#(mr han.)

A photographer’s job was to capture beauty. His hair that hung over his face, the slender curve of his jaw, his light eyes that whispered sorrow, his body, that was close enough to caress yet felt the furthest away from his control; all that he encompassed was photo worthy.

Every piece of Jumin’s body desired to hold him, desired to love him-- but not like this.

“V, that’s enough. Please move.”

Not once in his life had he pictured that moment. When he met that strange, smiling boy that was always with his camera, never could he have imagined burying him. Even after all of the years they had spent together, he always assumed that he would pass first. Of course, it didn’t enter his mind before, buying flowers to place on his grave. If it were just a courtesy, he would have someone that works for him pick out the flowers -- But this time, it was a task he’d only leave to himself. He was going to make sure V liked his flowers. He hoped that he might regret leaving them so soon if he took a look at them. Maybe they’d make him want to take out his camera?

Bringing flowers to a ghost was very bittersweet.

As he stared at the opening of the florists, he realized that he was getting lost in sentimentality. That was not like him at all. He shook his head as if to shake away the sadness as he entered the store.

“I’m here to pick up a flower arrangement for a friend.”

He had on a heavy jacket. Despite it only being fall, the weather looked and felt as if it wanted to snow. With each exhale, he could see his breath, along with the quick pants of the woman beside him.

Jumin noticed it, in her complexion, in her stride -- She had been acting strange from the short time they had been together -- the normally outgoing and bubbly Rika seemed more vulnerable today. 

There could only be one explanation.

Despite her protests, when his fingertips met her forehead, he confirmed his suspicions. She was burning up.

Torture Jumin. || not accepting.

Ice Bucket Challenge?

Before he could react, a bucket of cold water douses him, along with his expensive suit.

Torture Jumin.

His vision was blurry. Through the strikes to his face, the heir could make out the lines on the floor below him. Time was not something that could be measured anymore; slipping in and back out of consciousness, he easily lost track of it.

The taste of iron was something that never left his mouth.

After another hit, his head sunk down to his into chest. 

He was always careful. He always surrounded himself with security. He thought, that anyone V trusted, he could trust in too-- 

How foolish.

[ What, can’t take a punch? ] 

Jumin lifted his head, despite the movement only causing his nausea to worsen. No one would have the satisfaction of seeing him defeated.

His eyes followed the model’s silhouette. More blood, just like that that covered his own clothing. If he wasn’t restrained, Zen would be in trouble.

He paused, his voice the same as always, when he spoke.

Send Jumin bad pick-up lines.