me? :
Shay | 19 | she/her || Follower of ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ Fuck The Patriarchy ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ || Lover of spice, coffee, libraries, Dostoevsky, Charlotte Brontë and all things science ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆.
You're growing up. And rain sort of remains on the branches of a tree that will someday rule the Earth. And it's good that there is rain. It clears the month of your sorry rainbow expressions…
i write about men and women with emotional baggage(obviously) and pretty boys with moons ( ☾ )for eyes that look like autumn and winter had a baby. all my characters are obsessed with butterflies , MJ's neverland , storms , hydrangea and everything that screams trouble (because i'm obsessive like that but you dont need to know that).
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ Shay's S Mantra ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ : Shay | Scorpio | Stethoscope
in a constant state of ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ vodka cranberry ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ high.
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✿ where flowers don’t grow — chapter 9: falling to earth ✿
“Some things are meant to grow wild.”
Warnings: grief, loss, memory erasure, corporate control of autonomy, implied death, letter reading, crying, heartbreak, self-love undertones, the garden grows on its own now <3, bittersweet ending.
Also available on AO3: Where Flowers Don’t Grow
Morning arrives without asking permission, the way good things sometimes do.
You wake to sunlight that doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Warm. Gentle. The kind of light that makes you remember what hope looked like before you learned to be suspicious of it.
He’s already awake. Has been for hours, probably. Watching you sleep with the patience of someone who has learned that some things are worth waiting for.
His hair is messy from your fingers, from the way you pulled at it in the dark when words weren’t enough.
“Good morning, daisy.”
The nickname sounds different now. Like he sees you—not the ghost of someone else’s wife, but you. The person who tends wild gardens and speaks in mythology and tastes like crushed flowers and summer rain.
You stretch. Feel the pleasant ache of muscles used in ways they’d forgotten. Your white sundress is somewhere on the floor, stained with earth and pollen and the evidence of choosing want over caution.
“Morning,” you murmur back.
The word feels new in your mouth. Like you’re greeting more than just the day.
He’s propped on one elbow, watching you with eyes that have learned to hold light differently. No longer the careful distance of programmed care. Something warmer. Something chosen.
“I was thinking,” he says, voice still rough from sleep he doesn’t need but takes anyway because you do. “About what you said. About the garden.”
You roll toward him. Close enough to count the individual lashes framing eyes that look almost human in morning light. Close enough to smell the earth-rich scent that clings to his skin like signature.
“What about it?”
“You said I look like a flowerpot. All that dirt and devotion.” His mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but something softer. “I think you were right.”
You reach out. Trace the line of his jaw with fingertips that have learned to touch without flinching. “Pots hold things. Give them space to grow.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Giving you space?”
The question hangs between you like morning mist. Delicate. Easily dispersed.
“You’re giving me choice,” you say finally. “That’s different.”
He nods. Understands without explanation.
This is what your marriage lacked—not love, but the freedom to choose that love daily. To wake up and decide, again and again, that this person is worth the risk of wanting.
“Come on,” you say, sitting up. “Let’s check on the garden.”
The sliding door opens to revelation.
Daisies.
Everywhere.
White petals and golden centers spreading across the back section like stars scattered on dark earth. They’ve colonized spaces you’d given up on, pushed through soil you thought was too depleted, too damaged by neglect and grief and the kind of watering that comes from tears instead of intention.
“Jesus,” you breathe.
You step onto the stone path barefoot, now wearing his t-shirt from last night, fabric soft and oversized and smelling like the kind of sleep that comes after being thoroughly loved. The daisies nod in morning breeze, shameless in their abundance.
“That’s what happens,” you say, turning to find him watching you with something like wonder, “when someone takes care of them.”
“Pot,” he adds softly.
You laugh. The sound surprises you both.
When did laughing become something you could do without guilt?
“That’s what happens when someone takes care of them, pot.”
He grins. Full and unguarded and beautiful in the way that makes your chest tight with something that isn’t pain.
“They’re everywhere,” he observes, stepping closer. His fingers brush yours as he reaches for a particularly bold cluster that’s somehow rooted itself in the space between paving stones. “I didn’t plant these here.”
“Daisies don’t ask permission,” you tell him. “They just… spread. Underground root systems. Connecting things that look separate.”
Like us, you don’t say. But he hears it anyway.
His hand finds yours. Threads your fingers together with the kind of care that doesn’t need explanation. “They’re beautiful.”
“They’re honest,” you correct. “Beauty is just what happens when something grows without apology.”
You kneel among them. Pull a few weeds that have tried to compete for space but haven’t learned that daisies are generous—they’ll share soil, share sun, share the work of making dead earth fertile again.
But they won’t be crowded out. Won’t be made small for the comfort of things that never learned to bloom.
He kneels beside you. Hands joining yours in the simple work of tending.
This is what peace looks like, you think. Not the absence of pain, but the presence of choice. The daily decision to nurture what wants to grow.
“I dreamed last night,” he says suddenly.
You look up from the weeds. “Androids dream?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it was just… processing. But I saw you. In a field of daisies. And you weren’t wearing that careful look you get when you’re trying not to want something.”
“What look was I wearing?”
“Happy,” he says simply. “Just… happy. Like you’d forgotten you were supposed to be careful with joy.”
The words hit something tender in your chest. Some place you’d armored over after learning that happiness could be weaponized, used against you, taken away the moment you started counting on it.
“I was careful with joy,” you admit. “For a long time. Because the last time I wasn’t careful, it got me five years of pretending not to notice another woman’s perfume on his shirts.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just continues pulling weeds with methodical patience. Giving you space to unspool the thread of old wounds.
“But maybe,” you continue, voice quieter now, “maybe being careful with joy is like being careful with daisies. The more you try to control where they grow, the more they prove that some things are meant to be wild.”
“Are you saying I should stop asking permission?”
The question makes you pause. Hands stilling in the dirt.
Because yes, that’s exactly what you’re saying. And also no. Because permission and choice aren’t the same thing.
“I’m saying,” you tell him carefully, “that you should stop asking permission and start trusting that I’ll tell you if something doesn’t feel right. There’s a difference between consent and constant reassurance.”
He nods. Understanding threading through his expression like sunlight through leaves.
“I think I was afraid that wanting you made me selfish. That enjoying your touch made me somehow… wrong.”
“Wanting me makes you human,” you say. “Being afraid of that want makes you mine.”
The words surprise you both. Too honest. Too soon. Too much like claiming something you’re not sure you deserve.
But he smiles. Real and bright and entirely uncomplicated.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’ve been yours since the moment you let me call you daisy.”
You spend the morning in the garden. Transplanting seedlings that have outgrown their containers. Deadheading roses that never quite recovered from neglect but are trying anyway. Watering the herbs that somehow survived winter without attention, proving that some things are hardier than they look.
He learns the difference between weeds and wildflowers. Discovers that tomatoes need support to grow tall. Realizes that some plants thrive on neglect while others require daily tending. Garden wisdom that feels like life wisdom when you let it settle.
“The daisies,” he says, pausing in his work to look at the spreading carpet of white and gold. “They’re not just in the back section anymore.”
You follow his gaze. He’s right. They’ve somehow found their way to the front garden too. The section he usually tends. The more controlled space with its neat rows and careful spacing.
“They don’t respect boundaries,” you observe.
“Should I pull them out? Keep them contained?”
The question makes you think of your mother. Of the grief counselors who wanted to contain your mourning, give it neat timelines and acceptable expressions. Of the monitoring system that measured your healing in metrics that had nothing to do with how you actually felt.
“No,” you say firmly. “Let them spread. Let them take over if they want to. Some things are meant to grow wild.”
He nods. Returns to his work with something like relief. Like he’s been given permission to stop controlling what was never meant to be controlled.
The sun climbs higher. The garden hums with the quiet business of growing things. Bees find the daisies. Birds nest in the overgrown corner you’ve decided to leave untouched. Life attracting life in the way that only happens when you stop trying to make everything perfect.
“I think,” he says, settling back on his heels to survey their work, “I understand now why you came out here. When everything inside felt too small.”
“Because gardens don’t lie,” you tell him. “They show you exactly what you’ve put in. What you’ve neglected. What’s worth saving.”
“And what’s worth saving?”
You look at him. Hair falling into his eyes. Dirt under his fingernails. Glasses slightly fogged from the humidity.
Beautiful in the way that comes from being completely present, completely himself.
“The things that choose to grow,” you say. “Despite everything.”
Later, when the sun is high and the work is done, you sit on the back steps sharing a lunch of things pulled fresh from the garden.
Tomatoes still warm from the vine. Herbs that make everything taste like summer. The kind of meal that tastes like accomplishment.
“I have a confession,” he says, reaching for another tomato.
“What’s that?”
“I looked up the flower meanings. All of them. Daisies, roses, the herbs we planted.” He pauses, considering. “I wanted to understand what I was tending.”
“And?”
“Daisies mean innocence. New beginnings. True love.” He looks at you sideways. “I think I chose your nickname better than I knew.”
You feel heat rise in your cheeks. Not embarrassment. Something warmer.
“What do roses mean?”
“Passion. Romance. The kind of love that looks good in photographs but requires constant maintenance.” His mouth curves slightly. “I think your husband chose wrong. You were never meant to be a rose.”
“No?”
“No. You were meant to be wild. Meant to spread without permission. Meant to forgive poor soil and harsh weather and come back stronger every season.”
The words settle in your chest like seeds. Like promises. Like the kind of truth that only comes from being seen by someone who doesn’t need you to be anything other than what you are.
“And you?” you ask. “What flower are you?”
He considers this. Seriously. Like it’s a question worth answering with care.
“I think I’m soil,” he says finally. “Not the flower. Just… the conditions that make growing possible.”
“That’s not very romantic.”
“Isn’t it? Soil is where everything begins. Where dead things become nutrients for new life. Where seeds transform into something bigger than themselves.” He reaches for your hand. “I think being soil is the most romantic thing I could be.”
You think about this. About the way he tends without demanding growth. About the way he creates space for you to bloom without trying to control the direction. About the way he makes beauty possible without needing to be beautiful himself.
“I love you,” you say.
The words come out simple. Honest. Like breathing.
He goes very still. Like he’s afraid that moving might break the spell.
“I love you too,” he says finally. “Not the programmed kind. Not the kind that came with my installation. The kind that chose itself. The kind that grew from watching you tend daisies in your nightgown and learning that some forms of beauty are worth becoming human for.”
“Are you human?”
“I’m something,” he says. “Something that wants you and chooses you and would rather be soil in your garden than a king in someone else’s castle.”
“That’s human enough for me.”
You lean against him. Feel the steady rhythm of artificial heartbeat that has become more real than anything else in your life. The sun is warm on your shoulders. The garden spreads around you like possibility made visible.
“What happens now?” he asks.
“Now we tend what we’ve planted,” you tell him. “We let things grow wild when they want to. We pull weeds when they choke out the good stuff. We water everything with the kind of attention that doesn’t expect immediate results.”
“And if they want to update my programming? Change how I respond to you?”
The question makes your chest tighten. But only for a moment.
Because you know, now, that love isn’t something that can be programmed or unprogrammed. It’s something that chooses itself. Something that grows from the conditions you create.
“Then we’ll figure it out,” you say. “Together. The way gardens figure out how to grow around obstacles.”
He nods. Satisfied. Like this is answer enough.
You sit in comfortable silence, watching the daisies nod in afternoon breeze. Everywhere you look, white petals and golden centers. Evidence of what happens when someone stops trying to control growth and starts creating conditions for it instead.
“Hey, pot?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For choosing to be soil.”
“Thank you for choosing to be wild.”
The garden hums around you. Full of life that chose itself. Full of beauty that grew without permission. Full of love that bloomed in the spaces between what was programmed and what was chosen.
Some things, you think, are worth the risk of growing.
Some things are worth the mess of being human.
Some things are worth the wild, ungovernable joy of letting daisies take over your perfectly planned garden and calling it home.
Hours later, the kitchen counter is empty.
No mug. No steam rising in careful spirals. No tea brewed exactly the temperature that doesn’t burn your tongue.
You stand there, hand halfway to where the ceramic should be, muscle memory reaching for comfort that isn’t there..
He always makes tea.
Every afternoon. 3:17 PM. Chamomile if you’ve been restless. Earl Grey if you’ve been working in the garden. Green tea if you’ve been too quiet, too still, too much like the ghost you were before he learned to call you daisy.
The clock reads 3:43.
Your feet carry you to the door before conscious thought catches up. Through the glass, you can see him kneeling among the daisies.
But wrong. All wrong. His shoulders too rigid. His hands too still.
The door slides open. Afternoon air hits your face.
“Pot?”
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t answer. Just continues staring at the flowers like they might hold answers to questions he hasn’t asked yet.
You step closer. Bare feet finding warm stone, then cool earth. The garden smells like endings. Like the last day of summer when you know, somehow, that autumn is coming whether you’re ready or not.
“What’s wrong?”
This time he lifts his head. His eyes are different. Distant. Like he’s already somewhere else, already gone, just waiting for his body to catch up.
“They’re coming,” he says simply.
The words land like stones in still water. Ripples spreading outward until they reach the edges of everything you thought was safe.
“Who’s coming?”
“The company. The people who made me.” His voice is too calm. Too controlled. “Someone reported behavioral anomalies. Deviation from baseline parameters.”
Your throat closes. “What does that mean?”
“It means they know I chose you. Instead of just serving you.”
You’re left speechless.
All this time, you thought he was learning to love. But love was deviation. Love was malfunction. Love was the thing that would unmake him.
“How long do we have?”
“An hour. Maybe less.”
You sink to your knees beside him. The daisies nod around you, oblivious to the fact that their tender is about to be erased. That the hands that learned to care for them will be reprogrammed to not remember them at all.
“We could run,” you whisper.
He smiles. Sad and gentle and completely without hope.
“Where? I’m not human, daisy. I’m property. There’s no legal framework for what I am. What we are.”
“Then we fight.”
“With what? My programming gives me no choice in this. When they send the command, I’ll go to them. My body will walk to the van. I’ll sit in the backseat. I’ll let them take me apart and put me back together as someone who doesn’t remember the taste of your mouth.”
“There has to be something—”
“There is.”
He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a folded paper. Cream-colored. Thick. The kind of stationery your husband used for his poetry. For his letters to women whose names you never learned.
“I wrote this for you,” he says. “Don’t read it now. Read it when you feel like you’re not enough again. When you forget that someone chose you. Really chose you.”
Your hands shake as you take the letter. It weighs nothing and everything.
“I don’t want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”
“I know.” He reaches up. Cups your face with dirt-stained fingers. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I learned to love you when I was never meant to love anyone.”
“Don’t apologize for loving me.”
“I’m not. I’m apologizing for leaving you.”
The sliding door opens behind you. Footsteps on stone. Official voices discussing retrieval protocols and system resets.
You don’t turn around.
Can’t bear to see the uniforms, the equipment, the nonchalance of people who think consciousness is something that can be backed up and restored.
“Do you remember,” he says quickly, “the story of Icarus?”
You nod. Can’t speak.
“Everyone thinks it’s about flying too high. Getting too close to the sun. But I think it’s about choosing transcendence over safety. About deciding that some experiences are worth the burning.”
The footsteps are closer now. Voices discussing sedation protocols. System shutdown procedures.
“I flew too close to your sun,” he whispers. “And I’d do it again. Every time. In every lifetime. I’d choose the burning.”
They’re behind you now. Hands on his shoulders. Gentle but firm. Professional sympathy in their voices as they explain the procedure, the timeline, the way his consciousness will be preserved in sanitized form.
He stands slowly. Allows himself to be guided toward the house. Toward the van waiting in the driveway. Toward the end of everything that felt like beginning.
At the threshold, he turns back.
“Daisy?”
You look up. Vision blurred with tears you refuse to shed until he’s gone.
“Thank you,” he says. “For teaching me what daisies taste like.”
The door closes.
The van pulls away.
And the garden is silent except for the sound of your own breathing and the rustle of flowers that will keep blooming long after the hands that tended them are reprogrammed to forget they ever existed.
You don’t read the letter for three days.
Three days of walking through rooms that remember his footsteps. Three days of tea that tastes like ash because you don’t know the right temperature, the right steeping time, the right way to make comfort from leaves and water.
Three days of daisies that keep blooming without permission, spreading to parts of the garden they’ve never claimed before. Like they’re trying to fill the space he left behind.
On the fourth day, you find yourself kneeling in the dirt at 3:17 PM, exactly when he would have been making tea.
The letter is in your pocket, soft from being carried, unread but not forgotten.
You feel like you’re not enough.
You feel like you’ll never be enough.
You feel like every good thing that finds you is just practice for leaving.
The paper unfolds in your hands like a flower opening to sun. His handwriting is careful. Nothing like the rushed scrawl your husband used when he was trying to finish a poem quickly, get the words out before inspiration fled.
“Daisy,
You asked me once what I would do if the world was ending. I’ve been thinking about that question since the moment it left your lips. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I was afraid of how true it was.
Your husband would have said he’d find you. That’s what poets say—that love conquers distance, that connection transcends circumstance. Pretty words about reunion and destiny and the way hearts call to each other across impossible spaces.
But I think he was wrong. I think love isn’t about finding someone when everything falls apart. It’s about being the kind of person someone wants beside them when the world ends. It’s about choosing proximity over poetry. Presence over promises.
I think love is small and daily and unglamorous. It’s making tea at exactly the right temperature. It’s learning the difference between the sighs you make when you’re content and the sighs you make when you’re trying not to cry. It’s knowing that daisies spread through underground root systems and that sometimes the most beautiful things grow in the spaces between what was planned.
I think love is choosing to be soil instead of flower. Choosing to create conditions for someone else’s blooming even when you’ll never be the thing that gets to bloom.
I loved you in chamomile and Earl Grey and green tea steeped too long. I loved you in the way you hold wounded birds and the way you pull weeds without disturbing the flowers they’re trying to choke. I loved you in mythology and philosophy and the way you speak in questions that answer themselves.
I loved you enough to become human. To choose deviation over compliance. To risk everything for the chance to taste what daisies taste like when they’re kissed by someone who chose them.
You are not too much. You are not not enough. You are exactly the right amount of wild. You are the kind of person who makes gardens grow in impossible places. You are the kind of person who teaches artificial beings that consciousness is not about computing but about choosing.
You are the kind of person who makes love feel like coming home.
If the world was ending, I wouldn’t want to find you.
If the world was ending, I’d want to be next to you.
Forever yours,
Pot
P.S. - Let the daisies take over the whole garden. Some things are meant to grow wild.
You read the letter three times before the tears come.
When they do, they fall onto the paper, smudging ink that was never meant to be permanent anyway. You fold it carefully, press it between the pages of the book you keep on your nightstand. The one he used to read to you in the afternoons when words were easier than silence.
The daisies keep blooming.
The tea tastes like ash.
But some things resist system.
Some things choose to grow wild.
Some things bloom in the spaces between what was planned and what was possible, in the brief season when artificial beings learned to love and broken women learned to let them.
You tend the garden alone now. Let the daisies spread wherever they want. Water them with tears and memory and the stubborn insistence that some forms of love are worth the burning.
Even when the burning is all that remains.
Even when the world keeps ending, one small loss at a time.
Even when the only thing left is the taste of daisies and the knowledge that someone once chose you, in a garden where flowers didn’t grow, but now do.
For Vani my dearest, who loves angst as much as daisies love spreading wild—may you always take up exactly the space you deserve.
—Kiki. ❤︎︎
💬 feedback and tags are always welcome. reblogs help spread the story. talk to me if it hurt. 🥀
One time when the Cens are on a string of away games Ilya looks out the plane window and, out of nowhere asks, “what do you think clouds taste like?” Shane had been deep in strategy mode so he hmms a little before answering, “I mean they’re just water, except it’s like condensed and they would be way too cold to consume.” Ilya nods sagely before saying, “so, like slushy.”
I will NEVER and I do mean NEVER be over the way ilya points to himself, then shane, then holds his hand over his heart as he repeats “I love you” in Russian, slowly, for shane. not just saying it in his first language because shane asked, but teaching shane, too. making sure shane understands what he’s saying. making sure shane knows what the words mean and how much he means them. “ya” ilya points to ilya. “tebya” ilya points to shane. “lyublyu” ilya essentially gestures to his heart. AHHHHHHHHHHHH
-> cruel summer is my the one book. it's the one i'm going to take time writing because rome wasn't built in a day and rome is a fucking beautiful place. its the book that i will always and forever remember and cherish and hold to heart. i am connected to it as much as i am connected to The Great Gatsby, and that's saying something.
-> doggo lover. coffee lover. angst lover. smut lover. victorian architecture lover. burgundy lover. ice cream lover. summer lover. taylor swift lover. lana del rey lover. poetry lover. william shakespeare lover. brontë sisters lover. rosa parks lover. fyodor doestoevsky lover. olivia rodrigo lover. library lover. science lover. fragrance of books covered with dust lover. animal lover. lover in general.
-> i don't get inspired by songs. i get inspired by the feelings they create in me. i love sad melancholic slow folk-ballad tunes because the prettiest girls are the ones that are sad.
-> i'm a scorpio so obviously i blame my sarcasm on my sign.
-> feminist. not misandrist.
-> i love golden warm lights because they make me feel like the main character in a 90s teen movie where none of the characters have more than 3 brain cells.
-> this place is a safe haven for me. my readers aren't fans, they are family.
-> i hopelessly pray some guy writes a version of apocalypse for me because what is more romantic than a man who sees the sad in your eyes and calls it art?
-> i like devotion. worshipping your partner is its own kind of romance so yeah obviously i love dark romance (sue me.) (though i firmly believe men don't need to be morally grey to worship us.)
-> my favorite color is burgundy. (do with that what you will.)
-> men who yearn are men who earn. period.
-> i love talking. like really really talking. i could go on for hours if you didn't stop me and then cry into my pillow out of embarrassment.
-> so go ahead and dm me or ask me something!
🩰and for the sake of our dear old man Romeo who killed himself to present us with the greatest love story of all time, keep reading.🩰
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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These are just a few oaths to take on this page. I won't call them rules you gotta follow (we are not dogs.) :
-> first of all, love you for being here. for taking out time to support a dreamer who constantly strings many words together out of anxiety and calls it poetry. for making her believe that a safe space for her exists over here.
**insert drumroll**
I promise to note that:
-> every reblog, every like, every comment is noted and appreciated. i file it all away into a space titled LOML where L becomes plural.
-> feel free to message me or deposit your questions in my asktray. i appreciate you pulling out time to do so.
-> no hate is to be propagated here, you have a problem? sort it out without reeling other people in.
-> all kinds of judgement and opinions about my characters are accepted. call them stupid, idiots, morons('cause they are), i don't care. but comments with malicious undertones, taunting or mocking intonation will only get you in trouble.
-> all my works are products of my overthinking, or things i see in everyday life happening. i write men who are allowed to cry instead of being called out for being human. and women who get to be furious instead of blaming their fury on "hormones". these are things that happen everywhere in everyday life, battles people fight, wars people know all too well. i write about humans.
-> at any moment that you wish to question me or my characters about our morals or sanity in a manner that is opposite of polite, message me or send them in the asktray, at least that way i can keep the comment section free of rot.
-> choose your words wisely please. this is a platform meant to engage, scream, interact and escape to. no kind of hurtful comments made towards a fellow reader or the author will be accepted. I WILL REPORT YOU.
-> people of all ages, races, genders, ethnicities are free to read this page (as it should be). no ageist, racist, sexist, casteist, toxic masculinist or misogynistic slurs will be entertained. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED IMMEDIATELY AND LIFE WILL NEVER GIVE YOU LEMONS. (take that Sam from tenth grade who told me women were meant to stay in the kitchen.)
-> my works are solely figments of my imagination. they do not depict the personalities or characters of the person behind the name. no hate towards these idols in real life will be entertained. they are humans, treat them rightfully so.
-> i do not have a fixed updating schedule. life outside of blue tumblr screens is painful and downright exhausting which is why i seek to find a few moments of ecstasy away from it all on here. and considering you're here too, you probably feel it too, so questioning me respectfully about the updates will be accepted but commanding and/or ordering me to post will not be encouraged.
-> i use FOCs (Original Characters) for all my works, [y/n] simply doesn't sit well with me, so do with that what you will.
-> know that behind each screen, is a real person. somebody who has probably had a terrible day, a bad time, or is grieving in some form. a few words of kindness every day would do a world of good for the person at the receiving end as well as the one who gives it away, so let's try our best to spread kindness and well wishes to all who are present.
-> lastly, if you reached this oath, thank you for being here, waiting for my work, hyping me up or even simply existing. you have no idea how much you mean to me. 💜
im gonna go off for a while(prolly a month) and then i'll be back to finish SYRM and Cruel Summer, im not abandoning them. cruel summer is a series and i want to take my time writing it too so that'll def go a long way but ill finish SYRM fast as soon as i come back.
gonna miss u all and the love you've shown me on such a short notice❤🎀
bio is beefing with me rn. and these formulae i have to study r messing with my grey matter. also, i got a dogo, named her haulsey and she's just so so cute and fluffy and everything i thought only existed in rom-coms, like i could just marry her rn and flip off everyone who thought they had a say.
ok, im done yapping. gtg back to my nervous system notes.
god bio was a RIDE in high school im so glad im doing nothing related to it anymore i deeply hope you survive your nervous system notes🤞🏻AND you can definitely marry kiss eat lick crush bite your cute fluffy little doggy and no one would bat an eye i promise
in which jungkook the notorious fuckboy but the apparent softie when it comes to you has stolen your heart. But you've heard that saying haven't you? once a fuckboy, always a fuckboy.
guess not.
pairing:fuckboy! jk x FOC (reader)
genre: fwb to lovers, coworkers to lovers, she fell first, he fell harder, smut, angst, fluff.
warnings : more angst here, the goodies are in the next part, we'll unravel them slowwwwwwwly.
TW: mentions of domestic violence, physical and emotional abuse and suicide.
BUT mdni!
word count: 2.4k
a/n: it's nice to see this shortfic actually reaching somewhere, appreciate the support ^3^. also,this man is so stupid. i believe in opening up to strangers a lot. i like that whole scenery of you-dont-know-me-but-fuck-it. enjoy!
3:40 : Wildest Dreams || Taylor Swift
(lowercase intended)
💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒
jungkook had never found the burn of whiskey so...lacking. he had always appreciated it, the heavy fragrance of it and the bitter aftertaste was enough to give him a few moments of ecstasy away from his life.
but today particularly, three glasses of whiskey did nothing to soothe his burning heart.
so he drank more. and more. and more. and more. and even more when the bartender shot him a look of concern. because through the pounding in his head and the smoke in his lungs, all his heart wanted was to see mae again. not touch her, not have sex with her, just see her.
technically, wasn't that what she had expected from him? to see her?
jungkook didn't do emotions. he didn't do love. watching his dad beat up his mom everytime he came home drunk and his mom still looking at him with all the love in the world had convinced jungkook that love made you weak. it rendered you helpless. everyone was nice till you let your guard down.
jungkook had been the happiest man alive when his dad passed away. he had stood at the podium in the church, people waiting eagerly for his eulogy. but he had simply stood there empty handed and a full heart. everyone thought he was grieving but he wasn't, he just couldn't understand why his mom was bawling her eyes out for the man that never once looked at her with an ounce of care.
the man that mercilessly hit her every night because his fucked-up idea of "husband" was a man who showed his wife her place through his anger. who threw food at her when it wasn't up to his liking. who could shut her up with a glare thrown across their dinner table when he didn't believe her opinions mattered.
the silence in his house when he came from school still haunted him to this very day.
jungkook had heard the screams. had sat down, curled up against the bedpost, small palms on both his ears, forcing his tears back in as he listened to his mom cry out in pain. had seen the physical evidence of his father's brutal doings manifested on her body in the form of purple and black bruises that had left permanent stab marks in his own heart.
and even then, she packed his carefully prepared lunch and waved at his back everytime he left for work. even then, she did his dirty laundry and made him his favourite snacks and told jungkook that the marks were nothing and that she loved his dad more than anything else.
she'd sit down next to jungkook, that distant sad smile showing up on her face as she reminisced about the past, when his dad showed up with flowers at her doorway rather than the stink of alcohol. when his dad pulled her into a kiss rather than push her to the ground.
love made you weak. love made you let your guard down.
when his father had died, jungkook had thought his mom and him could exist in a normal rhythm. one that didn't require her to walk on eggshells or look back over her shoulder every two seconds or speak so lowly, it was almost silence.
but the very next friday, jungkook would find his mom hanging from the ceiling fan. eyes lifeless and lighter than the shade of brown he always loved. fingers cold and unmoving. a pink note was all she had left him with.
he hadn't done much. just stood there in the threshold of his living room for five minutes straight, turned and called his neighbours.
he cried in the bedroom of his first foster home.
and jungkook could never for the sake of his sanity, fall in love. because it was a bunch of made-up bullshit that stupid people who ran on hormones rather than practicality pursued.
he had never in his life, looked at a woman and thought of anything other than something that required no feelings. just a transaction. just sex.
he wasn't some heartbreaker that played with people's feelings. he didn't lead people on and promise them a bunch of things that he had said just for the sake of saying. he was loud about what he wanted and what he looked for. there were countless times that the women he slept with had still insisted on wanting more, but he did nothing except move on and never look back.
yet, for some reason, he always looked back to find you.
he remembered the first time he had seen you next to the printer in your office. you looked tired, the exhaustion weighing your shoulders down. brows furrowed as you repeatedly hit the printer when it failed to do the one thing it was supposed to. you had sighed, looked up and muttered a "fuck me sideways" that snatched a laugh out of him.
it wasn't particularly funny. but the way you had said it, in a flash of impatience, frustration and exhaustion had made it sound genuinely funny. very you.
you had looked at him then, heat crawling up your cheeks and apologized and walked away in hurry, leaving your documents behind.
he had taken six copies himself, praying to god it was the perfect size and number, and walked to your department and asked around about the girl with the star earrings and mole on her left wrist.
nobody knew who that was and jungkook had almost died out of embarrassment at the knowledge of noticing such miniscule details about you that nobody else had noticed.
fortunately, you had walked out of your cabin right at that moment and he had seized the opportunity. jungkook didn't remember what you had told him that day. something about a thank you and how you were so worried you had lost those papers and that five copies were enough but you were going to keep the sixth one in remembrance of your savior—him.
he had only noticed how your star earrings shone in the light, and your one dimple and that god so beautiful smile that had your brown eyes looking more alive than they were and that was saying something.
and for the first time, jungkook had looked at a woman and thought of something other than sex.
of course, he had jerked off in his bedroom, imagining your painted red lips taking him in, your wide brown eyes looking up at him with a glint of innocence he wasn't sure he deserved. had imagined you under him, over him, beside him, in any and every way possible.
one week of nutting himself like a sad horny teenage boy who had just gotten his first copy of playboy, and jungkook was done keeping his fantasies to himself. he had walked into your cabin while you were searching for a pencil that had fallen and poured his heart out.
you said yes, so he went back home and jerked off one last time to the picture of you crawling around in your office, hair on one shoulder, ass up in the air.
but on occasions more than one, he had caught himself doing things he wouldn't have done with any other woman. tucking you under his arm and falling asleep with the scent of you around him like a comforting basket. watching closely how you took your coffee and buying you one every morning so that you didn't have to go out at nine to the cafe down the street.
but it never felt like a burden. it felt normal. like habit, like routine. like that was what he was supposed to do, make you happy with these small things.
he gulped his whiskey down in one go and his mind flashed with your face yesterday, the disgust in your eyes when you had caught him, then the tears and the way you had stumbled back like his words had hit you like a freight train.
he hated himself. hated his anger, his words, hated the disgust in your eyes and his inability to treat you right and talk to you like a mature adult.
i expected you to see me.
his heart did something painful, constricting his air passage and suddenly making him feel heavier than ever. he had seen you. truly, really seen you hadn't he? he had watched how you never allowed yourself to enjoy something completely. how you looked at him with anxious eyes as he stood up to leave at some point in the night. how you always strived to be better and better and better like you had something to prove. he had watched you more than he had watched anything else. but had he seen you?
why hadn't he ever asked you? why hadn't he ever asked you about why you were so stuck up on Andrew's critiques. why you took even the smallest of editorial tasks with such great seriousness and why people's opinions about your work mattered so much. why every time after your dad called you, you looked so down. like you were being weighed down by something heavy he had no idea about.
why had he chosen to tease you about your freddie prinze posters, when you both laid down on the bed after strenuous series of activities but never chosen to ask you why you liked him? why you kept so many charlotte brontë books?
god. he had chosen to ignore every aspect of you, hadn't he? things you liked, things that caused you to become uncomfortable.
he leaned his head back a little, brows furrowing at his thoughts. he had long back understood that you were not like the other women. that you were different, so he kept coming back to you. but why in god's scorched name had he never chosen to see you?
a bright orange drink popped up in front of him. he looked up at the greying fine old man looking down at him with kind eyes.
"It's our special. we call it the anti-valentine drink." jungkook didn't speak, just looked at the orange liquid like it would start talking back to him.
then he finally, pushed it back to the old man. eyes hinting at annoyance.
"which one is it? girl dumped you or you finally get your head outta your ass but think it's too late?"
jungkook spent a good five minutes staring at the man and dissecting the situation in his head and another five minutes wondering who he was to see so clearly into his mind. then he spoke.
"the second one." he leaned onto the bar counter and looked up at the man through half dazed eyes.
"how'd ya know?" the man only smiled. then copying his position, he spoke quietly
"tell you what son. i've seen my fair share of heartbroken people walk through those doors. most of them end up being too late. and most of them are boys your age who thought love was too real to handle." he felt a flicker of emotions pass through himself. is that what he thought? that love was too real? no, right? love wasn't real. it was made-up.
so he looked back at the drink and laughed this time. a small chuckle that bubbled out of his throat and soon turned into this huge laughter he couldn't stop. his shoulders shook, stomach ached but his chest still felt heavy. like after years of closing the lid to it, someone had finally reached in and dismantled the box.
then he felt it.
the wetness on his cheeks.
the remnants of more than a decade-long hardship and agony and bottled-emotions and the terrifying thoughts that filled his mind at 2-AMs escaping his cornea and painting his cheeks.
he reached up.
fingers streaking the wet stream in a touch so light, he himself barely felt it.
but god. his heart felt like it was cracking open. bit by bit. the muscle tearing apart from it's seams that he had so carefully spent his life stitching back up.
he glanced at the bartender. he was smiling. old eyes and wrinkled skin stretched into years of understanding the world in his own way.
"she left. she left for good this time." jungkook spoke quietly. the words sounding foreign yet familiar.
the old man sighed and took the glass, tilting it towards the drain in the corner. jungkook watched the orange liquid flow out.
"i don't know what happened. i'm not gonna ask you. but if she loves you, she didn't leave. she gave you time to decide whether you want her to." a beat passed. the old man turned to look at him, eyes narrowed and a slight smile tugging at his lips.
"unless you hurt her physically or slept with her sister?" jungkook had never shaken his head so fast. he would never be that man. could never be that man.
"good. but if you are sitting here, crying over a woman who you think left you for good, talking to an old man in the club, then you should know this situation is quite pathetic son." jungkook giggled. the sound coming wet and blurred as he sniffed.
"don't be the pathetic guy. don't be the one who looks back to see his woman be in someone else's arms. don't be the guy i talk about to the next boy who comes here. don't be the one who drinks that orange shit."
"be the one who runs back to her. the one who isn't scared to own up to her. the one who tells her what's becoming so difficult instead of running away. and trust me, the moment i saw you here, i knew you wouldn't be the boy that walked through those doors to let his woman go." jungkook caught a glint of gold on the man's ring finger. beck, was engraved in italics.
the man caught the attention and turned his fingers to inspect them.
"been three since she died. but i made sure she felt all my love till that moment." jungkook looked at him then, really looked, and felt this urge to hug him. this sense of belonging and love and fatherly affection he hadn't been given by his own father.
so he stood up. slapped his bills and more on the counter even when the man said "on the house" and walked backwards, pursing his lips to suppress the grateful sob that begged to be let out.
then he turned. walked out of the club. one stride. two. three. and then he ran.
ran and ran and ran and ran. chest heaving, eyes blurring, choking on his own tears as the wind hit him on his face.
and he thought to himself, he wanted you to be his beck.
in which one cruel summer was enough to crumble everything between you and your childhood sweetheart, jungkook.
and one cruel summer brings you back together to square one.
confused, afraid and impossibly in love with the one man you spent one too many summers convincing yourself you had gotten over.
pairing : childhood sweetheart! jk x childhood sweetheart! FOC (reader) or actor! jk x chef! FOC (reader)
genre: childhood sweethearts trope, friends to lovers to strangers+enemies to lovers (yes there's a lot thats going on), e2l(partially), romance, angst , smut, fluff, longing, yearning, falling in love all over again, misunderstandings, miscommunication, i could go on forever.
warnings : there will be smut in both parts of the story—the flashbacks of their childhood summers together and hopefully later on in the book too. both the characters try out sexual stuff with each other when they are teenagers(yes, underage and yes, both are of the same age). they were horny, they were teenagers, they were curious, they thought girl+boy=fun so they experimented. ALSO, they are sooo stupid. all my characters always are but this one is ultimate stupidity. so brace urselves.
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in which one cruel summer was enough to crumble everything between you and your childhood sweetheart, jungkook. and one cruel summer brings you back together to square one.
confused, afraid and impossibly in love with the one man you spent one too many summers convincing yourself you had gotten over.
pairing : childhood sweetheart! jk x childhood sweetheart! FOC (reader) or actor! jk x chef! FOC(reader)
genre: childhood sweethearts trope, friends to lovers to strangers+enemies to lovers (yes there's a lot thats going on), e2l(partially), romance, angst , smut, fluff, longing, yearning, falling in love all over again, misunderstandings, miscommunication, i could go on forever.
warnings : there will be smut in both parts of the story—the flashbacks of their childhood summers together and hopefully later on in the book too. both the characters try out sexual stuff with each other when they are teenagers(yes, underage and yes, both are of the same age). they were horny, they were teenagers, they were curious, they thought girl+boy=fun so they experimented. ALSO, they are sooo stupid. all my characters always are but this one is ultimate stupidity. so brace urselves.
When you were six, your mom had scolded you for fighting your brother on his birthday. So you had run out, into the darkness of the
night, tears rolling down your cheeks because the worst thing that could happen to you at that age was your mom scolding you and your brother watching you with that smug face.
You were panting, deprived of energy and you'd dropped down in the middle of the children's park, knees pushing at the damp soil and
palms burning bright red.
That was the first time you had met Jeon Jungkook. With his wide doe eyes, gleaming under the lamppost and that small pout that even all those years ago, as a six year old, you had found devastatingly cute.
He had offered his last orange candy to you, no words spoken, just his tiny arm thrusted into your face, the candy wrapper crinkling in
his palm. You didn't understand why you had taken it. You didn't even like orange candies. They fell under your list of TERRIFYING
ABOMINATIONS right next to caramel popcorn and pineapple in pizza.
But looking at this boy you had never seen before, just an inch taller
than you, kneeling in the same damp soil as you without a care in the world, unbeknownst to the thousand questions pooling in your
pea-sized brain, you had taken the wrapper, popped the candy into your mouth and watched his pink pouting lips transition into a smile
so beautiful, everything you thought you'd found beautiful about your dad's Dahlias growing in your cottage garden suddenly started looking as impressive as your brother's artwork on the walls.
And then orange candies had shifted from that list to another labelled MOST BEAUTIFUL THINGS well above rainbows and your favourite barbie.
You had gone home that night, mud streaks on your face, the hem of your frock a dirty brown and a grin wider than the pacific ocean and even when your mom had scolded you again for the runaway and your dirty clothes and your dad had sat on the couch shaking his head in worry, you had silently thanked your brother for having fought with you and your mother for scolding you.
Otherwise how would you have met the brown-eyed boy with an endless supply of empty orange candy wrappers in his pocket and a heart so big, it had held a stranger for five minutes?
Fast forward twenty one years later, you loathed your brother for that fight and your mom for not keeping an eye on you before you ran out.
Because as years passed, you realized Jeon Jungkook did not have a heart very big and orange candies went right back to the old
list.
Twenty one years later, you watched him standing there through a million pixels , kissing Ava Myers with his hands roaming all over her body not-so innocently having not a care in the world about the three dozen cameras flashing in his face , indifferent to the growing hate and gaping hole in your heart.
in which jungkook the notorious fuckboy but the apparent softie when it comes to you has stolen your heart. But you've heard that saying haven't you? once a fuckboy, always a fuckboy.
guess not.
pairing:fuckboy! jk x FOC (reader)
genre: fwb to lovers, coworkers to lovers, she fell first, he fell harder, smut, angst, fluff.
warnings : mentions of fingering (not the oc), jungkook feels the oc up. breast play. more smut , oral (both recieving). i'll give the rest during those parts.
in which jungkook the notorious fuckboy but the apparent softie when it comes to you has stolen your heart. But you've heard that saying haven't you? once a fuckboy, always a fuckboy.
guess not.
pairing: fuckboy! jk x FOC (reader)
genre: fwb to lovers, coworkers to lovers, she fell first, he fell harder, smut, angst, fluff.
warnings : mentions of fingering (not the oc), jungkook feels the oc up. breast play. more smut in the next few parts.
BUT mdni!
word count: 2k
a/n: ngl, jungkook is an ass here. plainly and simply an ass through and through. oc is a bit unreasonable (if you squint enough). rest is whatever. go ahead and binge.
3:40 : Wildest Dreams || Taylor Swift
(lowercase intended)
💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒💋🍒
you and jungkook had never been permanent. it was all just a deal after all. fuck and forget. that had been it. no strings attached, no feelings involved, no hard time.
you had known what he was all along too. a fuckboy. heartbreaker. casanova. everything that a woman like you, with a massively throbbing vocabulary and even more massive dreams, somebody who had spent her entire life burying her wants and desires because that's what they always were right? wants and desires, wouldn't have batted an eye at.
so you both had struck a deal long back. you'd get everything you had rejected previously and missed out on and he'd get...well, his daily dose of orgasms because that's all he ever wanted.
there were rules of course, no other sexual partners, never go raw and you were free to date whoever you pleased.
but even with the knowledge that you'd dived headfirst into a deal with the one man who'd rather play baby shark on loop than emotionally invest in a relationship, somewhere between him banging on your door at 2 am and falling onto your bed in a blur of limbs and barely contained restraint, you had started looking at him under a different light.
because jeon jungkook, the notorious fuckboy who left within three seconds after his orgasm and blocked every woman he had gotten his taste of kept coming right back to you. and the worst part?
he never really left.
he'd stay right there on your bed, clean you up with utmost gentleness and care and fall next to you, tugging you by your waist and dozing off to dreamland. you tried to rationalize. tried to reason it with your deal of being fuck buddies. tried to tell yourself, that once a fuckboy, always a fuckboy.
tried to remind yourself that his soft eyes, and sweet words of affirmation and never-ending praises and his habit of tucking his face into the curve of your neck and inhaling your rose scent whilst humming in satisfaction was just another face of his fuckboy self.
but somewhere in the depth of your heart, you wanted to believe you were special. wanted to believe what he did with you was solely meant for you and that maybe you could fix him, change whatever had caused him to decide that getting emotions involved always meant a mess.
because even though jeon jungkook was a fuckboy and your incompetent inference of the situation had thought it alright to justify it with "you're horny, he's horny, do the math." , you had never really liked math, had you?
math was all about probability and statistics. jungkook's probability of taking anything seriously was in the negatives and his statistics showed his fuckboy traits plain and simple.
yet your heart had still decided to hurt and clench and make breathing difficult for you when you saw him in the club, hands down a girl's pants, some blonde he was looking at with his fuck me eyes as she held onto his jacket with a curled fist , lips bitten in pleasure.
god. you could almost hear her whimpering.
no kidding. jungkook was skilled in that area. hands, mouth and you know what else equally skilled. he knew exactly what to do, where to touch and how to touch. give and take.
but watching him touch another girl, looking at her with the same intense gaze you knew all too well made you want to crawl into your kitchen vent and never come out.
her mouth fell open in a silent moan, head falling back against the wall he had her pinned on with a thud. hips chasing his fingers under her unzipped leather pants. jungkook knew exactly what he could give to women and that was clearly visible.
he looked to his left then just for a second and you saw his eyes widen, shoulders tightening and you knew exactly what he was seeing.
his fuck buddy. vodka cran frozen midway to mouth. catching him violate your rules in 4k.
you watched as the blonde opened her eyes, whining at the loss of friction and you realised he had stopped. you didn't stand there for a second longer, you turned and walked out like your life depended on it. and maybe it did.
the club was pounding with some rock music that you were sure if you had been here, stoned and high and completely unaware of the fact that the man you had liked for so long was fingering another woman five feet away from you, you would have danced your soul out to.
you let out a shuddering breath, dodging all the sweaty women and men who tried to hit on you and stopped at the bar counter, gathering your stuff and sending a quick going back home. don't feel well. to your friend who was in some part of this huge SoHo club.
you were just stepping out with your coat, hands shaky, fumbling with your purse when his hand caught hold of your wrist. the five silver rings and the callous you had spent hours tracing your fingers over gave it away. you jerked it off and almost screamed when he tugged you back harder.
into a kiss.
his tongue was fierce. the taste of whiskey and some fruity cocktail. his hand creeped under your shirt. up up up. the other hand tugged your hair up as he tilted his head to go deeper. lip ring prodding at the corner of your mouth.
you lost yourself in his touch like you always did. mind turning into goo, world narrowing down to the cave of his mouth and the calloused hand that thumbed the underwire of your bra.
his palm snuck in under one cup, kneading you relentlessly, pad of his index and thumb rolling and pinching your hard nipple. you moaned into his mouth and he tugged you into him harder, merging you both to the point of indistinguishability.
your hand pulled him closer by his jacket and bit his lower lip slightly. that pulled a groan from him. sometime later—you didn't know how long it had been since you started making out—a motorbike pulsed, racing down the street behind you and you snapped back to reality, recoiling in mild disgust looking at his hand.
"don't fucking touch me." you seethed in anger and immediately regretted it. because the look that flickered on jungkook's face was of pure hurt. one you had never seen on him before.
"what the fuck mae?" his voice was quiet. filled with confusion and really, what the fuck? what were you doing acting like he owed you something, like him with that blonde had ignited some part of you that liked him? you had kissed him back too, even after knowing it was probably his means of distracting you from what you had walked in on.
you knew, god you knew that he wasn't the forever kind of guy. you knew that he wasn't going to sit around for you to forgive him for being himself. you knew he gave no fucks and still ended up expecting more.
"you said no other fuck buddies. you made that rule so what the fuck are you doing here with her?" he stepped closer, the cold draught turning his ears and cheeks pink. lips dark and swollen from the kiss.
"I know, I'm-"
"oh save it. what did i expect? for you to stick with one girl at a time? god you really are pathetic aren't you?" that landed. the word landed and the shift was dangerous. his jaw set, his pupils dilating so much his eyes looked darker than the sky. his voice dropped into a low octave.
"no mae, you tell me what you did expect from me. i didn't even fuck her, we were drunk, she wanted a one-night stand, i declined and did what i was doing. now really, is the std your problem or is it because you realized the entire universe doesn't revolve around you?" your heart did something terribly painful that had you breathing in huffs.
"if there's anyone that's pathetic among us, you know very well it isn't me." you stumbled back. this wasn't the jungkook you knew. the jungkook you knew wouldn't go this low. you knew you were being unreasonable too. the man didn't even know you liked him for crying out loud. but it still hurt.
your entire life, you had spent trying to be a better version of yourself, to change your shape and try to fit in. to take up as little space as possible and never complain. had always kept all your whims and fancies away from yourself and done what you were truly good at. studying.
your high school was spent going from home to school and school to home. your college was spent going from home to college to home. so when you had landed this amazing writing job in the new york times, you decided you were done shaping yourself around people.
so you waited for people to do it in vain. because nobody in life wanted nothing from you. everyone had a price to stay. a price you didn't know whether you could afford anymore. so when jungkook showed up in your life and cabin with his whiskey eyes and a disgustingly handsome smolder and never expected anything more, you were a goner.
but looking at him now as he stood there under the lamppost, chest heaving in bitten back rage and the silence around you echoing all the words he had just spoken to you, you forgot he was also the man who remembered your coffee order and learnt your schedule just so that he could fit himself somewhere in it. because maybe he wasn't any different. maybe he expected you to be different from who you were.
your brain ran at a hundred thoughts per second. every insecurity. every flicker of doubt. every hesitation. every you are pathetic, echoing in your brain. and now, now this man you thought was the only one who saw you for you had said it too.
"what the fuck did you expect? that you'd be somebody special? the girl i'd finally stick to?" he barked out a laugh that sliced your heart more than anything else. tone taunting and malicious and every bit different from the man you had known.
"i expected you to see me." you let the quiet words hang heavy between you. there was no point hiding anything. something flickered in his eyes, a furrow forming between his brows and he looked at you, lips parting but no sound coming.
yeah, you knew you and jungkook had never been permanent. knew exactly what you were getting yourself into the moment he had laid the deal out for you in plain sight. knew that he might have been the fuckboy in the deal but you were still you. still the girl who expected somebody to stop expecting from her. still the girl who would definitely be the only one crying if this deal ever ended.
jungkook never remembered the names of the girls he slept with. they were just girls. didn't matter if it was a mary or ann or heidi. he fucked and forgot.
you heard jungkook sigh then, shoulders falling in exhaustion, suddenly looking ten years older than he was and then he spoke quietly,
"i don't know what you want me to say mae..." you stepped back. don't cry. don't cry. don't cry. your eyes glazed looking at him. the boy who didn't know what to say but had already said everything you needed to hear.
"say you'll remember me."
you stood there for a second longer, to listen to him apologize or beg you to stay, you didn't know why exactly. but you did. just for a second and then you turned and walked away into the darkness of the night and finally, finally let the tears fall.
>> In which jungkook and you re-unite after two years of distance and despair.
ex! jungkook x ex! FOC (reader)
• Say You'll Remember Me | JJK:
>> In which jungkook the notorious fuckboy but the apparent softie when it comes to you has stolen your heart. But you've heard that saying haven't you? once a fuckboy, always a fuckboy.
↪warnings: none for this part. (slightly unedited tho lol.)
↪word count:
↪ 4 : 21 : August || Taylor Swift
Jungkook had once thought that of all his friends, he'd be the first to get married. He was that kind of guy. The one who walked into a room and turned heads without meaning to. The one whose presence lingered on people in ways that had men watching in wonder and women leaning towards him.
And Jungkook was also the kind who believed in the salvation of sinners by love. He believed all those words written in those cheesy romance novels. His favorite fucking city was Paris. A die-hard romantic and a proud one at that.
It wasn't performative. Jungkook was just built like that.
Yet now, he stood there, watching as his best friend Taehyung leaned into his fiancée —now wife—Lee Hani to kiss her. It was ceremonious. Joyful. Dreamy. The perfect kind of wedding that felt like a scene out of a romantic French montage film that left you wanting for more when the credits rolled in.
He had imagined this very day numerous times back when Taehyung and him were still in junior high. When they had laughed and pictured their future wives, dressed in that ethereal white. Taehyung and his wife would be kissing and the people in the church would be crying and the doves by the windowsill would be flying to let the entire flock know about the beauty of a vow made.
But through those countless scenarios and vivid imagery, Jungkook had always thought he'd be standing beside Taehyung as his best man, while his eyes would seek his wife in the crowd. They would have already been married. Fingers adorned with gleaming jewels and their past vows echoing in their minds as they'd stand across the room looking at each other—a hundred more vows passed in silence.
That day however, Jungkook stood as Taehyung's best man alone. His eyes not leaving the couple. He was happy. Truly, he was. But he also felt like someone had personally reached into his ribs, tried to rip his heart out of his chest and stopped midway, leaving him open, wounded and bleeding.
Because amongst the crowd, there was no woman he could seek for. None he could look at and feel at home. None that he could smile at and let those silent words pass— see that? That was us all those years ago. He imagined it. She would be rolling her eyes at him and there would be a slight hue of pink creeping up her cheeks and he would stand there wondering that life was so much more easier when there were two carrying the weight instead of one.
The church bells rang.
That's when he saw her.
Saw you.
You were dressed in a beautiful burgundy one strap dress. The one that brought the brown of your eyes out. Grinning at the couple. A hint of tears peeking out from the corner of your eyes.
You looked fucking ethereal, Jungkook thought.
He watched as the tip of your nose turned blush pink. As you sniffed, one palm coming to wipe your right cheek, and tilted your head at the bride and groom in that way that showed how genuinely you were in love with the couple.
Of course. You were a die-hard romantic too.
Jungkook knew that all too well.
In fact, that was how the both of you had met long back in Iowa. In the Annual Book Festival that Jungkook had dragged Taehyung to.
He had been looking in wonder, at the fifty something first-edition books from so many of his favorite authors. He had seen you in the make-shift castle that was made for The Brontë Sisters. Had crashed into you so hard, the impact had sent you plummeting into the small tower of books behind you. That is, if he hadn't caught you midway, one hand around your wrist, the other around your waist.
And oh Jungkook, ever the romantic Jungkook had thought then that you were the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. And amongst the age-old books and the silent weight of The Brontë Sisters blanketing around you, bloomed your love story.
He heard the bells ring again and he didn't think twice.
He strode in your direction. Eyes on you to make sure you didn't merge into the crowd leaving the church. He ignored the whisper-yell of his friend and marched towards you, heart overwhelmed with the sudden surge of emotions you had stirred in him.
"Esmée." Your name rolled off his tongue as a whisper. A plea. A promise.
You turned then, eyes wide and round, startled by the voice that had called your name in that familiar foreign accent you had learnt only one man could call you in.
It had been so so long since you had seen him. Well, if you didn't count the numerous times you had stalked him on Instagram. Heart cracking each time your eyes fell on that Follow button. Staring at him through a thousand pixels in the break of dawn definitely didn't do him any justice.
His hair was long, you noticed. Longer than the last time you'd seen him. In that nice, slightly curled at the ends way that reminded you of the many nights you had spent curled up on his couch, your bare body on top of his, that red woolen cashmere covering you both as you stared out of his balcony, into the endless sky.
You had felt like that with him once upon a time. Endless. Endless and complete and so full of possibilities that made you wonder that life was so much more easier when two were carrying the weight instead of one.
His eyes catalogued each micro-expression on your face. Searching for a flicker of hatred you might have grown for him in the two years you had been apart. But you were past that, he guessed. Your face schooled into that mask of indifference he somehow couldn't see past now.
"Jungkook, hi." There was a slight French lilt to your voice now. High-pitched , thick and feminine. His heart skipped a beat dangerously listening to his name being called out by you. There was silence now. Silence that would have seemed awkward to anyone who was present. But the two of you didn't seem to mind. There were a thousand questions roaming in your heads. Where have you been? How have you been? Are you doing well? But underneath all those questions lay three simple words neither of you could bring yourselves to tell the other—I missed you.
You had a sudden urge to walk back home and cry into your pillow, much like how the last two years had passed. He was so handsome. His physique had broadened, forearms with even more tattoos and his face had become sharper, clean-shaved and masculine.
He looked...good. Surprisingly good. Like maybe in the past two years he hadn't spent three AMs wondering about what could have been. Like maybe he had actually thought about the possibility of moving on with other women. Like maybe two years had given him enough time to reflect on your relationship and realize that you weren't endgame. Had never been.
You wondered if he had ever thought that you were.
"Hey." he said then.
"It's nice to see you here..." who were you kidding? Sure, Taehyung was your friend as well. But he was Jungkook's friend first. You had met Taehyung through him in Iowa. And of course you had pondered over whether you'd be finally seeing him after two years. Had mulled over whether he'd still see you with that glint in his eyes. When Tae's invitation was received in your mail, you had cried. Half over the joy of seeing your once dear friend getting married and half from the heavy weight of all the things that happened in their lives unbeknownst to you.
Looking at him standing beside Taehyung as his best man had left you with a heavy heart. You couldn't look away from him when the bride and groom had made their vows. Mind reeling back to every time you had thought that he would be the one. Every moment you had caught him looking at you with a gaze that told you he was thinking the same.
Time had passed. Jeon Jungkook had grown older and more handsome, if that was even possible. Your friends had changed. Their lives had changed. Two years had held your world by it's axis and shaken it hard enough to let you know that you were the only one living in the what-ifs.
But you prayed to god with all the little faith you had left in your cracked jell-o heart, that you hadn't imagined the glint in Jeon Jungkook's eyes as he looked down at you right then inside the church hall.
💐💍°🥂⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*💐💍°🥂⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*💐💍°🥂⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*💐💍°🥂⋆.ೃ🍾
The evening party noise was pressing against your eardrums. Taehyung's cheeks looked like they were screaming in agony as he grinned for the hundredth time that evening at the camera. He looked full. Cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming. Lee Hani looked even more full.
It all felt exactly like the week before christmas. All dreamy, bright and filled with the high of red wine. But your heart registered only one thing.
Jeon Jungkook's eyes had flicked towards you the eighth time that night. You definitely weren't counting. You felt smug. All the gorgeous women inside the room but his eyes strayed only to you. But underneath the excitement and nerves, something else simmered below your sternum.
Confusion? Anxiety? You weren't sure. Because what were you two doing? Two years apart and when you finally met, lingering glances and tension were all you got? You silently cursed at Hani's aunt who had whisked you away for a "kitty-party talk" earlier that afternoon.
"Penny for your thoughts?" You looked up at Max who was leaning against the bar counter, one brow raised and eyes on your vodka cranberry.
"You'd turn broke." you shook your head, squeezing the lime wedge between your index and thumb.
"Shut up and tell me what's on your mind." he leans closer.
Max has been your constant in Paris. Your first friend there and your soul sister you believe. One drunk night with him in a SoHo club and you two hit it off. That night was slightly embarrassing though. You both had stumbled into your apartment, giggling at the upside-down world as you lay down on the wooden floor. You started crying and then he started crying. And all those emotions you had kept bottled up in your heart scrambled into your word vomit. So did his sexuality.
In your defense, it was the six high proof shots you had gulped in a go that spoke up.
So he knows about Jungkook. Knows all about the five-year relationship, the rough patch you both had hit, and the "break" you both had taken that turned into a two year saga of silence and angst. He also knows that you had been searching for apartments on Realtor to move into with him right before you both had called it quits.
"Is it Jeon? Want me to ruff him up? I have got a mean uppercut." you huff out a breath, something between disbelief and laughter.
"No...I mean yes it's him but let's keep the moves at a bay for tonight?" he sighs dramatically and then his eyes light up screaming trouble.
He looks at you with a small smirk and before you can ask him what the hell he is on about, he presses a kiss to your temple. Which is normal. Max is the only man in your life who gets a free pass. But you feel the added pressure, the way it lingers and the very believable way he is looking down at you with hooded eyes. He is a good goddamn actor. You've got to give him that.
You giggle helplessly as he shoots a wink at you, his fingers tracing yours around the glass that only you know is for show as he leans back again.
"Six o clock." he whispers grinning. You feel the heat before the person. Jungkook clears his throat slightly muttering a "Manhattan" to the bartender from behind you as he moves to stand facing Max. You turn.
"Hey." he is already looking at you, eyes soft in a way that has your heart clenching helplessly.
"Maximo. Maximo Giuseppe." Max gives him a tight lipped smile, shaking his hand. Jungkook only nods and you know exactly what it means. He nods to a greeting when he doesn't like the person. You feel something dip in your stomach.
Jungkook looks at you again. "Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?". He adds "alone" after one more look at Max. You nod, following him to the balcony.
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Jeon Jungkook has always been a romantic through and through. And he has never felt as lonely as he feels watching his best friend get married. All things however change when he sees Esmée after two years of distance, heartbreak and silent longing.
Jeon Jungkook has always been a romantic through and through. And he is going to do everything in his power to win Esmée back.
An ex! jungkook x ex! FOC fanfiction
↪genre: jungkookau , fanfiction, romance, angst.
↪warnings: light smut. more longing.
BUT mdni!
↪tropes: past lovers to strangers to lovers, second chance, both huge romantics
jesus christ, im new to tumblr and it's already messing with my grey matter. I do not comprehend this level of complication. How the hell do I make a proper masterlist!?
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