Summary: When you originally auditioned for KQ, you got rejected, and went back to Australia and your older brother to lick your wounds. For a couple of years you tried to forget your dream and be happy with the humble life you built, but there was always something in you that longed for the stage and the lights. One day you got the call, and left to live your dream. But maybe this dream shouldn't have been chased?
Warning/content labels: 9th member, bullying, sexual harassment/assault, alienation, xenophobia, suicide, regression trope, time travel, mentions of alcoholism, restrictive eating, extreme guilt and second chances, and grave formatting issues that I blame on Tumblr.
A/N: IT'S MY BIRTHDAY SO THIS IS MY GIFT TO YOU!!! And just because I can, send all the kisses to my darling @gooddaykate, she's like ridiculously cute and adorable! As always, let me know if you want to be tagged in rest of this, either by comment or ask. Enjoy!
Before You Go Masterlist
Chapter 12 Chapter 14
"Alright, do you remember the pose?" Kwan asks as he gets his camera ready and watches you put yourself back in position. "That's perfect." He says, snapping a couple of pictures. "You always listen so well, Chan-ssi."
Your face heats underneath the makeup again, and you feel like there might as well be a flashing neon sign pointing out how flustered you are from the way Kwan chuckles.
"Beautiful." He says, snapping a couple of more shots even though your expression is no longer aligned with the concept. "Can you turn your face up a little bit more?"
You do as he says but the lack of sounds from the shutter not going off has you feeling like you've done it wrong, something sharp flaring in your chest at the idea.
"No, like this." Kwan pulls the camera down and angles his own face the way he wants you to pose.
You adjust, trying to mirror him exactly, but the sigh that leaves him makes the sharpness inside you expand.
"May I?" He asks, not moving an inch until you give him permission to, and with a nod you do.
He practically towers over you where you sit, and his hand is warm and steady as he gently moves your face to where he wants it.
It's such a minute adjustment that you catch yourself wondering how it could make a difference, but you quickly turn that thought off. He's the professional photographer, not you.
"That's better, great job." He praises when he looks through the viewfinder again, and the familiar sound of the shutter returning allows you to relax again. "Remember to look at me. Good."
He usually doesn't feel the need to direct you quite this much, but you did interrupt the shoot to talk with Minseok so you can't blame him for wanting to get it perfect in the limited time he has.
"Alright good, now I need you to lean back, kind of like you're arching, okay?"
You nod and do as he asks, noticing the way the rips in your shirt end up revealing most of your bra in the position. It's not that big of a deal, you think as Kwan gets down on one knee and asks you to look down at him. It's just a sports bra, not like it's lingerie.
"Angle your leg out a little bit."
He doesn't say which one, but neither feels natural in the position you're in, so you go with your right one and hope it’s not wrong.
"Hm, can you go a bit more?" He asks, moving a little closer, changing the angle of himself so the camera is level with your face. "Or is that too much?"
You don't know why, but something about the words 'too much' makes you pause. You know he means it as if the more exaggerated angle hurts you. So why does it make the sharp feeling in your chest grow until it’s skewering your insides?
You might be exhausted and still a bit dizzy, but you're not a quitter, and you certainly don't want a photographer like Kwan to see you as such.
"No, it's fine." You say, pushing your leg out more, and thanking director Kim for saying yes to getting rid of the mini-shorts and skirts. If you'd been in them now, your underwear would have been on close to full display.
"Perfect. I knew you could do it."
The praise doesn’t hit the same as before, even though the heat that settles on your face feels somewhat familiar. It’s a strange combination that leaves you confused.
"Now, lean back a little more and look straight at the camera."
If you do what he asks, you'll basically be pushing your tits out and at the camera. You hesitate.
"What's wrong?" Kwan asks but this time he doesn't lower the camera, just keeps snapping pictures while he talks.
"I just, um..." You swallow the weird feeling slowly making its way up your throat, your expression dropping from Chan of Ateez to just plain you. "I'm feeling a little exposed."
"Oh." Kwan snaps a final picture before he drops the camera enough to let you see his face. "You should have said something."
I thought I just did.
"That's okay, we'll just work around that." He says kindly, but his choice of words again makes you feel a bit... off. "Tell you what, why don't you sit like this instead?"
He shows you a less provocative pose, and you force yourself to relax into it as the shoot continues.
You're exhausted and stressed. That's all. You’re just thinking too much.
"No, not like that." Kwan sighs again, and again you feel your anxiety spike at having disappointed him. "You're usually not this bad at taking directions, Chan-ssi."
You know you're not, and that knowledge hurts.
"I'm sorry." You try to say, but your voice breaks into more of a whisper as you watch the photographer approach you. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"I thought you trusted me to make you look your best." Kwan says and he looks so disappointed it borders on heartbroken.
"I do. I promise."
"Then why is it so hard for you tonight? Hm?" His tone is as soft as the hand that comes up to caress your cheek, and you freeze.
It's not that different from the previous touch and yet it makes it difficult to breathe. He didn’t even ask.
"I'm..." Your mouth doesn't work, your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as if it's forgotten how to move, and the way Kwan is now cupping your face does nothing to help. "I'm sorry."
"What am I going to do with you, Chan-ssi?" He tuts, kissing his teeth when you jump at his other hand coming to rest on your thigh, the position now putting his face mere inches from yours. "You're usually such a good listener."
"P-please," You cringe at the weakness in your own voice and how badly your hand trembles when it tries to push away the one now gripping your thigh. "I don't like this."
"I thought you trusted me to help you relax?" He says, the kindness still in his voice so at odds with the way he's grabbing you. "To stop you overthinking."
Your eyes flit around the room and your stomach turns when you realize you're practically alone with him. The only other people left are packing up their equipment with their headphones on or talking to each other, not paying you an ounce of attention.
"You want to call out to them?" Kwan asks softly, his own eyes flitting between yours, the hand at your thigh squeezing until you're hissing, with his other hand moving to your throat. He doesn't even put any pressure on it. He doesn't have to. You're too afraid to move.
"You know what they'd say about you, don't you?" He chuckles, watching the tears fill your terrified eyes. "Cozying up to the photographer to get more time in front of the camera. I've never been anything but professional with you, who would believe I'd do something untoward? Your own team abandons you any chance they get, do you really think they'd defend you?"
You want to say yes. You want to believe it. You want to scream bloody murder and have everyone come back to rescue you. But there's no one left. No one who’d believe you at least.
The guys are all back at the hotel. Minseok is somewhere checking on his pregnant wife because you told him to. You'd like to think some of the unnies might step in, but per Yi's stupid fucking rules, they've either left or are about to and are paying no attention to anything but packing up.
"P-please, Kwan." You whimper but you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. You're too fatigued to fight him off, and even if you did, who would believe you?
He's a famous photographer, known for being one of the most professional and respectful ones in the business, and you're just an overdramatic idol who no one takes seriously. You’ve even raved about his work publicly.
What's even the point of fighting?
"You're so beautiful like this." Kwan whispers with a smile, watching the tears run down your face. "Now, we're going to continue but these pictures are going to be just for me, and you're going to perform like a good little idol, aren't you?"
One moment he's touching you. The next he's not.
"Get your fucking hands off her."
The voice isn't loud but its terrifying depth is familiar enough to make the hair on your body stand up.
"Mingi-ssi," Kwan hisses through a now forced smile, and it's only when you blink that you register that there's someone standing between you and him. "She was upset, I was just comforting her-"
"What part of comforting has you fucking choking and groping her?" Mingi practically growls, moving forward to push Kwan away from you. He's holding onto his wrist and from what you can see, the photographer's fingers have turned an off-color. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
The yell makes you flinch, and it finally catches the attention of the few people still packing up. You can feel their eyes on you, and you quickly wipe your tears, forgetting all about the makeup caked on your face. You swear you can already hear them whispering about you.
"We're leaving now, and if you're still here tomorrow morning I'm going to kill you, do you understand?"
Kwan doesn't say anything, but Mingi doesn't seem to care as he shoves him to the ground, clearly not giving a fuck if the expensive camera around his neck gets destroyed.
"Come on, Chan-ah." The rapper says, his voice the softest you've ever heard it, as he remains between you and Kwan, ushering you away from the set while making sure he doesn’t touch you.
He walks you to the dressing room in silence, hovering but somehow not crowding you, managing to shield you from view of the few people still in the building.
Minseok shoots up from where he's been leaning against one of the tables, nearly dropping his phone when he sees the state of you.
"Oh my god, Chan-ah." He whispers as he trips over his feet on his way to the couch where Mingi gestures for you to sit down. "What happened?"
You open your mouth to speak, to tell him it's nothing, that you're fine, that he doesn't need to worry. But no words come out. Only more tears.
"Kwan fucking happened." Mingi spits, removing any kind of lie you would have tried to cook up to protect your manager's conscience. "I came back to see if I could get a ride back to the hotel with you, and I saw that asshole assault her. Choking her and everything."
"...What?"
Even in your shocked state you can see the color drain from Minseok's face, and you wish you could reach out to him, to comfort him, but just the thought of touching anyone makes the bile rise in your throat.
"I'm gonna fucking kill him." Mingi says through gritted teeth and he looks like a caged beast aching to go berserk and rip everything to shreds but remains crouched beside you at a safe distance despite it. "Where the fuck were you?"
The words are harsh, and even though you hate yourself for it, your fractured mind is asking the same thing. You'd wanted him to check on his wife. You hadn't expected him to be gone that long.
"I was..." Minseok trails off, looking about as sick to his stomach as you're feeling and you can't blame him. "My wife... She-"
"Is she okay?" You mumble, teary eyes turning to your friend as you try to pull yourself together, only making Minseok cry too.
"She's okay. There was some- some bleeding so they went to the hospital, but the doctor said they're both fine." He stares at you, the guilt shining in his eyes, and you can tell how badly he wants to reach out to you, but thankfully he holds himself back. "Chan-ah, I'm so so sorry."
"It's okay." You whisper, your voice starting to fade again, and no amount of clearing your throat seems to help. "You didn't know."
"That's no excuse." Mingi says as he cracks open a bottle of water to hand to you, and watches as you take tiny sips from it.
"You're right. I should have been there." Minseok takes a shaky breath, tightly clasping his own hands so that he won't reach for yours. "What can we do to help, Chan-ah?"
"I want to change and go to the hotel." You say with a sigh, fidgeting with the bottle cap. "Then shower and sleep."
"Okay. Okay, yeah, we can do that. We'll be just outside the door while you change." Minseok says, both him and Mingi standing up when you nod. "We'll make sure no one comes in."
"Thanks." You mumble as you stand up and go to your bag in the corner of the room, while the two of them head towards the door.
There's an almost eerie numbness settling inside you as you peel off your clothes, taking note of the red splotches on your thigh, but are unable to access enough emotions in you to care.
You get dressed in your own clothes and do your best to take off as much makeup as you can using a packet of wet wipes lying around. Once most of it is off, you grab your bag and let Mingi and Minseok know you're ready to leave.
"We let Hongjoong-ssi know." Minseok says once you're in the car heading back to the hotel. "He said if you're okay with it, he wants to see you when we get there."
"Might as well." You say, watching the lights of the city flash by outside the car.
Mingi has stopped speaking to you, not that there's much conversation happening anyways, but you keep seeing him staring at you out of the corner of your eye.
Out of all of them, you would have assumed Mingi would be the least likely to ever step in to protect you. Maybe he doesn't want to see you drop dead after all. Or maybe death is fine, but he draws the line at sexual assault.
Because that's what this was. It has to be.
You keep on staring out the window until Minseok pulls into the garage of the hotel, time losing all meaning between then and now. You feel almost drunk. Not dizzy or uncoordinated, but like your body is moving without you being in control. Like you're just a passenger, your head full of cotton.
No one touches you when you exit the car, their hands hovering around you, ready to catch you should you collapse but terrified of scaring you.
You take the elevator up to your floor, and while Hongjoong's presence outside your door is expected, you're surprised to see Seonghwa joining him.
The more the merrier, you suppose.
Hongjoong is definitely leaning towards anger, like Mingi, when you recount the events. Unlike Seonghwa who has joined Minseok in worrying, and keeps trying to make you feel physically comfortable with cups of tea, snacks from the fridge, and a blanket to help you stop shivering. The last one has very little to do with being cold but wrapping yourself in something big and soft is the closest thing to a hug that you're able to stomach at the moment, so you allow it.
When you're done with your side of the story, Mingi tells them what he'd seen and heard, and while he still insists that you were being choked, the rest of the details feel like they're mostly the same, or at least similar.
There are talks of calling the police but you're in a foreign country where neither you or the perpetrator are citizens, and you shut it down with the fact that you just want to sleep. And if it even would be considered a police matter, it’s going to have to wait until you get back to Korea. It’s not like there’s any physical evidence to preserve.
When they finally wrap it up, it's with a mountain of apologies, and assurances that you will never have to be in the same room as the photographer again. You know they don't have the power to make that happen, but you thank them nonetheless. It's sweet that they're this angry on your behalf.
Seonghwa looks like he wants to hug you so bad before he leaves but, like the others, he stops himself, and tells you that if you need anything at all during the night, to call or text them and they'll be right there. Mingi lingers by the door but eventually leaves as well, putting you and Minseok alone in the room.
He tries to apologize some more, but you tell him he doesn't have to. Hongjoong himself had cursed the lack of security for you, and how that responsibility shouldn't have fallen on your manager, regardless of whether he'd stayed with you or not.
It takes you too long to convince Minseok to go next door to his own room, but you have a lock on your door, and only the KQ staff and crew have access to this particular floor so you'll be safe. You can tell he doesn't agree, but you shamelessly inform him that his wife will need him rested when he comes home, and that works. You might have also threatened to tell her that he refused sleep, which sent him off to his room fairly quick, being the final nail in the coffin.
The silence that settles in your room after he leaves is both deafening and welcoming. You consider texting Chris or Felix, but you've had enough interactions today, and you'll only worry them when you're still not quite yourself yet. Maybe tomorrow when you have the day off. It was always planned for you to have tomorrow off, but you're so grateful for it now.
You just want to take a shower and sleep.
The shower is exactly what you need, but sleep is absent. You're too tense for even your melatonin to work.
You're just laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing your eyes would just close and you could forget this whole day. But the world keeps spinning and you stay awake.
You finally give up and grab your phone, figuring if sleep is going to avoid you like the plague, you might as well have some entertainment while you suffer.
You find a YouTube video to keep you company and start scrolling your private social media accounts where nothing idol related every exists. Your own little cocoon of normalcy.
But even that gets boring after a while, and you sigh to yourself as put your phone down. You should have brought a book or something.
A soft knock on your door has your pulse skyrocketing, and the chat notification popping up on your phone seconds later does nothing to help.
Mingi 02:36
Sorry. It's me
There's no reason for him to be knocking on your door, even with everything that went on tonight. Or you suppose yesterday now.
Another message.
Mingi 02:38
Your status said active so I figured you couldn't sleep either
I can leave if you want?
You consider it for a moment.
He should be the last person you'd want to see. Given your history, you don't think anyone would blame you for sending him away.
You slip out of bed and into your hotel slippers, silently making your way over to the door. You check the peephole to make sure, and open the door.
He looks a mess, and you have a feeling you aren't fairing much better. His eyes are red and puffy like he’s been crying, and his hair looks like it's had his hands running through it ever since he left your room earlier.
"Hi." He says quietly as he watches you from the hallway, his voice hoarse and gravelly with exhaustion. "Sorry if I scared you. With the knocking."
"It's fine." You mumble, taking in his appearance.
He's in a t-shirt and a hoodie, wearing a pair of pajama pants, socks and his own hotel slippers. He looks domestic, the prescription glasses sitting a bit too low on his nose, really hammering it home.
"Can't sleep?" You eventually ask, breaking the silence, and even though your voice is soft and quiet, it seems to startle him.
"No." He says with a little chuckle that, albeit now joyless, you've seen enough times to know he's feeling embarrassed. "You?"
"Not really." You admit, letting the silence settle between you again. "You want some tea?"
Whatever Mingi had expected you to say, it clearly wasn't that, and you can't help the little lopsided smile on your lips at his comically wide eyes behind his glasses.
"Really? Um, I mean, sure, if- if you're okay with..."
You're not sure what he wants to say. If you were okay with it? With him being in your room again? With being alone with him? Either way, your answer is surprisingly clear.
"Come on in."
You push the door open further and step aside to let him in, and you watch him nod politely as he enters your space once more.
It's the same room he left just a few hours ago and yet it looks completely different. More lived in. Private. Intimate.
"You can sit." You tell him when it's clear he doesn't know what to do with himself, aside from pointedly avoiding looking at the unmade bed that you'd clearly been in when he texted you. It feels wrong, like he's not supposed to see this version of you. He's used to seeing the young woman with the high, impenetrable walls, who acts like everything is normal even when she's dying.
Not this. Not you in your pajamas, looking like you haven't slept in weeks, after he's witnessed you at your most vulnerable, a heavy air about you that makes it harder for him to breathe.
He walks over to the chair by the window and sits down in it like he did before, although this time, he's even more tense.
This is the first time he's been truly alone with you since the morning they came back and you found him out of his mind crying on the floor of your bedroom, and he wonders if you realize.
So much has happened since then that it feels like it was months ago.
The electric kettle is loud once it starts going, and Mingi fidgets with his phone to give himself something to focus on apart from the silence that hangs between you like a wet blanket.
"Do you take milk?" You ask, your soft voice once again startling him, and he feels ridiculous for it.
If anyone has the right to be jumpy, it's you, not him.
"No, just the tea. Thank you."
You nod and turn away from him to start preparing two cups for when the water is ready.
"So, how are you doing?" The words leave him without permission, and he watches you tense, cursing himself for being unable to take the words back. "Sorry. You don't have to answer that."
"It's okay." You say softly, reaching for the kettle. "I guess I should get used to being asked."
"I can tell them not to." Mingi says, the idea of you being pelted with the same invasive question over and over makes him sick to his stomach.
"I'm just glad someone's even asking." You say as you grab the cups and walk towards him, handing him one of them before you sit down on the bed with your own. "Before tonight I wasn't sure anyone would."
"Of course we would!" Mingi exclaims, only to wince when you flinch, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself down before he speaks again. "I know we must be monsters in your eyes after everything we've put you through, especially me, but we would have never let that shit slide."
You watch him in silence as you sip your tea, while Mingi's insides are screaming at him to make you believe him.
"You're not monsters." You whisper, voice so quiet you might as well have never spoken at all.
"What?"
"Monsters." You repeat as you look over your cup at Mingi, your tired eyes staring into his soul. "I never thought of you like that. We just started off bad, and then everything just... escalated."
You should be screaming at him, you have every right to. You should tell him to fuck off, to never speak to you again, that he deserves to die for the hell he’s put you through.
"I'm sorry, Chan-ah." He whispers, roughly wiping the tears from his eyes and bumping his glasses out of the way, too ashamed of himself and his actions to allow himself to cry. "For everything."
He forces himself to look at you, and he hates how shocked his apology has you.
"You didn't deserve any of it." He says, trying to keep himself together but the tears keep on falling and he knows he must look so pathetic right now, but he can't stop. "I was weak and insecure, and I was terrified that I was going to be replaced, so I turned the others against you before I even came back. I knew Yunho would never accept you if I didn't, and that the others would just naturally follow. I didn't even have to say anything. It just happened. And before I knew it and things started getting out of hand, it was too late to turn back. I didn’t know how to stop it, so I just didn’t say anything at all."
He puts his tea aside, and reaches for you, only barely stopping himself before he makes contact.
"I don't expect you to forgive me, I don't want you to, but I do need you to know that you did nothing to make us treat you the way we did. You deserve everything good in this world, and I'm so incredibly sorry you've gotten everything but that."
The silence that settles between you when he's finished speaking, is heavy but not tense. It's the kind of weight the truth holds, when everything has been said and it's all out in the open. No expectations, no demands. Just the plain, old truth.
The covers rustle when you reach over the bed to put your mug away, and Mingi can't help but stare when you sit back across from him and take his hands in yours.
"I need you to breathe, Mingi." You say softly, and his heart nearly stops with the way you say his name so simply with such familiarity. "Okay?"
He doesn't realize he's shaking until he looks down at your clasped hands, his head starting to feel lighter than usual while he watches you squeeze his hands.
He's used to the comments about the size of his hands, but he's never realized just how massive they look next to yours. It looks almost comical, and Mingi would have laughed if he could only remember how to draw breath.
"I'm okay." He mumbles, not wanting you to force yourself to touch him, but stays where he is, so he won't startle you again.
"I know." You say, giving his hands another squeeze, keeping eye contact with him. "This is for me."
In the midst of the guilt riddled angst in his mind, he hears your request. For comfort. For closeness. For an anchor.
He doesn't deserve to be that for you, but you've chosen him, so he stays.
It's not just his hands that are shaking. Not just his eyes that are filled to the brim with tears. Not just him carrying around enough pain and anguish to topple an empire.
You were alone tonight without an anchor, and if you've chosen him to be one for you now, he will accept that privilege without question.
"Okay." He whispers, taking a deep breath into his lungs and watches as you do the same. "Whatever you need."
He doesn't know how long the two of you sit there, holding onto each other, but eventually the shaking stops.
You almost look embarrassed when you gently move your hands from his, but you don't say anything, and you don't apologize even though he can see the old habit trying to rear its ugly head again.
"You never answered the question by the way." Mingi says, watching your more relaxed form settle on the bed. "About how you're doing."
"Thought I'd been able to give you the slip." You actually give a little chuckle, which makes him feel both lighter and concerned.
"I'm persistent." He says, watching the realization that your attempt at humor isn't going to make him drop it.
"I’m going to be okay." You settle on, knowing it's not the kind of answer he's looking for. "I just mostly feel stupid."
"Why?"
"Because I trusted hi-" Your voice breaks and you clear your throat as the tears start falling. "I trusted him, and I believed he'd never do anything like that. But he turned out to be the worst of them."
Something about your words and the way you said them, gives Mingi pause.
"Chan-ah... Has this sort of thing happened before?"
Your sudden inability to look him in the eye chills his soul.
"In varying degrees, I guess." You sigh. "Most of it's usually just saying something suggestive, propositions, helping to adjust poses, shit like that. It's always uncomfortable, but I've never been scared like that before... I've never been alone like that before."
"Did they ever do it around Yi?"
"Nothing tangible, it was just bad vibes most of the time. I think everyone's scared of her. So maybe her not being here was why this happened, I don't know. I just know people are going to talk and I'm going to be the whore throwing herself at a photographer."
The need to harm is back. Not you, even when he was at his worst, he never would have laid a hand on you. But his hands are itching, and he wishes he would have punched Kwan when he had the chance.
"We won't let that happen." He says, trying his best not to let you see the dark storm in him even though he's sure it's impossible to miss.
"People saw it, Mingi." You say, and he can't help the way the continued familiar use of his name warms his chest. "They'll do what they always do."
"They saw you crying and terrified, while they did nothing. They have no right to judge anything about you."
"That's not going to stop them." You mumble, lowering your gaze to your lap where you've started picking at your nails.
"Then we make them." He tells you, his very soul imploring you to believe him. "We put out a statement. Send cease and desists. Moderate comments. Tell the truth to those who are willing to listen. We make it impossible for them to ignore the truth. And let's face it, if he was that comfortable doing that shit to you, chances are high that he's done it to others."
You nod but stay silent, and Mingi hopes it's because you're taking in his words, and not because you’re blaming yourself for something that was never your fault.
"You're easy to talk to." You suddenly say, blinking tears out of your eyes as you look at him again, a somber half-smile lingering on your lips. "How ironic is that?"
"I'm sorry." He whispers, adjusting his glasses even though they most definitely don't need adjusting. "Turns out, I actually like talking to you."
"It's kind of sad that we could have had this the whole time, isn't it?" You continue and while Mingi is fairly certain you're not meaning to twist the knife in his heart, you most certainly are.
His mind travels to the mini-bottles of vodka and whiskey in the fridge in his room. Tonight would be a good night for a drink, to go blissfully numb. His shoot is done, he can afford to be hungover tomorrow.
"Mingi?"
The use of his name shakes him out of his thoughts, and he blinks at you while he tries to re-focus.
"Are you okay?" You ask, and fuck him, you actually look worried. "You disappeared."
"Sorry, I- I was just... Thinking about something."
"Something bad?" Your voice is soft and it makes him want to cry again.
"Yeah." He pulls a shaky breath into his lungs. "Something I don't want to do."
"How can I help?"
He stares at you. What is wrong with you? Actually. He's destroyed your life, not that you know the full extent of it, and yet you're sitting here asking him how to help.
"Can we start over?" He blurts out before he has time to think, and by the look on your face, he knows he's caught you by surprise.
You watch him for a couple of moments, and even in his trainee period, he's never had someone evaluate him this hard.
"Sure." You finally say, your voice soft and gentle in a way he will never deserve.
Even so, Mingi reaches his right hand out to you like he should have done two years ago, goosebumps racing down his spine when you slip your smaller hand into it.
"I'm Chan." You say, squeezing his hand as you wipe away the fresh tears running down your face.
"I'm Mingi." He responds, and he's embarrassed to find tears on his face mirroring your own. "Welcome to Ateez."
❝ and if my wishes came true, it would've been you... ❞
🎬 LOVELORN: BONUS FEATURES
── A collection of canon one-shots, extended cuts, deleted moments, alternate perspectives, and companion pieces from the world of Lovelorn ⋆˚𖤓˖°
"I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them." — Andy Bernard, The Office.
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟏 — ❝ started when we were younger, swear to god that i loved her. ❞ ft. marco leon
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟐 — ❝ you’re the only friend i need, sharing beds like little kids. ❞ ft. luke castellan
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟑 — ❝ jealousy, turning saints into the sea, swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis. ❞ ft. luke castellan
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟒 — ❝ 'cause I've been aiming for heaven above but an angel ain't what I need ❞ ft. marco leon
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟓 — ❝ these bad omens, I look right through them, that's what you do when you love somebody. ❞ ft. you
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟔 — ❝ somewhere in the haze, got a sense i'd been betrayed. ❞ ft. luke castellan
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟕 — ❝ she's got those lips, she's got those hips, the life of every fuckin' party. she's talented, she's good with kids, she even speaks kindly about me. ❞ ft. lacy matthews
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟖 — ❝ the world's not perfect, but it's not that bad. if we got each other, and that's all we have. ❞ ft. the kids
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟎𝟗 — ❝ i love you, it's ruining my life. ❞ ft. luke castellan
🎬 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝟎𝟏𝟎 — ❝ I don't want the children of another man to have the eyes of the girl that I won't forget. ❞ ft. luke castellan
📼 additional reels are still being restored...
"Nothing has really happened until it has been remembered." — Virginia Woolf.
🎧 commentary track !
── okay, so, i've wanted to write these snippets from before and in between lovelorn ever since i posted chapter three!
a lot of these scenes have been sitting in my google docs for months because they didn't really quite fit into the main story, but i also couldn't bring myself to throw them away. some are deleted moments, some are extended scenes, some happen between chapters, and a few are just little pieces of the story that i think deserve to exist.
think of these as the movie's bonus features—extra footage that adds a little more context, a little more heartbreak, and a lot more yearning. none of them are required reading, but if you want to spend a little more time with these characters, this is where you'll find them.
i hope you guys enjoy them as much as i've enjoyed finally getting them out of my head.
Synopsis:
After a disastrous blind date, your carefully structured life begins to unravel when you cross paths with Hongjoong—a man who seems to know far more about you than he should. Strange coincidences turn dangerous, and you soon find yourself caught between unexplained supernatural events and a growing threat that refuses to stay in the shadows. As you search for answers, the steady comfort of Yunho offers you a sense of normalcy, while Hongjoong pulls you deeper into a world you never believed existed.
With your family history resurfacing and someone determined to silence you, you must navigate secrets, shifting loyalties, and a bond you can’t escape. The closer you get to the truth, the more your heart is divided between safety and something far more dangerous.
Tag List is open!!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6 (coming soon)
❝ started when we were younger, swear to god that I loved her... ❞
🎧 commentary track !
── hiii!! this is a lil cute thing about how marco and melody met!! basically, y'all know how, but why not give it a visual? anyway, here's a little snippet of the origins!
here you'll see how bright and happy our girl is before she meets a certain someone almost two years later 👀
p.s: this is not a chapter! rather, it's like an in-between take from the series! i am definitely adding lil scenes of melody and luke soon, so keep an eye out for those!! i hope y'all like this!!
word count: 4,399
Five years earlier…
The winter wind blowing off the Long Island Sound didn't feel anything like the winters back in Oakcliff. Dallas cold was sharp and dry, and it usually smelled like exhaust fumes, wet pavement, and the sweet, heavy scent of tamales from the corner stand down the street. This cold smelled like pine needles, saltwater, and a weird, buzzing energy that he couldn't explain. Magic, the older kids called it.
Marco Alejandro Miguel Leon shoved his hands deeper into his grease-stained pockets, his shoulders hiked up to his ears, and glared at the snow-covered paths of Camp Half-Blood from the open doors of Cabin Nine.
He didn't belong here.
He wasn't a warrior; he didn't know how to swing a sword or shoot a bow, and he definitely didn't want to learn how to fight. He had only been here a week, and he already hated it. He hated the biting cold, he hated the weird centaur guy and the pudgy drunk guy who ran the place, and he hated the woods, which everyone casually admitted were full of monsters that wanted to eat him.
Monsters. Just thinking the word made his stomach twist into painful knots.
Most of all, he hated how he got here.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in Oakcliff. He could smell the burning rubber and the thick, rotting stench of sulfur. He could hear the sickening crunch of metal as the massive, one-eyed freak of nature—a cyclops, the satyr had called it later—ripped the roof off his adoptive dad’s beloved '67 Chevy truck like it was a tin can.
Two weeks ago, his biggest problem had been failing his pre-algebra test and trying to figure out how to properly gap a spark plug. He and his dad—his adoptive dad, Manuel Herrera—had been driving down the highway in Manuel’s beat-up Chevy truck, listening to old rock music and talking about what they were going to have for dinner.
And then the truck just crumpled.
It was like they had hit a solid brick wall, but the wall was moving.
The thing that ripped the roof off their truck hadn't looked like the monsters in the comic books. It was a nine-foot-tall nightmare made of pure muscle and rage, with one massive eye taking up half its ugly face.
Marco still had nightmares about the smell of burning rubber and gasoline. He still woke up in a cold sweat, hearing the awful sound of metal screeching as the monster peeled the truck open like a tin can. Manuel had been bleeding so badly, pinned behind the steering wheel, screaming at Marco to get out, to run.
The trauma was still raw, like an open wound. It dragged him back to another nightmare, the one that still jolted him awake in the middle of the night.
He had been asleep in the backseat of his mom’s sedan. He woke up to the sound of shattering glass, blaring sirens, and the flashing red and blue lights painting the highway. His mother, Josephine Leon, didn't survive.
Two car wrecks. Two parents, gone. One by death, one by distance.
Manuel had survived. He was tough, built from years of hard labor and stubborn Texas grit.
But sitting in that sterile hospital room a few days later, covered in bandages and hooked up to machines, Manuel had looked at Marco with tears in his eyes. The older satyr named Ferdinand—who had managed to get Marco out of the wreckage and hide him until the monster lost their scent—had explained everything. About the Greek gods. About Marco's real father.
“Your mama, she told me this day might come,” Manuel had croaked, gripping Marco’s hand tightly. “She said you were special, mijo. She said it wouldn't be safe forever.”
His mom had been a brilliant mechanic—a woman who could fix anything. But she couldn't fix this.
“You gotta go with him. Ferdinand... He's a good man. He promised me he’d look after you. You have to go to this camp. I can't protect you from those things, Marco.”
Marco had begged to stay. He had cried until he couldn't breathe, but Manuel made the heartbreaking decision to send him away. To keep him safe.
Ferdinand had been steady the whole way to New York. The satyr kept a calm, watchful eye on Marco, trying to make the kid smile with terrible roadside diner jokes—even when they both knew a cyclops was hunting them across state lines.
At twelve years old, Marco felt like he was carrying a boulder on his back. He didn't want to be a demigod. He didn't want to be a son of Hephaestus. He just wanted to be back in the cramped, warm garage in Oakcliff, passing wrenches to Manuel and listening to old rock cassettes while they fixed up classic cars.
So here he was instead—a thousand miles away from home, dumped into a summer camp for demigods in the middle of winter. The campers called it Camp Half-Blood, but apparently monsters didn't care what season it was.
The forge at Camp Half-Blood was the only place that made any sense to him. It smelled like hot metal, motor oil, and smoke. Hammers rang against anvils all day, and the heat from the coals made the whole place feel like a Texas summer. It wasn't home, but it was the closest thing to it.
It reminded him of weekends spent under classic cars with Manuel, passing wrenches and getting grease on his nose.
It reminded him of his mom, Josephine, standing over a welding table with sparks flying everywhere, telling him to keep his hands clear.
Hephaestus was his real father—the god of fire and metal. Marco didn't really care about the god part, but he understood machines. If something was broken, you figured out what was wrong and fixed it. That made sense. Gods and monsters didn't.
He spent his time hiding in the forge, avoiding the older kids who carried deadly weapons and talked about fighting monsters like it was a normal Tuesday. Marco felt like a freak—a clumsy, oversized twelve-year-old who already stood a head taller than most kids his age, constantly bumping his elbows into workbenches, jumping at every loud noise, and having entirely missed the memo on how to be a demigod.
Except when he found himself watching her.
Marco shifted his weight, his dark honey eyes peeking over a half-finished bronze shield. He caught himself looking out at the snow-covered path, searching for a flash of bright yellow.
He remembered his very first day at camp. He had been standing near the edge of the forge, hugging his duffel bag to his chest, wanting to run back to New York City and hitchhike all the way back to Texas. The snow had been coming down hard, making the stone paths super slippery.
Then, from the direction of the big blue house on the hill, a girl came rushing down the path.
She looked about his age—twelve—but walked like she owned the place. She was wearing a yellow sweater that was a size too big, and her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail. She was balancing a ridiculously tall stack of clipboards, glass bottles, and rolled-up bandages in her arms, walking way too fast for the ice.
Marco had watched her heel hit a patch of black ice.
It was a total wipeout. The clipboards flew up into the air like frightened birds. The glass bottles went skittering across the frozen grass, and the girl landed flat on her back in a snowbank with a loud, surprised oof.
Marco froze. His heart jumped into his throat, and he was about to run over to see if she was hurt. But before he could even take a step, the girl just sat up in the snow.
She didn't cry, and she definitely didn't look embarrassed. She just threw her head back and let out a bright, giggly laugh, wiping a clump of snow off her nose before she started scrambling around to pick up her stuff.
A fifteen-year-old girl with sharp gray eyes—an Athena kid named Sofia, he learned later—stopped dead in her tracks, looking horrified. “Y/n! Gods, are you okay?!”
“I’m fine, Sof! Chill out; I just wanted to make snow angels on the way!” she had yelled back, totally unbothered, her smile wide and bright.
Marco just stared. She was so pretty. And she was laughing. In a camp full of kids carrying literal swords and looking like they knew exactly what they were doing, she looked like sunshine.
Y/n.
Marco learned her name later that night at dinner. She was a daughter of Apollo, and even though she was only twelve, she had been at camp for three whole years. She was the head counselor for her cabin, and she basically ran the camp's infirmary. Compared to Marco, she might as well have lived here her whole life.
Over the last week, Marco found himself looking for her. Not in a weird way, just... She was the only thing here that didn't scare him. She was always patching up the little kids when they scraped their knees, calling them sweetie and handing out stickers.
She was just a nice, normal girl.
He hadn't spoken a single word to her since he arrived. He was just the new kid from Texas with grease under his fingernails and a duffel bag that still smelled like home. Why would she ever notice him?
Besides, Marco thought as his cheeks grew warm, she was really, really pretty.
He wanted to talk to her, but what was he supposed to say? Hey, I'm Marco. A cyclops wrecked my dad's truck, and I'm really scared of everything here.
Yeah, right.
He was too awkward. He always tripped over his own feet, and his hands were permanently stained with grease.
Marco sighed, a puff of white breath rising in the cold air, and turned his attention back to the workbench.
“Marco! Look!”
A high-pitched voice dragged Marco out of his thoughts. He blinked, looking down at a smaller workbench a few feet away.
Seven-year-old Charlie Beckendorf was bouncing excitedly on his stool. His dark curls stuck out from under a pair of oversized welding goggles that practically swallowed his face, and his nose was smudged with black soot.
Marco couldn't help but smile. Over the past week, Charlie had become his shadow. Marco liked the kid. He reminded him of himself when he first started hanging around Manuel’s garage—curious, reckless, and obsessed with making things work.
“What’ve you got, Charlie?” Marco asked, walking over and leaning his elbows on the wooden table.
Charlie pointed proudly to a mess of copper tubing, tiny gears, and brass plating. “It’s a spider! I made the legs extra bendy so it could climb up the walls. I even put a little boiler in its tummy! But it’s making a funny hissing sound, and the legs won't kick.”
Marco squinted at the contraption. It was pretty genius for a seven-year-old, but the kid hadn't grasped the concept of steam pressure yet. The tiny brass boiler was resting over a Bunsen burner, and steam was leaking out of a loose valve on the side.
“The legs aren't kicking because the steam is escaping, buddy,” Marco explained gently, pointing to the hiss. “But that’s a good thing. If the steam gets trapped in there, the boiler gets too hot. You need an exhaust pipe so it doesn't build up.”
Charlie frowned, his bottom lip sticking out in a stubborn pout. “No, I just want it to go super fast! If I trap the air inside, it’ll push the gears harder! Watch!”
Before Marco could even process what the kid was doing, Charlie grabbed a heavy wrench. He clamped it over the pressure valve and cranked it hard to the right, sealing it completely shut.
The hissing stopped instantly.
For a split second, the forge was quiet.
Then Marco’s eyes locked onto the tiny glass pressure gauge on the side of the spider. The little red needle shot all the way to the right, trembling violently against the glass. The copper tubing began to squeal—a high-pitched, terrifying whine of metal stretching past its breaking point.
Marco's blood ran cold. The sharp smell of overheated metal and burning oil yanked him straight back to the highway. One second he was in the forge. The next, he was staring at the crumpled remains of Manuel's truck.
It was a bomb.
“¡Mierda, no!”
Marco didn't think. He just lunged.
He threw his entire body across the workbench, grabbing the thick collar of Charlie’s leather apron. He violently yanked the seven-year-old off the stool, throwing them both to the hard stone floor. Marco twisted in mid-air, wrapping his arms around Charlie’s head, curling his own body over the kid like a human shield. He hooked his right arm over the edge of the heavy wooden table to anchor them down.
The boiler exploded. Superheated steam and shattered brass blasted across the forge, the force of it knocking the air from Marco's lungs as the blast echoed off the stone walls.
A piece of jagged, boiling-hot shrapnel tore through the sleeve of Marco’s denim jacket like it was paper. It sank deep into the muscle of his right forearm. At the exact same time, a geyser of scalding steam sprayed directly across his wrist.
Marco screamed, the explosion throwing him right back onto the highway. For one horrible second, all he could smell was burning metal and gasoline, and he couldn't tell if he was in the forge or trapped inside the wreck of Manuel's truck again. He couldn't hold it back. White-hot pain tore through his arm, stealing the air from his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut as a choked, desperate sob tore from his throat.
“¡Ah, duele! ¡Duele mucho!” Marco gasped, Spanish tumbling out of his mouth in a blind panic.
“Charlie,” Marco gasped, his voice sounding high and terrified as he rolled off Charlie, clutching his right arm to his chest. The denim was shredded, soaked in bright red blood. The jagged piece of metal was sticking out of his skin, and the flesh around it was already blistering an angry, sickening white and red. “Are you okay?”
Charlie scrambled up, his tiny face pale and terrified under his goggles. “Marco! You're bleeding!” he cried, his voice cracking. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!”
The forge dissolved into chaos around him. Voices blurred together as older campers shouted orders, and someone dumped a bucket of sand over the smoking remains of the workbench.
“Holy Hera,” someone swore, looking at Marco’s arm. “Mason!”
A burly sixteen-year-old Hephaestus counselor came barreling over, his face draining of color when he saw Marco's arm. “Gods, don't move the shrapnel! We have to get him to the infirmary right now. Come on, kid. Up on your feet.”
His knees threatened to buckle beneath him. Strong hands caught him before he could fall, half-carrying him out of the forge. The freezing winter air slapped his sweaty face, but it did nothing against the fire raging through his arm. He couldn't catch his breath. Every panicked gasp hitched in his chest as tears carved clean tracks through the soot on his cheeks. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing.
I’m broken, his brain screamed. My hand is broken. I won't be able to hold a wrench. My dad… Manuel is gonna be so disappointed. I can't fix the cars.
If he couldn't fix things, what good was he?
“Mi brazo… no siento mi brazo,” Marco cried out, stumbling over the snow as Mason half-carried him. “Please, I need my hand!”
“Keep breathing, kid. We're almost there,” Mason grunted, kicking open the heavy wooden doors of the Big House.
They practically collapsed into the infirmary. The sharp scent of crushed mint drifted through the room, chased by something warmer: cinnamon and bright citrus. Marco didn't know whose scent it was yet, but somehow, it made the tight, painful knot in his chest loosen—just a little.
The infirmary was barely holding itself together.
There were no adults. There were no older kids. Standing in the middle of the room was Dawn, an eight-year-old Apollo girl, openly sobbing over a roll of bandages because she had no idea what to do. Next to her, seven-year-old Lee clutched a bottle of nectar with both hands, looking like he was about to pass out from panic.
“We got a boiler explosion!” The Hephaestus counselor yelled, dumping Marco onto a cot in the corner. “Deep laceration and severe steam burns!”
The two Apollo kids could only stare. Dawn wailed louder, dropping the bandages. Lee dropped the nectar bottle, covering his eyes.
Marco squeezed his eyes shut as pain made dark spots dance across his vision. This was it. He was going to bleed out—or worse, they were going to have to chop his arm off because a bunch of little kids didn't know how to do surgery.
The panic he'd been trying so hard to bury ever since Dallas swallowed him whole came crashing back all at once.
“¡Ayúdame, por favor!” Marco sobbed, his left hand gripping the edge of the cot so hard his knuckles turned white. “¡Mi papá me va a matar! ¡No puedo estar roto!”
“Dawn, Lee, go to the back room and count the ambrosia squares.”
The voice was calm. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the screaming, the crying, and Marco’s panic like a sharp knife.
Marco forced his tear-filled eyes open.
Stepping out from behind a canvas divider was Y/n.
She wore a bright yellow sweater, and her sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She didn't look scared. She didn't look overwhelmed. She certainly didn't look like she was only twelve years old.
She looked like a general walking onto a battlefield.
Dawn and Lee instantly stopped crying. They nodded frantically before scurrying to the back room, eager to escape the blood.
Y/n walked over to the cot, her dark eyes scanning the shredded, bloody mess of Marco’s arm. She didn't flinch.
“I’ll take it from here,” Y/n told the Hephaestus counselor. “Go back to the forge and make sure no one else blows themselves up today, please.”
Mason didn't argue. He gave one quick nod before hurrying back toward the cabin.
Y/n pulled a small rolling stool over and sat down right in front of Marco. Even hunched over on the cot, he still towered over her, all long limbs and awkward elbows, feeling like he took up far too much space. She was so close he could smell the faint scent of cinnamon and bright citrus clinging to her yellow sweater. She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and snapped them onto her hands.
Marco was shaking violently, his teeth chattering. “P-please,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I’m Marco. Marco Alejandro Miguel Leon. I… My dad and me, we fix classic cars. Mustangs… I need my hand. Please don't cut it off, ma'am. I can't be broken.”
She looked up from his arm, meeting his frightened eyes. For a heartbeat, she simply looked at him.
Then, a soft, bubbly laugh escaped her. It wasn't mean—it was the exact same bright, giggly laugh he had heard when she fell in the snow. Her gaze was so incredibly soft, so grounding, that Marco actually stopped hyperventilating.
“That is a very big name for a guy who fixes Mustangs,” Y/n teased, her smile wide and sunny. “Nice to meet you, Marco Alejandro Miguel Leon. I’m Y/n. I’m the head healer here. And I’m going to tell you a secret, okay?”
Marco swallowed the lump in his throat and gave a tiny, jerky nod.
Y/n reached out, gently laying her gloved hand over his uninjured left knee. “You aren't going to lose your hand. You aren't broken. I’m going to pull this nasty piece of metal out, and you’re going to be fixing Mustangs until you’re an old, wrinkly man. Do you trust me?”
Marco stared at her for a long moment. He'd known her for all of two minutes, but he would have trusted her with his life.
“...Okay.”
“Okay,” Y/n repeated softly, turning her attention back to his arm. “I’m going to clean the burn first and then pull the shrapnel out. It’s going to hurt really bad for about two seconds. But I know a trick to make it better. Just keep looking at me, yeah?”
Marco braced himself. He gripped the metal rail of the cot, ready to scream.
But then, she started to sing.
She didn't sing loudly. She simply hummed—soft and low, like she was trying not to disturb the room. The melody hit Marco like a punch to the chest.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night…
Marco's breath caught.
He knew that song. It was the exact song Manuel used to play on the beat-up boombox in the Dallas garage. It was the song they listened to while changing oil filters and sanding down rusted fenders.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly…
Y/n’s voice wasn't just pretty. There was actual, literal magic in it.
The warm, golden resonance of Apollo's blessing poured from her voice and settled over him like sunlight. The panic clawing at his chest melted away. The knot that had lived in his stomach ever since the cyclops attack finally loosened. His shoulders sagged. He could breathe again.
All your life…
Y/n reached down. With a swift, incredibly precise motion, she pulled the jagged piece of brass from his arm. Marco flinched, bracing for agony. It never came. There was only a dull pressure, then relief.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise…
She didn't stop humming. Her free hand reached into her pocket, pulling out a tiny, golden square that looked like a piece of lemon cake. “Eat this,” she murmured, pressing it gently to his lips.
Marco opened his mouth without thinking. The second the pastry hit his tongue, it melted. He didn't taste cake… he tasted home. The rich, cinnamon-laced warmth of Manuel's thick Mexican champurrado. Then the savory spices of his mom's kitchen—the perfect picadillo simmering on the stove, followed by a steaming bowl of harira that always seemed to appear whenever someone was sick.
As she pressed a nectar-soaked washcloth over the deep cut, the burning in his arm vanished completely. In its place came a deep, comforting warmth that settled all the way into his bones.
Marco just stared at her.
He forgot about the blood. He forgot about Charlie, the forge, and the snow piling up outside. All he could do was watch the way her eyelashes fluttered whenever she blinked. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was concentrating. The way her nose scrunched ever so slightly as she reached for a jar of salve.
She was only twelve, just like him.
But somehow, she carried herself like she'd been doing this forever.
Y/n spread a thick, cooling salve over the angry burns on his wrist, chasing away the last of the pain before wrapping his forearm in clean white gauze. Every movement was slow and careful, like she was afraid of hurting him.
Nobody had been that gentle with him since his mom died.
Manuel loved him. Marco never doubted that. But Manuel was a mechanic through and through—he showed love with shoulder claps, greasy hair ruffles, and teaching him how to rebuild an engine.
This was different.
This was what being taken care of felt like.
Y/n tied the bandage into a neat knot before peeling off her bloodstained gloves and tossing them into a nearby bin.
The humming faded, leaving the infirmary quiet again.
But it wasn't an empty silence.
It felt... safe.
“There,” Y/n said, leaning back on her stool with a bright smile. “All done! The nectar will heal the cut from the inside out. The burn's going to take a few days, so no forge fires until I say so. On the bright side, you'll have a pretty cool scar to show off.”
Marco slowly lifted his arm. He wiggled his fingers. They all moved perfectly. No stiffness. No numbness. Just a dull, tired ache.
He looked back at her. His chest felt so full it almost hurt. He was just a traumatized, grease-stained kid from Texas who didn't know the first thing about being a demigod. But somehow, looking at her made him feel like maybe everything was going to be okay.
“Thank you,” Marco whispered, his voice thick with emotion he didn't know what to do with.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Mechanic,” Y/n teased gently.
She reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a crinkled, half-used sheet of stickers. Peeling off a bright yellow smiley face, she leaned forward and pressed it onto the fresh white bandage, smoothing the edges down with her thumb.
“You did really good today, Marco,” Y/n said softly. “You saved that little boy. You were really brave.”
Marco looked down at the tiny yellow sticker. His face felt hot, and his heart was beating so hard he was sure she could hear it.
He was twelve years old, and he didn't know much about anything. He didn't know how to fight monsters, and he didn't know how to survive Camp Half-Blood. But as he sat there looking at the girl who had hummed the fear right out of his chest, Marco Leon knew one thing for absolutely certain.
He had the biggest, most embarrassing crush on her.
He didn't say anything. He just ducked his head, trying—and completely failing—to hide the warmth creeping across his face. But right then and there, he made a silent promise to himself. He was going to learn how to fight. He was going to get stronger. And he was going to make sure that the girl who fixed everyone else never had to feel broken herself.
I'm gonna say it, I do think that even the laziest person imaginable should have a roof over their head, food in their stomach, and access to healthcare
“What if there’s no good reason for them to be lazy?” It’s a free country and I refuse to think about anyone’s decisions for how they live their life that do not impact me in any meaningful way
reading this deposition that just got dropped where someone sued musk and ohhhh my god it is this funniest thing ever . i can see why his lawyer tried to keep this confidential . they’re both maybe the biggest idiots . this is like ace attorney
genuinely first two pages he says that he thinks ben’s lawyer is the one who is actually suing him and admits he has no clue what the lawsuit is about .
I don't think Mark can ever top "INDEED, MR. JONES, INDEED" and "AND THAT IS HOW I KNOW YOU LIED TO ME" from the first Sandy Hook trial in Texas (not to be confused with Chris Mattei, the attorney in the Connecticut trial), but this part
MR. SPIRO: Do you give these lectures at all of your depositions?
MR. BANKSTON: I do, and you can watch them.
is ESPECIALLY hilarious to me having listened to multiple depositions Mark has had to take in the Sandy Hook case, where he has needed to lecture EVERY. SINGLE. ATTORNEY. at some point in the case about how they're violating Texas Rule XYZ, because they all, to a one, did something seriously ethically questionable during the deposition.
like, YOU CAN WATCH/LISTEN TO HIS DEPOS. HE DOES HAVE TO GIVE THOSE LECTURES EVERY TIME. IT'S NOT EVEN A JOKE.
gummygunk
origamiaround
titsay
germansingergirl
prguitarman
jacobvanloon
