#tell me you took some liberal arts courses without telling me you took some liberal arts courses

[055u4ry]

So just call it something different. Gotcha.

The Wend*go is Not Your Cryptid

I'm Algonquin/Ojibwe and this is a spirit that comes from our teachings.

As a young child, the elders taught me to never even SPEAK its name, to not even sing its songs. When we sang a song about it during drumming group one year, we all got in trouble.

You do not spell the word or speak the word.

It's NOT a "cryptid" or a "spooky story" for white people to appropriate.

Its bearly spoken about in our own communities, and even then, only very carefully.

Again, not because its "creepy" but because its respected and something in our traditions that is not played around with; so its certainly not for non-ojibwe/algonquin people to speak about whatsoever. Period.

[trashratsaws]

Something I've been finding quite irritating about the lack of media and culture literacy we're seeing - because of course the least educated people speak the loudest I fear - is that it's almost forced me to become an advocate for art I don't particularly enjoy. I don't enjoy modern or contemporary art. I don't like it, I think it's overblown, and I think a lot of modern/contemporary movements are juvenile, underdeveloped, and crude. I will also defend modern and contemporary art until I die from white tiktok women who claim that they could make better art from the comfort of their upper middle class couches because apparently despite pretending to be cultured by going to the museums where modern art is housed and proclaiming to their thousands of followers that they have done so - which was a choice, by the way, they could have really gone to any museum that served their one-note tastes all the better - they simply cannot be bothered to do any sort of research or reading on what the modern/contemporary art actually means, how it was created, the backgrounds of the artists who create it, etc., or even to read the plaque next to the piece while they stand next to it making their videos about how lifeless and uninteresting they find it.

There is a huge difference between disliking something because you understand it vs. because you don't. Please for the love of god, if you're going to loudly dislike something, please be the person who dislikes it because you understand it, and spare me the trouble of trying to shout just as loudly that, well, yes, Jackson Pollock was the worst, but please leave his genre alone because you sound like quite the toad when you speak.

Anyway I lied before, so here are some avant-garde movements/artists/pieces I really like/find very interesting to do some more research on for yourself.

the Die Brücke (The Bridge, German expressionist group)

Mexican Muralism (Mexican artistic movement post-revolution of 1910)

Brasilia (failed Brazilian capital city with some crazy architecture. Also utopianism in general)

Neo-Dadaism/Post-modernism (generally cheekier movement than the abstract expressionists who took their work and mission far too seriously)

Marjorie Strider (woman pop artist who critiqued a lot of sexism in the art world with her work. See also The Girlies Exhibition)

Liberation of Aunt Jemima and Betye Saar

One and Three Chairs and Conceptual Art (this is the one people like to complain the most about)

Yayoi Kusama (particularly Narcissus Garden. Very good stuff)

Felix Gonzales-Torres (if you don't already know him. Tell me you can look at Perfect Lovers without crying)

Rhythm 0 (imo the single most impactful, raw, gut-wrenching work Marina Abramovic ever produced. Performance art. Devastating)

Shigeko Kubota (Vagina Painting. almost a direct fuck-you to Pollock's macho vibe)

Earth Art (exactly what it sounds like - work that relies on nature. The Lightning Field is on my bucket list)

[flowercrown-bard]

Oh, what’s in a name?

summary: Geralt accidentally calls Jaskier by the wrong name and Jaskier finds out that maybe that's a compliment

pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

word count: 3k

AO3

warnings: none

„Can you hand me the whetstone, Roach?”

Jaskier, already mid-motion to turn and ready to do what Geralt had asked him to, froze. Slowly, and with the biggest grin he could fit on his lips, he turned back to face Geralt again.

“What did you just say?” He could barely contain the laughter in his voice. Raising an eyebrow, he exchanged a look with Roach – well, he tried to exchange a look with Roach, but as usual, she didn’t cooperate – and let out a tiny snort.

Geralt’s brows furrowed in confusion and he gave a small grunt, before saying, “The whetstone.”

Jaskier blinked, his mouth already half-open to tease Geralt about growing old enough to forget the name of his dearest travel companion, but then he stopped himself. He squinted at Geralt, trying to find any hint on his face that he had even realised that he had called Jaskier by the wrong name, but he found none.

For a moment, he contemplated being offended by being mistaken with a horse, but then Roach trotted over to Geralt and nibbled at his hair, making the witcher look up with the softest smile as he petted her neck.

The sight of Geralt so relaxed and free with his smile, made something warm and fuzzy grow in Jaskier’s chest.

He decided not to say anything. At least for now.

--

Jaskier’s plans to tease Geralt about the name-thing later failed spectacularly. Not because Jaskier didn’t dare tease Geralt, of course, but because all of his attempts to subtly tease him didn’t work, and Jaskier was too proud of his finesse with words to take a more direct approach to his teasing.

He tried singing songs in which he exchanged Geralt’s name or moniker with something else, which only earned him an amused hum.

“Is calling me the White Wolf not enough anymore?” Geralt asked when Jaskier had finished his little ditty. “I thought you needed one moniker for me for memorability.”

Jaskier huffed and nearly opened his mouth to tell Geralt plainly why he had gone with the wrong moniker, but then he blinked.

“You listened to me while I told you about that?”

Geralt shrugged and turned to tend to Roach. Jaskier was nearly fully convinced that he only did it to have an excuse to avoid eye-contact.

“It’s nice talking to someone who talks back.”

Jaskier snorted. “My friend, I’d say out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s doing most of the talking.”

Geralt didn’t reply, proving Jaskier’s point.

--

Oh, but Jaskier had been wrong. He didn’t realise just how wrong he had been about Geralt’s penchant for taciturnity, until they had to spend more than a couple of days in town.

Had Jaskier thought Geralt didn’t like talking all that much before, he was now fully taken aback by just how little Geralt actually said. Jaskier would have thought that a town with many people – most of which were even somewhat friendly towards Geralt – would get Geralt to relax, but it only served to make him clam up and become more quiet.

That is, he was quiet, save for when he talked to Jaskier.

In comparison to how he treated everyone else, he was downright chatty with him.

After that discovery, Jaskier made a point of talking more about things that Geralt seemed to like talking about. He let him explain the importance of cleaning his swords so often, lest they rust from his touch. He let him talk for hours on end about how to take care of horses. Once Jaskier got him to open up about his family, Geralt almost didn’t stop talking about his brothers, recounting how he and Eskel had once caught a giant bumblebee or reminiscing about how Lambert had tried to set fire to the instructors’ beds when he had been a trainee.

Watching Geralt talk like that was an experience. Every word that he entrusted with Jaskier made his heart flutter and every small smile Geralt gave him as he talked, took his breath away.

“I think you’d really like them, Roach,” Geralt said to conclude his story about his brothers.

Jaskier’s lips twitched upwards, but just like the first time it had happened, Geralt didn’t seem to realise what he had just said.

Jaskier’s grin turned into a soft smile and he leaned a little against Geralt, letting their shoulders touch gently.

“If they are anything like you, I’m sure I’ll like them.”

--

A couple of weeks later, Jaskier had to admit to himself that he had been wrong once again. He really needed to be careful not to make being wrong into a habit. He had always prided himself in being intelligent – after all, he was a master of the seven liberal arts and years ago, he had made the most intelligent decision of befriending one Geralt of Rivia – and being wrong about things just wasn’t something he liked doing.

But when it came to Geralt, there were always new things to learn, new facets of him to discover. And that wasn’t something Jaskier minded. In fact, every time he learned something new about Geralt – every time Geralt trusted him with new information about himself – Jaskier’s chest felt like it was expanding with that happy little flutter inside.

It was enlightening to learn that Geralt rarely ever cooked with spices, not because they were too expensive, but because his senses were sharp enough to not need much of them.

It was interesting to find out that Geralt liked making up the witcher-code on the spot, whenever someone asked him to do something that he didn’t want to do.

It was endearing finding out that Geralt had named all of his horses Roach.

But it was utterly shocking, when after weeks of having gone their separate ways, Jaskier finally tracked down Geralt to find him talking to Roach.

He froze to his spot and listened enraptured as Geralt spoke to his horse as others did to their friends. As Geralt did to Jaskier.

No. No, that wasn’t it at all. Geralt wasn’t speaking to Roach as he did to Jaskier.

He spoke to Jaskier as he did to Roach.

Jaskier’s eyes went wide at the realisation. How long had Geralt been alone before Jaskier had attached himself to his side, with only Roach as company?

Jaskier thought back to all the times Geralt had looked insecure when speaking with Jaskier when they had first started travelling together, as if he didn’t know how to talk to people. As if he didn’t have much experience doing so outside of negotiating contracts or the winters that he spent with his family.

Thinking of it, Jaskier realised that he probably was the only friend besides Roach that Geralt had.

Jaskier swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and continued walking to Geralt, announcing his presence with a cheerful, “My friend! I missed you!”

Geralt whirled around to him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Jaskier’s chest twisted uncomfortably, unsure if he had maybe been a bit too enthusiastic, but then Geralt’s eyes softened and he gave Jaskier the smallest but most beautiful of smiles.

That evening, as they sat beside the crackling fire and Jaskier plucked a soft melody on his lute as background noise, Geralt talked to him again, telling him with only minimal prompting about the contracts he had completed while Jaskier had been away playing at court.

When the fire died down and Jaskier got too tired to stay awake any longer, Geralt softly nudged him towards his bedroll.

“We can continue this talk tomorrow,” Geralt said, a little hesitantly, as if he still wasn’t entirely sure if his voice was welcome.

“I’d love to.” Jaskier pulled his blanket up to his chin and smiled when Geralt’s shoulders lost the little tension that had taken hold of them with his last words. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Roach.”

Jaskier pulled the blanket a little higher to hide his smile. The last thing he thought, before sleep embraced him, was that it really wasn’t that bad being called by Roach’s name.

--

Now, Jaskier and Roach had never gotten along too well. He had tried to braid her mane despite Geralt warning him that she didn’t like people touching her and she had tried to bite his fingers off.

Sometimes, when Jaskier got peckish, he stole the apple slices Geralt would buy for Roach. Other times, Roach would swat at Jaskier with her tail as if he was an irritating fly, while he was in the middle of composing a song.

Safe to say, they barely did much more than tolerate each other’s presence for Geralt’s sake.

Now though, with Jaskier’s newfound knowledge about how important the mare was to Geralt, Jaskier saw her in a different light.

Oh, sure, she was still cantankerous and stubborn, but she was also Geralt’s oldest companion and friend on the Path.

So Jaskier made a point of always putting some coin aside to buy her treats whenever they got into town and composing odes to her beauty. He wasn’t sure if Roach appreciated the latter, but there was no doubt she liked the treats he got her.

It didn’t take long, until she allowed him to pet her soft muzzle and shortly after, she started following Jaskier around or approaching him happily when he came back after having split from Geralt for a while.

At first, Geralt watched this new display of affection between them warily, but all too soon, Jaskier caught him smiling when Roach nibbled at Jaskier’s hair or Jaskier went out of his way to brush her down.

One time, while Geralt had thought Jaskier was too deep in thought composing to hear him, he had whispered to Roach how happy he was that the two of them got along.

--

“Remember when I said you would like my brothers?” Geralt said one morning, completely out of the blue, while watching Jaskier try to catch the falling red leaves from the air.

Distracted, Jaskier missed the leaf just by a hair’s breadth. It landed on his head instead. Seemingly without thinking, Geralt brushed it off Jaskier’s head, lingering just a little too long to be a casual touch.

“Y-yeah,” Jaskier said, his heart jumping to his throat. “Of course I remember you talking about Eskel and Lambert.”

Something lit up in Geralt’s eyes. “You remember their names?”

“Naturally,” Jaskier said softly. “They are important to you.”

Geralt remained quiet for a little while, just staring at Jaskier with an unreadable expression. “They are,” he said finally. Geralt’s throat bobbed when he swallowed. “I was wondering…if maybe you would like to meet them?”

Jaskier’s brows shot up. “Are they near?”

Geralt shook his head and turned away, clearly pretending to check over Roach’s saddle.

“You could meet them if you came with me to Kaer Morhen.”

For once, Jaskier was at a loss of words. He must have stayed silent for so long that Geralt began worrying, for he turned back to him with a frown.

Before he could take his words back, Jaskier surged forward and slung his arms around him.

“I would love to come with you.”

--

On their way up the mountain, Jaskier needled Geralt with questions about the keep, but Geralt refused to give as much as a hint of what Jaskier had to expect from a winter with the wolves.

Jaskier considered pouting, but the twinkle in Geralt’s eyes made it impossible to even pretend to be mad at him. Not when it was clear that Geralt was going back to his taciturn ways to have the keep be a surprise for Jaskier.

And a surprise it was.

When the walls of Kaer Morhen came into view, towering over them, Jaskier lost all ability to speak. His eyes raked over the massive doors, the towers that stretched high into the sky and every part of the courtyard that he just itched to explore.

A soft noise beside him made him turn towards Geralt again. His breath caught in his throat when he met Geralt’s gaze, soft and holding more fondness than Geralt had ever allowed himself to show Jaskier while they were out there on the continent.

--

Geralt hadn’t lied when he had said that Jaskier would get along with his family. It didn’t take more than one night of drinking together, for Jaskier to decide that the other wolf witchers were his friends now too.

Eskel showed him his poetry collection and his eyes lit up when Jaskier promised to discuss every poem in it with Eskel.

Vesemir was happy to have someone who listened to him with enthusiasm when he talked about monsters and fighting techniques for once.

Lambert was a little harder to get to warm up to Jaskier, but after Jaskier had beaten Geralt in a round of gwent – granted, he had cheated shamelessly, but a victory was a victory – Lambert had barked out a laugh and ruffled Jaskier’s hair, proclaiming that he should come to Kaer Morhen more often.

--

It was mid-winter when the inevitable happened again. Jaskier had started to look forward to it, but he hadn’t realised just what it would mean if Geralt slipped up again while at Kaer Morhen.

Lambert, Geralt and Jaskier were just shovelling snow near the stables, when it happened. Well, maybe calling it ‘shovelling snow’ was a bit generous. That certainly was what they were supposed to do, but after Lambert had thrown the snow to the side with enough enthusiasm to –maybe? – accidentally hit Jaskier with it instead, it had turned into a full blown snow fight, in which Jaskier constantly shifted sides from ganging up on Lambert with Geralt and throwing his arms around Geralt in a hug to keep him in place while Lambert put snow down Geralt’s shirt.

“Stop it,” Geralt laughed and wriggled in his grip, enough to be playful, but coming nowhere close to using even half of his full strength. “Let go, or I’ll throw you into a pile of snow, Roach!”

“I’d like to see you try.” Jaskier smirked and tightened his hold. “Lambert, now!”

But Lambert was frozen mid-motion of grabbing more snow. He stared at Geralt with the biggest shit eating grin on his face.

“Roach?” He asked with a snort. “Did you just call him Roach?”

In Jaskier’s arms, Geralt stiffened. “I-“

He broke off, throwing a quick glance at Jaskier over his shoulder, before looking away again. Yet, it had been enough for Jaskier to see the look that he had come to understand as blind panic on Geralt’s face.

Before Jaskier could ask him what was wrong, Geralt shrugged him off, easily freeing himself from the hold he had so happily endured before.

“Geralt-“

But Geralt didn’t even falter in his steps. He all but fled into the stables.

Jaskier exchanged a quick look with Lambert who shrugged as if he didn’t care, but followed Geralt’s flight with his eyes and a hint of worry in his expression.

Jaskier didn’t hesitate any longer and ran after Geralt.

Geralt must have heard him enter the stables and hid, for when Jaskier’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, Geralt was nowhere to be found.

Jaskier’s steps slowed and he rubbed his fingers together nervously.

“Geralt?” He asked uncertainly. The only reply he got was the huffing from the horses.

Jaskier’s heart sank, but he set his brow in determination. In two strides, he walked over to the box with Roach, who blew a breath of hot air into his face in greeting.

“Hello there, Roach,” Jaskier began, loud enough that there was no mistaking that he fully intended Geralt to hear him, even though he knew it was unnecessary to raise his voice since Geralt would have been able to hear him even if he had whispered. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while, my dear lady. Did you know that Geralt sometimes calls me by your name?”

Roach huffed and Jaskier began stroking the white stripe on her face.

“Yes, I know,” he continued, “But I swear he doesn’t mean it as an insult to you. I for one am actually rather flattered. I’ve been called by the wrong name before, and usually it’s something that makes me feel like the other person doesn’t think I’m worth having my name remembered. Or as if they don’t respect me enough to learn it. But it’s different with Geralt.” His voice softened. “If he calls me by the name of someone who means so much to him, then that is the highest honour I can imagine. You have no idea how happy it makes me that he trusts and likes me enough to talk to me like he does to his other most faithful friend. And can I tell you a secret, dear Roach?” He got up on his tiptoes to get closer to her ear as he stage-whispered, “Geralt is really important to me too. And I really want him to know that I mean it when I say that he’s my best friend, whether he calls me by your name or mine.”

Behind him, straw rustled and the tapping of steps announced that Geralt was coming closer. Not only that, but the fact that Jaskier could hear Geralt approach, meant that Geralt put effort into not startling him. Jaskier hid his smile in Roach’s neck. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Geralt approach slowly, as if he was unsure about every step he took.

Finally, he reached them, standing on Roach’s other side. Jaskier heard him take in a deep breath and he already readied himself to listen to Geralt talk to Roach as he had just done, but then Geralt rounded Roach and came to stand before Jaskier instead.

In his eyes, fear and fondness fought a battle, that fondness won when Jaskier reached out a hand to softly brush it against Geralt’s. With a sigh that expanded Geralt’s entire chest, Geralt intertwined their fingers.

“I-thank you,” Geralt said, looking down at their joined hands. “For understanding. For not being angry at me. I – you are important to me too. More important than anyone outside of Kaer Morhen ever was.” He lifted his head again, giving Jaskier an intense look that sent shivers up his spine. With more meaning, affection and trust than anyone had ever spoken Jaskier’s name with, Geralt said, “You are the most important person to me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes stung and he let out a small choked noise. Without thinking, he tugged Geralt closer and flung his free arm around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as he could and burying his head in Geralt’s chest. Geralt’s hand that wasn’t holding Jaskier’s still, came up to cradle the back of his head and Geralt’s cheek pressed against the top of his head.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice got muffled but the low rumble in Geralt’s chest as he hummed in acknowledgement told Jaskier that he could still understand him. “You’re my most important person too. My Geralt.”

“My Jaskier.”

--

Over the years, Geralt slipped up less and less. Jaskier would have been almost disappointed, if he didn’t like the way Geralt called him “my Jaskier”, or “my Buttercup” so much.

Well. Jaskier had been wrong before when it came to Geralt and as it turned out, he continued to have this terrible habit, try as he might to get rid of it. Because, when Jaskier had assumed that Geralt didn’t slip up on his and Roach’s names anymore, he had been dead wrong.

The thing was, after years of having Jaskier at his side, of being close to him and loving him with his entire being, Geralt had gotten so used to talking to Jaskier, that one day, while Jaskier was plucking away idly at his lute and Geralt was brushing down Roach, he heard the most curious thing, that made him smile wider than he had ever smiled before.

“There you go,” Geralt said as he brushed down Roach’s flank and she kept turning her head, trying to get to the treats in Geralt’s pockets. “You’ll get the treats if you’re a good horse and stay still for once, Jaskier.”

[abbatoirablaze]

Maid For You

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: no real warnings…Ransom is lighter than he normally is, so this is kind of fluffy for his character.

“And that’s Ransom,” Marta pointed out to you. You looked at your cousin softly as Mr. Thrombey’s grandson strolled into the mansion without a care in the world, going straight into his office, “he’s kind of a dick. And he’ll insist that you call him Hugh.”

“Hugh…got it…”

“Anya, come here sweet girl.”

Your eyes went wide as Linda called for you. Marta nudged you forward, and you strolled by, offering her a kind smile, “how may I assist you, Mrs. Drysdale.

“Always so polite,” she smiled, pinching your cheek, “do me a favor and go to my room. Grab the present on the bed for my father. Will you?”

���Of course, Mrs. Drysdale,” you smiled, “would you like me to bring it to you, or put it under the tree in the main hall?”

“The tree is fine dear,” she smiled, already brushing you away, “I just forgot to bring it out.”

As you walked away, you noticed Walt sneering at you, while Jacob tilted his head sideways, as if that’d get him a better look underneath the skirt of your classic maid outfit. As you passed back into the main hall you noticed Marta and Meg being hounded by Ransom.

As you went up the staircase, however you noticed Ransom stopped getting on Meg about being ‘some hippy stoner at the liberal arts college,’ and his attention turned towards you, “HEY. New girl!”

“She’s not new, Ransom,” Meg growled, “that’s Marta’s cousin, and she’s been here for almost two months. You’d know that if you came over more than once every six months to get money from grandpa.”

“Did you need my assistance, Mr. Drysdale?”

He smiled as he began coming up the stairs. He stopped at the third step so that he was eye level with you. You forced yourself to maintain eye contact with his oceanic eyes, “Mr. Drysdale, huh? Why not Hugh? The rest of the staff calls me that!”

“You didn’t give me permission, sir,” you reply quickly, eyes still not leaving his. You took a step down so that he was now looking slightly down at you and you could see the glint in them as he became more curious about you, “did you need me for something? Your mother asked me to go to her room and retrieve the gift for your grandfather.”

“Leave her alone Ransom.”

“Shut up, Meg,” he said calmly, not bothering to spare her a glance. His hand went up to your cheek, his surprisingly soft fingers following the line of your jaw, then smearing the cherry lip you’d painted on this morning. He leaned forward slightly, “you know, the cheap shit smears like crazy…be a shame if you were meeting someone special and that happened.”

“Guess it’s a good thing that I’m not meeting anyone tonight then.” you reply softly, turning on your heel and walking back up the stairs. As you did, you could hear Meg and Marta laughing at him, going on about how he just got told he wasn’t worth your time, and that he was a slimeball. Secretly, while one part of you was proud for telling the spoiled rich boy off, the other was very much upset by it.

He was so gorgeous, and you weren’t positive, but it almost felt like he was flirting with you. And yet, you took hold of Marta’s warnings to just brush him off. Because he wasn’t worth it.

But why did it feel like he was?

Two days later he’d shown back up at the house for the annual Christmas eve dinner and then the party later. His attention was focused entirely on you, or so it felt like it. Meg and Marta were off on their normal activities, Marta being treated like the black sheep of the family by Walt, Richard, Joni, and Linda. Marta was seated next to Meg, and beside Harlan, who sat at the head of the table. Ransom was on the other side of him, and every chance he got it seemed like he was asking for you.

‘Anya, can you grab me new silverware? I don’t think Fran polished these correctly.’

‘Anya can you grab grandpa a new napkin? It fell on the floor!’ (he’d accidentally pushed it on the floor)

‘Anya, can you grab me another bottle of the red we were having? Lyle is far too slow on his feet and isn’t even keeping up with Joni’s drinks.’

That one earned Joni calling him a bastard, a glare from Lyle, and Harlan apologizing, asking if I would mind helping Lyle out.

To which every response gathered a curt, “of course sir.”

So Lyle stood at one end of the table, waiting on Walt and Joni’s family, while you watched after the Drysdales, Harlan,and Marta. You copied his actions, standing at the corner of the table. When someone needed a refill, you were quick to it, and Ransom was finding ways to get everyone to drink more wine.

That’s when you noticed the small touches to the back of your thigh when you came to fill the glasses. His soft, warm hand started just below the back of your knee, his hand well-hidden beneath the line of the table. But by the fourth time, no one seemed to care when his hand rode high on the back of your thigh.

Even Marta turned a blind eye.

But you continued on, holding firm to staying professional, even if the handsy young Drysdale clearly couldn’t see that line. It was better than Jacob glancing at you the way that he had been the whole week that Walt and his family had stayed at the Thrombey manor.

That was another thing you noticed.

After that day you’d first met Ransom, Jacob refused to look at you. It made you happy to have one less set of eyes critiquing everything you did.

But you couldn’t help but feel that was Ransom’s doing.

“Anya, dear…can you go to the wine cellar and get the bottle of 84’ Glenfarclas single malt scotch and a bottle of the Grace Family Cabernet. I think that’d be a great thing to toast with. Daddy, do you still have that?”

“84,” Harlan chuckled, “are you feeling nostalgic about something, Linda?”

“That was the year Ransom was born,” she smiled thoughtfully, touching her son’s shoulder, “and it was such a good year for the company…I just figured-“

“You just what, Lin,” Walt grumbled, cutting his sister off, “you trying to point dad in Ransom’s direction for some bullshit test of faith again?”

“Walt!” Harlan growled from the other end of the table. The two Thrombey men’s eyes met, and Walt looked away from his father. He turned to you, and his hand touched your wrist, “please be kind enough to grab the scotch and wine from the cellar, sweet girl?”

“Of course, Mr. Thrombey,” you smiled gently. He returned it, and you were quick to head through the doors, and down the steps to the wine cellar. A few moments later, you heard a set of footsteps coming down. You were shocked to see Ransom, “M-Mister Drysdale…what are you doing down here?”

“Figured I’d help you out,” he shrugged, heading down to one of the corners of the room. You followed him, and he walked right over to a section of reds, pulling a bottle out and putting it on the island, “your red.”

“Thank you, Mr. Drysdale.”

“Call me Ransom,” he offered, pulling a small box out of his pocket, putting it beside the bottle of red, “That’s for you, new girl.”

“Mr. Drysdal-“ But you stopped when his brow raised. You began to shake your head, automatically denying whatever gift he’d wanted to give you, “Ransom…you shouldn’t have gotten me anything, I coul-“

“I got it for you, now open it, Anya,” he said firmly, cutting you off. He slid the well-wrapped box towards you and you bowed your head, nodding. When you tore the paper off, you noticed it was a sleek black box with a folding lid. Flipping it up, you noticed the black oddly shaped tube. But you had recognized it. It was Louboutin and easily around a hundred dollars, “that stuff won’t smear…you know, in case you do meet someone special.”

You blushed and looked away, “thank you, Ransom.”

“Put it on.”

You raised your brow as you looked back to him, “what?”

“Put it on,” he chuckled softly, “You know…the party?”

He pulled out his phone and let you use the camera, watching you intimately as you applied it. When he put his phone away he took a few steps towards you. Your eyes met his as you bit your lip.

“Thank you, Ransom.”

He nodded, biting his own lip, “you look beautiful, Anya.”

And without much more he broke away from you, going over to another section in the cellar, and grabbing the bottle of scotch, before setting that too on the island. Then he slid past you, walking back up the stairs.

You’d stayed down there for another minute, not quite sure of what had just happened, but when Lyle came down the steps a few seconds later, you were quick to apologize, reminding him that you’d never been in the cellar before. He gave you a sympathetic smile as you came back into view with the two bottles, and then you went upstairs.

The toasts and dessert went off without a hitch, the rest of Lyle’s serving team showing up while you brought out the dessert plates. Meanwhile, when they took over, you couldn’t help but notice Ransom’s cold expression when you were replaced by Daisy, one of the girls with a very obvious crush on him.

You did, however, make yourself useful by going into the kitchen and helping the caterers prepare everything. And soon, the party was roaring to life. People from the publishing company, authors, and anyone of remote importance were showing up at the Thrombey mansion for the excuse to drink with one another. You’d noticed Daisy following him around like a lost puppy, getting him drinks, trying to make herself useful to anyone that was in his vicinity so that it wouldn’t seem like she was following him around, and even attaching herself to Marta and Meg at one point.

But Ransom’s attention seemed to be geared towards you the entire time, yet again. Any time you’d seen him, his demeanor was different. He would stand up a little bit straighter, laugh just a little bit louder, and joke and smile with the guests a little bit more. His eyes seemed to light up as you walked around, making yourself useful, whether it was by cleaning up the empty glassware and plates, walking around with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, or hiding in the kitchen and doing dishes, you made sure to stay busy.

And that’s when Ransom knew he was in love with you. In the exact moment where you were laughing at something Harlan said while offering the men around him something off the tray. Linda had come over to her son, “I take it she liked the lipstick if she’s wearing it.”

“Yeah…”

“your grandfather made sure to hang the mistletoe at the doorway of her room,” she laughed in a huff. Ransom was hardly paying attention to what his mom was saying as he watched her move along, weaving through the partygoers, “you know, if it was anyone else on the staff that you liked you know I’d disown you.”

“She’d be worth it in a heartbeat,” he muttered happily, “I think I’m in love with her, mom…”

“She’s like a diamond in the rough, I’ll give you that,” Linda shrugged, drinking her wine, “dad told me that she’s working her way through school…business school…her grades are impressive…”

Ransom’s eyes shot to his mother, “you were looking into her?”

“Of course I was,” she laughed, “it’s obvious how taken you are with her. Had to make sure my future daughter-in-law will keep our family on track.”

“Daughter-in-law?” Ransom asked, raising his brow, “sure you aren’t jumping the gun a little bit there, mom?”

“I know that look, Hugh Ransom Drysdale,” she said knowingly, “it was how my father looked at my mother. You love that girl and you’re not even seeing her…you know, daddy stole my mother away from another man…you’ve got that advantage…there’s only yourself standing in your way.”

“Yeah,” he nodded softly, thinking about his mother’s words as he watched you disappear into the kitchen once more, “I’m really good at that.”

“Would it help if I offered her a job at my company as a special Christmas present?”

A knock woke you from your slumber. Looking at your alarm clock you sighed. It was shortly after midnight. With a yawn, you slipped out of bed and into your fuzzy slippers, then opened the door.

Immediately the sleep left your body and you stood shock still as you looked at Ransom who was standing there in his pressed dress pants and cable knit sweater. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly regretting answering your door in nothing but a pair of sleep shorts and a cami, “Ransom. I-”

“Shut up,” he muttered, cutting you off. Before you could give him an angry response he pulled you into his arms, and your lips met in a sweet, but heated kiss. You felt your eyes close as you melted into it, and your hands grasped at his sweater. When he pulled away, you both were breathing heavily, “Merry Christmas, Anya.”

He pointed up and you noticed the mistletoe. You bit your lip and looked down, but he hooked a finger under your chin to press a lone kiss to your lips.

“D-do you want to come in?”

“God, yes!”

[creepyscritches]

Like, I grew up with a single parent who went MILES beyond expectations to secure me medical care and it was a horrible, demeaning process at every step! You could NOT "good behavior" your way to the system working. There were countless moving finish lines and a faceless wall of state insurance that did not care how often or how high they asked you to jump.

My father was not interested in paying for my health insurance after he dropped my mother and me like hot stones. So my mother did not have many choices when it became clear I was not well. I spent most of my early life undiagnosed and severely decompensated and, you guessed it, extremely suicidal. It wasn't until I was 26 or 27 that I experienced a day without pain, and I fought my way there the entire time.

I managed to graduate high school with honors, cords for the art honor society, and with all of my college-level English knocked out my senior year through dual-enrollement. I also taught intro level art at the high school, student-taught art at the middle school, student tutored trigonometry, and spent my remaining time in the art rooms completing the soldering on a giant stained glass installment we made for the school. Through this time, I also learned as many art techniques as I could (film photography and lost wax sculpture being my favorites). I also worked most holidays and school breaks in a kennel, spending 12 hour shifts handling non-social dogs.

By senior year, I was stashing coffee throughout my destinations each day. I was so tired I couldn't sit up. My body hurt, but doctors we could see would simply brush me off as a lazy teenager. I had a tumor under my tongue that kept returning and becoming more expensive to address. I had to lose a rear molar due to infection that eroded my jaw bone -- it took 2 years for the bone to regrow before I could entertain any options of replacing the tooth. I am 15. I am 16. I am 17.

I am 18. Despite having no money, I finally get some payoff for my efforts. I am awarded a full ride scholarship, I even get enough money back each semester to fully cover my books. I have to work a campus job as a part of the agreement and I spend 6hrs a week manning the liberal arts front desk between my +12hrs of classes. That's fine. I knew I was never going to have an easy road to education. I join the honors college and place my science + language credits there. My 7pm biology lab is the only reason I did not work my second job one day a week.

I am 18. I am working. I am learning. I am extremely ill but have been conditioned to call myself lazy, unmotivated, and the reason for my failures. I am not ill, not to me. I am 18. I work an overnight, 16 hour shift for Black Friday. I do not see family this year. My tumor returns. I quit my second job in December because I could not talk to customers after surgery. The doctor tells me I will have a scar as long as my jaw if it returns again.

I am 18. I am in pieces. My partner breaks up with me because I do not give them enough attention. I work until 10pm every day and spend the preceding 12 hours in rigorous college courses. Every day but my 7pm Biology lab, but I am too tired to spend time with someone that day. I do not have room in me to care about this now too. I finish my second semester and do not return. I cannot move my body and I cannot get accommodations because I cannot afford a diagnosis. I leave the full ride behind.

I am 19. I am supporting myself with freelance art. My body suffers deeply for this. I cannot get care. I find a chiropractor who will see me for $50 a visit and she saves me from killing myself if I'm honest. I begin teaching myself the ICD-9. I get certified and get a job the same month as my certification.

I am 20. I have moved out, my mother was moving as well. I am working, still sick. I cannot get care anywhere now as I am over 18, under 26, but my parent with insurance will not cover me. I work at my job for a year before I am fired for health complications. As a contractor, I did not get benefits or protections. This is just the way it is, they explain to me.

I am 21. I have picked up a new job, still contract over a year in despite the promise of full-time after 8 months. The job holds my insurance over my head like a carrot. I start to lose motion in my left arm. Pain now wakes me up on a nightly basis. I threaten to quit, they transition me from "external" to "internal" contractor. No benefits.

I am 21. I have forced my employer to hire me full-time. I am paid significantly less than my peers, despite experience. I get benefits. I pay $4000 out of pocket, but get my first diagnosis of narcolepsy. I do not get adequate medication until 4 years later.

I am 22. Physical therapy had been trying to fix my left arm, but things keep worsening. I receive a couple of painful steroid injections over my ulnar nerve (between the elbow). These do not work, so I am brought in for an ultrasound guided injection where the needle is woven between my bones and nurses physically hold me in place per protocol. This does nothing, but it is one of the most agonizing procedures I have ever had. I am rushed into a rheumatologist's roster after lesions in my bone marrow are found on MRI. The MRI took 3 attempts over a month as the pose required would reduce me to delirious levels of pain.

I am 22. I am told I have an autoimmune disease that has been running rampant for years. I begin oral chemotherapy. I vomit constantly. I do not improve. My doctor does not believe me when I say I cannot tolerate this medication. I do not get a name for my diagnosis, no matter how I press. I have multiple conditions submitted to insurance, but my doctor claims it is to get the different medications covered.

I am 27. I am accepted into Vanderbilt's cutting edge rheumatology department. I have SLE and my previous doctor's regimen had been consistently worsening my baseline condition. I am $15,000 in debt for medicine that ultimately was poisoning me.

I am 29 now. I have a body for the first time in my life. The opportunities I have now are unbelievable. The opportunities I missed are devastating. My body and health have been used as bartering chips my entire life. I am a "lucky" outcome. I cannot swallow this pill that this is the only way people can live here. No one will be demeaned like I was if I have any control over it. I will never minimize the incredible change the ACA brought to everyone here.

I cannot stress enough that the gap between "better than nothing insurance" and "no healthcare at all" is literally one big enough for your coffin. That is unacceptable, I refuse this. The only reason I have been motivated to learn the bureaucratic bullshit required for American health care is to shovel this gap closed, one shovel of dirt at a time. YEAH, I would love to be a middle school art teacher but I think I have been changed too much from these experiences to walk away from the state of American health care.

I find talent to help me and I protect it, elevate it, and encourage it to multiply. I have a mentor helping me do the same. I am learning the ACA industry still, mostly to identify problem points around me. I am 29, I am building like-minded spaces around me. I refuse to see another generation live like mine and those before. Sign up for the ACA.

Growing up pre-ACA radicalized me soooo much lol like I will not pander to arguments that deprioritize access to medical care at all as an adult

[bergandysam]

’*•.¸♡ 𝗖𝗘𝗢! 𝗗𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺 ♡¸.•*‘

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I wrote this over the course of a couple days. Very sleep deprived on some of the said days. sorry if it doesn't make sense!

Let me know if there should be anything else in the content warning. Or correct me if i'm wrong :))

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Gender-Neutral reader! Word count: 3.1k CW: Mention of unsupportive parents, insinuation of a bad ex, embarrassment, anxiety, cussing (Once)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It's fine. You're fine. Stop worrying. You've got this.

You're attractive, smart, and confident, and.. And.. fuck.

I'm gonna butcher this. It was only basically a life changing moment. If I got this job I could finally prove to my family and my ex my roommate that the 4 years at college was worth it. The endless nights… studying. God, I don't miss it. According to my parents, a computer science degree was a

“waste of your time! You could be studying liberal arts! Getting an english degree!! Become a teacher! Not some useless.. Computer.. Person. What are you going to do? Spend your life in a dark basement in “I.T.” ridiculous. Get a grip”

They had never supported anything I did that wasn't advised by them. They don't even know the title! “Some.. computer person” Please. Why can't they understand that computers are the future? This IS the future. Coders are more important now than they ever have been before.

My roommate, Karl, has been nothing but supportive. As expected from someone whose whole life is dependent on computers. But, I still feel like I have some point to prove to him. Like if I don't, all of the sleepless nights he spent helping me when I had to cram, comforting me when I got a grade that was less than perfect, forcing me to eat, shower, drink water, and take a break and have a day to myself, was all for nothing. I definitely wouldn’t be here without him.

“Um.. excuse me?” Looking up from my lap where my fidgeting hands had finally come to a stop. The receptionist, or is he a personal assistant? It’s hard to tell. He could be anyone. Whoever he is, he is deathly attractive, but also staring at me impatiently. I couldn’t help but stare back. Taking note of every detail I could find. His downturned brown eyes burning holes into my own as he waited for a response, his seemingly perfect eyebrows knitted together, the freckle on his left cheek which was very faint but noticeable. Which i'm sure if exposed to the sun would darken. Which leads me to his skin. Pale, and white. Almost paper white. I wonder how much he is truly exposed to the sun or if he is just always stuck in this god forsaken office. His cheeks were slightly rosy though. Cute. His lips, although thin, were full, almost. As if he was pouting. They were a pale pink, matching the rosiness of his cheeks. His hair. Gosh his hair. It was so fluffy and dark, it was hard to tell whether it was black or a deep brown in the lighting provided. I just wanted to run my hands through it and feel how soft it truly was. One thing stood out though. One annoying detail that I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

A piece of hair sticking up in the middle of his head. It looked so out of place compared to the cute, fluffy curls of everything else. It was embarrassing how hard it was to hold myself back from walking over to him and fixing it myself.

He coughed.

How long was I staring at him?

Standing up, I brushed myself off. Getting rid of any stray hairs or balls of material that had stuck to me. I took a hesitant step forward towards the man in front of me. He swung his arm out and motioned me to go into the main office. The whole reason I was here.

“He is ready for you. Don’t keep him waiting any longer. He will take your tardiness out on us” He mumbled the last part of his sentence not meaning for me to hear. He turned swiftly on his feet before speed walking back to his desk situated next to the elevator. He was very lanky. The black t-shirt he wore was… Baggy? His pants were black jeans, pairing them with his all black converse. Was I overdressed? Or was he too casual. Panic immediately started to rise within me. But the moment he sat down back at his desk, he looked at me once more sending a glare my way, annoyed I still haven’t made the effort to make my way towards the office.

I nodded at him. Turning slowly to take in the giant double doors in front of me. A bit extreme for a small hallway I think personally. I walked towards them and held the door handle. Do I knock? That'd be polite right? No but he's expecting you, he's aware of your presence so there is no need to. But what if he had gotten a phone call between the time of alerting the man behind the desk and now. But what if he gets annoyed at you for knocking. What if he finds the sound of knock-

Before I could even finish or process my thoughts, the door in front of me flew open. I stumbled slightly as the handle was torn from my grasp. I looked up and. Oh. Holy shit. Attractive was an understatement. The lanky dude behind the desk was attractive. The man in front of me was. God like? No, that would probably feed into his ego. Hot. Hot doesn’t describe it well enough. He was… Alluring. Alluring was the best way I could put it. He was lanky like the assistant (? I still don't know) but he was tall, and slightly bulkier. Broad shoulders, covered by a black dress shirt, that fit him oh too well, and a dark forest green vest. A silver chain was hung around his neck tucked underneath the shirt. It was barely visible, the intent to hide it was obvious. His jaw was- don't get me started. His eyes were an emerald green, matching his vest perfectly. But that was as far as I got before he started talking.

“You’re here for the interview aren't you?” Voice was like butter, it was smooth but had a slight rasp to it as if he hadn’t used it all day. I stared at him for a minute too long before nodding my head and muttering out a quick yes, my eyes meeting my shoes.

He hummed before taking a step back, opening the door wider. Silently asking for me to walk in and take a seat. I took a few steps forward, far enough for him to shut the door and walk around me to sit behind the desk.

His office was beautiful to put it simply. Simple but welcoming. The left wall had bookshelves lining the whole of the wall. The bookshelves wrapped around the wall behind me, only stopping once it reached the door. The back wall, if you could even call it a wall, was a giant window. Looking out upon the city of Orlando. The right wall was lined with computers, which I'll admit was a bit confusing. You'd think in an establishment like this, they would be able to afford a server room instead of keeping it in the bosses office. This room was the biggest liability. As if reading my mind, the gorgeous man sat at the desk in front of me, answered my question.

“We do have a server room. Just to let you know” I turned to look at him, mouth open like a fish. I’d close it if I could. But my body has betrayed me and I can't seem to control any part of me at this moment. He chuckled. God, that was hot.

“I could see the confusion on your face when you were looking at them… Don’t worry they don't hold any sensitive information” He was no longer looking at me, instead highlighting some papers in front of him. I nodded and cleared my throat before walking towards the desk, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down. He looked up at me through lidded eyes and chuckled again at my hesitancy to sit down. When will he stop doing that. Without a second thought, my mouth had opened and words came tumbling out.

“Genuine question. If you do have a server room, and the computers don't hold any sensitive information,” I pointed at the wall to my right. Which, now thinking about was stupid, what other computers could I possibly be talking about. “Why are they in your office. And how are they surviving the changes of temperature within your office? I wouldn’t say it's particularly cold here. Not how server rooms are meant to be anyways.” He paused, capping his highlighter and putting it down before looking back at me. His hands were clasped together in front of him as he leaned forward.

“I won’t lie. You’re the only person that has ever pointed that out. Besides George of course.” George? Who is George? He looked at the computers, before looking back at me with a smug smile sitting upon his face. “Decoys. To put it simply. I would say they’re for personal use but you seem too smart to fall for that.” His arms left the table before leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms. And lord do I wish he didn't. I couldn't help but stare at his arms as they pulled against his shirt. “They are real computers, yes, just before you question me about the blinking lights..” He paused and took a deep breath in. Contemplating what his next words would be. “... Why do YOU think I may have decoys displayed in my office?” he questioned me, the smug smile returning to rest on his face. I raised my eyebrows in shock, I knew this was an interview but I wasn’t expecting a question like this.

I shifted in my seat, before clearing my throat again. I looked down at my hands and started fidgeting with my fingers.

“Um. I mean one would assume the reason why anyone would have a decoy of.. Well anything. Would be to trick someone else into thinking that it was something that had importance.. And/or meaning. “ I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. I looked up. He no longer held a smug smile, nor did he have his arms crossed. But, his hands rested on his thighs and he held my gaze, silently urging me to continue talking. He was truly intrigued by what I had to say over such a simple question. I looked away back towards the computers. It was hard to keep eye contact when his eyes were so mesmerising. “In this case, the information stored within the computers in the server room are sensitive and are at risk of being exposed to people who don't need said information. So, decoys are displayed in your office, to trick anyone who comes through, to believe you were idiotic enough to keep your servers out in the open for anyone to access.” I was going to continue but thought against my better judgement. I looked back at the man at the desk. Instead of being serious, as he was mere moments beforehand. He looked… amused? My eyes widened as I realised what I had just said.

“Not- no uh- not that i was calling you idiotic sir! I was just uh… it was more an.. Um. example? Of what others may think? Not that i think people think you're idiotic!-” he had cut me off when he started to laugh.

Oh my god. I just called my possible future boss idiotic and he started laughing at me. I cowered in my seat, sinking lower. This was the most embarrassing thing to happen all day.

Tears were pricking the corner of his eyes as he continued to laugh. Once he opened them and saw how embarrassed I had become. He started to calm down. I straightened the way I was sitting, fidgeting with my hands once again.

He cleared his throat and sat up straighter himself. Hands crossed, he leaned against the desk once again.

“I would like to apologise for laughing at you. Truly. It had just… caught me off guard. I haven't laughed like that in weeks.” A soft smile sat upon his face staring at me with glossy eyes, still teary from his burst of laughter. “Other than your comment about idiocy. You were spot on. You’re right when you say that they’re there to trick people into thinking that they hold sensitive information. Although it seems obvious to people like you and George, many fall for it. I can't explain how many people we have caught tampering with the computers here at 2 am.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair as he huffed. Obviously annoyed with the thought of how many people had tried to take him down. He brought up George again. Who is George?

“I do have another quick question..” He looked away from the computers and back at me. Nodding his head slightly to indicate he was willing to listen to what I had to say.

“You… you keep bringing up someone named George. Who is George? if you don't mind my asking” I spoke quietly and nervously. If he did end up hiring me. I don’t know how I will be able to cope. Maybe I should have missed the interview today. I would be fine with disappointing everyone around me if it meant I wouldn’t have to deal with seeing his face every day.

He smiled upon hearing my question. Almost eager to talk about his best friend.

“George was the man that greeted you outside my door. He’s my best friend and employee.” He continued to smile as the confusion was slowly cleared off of my face. I nodded slowly before looking around the room again awkwardly. A couch sat opposite the bookshelf, a small round table sat next to the couch, a book left open, a corner of the page doggy eared, making me cringe inwardly. Turning back around to the man in front of me, did I only notice how cluttered his desk was. There was a lamp sitting on the corner of the left side of the desk. A monitor sitting opposite on the right side. Papers were scattered across his desk, a multitude of folders towering slightly on a tray sat next to his lamp. Pens and highlighters littered his desk, some without caps. The ones that were capped were very obviously on the wrong pen. The man followed my eyes, soon noticing himself how messy his own desk was.

“Oh my... i'm so sorry i didn’t realise how messy things had become” He quickly picked up all of the papers, stacking them neatly and pushing them to the side. Before scooping up all of the pens and highlighters, capping them correctly and disposing them into a cup that had sat next to his monitor. He looked at me sheepishly, sticking his arm out in front of me. I grabbed his hand and shaked, assuming that is what he was asking of me.

“Clay, my name is Clay. Apologies yet again. This Interview has been somewhat of a disaster.” I shook my head and smiled, retreating my arm and telling him my own name. Clay… that's a really nice name. Genuinely,

He smiled, an amused expression on his face yet again.

“I am aware of your name. It was on your resume and application” A goofy grin was on display. Blush seeped up the back of my neck, settling in the tips of my ears. I was thoroughly embarrassed.

“Oh right.. Sorry. I forgot you had access to that.” I rubbed the back of my neck taking a few deep steady breaths to calm myself down.

“Don’t worry about your desk, by the way. Trust me when I say I have seen worse.” He laughed slightly and shook his head, amused. He stopped abruptly, face turning into a hard expression. Suddenly becoming serious.

“Look uh. We have run out of time for the interview today.” His voice no longer sounded smooth, but was gravelly almost. “You took your time entering my office and kept me waiting.” Oh god. Here it is. He’s going to reject my application. Panic immediately settled in my stomach. It began churning, I felt like I was going to throw up at any second. Why was he suddenly stoic. Did I do something? Was I mucking around? I didn't mean to if I was. I thought I was pretty calm. He took a deep breath in. The anxiety was like a volcano. It felt like it was about to erupt. The shaking being the voices of worry filling my mind, the lava rising being the anxiety attack that was slowly settling in.

“But. Considering you did take notice of the computers, and questioned me about them instead of just ignoring them. And you did answer the one question I did ask you.”

Here it comes. Any moment now. He’ll break the news and tell me to get out.

“I will keep in touch with you” what? “I will let you know if you have gotten the job in around a week's time.” Oh. My. God. The volcano inside slowly started dying. The shaking coming to a stop, the lava settling back down into the pool of my stomach.

He pushed the chair back from his desk and stood up walking towards the door. I followed suit, not wanting to keep him waiting any longer than I already had. When I had reached him he stuck his hand out waiting for me to shake it once again. I gripped his hand firmly and shook. Feeling more confident now than I had all day.

“Thank you for taking time out of your day to interview me sir. Even if it wasn’t the interview either of us were hoping for.” He nodded, smiling slightly at my words, the smile didn't last long before it returned to the position it was previously in. He reached to open the door, stepping back in the process to make room for me to leave.

“Of course. Until next time. We’ll keep in touch.” He responded bluntly, looking at me once more before shutting the door the moment I left the office. What the fuck kind of interview was that? I looked around the room, my eyes settling on the man I now know as George. He rolled his eyes before nodding his head at me. I nodded back, swallowing the bump that had found its way into my throat. Making my way to the elevator I thought about everything that had happened today. Only one detail sticking out more than the others.

How attractive Clay was.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I'm not the best at writing and contemplated uploading this, so I hope you enjoyed whatever it was lol. - Birdy

[ggukiepie]

you win some, you lose some

pairing: jungkook x reader

summary: you're supposed to be happy because your school's soccer team just won, but why does it feel like you've lost?

tags: bil!couple, college!au, bff!jk, two idiots in love, angst, yes oc is a cheerleader so we luv her for that, a lot of cliches, pining, it's the yearning?

warnings: slight emotional cheating?, other than that nothing really, sfw

wc: 1.1k

a/n: sorry this took to long but here is another one shot of the lovely bil!couple !! enjoy but this time it's angst, wrote this so quickly lmao so if there are any typos either look away or tell me thank yew / series masterlist / main masterlist

--

Kim Jiwoo.

You want to hate her, really, even just from the sound of her name. But you can’t. Because, well, she seems better than you in every way possible. She’s a cheerleader, not like you who’s only a member (you’re too busy being President of the student council, anyway), but she’s the captain. She’s flexible and is small enough to be a flyer so she’s always on the top of the pyramids. She’s got that leadership trait to her and a smile that looks so kind that everyone instantly likes her. You hate how she would give you pointers to correct your form and you hate it even more that she’s right most of the time.

She’s really smart, too, with good grades even though she’s taking up physics which is a difficult course. You’re a liberal arts student and despite the stereotype of college courses not being true, you hate how that’s still what you believe. That she’s better than you. But you like to tell yourself that a physics degree is the easiest of the pre-med degrees out there, so maybe she isn’t that smart. Maybe.

She’s pretty, one of the most beautiful girls in your university. She’s got a lot of friends and a lot of suitors.

She’s everything you are, but better. Or she’s everything you want to be. That’s what you think anyway.

There's also another thing she has that you don't. And that’s Jeon Jungkook’s heart.

Okay, so maybe you do hate her. Or you’re just bitter. Daresay…jealous?

You’re at the soccer field right now. It’s the semi-finals and as everyone loves the soccer team, the place is packed. It’s also against your rival school so this game is very important. You’re at the side with the rest of the cheerleading team. You’re drinking water and taking a quick break, as the rest are doing the same. Except Kim Jiwoo. She’s standing on the sidelines, pompoms raised in the air while cheering for the team.

Actually, she’s just cheering for Jungkook. She’s wearing his jersey too and it’s the jersey Jungkook gave you before, the one he told you to wear during his game and seeing her wear it now makes your heart clench a little. (Correction: a lot).

“Hi,” you hear from behind you and it makes you scream and jump in the air. You’re being dramatic but Jungkook knows how easily you get scared.

“Kook!” you scold as you turn to face him. You punch his shoulder and he pretends he’s hurt but you know he isn’t. Stupid gym rat with a stupid hot body. “Stop creeping up on me like that.”

He laughs and proceeds to enter your room, sitting on your bed like it’s his and he actually lives there. “Sorry, just needed to get something from you.”

You stare at him weirdly. Anything of his that’s left in your dorm has become yours, actually. From his shirts to his snacks and even to that one laundry detergent he left last week. “Which is?” you ask.

“My jersey.”

Your brows crease. “But why? It’s your game next week and I’m gonna wear it, duh.”

“Need to give it to Jiwoo,” he says now, voice mumbled and eyes on the floor.

Immediately, your stomach drops. You thought you had a right to wearing that shirt and that you’re the only one who could wear it, in fact! But you guess your best friend privileges only go so far. Right. He’s been dating that Jiwoo girl for around a month now and you hate it when you spot them on the quad sending heart eyes at each other. You don’t know why the sight of them makes you feel so uneasy. Or maybe you do know but thinking it out loud will only confirm your feelings, which is something you aren’t ready to face yet.

“Right,” you say after a beat. The air feels awkward now. So tense and quiet, filled with unspoken words. But who are you to deny him, anyway? It’s his shirt. Kim Jiwoo is his girlfriend and you’re just the best friend.

You give him the jersey and ask him to leave, coming up with some excuse that you have a paper to do. Jungkook knows you’re lying because you both share a Google calendar and you put all your homework there and he knows you don’t have an upcoming paper to submit. Still, he doesn’t say anything as he leaves.

Your heart hurts and you decide right there and then that you never ever want to see Jeon Jungkook.

A yellow card is given to the opposing team and a timeout is called. Jungkook and the rest of his teammates jog over to the side you’re at. He’s making his way to where the water is but Jiwoo intercepts his path and gives him a hug. Jungkook looks happy and that makes you want to cry.

You continue to watch their interaction before you turn around and make a beeline for the bathroom. You already feel tears prickling at the corner of your eyes and you do not want to cry in front of the whole school, or in front of Jungkook.

Eventually, the game resumes and you try not to seethe and stare at Jiwoo wearing Jungkook’s jersey all throughout the game. But it’s hard because she’s standing in front of you most of the time. Your school wins and everyone is screaming and shouting. You want to be happy, you really do, but your heart breaks even more as Jungkook runs to Jiwoo, hugging her and spinning her in circles in front of everyone. He kisses her too and you know you’re definitely tearing up. You hate yourself for it. Because who are you to feel this way, really?

Jimin’s just as happy since his team won but his smile immediately drops when your eyes meet and he sees you’re near tears. Without a word his gaze drifts to where Jungkook and Jiwoo are. Then he turns to you and gives a small and sympathetic smile. You’re supposed to be happy because your team’s won but it feels like you’ve lost.

You hate it. You hate that you’re here and you hate that it hurts. You hate that you’re too late, or that you never even had a chance to begin with. You hate that she’s wearing his jersey when it’s supposed to be you. You hate that she’s kissing Jungkook when it’s supposed to be you.

You turn around to get your things and leave without saying goodbye to anyone. You don’t know Jungkook’s looking for you and you don’t know that his heart drops when he sees you leaving the field without congratulating him.

He wishes that you’re the one in his arms instead, but you don’t know that as well. Maybe you never even will.

[jincherie]

say so | knj & ksj [m]

! —  COMMISSION  — !

❥ — pairing: namjoon x reader x seokjin ❥ — genre: poly, 1950s au/rockabilly au, smut, childhood f2l, angst, fluff, musician!namjin, burlesque!mc ❥ — words: 24.5k+ ❥ — rating: 18+ ❥ — warnings: light angst, pining, smut !!!; oral (all kinds), anal, fingering, squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, light switch!joon, light switch!oc, harder dom!jin, double pentration, cockwarming, reverse cowgirl etc.... if I forgot sometihng I will add it later but for now this is it fellas. ❥ — notes: oh my god I am FINALLY ejecting this fic from my brain !!! part of the reason this took so long was, of course, the current circamstances across the world mixed in with a few personal factors, but also because I haven’t written a ‘historical’ fic before and I wanted to make sure I got it right ! of course, that somehow ended with me going way over word count so i am so sorry for that, but i truly hope you like it! I haven’t gone over it yet but i will do that later, i just wanted to post and get this fic out of my asshole

Returning to your hometown for a week is something you’ve managed to avoid for three years, but when you can finally put it off no longer you find upon arrival the very thing you were scared of encountering. When the two famous childhood friends you haven’t spoken to in years have returned at the same time as you, you can’t quite tell whether you’re going to be able to make it out in one piece or emerge with a heart more wounded than before.

Especially since it turns out the feelings you thought you were over never quite went away.

— masterlist |  posted; 17.08.2020

You didn’t really expect to find yourself back here so soon, but here you are— everything in your room is in exactly the same state as it was three years ago.

The covers on your bed, the magazine cuttings, faded posters and hand-painted canvases that mark the phases of your youth hung on your wall—even the light-toned floral wallpaper and the little knickknacks atop your dresser are the same. It makes something like nostalgia rise within you, a reminiscent haze filtering through your thoughts. It has been too long since you’ve been back here, and the guilt that always lingers in the back of your mind now pushes its way to the forefront. You feel bad, not having been back to your childhood home in so long, despite the reasons you had for moving away.

You haven’t been here all that long, but as soon as you finished talking with your parents downstairs your feet had carried you here, more out of habit that anything. Absentmindedly, you brush your hand over the oak of your dresser, curious when your fingertip comes back without a single speck of dust. Your mother must have come through often to clean. The realisation both warms your heart and compounds the guilt you feel, making you frown.  In an effort to distract yourself, you turn your gaze back to the rest of your old room, catching sight of a few photographs plastered above your study desk. You know what they contain, and still you can’t seem to help yourself as you draw closer and peer at them anew. They’re just as familiar to your eyes as you expected.

Of course, in this house you’d be lucky to find a photograph of you that didn’t also have these two in it. 

Your eyes skip over the older ones with yellowing glaze and curled corners to focus on the most recent-looking image, drinking in the two boys you’d spent the entirety of your childhood and teen years with. Easily your best friends, until… well, until three  years ago. A fond smile fights its way to your lips; you remember when this was taken. Your mother had lined the three of you up for a photo in the yard but at the very last second they’d pushed you into the pool. Both boys stand tall in the image, but you’d recognise the taller one with the goofy grin anywhere, even if his face wasn’t already plastered across newspapers and featuring on the television every other evening. Namjoon is just as boyish in the image as you recall, and next to him where they stand laughing over the pool is Seokjin, appearance every bit as neat and clean as you’ve glimpsed in recent years when he has featured in a magazine or program that is particularly popular with the youth. It was always a bit weird to you, a little hard to process, that the two boys you’ve known since the three of you were in diapers are now pretty much, well… celebrities. Something bubbles in your chest, the pressure of a sigh but the weight of something you’re not quite ready to name yet. Distantly, in the back of your mind, a tiny part of you whispers that it tastes a little like regret, and sounds a little like yearning.

Growing up, the two of them had discovered an affinity for music, and you for the arts. You suppose that small difference is what eventually led to the distance that grew between you, before you left— if not for the fact that they found the limelight so naturally and built popularity quicker than anticipated after their individual musical debuts. It really didn’t take them all that long to begin steadily growing their fanbase within the youth of your town, their songs played more and more often on local stations. Before long people even a few cities over caught wind of them, but you didn’t get to see it. By the point they had spread their wings that far, you were already gone.

You wrinkle your nose, not liking this sudden trip down a particular lane in your memory that you’ve been avidly avoiding the past three years. Taking a step back from the desk that the photographs hang above, you desperately search for something else to capture your attention. Fortunately for you, a voice sounds behind you before you can flounder too long.

“Wow, I can’t believe you actually came. How long has it been, forty years?”

You jump slightly, the familiarity of the voice and sheer amount of attitude in the words allowing you to recognise it instantly. You spin, eyes quickly locking onto the familiar head of straight blonde hair and cherubic features that belong to your sister. You’ve kept in touch with her via letter and the occasional call, but other than that this is the first time you’ve seen her in years. She’s a little bit taller than you remember, and she’s filled out a little more now that she’s no longer a gangly teen. You are surprised though to note the absence of the usual distressed denim that she favoured throughout the years. Instead she’s in a neat pair of capris that rise to the dip of her waist, where she has tucked in a bright red blouse beneath a belt. Out of habit, you look down to her feet and catch a glimpse of red canvas shoes that instantly make you want to laugh; your mother never could get her into a pair of heels, even if she managed to get her out of the dungarees that she used to love so much.  Lisa smiles cheekily beneath your scrutiny, opening her arms wide. With a laugh, you throw your own around her, pulling her into a tight hug. 

“You’re so dramatic,” you retort, rolling your eyes even though she can’t see it. “Of course I would come to celebrate my own sister’s engagement. I had to see it with my own eyes to believe it.”

“Why does everyone say the same thing when I talk about it?” Lisa groans, pulling back with a familiar pout that seems to have survived her transition into young adulthood. She slips her arm through your own,  giving your bicep a smack as she leads you from the room. “It’s not that hard to believe that I’m getting married! Also— what on earth have you been up to all these years? Have you been attending classes? You’re in such good shape, oh my goodness—”

Unwittingly, your cheeks flush; you probably shouldn’t tell her the real reason for your current physique lest she blab with champagne-loosened lips about it to the rest of your family at her party. Sober Lisa is the only one that knows how to keep a secret, as you’ve found out through a number of shamefully scrawled confessions in the letters she would send you. A number of things you’d confided in her over the years have since been aired like dirty laundry to some of her friends, much to your mutual regret.

“Uh, yeah. Something like that,” you say dismissively, quickly returning to the previous topic as the two of you descend the stairs. “And it’s probably because of all those things you said when you were younger, like how you’d rather live in a mud hut on a deserted island than ever marry a smelly boy riddled with cooties—”

“Ah, yes,” Lisa sighs, the sound more fond and less ashamed than you were expecting. “Those were the days— I was such a badass little ankle-biter. What has become of me? I must be the one riddled with cooties at this point.”

“Probably,” you muse, catching sight of your mother behind the kitchen counter and shooting her a smile as you move past. Lisa is lucky she hadn’t spoken too loudly or else she’d be getting a light smack for her language. It never seemed to stop her when she was younger though, so you doubt it would have an effect now either.

“A skirt at the knee, y/n?” Your mother lets out a dramatic, scandalous gasp upon seeing you. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“These are the clothes that you greeted me in?” You give her a pained look; apparently you need readjusting to her oddball sense of humour. She’s always been a little out of place in the straight-laced, conservative society that marks this day and age; your father too, except he was just a bit more sneaky about it. Actually, now that you think about it, Namjoon and Seokjin’s parents were always a little more on the liberal side too… What an odd coincidence that the three families ended up in a row at the end of the same cul-de-sac.

You’re not deigned with a response, your mother smacking her hands onto the apron she has tied over her baby blue skirt and turning to the oven. You think you hear her muttering about ‘time’ and ‘darn apple pies always taking too long to cook’ and can’t help the way your mouth waters in response. Gods, is it bad if one of the things you missed the most while away is the apple pies your mother makes?

You turn to Lisa, about to ask her whether the apple pie is something you’re going to be able to steal a piece of, only to find that she’s disappeared into thin air. Fantastic. You’re not staying here while you’re back in town, so you’re unsure whether you’re going to be able to cash in on dinner or whether your mother will hold it over your head a little first. You wander over to the  edge of the kitchen, sticking your head into the living room to peer around; you’re curious as to just how much has changed in the time that you’ve been gone. Not as much as you might have hoped, to your chagrin.

“You still have that ugly old thing,” you observe, unable to help the way that your nose wrinkles in response to the sight of the monstrosity still wearing holes into the carpet of the living room.

“My love,” you mother says, giving you an (affectionate) sharp smack on the shoulder as she slips past you, shooting you a bright grin when the thickness of her skirt knocks you slightly. Apparently she’s finished in the kitchen for now; you glance back to see a bowl of nuts joining the bowl of fruit that had been on the counter earlier. “I’d sooner perish than give up your grandmother’s armchair. Besides…. I do so adore how it never fails to draw your ire.”

“I do hate that thing,” your father utters suddenly from the kitchen behind you, his hand reaching for the bowl of fruit; he has his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, so you figure he must have retired to his study to read after greeting you earlier. He moves just as fast as you remember— your mother didn’t even have a chance to stop him before he was gone as quick as he came, hands full of whatever fruit he couldn’t fit in his mouth. 

“You—!” 

The sound of your father’s laughter tumbles off the walls, and you can’t help the smile that tugs your lips. You did miss this; the liveliness, the feeling of home. 

“y/n, dear, darling, light of my life…”

You turn to your mother, already knowing what is coming next from her tone. One thing you definitely didn’t miss—

“I forgot when I went past earlier, but could you go and fetch some cream from Barb’s? You know, that little store on the corner, down the road from the diner you always used to—”

You’re already turning towards the front of the house, heading for where you’d left your purse with a fond roll of your eyes. “I know where Barb’s is, Ma! I only went away to study, I didn’t lose my memories!”

Your mother’s cheeky laugh is what bids you farewell as you duck out the door and start on your way.

X – x – x

You’d forgotten just how tempting the treats in Barb’s are.

When you exit the small corner store around an hour or so later (it was hardly any distance to walk, but of course Mrs. Park was keen to hold you hostage long enough to squeeze every single detail out of you she could about your time away) it’s with an overflowing paper bag in your arms that holds more than just the cream your mother sent your for. One look at the apple Danish pastries and cinnamon-sprinkled goodies behind the glass of her counter and you’d been unable to help yourself. Your mother did always say that your sweet tooth would be your undoing. 

Walking through the streets that you grew up becoming so familiar with breeds a certain kind of yearning that swells in your chest and borders on painful. This, you suspect, is because most— if not all— of your memories of this place are intrinsically linked with those of the two men who used to take up such a big part of your life; and that therefore then left such a big hole when they were gone. 

It’s hard not to fall into them, the memories. The candy store where the three of you would scrounge up as many coins as you could and pile them all together to get the best sweets on the shelves; the library where you spent as much time goofing off and getting scolded as you did studying in your senior years; even the drive-in cinema, where you used to take your parents cars for the evening and sit on the hood while poking fun at the latest flick to grace the screen. Being back here is making you face something that you have somehow skilfully managed to avoid up until now—

You miss them, Seokjin and Namjoon. You miss your best friends.

This is something that is hammered home further when you reach the point in your journey home where you pass the place featured most in your memories. Dana’s Dinery, probably the only thing more constant in your life than those two boys and your own family. The pink and red hues of its name and the exposed bulbs decorating the signage are something you remember clear as day, and just the sight of it alone has your mouth watering for the burgers and other fried goods they loved to serve there. The kind of food you know is terrible for you, but that you also just can’t get enough of nonetheless. You’ve spent so many nights there that at some point every single member of staff there knew you by name. Of course, since the three of you were barely seen apart at that time, they knew Seokjin and Namjoon, too. 

You’re tempted to duck in and say hello, and before you can even give it much thought your feet are already angling you in that direction, short heels scuffing against the pavement. Through the window you can see the familiar shiny red booth seats and the similarly upholstered stools that line the counter; behind it is a woman with wild, dark curls thrown back in a bun, a pencil behind her ear. Ah, so Mrs. Cara still works there. A petal of affection unfurls in your chest at the sight of her, but drops to the ground in the next second as your gaze slides to the side and halts on two figures currently seated at the counter.

No way. No way.

You freeze, eyes wide as you stand rooted to the spot for just a moment. You know that logically, they can’t be here, but the profiles you can just barely glimpse from this distance are so eerily familiar to that of Namjoon and Seokjin that you think your heart skips perhaps one too many beats. For some reason, your stomach roils with the urge to flee; you just got around to admitting that you miss them, and yet the second you think you might be seeing them, you want to run away? Honestly, it doesn’t make sense—wouldn’t make sense to anyone else privy to the thoughts currently whipping through your mind. 

But you’re a master at stewing in your own thoughts and feelings, familiar with dissecting them until you understand them to the best of your ability at the time. So you know why you promptly turn on your heel and begin hastily back on your way home, abandoning any plans to go inside the diner. You know why, but you’re not quite ready to dwell on it yet, so you push it to the backburner and do your very best not to think about it the whole walk back.

X – x – x

You’re ashamed.

A huff escapes you, your eyes boring into the ceiling, unfocused. After delivering the cream to your mother (and promptly having the extra sweets confiscated until after dinner, lest you snack away your appetite—you guess that answers your question about whether you’re staying for supper) you decided to retire up here for now. You’d thought that your room might feel a little alien to you after all this time away, but when you’d dragged yourself in and shucked your shoes off at the door, it had welcomed you back with an air of nostalgia and open arms. You’re sprawled across your bed now, arms behind your head as you stare at the ceiling. When you were younger, maybe fourteen, you had decorated it with little stars and planets that you’d painted. Well, it wasn’t just you—some of the more crudely decorated renditions towards the wall are courtesy of Seokjin and Namjoon. You wouldn’t say they’re bad at art, just that they have… well, a distinct style that is very them.

Wait, you’re getting distracted—back to the matter at hand: you’re ashamed. 

At this point in your life, if someone had asked you why that particular emotion might be plaguing you right now, then in all honesty you would have a vast array of reasons to give them. But the answer as to why you’re ashamed right now, lies in the two people you could have sworn you glimpsed earlier. 

Now that there is a little temporal distance between you and that particular moment, you can use logic to assure yourself that there’s no way you actually just saw Namjoon and Seokjin at the diner that you all used to haunt in your youth. But in the moment, when you thought you’d seen them, you fell into a bit of a panic. This, you have determined, is because you are ashamed. It’s a little harder to determine why you’re ashamed in relation to them, but what you’ve managed to discern so far is that you feel to blame for the way things went, at least partially. Or, perhaps its that you fear they blame you for the way things went. In reality, from what you remember, they first began to grow apart from each other, and then they began to grow apart from you. That, of course, isn’t something you can blame yourself for. But, what you can blame yourself for – and here is what you think may be the root of your shame – is that you were the one to up and leave suddenly. You were the one to disappear without even a goodbye, almost. You could have kept in touch if you tried, but you’d basically disappeared off the face of the earth.

You wonder if they blame you, or if they might even resent you because of that.

Well, if they even remember you, that is. They’re pretty much in the big leagues now, you remind yourself. They’re making it mainstream and they’re hot on the heels of the most renowned names in the business. 

You’re not very good at comforting yourself. Not that you really attempted it this time, but usually whenever you do you just end up stewing in your thoughts a little. You don’t even realise you’re glaring at the ceiling in the midst of sorting through your mental mess until a knock at the door jerks you out of it. You turn towards it just as it opens and a head pops inside, a gleam you instantly decide you don’t like shining in Lisa’s eyes.

“Come downstairs,” she says cryptically, beginning to ease back out. She only chimes once more when she’s out of view. “If you don’t, I’ll eat all those pastries you brought back! Keep that in mind!”

What on earth… you’re left absolutely confused for a moment, before her last words sink in and you throw yourself from your bed with haste, not even bothering to put your shoes back on before you dart out of the room. The trip downstairs is treacherous in stockings, but you don’t have time to lose. You’re sister isn’t one to bluff, and you don’t want her anywhere near those pastries!

“Don’t you touch those!” you call in warning as you slide across the hardwood floor in the hall and fly down the stairs. “Lisa, I mean it! If you lay a single finger on those pastries you’ll lose it!”

There’s laughter in the direction of the kitchen, and you’re angled to follow the sound when your eyes catch sight of movement to the side and you freeze on the spot. 

“y/n!” your mother cries, clearly ecstatic that you’ve come down to join her. She’s standing in the hall that leads the front door, talking to some people you can’t yet see. “Look who’s here! My, I haven’t seen these two in almost as long as I hadn’t seen you!”

Something like dread, mixed with an odd spike of anticipation, begins to trickle into your abdomen. All too suddenly you remember exactly who you thought you saw earlier, and realise she can only be talking about two people in particular. 

Nervously, you smooth down your skirt and blouse, shooting your mother a look that you hope isn’t too panicked. She is, of course, oblivious, and simply grabs you by the arm to drag you around the corner. 

“I haven’t seen the three of you together in so long! I missed your handsome faces around here, too. Perhaps the height as well— now there’s no one in the house that can reach the top shelf in the pantry.”

Your mother is babbling, but you can’t bring yourself to mind when it saves you from having to speak yourself. As you’d feared, there are two very familiar people standing before you, hovering on your doorstep with almost nervous energy.

“It has been a while,” a soft tone with the luxurious depth of velvet— Seokjin smiles so charmingly at your mother that you think your heart really might have stopped for a second. When his dark eyes turn to you, there is something swirling in their depths that is in such contrast to the winning smile on his lips that you almost feel your knees shake. “y/n, it’s a lovely surprise to catch you here— we didn’t know you were in town as well.”

“Oh, and what brings you two boys back here?” Your mother asks, all too excited to hear exactly what has been going on in their lives since she saw them last. Thankfully, she saves you from having to answer straight away. “Are you back for long?”

“Just a week,” Namjoon answers, bashful smile juxtaposing the beaten leather of the jacket over his shoulders and the low, rough melody of his voice. Oh dear— “We’re actually here celebrating something with a close friend of ours; we were invited to a… party of sorts, you could say.”

You think you might be safe, that he might not say anything to you just yet, when he turns to you and his eyes flick along your form. He smiles again, this time with his dimples making an appearance. 

“It really has been too long, y/n. I’m glad we managed to run into you.”

You know it’s not a dig at you, but you feel your cheeks flush with shame nonetheless.

“Don’t tell me the three of you haven’t seen each other since she left,” your mother gasps, sending you a look that tells you she is going to be wringing information out of you later.

There’s a slight lull in the conversation that tells you it’s your time to chime in. Before you can, though, Seokjin speaks— still with a smile, despite the slight bite of his words. 

“Ah, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. He leans back slightly, switching his weight to the other leg and crossing his arms over his chest— you try not to look at the way it makes his chest and shoulders strain against the material of his button-up. “We wanted to write, or call, but we didn’t know where she was staying to send it. Made it a little hard to keep in touch.”

Your heart squeezes; that was a dig, that was definitely a dig. And you deserved it, but damn you didn’t realise it would hurt that much. And he hadn’t even said anything direct!

“Oh, well this is perfect then!” Your mother smacks you on the back, a little rougher than necessary, making you cough. “y/n is here for the week, why don’t you all catch up? Lisa’s engagement party is on Saturday so any day other than that should be fine— oh, you two should come, by the way! And invite your mothers too; it’s been too long since we’ve all sat down for tea.”

“That would be wonderful,” Namjoon agrees amicably, nodding his head to your mother. “I’m sure they’d love to take you up on that invite— I did get an earful about how lonely she was when I got home earlier.”

You have to fight a smile at that— Namjoon’s mother does have a penchant for the dramatics. You turn your gaze to the side to find Seokjin’s own already boring holes into you— it takes all your willpower not to jump. When he sees he has your attention, he smiles once more.

“We’d love to catch up,” he says, eyes still holding you captive. “How about dinner tomorrow, at Dana’s? I miss the burgers there.”

You catch Namjoon nodding from the corner of your eye, agreeing with the idea, and swallow your nerves down to flash a smile back. “Of course, that sounds fantastic.”

The two men nod, satisfied for now, and Namjoon pipes up once more as they take a step back.

“Well, we should probably get back— if we’re late for supper today we mightn’t be alive for dinner tomorrow,” he jokes, earning a laugh from your mother. His eyes flick to you, unreadable but holding such heat you almost gasp, “We’ll meet you there at seven tomorrow, y/n. I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

“See you, boys!” Your mother waves farewell, jabbing you with her elbow until you join her. “Hurry home!”

They nod with a laugh, and you watch them retreat to their respective homes on either side of yours until your mother closes the door and cuts off your view, turning to you with a look that could mean a number of things. She’s distracted from unleashing a verbal flood on you in the next moment, however, when she catches sight of your feet.

“y/n!” she gasps, tone scolding. “Go put your shoes on! Walking around without them— this isn’t how I raised you, my goodness. You’re going to wear holes in your stockings! Go go go!”

Startled by the way she raises her arm in promise, you yelp and scamper away, back towards the stairs. “Okay, I’m going!”

You’re about halfway up the stairs, petticoat and skirt swishing violently from how fast you scaled them, when she calls after you.

“And don’t think you’re off the hook, missy! You and I are having a long, in-depth chat after dinner!”

You can only resign yourself to your fate.

x - x - x

“I’m in trouble, Mina. Oh, I’m in trouble.”

“It can’t be anything more than the trouble you’re going to be in for wearing holes into the hotel room carpet— stop that! You’re making me anxious!”

You halt mid-pace, sending your friend a pained look. She’s sprawled across the second bed in your hotel room, reading some magazine that touts the latest in makeup and jewellery from some of the more big-name brands.

“Please, just this once, let me be the one having a Diva moment,” you say, almost begging— to your own distaste. You just need someone to vent to, but she’s not exactly being helpful.

“What is this about?” she asks, closing her magazine to pin you with a borderline-grumpy look. “What has your knickers in such a— oh, I love those shorts! Are those new?”

“Uh, yeah. I bought them the other week,” you answer, looking down at the light blue shorts you’d slipped into for comfort’s sake this morning. They’re so comfortable, in fact, that you regret that you’re unable to wear them in public. You quickly shake your head when you realise you’re getting off-topic. “Hey— I told you what this is about! Did you listen to a single thing I said since I got back last night? Do I mean nothing to you?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Mina utters under her breath. “Yes, I was listening! I was just checking we were talking about the same thing!"

The look you give her is dubious at best, "Okay, then what am I talking about?"

"Those two hot cats you grew up with," Mina says, waving her manicured hand dismissively. "What about them is giving you such grief?"

"I ran into them yesterday," you say, eyes unfocused as you fall back into your thoughts once more. "They want to meet for dinner, to catch up."

"Oh, well that's fine," Mina says. "You don't have feelings for them anymore, so it should be alright, yeah?"

You bite your lip, wincing and giving her a look that could only be described as a mixture between sheepish and remorseful.

"Oh, y/n," She sounds a lot like your mother with the tone she's taken now, "Don't tell me..."

"I thought I was over it!" you say, wailing almost, as you throw your arms into the air. "They were already so distant before I left, you know? And it's been so long that I thought the feelings went away."

You huff, one hand on your hip and the other splayed over your face. "But then I saw them yesterday, and I think I nearly had a heart failure. I don't think... that those feelings went away."

When you manage to glimpse her way, Mina is wincing, teeth visible. She reaches up to scratch her hairline, almost dislodging one of the curlers she has wound in her hair. "Well, it's just one dinner... When is it? I'm sure you have plenty of time to get rid of those feelings before you--"

"It's tonight," you say with a certain level of resignation, walking over to your own bed and finally throwing yourself onto it in defeat.

"Tonight?!" Mina positively squawks, scrambling into a sitting position in her disbelief. "Uh, y/n, I do hope you haven't forgotten, but we have a show almost every night Saturday--"

"I know," you bemoan, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the odd marks there-- you don't have the brain space to wonder how they even got up there in the first place. "The dinner will be finished in time, I'm not worried about that. I'm just... worried about what will happen during, you know? It's kind of stupid but... what if they hate me now? I didn't even tell them when I left, didn't give them an address to write me or a number to call..."

"Yeah, that was kind of a rude move," Mina says bluntly, "But I don't think they would invite you to dinner to catch up if they hated you, y'know? They were your best friends, they probably missed the hell out of you."

You ponder her words, unable to pick them apart with logic. "Maybe," you mutter, picking at a loose thread on your blouse."... I did miss them."

"See?" Mina says knowingly, giving you a look before falling back on the bed and reaching for the chunky romance novel that she has perched on the headboard above the bed.. "And who knows— you're a hot catch, they might end up returning those feelings and you might come out of this a lucky woman! Well, probably a bit sore in certain places, but lucky nonetheless—”

"MINA!"

The pillow you threw smacks her square in the face, but does nothing to muffle the cackle she lets out after. God, she's not the first choice to come to for advice, but to her credit you do feel a bit better now.

x- x - x

Seven o’clock that evening finds you hovering nervously outside the doors to Dana's Dinery, hand outstretched to take the handle but unable to follow through completely with the movement. For the moment, you're stuck in your thoughts, and your thoughts are stuck on the same thing that had plagued them earlier in the day.

What's going to happen when you walk in there? When you're seated at the table with them and in the process of catching up? You shouldn't be as fearful of it as you are, but you can't help it. The evolution your feelings for them undertook a few years ago aside, they were still very much your best friends. Their opinion of you... well it sucks, but it still matters to you.

Didn’t stop you from doing what you did though, did it?

Huffing and deciding to ignore the nasty little voice that is attempting to make an already stressful night even worse, you force your limbs into action and simply resign to bite the bullet. If they are upset with you, then being late to dinner certainly won’t help things. 

“y/n! Over here!”

With how quickly they spot you, mere seconds after passing through the doorway, a part of you wonders if they saw you hovering outside like a coward. Shame flushes across your neck and ears at the thought, but you do your best to remain at least outwardly unaffected.

Over in the booth at the very end of the diner, nestled against the window and the wall, the two men who have been haunting your thoughts for more than a day sit. You recognise the booth— it’s your Corner, you always sat there with them, to the point where if the staff saw anyone else sit there when they knew you were coming, they’d politely usher them to a new seat. It makes something shift inside you to see them there again. You don’t feel like you’re in school again, but something else feels akin to that time…

It’s probably the butterflies.

Namjoon is grinning at you widely, waving his arm; he’s ditched the leather from yesterday and is now donning a fitted black button-up that brings a nice contrast against the sun-kissed hue of his skin, though his hair is still swept into its style somewhat half-heartedly. Seokjin next to him is in a tan knit turtleneck sweater, glasses perched on his nose and hair attended to much more neatly than the man next to him. Both men are looking at you as you approach, but their stares (especially Seokjin’s) are a little too intense for you to handle, and you end up looking away as you take a seat across from them. 

The booth is less squeaky than you remember, but somehow just as plush. You place your purse and cardigan onto the red leather next to you, clasping your hands together and offering a tentative smile. The soft rock tumbling from speakers around the diner isn’t going to fill the lull in conversation for very long. “Hey, sorry to have kept you waiting…”

Seokjin raises a brow, and you know in that moment that they did indeed see you hovering outside the diner. You don’t have time to process the embarrassment that follows that realisation, though, before Namjoon begins speaking with a warm smile. 

“Don’t worry, you didn’t,” he informs you, eyes glimmering like he’s just happy to have you here. It makes something painful throb in your chest. “And loosen up, would you? You’re sitting like you’re at a job interview.”

To your embarrassment, a brief internal examination of your posture tells you that he is right. Sheepishly, you allow the tension to drain from your body, leaning forward onto the table slightly. “Sorry,” you mumble, offering a smile. “Guess I’m just a bit wound up from being home. I forgot how chaotic it is here…”

To your surprise, Seokijn snorts; your fears that he was truly upset with you are dispelled somewhat as a lopsided grin tugs his plush lips, eyes meeting yours levelly.  “Tell me about it. My mother had my aunt and the cousins over when I got home. I haven’t felt as exhausted as I did after that night in, well, years.”

You don’t notice the smile Namjoon shoots to the man beside him when he first speaks, but you do notice when he lets out a laugh and beams so brightly that his eyes almost close and something you completely forgot about makes an appearance. His dimples have always been a weak spot of yours, and you’re slightly horrified to find that glimpsing them now has led to a skipped beat in your chest and a flutter in your stomach. 

It’s not looking very good for the state of your old feelings right now…

“You never unwind properly,” Namjoon says, somewhat chastising despite his playful tone. He doesn’t pursue it further, though. Instead, he turns to you with a soft smile. “So, y/n, how was college? If you have replaced us as best friends, I will never forgive you.”

You can’t help the laugh that tumbles from your throat at both his words and his face, Seokjin chuckling to himself in the corner. Still smiling, you tell him that no, you haven’t replaced them, and sort through the events of your first year for something they’d like to hear. 

Just like that, and definitely much easier and less stilted than you feared it would be, the three of you seem to sink back into something like the old dynamic you used to share, conversation beginning to flow and laughter beginning to tumble. There are some small differences, of course. Namjoon, who used to be much more clumsy and prone to blushing in his fluster, now seems to have come into his own and his presence commands your attention whenever he speaks or gestures, each movement sure and with confidence. While Seokjin used to be the more blatant joker between the three of you, now he seems to sit back a bit, observing conversation contentedly until he sees the perfect opportunity to chime in and elicit a few laughs. 

And then, there’s you.

Well, you suppose you haven’t changed all that much. When Ms. Cara comes around to take your order (amongst gushing about how grown up and handsome and beautiful the three of you look), you still order the same thing from the menu, go about eating it the same way (fries before burger, being sure to leave some so you can slip them under the bun), and feel the same butterflies running amok in your stomach as you did years ago. You know that you’ve changed a lot, an almost scary amount, but sitting here in this diner with the two men who used to be your best friends, you’re only realising just how much of you is the same.  

“I still don’t know how you can eat that,” Namjoon says, pausing in scarfing his own dessert down to judge you for yours. “You always used to get it�� aren’t you sick of it?”

“Hey!” Seokjin intercepts, pointing his spoon at Namjoon. “The Fun Sized Sundae with the Triple Sauce Special is a respectable choice of dessert, and I won’t have you shaming it when you’re just sitting there with pudding and custard!”

You chuckle at Seokjin’s avid defence of your choice— the two of you were the only ones with a big enough sweet tooth to be able to combat the sugary monster that is your choice of dessert. He hadn’t braved it tonight, though, opting instead for apple pie.

“I actually haven’t had it since I was last here,” you say, without even thinking. Another spoonful is already on its way to your mouth as you continue, “It’s one of the things I missed most after I—”

You cut yourself off, realising your blunder too late. The looks in their eyes tell you they know what you were about to say. After I left. Ah, how could you forget? You’ve been here over an hour and this is the first time it’s crossed your mind since you entered. You left— you. Not them, but you.

Your appetite suddenly begins to fade, and you place your spoon down as gently as you can. It still tinks against the bowl, but does little to break the tension beginning to seep into the air.

You clear your throat, growing a little antsy in your seat. Even as you ask, you’re unable to meet their eyes, “Ah, what time is it? We— I got a little carried away…”

The question had mostly been to dispel some of the awkwardness, but Namjoon’s response had you shooting up ramrod straight. “It’s five-to-nine.”

“Oh, shoot,” you don’t even think about the words escaping your mouth, just that way more time had passed than you thought and if you stay any longer then you’re going to be bordering dangerously close on being late for your other very important commitment tonight. “I— I have to go. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise how late it was.”

You hurry to gather your cardigan and purse, starting to shimmy out of the booth, when Seokjin speaks up, “Is everything alright? Where are you off to in such a rush? If you need, we can walk you—”

“No!” you burst, regret swallowing you moments later when you see how taken aback the two men are at your sudden rise in tone. “No, sorry, it’s okay. I just, um… I just have to pick up something, for Lisa’s party.”

“At nine o’clock at night?” Jin verifies, brows drawing down.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, voice small as you manage to finally get out of the booth and stand somewhat sheepishly at the end. “I’m so sorry, it was so lovely meeting you two again and catching up. I’ll, um… I’ll see you, at Lisa’s party.”

You barely allow them enough time to bid their own farewells before you’re turning on your heel and hightailing it out of there before one of them comes to their senses and offers to walk you again. 

You definitely do not need one of your old best friends walking you to the entrance of a club.

A fifteen minute cab ride is what you choose instead, and it isn’t long before you’re slipping into the building from the back entrance and dashing through the halls.

“FINALLY,” Mina erupts dramatically when she catches sight of you bursting into the dressing room, brows raising so high they almost meet her bangs. “I almost thought you were going to stand us up, Miss Luna.” 

Your eyes sweep over her form, alarm filling you at the fact she’s already mostly dressed, from her netted stockings to the many fluffy and feathery layers that she’ll be discarding on the stage tonight. She’s currently sitting at the dresser, putting the final touches on her makeup with small detail brushes.

“That lip colour is too orange,” you inform her, hastily rushing over to the chest that you know contains your outfit for tonight. Mina halts in her motions, staring at herself in the mirror for a long moment before she tilts her head back and lets out a loud, torturous groan.

“I knew it! Momo, you lied to me! I asked you if this colour was too orange or warm and you said—”

You shake your head, slinging the clothes you retrieved over your arm and making your way over to the screen in the corner to get changed. You feel a little bad for the girl currently on the receiving end of Mina’s whines, but on the other hand you’re now free to rush about and catch up to the rest of your co-performers. 

Within the next ten minutes you’re dressed and ready to go, dropping into a seat next to Mina and reaching to begin powdering your face.

From the tingle of excitement beginning to thrum in the air, you can only assume it won’t be long now before the show begins.

x   x   x   x 

Burlesque. It’s something that you know from experience, something you’d sadly gained before you grew more skilled at hiding your profession from the judging eyes of others, has some quite divided views and opinions. Despite how open-minded and liberal as your parents are, you know even they would struggle to come to terms with the fact that their beloved daughter had moved away for college and somehow come to perform in burlesque theatres on the side. 

You don’t even have a clear explanation as to how or why you’d ended up down this path, just that you had. Contrary to what a majority of the population would likely hope, you aren’t ashamed, and you don’t regret it. This is something you love, and you think part of the reason you had been so drawn to it in the first place was the promise of power nestled within a certain kind of anonymity.

Your act, after all, is a masquerade performed beneath the security of an intricate lace and silk colombina disguise.

When you’d first left, you’d felt… well, there wasn’t any other way to put it but rejected, and abandoned. You might have been the one that left, and it’s something you regret now, but at the time it was Namjoon and Jin who had grown distant from both each other and you. Coupled with their increasing popularity and the way their lives seemed to be picking up speed in the direction they’d always dreamed of, it made you realise that their world was getting a little too big for you, and in the scheme of their lives you no longer held a starring role.

So you’d packed up and moved away, and in the midst of your aimless moping in another city, you’d stumbled upon this… and from the first taste of empowerment it gave you in the wake of all you had been feeling, you quickly decided you weren’t going to be letting it go anytime soon. 

And now here you are; an act with such high regard and admiration that you had been called to perform it in other cities. It was a stroke of fortune that one of the stops was your own hometown, at the same time as your sister’s engagement party no less. You had wondered at the time what the catch had to be, and now, of course, you know.

It’s that in an instance of divinely aligned misfortune, the two people you’d planned to avoid indefinitely happened to be here as well.

It’s been a few days since the night you spent catching up with them, and there is enough distance between then and now for you to have calmed significantly when thinking about it. It had been kind of weird, sneaking away from the diner to come perform that night. Even though years have passed, you’re still so used to telling them everything whenever you see them, that holding something back feels foreign, and oddly enough… you feel a little guilty. The first excuse that comes to your mind in your defence is that  ‘they wouldn’t understand anyway’. You know that is baseless, though. Both of them have become popular and risen to fame not just because of their natural musical talent, but for the topics that their music so brazenly broaches.

The truth is that you know they wouldn’t judge you for anything you do, and you’re not quite sure why you’re so resistant to them knowing. The human mind is a mystery, and yours is no exception.

A slow, smooth saxophone melody brushes your ears, a lower note capturing your attention and bringing you back to the present moment. Amongst the faint tendrils of smoke that reach you from the seating area, an itch rises at your brow and you fight to contain it, not wanting to rub off the thin arch you’d drawn on so carefully earlier. It was always like this; you always got itchy before performing, for reasons unknown to you. One of your friends had theorised that it was due to nerves, or something similar. It drove your manager mad, because you’d ripped your costume pantyhose a few times while scratching your thighs in the past.

Mina’s act precedes yours, usually, and tonight isn’t any different. She’s good, and you can’t help but marvel as you watch her. Her movements are fluid, full of a certain zest and allure that mix into a single heady cocktail that has the crowd enraptured as she allows her skirts to drop ever so slowly with each smooth swing and sashay of her hips. When the ruffled fabric hits the floor there are hoots and whistles from the crowd, and Mina’s beaming face peeks over her shoulder to deliver a wink. The room eats it up.

It’s a special performance, tonight.

Due to confidentiality, none of the performers had been told exactly who was attending tonight, just that they were Very Important People, and they were to be shown the best performance they would ever see in their lives. It was an ambitious set of instructions, but you know that both yourself and the other girls in the show are some of the best in the business, so you aren’t too worried about meeting expectations. You plan to exceed them. 

You always put effort into your appearance, but tonight you admit that you did try the tiniest bit harder than usual. Your hair is pulled back from your face, twisted and pinned into curls at the top of your head; the rest of it you simply allowed to hang to its natural length and shape, though you took care to make sure it was soft and silky enough to gleam beneath the stage lights. At Mina’s insistence, you’d allowed her to pin a few small glittery ornaments amongst the curls, and as you peek out and see just how full the room is, you find yourself thanking her mentally. It’s the little details that really pull together a performance and hammer home the effect it has on the audience, and it looks like a full house tonight that you’re going to wow. Though, none of the faces seem to jump out at you so far— you still don’t know who tonights VIPs are. 

Even though tonight is meant to be a big, important night — as it had been emphasised to you so many times — you still find your thoughts wondering back to a certain two men and the reappearance of the feelings you’d once harboured for them. You’re conflicted, as anyone might expect of someone in your situation, but you can’t say you’re very fond of the feeling. Hence, despite your best efforts, your thoughts just keep coming back to your current predicament. Lisa’s party is tomorrow, and you know from yesterday’s visit to your home that your mother had already extended an enthusiastic invitation to both families on either side of the fence. So you know that there is absolutely no way that those two aren’t going to be there, since even if they hadn’t already expressed their intention of attending, their mother’s would drag them over by the ear.

You’re not sure why you’re still worrying about this. You already met and caught up with them! And it went well… or at least it did, until the topic of your abrupt disappearance from their lives was brought up. 

Perhaps that is why you’re so conflicted still. That is an issue that has yet to be resolved.

When you tune back in to the moment and catch your manager sending you a whithering look, you shake your head and decide to try and ground yourself so that you’re not off with the fairies by the time your cue to perform rolls around. You bring your gaze back to the stage, finding that in the time you spent in your own head, Mina had managed to strip down to just her shelf brassiere and the panties and baby blue garter belt with straps that stretched over her shapely thighs and attached to the top of her stockings.

You get lost in the moment, watching as the spotlight follows her across the stage and illuminates each small gesture she makes that draws the audience further and further under her spell. Her hair is perfectly curled and with each flick of her head and bat of her lashes, the strands slide over her shoulder and bounce against her back. As she reaches for her final garment to discard, it isn’t long before the light fades in tandem with the last note of her song, and the audience gets only the barest glimpse of Mina’s almost bare form before the stage is blanketed in darkness. Cheers and applause break the beat of silence that follows, and then Mina is hurriedly rushing past you, beaming with pride and holding most of her discarded skirts bunched up to her chest. Soon, the applause fades out, the hollers nonexistent, and the stage is cleared.

Now, it’s your turn to wrap the audience around your finger. 

Taking a deep breath and revelling in the light fluttering of your stomach that never seems to fade no matter how many shows you perform, you listen for the first few strumming notes of the song that accompanies your routine. When the low, bass riff of guitar finally brushes the air, you make your way slowly onto the stage and let yourself fall into the familiarity of the show.

It’s kind of ironic, you can’t help but think to yourself. Considering the events of this week, the song you’d chosen to tailor your routine to is kind of funny. For the first few years of their careers, you’d seen Namjoon and Seokjin simply go their separate ways. You thought that would be it, that your friendship had broken up for good, but to your complete and utter surprise, at the beginning of this year there had been a new record to grace the radio and enrapture young fans across the country. An unexpected collaboration between two of the biggest figureheads of the rock and rebellion movement that had started to sweep through the youth. 

When you had first heard the song, you’d done a double-take. It wasn’t anything like the rapid, upbeat rock that came to be synonymous with Seokjin’s name, or the heavier, laidback tune that usually accompanied Namjoon’s records. The beat that lay beneath the lyrics was sultry, deep and dark and made your heart skip a beat and your stomach dip. However when the lyrics registered in your mind, you’d had to fight the urge to cry. They weren’t strictly sad, per se, but to you… they had spoken a little deeper. It felt paranoid to think it, but a part of you had to wonder at how… targeted… the song had seemed to be—

Was it made... for you?

You wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it aloud to anyone or even yourself, but you liked to think so. It helped, when you found yourself missing them and yearning for the way things had been. It soothed the traitorous aching of a heart that didn’t seem to remember that the choice to leave hadn’t been theirs, but rather yours.

In the version that accompanies your performance, there are no vocals. Even so, the beat is easily recognisable and as it begins to play, an excited murmur sweeps through the crowd. Something about it is a little odd, but currently your back is turned to the audience, so you don’t get to investigate the feeling. Instead, you let each note that enters the air and brushes against your skin to soak into your being, closing your eyes for the barest second to centre yourself before you feel the heat of the lights begin to grace your skin, and you start to slowly swing your hips.

It is only instruments that brush your ears now, but you can hear the opening lines of the song so clearly in your head you can’t help but mouth them in time.

We're part of the moonlight, Ain't a fantasy...

Can't breathe in the sunlight, Gotta hide your heart...

Following the rise and fall of the beat, you turn your head over your shoulder to deliver a sly smile and a wink, moving your hips all the while— a round of catcalls and surprised murmurs results. You are the only one of the performers to wear a mask after all, so you’re not surprised by the response. Turning back around, your ease yourself into the familiar motions of your routine and let the song and atmosphere carry you away.

At any other time, you would probably find it funny how second nature stripping yourself of your clothes has become. The silky gown that drapes over your shoulders and ends in faux fur ruffles that trail across the floor is the first to go, revealing the entirety of your stocking-clad legs through a sheer petticoat, and the corset and cushioned bandeau that hides a sheer, cheekily embroidered bralette beneath. The audience eats the reveal right up and at the enthusiastic response, your chest swells with pride. You’re smiling, but with a flick of your wrist you snap open a fan and use it to cover the bottom half of your face, leaving only your eyes to peer out at the crowd from behind the mask. You’d discovered early on that a little bit of mystery keeps them intrigued a little longer.

You don’t pay much mind to the audience as individuals; more often than not, when you perform they become a faceless blur. But as your routine goes on and your body follows each sultry move to the beat, one item of clothing discarded after the other, you find yourself paying a little more attention than you usually would. 

It’s as the top part of your corset meets the floor and your sheer bralette is exposed that your eyes sweep over a certain portion of the room, and you realise very suddenly and abruptly who the guests of honour are tonight.

And you cannot believe the atrocity of your luck.

Two familiar faces return your gaze from the centre-back portion of the room, in one of the deluxe booths. It’s a wonder you can recognise them through the haze of smoke created by cigars and cigarettes, but you think that you’d be hard-pressed not to, at this point. Seokjin and Namjoon sit back comfortably in the booth with two unfamiliar men on either side of them, their eyes lit with a certain kind of intrigue and focused solely on you. For a heartbeat, your chest feels so tight you can’t take in a breath, stomach fluttering. Just barely, you manage to maintain your face and stop yourself from stumbling in your routine. The beginning of panic begins to bubble beneath your lungs, but in a split-second it is stopped in its tracks as something seems to snap inside you and you come to a realisation.

You’re wearing a mask. They don’t know it’s you.

It strikes you again, the way they eyes are trained on your every move, and it knocks you breathless once more, though for a different reason this time. Exhilaration begins to course through you— you feel powerful. When you were with them the other day, the weight of the knowledge of your wrongs and your guilt held you on unequal ground. But now, here in the heady allure and smoky seduction in this room, you have them in the palm of your hands and the dynamic is switched, if only for a moment. 

With barely a moment having lapsed since your initial realisation, you slip right back into the next move in your dance, each shift of a limb accompanied with just that little bit more oomph than before. This is their song, the song you suspect they wrote for you, and since you don’t think you will ever be able to forget it, or them, you will make sure they won’t forget this.

One fluid movement leads to the next, the beat picking up ever so slightly as you bend, legs straight and behind pointed at the crowd, before easing your way back up and unclasping the hooks that keep your corset together. When it falls, you turn and bend once more, this time facing the audience so that they see it when you push your breasts together and wriggle your shoulders, a cheeky wink accompanying the resulting jiggle of your chest. 

More hoots and hollers, as expected of an audience that seems to completely consist of men tonight, and you’re pleased to see that the two guests of the hour aren’t completely unaffected either. Namjoon is leaning forward slightly, gaze intense, and Seokjin’s eyes have narrowed in focus as they follow you across the stage. 

Following each note in the song, you strut across the stage, and when there is a pause before it picks up once more, you drop to your knees and reach forward to the floor, arching your back with your behind to the audience again. Using the strength you’ve built in your thighs over the years, you slide one leg up and turn yourself around, using the momentum to slip into an abridged version of the splits. While in this position you bend backwards, one arm reaching back to unravel the ribbon that keeps your flimsy bralette up. When you feel it come loose, you bring your hands to each piece and make a faux-shocked expression, ever so slowly peeling the sheer fabric down and revelling in the way the room is watching with bated breath. 

Your breasts bounce as you yank the bralette all the way down, the tassels that were hidden beneath and keep the barest remainder of your dignity intact jiggling with the movement. Using the cheers that result as a distraction of sorts, you deftly remove the bralette with one hand and discard it slyly on the floor, bringing yourself out of the splits but moving to another position on your knees, sliding your legs apart. There are a few soft gasps and sharp inhales that echo from the front of the crowd, and you can tell from the way their eyes are focused on the inside of your thighs that they’ve glimpsed the pretty picture inked into your skin there. You don’t leave their gazes to wonder too long though, reaching up to pinch the dangling ornaments of your tassels and using them to lift your breasts. You ignore the low, pleasurable tingle that shoots through you at the sensation of tugging on your nipples, fighting to keep your legs open, and release the tassels from your grip. Your breasts bounce generously once more, cheers sounding across the room at the sight. You deliver a wink, before bringing yourself off of the floor in a fluid movement, hearing the final notes of the song beginning to play and a low, sexy saxophone drawl emerging to intertwine with the rest.

The end of your routine passes in a blur, your mind slipping into a haze as you simply move, barely aware of the way you dance and sashay across the stage. A feathery boa situated strategically to the side becomes incorporated in your final moves, allowing the audience peeks at what they can’t have and drawing them further and further in until the music hits a crescendo and with it, you fall into your final pose.

The last thing you see, as the lights begin to dim and the crowd erupts into applause, is the way Seokjin and Namjoon’s eyes are boring holes into you, transfixed on the place where your hip meets the inside of your thigh and the intricate depiction of a crescent moon and a rose that are inked into the skin there.

 x    x    x

 “...sweetheart? Is there a reason why you haven’t gone outside yet? Everyone is by the pool with those wonderful finger foods your Aunt brought with her!”

You startle at the sound of your mother’s voice, almost dropping the grape that had been en route to your mouth as you stared into nothing, rooted in place in the middle of the kitchen. The day of your sister’s engagement party has come, faster than you were able to prepare for, and now that you’re no longer on the stage staring down your two ex-best friends from behind a mask, you’ve lost a lot of your gall. In fact, it could even be argued that your spine had slipped right out of your body the second you stepped off the stage that night. It’s the early afternoon, and Namjoon and Seokjin have been here for about… perhaps half an hour. You don’t claim to be perfect, but the way you’ve been skulking about and hiding in the kitchen is pathetic even to you. 

It’s just… how do you face them after that? They’ve technically seen you almost completely in the nude! If your grandmother ever caught wind of the fact that a man had seen you without clothes then she’d marry you off immediately— not to mention if she ever found out Seokjin and Namjoon, of all men, had seen you like that, she would have an absolute field day!

It was bordering on disheartening, but at this point, even after all this time, you’re pretty sure most of your family loves those two more than they love you.

“I, um… just wanted some grapes?” you blink, offering a sheepish smile that you hope your mother doesn’t find suspicious. That is quickly shot down when you see her brow raise and her bright cherry lips quirk to the side, eyes flicking to the empty glass by the grapes that reeks of gin. What can you say, you thought downing a glass would help you cope, but you’d been wrong. 

“Uhuh…” Your mother says, folding her arms and leaning her hip against the bench; the fullness of her skirt swishes behind her in an echo of the movement. “Well, now that you’ve eaten half of the vine, maybe go outside? Mrs Kim has been asking where you are, I think she missed you almost as much as we did.”

Your brows furrow, “Wait, which Mrs K—”

“Off you go, sweetheart!” 

You don’t even get to finish whatever you were saying because your mother moves into the kitchen solely to chase you out of it. You drag your feet as she herds you out— or at least, you do before she reaches for the kitchen towel by the oven and starts twisting it.

“I’m going!” you promptly flee after grabbing a handful of grapes to-go, holding up a proverbial white flag. Your mother is a little too good at turning mundane household items into a weapon. Now she’s put the fear of god back in you, you find yourself thinking that it’s no wonder your father has always been so well-behaved compared to the stories some of your friends would tell you about their own parents.

It’s a beautiful day, really. It’s part of the reason you were annoyed at yourself for hiding inside, even if it was only for about half an hour. The sun is out, the sky is clear, and while the sunlight warms your skin there is a cool breeze every so often that keeps you from overheating. Some of your younger cousins are in the pool, and have probably been there since around ten minutes after they arrived an hour or so ago. You’d barely gotten a hug in greeting before they were off, the backyard pool held a little more favourably in their eyes for the moment than their own flesh and blood.

They’re cute, though, so you decide that perhaps just this once you will let them get away with it. You’re going to rain down a storm of kisses on them before they leave, though. No one ignores you for an inanimate object and gets away with it!

As you exit the house and step beneath the sun, the skin of your arms and lower legs warming instantly, you just barely manage to dodge as one of your cousins comes bolting past you, followed barely a second later by his mother, your aunt, who is hotter on his heels than you might have anticipated for a woman her age.

“Jackson! You better get back here with those patties, boy, or you’re gonna regret it!”

You know you shouldn’t laugh, because it will encourage the bad behaviour, but the sight is so funny you just can’t help the way you burst into giggles, shaking your head and turning in the direction of the large gazebo that is rooted by the pool and is currently sheltering most of the guests from the sun. A quick scan also reveals that the lady of the hour, your sister, is over there too. Your eyes narrow when they catch sight of the champagne glass in her hand; hopefully she’s forgotten any and all things you’ve told her in confidence recently, or else they’re about to become public knowledge.

“Ah, y/n, just a moment!” 

You pause in your steps, turning just in time to catch in your arms the plate of small pastries your mother shoves into your hold. 

“Wh—” you don’t get to question her, as she simply flashes you a bright grin and nods her head to the table. “Take these over there, will you? And make sure Jin and Joon get some, I made their favourite!”

And then she is off, shooting back into the house and leaving you on the grass. At the delicious smell that wafts up to your nose, you send a cursory look down at the plate and hum in recognition,ignoring the way your mouth salivates. Ah, these are their favourites. This plate probably won’t last very long when you bring it over there. 

You’re on your way once more, now with the plate of sweets in tow, and the closer to the gazebo you grow you catch the sound of the radio, on one of the channels most popular with the youth and playing one of Lisa’s favourite songs. She’s dancing, dragging her friend Rose with her, giggling like a madwoman as she does so. It brings a smile to your face without you even realising. 

“Oh, y/n! There you are! Where have you been? We thought you might have gotten lost!”

Your attention is drawn to the side of the gazebo closest to the pool, where a few people are lounging in the chairs there, beers and glasses with clear, bubbling contents that you can only assume is gin and tonic on the table and in hand. The older woman who called you over with such a teasing tone is Mrs Kim— well, one of them. Both the Kims are here, and you realise belatedly that of course, their sons are too. It was Seokjin’s mother that noticed you, and as you make your way over you see Namjoon’s mother next to her, and the two men in question in the lounging chairs opposite. They seem to light up at your arrival, and you try not to think about the way their reaction makes your stomach flutter. You aren’t here for them, you’re here for their mothers! 

“Sorry,” you apologise, leaning and placing the plate down on the small table in the middle of the seats. Straightening, you dust your hands against the patterned skirt you have buttoned over your matching swimsuit. “I did get a bit lost, there’s so many kids here right now I thought I might have turned up in the wrong house.”

Both women erupt into laughter at your words, and you take the opportunity to smile at Jin and Namjoon, offering a timid wave. They return it, before following your finger as it points to the plate and they realise you’ve brought them their favourite baked goods.

“Cinnamon scrolls!” Namjoon croons, material of his navy button-up creasing as he hastily leans forward to swipe one off the plate. “And they’re shaped like little fish, like she always used to do! I can’t believe your mother made them today.”

“Of course,” you say, snorting lightly. “She’d do anything for her two favourite sons. She made it because they’re your favourites.”

The two of them beam in pride at that, before proceeding to consume the plate of sweets.

“Ah, and she sent you too, sweet y/n! Our favourite daughter! And even more stunning than I remember, right Soo-ah?”

Seokjin’s mother, Jia, hastily reclaims the conversation and succeeds in making you flush pink at her words. Jisoo, Namjoon’s mother, instantly nods, her short curls bouncing with the action, and shoots you a devious grin. 

“It’s been so long since we saw you last, y/n. You didn’t get a husband while you were away, right? We still want you as our daughter-in-law, you know.”

This time it’s not only you that feels the embarrassment heat your cheeks— to your side, both men choke on the mouthful of scroll they’d been in the process of devouring, Seokjin’s face going bright red as he brings his fist to hit his chest and attempts to dislodge the pastry. Amongst his own struggling, Namjoon reaches to smack his friend on the back, clearing his own throat.

“Ah, no…” you say, awkward and smoothing your skirt to distract yourself; it feels like the eyes of the entire party are on you, despite the fact you know better. “I’ve just been focusing on school…”

“Oh, tell me, dear, do you still do those wonderful paintings? I still have that one you gifted me for my birthday before you left.”

Namjoon follows up on his mother’s question, shooting you a smile that somehow is a combination of both bashful and proud. It makes a dimple pop in his cheek. “She still has it displayed above the dining table, actually. She nearly killed me when I almost knocked it by accident a few days ago.”

Jisoo doesn’t even bat a lash, smiling at you brightly— though a bit drunkenly, if the almost-finished glass in her hand is anything to go by. You’re surprised— you know from all the dinner parties your three families held over the years that despite their petite stature and classy, ladylike countenance,  both Kim women can outdrink their husbands and your father. You wonder just how much they must have had already to have such silly grins on their faces.

“I do!” You answer, feeling your chest warm in affection. It was silly to have ever doubted it, but it made you feel somewhat eased to know that you haven’t lost your place in their lives despite your departure. “But, actually, while away I actually took up sculpting. I’ve been doing that a bit more…”

“Oh, are you talking about your works, sweetheart? Ah Jisoo, Jia— they’re absolutely wonderful! I have photos that she brought, here let me go get them—”

You feel heat flush to the tips of your ears, greeting the arrival of your mother with an embarrassed look. “Alright, let’s not bash ears about it—”

“Oh!” Jia and Jisoo perk up at your mother's exclamation, and you shrink into your seat as you watch her reach into one of the hidden pockets in her skirt and pull out a handful of small photos that you’d printed to show her. Your hubris seems to have come to nip you in the bottom. “I forgot I popped them in my pocket to show you earlier! Here, see— isn’t she just so talented? My baby girl must have been the absolute queen of her department.”

All three parents are oblivious to the way you’re shrinking into your seat in mortification, but Seokjin and Namjoon are anything but. They’re grinning at you, relishing in your discomfort much like they used to. 

“Hey, y/n, could you get us another drink? I’d go get it, but your mother actually told me earlier I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen until she’s finished with the pastries…”

You shoot him a grateful look, shooting to your feet and slipping out of the little seating area. “Yup, doing that! Getting drinks! Be right back, don’t wait up!”

Though you doubt any of the adults heard you, they didn’t wait anyway. In fact, in the time it took you to head into the kitchen and bring back three drinks on a tray, your mother has since downed her glass and has started on another topic of conversation. Thankfully, the victim is no longer you. 

“Oh, Namjoon, where are your peepers?!” Your mother gasps suddenly as you return, pointing at the man beside you. There’s the barest slur accenting her words, and you resign yourself here and now to a night of loose-lipped blabbering from both your sister and your mother. “I’m not goin’ crazy am I? You used to run into things all the time when you were a kid ‘cause you were blind as a bat!”

Namjoon winces, but Seokjin bursts into laughter. Glad for the conversational shift, you take one of the last remaining chairs and settle down, your own drink now in hand. Namjoon reaches for the refill you had brought him, using the opportunity to hide his face, and only when Jin has settled down does he manage to wipe his eyes and claim his own glass.

“I’m tryin’ out something new,” Namjoon answers after a hearty gulp, clearing his throat. He reaches to scratch the back of his neck bashfully. “Lenses, I think they’re called. They’re convenient, especially when I’m performing, but they’re expensive and so dang fragile I’m gonna need to take out insurance on them or somethin’.”

“Isn’t this your last set?” Seokjin queries knowingly, laughing as Namjoon grimaces. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back in the peepers you know and love by the end of the week. If he doesn’t break them, he loses them.”

You half expect Namjoon to be irked but he just sighs with a small smile, apparently having made peace by now with the clumsiness and two left feet that have haunted him since childhood.

Your mother decides to tease Namjoon a little more, before she changes the topic and starts gushing about their career, and how she can hardly go a day or two without hearing one of their songs on the radio. All three women are beaming with pride, and though slightly bashful about it you can see Namjoon and Seokjin’s chests swell slightly. 

Lisa, the star of today’s show, happens to walk by right when your mother is interrogating them about where they’ve chosen to settle down for the meantime, and eagerly joins the conversation.

“Ah, cool cats like you must be absolutely rolling in dough by now! How many mansions do you have already?” Lisa laughs, looking for a free seat and simply sitting on you when she doesn’t find one. She’s quite a bit heavier than you remember, and you feel your breath wheeze out of you at her abrupt drop onto your legs. 

“Unfortunately, none,” Namjoon laughs, gesturing to his mother, “Though, the pressure is on. I think ‘Ma wants a nice place to retire before my career is over.”

Jisoo takes a sip to hide her sheepish grin, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing her skirt afterwards. Seokjin lets out a soft chuckle before he turns to your mother and answers the question she’d asked earlier.

“We have a sweet pad back in the fat city, actually. We both were leanin’ to the same penthouse with the best view but in the end decided to compromise and split it.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” you mother exclaims, eyes alight. The last time she’d looked this excited was when you told her you were staying for the whole week. “It’s so good to hear that the two of you stuck together even though you’re such big news now!”

Guilt. You bring your glass to your mouth and take a large gulp in an effort to drown it, the tart fizz of gin and tonic barely disguising the familiar curl of guilt in your gut.  Perhaps if you ignore it, it will go away. 

“Oh, speaking of— that latest record the two of you released together, it really does razz my berries like nothin’ else!” Lisa gushes, throwing a hand out to wriggle her fingers for emphasis. “It’s real hip and different from all your other tracks. Trust you two to be settin’ trends!”

Starting to get slightly tipsy now from the generous downing of your drink, you can’t help how you chime in with little thought,  “Oh, I really do love that one. It’s perfect to dance to.”

“A dance?” Lisa queries, turning to pin you with a confused look over her shoulder. You realise your slip up in that moment, when you glance to the side and see both men looking at you with unreadable expressions.  “It’s a bit slow for a dance, I think.”

“You can dance to anything,” Namjoon swoops in and unknowingly saves you, shrugging nonchalantly. The expression that was present on his face earlier is gone now, but it takes a split second longer to fade from Seokjin’s features.

Sinking into your chair as much as you can with Lisa’s weight pinning your legs down, you bring the glass to your mouth once more. 

Slip-up aside, you can only hope it won’t be as difficult to get through this party as you thought. 

 x - x - x

The day has progressed nicely and as daylight begin to bleed into night, your father emerged to help man the barbecue and dinner was served —  it was a somewhat rowdy affair, given how much alcohol the party had consumed up until that point. After eating their fill, most of your relatives and small cousins went home — they have a strict bedtime to uphold, after all. You made good on your promise to smother the little ones in kisses as they left, and it was with pink cheeks and bright grins that they bid you farewell. 

It’s getting well into the night at this point, and only a few guests are left. Lisa is inside with a cluster of her friends and her fiance, your mother and the Kims are underneath the gazebo with their husbands— this has left you by the pool with Namjoon and Seokjin. They’d gotten a little bold earlier and when you’d teased them about something, you’d had an unceremonious reunion with the pool. It was startlingly similar to what occured right before your mother took that photo hanging in your room, and made an odd mixture of affection, nostalgia, and something a little bit bittersweet settle in your abdomen. 

Just as it had the other time you’d met with the two, any tension and awkwardness had quickly melted away as the evening progressed. A few drinks in your systems and anything and everything is now water under the bridge. All too easily the three of you had fallen back into the same comfortable, playful air that you’d always known—

That you’d missed so much.

You’re lounging now in one of the rubber duck-shaped floaties your mother bought recently (she’d made you blow it up, gushing all the while about what a bargain she’d gotten on it and the companion swan floatie). Your head is more than pleasantly fuzzy, and you decide as you finish this glass that perhaps you’re done drinking for the night. You kick your legs lazily, feeling the heavy material of your skirt swish in the water as you propel yourself around the pool. Normally, the skirt is meant to come off before you take a dip. However given the nature of your entry into the pool, you hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to discard it. 

“No, no— I remember it cleary— clearly.” Seokjin waves his hand, finger pointing at Namjoon— the man in question is cackling in the deep end, falling off the swan floatie that he was attempting to climb onto. Both men are at the point in the night where they are beginning to slur their words, and to be fair you’re not much different. You’d lost count of how many times either of them have slipped up in their words.  “It wasn’t me who fell and broke y/n’s coffee table. From what I remember, it was your buttocks that hit it.”

“But you pushed me!” Any attempts on Namjoon’s behalf to hide his grin and even pretend to be angry prove to be fruitless. He has the same dumb dimpled grin on his face that you remember from your teen years. “It was uncalled for, assault!”

“You!” Seokjin’s mouth drops open, his legs kicking in the pool in his outrage. Namjoon’s eyes almost disappear as he cackles, throwing his head back. It melds into the sounds of the festivities over by the gazebo, where the radio and Lisa’s own gleeful laughter echo into the night. “y/n can confirm, it was Joon, right?!”

You put your arms behind your head, pretending to lounge back on the floatie despite how tentative your position is on the slippery rubber. “I don’t recall, suddenly I can’t think.”

“Yah!”

Your jubilant laughter means that you don’t see it when Seokjin slips completely into the pool, diving beneath the water to where you’re lounging and coming up beneath you. A scream rips from your throat as you're flipped from the floatie, tumbling backwards and into the water with a hefty splash to boot.

When you come back up, gasping breaths above the surface turning into laughter, it takes a moment for realisation to reach you through the sluggish fog in your brain that your skirt has detached. Still laughing, you catch sight of it and reach for it where it’s floating across the pool, recognising the sound of the two males guffawing behind you. When you slip on the bottom of he pool for a moment and get water up your nose, you decide that perhaps it’s time for you to call it a night soon.

“Woah, bubs, are you okay?”

When you slip again, a strong arm catches around your waist like an iron bar, holding you to the surface. Blinking the water out of your lashes, you turn to see the owner; the breath is startled out of you as your gaze meet the dark depths of Seokjin’s own. His hair is still dripping, an inky wayward mess atop his head, and the t-shirt he’d donned as he first entered the pool so long ago is clinging to each line and plane of his body. 

For a moment, yearning and a feeling all too familiar takes up the space of your lungs, and you find that you can’t breathe. 

“I think… I think it’s time to call it a night,” you manage to say, a new kind of lightheadedness emerging to addle your thoughts. You turn, breaking the hold Seokjin’s gaze has on you to seek out the edge of the pool. You feel his eyes bore holes into you for a moment longer, before two hands come to grip your waist and he moves you through the water to the rim of the pool. 

“Probably for the best,” Seokjin says, grip tightening in a split-second of warning before he heaves you up and onto the brick that lines the poolside. Off-kilter and unexpecting of the movement as you were, you have to balance yourself with your legs, which almost end up smacking Seokjin in the side. Through your inebriation, you don’t realise the way your thighs have parted in the process, the detached skirt in your hand doing little to cover you where it is laying sopping wet on the brick.  

“You’re being almost as clumsy as—” You’re also so busy trying to quell the fluttering in your stomach and find your bearings you also don’t notice the way Seokjin’s eyes move unwittingly down your form, falling to your thigh at eye-level. “...Namjoon.”

You blink, eyes finally focusing but heartbeat still thrumming in your ears.

“I don’t know if I will ever be that clumsy,” you manage to say, as comprehensible as possible. Seokjin’s hands leave your waist as you stumble to your feet, wringing out your skirt before attempting to button the drenched garment back up above your hips. 

“Hey!”

At Namjoon’s outcry, you grin and bring your hand up in a wave. 

“I’ll see you guys later,” you drunkenly promise, completely forgetting that in a few days, you’ll be out of this town and out of their lives once more. “Goodnight, you two.”

They return the sentiment, and you grab a towel from one of the poolside chairs, wrapping it around yourself and making your way back in. You miss the way that their eyes follow you as you leave their sight and reenter the warmth and light of your home.

x - x - x - x

The night has drawn to a close, and the two men have long since climbed from the pool and dried off with the fluffy towels your mother so generously laid out for them before she got too tispy. A sharp look from their own mothers reminded them earlier that there are still plates to clear and things to tidy, so despite being guests they do their best amongst the alcohol-induced fog clouding their minds to help clean up the aftermath of Lisa’s engagement party. 

As they do so, the same thing is true for both of them: there is a lot on their minds.

Seokjin had to turn to Namjoon earlier to confirm what he’d seen, and when he saw the man in question already looking at him with wide eyes, he knew he hadn’t just drunkenly imagined it. They both saw it, the glimpse of a strikingly familiar picture peeking from the inside of your thigh. They’d seen that very same tattoo in the very same place just a few nights ago, only last time the owner had remained a masked mystery. Now, they’d glimpsed the same image on the body of their childhood friend, the girl they’d both fallen in love with and subsequently drifted apart over only years ago because they were young and jealous and stupid. But, things are different now; they’re now only two of those things, and after they made up over a year ago their friendship is stronger than ever, in… more ways than one.

But despite how much has changed over the years, there is still one thing that has remained constant; and that is their feelings for you.

Truthfully, after not seeing you for so long, they had started to think perhaps they were finally getting over you. Impossible as it had seemed, considering how smitten they were. A cold realisation washed over them the second they saw you again, though, that those feelings hadn’t disappeared like they had suspected, but simply remained dormant. Seeing you at the diner and finally getting to catch up after being apart so long, missing you so much, had pretty much cemented that. When they’d returned to their hotel room after, they didn’t need to say a word and only shared a look to know they had both come to the same conclusion.

They were both irrevocably, pathetically, undoubtedly still in love with you, even after all these years. 

Then had come the show.

It was the reason they’d returned to this town, technically. An important friend of theirs had invited them both to celebrate the success of their latest record and talk about future opportunities; the location happened to be a club currently hosting a highly regarded burlesque set. They’d felt the second the final masked performer had come on stage that there was something odd, something special about her. She had used their song, on her thigh had been a tattoo that tickled something in the back of their minds, and there was something in the way she moved that had been so jarringly familiar, but neither had been able to pin where they had seen her before.

Until tonight, that is.

It hadn’t been an intentional reveal on your part, but there on your thigh had been the exact same tattoo they’d glimpsed in the club, and they’d known the second they saw it that it wasn’t a common design. At first, on the night, Seokjin thought that it might have struck them because it was drawn similarly to how you always used to doodle moons on all of your schoolbooks, and now it all made sense. 

The only thing left to consider is, what do they do now that they know?

“Oh, my boys— my precious, helpful, lovely boys!”

The two men turn in tandem, easily catching sight of your mother as she stumbles her way over to them. They were in the process of moving some of the plates to the kitchen before they heard her drunken cooing, and Seokjin finds himself thanking the heavens they’d put them down quickly because in the next second your mother is throwing her arms around them and they’re being yanked down to her height from the sheer strength of her grip.

“I missed you two, we all missed you two,” she blubbers, hugging them close like she’s worried they might slip away into the night the second she loosens her hold. A second shy of suffocating them, she finally releases her grip, and they straighten with warm faces. Namjoon knows without even having to check that he’s got a real goofy grin on his mug right now. 

“We missed you too,” Seokjin says, and he means it. Your family and Namjoon’s family are both pretty much his own at this point, and he’d found himself missing every single member while he was away. Each time he returned home, he was sure to visit the other two houses at the end of the cul-de-sac, though the times he’d been able to actually make his way back to his home town were unfortunately few and far between. The same is the case for Namjoon, as he knows, except likely a bit worse since he knows Namjoon has always been a real Mummy’s boy.

“But I doubt it was as much as we missed you!” Your mother argues, and it makes both men smile. The next few words to escape her mouth knock the expression straight off their faces, though.  “y/n especially. Oh, I remember she was so heartbroken when you three started growing apart. I think part of the reason she left was to get away from it. The way she used to talk about you boys…” Her gaze slips to the side, eyes slightly hazy in recollection. “I thought for sure that she was going to end up marrying one of you.”

They don’t even get a good second to unpack that, before the haze leaves your mother’s eyes and she is giggling, leaning forward with a cheeky glint in her eyes that they know for sure they’ve seen in your own. She brings her hand up to shield her mouth as she whispers in a voice that is not at all as quiet as she likely thinks it is, “It’s a bit improper, but I think she used to like both of you.”

Namjoon chokes on his own spit, and Seokjin’s mouth falls slack. “What?”

Your mother merely giggles, leaning back and spinning on her heel. “Thank you so much for your help, boys, but you ought to be on your way! Your mothers are about to head home and neither of them are walking in a very straight line.”

She halts, turning over her shoulder to shoot them a wide grin. “I’m glad you two came. Thank you.”

And then she is gone, and a blanket of silence falls over the kitchen. Seokjin and Namjoon turn their heads, locking gazes. 

Well, at least now they know what to do.

x — x — x

 You swear there is something odd in the air of the club this evening. 

It’s something subtle, and none of the other girls seem to have noticed it; they continue as always, tittering away in the dressing rooms and giggling amongst themselves when one of them makes a joke that probably shouldn’t be repeated outside the room. It’s the last night you will be performing here, and also the last night you will be staying. You were planning on making a quick visit home tomorrow morning to say farewell to your parents and congratulate your sister once more, before being on your way. You hadn’t decided yet whether you were going to go out of your way to track down Seokjin and Namjoon to say goodbye to them as well, but the idea of it… well, it sets your belly alight with nerves. You have no idea what you would say, and you know — you know— in your gut that doing it would revive the elephant in the room that you’ve all been ignoring up until now. 

But if you don’t, then you’ll be doing the exact same thing you did last time, and this time around you don’t know if you’ll get their forgiveness, let alone deserve it. 

By this point in the evening, you’ve already slipped into your costume and powdered your face. Since you wear a mask while on stage, you don’t really need to apply any heavy makeup around your brows and eyes; you usually settle for accentuating them naturally. 

Mina has disappeared since you last saw her, which is odd since she usually lingers to talk your ear off about any handsome faces she might spy in the crowd as the room beyond the stage begins to fill. You’d started to look for her earlier, seeking a distraction from the depressing inner monologue you have running, but hadn’t managed to find her. This means that for the past half hour or so you’ve been left to your own devices, fiddling with different parts of your dress and costume like a child twiddling their thumbs in the principal’s office. Part of that time, you spend trying to ignore the events of last night and any feelings that may have resurfaced as a result of your return to this town. For the rest of it, you attempt to think about what you’re going to do tomorrow when the rapidly-approaching hour comes when you have to leave again. God, where on earth did Mina get off to? You’re going insane here.

Oddly enough, it’s her that finds you a few minutes before the show is set to start. By this point, it’s a wonder you haven’t torn your hair out of it’s meticulous styling.

“Where did you pop off to?” you ask her before she even has a chance to say hello. She raises her brows, laughing at your rapid questioning. 

“Big boss wanted me for something,” she supplies, cocking her hip and resting a hand there. “Actually, I was asked to pass on a message to you.”

The confusion must be evident on your face, because Mina is quick to wave her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad— though it is a bit odd. He just asked me to tell you to meet him in one of the private rooms in the VVIP section. I think it was the very last one…?”

That is odd, considering she’d apparently just come from meeting him. Private shows aren’t something you do, so you can’t think of a reason why the big boss would ask you to meet him there. 

“Huh, ok. So soon before the show…?” you ask, just to be sure. You don’t have your mask on you right now, so you need to calculate how long it’s going to take you to return and get it. Mina shrugs, nodding. 

“I suppose so. Don’t worry,” she smiles, something indecipherable yet oddly devious entering her gaze. “You won’t be there long enough to mess anything up. The show will go on, Miss Luna.”

You could almost swear there is something hidden in her words, but don’t have the time or the thought to dwell on it. Instead you return her smile and turn to be on your way; the VVIP rooms are on the other side of the establishment, and you don’t want to keep the big boss waiting. You’d only met him once, the owner of this club, and he didn’t strike you as anything in particular. The only thing you’d thought to note is that he smoked perhaps a few too many cigars, because his office was almost always filled with curling, coiling smoke that leaked into the hall  each time you moved past. But he was quite mild-mannered and polite as far as men in this business go, so you’re not particularly concerned for your wellbeing as you make your way to meet him.

It takes a little longer than anticipated, since you ran into one of your co-performers and they cornered you for help with their outfit, but finally you’re arriving in the second-floor wing that houses the VVIP rooms. Instantly, it’s evident where you are. The carpet is a little more plush, the wallpaper a little more maintained, and the hall decorated a little nicer than the rest of the place. Spotting the room on the end, you make your way down there and knock on the door thrice before grasping the handle and easing it open.

“Mr. Leigh? What did you want to t—”

The rest of your sentence dies in your throat before it even has a chance to reach the tip of your tongue, feet freezing mid-step as your eyes fall upon the occupants of the room. For once, you don’t have any sort of instinct that kicks in to save you; you simply stand and stare with wide eyes.

“Took you long enough, bubs.” Seokjin straightens from where he had been leaning back against the plush crimson leather of the circular lounge. “We were beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

A myriad of thoughts suddenly flood the blank space in your brain, all in contention with each other. Oh no, they’ve seen you— no, you have a mask, they don’t know who you are— no, you don’t have your mask—

Dressed in your performing attire and standing before Seokjin and Namjoon, in one of the VVIP rooms in the club where they attended your show, you aren’t a faceless dancer. You’re y/n, and it feels like they can see every single bit of you there is to see.

You don’t even know where to begin.

“I…” You attempt to say something, anything, but your tongue has suddenly turned to lead in a pact with your stomach, sinking down and refusing to dance for your words.

It takes you a moment to realise as you watch them straighten, but neither of them look surprised. It leads you to believe that somehow they figured it out on their own, though you have no idea how. You don’t really have the presence of mind to ask them right now, either. In fact, it could even be argued that you’re almost panicking.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Namjoon speaks up, offering you a smile that holds neither judgement nor disdain. “We wanted to catch you before you inevitably skipped town without saying goodbye.”

That stung, just as much as the guilt that struck you for the truth of his words. You’d been contemplating it, leaning towards it even, but suddenly you feel you have to defend yourself. 

“I hadn’t decided that yet,” you say quietly. You let the door fall shut behind you, silently acquiescing to the unspoken demand weighing heavy in the air.

“Don’t lie.”

Your eyes shoot even wider, if possible, at the sound of Seokjin of all people snapping at you. His tone was sharp, and you half expect him to look furious, but when your eyes flick to his face it gives nothing away. When he continues in the next second, though, you see it in the depths of his eyes. Hurt.

“We used to tell each other everything, back then.” It could have been a trick of your mind, but you swear you heard his voice break slightly. “I don’t want that to change. So no lies tonight, y/n. We’re going to talk as adults, openly and honestly.”

For reasons beyond you, something about the promise woven through his tone makes you nervous. A tremor fights to shudder its way down your spine; for a moment, you feel akin to a small, cornered forest animal, even though they are the ones sitting against a wall and you are in the open. You don’t know what to say. 

Namjoon steps in, saving you from fumbling for a response as he always seems to do. “You don’t have to stand there, ready to bolt, you know. You can come sit down.”

You shake your head, suddenly recalling your commitments outside this room and feeling relief flood you at the realisation that you have an excuse to remove yourself from this situation you’d tried so hard to avoid. “I can’t. I have to go p—”

“We already talked it over with your boss, he was happy to take you out of the performance tonight. It’s okay, the others know too.”

You deflate, looking at Namjoon with a sinking feeling in your stomach. He doesn’t hold your attention all that long, though, before the sound of Seokjin’s voice brings your gaze to him once more.

“Why did you leave? Without even saying goodbye, or telling us where you went?” You feel rooted to the spot, pinned first by the weight of Seokjin’s gaze and then his words as they slam into you, unfiltered. 

“Hyung.” You think you hear Namjoon murmur softly, giving the man next to him a pointed look. Seokjin is unphased, looking at you expectantly, “Be honest.”

It’s just as panic begins to seep into the bottom of your lungs that anger sparks and sets it alight, transmuting it to something red and hot in your chest. 

“You want me to be honest?” you ask, heat beginning to colour your voice and sharpen the tip of your tongue. “I left because of you— both of you. I don’t know if something happened between you or if I just wasn’t enough, or you felt I was holding you back, but you drew away and you left me. You both left me before I ever left you.”

You see it the second your words enter the air like a whip, the hurt and guilt slipping across their features. Anger bubbles in your throat, stings your eyes, and urges you to let loose everything else rising to the tip of your tongue, “I left because I couldn’t handle the pain of my two best friends slowly easing themselves from my life, like— like I was old news. Like I no longer had a place in that shiny, brand new world they’d stepped into.”

More rushes to escape, feelings kept bottled up tight for three years suddenly flooding forth with the force of a tidal wave, but you bite it down, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath that rattles through your chest. When you’re sure you have a firmer grasp on your emotions, you allow yourself to speak once more. “If an apology is what you want, then I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. I’m sorry for my part in hurting you. But you… the two of you hurt me, too. You meant the world to me and when you pulled away you made me feel like nothing.”

Your eyes remain closed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you will yourself not to cry; silence sinks over the room, only broken as your ears adjust to the thin buzz of electricity thrumming through the walls. One moment, another-- you try and focus on breathing in, and breathing out.

“Something did happen between us, you know. We fought over you.”

Your head snaps up, eyes locking onto Namjoon. He stands, dusting his legs as he straightens and adjusts his jacket. Slowly, like he’s worried he will spook you, he begins to step closer. “I’m sorry, y/n. We never meant to hurt you, and didn’t realise the way our immaturity was hurting you, too. You took up such a big part of our lives, and after you left it was painfully empty… when we saw you again this week, it was the first time we’d felt whole in years.”

Stunned, you’re rooted to the spot and can only watch as he comes close enough to touch, hands reaching for your own; faintly, you register the sound of Seokjin getting up from the couch as well. When he reaches your side, you risk a glance to his face and are surprised by the soft, remorseful expression resting upon his handsome features. 

“I’m sorry, bubs, for hurting you.” He lifts a hand, the warmth of his palm cupping your cheek. “You are irreplaceable to us, and we will always want you as a part of our lives. No one meant as much to us as you did then, and no one means as much to us as you do now. The two of you are my world, and I know the same goes for Joon.”

There’s something different hiding in the depths of his tone that makes your heart patter faster against the confines of your chest, something in the way they share a look so full of something warm that your own cheeks heat in response. Both of them… with each other, too? 

 “Why are you saying this?” Now, you meant to tack on. Why is he saying this now?

Namjoon’s eyes are warm as they meet your own. “Because we should have said it three years ago. Plus… we got a tip from an anonymous source that our feelings aren’t as unrequited as we once thought.” 

You don’t even need to wonder who it was that could have exposed such a thing; your mother had been mysteriously avoidant of your gaze this morning, almost knocking a few things off the bench in the extent of her effort to evade meeting your eyes.

“If nothing else, please just tell us before you go,” Seokjin implores, voice a low murmur. “Whether it was true then, or....”

You have a feeling you know what he was going to say: or even now. You’d known it the second you glimpsed them back in this town that those feelings you’d harboured for years and years weren’t ever going away. Even seeing them a handful of times has made your heart ache with the revival of your love and the magnitude at which it had bloomed once more in the tender soil of your being. The words rush to the tip of your tongue, but even now when the two objects of your affection have all but confessed to you, fear barrs them from leaving your mouth. Because it’s not appropriate, a voice murmurs it’s familiar tune, It’s so unlikely— what if you are just reading too much into it and are mistaken?

Honesty, Seokjin had requested. You take a deep breath before admitting the words that will seal your fate, for better or for worse.

“I did love you, then,” you say, catching it as they both seem to tense. “I should have known better than to think those feelings would just go away.”

It takes a moment, but soon both men are erupting into bright grins. In his glee, Namjoon folds you into his arms, smacking a soft kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and finally your lips— the suddenness of the action brings a gasp to your lips, but you’re definitely not going to complain. Especially not when the way his mouth moves against yours lights something bright deep within you. 

You don’t get to enjoy the sensations for longer than a moment before Seokjin’s voice is parting the air, a completely different tone underlying his words than what you expect from seeing his stupid grin earlier.

“Ah-ah-ah, don’t think you’re off the hook just yet, little miss. “ You meet his gaze over Namjoon’s shoulder and a shudder shoots down your spine at the look in his eyes. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for, wouldn’t you say?” 

x - x 

Barely ten minutes and a private car ride filled with scandalous touches and even more scandalous noises later, you’re being pressed against the wall in the bedroom of the penthouse suite in the most expensive hotel your town has to offer. Namjoon’s mouth is on yours with a kiss so impassioned that it pulls the air from your lungs and the strength from your knees; you don’t even realise that the lights hadn’t already been on when you entered and it was Jin responsible for illuminating your path into the suite.

A part of you expects some internal resistance — it had been three years since you’d last seen them, before this week — but instead you’re simply overwhelmed with how right it feels. Soft, fluttery warmth like sun rays on a winter’s morning fills you up to the brim, the feeling so foreign you’re worried your heart might actually burst. 

Namjoon’s hands come to your hips, pressing them to the wall before sliding up to the dip of your waist. He isn’t overly bold in the way he moves his mouth against yours, but it makes a whine build in your chest nonetheless. A part of you disagrees with it, and when you recall that you’re still here dressed in the costume that usually gives you the power over men, you push back and turn the two of you around. 

When his own back meets the wall, the softest gasp escapes Namjoon’s mouth and you swallow it down, your hands coming to cup his jaw. You take the lead in the kiss and he doesn’t put up a fight, grip tightening on your sides as he holds you closer. 

“Ah-ah, bubs.”

An unwitting squeak escapes you as two large hands find purchase on your waist and you’re pulled apart from the man panting against the wall. You blink and before you know it Seokjin has you falling onto something so plush and soft you know immediately it’s a bed. Your eyes are quick to find Seokjin’s, and the raven-haired male shoots you a stern look that is only contradicted by the heady mixture of affection and lust in his gaze.

“You don’t get to call the shots tonight,” he informs you simply, striding closer to where you’re laying on the bed and tugging on the string that holds your silken gown together. It’s designed to come undone, and so it’s no surprise that at the lightest pull the silk is sliding off your body, revealing the outfit you’d paraded on the stage before them barely a few nights ago. Faintly, you register the bed dipping behind you, but your attention is otherwise occupied when Seokjin reaches for the bedside table and retrieves something long and black. 

“Her wrists?” Namjoon asks, unknowingly answering the question you had forming in your head. Seokjin nods, tossing the tie  to him. Your gown is slipped from your shoulders completely, sheer petticoat ruffling as you’re scooted backwards until you feel the firmness of Namjoon’s chest against your back and Seokjin is sliding between your legs, in the midst of unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Do you know what you did to us when we saw you that night?” Seokjin asks, voice smooth as honey. It’s a struggle to remain focused on his words when Namjoon brings your hands together in front of you where you’re propped against him, beginning to bind them a little too expertly with the tie Seokjin had passed him. Your heart beats a little faster, thighs trembling as heady anticipation whirls within you. “What you do to us?”

“Just seeing you was already dangerous enough,” Namjoon murmurs, husky tone brushing the shell of your ear. “But you danced to our song, the song we wrote for you. It’s like you knew what it would do to us…”

It makes something swell in your chest, the confirmation that they had written that song for you. You catch something fond flick through Seokjin’s gaze before he tuts, shaking his head. He pushes your now-tied hands up and over your head, back until you feel the side of your thumbs grazing the back of Namjoon’s neck. Lips brush your neck, eliciting a shiver that Seokjin eagerly drinks in. Long, deft fingers work to undo the top part of your corset, the cushioned bandeau, and slip it from your form. You can visibly see it as his eyes darken, drinking in the sheer bralette barely supporting your breasts. You also know the second he glimpses the tassels pressed beneath, because his teeth sink into his lip and he takes in a sharp breath. 

Namjoon’s wandering hands come to trace the underside of your chest, breath catching in your throat when he takes their weight into his hold and kneads. Warmth shoots to your core, the hints of pleasure curling your toes. You feel breathless as they work in easy tandem, Seokjin slipping your petticoat over your legs and Namjoon removing your bralette. You shiver once your chest is bare, not from the cold but from the intensity and the weight of their gazes as you feel them fall upon you. 

“Leave her corset,” Seokjin instructs, flicking one of your tassels and eliciting a yelp. He settles back further between your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs; his gazes falls upon the tattoo on the inside of your leg and the corner of his lips curls up. 

The plush of his lips presses against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the sensation tingling along your nerves. He doesn’t comment on the picture, but when his mouth touches where it is inked into your skin you feel your heart skip a beat nonetheless. 

Your mind is pulled from the sensation of fingers slipping beneath the edge of your panties when Namjoon’s fingers play with the tassels attached to your nipples, tugging and pulling and eliciting all sorts of heady sensations that make your thighs shake. “Joon,” you breathe, something else resting on the tip of your tongue only to be replaced with a whine when Namjoon pulls a little harder, soft open-mouthed kisses pressed to the sensitive column of your neck.

It’s like all of your nerves are alight at once, each touch and brush of their skin against yours heightened and making your heart race and your breath come a little quicker. Seokijn quickly slips your panties off, but leaves the pantyhose and garter belt. His eyes drag a trail of heat up your body, halting where Namjoon has begun to suck marks onto your neck like an artist decorating a canvas. For a moment he is mesmerised, and you can’t help the words that slip from your lips.

“You like what you see?” You ask, curving your back ever so slightly to emphasise your position. Seokjin pins you with an unreadable look, jaw ticking for a moment. 

“Very much so,” he answers, pulling away from you for a moment. He reaches behind him, retrieving something you hadn’t even noticed before now, and when you realise what it is he has in his hand you feel your stomach simultaneously drop and flip in excitement. His eyes meet yours for a moment, an unspoken question whether what he is about to do is okay, and had it been anyone else you know you would have refused, but you trust him. You trust them. You offer him a small nod and you receive the smallest smile in return before he is bringing the camera up to his eye and lining up his shot. 

Flash. Click. The camera isn’t as bulky as you’re used to, and you figure it must be one of the newer models you are far too poor to afford. One picture seems to be enough for him for now, but you know as he places it well to the side that it won’t be the only appearance it makes tonight. 

“Just in case you decide to fly the coop on us again,” he says, a sly look on his face. You scoff, knowing that he’s joking, and hold up your hands, still bound. 

“Like this? Not likely.”

He chuckles, and you feel Namjoon’s chest rumble with a soft laugh against your back as well. The lighthearted moment is over as quick as it arrives as Seokjin settles back between your legs and hardly waits for you to orient yourself before dipping his head down and delivering a broad swipe of his tongue up your slit.

“F— Jin!” you yelp at the sudden shock of pleasure, wriggling in Namjoon’s arms slightly; he nips at your skin in light reprimand, and Seokjin lifts his head only for a moment to scold you with a cheeky gleam in his eyes.

“Careful now, bubs,” he cautions, delivering a small kitten lick to your clit between utterances. “We might have the penthouse but there are still people below us.”

Surprisingly— or perhaps unsurprisingly, when taking the rest of your life and profession into account — the idea of being heard has the opposite effect on you than one might expect. You bite your lip, tipping your head back as Namjoon’s fingers begin to play with you once more and Seokjin begins to bury his face between your legs in earnest. 

It gives you a bit of whiplash, when you think about it; you don’t think you ever would have expected to end up here, in this situation. Crushes or no crushes, you hadn’t even expected to see them again let alone become the meat in a famous musician sandwich. 

It’s almost shameful how quickly the heat and pressure builds within you, Namjoon managing to tug the tassels off completely to roll your flushed buds between his fingers. The noises that sound from Seokjin’s ministrations between your legs are so downright lewd you can feel your face flush with heat, your thighs trembling either side of his head. You attempt to keep your own moans and whines in until Seokjin delivers a smack to your thigh and sends you a warning look. 

Just when you think you might be about to reach your peak, Seokjin stops, pulling back and licking your cream from his lips. The look you send him must be devastated, because he looks absolutely smug. 

“Now, this isn’t just about you,” Seokjin says, carding a hand through his hair before he finishes undoing his shirt and slips it from his form. Your breath catches at the sight of his sculpted torso, and the ink that decorates it in pretty splotches of imagery. You feel so ridiculously naughty, finding the tattoos on him as attractive as you do, and you’re aware of the irony but you just can’t help it. Seokjin could manage to make a potato sack look good. “Hasn’t Joonie been good? Been making you feel so good, with nothing in return? I think we should pay him back.”

It’s all the warning you get before you’re flipped over, braced on your elbows and knees. There is rustling before something plush is slipped beneath you, and Seokjin lowers you down between Namjoon’s legs with the pillow propping your hips up for him to continue where he left off.

Dazed from the sudden shift and beginning to lose yourself to the feeling as Seokjin returns his mouth to your soaked centre, you tilt to meet Namjoon’s dark gaze and offer him a brief smile. You can’t deny, the angle you’re viewing him from is nice, especially as he wrangles his shirt off and you catch glimpses of firm abs and chest. Namjoon, too, has decorated his skin, and it’s somewhat ridiculous how viscerally you’re reacting to it but you really think you might be about to drool. 

The pleasure quickly beginning to build in you once more from Seokjin’s plush lips and agile tongue leaves you no room for pleasantries, “Can I suck you off, Joonie?”

You hear his breath catch before he tips his head back and lets out a soft groan. “Do you even have to ask?”

His response only fuels your eagerness, mouth beginning to feel empty when your face is so close to his crotch you can feel the heat of his body. Considering the state of your hands, Namjoon makes quick work of his belt and slacks for you, shimmying them down with his briefs just enough to let his member spring free, almost completely hard at this point. 

“Holy shoot, Joon,” you curse, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and lust. God, you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anyone as much as you want these two men.  Namjoon shoots you a cheeky, if somewhat dazed, smile that makes his dimples pop out.

“It’s not just me you have to worry about.”

Well that’s a condemning statement if you ever did hear one, considering how you’re hoping this night will go. One of the more open and liberal girls that worked the show with you had once said “god gave me two holes for a reason, girls!” and right now you find you couldn’t agree more. 

You’re sick of your mouth being empty, you decide, and so you forego further foreplay and simply reach for his cock, taking the length into your hands and promptly enveloping his tip in the heat of your mouth.

“Fuck!” Namjoon swears loudly, thighs tensing against your shoulders. The yelp that escapes you as Seokjin smacks your ass melts into a moan that elicits a throaty noise from Namjoon, as well. 

You press and drag your tongue along the underside of his length, gradually working your mouth lower and lower until your nose is brushing the dark patch of curls across his pubic bone, a surprisingly pleasant mixture of musk melding with his cologne and brushing your senses . Even without the pleasure flooding your nerves from Seokjin’s tongue and the way he latches his lips around your clit, the deep, throaty noises tumbling from Namjoon’s mouth are reward enough. Since your hands are bound, your mouth has to do most of the work; when you sink down enough that his tip bumps the back of your throat, you do your best to fight your gag reflex from kicking in fully. 

Namjoon swears once more, just barely stopping himself before it gets too reminiscent of a sailor’s vocabulary. The sensation of your throat constricting around the head of his member makes his hips twitch and buck up ever so slightly, his hands winding into the hair at the nape of your neck. Struggling to keep on task through the haze in your mind, you do your best to build up a rhythm that has Namjoon’s abdomen trembling from the effort of keeping his hips still.

In tandem, the two of you seem to be rapidly approaching your highs— unfortunately for you, that same attention to detail that makes Jin’s ministrations so mind-numbingly good is what alerts him to that fact. Right when you feel yourself tense up in the prelude to your orgasm, Seokjin rips his mouth away, the bed shifting behind you. “Not yet, bubs.”

You can’t help the whine that sounds from your throat, the vibrations making Namjoon jerk.

“Fuck, I’m—”

Flash. Click. 

Another whine, different in tone this time, escapes you at the knowledge that Seokjin has added another filthy memory to his collection. 

“Joonie, you better not cum until I say so. y/n, off.”

Namjoons nails scratch lightly against your scalp, almost making your eyes roll back as he whines lowly in protest. You know you should listen and do as Seokjin says, but you can’t help but push a little, taking your sweet time as you pull your mouth slowly from Namjoon’s length, sucking all the while. The noises that tumble from Namjoon’s mouth as a result are incriminating enough, and even though you knew Seokjin wasn’t going to let it slide it still comes as a surprise when there is a sharp, painful smack against the globe of your ass. It’s hard enough and loud enough that your back arches slightly, mouth leaving Namjoon with a pop so you’re free to cry out. 

“Jin!”

Seokjin’s hand is cool against the smarting flesh of your behind as he rubs soothingly over it, raising an eyebrow as you meet his gaze over your shoulder. “I told you off, bubs. Let’s not make me repeat myself.”

Somewhat petulant despite the giddy butterflies in the pit of your stomach, you allow him to grab you by the hips and yank you back with a pout, breathless with anticipation when you feel his fingers drag over the dips and curves of your body as though mapping them out. He makes you sit up, your back against his chest as he explores your front, drinking in each gasp and whine as he pinches and tugs your nipples and rolls them between the pads of his fingers. Down, down, down he goes— when his finger drags along your slit and slips over your swollen clit you cry out, unable to help the unwitting buck of your hips. 

“After all the effort I went to to clean you up, you’ve gone and made a mess again,” Seokjin murmurs, pillowy lips brushing the edge of your ear. You quiver in his hold as he rolls a lazy circle around your bud, thighs threatening to close around his hand. You’re suddenly aware of how empty you feel, surprised that you’ve almost orgasmed twice without even being penetrated. 

You try and cant your hips up, not above whining and begging at this point— if he denies you your high one more time you just might go insane. “Please, Jin, please—”

Namjoon, who had taken a moment to recover after almost blowing his load earlier, shifts forward on the bed to join the two of you. His lips find your neck, your jaw, until they finally meet your lips once more and he swallows your sinful noises down. 

“What, you want more? You want my fingers? Look at you. You want to be filled so badly you’re willing to rock against anything with a pulse...”

Heat flushes up your neck to your cheeks, Namjoon’s kiss muffling your whine; you hadn’t thought you would be one to fancy this sort of thing, but if the wetness gushing forth at his words is anything to go by then apparently you do. 

Namjoon parts from your lips, waiting until your eyes focus on him so that he can hold your gaze. “Baby girl,” he murmurs, voice rough. His hand slips down to join Seokjin’s, finger dipping ever so slightly into your slit. The true meaning of his question isn’t lost on you.  “Who do you want?”

You feel almost unhinged with how much raw, restless desire is coursing through you right now— you couldn’t have stopped your answer even if you’d wanted to. “Both… both of you…”

There is a moment of silence following your response, but you don’t have time to wonder whether you said the wrong thing. In the next second Seokjin is swearing lowly under his breath, pressing his lips to your throat to hide his groan.

“Joonie, bedside table. You’ll have to prepare her.”

You’ve never seen Namjoon move as fast as he did the second Seokjin spoke, flying from the bed; he’s back within seconds after retrieving something from the drawers to the side, placing them on the covers. A small rectangular tin and a slim bottle. 

When he sits, waiting eagerly with his cock still flushed and hard and bobbing from the movement, Seokjin turns you around in an abridged version of the way you were before. Taking note of the uncomfortable angle of your arms, he undoes the tie, but doesn’t discard it after slipping it from the reddened skin of your wrists.

With your ass now pointed in Namjoon’s direction, it isn’t long before his hands find purchase and your most intimate area is revealed to him.

“Fuck,” he swears, “You’re so wet, baby. We might not even need the extra help, hyung.”

“Use it just in case,” Seokjin instructs, before turning his attention to you. “Now, if you want to cum later I think you should earn it now, hm?”

Your hands were already moving towards his belt and fly before he’d started talking, but his words renew your vigour. When you free Seokjin’s crotch from the confines of his slacks and briefs, you quickly understand just what Namjoon meant earlier. Namjoon has length, but Seokjin is thick. You wrap your hands around him and can’t help but marvel at his size— you’re a little ashamed of how excited it makes you.

“Ah!” Your plans to engulf Seokjin’s cock in the heat of your mouth are interrupted by a sensation at your rear. You wiggle slightly, unable to help it. “That’s cold!”

Namjoon places a featherlight kiss to your cheek, thick, slippery finger beginning to ease into your hole now that it is sufficiently lubricated. Suddenly aware that your attention is in the wrong place, you do your best to hurry back to what you were doing before you earn yourself another smack. 

“Perfect, bubs.” The groan that rumbles from Seokjin’s throat in praise is so raspy and low that it makes a shiver roll down your spine. As teasingly as you dare, you’re suckling around the flushed head of his cock, feeling it twitch and throb in your hands in response. It’s already a tight fit in your mouth, you can feel your thighs quaking in anticipation as you imagine what it would feel like filling you up. The thought takes you by surprise.

Since when did you start thinking like such a wanton whore?!

Well, you suppose, there is no time like the present. 

Seokjin’s hand threads through your hair, his hips rocking ever so slightly; you watch the way the muscles in his abdomen undulate at the movement and fight to keep your saliva in your mouth as you begin to bob your head down his length. Considering his girth, it’s hard to keep your teeth tucked behind your lips, but you somehow manage; when the time comes that he reaches your throat you’re in a better condition than you were earlier for it, but it’s still a bit of a shock to the system.

“Oh my god,” Seokjin’s thighs quake for the slightest second against you. “Fuck. No wonder Joonie almost blew his load. Look at you. You do this often, huh? Look how well you swallow my cock…”

You moan around him, his words and the oddly pleasant sensation of Namjoon working his fingers in and out of your asshole melding into a pool of heat in your abdomen.  Your eyes flutter closed as you try to focus on making Seokjin feel good, and you’re only distracted by a muted flash behind your eyelids.

Click.

Another shot saved. You take Seokjin further into your mouth, trying to go as far back as you can without gagging. He doesn’t seem to mind the way your throat constricts around his length though, if the noises escaping his plush lips where they part are anything to go by. Namjoon gradually adds one finger after another, making sure you’re accustomed to the stretch at least a little before the next joins. By the time he has squeezed in three fingers and scissored them a few times, you find yourself shaking a bit from the sensations. It’s odd, different to what you’re used to, but oh even with the light burn that accompanies each finger it still feels so good. 

You’re so focused on the sensations that you don’t even realise the attention you’ve been giving Seokjin has strayed, lips sucking a little harder and your hand stroking a little tighter. The salty taste of precum coats your tongue and you have half a mind to be ashamed of the way it makes you long for more. It proves to be a little too much for Seokjin at once, though. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling you gently off of him as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Not yet, bubs,” he says, voice rough. His eyes are like magnetic pools as they draw you into their depths, their hold only broken when Namjoon slips a final finger in and you shut your eyes on instinct, mouth dropping open at the sensation. 

“Are you ready, baby?” 

Namjoon’s voice makes your stomach flip, his free hand smoothing over the curve of your ass. You find yourself nodding before you even have the thought to do so, and with that Namjoon shifts on the bed behind you. Seokjin helps you move backwards, your eyes trained on his length somewhat longingly. There is the sound of something tearing softly behind you and you find yourself thankful that they took the initiative and you don’t have to ask them about protection.

You’re moved so that you’re straddling Namjoon’s hips with your back to him, still facing Seokjin. The two of them have since discarded their slacks and briefs  and are now presenting themselves in all their naked glory. Namjoon mutters a tender warning, informing you it might burn a bit, and you’ve heard of that but aren’t about to turn tail when you also know it’s going to feel so good after. You feel his tip press against your ass, alarmingly bigger than his fingers, and Seokjin helps ease you down slowly, inch by inch, with a firm grasp on your hips. 

True to the warning you’d received, it does burn; Namjoon had made sure there was more than enough lubrication for an easy glide, though, and by the time he has seated himself fully in you, you’re making noises you don’t think you ever have before. The line between heady pleasure and light pain is so blurred that you’re worried you might have fried your nerves at some point tonight. 

“Oh—” you take in a shuddering breath, shifting your hips ever so slightly and moaning in tandem with the man beneath you. “Joon…”

“Ride him,” Seokjin instructs, hands leaving your hips to reach for his camera once more. “Let’s make him feel good, hm?”

Who are you to say no? 

You pride yourself on having a lot of strength in your limbs, thighs especially, but still they tremble as you roll your hips up until just the tip of Namjoon’s cock remains in you, and then ease back onto him again. It takes a second before you realise the low moan you hear is coming from you, mind so addled with pleasure at this point you almost feel like you’re floating. Bracing yourself on your thighs, you do your best to set a rhythm and maintain it, ignoring the fatigue of your muscles and focusing on how good it feels and the noises tumbling from the man beneath you. 

When there is a sly touch against your swollen clit, you cry out loudly— Namjoon almost shouts at the way you clench around him, his hands flying to your hips to hold you in place for a moment. You look to Seokjin with wide eyes, panting slightly.

“Didn’t you wanna cum so badly, earlier?” he queries, fingers slipping down to slide through the slick mess around your entrance. You moan as he easily sinks two fingers in, pumping lightly. “Don’t stop, fuck yourself on my fingers, bubs.”

It feels so good you think you might tear up; obediently, you resume the pace you set earlier, now riding both Namjoon’s length and Seokjin’s digits. Each time you sink down he curls them, and you don’t know how much longer you can keep this out before your legs become too akin to  jelly to support you.

The answer is: not much longer. Seokjin quickly grows tired of it when your movements slow, thighs trembling from the effort. With a hand to your stomach he pushes you back, shifting your legs so they’re folded with your feet flat against the covers. You scramble for purchase, Namjoon quickly supporting you from behind. 

Seokjin tuts, muttering playfully about having to do everything himself, and it’s all the warning you get before he adds another digit and begins to finger your sopping entrance so hard and good that for a moment your vision goes white.

“S-Seokjin!” you drop your head back, nails sinking into the bedding as he begins to curl his fingers into that delicious spot inside of you with each pump. You had been slowly but steadily climbing back up to the precipice of your orgasm earlier, but now you’re heading there at breakneck speed. Before you know it the coil of pressure is snapping inside you and you’re shaking, pleasure numbing your limbs and making you whine.

By the time your high fades and you tune back in to the moment, you quickly become aware of two things— one, that you’ve somehow managed to coat Seokjin’s whole arm in your fluids, and two, that Namjoon has gone so tense and still beneath you that you think you might have almost killed him.

“Good girl,” Seokjin praises, sucking your cream off the tip of his fingers before wiping the remaining excess on your thigh so he can reach for his own rubber. “Do you need me to wait another moment?”

Assessing your current state, you find yourself shaking your head. You might have thought you would be too sensitive to continue, but Namjoon is still fully seated in your ass and now your pussy feels too empty for you to bear. Seokjin is only too happy to fill that void. 

Nestled between your legs, when he lines his cock up at your entrance and begins to slide in, you all but lose the ability to think. You clench unintentionally from the sensation of being filled so completely, making both men groan and Seokjin halt in his movements. He waits until you relax again before continuing his motion. 

When both men are fully sheathed inside you, you think this really might be what bliss is. Soft, panting whines and moans tumble freely from your throat as Seokjin pushes your thighs to your chest and begins to set a mind-numbing pace. It’s borderline brutal, the way he slams into you and splits you open so hard and good; each time his hips hit home you feel your whole body jostle.

“You can move, Joonie,” Seokjin somehow manages to articulate, sweat beginning to bead across his forehead and dampen the strands falling over it. You don’t know how he can talk, because you know if you tried at this moment you’d likely end up biting off your tongue. 

You feel Namjoon shake his head, hair brushing the space between your shoulder blades. “‘m close,” he mumbles in explanation, a short moan following his words. “Wanna cum together.”

It’s such a sweet desire in the midst of such a lewd situation that you almost get whiplash between the swelling of your heart and the pleasurable ache filling your insides. You feel that he will get his wish soon, because despite your recent high you’re already well on your way to reaching it again— Seokjin’s hips have begun to stutter, too, and you know he isn’t far behind. 

It all reaches its peak when Seokjin slips his hand down, following the angle of your hip bone to your core and rolling your bud with his thumb. It proves to be too much for you, because in the next moment you’re letting out a loud train of expletives and clenching tightly around them as pleasure floods your system once more, mind absolutely blank. The tightness of your heat around them is their undoing and barely a moment after you reach your high they follow suit, the sounds tumbling from them borderline sinful against your ears. 

It takes a bit longer for you to come back to earth, this time. By the time you do, Namjoon is winding his arms around your waist and rolling to the side, taking you and Seokjin with him. You let out a noise of surprise that curls into a laugh, hands gripping his arms as you hit the bed; both men are still inside you, and while you secretly wish it could stay that way for a bit longer, you know you should probably clean up. 

“No,” Namjoon says before you even go to move, a pout in his tone as he buries his face in the back of your neck. Seokjin nestles closer, pressing his lips to the hollow of your throat. “Stay, just a bit longer.”

That’s a dangerous request, especially considering the way your eyelids are beginning to feel heavy after the events of the night. For them, too, you can hear the way their breathing has already begun to even out. You couldn’t be mad if you tried, though, because just being here in their arms feels so right that you don’t ever want to feel anything else. 

“I guess we can nap…” you say, sounding tired enough that it elicits a chuckle from Seokjin. You let your eyes close, nestling your cheek against the top of Seokjin’s head and enjoying the light scent of his shampoo and cologne. You let out one last warning before you let yourself fall into the abyss, though. Just so they know who’s boss.

“If I see those photos anywhere near my house, Seokjin, it won’t just be me getting disowned.”

The laughter that tumbles forth in response just adds to the warmth flooding your being, and you let yourself relax, contented and truly happy for the first time in three years. 

[odelschwanky]

Don’t Leave (Coyote Starrk x Female Reader)

Word Count: 4055

**SMUT**

You sat there looking out at the desolate black of Hueco Mundo. The sand was so pretty, how it danced like gray glitter on the whispering wind.  The sky was deep, the clouds moved ever so slowly, and the horizon was just a thin line that you couldn't even decipher. Your hair stirred in the wind, only slightly, as you sulked and stared out at the only place you've ever known.

"Why are you out?"

You turned slowly to see him, and your heart jumped. You smiled softly as you admired the way his chestnut tinted hair swayed, grazing his shoulders. His silver eyes narrowed at you, and he appeared slightly concerned. It wasn't like him to show much emotion. You could see the slight furrow in his brow and the softening of his frown. He was worried about you, even though he wouldn't admit it. You could just tell.

"I wanted to look," you say quietly, turning back to the empty world that matched your heart. You didn't get to see the outside very often, for you were always deep inside the fortress of Las Noches. You were always inside that room. How were you an Espada, one of the most powerful beings in Hueco Mundo, yet so tamed and broken? You never understood it, but that's all you ever knew.

"It never changes, (y/n)."

He comes to your side, not quite standing shoulder to shoulder. You could still feel his pressure next to you. It was... overwhelming. He was always so intense. That intensity made you feel safe.

"I know," you reply because there wasn't any purpose in arguing. It did change. The wind was blowing Northeast today. Well, this time. You couldn't keep track of the days here. All you ever saw was the perpetual night. The only indication to the time was the slow and lonely cycle through full and empty that the moon traversed between. This time it was almost full.

He waited outside with you generously, allowing you to drink in the gloom for a while longer. You grabbed his hand when you were finished, and he took it firmly in his. He was wearing gloves, like usual. You liked the way the leather purchased in your hand, but you liked the way his skin felt much better. You haven't touched his hand in a long while. You thought about the last time, months ago perhaps. You sighed with the longing for it as he walked you back inside.

Your footsteps brilliantly resonated throughout the long empty halls of marble, almost as loud as the silence. You decided to ask him since you didn't ask for permission today. He never liked it when you disobeyed him, but he never seemed to punish you for it.

"Can I look outside again tomorrow?" You turn to glance at him. You didn't know what he would say. You hoped he would let you.

He grunted, running his hand over his neck. You were approaching the room. You didn't want to go back in there. You desperately wanted to stay, at least in the hallway, holding his gloved hand.

"Aizen won't like that," he sighed lazily.

Aizen never liked anything you did or didn't do. Anything that had anything to do with you, Aizen was already disapproving. You didn't understand why he hated you so.

"Then again, he never likes anything." He seemed to say exactly what you were thinking. Starrk looked at the ground and takes a deep breath again. He seemed to be trying to find either an excuse to keep you in or an excuse to let you out. You couldn't tell which. You patiently looked at him in eager anticipation. You loved the passive pout he always wore on his face.

"Maybe. Be good and I'll decide later."

"Okay," you say without protest.

You arrived at the place where you've spent years, maybe more, (you didn't know). You couldn't keep track of time because your monotonous life only had a few irregularities.

He pushed open the stone door you left unbarred when you escaped. Starrk looked at you with a mixture of annoyance and reprimand. You know better than to leave, he seemed to say with his gaze. And you didn't even try to be subtle about it either.

You both enter the dark, cold room. Starrk glances at the back wall with his eyes opened only a little larger than the restricted expression he kept them in. You hoped this meant he was pleased.

"What's this?"

You had done some painting while he was away. You hadn't seen him for a few days maybe. The black ink was now dry on the canvas you had propped up. The work was taller than both of you put together and wider than that. You had finished it before you had gone outside.

"It's something I did while you were gone," you tell him. He hadn't let go of your hand yet. You didn't want him to let it go. You wish he wouldn't leave so much.

"It's a beautiful painting." He said, assessing it. He seemed unimpressed. You sank, despite his compliment.

"Do you mean that?" You inquired this, not taking your eyes off of him.

He nods.

"I painted it for you." You squeeze his hand.

Starrk smiles for the first time in a long while. Seeing it made you happy.

It was strange, what you felt for him. He kept you locked up in a prison, not allowed to see or be seen by others, but you didn't hold any contempt for him. He likened you to some kind of pet, keeping you in a kennel all day, but you knew that he was keeping you safe. He was the only person you were allowed to see. When you think of human interaction, you think of him. All of your memories are made with him. Your life revolves around him. You were okay with that.

"Why?"

You look at him, confused. "What, you don't like it?

"It's not that. I'm grateful." He turned to you, face stone, void of emotion. "Why do you do these things for me?"

It wasn't the first time you had done a generous act for him. Many times you've made art for him. You've brought him things you find in the sand of Hueco Mundo, little trinkets you'd like him to have. You've made food for him on many occasions. You gave him gifts.

"I know you have the capacity to think. Why don't you want more for yourself?"

You did want more. You wanted freedom, autonomy, liberation from this place. You wanted to see a more beautiful world, like the one Starrk told you about when he went away to fight the Soul Reapers. You wanted to be free of this horrid, horrid place but the desire was never enough to light a fire under you and cause you to pursue it. The desire to be at Starrk's side was stronger.

"I... do." You say quietly. You wanted to be more. To him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Did he feel guilty? Sad? Confused? Angry? You didn't want him to feel like this.

"You never wonder why, or who caused you to be this way? Or are you content with living like this?" He walked away from you, pacing about the room slowly, and deliberately.

You did wonder. You wondered about it all the time. Why you kept like bird when you had the tattoo on your front saying you were an Espada? Why didn't you have any knowledge of what you used to be? You didn't know anything except for him.

"Of course I wonder," you reply. You never raised your voice. You didn't have it in you to do it. You were making him upset, but he was breaking your heart.

"Then why don't you ever ask me what happened? Doesn't that matter to you?"

"I would like it to matter...  but it doesn't," you say.

It didn't.

Whether you knew about your past or not, nothing was going to change, was it? That's the only thing that you had faith in, was that things would be the same. "You know that, Starrk."

Starrk sighed again, shaking his head. He looked at you tentatively. He wanted to say something, but he decided against it. You could see it on his face. The single stream of light from the tall window high in the room crossed his face with an intense white glint. You could see every strand of hair glimmer, every strand of his stubbled goatee and thick brows.

"You make everything so hard."

"St- Starrk?" The tears pricked and began rolling down your face in one swift motion. He looked displeased with you. What did you do wrong?

The fury in his face wavered for only a moment when he saw you start to cry. As quickly as he faltered, he bulwarked his expression with deep-set brows, forming in a tight disapproving line.

"Don't leave again." He commanded.

Your stomach dropped as he turned to go. You reached out your hand to grab him, but you barely missed him. "What're you talking about?" You called, a lump in your throat.

"You're content with living like a helot. I can't accept that."

This comment shattered you like glass. His tone was full of disdain. He sounded like he hated you. His voice hurt you more than his words. You'd never heard him sound so angry before. Hopelessness filled you like a bubbling pit of tar, causing you to choke up on the hot, black tears.

How dare he be mad at you for that? He was the one keeping you hostage. He locked you away and treated you like a prisoner. How could he be mad at you for not doing anything about it when this was all you knew?

He walked so swiftly away from you, you couldn't bear to see him go. Who knew when he'd be back? He barred the door and was gone. "Don't leave again," you wanted to say to him. Why did he leave you? You were bound to this room with nothing in it, but you were also bound to him. Why didn't he know that?

Defeated, you drug the painting to the corner of the large, empty marble room. You wanted to burn it, but you didn't. It was for him. You still wanted him to have it.

Your bed, a heap of pillows and blankets tucked neatly between two pillars in the center of the floor, looked so inviting. You were destroyed. You just wanted to sob until he came back.

Time passed so slowly. Still, the days had passed. Over and over, the moon fell out of the line of the window, and you were left in total darkness, only for it to come back again. When the moon passed out of view for the tenth or eleventh time, you lit a few candles and placed them near your bed. You lie there, carved out and left empty. You wished another Espada would come to find you, and kill you. That would be the nicest thing they could do. You would ever be so lucky.

The door locked from the inside. You could leave. You could go look outside. You didn't. No desire came to you to disobey him. You couldn't stand yourself. Why don't you care? Why don't you have this desperate need to know your past? Why couldn't you act how he wanted you to? Independent, free-thinking, with a mind of your own.

You didn't know the answer.

You got up and went to the corner of the room, where the silent wall of water for your bathing was. It dripped down into a pool, big enough for you lie down three times over. You shed your clothes and stared at yourself in the solid, unwavering reflection. The number was branded across your chest, down your stomach extending to your hips. What did had it meant before? Why didn't you care? You didn't want to live like this anymore.

Crawling into the water, you lie down in it. Underneath the water, there was more sound than above. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears. You could hear your heartbeat. That was the only way you could even tell you were alive.

You were tempted to breathe in the water. Just to see what would happen.

Could you even drown?

It's been an unbearable time since you'd last seen Starrk. All those horrible things he said to you kept replaying in your mind. He was the only thing you had, the only one you loved. Could you even call it love?

How could you love a man who kept you in a cage?

You opened your mouth and let the water rush in. Your deep breath was a terrible one. Instant regret-filled your lungs, making them burn. Still you took another... but it was too much. Natural instict kicked in and you shot upright through the surface, coughing and sputtering. You threw up the water back in the pool. The retching combined with nausea building up in your gut was too much to take and you began to cry. The silence was broken with your childish bawling. You just wanted something, someone to stop your pain and loneliness.

You wanted Starrk to come back.

After you washed, you fumbled around in the trunk full of the clothes you owned. Most of them were elaborate, white robes with black trim that looked a little like Starrk's. You wore these as an Espada no doubt, but now you just wear them because it's all you have. You managed to find one of the less flashy items, a white shift gown made of satin. You liked to wear it when you slept.

With tears still in your eyes, you crawled into bed and let the feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, and dread consume you. Within a few hours, you had finally wept yourself to sleep.

***

"Open the door."

You heard a firm order come from he another side. Groggily, you rubbed your eyes and sat up in a hurry. The blankets you buried yourself under had been strewn and draped all over your body. You heard the pounding again, more clearly now that you were awake.

"(y/n), open this damn door."

You throw off your cover and walk to the door, trying to wake up. Your bare feet pattering on the floor was the only noise that echoed in your hollow room.

"Did you hear me?" Starrk sounded urgent. You obeyed. It took all your strength to lift the bar on the door. You were weak, tired, sad. But you obeyed.

"(Y/n)!"

"I'm here."

The heavy stone door inched open and there you stood. Your long hair was still wet, your eyes were sunken and dark circles plagued them. You didn't look well at all. Your grief had gotten the best of you. You missed him.  You didn't smile when you saw him though. You couldn't smile. He had made you think about all of the things you hated about your life and made you realize how miserable you were. You were hurting. The look on his face let you know he could see that.

"What is it?" You ask slowly. You wanted to leap into his arms and tell him how you felt about him. You were so happy to see him, but you were so angry with yourself for feeling that way.

"Why don't you hate me?"

There was no feeling in his face. His indifferent eyes bore into you and it intimidated you. Your tears showed themselves to him and your lips parted to speak. You wanted to explain yourself but there were no words to explain how you felt.

"Because I can't."

Starrk's lips were on your in a second, and he had gathered you up in his arms. A sniffle escaped from you as you let him have your body. Starrk strode in, flawlessly multitasking between holding you in one arm and closing the door with the other, shoving the bar down with no effort at all, locking the both of you in your private world.

The only assertion you showed was the way you shoved off his clothes. Off came his jacket, then his shirt. They fell to the floor in a trail as he marched you to your bed. He laid you down, cupping your neck gently, but kissing you forcefully. The motivation in his motions was ravenous, as he tore your lips apart with his own. You had trouble keeping up. You tried to get some purchase on his back, but you couldn't find the strength to dig your nails in. Instead, you rubbed sensually on his bare skin. His bare skin...

He worked your gown off in no time at all. You couldn't feel the warmth of his touch. All you felt was leather. You seized his hands firmly and aggressively tugged both of the gloves off and forced his hands to your chest for him to grab. He eagerly obliged with a deep grunt and groped your body all over. Your heat was rising, ascending to something otherworldly. You needed him, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

He ground against your hips and you could feel him, gasping through the endless, messy kiss. His pants were hard to move, so you fumbled with them until he barked at you, removing them himself.

You said his name, softly yet desperately as he tried to enter you. It hurt, and you only clutched him tighter.

"Does it hurt?" He asked.

He parted from your lips to ask this important question. You couldn't see his face much in the utter darkness of the room, but you could see his pale blue eyes. The met yours with sincerity and intensity. You nod.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Starrk reassures you. He sounded soothing, exact, intentional. He wanted you to know it was okay. You felt like it was. You weren't worried.

You heard a slight slurp as Starrk licked his finger. It slid down your front, tracing the line of your tattoo and arrived at your sex, which wasn't quite as wet as it needed to be. He gently worked its way in, moving in gentle, circular movements that caused your core to tighten. "Talk to me," he commanded. "How does it feel?"

You nodded slowly and murmured your response. "It.. feels. good," you finished with a moan as he slowly, calmly entered another finger. You reached down to feel him. The length and girth of him was much more than his fingers could imitate. You rubbed your thumb across his opening, causing him to curse. Your thumb became a little slick. You continued to handle him, feeling him twitch in your grasp. He bucked into your hand, letting you know he liked it.

"Starrk..." you began. You wanted to tell him you loved him. It wasn't the right time, but you wanted to tell him anyway.

"Yes?"

Your the rustling of the blankets was all that you could hear beyond your voices. He positioned himself at your opening again, not giving your body any time to readjust back to the tightness it was before. He replaced his fingers with himself smoothly, it was like magic. It was easier this time when he pushed his way inside you. You moaned softly as your body gave way. You couldn't formulate the words.

"That's beautiful," he said, pinching your face in his hand. "You sound... Beautiful."

The way he rocked into your body sent chills through you. He filled you up with every stroke and you tightened around him every time. He went deeper and deeper into you until you could feel his hips press into yours. You were stuffed with him, and you didn't know how much more you could take.

He knelt now, back straight up and grabbed your hips. The inside of your thighs gave in to the pressure from his thumbs and you could feel the bruises already starting to form. In and out he went, growing faster and faster. His strokes were still light, like gentle swift kisses that barely swept the surface of the skin. By now you were a mess of whines and cries, but these were not of pain. You wanted so desperately to climax. The building pressure was aching inside you and all you wanted was release. You grabbed his wrists and squeezed them, saying his name over ad over.

"Starrk...please." You begged him.

"Not yet," he huffs.

He turned you over on to your stomach, and your breath caught. A firm hand came down on your shoulder blade, pressing you down into the cushions. You grabbed onto a blanket for some kind of outlet. Your hands clutched and Starrk lay down on top of you, his heavy weight feeling like a mass of stone. His face came close to your ear, and he spoke to you quietly, deeply, as he continued to drive you.

"Just relax," he groaned, making you feel all of him. His front was hot against your back and your sweat had started to mingle, making all his movements slick. You did as you were told, not knowing how much tension you'd been putting onto yourself. You were tightened on your own volition, and when you relaxed slowly, the sex felt better than you could've imagined.

He turned your head to kiss you, deeply, passionately. It was as if your tongues knew each other already, how familiarly they intertwined. It got messy, and soon his spit was dripping down your chin and your hair stuck to your sweaty cheeks and forehead. Your voice was fading with the strain. He had you in a hold and the only way out was to come.

You finished violently, tensing and clenching and crying loudly. Starrk gritted his teeth, the way you felt was too much for him. He came inside you while the two of you kissed, and he rolled over on his side with you still in his arms. He encased you in his grip, refusing to stop kissing you.

"I... don't want you to hurt anymore."

He said this between kisses, and you could feel the genuineness of the statement. It warmed your heart. All you wanted was him. Now that you had him... you were spent.

You fell asleep kissing him. There wasn't much energy left inside you. You had been hurt and healed by the same person. It exhausted you to the point of fainting and soon you were in a dreamless sleep.

***

The guise of the morning came by soft grey light, leaking in through the single window. You blinked open your eyes to see and feel Starrk still around you. His fingers lazily played in your hair and his legs draped over you, keeping you sheltered and safe. You looked up at him, the exhaustion hitting you.

"You're still here?" You sleepily mumble in surprise.

He plants a kiss on your lips and stirs, letting out a raspy groan.

"You're a wreck when I'm not around."

As much as you didn't want to admit it, he was right.

"Thank you for noticing," you pout, closing your eyes again.

"I didn't know it, but I need you too, (y/n)."

You felt around for his hand, which you found encircling your neck. You wriggled your fingers inside his hold and grasped it softly. "You... need me?"

You were dumbfounded. Starrk wasn't the type to need anyone. He was a lone wolf that didn't talk much to anyone, an apathetic, heartless man. The way he left and went days without coming to see you told you everything you needed to know about that. He couldn't be telling the truth.

"I'm telling the truth. When we're apart, something isn't quite right. I feel... incomplete. I don't like feeling like that."

So he only needed you to clear his conscience?

"But. That hurt on your face, when I came to you last night..." He squeezed your hand. "It looked like you were dying."

You were. You were dying without him. Now that he was here though, you felt better than you ever remember feeling.

"I'm not leaving you anymore."

[tobiosmilktea]

Could you write an Akaashi Keiji scenario of him and his girlfriend telling each other where they decided to go to university and finding out that they’ve chosen the same university to attend since they didn’t want to impact the others choice?

something about us — akaashi keiji

1k words | genre/s: fluff, angst if you squint | warning/s: — | pairing: akaashi x f!reader

a/n: i finally had time to write this piece, let’s see if it’s actually good or not 🙈

there was always something about your relationship with akaashi that people liked to believe you two were perfect.

from the way you two have looked at each other with such vehemence throughout your years of being together, never waning despite the sudden circumstance you and akaashi found yourselves in. now that you two were freshly graduated from high school, it was only a matter of time before you two might inevitably split paths. 

talks about university plans were always something that you and akaashi rarely spoke about. simply it was the elephant in the room of not seeing each other often may very well be your downfall. like most lasts—last year of high school, last school festival, last high school exam—there was always that underlying foreboding that fermented within your chests, wrapping around your heart and lungs yet you two chose to ignore it for ages.

it simply didn’t help that you and akaashi had a knack for wanting the other person to be happy. the idea that the latter was able to do what they wanted without another holding them back was what something you both wanted.

akaashi wasn’t selfish and you weren’t either, but that feeling was always fundamental no matter how hard you two tried to ignore it.

call it greed or narcissism or just plain stupid, but you didn’t want to leave akaashi’s side. even if it meant that you couldn’t attend your dream university just for him, you were willing to make that decision.

while most others wouldn’t even spare a single thought knowing relationships were temporary most of the time, you couldn’t consider this the same. you didn’t want your relationship with akaashi to be just another high school romance waiting to deteriorate within the hands of time as you two gradually grew distant.

dare you say that you actually believed you had a future with him. and you wanted it to be real.

after receiving numerous acceptance letters and emails from universities, you and akaashi have kept your decisions secret. from the months of concealing your thoughts about the plans for your future into obscurity will finally be revealed once akaashi arrived to your house. 

your boyfriend showed up at your place an hour before the sun had set.

on moments like this, you two liked to hang out on your balcony to watch the sun go down as its last rays of sunlight peeked through the skyscrapers of tokyo. the sight was beautiful, despite the gutting reality that you and akaashi might not go to the same university. however, there was a little glimmer of hope that at least you two will still be in the same city... right?

then again, you could recall akaashi considering somewhere far like kyoto university as one of his options.

your hand tightened around the teacup that rested upon your palm. perhaps you were more nervous than you thought and you really tried your best to hide it. yet being your boyfriend, something as little as an uncertain flickering of your gaze would immediately capture his attention.

he reached for you free hand, squeezing it briefly before rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. it was a small gesture, but definitely comforting. even in the quiet air of peace between the two of you was something that needed to be savored.

“so?” you started first, dragging the syllable out playfully to cut off the silence that slowly turned deafening the more your negative thoughts ran through your head.

akaashi placed his elbow upon the railing while he rested his cheek upon his palm. he flickered a gaze towards you, one that was drenched in honey as he repeated in a similar tone, “so?”

“well, are you going to tell me or not?” you asked without missing another beat. for someone who dreaded the answer he was going to give, you were still just as eager to find out. “you’ve been holding back telling me for ages, so might as well just cut to the case, babe.”

a chuckle left akaashi’s lips as he reached into his back pocket. it was his folded up acceptance letter from some university you couldn’t read fast enough before he pulled it away from you. “are you sure you wanna know?” he questioned in provocation. the slight smirk of his expression melted into a smile when you tried to snatch the envelope out of his hands, but with his godforsaken height and fast reflexes, he swiftly held the letter higher than you could reach.

“please,” you begged before jumping once more in attempt to take the letter. “i want to know whether or not this is going to turn into long distance.” perhaps kyoto university was still on your mind.

“i don’t think living in the same city is considered long distance, (y/n).” he bantered.

it was then you stopped jumping for his letter and was now just staring at him in awe. he was staying?

“a-are you—?”

akaashi cut you off as he placed his hands over your shoulders, “of course i am. i think i’d miss tokyo too much if i moved.”

you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks ache from smiling too hard. you didn’t even know what university he chose, but knowing he was still going to be in tokyo was enough for you knowing he still a short train ride away.

“i’ll tell you what,” your boyfriend suggested, “we say what university we got into at the same time, okay?”

you nod, the nervous suddenly coming back as akaashi counted to three. 

1, 2, 3

“waseda university,” your voices overlapped in unison.

it was then some look of surprise both fallen over your visages as it took a second for your answers to register in your heads.

did you hear that right? was he going to waseda university just like you?

it was a genuine shock considering you believed akaashi was infinitely smarter than you. if anything, you expected him to tokyo university along with the rest of the top scoring high school seniors in japan.

“you’re kidding right?” you breathed out in disbelief.

akaashi shrugs, “i liked waseda’s liberal arts programs better than tokyo university, i guess.”

you roll your eyes, “why the hell would you pass up one of the best universities in japan?”

“waseda’s good too!” he defended, “besides, knowing you’re going to be there makes it just as good, if not better.”

[jaz-xedarix]

The Return of the Star

Thank you so much for your patience and your nice words. I really appreciated them too much. 

So finally I have finished part II, and things are starting to get really interesting.

As I promised there’s a new coloring among the text, I really hope you like it, and I put another one, but a bit older, since I couldn’t resist to post it in this part XD

Thanks so much to @buffaloborgine​ and @trinity-blood-translations for helping me correct this text, your effort is valuable to me. Send you lots of love my friends.

Let’s get started.

               ════════════╠☆╣════════════

                                      II

The Istvan Opera House was located on Andrássy Street, the main avenue of the city. It was an old style building that had survived Armageddon. After the liberation battle, it was the first place restored by the archbishop, to serve as a public building for the citizens. 

The building was built in a magnificent and delicate Neo-Renaissance style. It was an imposing work that could be compared to the Scala in Milan, the Opernhaus in Vienna or the Státní in Prague. The facade had a secluded air, but once inside the decorations in gold and purple colors overwhelmed the visitor with their luxury. 

The “guest of honor” entrance that Esther passed through was no exception. In the boxes facing the wide stage, the rugs were so thick that they reached to the ankles, as if she were in a lavish palace. The walls were lined with works of art and all the furniture had been expressly imported from Rome or Florence. 

However, everything paled when compared to the beauty of the woman who was waiting for her sitting on the sofa. 

“Welcome, Sister Esther. You may be exhausted after the trip...” 

The Cardinal Caterina Sforza, Duchess of Milan, Secretary of State of the Vatican and head of its foreign policy, gave a friendly welcome to the nun. Telling her to sit on the couch that was in front, where the two priests was already sitting, she laid her cup of tea on the table. 

“I've was told you've had a difficult time with the media at the station. I am glad that you are well.” “Nothing happened… More than anything, it was a surprise that…” 

Looking into the gray eyes that smiled at her behind the monocle, the nun awkwardly shook her head like a puppet. For Esther, the Cardinal was a person almost as sacred as the Virgin. Every time she presented herself to her, she couldn't help but get nervous and tense. She brushed off the sweat she didn't have and continued in an uneasy voice: 

“Your Eminence, the journalists called me Saint… what kind of joke is this? And why am I the protagonist of the play that is going to be performed here tonight?” “We'll talk about all that later...” Adjusting her monocle, the beautiful woman looked up at the stage, the curtain still closed, and sighed. “His Holiness will be here shortly. He is accompanied by the Minister of Information, who is the one who has organized all this. I myself know only part of the story. It will be better if he tell us all about it in person… What I want to hear now is what news you bring me from the Empire.” 

The cardinal spoke with the usual serenity. However, her voice had hardened slightly as she turned her gaze back to the nun and priest, as she crossed her legs under her habit.

“Were you able to contact the empress?” “Yes, we have to inform you about it.” Esther steadied herself and her voice changed as she began to recite the report that she had been rehearsing mentally in the way: “We were fortunate enough to have direct contact with the Empress in...” “Well, the truth is that we couldn't speak to her directly…” 

Everything Esther had prepared came to nothing when the other voice interrupted her, preventing her from speaking.

“Eh!?” She didn't even have time to stop him. As he turned to the voice, she saw that Abel was still speaking with an irrepressible verbiage, which did not leave her a space to intervene.

“We did our best to deliver Her Eminence's message in person, but, of course, meeting the Empress in person was beyond our means. Even so, you need not worry, because we asked a local noblewoman, the Marquise of Kiev, Astharoshe Asran, whom I already knew before, to serve as an intermediary. The message will have reached its destination; you can be sure of it.” “Ah? Bu... Father... Wait a minute...” But what was he saying!? Esther nervously adjusted her habit as if to signal him, but Abel did not stop chattering for an instant, gesturing exaggeratedly with his hands.  “Yes, we suffered the unspeakable to achieve it. Abroad, right? One does not know how things are done... To fulfill our mission we spend our days without stopping running up and down... tears come to my eyes just remembering it now that I tell you, and without doubt, you will cry too... Imagine, I lost three kilograms!” 

Where did all this nonsense come from? Esther managed to come to herself and resist the curiosity to see how far the priest would be able to go. 

“Wait... wait, father! Stop speaking nonsense!” She did not know what this foolishness was about, but if it continued like this, Caterina would end up thinking that they had not seen the Empress. Covering Abel's mouth with her hand, Esther yelled in the direction of the Cardinal:

“Ignore him, Your Eminence! We do…”

«We did speak directly to the Empress!» Just when Esther, red with exertion, was about to shout that phrase...

“Cardinal Sforza, I beg your pardon...” An elegant male voice echoed out as the door opened. Looking up, the Cardinal met a man who was greeting her respectfully and who was leading a group of three people. He was middle-aged and wore the purple sash on his habit that indicated his status as archbishop.

“Forgive us for interrupting your conversation, Your Eminence. His Holiness and Cardinal Borgia have arrived.” “Hello Beautiful!” The second voice would seem to have been made up of a frivolous shake spiced with kitsch. It was hard to imagine anyone less suited to wear the Cardinal habit than the young man with long dyed hair and a nasal voice who had just entered. This was Antonio Borgia, the Minister of Information. “How long, right?! Makes sooo much that I did not see how fantastic you are that seems that my aesthetic sense have atrophied, you know? How are we doing?” “Good afternoon, Cardinal Borgia. I see you are very happy. If I'm not mistaken, we met the day before yesterday in Rome, right?” 

Responding sharply to the young man, Caterina turned her gaze to the third figure in the group. Seeing the face of the teenager coming up behind the two men, her cold gaze softened. 

“Ah, Alec…! How was the flight? Are you dizzy again?” “Y..., y... yes, sister...” Dressed with beautiful white clothes, the Pope Alessandro XVIII spoke with a low voice. In addition to being extremely shy around people, to the point of bordering on autism, get out of Rome or even out of the Papal Palace supposed one horrible adventure for him. Anyways, the face of his sister seemed to calm him a bit, because he went on, stammering: 

“I..., I got dizzy a b..., a little... b... but now I'm fi... I'm fine...” “Really? But you don't have very good color. I'll make someone to prepare some medicine for you... Wait, I'll take the opportunity to make the introductions, since we're all here. This is Sister Esther from the Secretary of State. She is the Saint of Istvan” 

Exhorted by Caterina, the nun saluted respectfully. “Nice to meet you. It is an honor to be in your presence, Holiness.”All Vatican employees knew of the reserved character of the pope. In order not to startle him, Esther spoke in a calm voice as she placed a light kiss on his hand.“I am not worthy of you granting me the grace to kneel before you... “ “Ah...! N..., no...” At the touch of the young woman's lips, the pope went from pale to flushed. His breathing quickened, as if he were going to have a heart attack, and he withdrew his hand in embarrassment. ”And…, and…, I… And…, and…, I…, I…”

“Holiness, you must be tired...” said the first man who had entered, placing his hand on the shoulder of the babbling teenager. Maybe half a century of his life had already passed, but his face had manly features that surely wreaked havoc on the opposite sex when he was young. With an attentive expression, he made the young Pope sit on the sofa.

“The show will take a while to start. Get some rest here. If you allow me, I will handle the speech.” “Thank you, Archbishop D'Annunzio...” 

Before Esther's eyes, the Pope was panting hard, as if he were going to have a panic attack or something. The one who wiped the sweat from his forehead to reassure him was Caterina. 

“Forgive me for putting you through something like this, but this ceremony took so much effort that...” “Oh, does not matter! It is an honor to be able to do our bit to the work of her eminence and the Vatican.”

 Emanuele D'Annunzio, Archbishop of Istvan, smiled kindly as he took Caterina’s hand. After kissing her like a gentleman kisses a lady, he turned his serene green eyes to her beautiful face.  “I wrote the script for tonight's play myself. I am afraid that it will not be up to the refined taste of Her Eminence, but it will be my honor that you listen to it... I do not know how the representation will turn out, but...” “It'll be great, you know? Sure: super, super good.” 

The one who responded in this way to the humble words of the archbishop was not Caterina, but the other cardinal present. Antonio, adjusting his bangs, continued with a slightly annoyed voice.  “Because, hey, haven't we helped you with production from the Ministry? I mean, the stage, and the direction, and the actors... Aaaaall of it it’s super mega first class. So if it goes wrong, it will be because of the script, you know?” “We will be forever grateful for your support, Cardinal Borgia. It is an honor that you have dedicated your valuable time to our representation...”

D'Annunzio's words were kind, but there was a hint of provocation in his tone. His green gaze was fixed on the young man, like an adult lion facing the cub that wants to take his place. 

“Today's ceremony is very important to us, because our recovery will serve to show it to the world. Its success will also serve to show the power of the Vatican… We hope to continue having the support of the Ministry of Information from now on.” “...” 

Although the tone was defiant, it could not be said that there was anything really wrong from the archbishop's words. Antonio was silent, something strange in him, as if not knowing what to answer, clearly feeling the difference in maturity that existed between him and his interlocutor. 

In his fifties, Archbishop D'Annunzio was an experienced man who had played a crucial role in the Vatican since the time of the previous Pope Gregorio XXX. As the right hand of Alfonso d'Este, who was then head of the College of Cardinals, he had held important positions as Director of the Holy Inquisition and Chief Secretary of the Vatican. In his spare time he had written dozens of novels and more than two hundred plays, and was considered one of the literary geniuses of his time. However, his brilliance had provoked the envy of Alfonso, who ended up moving him away from the center. His fame was surpassed only by Cardinals Medici and Sforza, the Pope's stepsiblings. No one but a skilled politician would have gotten Istvan city reborn from its ruins just a year after the catastrophe of The Star of Sorrow.

“Ah, but I have not yet greeted the main guest...” 

After silencing the young man, the archbishop turned quickly to Esther, who was silently observing the dialectical combat between the two high religious positions.

“This is the first time we met, but I know you very well, Sister Esther. I beg your pardon for having you come from so far away.” “Ple…pleased to meet you, Your Excellency...” Esther rose, embarrassed, from the sofa at the friendly smile of the priest and lowered her head, blushing at his manly features.“I am much honored that you invited me. It is an honor to meet you personally.” “Not at all, the honor is mine for being able to greet the Saint in person. I did extensive research on you to write this script. I've been dreaming of meeting you for a long time, but... the truth is that you have surprised me. I didn't think you were so beautiful...”       “I… beautiful? Not at all…” 

At the Archbishop's compliments, Esther buried her head deeply and turned even more red. Half confused, half flustered, she looked around for Abel to come to her aid. “It's the first time I've been invited to a box of honor at the opera, but hey, what a sight! Heh heh, I feel like God...” 

The priest was lost in his thoughts, observing the theater, and did not realize that the nun was looking at him. In her imagination, Esther kicked him on the back, while scratching her head, wondering how to respond to the archbishop.

“May I ask you not to call me Saint? It's a too important word that I don't deserve at all...” “You don't deserve it? You are too modest, sister… ” D'Annunzio replied, still smiling, as if enjoying the young woman's bewilderment. Extending his hand to fix her cap, the archbishop looked at her with mischievous face “You are the holy maiden who protected the people and killed the evil demon... As Archbishop of Istvan I cannot be grateful enough. Tonight's performance is my humble attempt to help your feat remain in the memory of future generations.”  “I am very grateful to you, but...” 

With a tight smile, Esther awkwardly shook her head. Her face had suddenly lost its rosy color. Saint Esther? What all that was about? 

She murmured that inside her with downcast eyes, it wasn't just because the name disgusted her.  

A year ago a man had expired in her arms. He was someone who had loved his human wife, someone who had decided to fight the world as revenge because the humans themselves had taken the woman he loved from him. 

The “evil demon” that D'Annunzio referred to was that being. Esther had been elevated to the category of Saint for the "feat" of having killed him, but there was something that did not convince her. All this seemed like a farce in which she did not want to be involved... 

“Ah, by the way, Your Eminence, what about Cardinal Medici? I thought he was also going to be present at the ceremony for the fallen...” “Unfortunately, his commitments do not allow him to leave Rome. He said he would send a representative, but… still not arrived?” 

D'Annunzio and Caterina began to talk about practical matters. Relieved that she was no longer the center of the conversation, Esther turned her eyes to the audience. 

More than a thousand spectators filled the theater. They were all famous people from the city, but Esther didn't recognize any faces. During the reconstruction of Istvan, D'Annunzio had given preferential treatment to the industrialists of Rome and Venice to install their factories and banks in the city. The attendees were all rich people of that kind. The echoes of the conversations that were heard were not in Hungarian, but mainly in the official language of Rome. 

The curtain was still down, but the actors could be seen waiting behind the scenes, probably to come out to say hello before the performance. Among them was a smiling young nun, the heroine portrayed in the flier. The hunchback next to her would be the Marquis of Hungary. The sinister makeup highlighted his monstrous appearance and showed long predator fangs. It couldn't be clearer that he was the bad guy in the story. 

The fragile and beautiful heroine would go through many difficulties, but in the end she would defeat the monster and bring peace to the city. It was such a predictable story that just by seeing the actors you could already imagine. 

But… 

«But the fight end was much more complex», thought Esther, grabbing unconsciously the rosary that hung from her neck.                                                                                                                                                                        «It’s not the urge to kill. I don't have such bad taste as to enjoy killing others. This is a fight for life» 

The man who had said those words was not a mere “evil demon”, nor had Esther fought him for strictly holy motives. There were still many things that she did not fully understand, but it was clear that this had been a struggle for survival. If she had lost, it would have been Esther and her companions who would have died. Yet the young girl couldn't get a question out of her head: «Was it really an inevitable conflict?» 

A nun like her couldn't ask such a question out loud. As long as she worked for the Vatican, a doubt like that was tantamount to questioning her own identity...

“Eh?”

Esther was lost in her thoughts for one moment, but at once came back to herself. Among the actors who had gathered in one corner of the stage, a figure that had gone out discreetly from behind the curtain of the opposite corner had called her attention. 

 It was one girl more or less of the same age of Esther, she had brown skin, an unusual color in the region, and her hair of a raven black. The combination of the daring opening of her dress with the long gloves decorated with precious stones gave her an extremely dramatical air. But what attracted the interest of Esther was neither her figure nor the clothes she wore. Those purple eyes that glowed in the well-proportioned face... she had seen them before somewhere. 

“That girl looks familiar to me...” “Is there something wrong, Esther?”

The voice that echoed behind her was of the lanky priest, who was wandering absent-mindedly around the royal box. As he devoured with his eyes the plate of tea pastries next to the young woman, he asked:

“Suddenly you were silent, doing that face… Oh, do you have a stomach ache? Do you want me to eat those pastries? I don't mind doing you that favor...” “No,” Esther replied dryly, cutting off the priest and added, pointing at the girl with her finger: “Doesn't that girl looks like someone familiar to you, father? I've seen that face already... and not long ago.” “Eh, what girl?” The priest asked in an intrigued voice, and looking where Esther was pointing, he looked confused. “I don't see any girl… Ah, you mean that actress over there?” “No, I mean, the one that has come from the other si... Huh?”  

When she looked back to the stage, Esther furrowed her brow, as well as Abel. The female figure that she had seen an instant before had disappeared. “But how strange... she was there a moment ago...” “Wow! Is that the actress who plays your role? I had seen her in the flyer, but in live she is even more beautiful!” Abel had already lost all interest in Esther and was absorbed in watching the group of actors. He made no effort to hide the drool from looking at the actress. "But what a beauty! Both in style and in attractive it is much better than the original… Ah, but don't be angry, Esther. It is undeniable that she is much more beautiful, elegant and seductive than you, but you have your special appeal. You don't have to worry.” “I have to take that as a compliment!?” 

Esther put the cup of tea on the plate, ready to answer the priest as he deserved, but...

“Ah! The representation is about to begin...” murmured the Archbishop, raising the eyes to the clock and got up to say goodbye to the Pope and the Cardinals. “Holiness, Eminences, I hope you enjoy with the performance. Excuse me, I will give the welcome the public... Come on, Sister Esther.” “What!? Me?” 

Esther was stunned, pointing her finger at herself as she blinked in surprise.Why did she have to accompany the archbishop to greet those people?Seeing the nun's confusion, the archbishop smiled and in a sweet voice, he dropped the bomb:  “Let's greet the audience together… I suppose you have prepared a little speech.” “Sa... say hello to...? A speech!?” 

At those completely unexpected words, Esther was dumbfounded. It was a joke? He couldn't expect for her to just come out on stage in front of the crowd and improvise a speech! 

“Wait ... wait! It's a bit hasty...” “But haven't you come prepared? How clueless my Saint is... Well, what can we do? As I assumed something like this could happen, I have allowed myself the freedom to prepare a small draft. You just have to read it.” “Eh…? But…” 

The archbishop seemed to be completely serious and handed her a pile of papers. Esther received them without knowing very well what to do and looked doubtfully to the priest, looking for his help...

“Ah, Esther! If you go on stage, can you ask that actress to sign an autograph for me?” Let it say,«To Father Nightroad, sweetheart» or something like that, okay? Heh heh heh...!” “!” 

Saving her killer instinct for later Esther heaved a deep breath.There was no way out of it.            

 "Ugh, I'm late!"

Although it was still early November, the winter cold had already fallen on Istvan. Gloomy clouds covered the sky, and although the building was supposed to be equipped with heating, the white breath of the people walking through the lobby of the Opera House could be seen. 

However, the male figure that rushed into the hall seemed immune to all of it. From the gigantic man who crossed the room devastating the carpet emanated a suffocating sensation of summer heat. It goes without saying that such a figure attracted all eyes, as if a monster from another world had suddenly appeared in the room; but the man seemed oblivious to it and advanced with a hard look, as if he were entering enemy territory. 

“What a misery to have suffered a setback precisely when I am representing Cardinal Medici! This mistake can be very expensive, Petros!” 

Dressed in the uniform of a secret police officer, Brother Petros looked up at the clock as if observing an ancient enemy. Although there were still twenty minutes until the start of the performance, he had committed a very serious fault by not having arrived before His Holiness made his entrance. 

Anyway, he had only arrived in the city a few minutes ago, sent by his superior, who had too many business holding him back in Rome. He had not arrived by air, like the Pope, but had taken the land route. The planned inspection of the military facilities had taken him longer than planned, and that had caused the delay. 

Although the inspection had been satisfactory, it was scandalous that the director of the Holy Inquisition arrived after the papal retinue. No doubt a severe reprimand from Francesco awaited him when he returned. If it was just a row that awaited him... There was one other thing that Petros had to worry about... 

“Where will the honor box be?  Eh…? Where the hell am I?” 

As soon as he went through the lobby, Petros stopped. He had to accept that he was lost and began to look around, but none of the doors he saw were the ones he was looking for. 

Indeed, he did not know where he was. He had stormed across the lobby, but had no idea how to get to the honor box. Resigned to search blindly, he began to scan the surroundings with a fierce grin, to see if he could find any sign, but could do nothing more than make a passing child cry.

 The issue was that the box of honor was not accessible from the general entrance but it had its own access, but Il Ruinante had no way of knowing that. He gritted his teeth and prepared to undo his way when...  

“Oh!”

Behind the intrepid warrior monk came a small cry of pain. 

Turning around, Petros had collided head-on with a girl who was walking behind him. The girl fell on her back to the carpet, dropping what she was carrying. 

“Aaah! Forgive me, sister! How clumsy you are, Petros!” 

The man tried to apologize as he picked up the papers, which had been strewn down the hall. The nun was still moaning on the floor, clutching her bonnet.

 “Excuse my ineptitude! Are you OK? Eh? You!?” As he helped the nun to stand up, Petros' face changed as he roared in surprise at his interlocutor, who was still reeling: “You are Esther Blanchett!” “Ah, brother… Petros, right?” Moved by the violence with which the inquisitor had spoken her name, the young woman stepped back, raising her tearful gaze to Il Ruinante, and bowed to him. “We haven't seen each other for a long time… Ah, thanks again for your support in Carthage.” “No, please, I'm the one who owes you... But what am I saying?!” Petros began to respond to the greeting automatically, but quickly came back to himself. This was not the time to chat! “Esther Blanchett! What are you doing here!? This is not the place for you!” 

Finally the nun straightened with surprise in her eyes. “Well, I was getting ready for the speech. Archbishop D'Annunzio has ordered me to greet the audience with a few words and was reviewing the script...” “Has the archbishop ordered it? Impossible. How can it be that...?” Laughing like if he was talking to a little girl, Petros glanced at the script, his expression suddenly turning from skepticism to surprise. Topping the sheets was… the archbishop's seal!? The inquisitor began hastily reading the text. “Wha... but what...?! «Before all of you gathered here I want to raise my voice to denounce...»”

«Before all of you gathered here, I want to raise my voice to denounce that there is pure Evil in the world. I want to raise my voice to say that as long as that Evil is not exterminated, we will have no future. We must unite to fight and defend everything we love, everything we respect. It will be a difficult and tough fight, but all united in our Faith we must face…».

 It was unbelievable, but it seemed to be, indeed, the script of a speech. And it took up almost fifty pages. The tone was a bit affected and overly dramatic, but the closing archbishop's signature seemed authentic. 

“Hmmm! And the archbishop signed it... But I can't believe it! Why did he ask you to…!?” He said, looking at the nun with suspicious eyes. “Are you plotting against me!? Tell me the truth or you will regret it!” “Eh? The truth is that I have no idea what you are talking about for a while now...”

The young woman scratched her head, honestly confused. It was like talking to a drunk who did nothing but repeat the same story. 

“It's not that I don't find it strange to be here, really. First I receive a notice from the Duchess of Milan to come to Istvan, then they ask me to give a speech... The truth is that the...” “The Duchess of Milan… Cardinal Sforza!?” Petros reacted quickly to the young woman's words. The Cardinal... what was that viper up to? 

Actually, Petros was most concerned about what the Pope's stepsister might do during the visit. Taking advantage of the absence of Cardinal Medici, she could try to manipulate His Holiness or do some strange maneuver... He had to be prepared for anything, and the facts gave him reasons to suspect. So the viper had already set off... But he would not trip over the same stone of Carthage again. This time they would not escape from him! 

Staring at the nun, who was staring at him in bewilderment, Petros clenched his fist. That witch had played with him in Carthage. Just when he was about to uncover her plot, all evidence had been destroyed. He knew with certainty that she had had contact with the vampires, although it had escaped him at the last moment. But this time he would catch her. He would discover what is she plotting around the Pope and would denounce it to the world!

 “Ah, there you are, Sister Esther...” 

A cold voice roused the inquisitor from his inflamed musings. It was an elegant male voice, interrupting him as if to protect the nun. 

“I've been looking for you for a while. Eh? I think we've met before… What brings the Inquisition here, Brother Pietro Orsini?” “Yo... Your Excellence!” Hearing his secular name after so long, Petros turned as if an electric current had passed through his body. Seeing the archbishop approaching, he gave a forced salute. “How long! What a joy to see you again!” “Yes, a long time, Orsini. The last time we saw each other was when I left my charge as Director of the Inquisition, right? You were just a kid and look at you now. How time flies!” “I will never be grateful enough for your advice and your attention back then!” Said Petros, bowing deeply, as if he were a spring doll. 

Il Ruinante’s sword was feared inside and outside the Vatican, but there were four people he bowed his head to. One of them was Archbishop D'Annunzio. 

“Please excuse my delay. The review of the troops has taken me longer than I had calculated and the roads were collapsed...” “You can tell me that later...” the archbishop cut him immediately, turning around and say with sweet voice to Esther, who was watching them in astonishment. “Sister Esther, have you had a chance to read the script? It’s almost time for your speech. Let's go up on stage.”  “Yes, I have read the text…” replied the nun, embarrassed, taking the papers that the inquisitor had returned to her with an impetuous gesture. “But, Your Excellence, am I really supposed to read that speech?” “Eh? What do you mean, sister?” 

The archbishop was surprised to see the dark light that had covered the young woman's eyes, and asked with a cautious expression: “You don't like the parliament I have prepared for you? Does it not meet your literary expectations?” “No, is not that. It is wonderfully written and conveys the ideas very well… But the message…” The nun choked with her words… After hesitating and stammering for a few seconds, she looked up, determined. “Why make such a clear call to war? A year ago we fought the Marquis of Hungary, it is true. But it was a pure struggle for survival. We did not think of pretty phrases like «divine glory» or «security of human society»...” “Ah, that's what you mean...” D'Annunzio interrupted the young woman's fiery voice with great serenity. The archbishop's smile keep its charm, but his tone had a certain inhuman echo. “You don't have to take it so seriously, Sister Esther. The public gathered here tonight have not come to hear the truth. What they expect is a dramatic and exciting story… They want the story of the heroic maiden who struck down the evil vampire. Isn't it our obligation to meet those expectations?” “B... but...” “Listen to me, Saint...” D'Annunzio silenced Esther with a gesture and shook his head. The hallway had begun to fill up, and the archbishop lowered his voice, returning greetings to passing guests. “You are a very sweet girl, Esther. I fully understand that you don't like harsh words. But think about it for a moment. Although it has recovered a lot this year, Istvan is still going through difficult times. The life of the citizens, your compatriots, is still very hard. Think how important it would be for them to have a heroine...” 

The archbishop placed a very white hand on her shoulder as he looked deeply into her eyes. “Esther Blanchett, you must be their Saint. You must be the image that encourage their hearts. You must be the strength and the hope of all those you love, of all humanity. I will show you how.” “...”

Esther was doubtful at the powerful words of the archbishop, after opening and closing her lips as if not knowing what to say, the girl sighed deeply.

“Good. I'll try.” “Good girl.” Nodding with satisfaction, D'Annunzio opened the door that led to the stage.“Sister Esther, it's time to go on stage. The public awaits you.” “OK…”

«The public awaits you». She would have felt joyful, but the worried expression of the girl did not changed. Even it could be said that the suffering is evident in her face. Anyways, Esther began to walk dragging her feet. She went through the door the archbishop had opened for her and disappeared down the dark corridor. 

 After closing the door, D'Annunzio made a sarcastic face. 

“What a difficult Saint to handle... one breaks one's back to turn her it into a star, and she, in return, complains...” “Ah?”  At the archbishop's cold laugh, Petros looked up in surprise. Opening the door again, D'Annunzio said in a clear voice, to the surprise of his former subordinate: “I never know how to treat smart ass girls. It's so boring having to lecture them like that… The tools should be quiet and just do what they are asked to do…” “A tool...? Your Excellence, when you say «tool» do you mean that girl? And what does it mean to «turn her into a star»?” 

Petros asked in astonishment. So he didn't really think she was a Saint? 

“Ah! So the director of the Inquisition is still there...” 

The Archbishop of Istvan turned as if he was seeing a stranger and responded with the tone of someone who had just discovered a stain on his clothing.

“You heard me perfectly. Saint Esther is nothing more than an image created by the Vatican. It is a huge fiction promoted through the management of the media and the investment of large amounts of money...”

 The bishop spoke confidently in the dark corridor, as if explaining everything to a tough-minded subordinate.  “As you know, the Vatican is losing power over the secular states. To stop this trend, it is necessary to regain the center of social attention. Creating a Saint is part of that project. Esther Blanchett is nothing more than a tool for our plans...” 

«You shall not worship idols», the Bible made it very clear. Didn't the archbishop know? D'Annunzio spoke as if he did not feel any apprehension or guilt for playing with the life of a girl and the faith of millions of people like that. “Besides, as a tool, it's first class. Her past is impeccable, and it doesn't hurt that she's so pretty… She has a very cute face, don't you think, Orsini?” “Eh? Well, I wouldn't know...”  At the knight's embarrassment, the archbishop looked at him with mocking eyes. “You don't know about that? Well, it doesn't matter… I have to introduce my Saint to the public. Orsini, you can go to the box of honor. Then we will talk about your delay. Get ready.”  

D'Annunzio turned, dropping those cold words, and reached for the door that led to the stage.

“Ah!?”

Frightened, Petros started to run away from his former superior, but just as he was about to give a farewell bow, he remembered that he still had something to ask him about. “Your Excellence... I really have a question to ask you before I present myself before His Holiness.”  Half-closing the door, the archbishop turned with an annoyed gesture at the voice of his exasperating interlocutor.  “What?”

D'Annunzio's voice was reminiscent of a teacher announcing to a student that he had failed. Petros barely repressed his desire to flee and ran from the archbishop just to ask: “I have just reviewed the City Guard, but… Your Excellence, what does this deployment mean? I have seen a complete division or even more. What about those tanks and aircraft!?” D'Annunzio continued walking as if he was unaware of the alarm that echoed in Il Ruinante's words.  “I admire how you have managed to reform in just one year an organization that had been completely destroyed. But for a public order force it is a bit out of proportion. Is there something going wrong?” “Eh? What is going to go wrong?” The archbishop stopped for the first time.

 Twisting his mouth, he answered coldly to Petros’ puzzled gaze. “Certainly the Guard's strength now exceeds what it was a year ago. Nobody hides it. But if the situation of the city is taken into consideration, it cannot be said that they are sufficient. After all, Istvan is the central column of the Vatican's eastern defense line. Their defensive potential has to be as great as possible... don't you think?” “If you will allow me to speak frankly, I think there is a problem of magnitude! The Second Division of the Vatican Army is deployed in this area, which is responsible of the defense work. The City Guard should only perform police functions. What is the point of equipping the police as if it were an army?”

The only response Petros' fiery speech got was a cold smile.  “Well, well, I see that you still don't understand anything, Orsini...” 

The archbishop made no effort to hide the malice and contempt on his face. As if he felt sorry for the stupidity of his interlocutor, he made a face, laughing through his nose. “Yes, there is an army division stationed here. But in the event of war, those troops will leave the region. Won't Istvan have to defend itself, then? That is why we have increased the strength of the Guard... Of course it costs us a lot of resources, but that is why we can’t afford to reduce it.” “But that dismantles all the plans of Rome and Cardinal Medici! Also, you speak of war, but now that the region has stabilized, where is the risk of war going to come from? Neighboring countries respect the authority of the Vatican and there is no sign of any disturbance to happen so...” “Brother Petros!!!” 

The scream echoed like an ice whip. Throwing a defiant look at the inquisitor, the archbishop harshly carved his words into the dark air of the hall.  “Are you the Director of the Holy Inquisition and you don't understand something like that!? Have you forgotten who the mortal enemy of humanity is!? Have you forgotten that this Empire of terrible devils is next to us!? If you've forgotten, I'll remind you. Never forget: this is Istvan, the front line of the battle against vampires!” “Ah…? But...” 

Anyone who had attended their dialogue would have been frozen in surprise.Il Ruinante, known as the most implacable man in the Vatican, had fallen silent. 

When he noticed Petros is not going to reply, the archbishop softened his expression. “Well, I don't want to lecture you anymore. Go back to the lobby. Didn't you come to escort His Holiness? That's all you're worth for. At least accomplish the mission you've been given.” “Y... yes! With your permission...” Gritting his teeth, Petros bowed. 

He was not at all convinced by the reasons given by his former superior, but he had no proper reply at the time. He didn't have time either. He turned towards the exit when... Just then the door closed in front of him. And, as if they were waiting for that moment, the guards locked the door from outside.

“Hey…”

Had they locked him up!? Petros looked around him, bewildered. The doors that led to the stalls were all closed with bolt. The lighting in the hall began to dim as the lighting on the stage took hold. The warrior priest then heard the sound of the presenter's voice through the microphone: 

“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Istvan Opera House! In a few moments the Star of Sorrow will begin before all of you.”

“Petros, you are so clumsy!” 

The inquisitor began to get nervous. He had to find a way to get to the Pope's box as soon as possible! However, as much as he searched everywhere he was not able to find an open door. Apparently the security measures were meant to keep the public effectively locked inside the theater. 

He actually couldn’t make someone to open one of the doors invoking his authority as head of the Inquisition, if he did it, that would divert the attention of the speech that was about to start on the stage, and when they found out, the archbishop would scold him again some more. 

“Before we start, the author of the script will say a few words of welcome… His Excellene the Archbishop of Istvan, Emanuele D'Annunzio!” “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” 

While Il Ruinante was sweating while desperately looking for a way out, the welcome speech had begun on stage. Taking the microphone, the Archbishop smiled with all his virile charm. However, the voice that began to echo through the room had the serenity of a servant of God. 

“Welcome everyone. It has been a year since I received my appointment as Archbishop of this city. The road has not been easy, but with the help of the Lord and the collaboration of all of you, we have managed to happily overcome all the difficulties that have been presented to us so far. During this year we have defended in Istvan the glory of the Lord, who brought us a girl. I think we can be proud of it.” 

After uttering those phrases almost without breathing, the archbishop was silent for a moment. He closed his eyes as if he were remembering all the efforts of that year and raised his face to the ceiling. Petros realized that this was not more than a theatrical gesture, but the audience seemed to understand it as one reaction of sincere religious piety. Some mature women even began to sob quietly in the excitement.  Then, after checking that the entire room had gone completely silent, the archbishop opened his eyes again. Still smiling serenely, he raised his right arm to point to the small figure waiting at the base of the stage. 

“Tonight I am moved to have the opportunity to express our appreciation to the person who made the rebirth of this city possible. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the heroine who freed Istvan from the evil monster! Our hope before the devils that threaten us! Sister Esther Blanchett, Saint of Istvan!”

As thunderous applause rose, the hesitant figure of the nun appeared, equipped with a microphone. Blinking because of the bright spotlights and shrugging, the girl looked tiny in the middle of the huge stage, as if she were just a child.

 «She's just a poor kid…» Petros thought as he watched Esther walk across the stage. Come to think of it, the poor girl deserved his compassion for many reasons.First, because she belonged to the Ministry of Vatican Foreign Affairs, which was the lair of that witch, Caterina Sforza. Besides, she had to work with those agents, who had a horrible reputation of being sacrilegious. He couldn't imagine how she could lead a pious life as a nun between them. 

Above all, the entire show that night had not been sought by her, but had been implicated by the surroundings of D'Annunzio. At her young age, being worshiped as a Saint and being commissioned to make a speech to such an audience could only be considered a misfortune. 

“Uh... uh... Go... good night to every... Oh, no...! Good evening, la… ladies and gentlemen. It is an honor to introduce myself to you. I am Esther Blanchett. I do not have words to express my gratitude for this opera to be performed in my honor...”

  While Il Ruinante looked at her with compassionate eyes, the nun had started babbling. The inquisitor’s heart cringed just to see how her forehead was beaded in sweat and how her blue eyes were moving full of insecurity. Trying to smile faintly, the young lady put on the table the script that the archbishop had given to her before. Just when she deployed the first pages and prepared to start reading... the tragedy happened. 

“Ah!?”

The first thing that echoed through the speakers was a small groan. The pages of the script Esther was going to read flew across the stage. 

“No!” Cried Petros, as the papers fluttered like leaves blown up in the wind.Had she forgotten to re-tie the rope that held the pages together? The nun was trying to pick them up in haste, but many had already fallen off the stage. The girl's tensed face had lost all traces of color. But Petros and the rest of the audience didn't have to hold their breath for long. 

At first, the nun was so stunned that she couldn't even speak, it was natural.

 Having to improvise a speech in front of such a crowd, and also being people of such power in society… Even a veteran politician would have found it difficult. How could it cost to a girl who had just turned eighteen? 

In view of the events, no one would have criticized her if she had fled the stage. But the Saint did not.Biting her lip as if she had made up her mind, she rose to her feet, adjusting the hem of her habit. She was still a little pale, but a powerful light shone in her blue eyes. As if attracted by that look, the audience's attention was concentrated on the girl's face when she began to speak... 

“I beg your pardon for my clumsiness… The fear of speaking in front of so many people has left me a little stunned…” Esther began in a vigorous, almost savage voice. “A play will be performed in my honor tonight and I want to express my enormous gratitude to you for taking the time to attend the performance”.

Was this the same nervous nun who had trembled a few minutes earlier? Esther addressed the audience with her head up, as if all the perplexity of before had disappeared. 

“Well, to be improvising she does it very well...” Petros said to himself with admiration, as he looked for the archbishop with his eyes. At the backstage, D'Annunzio seemed to be more tense than before, but he was still looking at the young woman with a satisfied smile. As the nun had read the script before, a few as she remembered, things would go more or less as he had planned. Petros expected the same when he looked back at the girl. She would probably invoke God and the Vatican, would praise the courage of the combatants a year ago and call those present to remain united. If she said that, nothing would be noticed... 

“Thank you all. That was my intention... But now I have changed my mind...”

It would take a long time for Petros to forget how the atmosphere in the room changed with just that short sentence.What she’s going to tell them!? Glancing to the backstage, he saw how the archbishop had stiffened, staring at the nun in amazement, as if observing a ceramic doll that had suddenly begun to speak. 

Esther was not looking at the archbishop, but at the room full of spectators. In her pupils were reflected the innumerable puzzled faces that had been nailed to her. The audience seemed hypnotized by the words of the Saint, who whispered slowly:  “I have come to pray with all of you for the souls of those who shed their blood in battle a year ago. For that I have returned here, to my city.”  The voice was not overly powerful, but it completely dominated the room, where not a cough was heard. Without being too high or too low, it filled the air with a clean and serene feeling. It was the perfect example of a pleasant voice. As proof of this, when hearing her, Petros had completely forgotten that he had to go to the royal box, nothing further from his mind at the moment than to get away from there.

Il Ruinante had been lost in thought, listening to the flow of that voice.

“A year ago, we got a lot of blood flowing. Blood of our comrades, blood of our enemies… It was a horrible battle. But then I thought there was no other option. To survive you had to fight. We couldn't help but spilling that blood. In those moments it seemed that we were at a crossroads between life and death. Yes, that was really the situation. That's why we took up the sword... But now, a year later, I have the feeling that «there was no other option» is not a sufficient explanation for that fight...”

Esther was silent for a moment after the long speech. At the view of the girl closing briefly her eyelids to soak in those memories, Petros thought that this nun did not seem at all like the girl that he knew. More than someone alive, it recalled to the images of Saints that appeared in the murals and religious paintings of the cathedrals.  When she opened her eyes again, a sweet but intense light shone on them. Looking at the audience, which was in absolute silence, she continued with a calm voice. 

“During that battle I met one person... one person who back then was my enemy. He was the man I was trying to kill. But he also believed he had to kill to me to survive.” 

Her expression could not be said to be very refined, nor the sound of the words to be very beautiful. In spite of this, there was nobody in the room that was not captivated by the voice of the Saint. None of those celebrities and distinguished people uttered a single word. They were all focused, listening to the girl, who kept talking as if this was the most normal thing in the world.  

“But it wasn't true, no one should have died; However, due to a misunderstanding, at first, both he and I thought that we had to kill ourselves to survive… And not only him. I believe that among those we killed and who killed us there were many like him. Many who laughed like us, cried like us. Many who we hated. All possibilities were destroyed by a misunderstanding.” 

Perhaps it was the memory of that man that made a trace of suffering appear in the serene voice of the girl. The audience also felt the sting of that painful memory in their chest. Looking ahead, Esther spoke without hurrying, without forcing the words, penetrating every corner of the hearts of the attendees.

“Ladies and gentlemen, distrust yourselves. Be suspicious of justice. Maybe we are too simple. Be suspicious of your ideas about justice in the world. Are they really correct? Aren't they often just what we want to believe? Don't we impose them on our neighbor many times? Be suspicious. Mistrusting these issues is not bad.” 

«Be suspicious of justice».

Hearing those words, the audience felt a slight shudder. Since the nun had started her speech, that was the first moment of doubt. The audience had been rapt with her until then, but little by little the audience began to come to their senses. Esther was not flustered by the change in the audience, so she pushed herself even harder in her speech, expressively moving her arms.

“It may be that these words make you sad. You may think that everything is false and that nothing is certain. God and justice are nothing more than mirages… But they are not. We can distrust, distrust and distrust, but something will always remain. There is always something that cannot be denied… For example, on a winter night like this, meeting with the whole family in front of the stove and feeling the warmth in the heart…” The families in the audience exchanged glances, as if encouraged by the girl's words.“Or look at the starry sky from a deserted meadow and feel how precious our little existence is...” 

As to embrace to all those present, the nun extended the arms and continued talking, pretending this time caress the soul with the voice. 

“Love of oneself and of neighbor ... that's what remains in the end. That is what makes me believe in God. Because God loves us and has given us these gifts. So let's pray together. Let us pray for all the blood that was shed and the souls of all the fallen… Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”

 Although they had wanted to rehearse it before, the response of those present would not have come out more conjoined. It seemed they had coordinated not only the breathing, but even the pulse. The echo of those words had scarcely been consumed when a thunderous round of applause went up. The ovation did not diminish after the nun finished bowing in thanks. After the archbishop's speech, the audience had remained seated, but Esther's words made everyone in attendance stand up to cheer her on. Even Petros, seeing the reaction from the room, was unable to suppress a cry of admiration.

“And she's just a little girl… What a charisma!” 

 N: A very old Petros’s coloring ;) 

Just with the dubious name of Saint, the girl had managed to move more than a thousand people. This was not normal. Thinking ahead, Petros felt a slight concern.  

If the artificial Saint that D'Annunzio and Borgia wanted to make was added that ability to attract the public, the potential of the girl was not negligible. If she developed her career under Sforza's guidance, she would be a formidable opponent for Cardinal Medici and his followers...

“Hey you! Where do you think you are going!? This is not the time for that yet!” 

Those reproachful words that came from the base of the stage brought the warrior monk to his senses. Turning, he saw a Guard soldier in his gray-blue uniform arguing with someone carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Probably wanted to give it to the Saint. The one who carried the bouquet was a young adolescent. From the daring evening dress she was wearing, she seemed to be the daughter of one of the attendees. However, her dark skin and pronounced features were a rare combination in these lands. Her eyes were slanted and her pupils a stunning amethyst color.The soldier holding her in the gray gloves began to speak in an increasingly harsh voice.

“Didn't you hear me? If you want to give the Saint a bouquet of flowers, you have to wait for her to come down from the stage. Go back to your seat and stay still.” “Stand aside,Terran!” 

The young woman slightly moved the arm that the other was holding, It seemed a only symbolic gesture, but what happened then was anything but that. 

The soldier, who was six feet tall and weighed a hundred kilos, flew off incredibly and slammed his face against the wall. The impact must have made him pass out. The horrible noise of his nose breaking was the only thing that accompanied his collapse to the ground. 

The scene did not go unnoticed. Muffled shouts of astonishment began to be heard from the audience, and in the box of honor the cardinals had risen with tense faces. However, Petros wasted no time in observing the reactions of the attendees, because he had noticed that the young woman had too long canines between her lips...

“No! Get away from her you all!” Shouted Il Ruinante, wielding with each hand the screamers that he wore on his waist. “She is not human! Is a…!”  “Nice to meet you, Terrans. My name is Shahrazad and I come from the True Human Empire…” said the girl, with a voice as beautiful as a bell, but at the same time full of defiant force.  

As the bouquet of flowers was dropped, the long jeweled gloves she wore began to glow. Leaning them against the wall, the girl, or rather the vampire, looked directly at Esther, who made no sign of wanting to flee. 

“This evening I come to see the killer who you call the Saint... and to kill her!”

 With a thud, the wall began to crumble, looking like a spiderweb. 

                           ════════════╠☆╣════════════

And this is it my dear friends, I hope you have enjoyed this and the new Petros’ coloring I added. I tried hard not to include personal notes in the translation, because I love Petros so much and I was like reacting to everything that happened to him.  Maybe that’s the reason I love this arc so much XD  I want to thank you a lot for your patience, for those who still support this and help me out with it, and to those who share the love by rebloging and liking this. I truly apreciate that.  See you soon on the next part, stay tunned because the best part is next to come. Please stay safe and healthy <3 

[brave-horizon]

FFXIV Write 2021 - Prompt #2: Aberrant

This is intended to be an alternate path my RP character took during an event my FC ran during Stormblood. She doesn't get rescued, she gets brainwashed by the Empire. I also intended it to be a full, self-contained story, but it's much more difficult to write than I thought. I'm not much of an author, and this was quite exhausting! I'll try to finish it in later prompts. On with the story!

---

Brave's little apartment is a fine cell. She may not be in chains, but she certainly is a prisoner of Marcus nan Aquilus.

A small number of the Dufrense Bellworks had volunteered to serve as field engineers in service to the Temple Knights in the liberation of Gyr Abania with Brave Horizon as their sergeant, reporting to a knight of House Durendaire. Although largely by luck, the Dufrense Sappers had aided the Eorzean Alliance and hindered the Empire significantly, with their capstone having been capturing and reverse engineering a squadron of magitek reapers. It was their testing of these devices that drew the attention of the architectus magiteci of Castrum Abania. He assaulted the Bellworks' position, and though they met unexpected resistance from the irregulars, he did succeed in his goal of capturing their leader.

Brave was knocked unconscious in the skirmish, and she awoke in a soft bed in a decently furnished room. Her wounds were tended to, and there was a meal waiting for her. The architecture was patently Garlean. The door was locked and guarded. Save for a brief interrogation by Sovea eir Gravitas, a woman she knows well and harbors a deep hatred for, she was left in her room for several days to cool off.

Presently, she receives an unexpected visitor after an aan retrieves the remains of her breakfast. An imposing figure in familiar intricate armor: her captor. She remains silent and moves to stand next to the chair in her room. She has hidden a metal bar she salvaged from the bed frame there. He removes his helmet to reveal a middle-aged man of pure Garlean descent. His face is disarming. If not for the third eye, she might have guessed that face belonged to a kindly schoolteacher. It almost distracted her from noticing as Sovea entering behind him and standing by the door.

"I hope by now I've made it clear I don't consider you a prisoner of war," he says in a voice that is soft and clear, nothing like the sound the amplifier in his helmet makes.

"Then I can leave."

He smiles. "Your talent is clear, Brave Horizon. You understand magitek to a degree I wouldn't have thought possible to s--someone who has not attended the Academy. You took our armor and removed our interlocks and made them operable to any old member of your little band. I cannot overstate how impressive that is." Brave takes a mocking little bow, and he laughs. "You must understand how important magitek is to all peoples of this Star, not just the empire."

"Technology is important. Magitek is tainted by the disgusting imperialism that it enables."

Marcus raises his hands in concession. "Perhaps. I won't deny that the Empire is capable of incredible cruelty, and I won't deny that our technology makes it easier for those acts to be committed. But you know this has the potential to change this star for the better, and there is nowhere else where this progress can happen but here."

Brave's grip tightens on her makeshift weapon behind the chair. "I was doing just fine on my own, thank you very much."

"Of course. But let me show you the current potential of our art, beyond just clattering suits of armor." He produces a... some sort of magitek book? Perhaps some sort of adaptation of Allagan tomestone technology. "I'll let you read it over. We can speak about what you see in a few suns. Goodbye, Brave Horizon." He pulls his helmet back on and leaves the room. His cape flutters behind him as he does. Gods, he even has a fucking cape. Sovea lingers for a moment longer, then draws a gun on Brave in a blur. She gasps and backs away, holding up her hands. Her club clatters to the floor, and the spy steps forward to deftfully kick it into the grip of her other hand. She leaves without a further word.

Brave stands there, stunned, for a few minutes. She heaves a heavy sigh and flops onto her bed. Tears collect in the corners of her eyes as the adrenaline wears off. She tells herself that she'll never help the Empire that has taken so much from her. But after two more days of isolation and boredom, she can't help but... open? this strange tablet-book. The Resonance. It's disgusting. It's aberrant. She almost becomes sick reading it, and tosses the thing aside. The concept doesn't leave her mind for days more. Then... then she picks the tablet up again.

[thelastspeecher]

Stanuary ‘21 - Week Two: Sacrifice

I haven’t actually posted any writes here on tumblr with my Fashion AU, and I don’t think I’ve even really talked about it much.  So, why not use that AU for Stanuary?

What you need to know for this AU: Stan and Ford go to art school together (Stan for drawing - he wants to work on Lil Stanley, Ford for fashion), it’s a modern AU (aka they are born much later, becoming adults post-2000), Ford starts his own fashion brand, and Stan...well, you’ll see what Stan decides to do.

Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————–

              “Son of a-” Ford muttered.  Stan looked up from his sketches.  They were both working on their school projects, though for once, Ford was swearing under his breath more than Stan.

              He’s still pretty new to sewing, that’s all. While Ford excelled at designing clothing, he struggled with actually creating it.  As Stan watched, Ford accidentally stuck himself with a needle again.

              “Fucking-”  Ford trailed off, mumbling darkly.

              “You all right there, Sixer?” Stan asked. Ford looked up.  “You keep swearing.”

              “Did I offend you?” Ford asked snidely.  Stan snickered.

              “Not even close.”

              “Well…”  Ford set the fabric on his lap with a sigh.  “I didn’t realize that going into fashion would entail making the clothing I designed.  If I’d known-”

              “You woulda chose a different major?”

              “No.  But I would have asked for sewing lessons from Mom.”

              “You’re in luck.”  Stan got up from his desk.  He walked over to Ford’s bed and sat next to his twin.  “Mom got sick of patching up my clothes all the time when we were kids, so she showed me how.  Hand it over.”

              “You have your own work to do,” Ford protested. Stan took the fabric from Ford. “Your studies shouldn’t suffer just because I can’t sew!”

              “Eh, I’m pretty much done with Lil Stanley for the day,” Stan said, shrugging.  “Gimme that.”  He took Ford’s needle.  Ford grumbled wordlessly, but wisely didn’t continue to protest.  “Anyways, here’s how you sew without sticking yourself every second.”

-----

              Stan stared blankly at the worksheet before him.

              Why the hell do I have to take a physics class? I’m here to work on my comic book. I don’t need physics for that! After a few more moments of trying to make sense of his worksheet, Stan gave up.  With a sigh, he turned to face Ford, deciding to finally ask for some help. If I fail outta this class, I’ll have to take it again and miss my chance for Advanced Character Design next semester.

              “Hey, Ford?” Stan asked.  Ford, who was once again sitting on his bed sewing, grunted wordlessly.  “You know physics, right?”

              “Yes,” Ford mumbled.

              “I’m stuck on my homework, think you could-”

              “Normally, I’d be thrilled to help you,” Ford said, “but I’m kind of in the middle of something, Stanley.”  Ford huffed impatiently.  “The last few times I’ve finished my design prototypes, they look all right on the hanger, but terrible on an actual model.”

              “Why don’t you put them on, then?” Stan suggested. “The person who was in this room before us left that full-length mirror.  You can look at yourself in that.”

              “That might work, but it would be exceedingly slow,” Ford said.  “I’d have to make marks, then take off the clothes to make adjustments, then put them on again, then make more marks, then-”

              “I get it,” Stan said, stopping Ford’s rambling. “You can’t mess with it properly if you’re the one modeling it.”  He frowned. “What about getting a mannequin?”

              “I don’t have the money for that!”

              “Doesn’t the fashion department have some?”

              “Yes, but I can’t take it home with me!”

              “Okay, okay, calm down,” Stan said.  He leaned in.  “Want me to…liberate one for you?”  Ford glared at him.  “No stealing. Got it.”  Stan glanced at his physics worksheet again.

              Honestly, being poked by needles is more of a good time than working on that bullshit.  Stan looked back at Ford.

              “I’ll model your clothes.”

              “Really?” Ford asked, his eyes wide.  Stan shrugged.

              “Sure.  Why not?”

              “Well, you have your own schoolwork to do…”

              “I can do it after.”

              “But I don’t know how long it will take for me to finish adjustments-”

              “It’s not like I’d be able to get much done without your help, anyways,” Stan said dismissively.  Ford chewed on his lip.  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Ford.”  Stan got up and took the clothes from his twin.  He removed his shirt and slipped on the top Ford had been working on.  “Let’s be real, I was made to be a model anyways.”  Ford smiled faintly.  “Hand me the pants.”

-----

              Stan threw open the door to the dorm room he shared with Ford.

              “Guess who just got Lil Stanley in the school paper?” he crowed.  Ford, once again sitting on his bed attempting to sew, looked up.

              “Hmm…” he said, feigning thoughtfulness.

              “And don’t say that chick friend of yours who hates my guts,” Stan said.  Ford snickered.  “I’ve seen her sketch.  She can’t draw for shit.”

              “Congratulations, Stanley,” Ford said.  Stan preened.  “With all of your hard work, it’s definitely well-deserved.”

              “Yeah, my adviser says that if I keep working on it, I might be able to make Lil Stanley big.”

              “If you did that, it wouldn’t be ‘lil’ any more though, would it?” Ford asked.  Stan laughed. “Seriously, I’m very happy for you. I know that you never intended to attend a ‘fancy art school’ with me.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan sat next to Ford.  “But I like it.”  He eyed Ford’s latest project.  “How’s your clothes stuff coming along?”  Ford sighed heavily.  “Not well, I’m guessing.  Want me to try it on so you can make adjustments?”

              “I greatly appreciate the offer, but, no, my problem is different.  The person who was going to model this for my final got sick.  Now, I have to scramble to find someone.”

              “Doesn’t the fashion department have a warehouse of students to model?” Stan asked.  Ford frowned at him in confusion.  “I think the warehouse has some weird name, like, Theater Department or something like that.”  Stan elbowed Ford playfully.  Ford rolled his eyes.  “Am I wrong?”

              “No, you’re right, many of our models are theater students.”

              “Makes sense.  They like wearing weird clothes and being the center of attention.”

              “Stan…”  Ford shook his head, trying to hide his chuckle.  “Unfortunately, it’s finals for the theater students as well.  None of them have the time to model for me.”

              “I’m not a theater student,” Stan said.  Ford looked at him.  “I can model for you.”

              “Are you sure?”

              “I do it all the time so you can make adjustments on your stuff.”  Stan shrugged.  “It’s not like I’m walking down the catwalk at New York Fashion Week or whatever.”

              “Don’t you have finals?”

              “None of ‘em are tests.  They’re all projects.”

              “Have you finished your projects?” Ford prodded.

              “Pretty much.”

              “Stanley…”

              “What did I tell you about looking a gift horse in the mouth, Sixer?”

              “…Don’t do it?”

              “Exactly!”  Stan flicked the fabric that Ford was still holding.  “Make this fit me, and I’ll walk the runway.”

-----

              There was a ping from Stan’s computer. He minimized Photoshop and pulled up his email.  His mouth went dry.  It was a message from a publisher.

              Don’t get your hopes up, Stan.  You’ve only been getting rejections, this is probably just another one.  Holding his breath, he opened the email.  His jaw dropped.

              “We’re pleased to inform you…”

              “Holy shit!” Stan shouted.  He punched the air triumphantly.  “I did it!  I fucking did it!  I-”  A door slammed somewhere in the apartment, closely followed by heavy stomps.

              That can’t be good.  With a sigh, Stan got up from his desk.  He exited his bedroom, walked down the hall, and entered the living room.  Ford had thrown himself onto the couch face-down.  Sometimes I hate being right.

              “What’s wrong?” Stan asked.  Ford lifted his head.

              “You recall that I have my first show tonight, right?” he said.  Stan nodded. “Angie’s still on board to model the women’s line, but my male model…”

              “Let me guess.  He fell through.”

              “He went to a competitor who could afford to pay him more.”

              “Ah.”  Stan walked over to the couch.  “Scooch.” Ford obediently sat up and moved. Stan sat next to him.  “Remember what I did for you while we were still in school?  Before you managed to start your own fashion brand?”  Ford frowned at him.  “C’mon, Sixer, did you really forget?”

              “Are you…referring to how you modeled my clothing for my classes?”

              “Yep.”

              “You’re offering to model for me in an actual show?!” Ford asked, aghast.  Stan crossed his arms.

              “You don’t think I’ve got what it takes?”

              “No, not- I just- you don’t actually have any training on modeling!”

    ��         “I’ll get Angie to show me.”

              “She despises you.”

              “Yeah, but you’re like, her best friend.  She’ll show me how to model if it’s for you,” Stan pointed out.  Ford put his head in his hands.  “You can’t let this chance pass you by, Ford!  This is your first show, it needs to go off without a hitch!”

              “Yes, but-”

              “No buts.  I’ll call up Angie, you work on altering those clothes of yours,” Stan said firmly.  Ford sighed. He looked at Stan.

              “She won’t pick up if you call.”

              “I’ll call from your phone,” Stan said, already grabbing Ford’s phone from the nearby end table.

              “Don’t spill anything on it or drop it this time, okay?”

              “You got it.”  Stan got up.  Before he had left the living room, Ford spoke.

              “Stanley?”

              “Yeah?”

              “…Thank you,” Ford said softly.  “I think you’re right.  This- this really is the only way for my show to not end in disaster.”

              “Of course I’m right!” Stan said dismissively. He threw a grin over his shoulder. “And it’s not a problem.  Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”  Stan headed for his bedroom.  Just as he pulled up Angie’s number to call her, his computer chimed again.  He sat down at his desk and checked his email.

              “Mr. Pines, please respond promptly so that we can set up a meeting for tonight to discuss publishing your comic. Unfortunately, if you are unable to speak tonight, we will have to pass on you as a comic creator with our company.” Stan’s heart sunk.

              “Really?” he whispered, staring at the email.  “That’s bullshit.”  Ford’s phone in his hand buzzed.  He glanced at it.  Ford had received a text from Angie, asking if he had figured out the male model problem. Stan looked at the email again. He swallowed.  

              If this is how they do business, it’s probably a scam anyways. Stan tried to push away the fact that he had sent Lil Stanley to that company because one of his professors recommended them.  Yeah.  Just a scam. Gotta be.  Ford’s phone buzzed again, this time with a call from Angie, rather than a text.  Stan picked up.

              “Ford figured out the model situation,” he said into the phone.  “I’ll be stepping in.  So, what kinda tips do you got for me?”

-----

              Stan tromped into his bedroom, still wearing the makeup from the show.  He threw himself onto his bed with a loud groan.

              Hours later, Stan was woken from his unplanned nap by Ford poking his head into the room.

              “Stanley?” Ford asked.  Stan sat up.

              “You finally got home, huh?”

              “Yes.  Sorry, I had to-”

              “Schmooze, I know,” Stan said, waving a hand.  He yawned and stretched.  “No worries, Sixer.  I get it.”

              “This time, I didn’t have to approach anyone!” Ford said excitedly.  “People wanted to talk to me!”

              “Hey, you’re making a name for yourself!  It’s about time people picked up on your genius. How many shows has it been now?”

              “Too many,” Ford said with a chuckle.  Stan grinned.

              “That’s great, Ford.  Really.  But, uh, I did all the work at the show, so I’m pretty beat…”

              “You want to go to bed.  I’ll leave.  We can talk in the morning,” Ford said, bobbing his head.  He paused.  “Don’t forget to wipe off your makeup before going to sleep.  It’s not good for your skin if you leave it on.”

              “I know, I know.  This wasn’t my first rodeo.”

              “Yes.  Correct. Well…good night.”

              “Good night,” Stan said.  Ford smiled again, then left, closing Stan’s door quietly behind him.  Stan got up, stretching again.  His computer dinged.  “What now?” Stan trudged over to his computer and sat down.  He pulled up his email.  His eyes widened.

              “We greatly enjoyed the materials that you sent us and would like to publish Lil Stanley as a weekly strip in our paper. Please respond if you are still interested in working with us.”  Stan grinned.

              Only weekly?  Perfect.  That sounds like the kinda commitment that I can still do modeling with.

                He began to draft a response.  

              After all, who knows what would happen to Ford if I wasn’t there for him?

[mostlycompetentwriter]

Scene Stealers

F/M Pairing: Y/N x Seo Changbin

Warnings: mild language, they both go through a lot of angst, but I can’t resist making it better with fluff at the end.

Genre: Violinist AU; College AU; Friends to Enemies to Lovers (AKA the Golden Triangle)

Word Count: 4.5K

Summary: Y/N and Seo Changbin share a tentative friendship, but when it comes to claiming first chair violinist for their school’s upcoming orchestra, their reasons for wanting the spot might just tear them apart.

A/N: Shoot, I was kinda mean to Changbin, but it was important for the sake of character development. 

I had been playing the violin ever since I could first hold the instrument in my hands, smooth and luxurious paint glistening under the lights of my bedroom. It was the first time that I had ever fallen in love with something, and I passionately gave my heart and soul to the music I created. As a result, my entire life became consumed by my incessant desire to improve and rise high above the ranks of my classmates.

However, it wasn’t until I started university that I realized what competition truly looked like because everyone in my liberal art’s school was insanely talented. These were the same people who had also split their blood, sweat and tears into the pursuit of perfection. They shared the same aspirations, and their thirst for the very top was just as all-consuming as mine.

Ironically, our professor told us that we were acquaintances, first and foremost, and needless taunting and fighting would not be tolerated without serious consequences. But my classmates and I found ways around their rules, and the relatively harmless pranks usually sent strong messages to those who we perceived as threatening. Of course, there were also the occasional cliques that formed, and they usually consisted of like-minded individuals who knew that they could use one another to help their self-motivated aspirations.

But I never thought that I would join any of them until I met Changbin. 

Because he seemed just like another face in the crowd, despite being alluringly handsome. Yet, when he managed a score a perfect A+ on our mid-semester examination, everyone immediately knew that he was not to be underestimated. Interestingly, Changbin often kept to himself in spite of my classmates’ approaches. They wanted him to join their circles because it was better to cement your status by joining with the best that our school had to offer. Plus, it allowed you to keep a close eye on the competition, and I had seen my fair share of friendships destroyed because of a petty disagreement.

But Changbin never seemed interested in making friends, and I admired his tenacity, which might explain why I allowed him to sit next to me at lunch since our other classmates were otherwise occupied with their own friend groups. And I certainly never considered that he had any ulterior motives, until he randomly started a conversation with me. At first, I was taken aback by the surprisingly timid greeting that he extended in my direction, but I decided that Changbin was harmless.

You see, I never intended to extend our relationship beyond casual lunchtime conversations, but he started sitting next to me in class as well. I wanted to protest the sudden change until Changbin changed my mind because he was helpful with our menial class assignments, and he even offered to help me with my general education courses. It registered as a kind-hearted gesture that seemed out of place considering our highly competitive field.

But I accepted his help because I genuinely appreciated anyone who could tutor me through basic calculus, and he was patient with me, walking us both through worksheet exercises with a calm and steady approach. After that, I didn’t mind acknowledging Changbin as a friend since he was always considerate and helpful, and his personality naturally complimented mine. Where I was quick-tempered and active, Changbin was laidback and gentle. I balanced him when he was struggling to find enough motivation to finish his assignments (even though he was a certified genius), and he managed to convince me to take breaks from making hundreds of highlights in my textbooks.

Yet, at the back of my mind was a constant reminder: Changbin was still one of my competitors, and I valued my future far more his friendship.

Present

I could tell that something interesting was about to happen when our Professor walked into class for our morning lecture. He smiled at the rows of students beaming back at him in expectation for whatever it was that he might be planning. “Students,” he said, pacing across the front of the room. “We have our first orchestral concert coming up.”

There was an excited murmuring that swept through the classroom, and I turned my head to the side to meet Changbin’s excited gaze. “Are you ready?” he asked, and I inhaled sharply around the smell of his cologne.

“Of course,” I said in response before looking back at our Professor.

“Most of the positions have been decided,” he continued. “But we still need someone for first chair violinist.”

My heart nearly skipped a beat inside my chest at the advertisement, and I clutched tightly to the edge of my desk. “This Saturday, I’ll be holding auditions at noon. Don’t be late.”

I leaned back in my desk while doing my best to restrain my excitement. Our Professor had already commenced the beginning of his lesson, but I couldn’t focus on anything else other than the coveted first chair auditions. It was everything that I had been working towards my entire life, and I was consumed with ideas for my song performance. Should I go for something classical? Or would that be too expected? Perhaps I should create something original?

The ideas were endless, and I waited until the end of class before I started speaking to Changbin in a rapid tone, hoping that he might give me some insights into my unfortunate conundrum. “I don’t know, Y/N,” Changbin said, scratching at the back of his head like he was nervous about something. 

“You’ll come and support me, right?” I asked him. “I’d like to see you there.”

Changbin looked away from me. “Yeah, but I’ll be auditioning too.”

I immediately froze in my steps, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. “Oh?”

“I thought you knew that,” he said, chuckling at the awkward situation that we found ourselves experiencing. “I’m not really interested in first chair, but my father said that he would be pull me out of the music program if I failed.”

I blinked at him, feeling like the entire universe had just been knocked off-kilter. “I guess you’ll have to try, then.”

“We can always practice together,” Changbin said with a note of desperation. “Just like we always do.”

“Sure,” I said, but the lie sounded inauthentic even to my own practiced ears. “Maybe we can try to schedule a time.”

“Tomorrow,” Changbin said, and his stare was intense. “I can meet you after class.”

“I’ll see if I have a free hour,” I said, and Changbin looked surprised that I didn’t agree to his offer.

“Do you already have plans?”

“One of my professors has office hours,” I said in return, even though we both knew that I rarely took advantage of meeting my instructors outside of scheduled classes.

Changbin nodded, but I could tell that he wasn’t easily convinced. “What about lunch? We can find something cheap in the dining hall. My treat.”

I resisted the urge to sigh. “Rain check?”

Changbin scoffed, reaching out for my arm to hold me in place. “Are you really mad about the audition?”

“Of course not,” I said, pulling my arm free from his unexpectedly tight grip. In actuality, I was far more disappointed than I was angry.

“Y/N,” Changbin said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t lose this.”

“I know,” I told him with a nod. “But this has been my dream since I was eight-years-old.”

“I get that,” Changbin said, and I could tell that he was frustrated. “It’s a competition, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t hang out.”

“You’re right,” I agreed with a tight smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around later.”

I thought that it seemed casual enough, but Changbin was nothing short of incredulous, shaking his head at me before I watched him retreat in the opposite direction.

The Next Day

It was late at night when my phone vibrated against my nightstand. I let out a groan as I rolled onto my side to silence the notification, pausing when I realized that it was a text message from Changbin: there’s a party tonight, Y/N. You should come with me.

I frowned at the mention of a party, especially when it was such a random request from Changbin. He had never invited me to this kind of thing before, so why was he asking out of the blue? Especially considering our earlier argument from the previous day.

Maybe he was trying to distract me, I thought to myself, snatching my phone and sending a reply back to him: Not tonight. I have plans.

It wasn’t necessarily true since I had initially planned to stay in my dorm room, but I suddenly thought of something that I could do to occupy my time. And it would also benefit me in regards to the upcoming auditions. But then again, when I really thought about it, I realized that Changbin was a contributing factor in pushing me to the edge of full-blown panic, and I was suddenly anxious to ensure my position for our school’s upcoming performance. Likewise, when I considered the situation, if Changbin was going to a party, then there was a good chance that our other classmates would attend as well.

With that thought in mind, I grabbed my violin case from its position against the wall because I had just received confirmation that I would have the practice room to myself - allowing me the rare opportunity to improve without the others around. And that most certainly included Changbin. It was enough to get my heart racing, and I secured my coat tightly around my waist before rushing outside, inhaling the cold, crisp winter air as I found myself practically jogging to the music building. 

As I suspected, it was empty inside, and I turned on the lights and set-up some of the more expensive equipment that I wasn’t privileged enough to use outside of regular instruction. Satisfied, I sat down on one of the stools near the front of the room, tucking the violin against the familiar spot between my neck and shoulder, and I started to play with a huge smile pasted across my lips. Because this was when I felt the most comfortable, and everything was familiar, listening to the notes and chords form the beautiful melodies that had fascinated me as a child.

It was my favorite way to lose track of time, and I didn’t pay much attention to the late hour when I finished my entire set, pausing at the end of my performance to take in a deep breath. Was that okay? I wondered to myself, regretting the fact that I hadn’t bothered to record my practice run. Because it had become the best way to single out the little mistakes - whether it involved my irregular posture, or the slight hiss of a note that might go unnoticed by the untrained ear.

Whatever the case may be, I was too tired to revisit my prepared performance again, so I carefully cleaned up the practice room and stowed away my violin inside its case. Afterward, I took one last lingering look around the practice room before I was walking back outside. Thankfully, the building automatically locked itself behind me, so I knew that a Janitor had come by at some point, and the night was relatively quiet and undisturbed as I started walking back to my dorm alone.

However, any semblance of loneliness was quickly ruined by the unexpected vocalization of my name: “Y/N!”

I turned around, resisting the urge to roll my eyes when I saw one of my classmates running down the sidewalk. “Hey,” I said, keeping my tone inflectionless on purpose.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said. “I thought you might come to the party.”

“I had other plans,” I told her dismissively.

“Yeah, Changbin said that he invited you,” she said, and I froze at the mention of Changbin. “He seemed pretty upset about it.”

I narrowed my eyes because I couldn’t quite figure out why she would feel the need to tell me that. “He knew I was busy.”

“I guess,” she said as if finally figuring out that I wasn’t in the mood for a conversation.

I nodded tersely, jerking my head in the direction of my dorm. “I was on my way back.”

“Oh, right!” she said, shaking her head as she took a step away from me. “I’m sorry if I bothered you.”

“It’s fine,” I said dismissively, spinning on my heel as I continued the short trek back to my dorm room, and I tried to ignore how my mind seemed stuck on the revelation of Changbin’s dissatisfaction with my decision to stay away from that stupid party.

The next morning, I could tell that something was off with Changbin when I sat down next to him at our usual section. His gaze was cold when he acknowledged me, but he didn’t say anything as he continued flipping through the sheet music waiting in front of him. It was completely out of character, but I had bigger things to worry about, lending my attention to our Professor when he walked into the lecture room to begin our lesson.

However, at the same time, I was irritated with my train of thought because I found myself wondering about Changbin instead of the History of Mozart. It was a cumbersome predicament because I wasn’t the type of student who became so easily distracted. In fact, I once spent nine hours straight in the library researching for a project that wasn’t due until the end of the semester.

Get it together, Y/N!

“Okay, everyone,” our Professor continued. “We’ll pause here for a moment and you can discuss the Mozart Effect Theory with a partner.”

I immediately looked at Changbin who sighed as he allowed his pen to fall from between his fingers. “What do you think?”

I hesitated because his question could easily be taken out of context, and it could be applied to something far more personal than the Mozart Theory. “It’s interesting.”

“I agree,” Changbin said, and I could see his jaw clench. “I heard that you were in the practice room last night,” Changbin added, and his tone was strangely cold.

How did he even know that? I wondered, but I knew there was no use in lying. It had never even appealed to me. “I wanted to make sure my performance was ready,” I replied.

“You lied to me,” Changbin growled, and I decided that I didn’t like the way that he was talking to me.

“I never lied,” I said. “I told you I had plans.”

“To practice?” Changbin scoffed. “You’re the one who always tells me to that you can’t push yourself too far, but I’m beginning to think it was all some kind of plot to make sure that I stayed behind you.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I would never intentionally jeopardize another student’s success.”

“Really?” Changbin questioned. “So, why was sneaking away to the practice room more important than taking the night off with me?”

His questions were becoming harder to answer, and there was a part of me that didn’t want to deal with unnecessary drama. I had always been told that I had an unfavorable personality, but it usually involved my inability to deal with these kinds of situations - when someone thought that my time was theirs to utilize as they commanded. Then again, maybe it was my fault because I had simply allowed Changbin to get too close, and I could easily rectify that problem.

“We were never friends, Changbin,” I said, refocusing my attention at the front of the room because the words hurt to vocalize aloud. “You should know better than that since we’re all competitors.”

“Is that what you think?” Changbin asked, and he looked at me closely, searching for something that I knew he wouldn’t find. “I’m sorry that I wasted your time,” Changbin concluded, and he returned to his work without another word.

On the day of the audition, I was surprised when I received a phone call from my mother asking to meet me for lunch before my scheduled performance. It was a breath of fresh air - a necessary distraction because my stomach hadn’t settled ever since I woke-up that morning. In fact, I was experiencing an onslaught of unexpected nerves that I hadn’t felt since my required entrance examination. Overtime, my confidence had steadily built to a healthy level, but the idea of the audition was enough to crumble the entire foundation.

But my mother’s smile was kind when she invited me into a familiar embrace, and I inhaled the smell of her sweet perfume. “Y/N,” she said, pulling away and looking at me closely. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” I said, and she gave me a knowing look before inviting me inside the little cafe that we had agreed to meet at for our scheduled lunch. 

“What would you like?” my mother asked as she stood next to the front counter.

“Whatever you think...” I trailed off, and my eyes settled on someone that I hadn’t spoken to ever since our cold exchange in class the other day.

The sight of Changbin sent another pang to my churning stomach, and my mother called my name when she noticed my distraction. “Is he a friend?” my mother asked, and I met Changbin’s gaze just before he decided to turn away from me.

“A classmate,” I said, and the words tasted bitter on my palate.

“Well,” my mother said, exchanging a few words with the employee behind the register. “I ordered us something light.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, jerking my head away from Changbin. “I’ve felt nervous all morning.”

“That’s not like you,” my mother said, and she gave me a concerned look.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” I offered as an explanation, and I made sure that we sat far away from Changbin at the other end of the cafe.

Eventually, my mother clapped her hands together when a waitress brought our food. It seemed tantalizing, and I took a bite of my sandwich before quietly sneaking another glance in Changbin’s direction. The action was automatic, and I was crushed to see that he was gone. “Are you sure that boy was just a classmate?”

I sighed because leave it to my psychologist mother to understand everything better than anyone else. “I don’t know.”

My mother offered me a sympathetic smile, and I watched as her hand enclosed over mine. “Tell me about him.”

“I think we were friends,” I offered hesitantly. “But I screwed everything up.”

“What happened?”

“He was mad because I decided to practice instead of going to a party with him, which is really stupid since we have auditions,” I said. “I mean, we weren’t really ever that close.”

“Are you sure?” my mother asked, and I groaned at the look on her face because I had seen it many times before. “Did you spend time together outside of class?”

“Well, yeah...”

“Doing what?”

I considered her question, recalling my first meeting with Changbin as something inconsequential. But afterward, it seemed that our time started to matter more, like when Changbin came over to my dorm in the middle of the night because I was panicking over a calculus exam. Or, when he took me aside after class because I made a dumb mistake and he reassured me that it would only make me stronger. And then there were the little things in between those moments - casual conversations during our classes and lunch, walks to and from our dormitories, and hooking Changbin on one of my favorite dramas that I liked to watch when it felt like the world was too difficult to manage on my own...

I glanced up at my mother, and there was a sad smile waiting for me. “Y/N, I think you’ve made a mistake.”

Her assessment was difficult to accept because I had spent my whole life believing that I couldn’t afford to make mistakes. I always panicked on anything that strayed from perfection, and my mind was stubborn and impenetrable when it came to the smallest of errors. And considering the idea of losing Changbin as a mistake? It was an enormous blow.

“What can I do to fix it?” I asked my mother, and I was startled by my own voice because it sounded so small and insecure. 

“That’s up to you to decide,” my mother said. “Some mistakes can be fixed in a million different ways, but some are so severe that you have to really think about the consequences.”

The nerves that I had experienced before were suddenly affecting me tenfold, and I knew that there was only one thing that I could do to remedy the worst mistake of my life.

Stage fright used to be a foreign concept to me, but when I walked across the stage for my audition, the heat of the overhanging lights added to the sweat glistening on my skin, and it seemed like I was experiencing tunnel vision when I managed to single out a familiar face. As such, I could see Changbin in the audience, watching me with narrowed eyes. It was a look that I never expected to receive from someone who was normally so quiet and reserved. And I couldn’t stand to know that it was because I had been so cruel to a man who had stood loyally by my side.

“Y/N,” my Professor greeted me warmly, shifting through the papers on the table in front of him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I tightened my grip around my violin, positioning it between my neck and shoulder as I had done a thousand times before. But this time was different because I already knew the outcome, and there was a tremendous weight being lifted from my shoulders as I pulled the bow across the string with too much pressure. The accompanying screeching noise was jarring, and I could see some of my classmates flinching in reaction.

Meanwhile, my Professor’s mouth had fallen open in shock, and I closed my eyes and sighed. “Thank you,” I said, bowing in front of my stunned Professor before I walked off the stage.

It was hard to remember what happened thereafter, but I recalled ignoring the voices of my classmates backstage, fighting the crowd for the fresh air waiting outside. But the sunlight was the first thing that I really felt, and it was warm and reassuring against my skin as I inhaled with several, deep breaths. It was a beautiful day, and I found myself smiling as I walked over to one of the little benches waiting along the edges of the giant auditorium building.

For a moment, I wondered what my younger self would think about this strange turn of events. Surely, past Y/N would launch into some sort of tirade about how irresponsible I was being with our future, telling me about the “path” that we needed to follow in order to find success in life. And it was stunning that one kind-hearted boy, with dark hair and eyes, had managed to show me what it was like to appreciate something more than music. Because it wasn’t everything that life had to offer, and I really wanted to take advantage of the other exciting adventures that I had scorned in favor of longer practices or reading textbooks about the countless theories of instrumentals.

What a waste of time, I thought to myself, craning my head back until I could feel the pressure lessen in my neck. 

“Do you understand what you just did?”

I opened one eye, finding Changbin standing in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest. My heart reacted to him before my brain, and I scrambled for the right words to describe everything that had happened. “I thought about it beforehand.”

“And it seemed like a good idea to you?”

“Considering the circumstances,” I said, giving him my full attention because he deserved nothing less. “I want our Professor to nominate Seo Changbin for the first chair, and I made sure that I couldn’t get in the way of what you deserve.”

Changbin was quiet for a moment, even as his arms fell to his sides. “You did that for me?” Changbin asked with eyes that were alight with wonder.

“Yeah.” I nodded, savoring a passing breeze. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Why?” Changbin asked, and there a slight hint of anger in his tone that told me he hadn’t forgotten my dismissal of him from earlier this week.

However, I was calm when I answered him, like an enormous weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “For most of my life, I had this idea that there was only one future for me, and I needed to follow some kind of weird, strict plan...” I paused, patting the empty space on the bench next to me. Changbin hesitated for a moment before he sat down. “But lately, I’ve started to really hate that kind of thinking, and I hate the fact that I thought playing music was the only thing that could give my life any sort of meaning. Because it’s really not.”

“Do you believe that?”

I smiled at his innocent question. “Meeting you taught me a lot, and I’ve finally realized that I want other things in my life.”

It was a solemn declaration, and when Changbin looked at me, I knew that it was true. “Like...friends?”

“Yeah, friends,” I agreed, knocking my shoulder against his. “I also want to be a better version of myself. Someone who’s less obsessed with perfection.”

“You want me to think that I’m responsible for this epiphany?” Changbin asked, and his accompanying laugh filled my heart with a bright feeling of happiness.

“It starts with you,” I admitted. “I want you to ace that audition.”

“Well, after hearing all of that...” Changbin trailed off, and he straightened his shoulders. “I have some things that I should tell you.”

“Me?” I repeated, giving him an incredulous look.

“You.” Changbin confirmed, and the way he wrapped an arm around my shoulders was nothing short of delicate. “I like you a lot, Y/N,” he confessed. “This whole fight...I’m glad that you seem happier, but I would’ve never let it last. I need to be around you, and I want you to understand because I’m hoping for something even bigger than friendship.”

I swallowed hard, processing his words. “What do you mean?”

“Something like this,” Changbin said, and I wasn’t expecting the soft fingers directing my head to the side. But I really could’ve never anticipated the first touch of our lips together - gentle and inquisitive. They were soft like the rest of him, and it reminded me of a velvety touch that was impossible to resist. “Look at me, Y/N,” Changbin requested, and I forced my eyes to open to meet his gaze. “Forget about competitions or cliques,” he said. “Let’s just make it Y/N and Seo Changbin. I think that might benefit us both.”

I laughed at his explanation, but there was nothing humorous about the affection in his dark gaze or the beautiful intimacy that could only be shared between two people who had finally made their peace with the union of our two very different souls.

[justjessame]

Starting Over Chapter One

Sitting on a park bench, earbuds firmly lodged in my ears with music turned just this side of uncomfortably loud, my book opened to the same page it’s been on for the past week - the week that I’ve been back from - well I’d rather not think about where I was before. Where at least half the population of this giant ball of gas and bullshit disappeared to for years with no warning and then POOF here we were, back again, unchanged while every fucking thing we left behind was changed. Five years gone, five years lost to us, while the people we left behind had continued to move and grow.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t focus on my music, or my book, or the scenic park laid bare before me. Why flashes of darkness and light would hit me without warning and crippling fear would strike me with no urging. My parents had died of natural causes while I was snapped into the void. No one was waiting to greet me or was excited when I returned. Friends and family scattered, the earth kept turning, but everything was upside down and inside out, or so it seemed to me.

I was the same as I’d been when the snap happened. Twenty-five years old, still searching for something, but no closer to the answers than I’d been before - and with less guidance now that two of my compass leads were gone. I had a house, thank God for the retroactive inheritance bills that were activated for people like me, whose family died and their property was put into question. I had some cushion, but I knew it wouldn’t last. I had to find something, some means to keep my head afloat and hopefully not make my mind numb to the point that I’d wish for another snap.

I shouldn’t be wasting time in parks with earbuds and books, I should have my feet on the ground looking for a job. What was I even qualified to do? I went to college and got a degree in liberal arts. Yeah, that’s marketable. I loved to read, notwithstanding my current attention span. I earned extra cash during college editing my fellow classmates’ papers, but I didn’t actually have a background in editing. I was considering how best to pad my resume that I hadn’t used for a full five years when he ran past.

A touch faster than the other joggers, a slightly different gait, his left side seemed heavier? I was studying him without actually thinking about it, his dark hair and the chiseled jawline would have been enough to draw anyone’s attention, but there was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that marked him as different -

My head tilted as I watched him run, his hands were encased in gloves. Maybe that’s what drew my attention, it wasn’t cold after all. He didn’t look like he was running because he was a health nut, not like the other joggers dotting the jogging track, more like he was running for the routine of it. And I had no idea how I came to that conclusion.

I shook myself, watching a stranger run was creepy, verging on stalkerish. It didn’t matter that he was attractive or that he seemed to radiate some type of magnetic attraction that drew my gaze, that was probably just boloney that my mind was cooking up to make it alright for me to stare at him. Banging around in the nothingness for five years was NO excuse for this type of behavior, I told myself while my eyes were still following his course. Round and round he went, hardly breaking a sweat, and not breathing heavily either.

He glanced up and his eyes met mine and I could feel the blood drain from my face. Not because he scared me, but because I was caught being a creeper. And his eyes were like steel, gray and I shouldn’t have been able to tell that from the distance between us. But I could.

Evenings were always loose ends for me. Five years, dead parents, and I know people are going to say “but you have to have SOME friends around.” Of course I do, and most of them are now in their thirties and they don’t know how to handle that I’m not. Or how to handle that I was GONE for five years, while their lives went on, and I have what would have been godchildren and honorary nieces and nephews, but I wasn’t here. And if you don’t think that shit is awkward, well, you clearly haven’t experienced it.

They got to be at my parents’ funerals. They lived through my parents’ grief at the loss of ME. They said their goodbyes to ME. And now here I am. Yeah, it’s much easier to let go. Even if letting go means that I have to start over.

The choices are, make my own dinner - which I am more than capable of doing, or go out on the off chance I could meet and make new friends. Usually I pick option one. Safer, quieter, easier. But after the day I’d had in the park, I thought perhaps I’d give option two a go.

Going for a walk, thinking that I’d choose along the way, I started out with my phone, earbuds, and book. Habits. Old habits die hard.

I know what most people are thinking. A woman alone, nighttime, after everything that had happened and continues to happen, wasn’t I just asking for trouble? Not really. I’m not one of those people that automatically assumes that bad things happen to people because of size, shape, gender, and on and on. I don’t think I got snapped into the void or whatever because I happened to be a petite woman. I don’t think I’ll end up snatched off the street because of it either.

Also, my parents spent a fair bit of extra cash to make sure I was taught self defense, so I felt at least confident in my chances against regular freaks. It was the extra-enhanced freaks I might have issues with.

I bypassed sushi places and burger spots. Ignoring the sub sandwich shops that almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the early night, I was thinking that Italian was what I was craving, and if it hadn’t closed, my favorite spot wasn’t far. So focused on my purpose, now that I had one, I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings and crashed into a steel wall.

“Ow,” I bounced back, rubbing my right shoulder and thinking that maybe I’d been too quick in my bitching about the padding in bras. Looking up I realized it wasn’t a steel wall OR door, but shockingly the jogger from earlier. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t decide if he was surprised by or uncertain about me. His lips were working to form something, and finally managed a sort of smile. “Nothing to be sorry about.” His eyes were in a squint and I wondered how weird he’d think I was if I rubbed my right breast, because DAMN if it didn’t hurt like fuck. “I should get out of your way.”

I blinked again, words, use your words. “Right, I was on my way to dinner.” You’re not fucking stupid. Just socially inept. “I’m sorry I ran into you?” Did I run into him? I mean, I’ve heard about muscles of steel, but REALLY?

“Oh,” he stepped back and cleared the path. “I hope you aren’t late.”

“Late?” He was more attractive up close and I swear it made it a thousand times harder to make words form. His eyes were almost silver and if I’d thought his jaw was chiseled as he jogged, well, holy hell up close? He could cut bread with it. He was waiting and I ran the conversation through my brain again. “For dinner, right. Dinner for one, so I’m only late if I don’t arrive at all.” Shit, now I sound lonely and sad. My eyes snapped shut. “And now I’ll go and disappear into my spiral of shame.”

“Shame?” He sounded so confused that I had to open my eyes, and sure enough his brow was fully furrowed and he looked as confused as a puppy. “Why would you -”

“You’d never understand,” I huffed out a chuckle and shook my head. “I’m sorry for talking your head off, I should go.”

“Wait,” his gloved hand touched my arm, the briefest touch to get my attention. “I’m Bucky -” he took a deep breath like he was really unsure of himself, which was bizarre. “Bucky Barnes.”

Something twitched in my stomach, something I hadn’t felt since long before the snap. And that name, wasn’t it a touch familiar? Butterflies and nerves fought for dominance, and as I bit my lip, I took my own deep breath thinking maybe this was it. The first step since coming back. “It’s nice to meet you, Bucky, I’m Brooke Ashley.”

[invisibleinorange]

Bridgerton’s Adrift |  18/?

Chapters: 18/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington,  Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties),  Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton,  Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington,  Benedict Bridgerton,  Portia Featherington, Violet Bridgerton,  Pretty Much Everyone (at points) Additional Tags:  Bridgerton, Polin Summary:  Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes".

There was an art to speaking without speaking, making little non-verbal cues that could just telepathically be read and it was actually terrifying how good they’d gotten at transmitting them to each other without suspicion.  It made it easier that the house was less crowded. The children didn’t think anything of it and Anthony tended to mind their own business.  Without Francesca, Benedict and Eloise it was almost too easy to get away with things.

“I’m going to go join Anthony for a match,” Colin announced from where he’d been sitting.  He gave an intentionally long stretch, eyes finding Penelope’s for only a fleeting moment.

“Don’t stay out too late,” Penelope told him, keeping her face impassable just in case his mother was watching. It felt a bit deceitful at times, especially after how kind Violet had been to her but there were some moments that required discretion.

Colin moved over, grabbed her hand and bowed to press a kiss to it. There was something almost maniacal about how good he was at these deceptions. Penelope, however, always felt a bit of anxiety like she was pulling off some sort of great feat, especially when she was the one who had to linger.

“I’ll be bothering you before you have a chance to miss me,” he told her before exiting the room.

She watched him depart before forcing her attention back to reading “Coelebs in Search of a Wife”.  She could hardly focus on the pages though having the book to hold on did help keep her hands steady. She couldn’t go giving away the ruse.

She focused instead on counting the minutes, waiting until it would be safe to excuse herself from the room and slip away.

Only when an adequate amount of time had passed did she rise to her feet.  She bit her bottom lip for a fraction of a second before she decided articulate her excuse for departure.

“It’s still early,” she said quietly. “I believe that I might take a bit of a stroll. Perhaps visit my mother.”

“That would be lovely,” Violet told her, looking up from her sewing. “Do give my regards.”

“Of course,” Penelope said with a smile, feeling the rush of getting away with it as she made her way out of the room.

--

This new game of sneaking away was a bit of a rush but it was a nice way to get private time away from his family and the rules that they had to follow while under his mother’s roof before marriage.

The trick was honestly private places to be when they snuck off.  Most of the time, they took over Anthony’s vacant bachelor residence for a few hours.  Other times they found unoccupied places in nature if the weather cooperated.

This particular time, he’d commandeered a carriage and bribed the footman’s silence as they drove and waited just behind the line of vision for the family home.

He then waited impatiently for his Lady to join him.

When he finally saw the red curls moving toward him, her face flush from a short walk his smile widened.

“She’s going to kill us if she finds out we’ve deceived her,” Penelope told him. “She thinks I’m visiting Mama.”

He moved toward her, taking her arm and guiding her up and into the carriage.  He definitely wasn’t about to tell her his plans before he got her in it, in case she changed her mind. He couldn’t have her getting cold feet on him.

“She won’t kill us,” he said simply, trying to look the picture of innocence but the smile on his face said otherwise. “She’s been threatening for years.  I dare say you should decide to spend the night in your old room.”

Penelope was half way back from her new found sitting position in the carriage at those words but its movement set her back down again.

“And what if she compares notes with Mama?” she asked.

Colin smiled, hand brushing a loose curl from where he had found a seat next to her.  He leaned in to press a teasing kiss against the exposed flesh neck.

“Then we’ll just have to ensure that the punishment is less than the reward,” he told her.

“You’re not playing fair,” she murmured, eyes closing.  “How can I say no to you when you’re doing that?”

“That’s the point,” he told her. “Besides, it would be a shame if all my mischief was for not.  I think you’ll appreciate my effort in this even if it’s… not mother approved.”

--

Penelope hadn’t known what to expect and Colin hadn’t been liberal with details.  He’d simply encouraged her to be patient because the ride wasn’t going to be that lengthy. He hadn’t lied about that part.

Whatever uncertainty she had about extending their excursion past when they’d be missed grew when she realized that it was an inn.  It was one thing to deceive his mother, slip away for a few hours but another all together to do this. They were unwed and it wasn’t far enough away to properly deceive the Ton.

“There is no way people don’t start talking in earnest if we’re doing what I think we’re doing,” Penelope said expressing her worries. “We’d be better off facing the wrath of your mother.”

“Trust me,” Colin insisted, climbing out and helping her come down as well.

Penelope did trust him even if she did worry that sneaking around to just get a few minutes alone with each other or a few stolen kisses would catch up to them eventually.  Someone was bound to catch them at it. If they tried to steal a night that only confounded the risk.

Her nature was to worry but his hand in hers did help provide some level of comfort as they moved toward the building and inside.  Whatever confidence she lacked in this, Colin had in abundance and she was beyond grateful for it.

She expected him to find the inn-keeper and to make small talk, make arrangements of some sort. Instead he led her through the halls and up the stairs to a closed door.  He reached inside his trousers and pulled out a key, unlocking it before gesturing for her to go inside.

It wasn’t a massive room but it was considerably nice.  There was a small table in the corner, already set for two and there were candles everywhere casting light against the shadows.

Penelope was utterly speechless at the sight of what clearly had taken substantial scheming to arrange.

“You did this for me?” she couldn’t help but say.

“I’m going to be doing this for you until you let me marry you and then I’m going to keep doing it,” he told her simply.

The fear of impropriety went through the window and she turned to throw her arms around him in a hug.

“I love you,” she told confessed.

They’d certainly expressed the fact they cared for each other and they had certainly expressed to others that they loved each other but the three words themselves hadn’t been said until that moment.

Colin’s smile softened at the words and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I love you too,” he told her honestly.  He only wished that he’d realized it sooner so that he could saved everyone the headache they’d gone through. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to figure it out.”

“You figured it out just in time,” Penelope told him, lifting her head slightly and reaching a hand to tug his face to hers and pressing her lips to his.

Their meal could wait a little longer.