn. hongjoong could see the excitement in his eyes, that same adrenaline rush hongjoong considered himself addicted to as he watched mingi snort his first line of blow. he felt prideful, like he’d taken mingi under his wing and rebirthed him into a weapon the city couldn’t touch, couldn’t harm. he offered mingi the city’s beauty, the bright lights of the buildings at night, the pleasure of a woman he’d just met mere minutes ago.

the two of them became a pair, and hongjoong had grown to love the friendship, love the closeness that came with it. he wasn’t used to sharing so much time with one other person, he kept to himself if he wasn’t with his group of friends, even when he still lived at home he didn’t see the need for having one person to put all of his trust into.

mingi taught him a lot of things, the first being how to keep his head on straight and screw it tight. he kept hongjoong grounded, kept him centered around his music, kept him looking forward and never backward. he kept hongjoong flowing, retelling stories of nights they’d gone out together when hongjoong was feeling himself hit a creative block. mingi pulled hongjoong out of his hole when he’d snorted one too many lines, he’d put him in the shower, force feed him valium like it was candy.

it wasn’t until hongjoong was sat on a wooden stool in the soundproof booth of his school’s recording studio two years later that he’d be reminded of you again. strumming along to into the void by black sabbath, a song he loved since he was young, getting frustrated when his fingers slipped up around the bridge, they always slipped up at the bridge — the chords were so close together, it was ironic that something which took speed would trip him up.

“joong!” mingi called from outside of the booth, turning the microphone on, ripping hongjoong from his frustrations. “i got accepted! you need to check your email now.”

hongjoong left the booth in a rush, swinging his guitar back into its stand haphazardly, pushing the microphone he was keeping close to his lap back into the open space of the recording booth. he grabbed his phone and opened the email, relief washing over him like the stream from his apartment’s moldy shower head when he read we have selected you to join republic records as a production intern for the spring term.

hongjoong looked to mingi with wide, disbelieving eyes, unable to form a single reason why one of the biggest record labels in the city would accept him, choose him. hongjoong had been more than proficient in his work, with his grades, with forming relationships with big names in the industry — but at the end of the day, when he looked at himself in the mirror, all he saw was the same sixteen year old boy from brooklyn who’s only future was spent on the sidewalks of manhattan, maybe a shelter if he was fortunate enough. not a cent to his name, barely any clothes on his back, spending his adult years asking faceless people for a couple dollars just to buy himself a burger.

it was his parents’ biggest fear, it kept his mother up all night in her queen sized bed, his father no doubt already passed out drunk beside her. she laid there with wide eyes listening to his snores, staring at her cracked ceiling praying for the day she gets to watch her son walk across that big stage, graduation cap flattening his shaggy haircut. she smiled at the thought, but the severity of the situation hit her much deeper, it wiped the smile right off her face. hongjoong was a wild card, she never knew what to do with him, how to keep him walking in a straight line, her last attempt was sending him to such a prestigious college. she begged him to see the value, see what she was sacrificing to send him there, see the desperation she slipped over her head like a uniform when hongjoong was at the ripe age of twelve.

“you’re in production?” mingi twisted his neck to look over hongjoong’s shoulder, the height difference making it easy for him, “i’m in artist relations.”

“what’s artist relations?” hongjoong asked while lifting a brow, looking up to the phone his lanky best friend held tight in his hand.

mingi moved the phone lower, closer to him, sharing the screen to read the email word for word, “interns work closely with signed artists to assist in their day-to-day needs, organizing promotional activities, tours, and managing communications between the artist and the label.”

hongjoong laughed at that, his head tipping back, his eyes fluttering shut in hysterics. mingi’s cheeks flushed, his mouth shut tight and lips lifting at the edges ever so slightly, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. it took hongjoong a moment to get it together before he said, “so you’re someone’s personal assistant?”

“no!” mingi’s voice was raised, he took a breath, “yes, maybe, i guess so, whatever! i’m still interning at republic and a hierarchy is something to climb no matter where you start.”

hongjoong laughed again, clutching his stomach that had a slight ache in the pit then looked down to his lit up screen, “i’m assisting with music recording, mixing, and mastering. may help in studios, learning about the technical side of producing records, blah blah blah. i got the good one.”

“shut up,” mingi grumbled, locking his phone and shoving it in his pocket, “asshole, they're both good, i was excited. don’t ruin it.”

“i’m just fucking with you, ming, you should be excited. being a personal assistant means you get the inside scoop,” hongjoong smirks, “plus we can tell each other about our jobs.” he lifts his index finger, already thinking of what comes next, “we’re gonna learn every inch of that place and every job before we even get hired, we’ll be behind the big desk in no time.”

mingi nods as if hongjoong’s strategy had planted itself directly into his head through shared brain waves, “you’re right, you’re so right, holy shit you’re so right.”

hongjoong’s eyes go wide again, the realization settling in, “we’re interns at republic records.”

it brought him back to that night, you with your husky voice and tattooed legs and piercings that shone in the path of moonlight through your bedroom window, the cigarette you held between two dainty fingers … you that brought him here, you that handed him this idea along with four white lines on a silver platter.

pieces started falling into place, everything started to click, he remembered just a month ago he saw an advertisement for your band, a black piece of paper stuck to a light pole, performing at the red lion in greenwich village. he didn’t spare it a second thought, didn’t even process that he knew you when he saw it, too engrossed in how he was rushing to a class he was late for and the music in his headphones and the redbull he was juggling between his phone and laptop and keys.

he didn’t think much of it again until he was two months deep in his internship, walking through the dim hallways of republic records with two cups of coffee in his hands, one for himself and one for the producer he was working next to that day. he walked by one of the practice rooms, door shut with a square window in the center, he caught nothing but a glimpse of your hair but it was enough to make him stop in his tracks, to feel the coffee in the confines of their cups threaten to overflow their lids.

he stopped there for a moment, peered through the glass box, let his brain backtrack to that fall of two years ago. god, what the hell was your name again?

he couldn’t hear a note yet he longed for the main singer’s mellifluous voice to kiss his pierced ears, he could see you working the crowd in his memories when you were performing for nothing but a blank brown wall, he let his eyes drift to the green haired drummer. what could have been.

he pulled himself from the trance you had pulled him under again, much similar to when he first met you. hair cut shorter, edgier, more ink filling spaces in your soft skin that were empty the last time he saw you, much more clothing on your body this time around. at this point you must be twenty four, hongjoong himself just twenty one, just legal to drink in public, not that his age had ever stopped him before. it didn’t stop him from doing anything he wanted.

he kept walking, beckoning his legs to push one foot in front of the other before he arrived back at the studio he was in for the day. he felt cloudy, like he needed a line, something to pull him out of his head, but he needed to reminisce. he remembered your conversation even in his coked out state, the way you laughed at him for suggesting such a perfect label to exist, the way republic records slipped off your tongue like it was nothing but a pipe dream you stored in the darkest corners of your head.

hongjoong believed in fate, he always told himself there was no other reason for his life to be the way it is. hongjoong had experienced plenty, he’d woken up on too many stoops in neighborhoods he started the night across from, had one too many syringes full of narcan shot in his arm when his cocaine was cut with fentanyl. he’d survived to tell the tale, not just survived but he kept living, what else did he have to thank?

sheer luck, a guardian angel, fate, whatever it was he was thankful it stayed with him for so long, perched on his shoulder when he’d do the same things that made the front page of the new york times. there were too many lines in his life that crossed, too many threads that webbed for there not to be some external force, something he didn’t have a hand in. when yours and his threads crossed, got tangled that one night in the pits of brooklyn, he couldn’t help but think that the two years he’d spent his life up to this moment was the untangling.

as mingi stood in their shared apartment later that night, telling him about his day, talking about the band he was assigned to, hongjoong couldn’t believe his ears when the word clotho left mingi’s lips. out of all the interns, all the employees in that massive building, all of the record labels in the city, you signed to the agency he worked for and mingi was assigned to assist you.

he let him speak, let him complain about listening to your harsh demands, your continual need to practice the same song until they got it right, the way you flirted with mingi and how mingi ate it up. he let mingi speak with open ears, normal sized pupils and a nasty drip sliding down the back of his throat before he had enough. pulling the bag of his coke from his pocket he grabbed his favorite tray he kept right on the coffee table, spread the snow and cut it with a card from his wallet and sniffed. no dollar bill, no straw he sliced in half, just a finger pressed to his pierced nostril leaving the other one raw and full of blow.

“christ, joong, it’s eight at night on a monday,” mingi shook his head at his friend, “do you really need to be railing lines right now?”

“i fucked her,” hongjoong admitted plainly, crossing his right leg back over his left knee.

“what? who?” mingi asked, his eyebrows reaching his hairline, leaning over in the recliner in their shared living room.

“the guitarist from clotho, the one who’s name apparently neither of us know,” hongjoong chuckled before shaking out his arms, shaking off the discomfort of a possession he had no right feeling, “i fucked her.”

mingi sat there, blinking, not a word leaving his lips for moments before his brain turned back on, “i won’t- i didn’t know- when did you even?”

hongjoong waved him off with ring clad fingers before standing, walking towards his bedroom, “do what you want with her, just figured i’d let you know.”

hongjoong never had a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a relationship that lasted longer than one drunken night. even when he was younger he’d never experienced the puppy love all of his peers got themselves into, the only desire he felt was the rush of getting away with something, he’s craved that since before he can remember. possession wasn’t an emotion he was used to, one he rarely experienced at all, he couldn’t pinpoint why that spark of control showed itself when talking to mingi of all people.

he left your apartment in a race that night, he couldn’t of cared less about you in the moment, he never thought about you again until two months ago, over two years after he slept with you in the first place. he thought you special maybe, a fucked up train of thought when he couldn’t even remember your name, special despite how utterly ordinary that night was. special because he had you to thank for the path he was on now, what he's accomplished since that night with you. maybe it was gratitude, adoration, maybe just someone to look up to if he considered your success comparable to his own, he didn’t know and it was driving him insane.

his night with you was nothing out of the ordinary, he did nothing with you that he hadn’t done with tens of other people, yet the pedestal still remains tall. he tried to think about it in his sleepless night yet he got absolutely nowhere, no resolution, no explanation for the whirlwind he’d put himself through over hours. he sat up in his bed and sighed, a cold sweat lingering on his tanned skin, then he grabbed the guitar from beside his bed.

he let the feeling consume him that night, let it pour out into every note his painted fingers strummed along the guitar. as the sun peeked through his bedroom window the next morning he decided that one night of thinking was all he could handle, he chose to let the feelings be what they are and put them on the old metal rack along with his guitar.

he didn’t see you through that window to the practice room again, and he’d purposely walked by plenty of times in the weeks to follow. coming into mid march, for some reason the company was busy. hongjoong was keeping up, of course he was, juggling the workload from the producer he worked with and then everything else that was added to his plate by numerous other producers of the company. hongjoong was famous in that building, he was a dream intern, every person of a higher rank in that building wanted him for something.

hongjoong loved it, he loved the attention, he loved being depended on, he loved being busy most of all. reaching deadlines, bouncing back and forth between different artists and their own genre of music, hongjoong was nothing but a sponge in the ocean that was republic records. he soaked everything in, he learned everything, he remembered everything, he loved that his extensive knowledge was only ranging farther.

when he woke up that morning to the sunrise and a clear head after playing acoustic versions of rock songs all fucking night, he did exactly what he told himself he was going to. even if he wanted to think about you again he didn’t have a moment to himself to be able to, his internship was taking up so much of his personal time most days his homework wasn’t even a priority. the internship told him when he started to let them know if the workload was too much, if it was affecting his studies, but in what world would he do that? after leaving his bubble of adolescence of being a regular college student and entering the adult world, his career, why would school come first? he was already doing it, already loved by so many people, it was only right that hongjoong would fixate on what was working.

“we’re recording today,” jag, the producer he worked with, didn’t even have the decency to greet hongjoong with a hello. so backed up, so overworked, jag looked like he hadn’t slept in three days.

“with who?” hongjoong paid no mind to his unpleasant greeting, setting a coffee down right in front of him. jag’s eyes widened, a sparkle shining through the deepest of browns, he immediately brought the cup up to his chapped lips. jag’s favorite, this hongjoong knew by now, he also knew how jag worked, how to put him in a better mood even on his worst days.

“clotho,” jag said after a refreshing sigh, pleased with the hot drink he was gifted, “they’re finishing up their album, they’ve been working with max for majority of the recording. max called out sick, so they’re with us.”

hongjoong’s eyebrows raised, his mouth opening ever so slightly. jag caught on to the surprise, much like how observant hongjoong was, jag also paid a lot of attention to the boy with the sand colored mullet. jag snickered, “you have the same look on your face as when you slept with anitta and we had her in the booth the next day.”

“you know me too well,” hongjoong sat down in the chair beside him and let out a noise of relief as he got comfortable, cracking his knuckles as he spoke, “i fucked the guitarist.”

jag laughed, a belly laugh from the pit of his stomach, “which one?”

“the lead guitarist, the one covered neck to toe in tattoos,” hongjoong brings his attention to the monitor, an entirely different project jag was working on spread across the screen.

jag rubbed his face with his hands, “do we need to get every artist an STD test? i’m starting to get scared you’ll cause an outbreak.”

hongjoong rolled his eyes before responding with a playful smile, “you know i’m clean.”

their small talk didn’t get much further before your band was barreling through the studio, yawns and huffs of air being thrown about the space. hongjoong kept it professional, he kept his focus on the mixing board, the monitor, pulling up the file to the tracks that they were working on that day.

you looked… tired. no makeup, guitar case strapped to your back, tattoos hiding under the cotton of your sweats. it was early, the company had them working not just at dawn but also on the weekend, two things that weren’t normal for scheduling or recording. you didn’t notice him yet, or you were ignoring him, hongjoong wasn’t sure but he also didn’t care. he needed to get you in that booth, get the recording done as fast as possible so he could meet his friends at baby’s all right later.

at the start of the first track on the album they’d record that day, hongjoong knew the moment you saw him, the second you recognized his pierced nose and shaggy hair that was much longer now than the last time you’d seen him. he could see it in the way your eyes widened and the pause you took before you took your pick from your lips, he watched the gears turn in your head, he watched every memory play out in your eyes from that night two years ago. jag seemed to notice too by the way his palm slapped hongjoong’s knee under the desk, a breath of amusement leaving his lips.

your movements were slowed, it took you entirely too long to shift the microphone so it stood correctly in front of you, but you shook yourself out of your thoughts as the rhythm guitarist played the first few clean, arpeggiated chords. this song… hongjoong recognized it immediately, the memories once again flooding back to him.

once you got through the haunting intro, through the slow burn build into heavier, distorted riffs, hongjoong thought that you might be a siren, too. instead of a melodic voice, it was the resonance you played through the strings under your calloused fingertips hooking him, once again pulling him into a trance, a spell you weren’t even conscious of casting. when it got to your solo in the middle of the song, backed up with an underlying chord progression from the rhythm guitarist and a deep bass line, he could feel it from head to toe. the entrapment, the sight in front of him that he couldn’t bear to look away from. the back up instruments set a platform, a center for you to take the stage in the small recording booth, for the focus of the listener to hear you, focus on you.

he had a job. he had buttons to press, things to adjust, he had to listen with an assessing ear, he had to snap out of it. he watched as your chipped nail polish slipped from string to string, the other hand clenched tightly around your guitar pick. he watched as you nodded along to the drums, eyebrows furrowed in focus of following the mid tempo groove, listening to the song as much as you were playing it. he knew that feeling, that multitasking, listening and doing and following and evaluating all at once.

he blinked a few times before directing his focus to the monitor instead of watching you shred in the booth, he fell in and out of focus for the entire session between his eyes being locked on you and making sure your song was being recorded properly. he thought he’d let go of what he felt, laid his feelings to rest in his favorite instrument beside his bed, but as he watched you strum along to the fourth track they’d record that day he decided maybe there was a reason your paths crossed once again.

just like that one night spent with him and his music, the feelings he didn’t want to address, he spiraled into yet another torment of not being able to process anything. all he had was this unidentifiable emotion, a pang in his chest, he didn’t know what to do with it or how to address it properly. he looked at from all sides, contradicted himself, tried to unpack it for exactly what it was, but he still felt himself unable to move from square one.

by the end of the session hongjoong’s brain was on backwards, he was barely of help to jag the entire time you were in the booth. jag gave him a pass even if he was entirely confused as to why hongjoong was acting so fucking weird, he’d never acted so out of it, even during the session with anitta. jag chopped it up to the fact that hongjoong was probably overworked much like himself, even if something tugged at him, telling him there was more going on in hongjoong’s head than just exhaustion.

the rest of the session went a lot easier than hongjoong thought it would based off of the insight he’d gotten from mingi, but he guessed he shouldn’t have assumed how you’d act from just one conversation that was ages ago. mingi hadn’t mentioned you or the band again since that night, deeming it a sensitive topic, one he’d like to avoid since him and hongjoong kept the people they fucked very separate, except for those they shared. you were rather quiet towards hongjoong, only what was necessary for getting the recording done, he couldn’t pull anything from you except for eyes boring into the back of his head from across the room and a short snap of a complaint when he noticed a bleed from the microphone.

hongjoong was exhausted beyond belief by eight o’clock yet he still had an entire night ahead of him. he packed up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, relieved he was about to go drink away the new emotions he’d encountered.

“you alright?” jag asked, a weird question coming from jag who usually kept their conversations light hearted, he rarely picked hongjoong apart.

“‘m fine, just tired,” hongjoong waved him off with a smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. jag lifted an eyebrow, too curious but too scared to ask. him and hongjoong’s relationship was specific, a teacher and his student, despite the not always innocent conversation that sometimes felt like it was between two friends. he didn’t find it his place to intervene on the conversation that’s been going on for hours in hongjoong’s head, better to let hongjoong come to him if need be.

“see you monday,” was all jag called after hongjoong who had already left the studio’s door, an echo through the heavy wood.

hongjoong didn’t expect to turn and see you pressed up against the wall, guitar encased at your side, the sleeves of your sweatshirt rolled up to your elbows. you smiled, an eerie smile, one that told hongjoong everything he was feeling earlier was about to be intensified, amplified, much like the sound of your instrument.

“you didn’t think to tell me you worked here?” you tilted your head, the smile of a cheshire cat sitting wide on your cheekbones.

“and how would i do that?” hongjoong grabbed your guitar case from beside the wall and began walking, ushering you to follow along. if you were going to talk, it should be away from jag’s curious ears.

“maybe make use of the phone number you’ve had in your phone for two years?” it sounded like a question but hongjoong assumed it was more of an instruction, a curious sentence that left much to be dissected.

hongjoong laughed a soft chuckle, “i didn’t think it was necessary.”

“well that’s rude,” you scoffed, grabbing your guitar case from his hand and swinging it over your own shoulder, “this is the last place i would’ve expected to see you.”

“and i feel the opposite,” he turned to look at you, almost his height in your platform sneakers, “you laughed at me when i knew exactly where you’d end up.”

“ah, buttering me up now, are we?” you smirked, “didn’t know you thought so highly of clotho.”

“why else would i sleep with the lead guitarist?” hongjoong joked, his own smile growing wide, the fog he felt in the studio was long gone by the time you reached the end of the hallway. entering the space just before the elevator to take them down to the lobby, hongjoong pressed the button and faced you.

“that’s fucked up,” you said between your giggles, “you wanna be my groupie now?” you shifted your weight to one foot, making yourself just smaller than the man before you. “i’ll allow it, i guess.”

“who said i wanted to do it again?” hongjoong’s mischievous smile was permanent across his cheeks now and you gasped, slapping his bicep. the elevator dinged and opened quickly, an empty dimly lit space demanding you to continue the conversation.

“what are you doing later?” you asked as you stepped inside, leaning against the bar that was fused against the wall opposite of hongjoong.

“going to baby’s all right with a couple friends,” hongjoong answered plainly, ignoring the voice tugging at him to ask you to come with.

“got room for one more?” you beat him to it, you’ve been bold since the day he met you, he didn’t know why it took him by surprise.

he stuttered a bit in his agreement and you told him to meet you at your apartment, a new one in brooklyn, not the one you used to occupy in queens. he didn’t have the strength to tell you he grew up in the same neighborhood, he knew your address like the back of his hand, that this is yet another thread sewn into the web. hongjoong believed in fate and he believed in signs, it seemed that every one was pointing in your direction. he trusted the signs, trusted in luck, trusted in fate, trusted in whatever kept itself on his shoulder that this path he was taking was the right one.

he never cared much for right and wrong when it came to anything, especially entertaining the idea that his own actions would change how his life would turn out. hongjoong never had any goals or expectations for his life, he assumed how he’d turn out before the age of fifteen, he was careless unless it benefited him to put in an effort for anything yet he never considered that might put him on the wrong path, it just was what it was. from stealing a twenty dollar bill from his mother’s second hand coach bag to working alongside one of the most famous music producers in the city, before two years ago when hongjoong actually felt that he was moving upward, he never took into consideration that maybe his actions did have consequences, maybe he chose what path his life went in by the smallest of decisions.

he showed up to your apartment late, much to your dismay, even if you were also late yourself. you took about ten more minutes after he’d buzzed up to your apartment to let you know he’d arrived, leaving him to his own devices on your stoop. when you’d finally walked out of your front door hongjoong’s right nostril twitched, he was used to only one thing giving him this kind of rush, this sensation he felt at every nerve ending. you were fucking breathtaking with your microscopic skirt and shirt so small he didn’t know if you could consider it anything other than a bra. makeup dark and sultry, lips so red he had flashbacks to when he scrubbed smudges of it off of the base of his neck. your hair was down and straightened, framing your cheekbones so beautifully, the shadows it created made you look like a creature of the night in the most dangerous way.

he felt like he was looking at you for the first time all over again, the last two years had done you well, all of the coke and drinking and partying hadn’t aged you in the slightest. it was rare that excessive consumption didn’t affect one's appearance, most of his hometown friends had begun to resemble zombies years ago, you seemed to be immortal. the walk to the bar was short, less than ten blocks away, and hongjoong was grateful. he was using tonight for release, he needed to let go of everything he’s been responsible for, take a night to forget everything and just be. of course, out of all nights, someone who he worked with just a few hours ago would be accompany him, but at least it’s you.

“have you been to this place?” you asked, the innocence in your voice contradicting the heaviness of your boots hitting the concrete.

hongjoong nodded, his hands shoved in his pockets, “many times.”

“we performed here a couple months ago i think, i don’t really remember it much, i got hammered as soon as we got off the stage,” you were talking mindlessly, just sparking up a conversation so you weren’t walking silently beside each other.

“it’s cute, less grungy and dirty and more..” he racked his brain for a way to describe it, falling into a momentary silence, “picturesque for the instagram models of the city, i guess?”

you laughed at that, “then i’ll put your hands to good use and you can be my personal photographer for the night, my followers will be grateful.”

hongjoong’s lips grew into a smirk, “there are better ways to put my hands to use.”

“we still have a whole night to get through before i can attest to that,” you raised a finger towards him in protest, your own smile growing, the two of you falling into easier conversation once the flirting started up again.

“we’ve only walked a block, we can easily turn around,” hongjoong came to a stop, looking back to the stretch of ground they had just hiked, eyes full of amusement yet he was also dead serious. there are plenty ways to let off steam.

you rolled your eyes, “normally i’d agree, but i’m in the mood to party and if you’re anything like you were two years ago i don’t think you’re capable of a quickie.”

the two of you fell into stride again, “i can say with confidence that i am not fond of quickies.”

you brought up work after that, talked about the album, compared recording with hongjoong and jag to max. hongjoong half tuned out at that, he answered where he needed to but he was over the work talk, he needed to get to that bar now.

you met up with his hometown friends once you got there, people you slightly recognized from backstage two years ago, but there were a few hongjoong had to introduce you to. once you mentioned clotho you had more to talk about with the group of people, being the lead guitarist of a band signed by republic records was always a great conversation starter.

hongjoong kept his tab open, let you order whatever you wanted on it for the night, to you that was an invitation to get fucked up as much as it was payback for snorting all of your coke two years ago. you were intrigued at this point, not just by hongjoong himself but about what was going on in his head. you’d assessed the situation while you were getting ready as much as you wanted to leave it at a free night of partying, but you couldn’t shake the curiosity that came along with the presence of kim hongjoong.

after he had left your apartment two years ago in such a rush, you’d hoped he’d call you for at least two weeks after. even a text, whatever you could get from him was enough, because you’d never had a night like that with anyone, the sex being something that no other person you’d invited to your bed could compare to. everything about him physically, the shared interests, the banter, the easy conversation. you were coked out of your mind yet you still remember every detail of that night, even almost a thousand days later hongjoong had left his mark on you without it being intentional.

then you saw him again, and he was working for you. he was sitting behind the mixing board with headphones on, looking unbothered as ever, you wondered if he even remembered you, if that night stayed with him the way it stayed with you. once your eyes met and you could feel the knowing shared from a single, too long stare through the glass, you had to talk to him, had to pick his brain, had to insert yourself into his life like what you shared wasn’t just one night so you could do it again.

you took his invitation and drank to your heart’s content, and he did, too. both of you ended up in the cramped crowd of the DJ, so unlike hongjoong, very much like you, drowning in a swamp of sweaty bodies. everyone was jumping, arms swinging to the beat, phones with flashes on all pointed towards the stage. hongjoong was gone as he planned, his mind forgetting everything except for the beautiful woman beside him, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. watching you as you jumped in the air, swaying to the music, everything bouncing to the bass, he was getting impatient and his dick could feel it.

he needed a bump to take the edge off, reset him so he didn’t rush you out of your fun, he enjoyed seeing you so carefree. in your monologue about your album you’d seem stressed, hongjoong assumed you needed to get away for a night just as much as he did.

“i need a bump,” he yelled over the music, grabbing your forearm that you kept at your side to get your attention, the other one hung above your head.

“me too!” you yelled back, looking up to him with those big doe eyes, there goes his reset. he didn’t think you’d come with, too wrapped up in the set the DJ was playing, but he stupidly thought wrong – you were just like him, after all. your hand latched onto his and he lead you out of the crowd, through the crowded bar, and then outside to the sidewalk of broadway. he nodded his head to the bouncer and wrapped around the building that still had a line outside the door to somewhere quieter, where people would be less likely to interrupt you.

“joong, i think we could’ve stayed in front, it’s not like he cares,” you pointed out, referring to the bouncer as you finally turned the corner, pulling your box of cigarettes from your purse.

he pulled the baggie from his pocket along with his keys, splitting them until he found his apartment key that had old coke lodged into the rivets of the metal, “excuse me for not wanting to share.”

you giggled, stumbling a little bit over your feet when you tried to light the cigarette, “wanna go soon?”

he looked up to you with eyebrows raised as he brought the key up to his nose, “yeah? you ready?”

“want you already, tired of waiting,” your legs instinctively crossed, thighs pressing together as you pulled from the cigarette, the tip burning a bright orange.

his smile returned, the devilish one that he seemed to only wear around you, “what? you don’t wanna party anymore? that’s the only reason we’re here, baby.”

your thighs flexed below your skirt at his words as he brought the key up to your nose after your exhale of smoke, smirking as you sniffed, “don’t call me baby unless you’re fucking me against the wall.”

he laughed at your body reacting to his words, something that came so naturally to him throwing you for a loop, the thought crossing his mind just for a moment that maybe he should’ve done this a lot sooner. he let you burn down half the cigarette before he was feeling the same level of impatience and you were starting to look even sexier, the rush of the bump coursing through his blood and sending all of it straight to his dick.

“let’s go say bye and then i’ll fuck you stupid at home, no bathroom this time,” he grabbed your hand again instinctively, leading you back inside the club, letting you throw the still lit cigarette to the busy street.

he found his friends quick and said bye even quicker, his pants started tightening the moment you crossed your legs and they weren’t getting any baggier as time went on. the walk back to your apartment reminded him of the subway ride from the last time, each block you walked had you pressed up on a random stoop, hongjoong’s tongue in your mouth and hand sliding farther and farther up your skirt with each stop. you couldn’t keep your hands off of each other, too needy, too impatient, a feeling you kept passing back and forth through spit and moans on brooklyn doorsteps.

you didn’t let lust take over in the entryway this time, hongjoong quickly learned this apartment wasn’t just your own but instead shared. a man’s jacket sat hung on the coat rack on the foyer, three pairs of men’s shoes shuffled about the floor. that possessiveness returned, coating a thick layer over him before he looked up. your apartment was massive, no way you were affording this on your own even in brooklyn, maybe you had two roommates. the apartment was decorated less cozy than the last time he was here, more like your band’s style, rough and dirty and dim. it didn’t smell of vanilla but instead mahogany, a hint of bourbon, so much more masculine than he’d expected.

hongjoong’s gut twisted with the information and he pushed it down, ignored it, pretended you shared the space with a ghost instead as you lead him through the apartment and to your room quickly, pushing him against the door the second you heard the latch enter the door frame. you were on your knees in seconds, not wasting any time, only enhancing hongjoong’s need to have control as you unbuckled his belt and pulled his jeans down.

“been dreaming of having this dick again for years,” you mumbled absent mindedly as you finally got him bare, naked and leaking, eyes wide and blown not just from the coke.

“should’ve came and got it then,” your revelation didn’t sink in, didn’t seem to click in hongjoong’s brain, too fucked up to think of anything other than fucking your throat as he finally got the wet heat of your mouth around him.

your nails clawed at the skin of his thighs as you bobbed your head, taking him deeper with each stroke, gagging yourself but pushing through nonetheless. hongjoong had his fingers tied in your hair, the back of his head pressed against the door, low groans leaving his lips with each tighten of your throat.

“so fucking good, missed that mouth,” drawled out of his lips as you worked him faster, wetter, your saliva beginning to run down his thighs. he loved it messy, dirty, you were taking him in his favorite way. he was in heaven, but the impatience was only growing. he needed you loud, screaming, cumming around his dick over and over again.

“should’ve came and got it then,” you shot back as you pulled off of him with a pop, catching your breath. tears laid in your lash line, lipstick so smudged and faded hongjoong wondered if it made a ring around the base of him.

“on the bed,” he ordered before you had the chance to take him in your mouth again and you were on your feet in a second, ripping your clothes off before you nearly jumped on the bed, greeting him with all of your limbs planted on the mattress on all fours.

“impatient,” he mumbled as he undressed himself, crawling onto the bed behind you, leaving a rough smack against your ass.

you moaned in response as your body jerked forward, legs spreading further in response. he loved that about you, the pain slut that lived inside you even if you tried to put up a dominant front. you weren’t shy about what you wanted, what you needed from him, always so responsive. maybe you were his favorite.

he slipped inside you with ease, you were wet enough to take him, you’d been waiting for this for hours. he set a brutal pace immediately, pounding into you leaving you a loud, crying mess. it wasn’t long before your arms gave out below you, sending your face flying into the comforter, definitely leaving streaks of black from your eye makeup. hongjoong couldn’t wait to see the mess you’d made.

“such a perfect pussy, like it was made for me,” his voice was slurred and low, close to babbles as he spoke deliriously between thrusts, he felt fucked out too, entranced by your pussy that was sucking him in.

“‘t was, it is, it's yours,” your voice matched his, cheek pressed to the mattress, one hand clawing behind yourself and another at the sheets to grab something, anything for leverage, “don’t stop, so good.”

he didn’t indulge in your grabs as he felt himself getting close, he definitely wasn’t lasting as long as he wanted to, but after a small break and another line he’d be roaring to go again. he wrapped an arm around your torso, middle finger finding your clit, circling it steadily. you cried out, jerking against him, thighs starting to shake under him.

“gonna cum!” you cried out, the strain in your voice let him know the tears that were in your eyes earlier had fell. he kept at his rhythm, fucking into you at the same pace of your circles and you tightened around him, letting go, crying out with no remorse for anyone who might also be here. as you grabbed at his hand and forced it off of you he let himself focus on his own orgasm, fucking back into you at the pace he knew would have him letting go in seconds.

“inside, joong, please,” you begged, voice rough and raspy, not giving him the chance to ask you where you wanted him. he indulged, emptying himself inside you with a groan, stilling as he leaned over the two koi fish swimming up your back.

your legs gave out after he pulled out, falling flat against your stomach, legs still twitching against the cotton. you moaned at the emptiness, the release, and hongjoong laid himself beside you. you stayed in silence for minutes, breaths of air occupying the air, the only thing you could hear in your bedroom. you had 80s thrash metal posters all over your walls, different paintings, things he recognized from your old room. it made him smile, knowing he was back here again, a different apartment yet the things he pointed out last time were still here. two years have gone by yet some things just don’t change.

“gonna have to show me your place next time,” you finally spoke, turning your head to face him, pulling your arms under your face to rest on.

“next time?” hongjoong asked, raising an eyebrow, “what makes you so confident that there’ll be a next time?”

you rolled your eyes, “you have no choice, there’s no way in hell i’m letting you get away from me again. and you’re putting your number in my phone before you go.”

you didn’t know that he had every intention of seeing you again, of showing up whenever you called, of doing whatever the hell you wanted him to whenever you wanted him to do it. he didn’t know that those calls would come quicker than he thought, he’d take you time and time again, these visits becoming more frequent the more time you spent together. he decided the feelings he harbored didn’t need to be unpacked, he could leave them unaddressed if that meant he could see you, be with you, get himself inside you after a long day. for the months to follow he stood by that, he didn’t think much of your relationship other than the fact that you had one, unlabeled and undisclosed.

he left your apartment the next morning slowly, much unlike last time, almost as if he didn’t want to leave. but you called him later that night, asked him if he wanted to come over, and of course he said yes, he hadn’t said no to that question yet. he found out you lived with two of your bandmates, yasu, the leader and the green haired drummer he learned was noa. they were both just as cool as you, that much he knew from the recording session you’d spent together, and hongjoong got along with them just as well as he got along with you.

he’d spent many nights partying with you and your band after shows or on random weeknights, just as much as you spent time with hongjoong and his friends from brooklyn, or even nights with just himself and mingi. you got to know each other on a level he hadn’t expected you to, one he didn’t necessarily allow you to, including that you found out his real age, you didn’t speak to him for an entire night of drinking after he’d told you the truth. you let it go later that night when he had you pressed against the wall, outside, behind the bar you were at, fingers scissoring into you for ignoring him, denying you release for the following hours to come.

hongjoong was at all of your recording sessions, he helped with marketing your band, helped other interns and even your manager with scheduling performances, interviews, you started to bleed into every part of his life, every aspect of his job. you found out about his laziness with schoolwork, you denied him the pleasure of being inside you until he got his shit together before the semester ended, it was a long two weeks for him, his fist and his coke dealer.

hongjoong was enamored by you, your lifestyle, your entire being. he didn’t ever think about what you were, he kept his thoughts about your relationship very surface level, terrified as to what would happen if he looked any deeper than that. he didn’t even take the time to consider whether or not you were exclusive, he didn’t let himself think about what you’d look like under someone else and how that made him feel, he didn’t need to. neither of you had any time, you were always with him, he was always with you if he wasn’t busy with the company or what was left of his junior year, you were too wrapped up in one another to think about anyone else.

somehow hongjoong was one of the last people to find out about your first tour, a quick four months across north america over the summer, ranging from june to september. he was ecstatic when he was told by his superior, he couldn’t wait to talk to you about it, the celebratory party to follow, just the fact that you were growing, making it just like he knew you would.

the label had you in a quick meeting when he found out, thirty minutes you spent inside the room with frosted glass windows, hongjoong spent his lunch break waiting just outside the door. the more time he spent tapping his foot, bouncing his knee, the more his brain started to think. you’d known about this for a month now, sitting on the information, not sharing it with him when he thought you shared everything. it became the longest thirty minutes of his life, he hadn’t felt this way in a long time, the drop of his stomach was such a rare occurrence he couldn’t remember five other times it’s ever happened to him. why hadn’t you told him sooner?

it terrified him, enough to leave his spot outside the door, to go all the way outside the building until he was greeted with the scent of summer in manhattan. he paced up and down the length of the building, racking his brain for why this was happening now, after he’d spent so much time with you, after he’d gotten completely comfortable around you, after he’d sank way too fucking deep. why hadn’t you told him sooner? it was as if his world was closing in on him, he hadn’t even felt this way when he was on the brink of consciousness before narcan was shot into his bloodstream, he’d never felt an attachment to someone let alone having it on the brink of being ripped away from him. this was betrayal.

it was only four months, but that was almost double the time you’d actually spent together. he felt himself walking on a road the past two months, a tunnel that had something unknown at the end, something totally new to him. he allowed it, he was blissfully ignoring his discomfort, the unknown, embracing this new type of relationship, this type of closeness with someone. he’d only gotten this close with mingi, only just allowed that type of friendship, he hadn’t let anyone else in since then, not even jag who he spent most of his time with other than you and mingi. he wouldn’t allow himself to bleed so freely, to show himself so naked, to give anyone else the opportunity to know him or hurt him. he kept everyone at arm's length for a reason.

hongjoong assumed this was the end of whatever was perched on his shoulder as he looked up to the clear, bright sky beyond the buildings, that was the only explanation he could muster up. he said goodbye, he thanked it for being with him all this time, for keeping a watchful eye, keeping him above the water. he wished it well.

he sniffed a bump and walked back inside the building with a distant cloud looming over him, a stoic look to his face, a carelessness that draped over him like your bedsheets in the early hours of the morning. he wouldn’t let you see him in such a state, you’d seen enough of him, more than you were ever supposed to.

hongjoong has never believed in regret, he’s a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, everything you go through is to teach you something. from overdosing on more than one occasion, it taught him to not do someone else’s coke, to know his dealer on a personal level, to know what his drugs were cut with. from disappointing his parents time and time again, it taught him to get sneakier, not give them hopes that he could shatter. from turning in weeks worth of homework late and only just passing his last semester of his junior year, it taught him to stay on top of his studies or he could easily lose everything he’s worked for. from sleeping with the lead guitarist of a random band in brooklyn and ending up an intern at republic records, it taught him that purpose and opportunities are everywhere if you’re keeping an eye out for them. from getting into something that’s the closest thing to a romantic relationship he’d ever experienced with the woman of his dreams, it taught him that if you leave your feelings exposed, someone is able to betray them, take them in their hands and toy with them, crush them if they wanted to.

he thought himself naïve. he wouldn’t allow it to happen again.

with a quick fifteen minutes and still not a word to you, he put his walls back up, higher than they’d ever been before, he was sina, rose and maria. he was aurelian when he walked straight past you in the lobby, hadrian when he walked past your bandmates who whipped their heads around to watch him walk to the elevator, jericho when he slipped inside the thankfully open door. he went back to the studio where jag was waiting for him, who playfully asked him if he was fucking his girlfriend in the bathroom and if that’s why he was late.

hongjoong snapped, told him to fuck off and jag listened. he didn’t ask any questions for the rest of the session, they went through the motions, got their workload finished for the day and went their separate ways. jag knew, of course jag knew, jag knew hongjoong like the back of his hand by now. since january, five months the two have been a pair, close without being close, jag is an observant man and hongjoong is not good at hiding his emotions.

hongjoong didn’t answer your calls, didn’t answer your incessant rings of his doorbell, ignored your begs at the door of the recording studio, it didn’t take long until everything stopped. you got on that bus headed straight to florida and he couldn’t stop the slip, the easy slide of becoming the eighteen year old version of himself again.

he turned his brain off outside of the music he made, the paintings he created, the drawings that now littered even the floor of his bedroom. the label was busy, he immersed himself in his work, he didn’t even have school to keep him occupied until august, he let every ounce of his energy go into republic records and substances. after work he was in the pits of brooklyn, seeing every show he could, in every club in the city, taking every drug he could get his hands on. his friends were happy to have him back, to have the fun hongjoong in the mix for their benders, another body to sleep with at the end of the night.

mingi forced him out of it before school started up again, telling him to get his shit together or he’d really lose everything this time. hongjoong was malleable by now, brain so fried from his summer that he just nodded at mingi and tried to set himself up. mingi helped him, basically set hongjoong up himself, enrolled him in his senior year and chose his classes. hongjoong didn’t care, he wished he could do it himself, wished he could think for longer than two minutes without your name crossing his mind. for someone who couldn’t remember your name for the life of him, it was the only thing he could think now, it wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone.

at this point hongjoong thought you a phantom, that night he saw you as a creature of the night would really come true — you invaded his dreams, his nightmares, his trips when he dropped acid. you were everywhere, you were everything, he didn’t know how he could ever come back from this, he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to.

as he sat on the balcony of his apartment in mid august with a joint between his fingers, hours after vomiting up the oxy one of his friends had slipped him, he decided he had enough.

hongjoong is a lot of things. he’s obsessive, he’s a wild card, he’s an addict, he’s a hard worker, he’s a partier.

but first and foremost, hongjoong is a creator.

he creates art, he creates music, he writes, he draws, he paints. he recites songs from memory, he plays them on the guitar after hearing them just once, hongjoong is gifted. hongjoong created himself, he created this life, he created every path he’s ever walked on. fuck luck and fuck fate, hongjoong created every situation he’s ever been in, created every opportunity for himself, created the name that gets passed through every ear of republic records.

hongjoong created himself, and he’d burn the world down before someone could ever take that away from him. by september he’d become a junior producer, crossing the line of intern to employee in just nine months, faster than anyone else in republic record’s history.

he just hoped his resolve stayed intact when you finally stepped off that tour bus and walked back into republic records, ready to begin recording your band’s second album.

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