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obscure-imagines · 1 year ago

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what you really want - Mihawk

👹 staring. Dracule Mihawk x afab!Reader

⚔️ preview. Some days you wish he’d settle down, wish he’d just choose an island and stay with you forever, but you know his first love will always be the sea. He’s a pirate, through and through, and you suppose you can’t blame him for that.

tw/cw. unprotected sex, quickie, multiple reader orgasms, big dick Mihawk, begging, dirty talk, breeding kink, fullness kink, slight cum kink, choking, manhandling, roughhousing, using a table hanging from the ceiling as a sex swing, instructed masturbation?, deep penetration, overstimulation crying, hair pulling, etc… I pet names: (hers) darling, good girl. (his) Captain.

🔞 rating. 18+ explicit I SMUT I wc. 3.2k

⚔️ aus. One Piece Live Action, established relationship, pwp, etc…

🎈 mlist + an. It's the way I haven't been active on this blog in 3 years and then this stupid pirate show comes out and now I'm sinning again- I honestly couldn't help myself with this one

You’re in the kitchen rolling out dough when you feel a body press against your back. There’s only one person with the balls to touch you like this. As a girlfriend to one of the seven warlords of the sea, and the greatest swordsman in the entire world, everyone knows your body is off-limits to anyone but Mihawk.

“When did you get in?” you ask, pressing your ass back against him, enjoying the feeling of his breath on your throat.

“Just now.” His hands trace the curves of your hips, and you have to fight the groan that threatens to slip out of your mouth at his touch.

“Did anyone see you?” It’s definitely interesting being a member of the Strawhats while being involved with Mihawk. He’ll show up out of the blue, completely unannounced, and it’s clear to everyone what he’s here for.

You often feel very sinful any time he leaves, when you exit your cabin or the bathroom or wherever he just fucked your brains out, only to find the crew watching you with unreadable expressions.

“Your cook-”

“Sanji,” you interject, doing your best to teach Mihawk the names of your friends in the hopes that he’ll be more sociable with them.

“Sanji,” your boyfriend repeats with a sigh. “I bumped into him on the deck, he said the kitchen is all ours.”

“This should be fun.” You grin, releasing the dough and wiping your flour covered hands on your apron. “I’m guessing you didn’t show up to talk.”

“Definitely not.”

“So the question is…” you grind your ass back against him, “is that a sword in your pants, or are you just happy to see me, Captain?”

He lets out a small laugh, digging his fingers into your hips to pull you flush to his chest. Mihawk is always amused when you refer to him as Captain. It’s always in a sexual capacity, and even though he’s a crewless pirate, the title feels fitting. On top of everything else, the ‘sword in your pants line’ is somewhat comical, as his sword, Yoru, is absolutely unmistakable when pressed against your body.

“I guess I’m just happy to see you,” Mihawk sighs. He’s not the best with praise or dirty talk, preferring a more silent approach, but it’s always rewarding to work admissions of interest out of him.

“So why are we still talking?” you ask.

It’s as easy as anything for him to turn you in his embrace, one hand reaching up to pinch your chin as he presses his lips to yours. Your arms wrap around the back of his neck, and you press your chests together, enjoying the feeling of your breasts against his muscles.

The kiss is almost gentle at first, but it quickly becomes heated, with his tongue dipping into your mouth. You sigh at the feeling. You’ve missed Mihawk. Some days you wish he’d settle down, wish he’d just choose an island and stay with you forever, but you know his first love will always be the sea. He’s a pirate, through and through, and you suppose you can’t blame him for that.

His hands slip down your body, squeezing your breasts, toying with your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt. He pulls away from your mouth, staring down at you with Hawk eyes full of lust. “Turn around, and bend over the table, darling.”

You swallow thickly at the command, grabbing his jaw and pressing one final kiss to his lips before following through. The solid cooking table has more than enough space for you to flatten your chest against it without having to worry about messing up the dough or getting flour on your shirt. In fact, it’s probably one of the sturdiest locations for Mihawk to fuck you from behind.

A soft sigh escapes you as his hand trails down your body, then he’s roughly gripping your trousers, tearing them down until they pool at your feet. He’s discarded your panties as well, and your skin tingles at the cool air that brushes over your hot, exposed core.

You hear Mihawk dealing with his own pants, and you wiggle your ass as an invitation, impatience getting the best of you. It’s been over a week since you’ve seen your boyfriend, over a week since anyone has touched you, or kissed you, or filled you up to the brim until you were crying-

“I missed you,” you tell him, relaxing your cheek against the wood of the table as he rubs his cock through your pussy lips, coating himself in the wetness already beginning to drip out of you.

Mihawk doesn’t return your sentiment, he only lets out a small grunt, grabbing your hip roughly as he begins to push into your core.

There’d been hardly any foreplay, so the stretch of his thick cock against your inner walls has you crying out and grabbing the edge of the table. You kind of like the pain though- being with a warlord of the sea is just like that sometimes. It’s quickies, and roughhousing, gasping into each others mouths and stripping naked the moment you get each other alone.

Your boyfriend can be kind though. He doesn’t push all the way into you, doesnt sink balls deep- he thrusts shallowly, and you can feel his gaze fixed on your tight pussy as you swallow more of him up, inch by inch-

“Fuck,” you groan, clawing at the wood.

“Good, darling?”

“So good,” you whimper, feeling your toes curl when he’s finally pushed all the way inside of you, the tip of his cock just kissing your cervix. “Oh my god, you better fuck me stupid-”

“I intend to,” he promises, grabbing your waist with both hands to keep you presses to the table. His first thrust is rough, making you cry out and wiggle in his grasp. Your hips are pushed uncomfortably against the edge of the table, and as Mihawk finds a fast pace, each rut of his hips sends you forward.

It’s not very painful, although, you might bruise tomorrow. Part of you almost wishes you do. You love reminders of him, marks that make you think of him balls deep in your aching core-

“Captain-” you whimper, panting against the wooden surface of the table as he fucks you harder and harder, making you almost dizzy.

“Let me hear you,” he instructs.

His hand finds the back of your neck only for his fingers to slip around the front of your throat and pull- he makes you arch your back, body contorted for him. The sensation makes you gasp, deep groans escaping you. Each smack of his hips against your ass has whimpers leaving your lips. Your eyes are closed, mind entirely focused on the feeling of his perfect cock filling you up and destroying you for any other man.

“Mi-Mihawk,” you stutter, lower lip warbling with effort, your body nearly overwhelmed already.

“Touch yourself. I want you to cum.”

You swallow thickly while he pulls you up from the table, tightening his grip on your throat and giving you the space to slip your hand down to your pussy while he fucks you in a half standing position. You can feel his breath against the nape of your neck, can hear him panting-

Even small sounds are such a turn on for you. You can’t see his face right now, but it’s sexy to know that he might be as effected as you are by all of this.

Your fingers brush by your clit and you cry out at the sensation, clenching your eyes shut while your pussy throbs around his cock. “Oh my god-”

“That’s it, darling. You’re close.”

You can only nod, applying more pressure to the sensitive bud while he continues fucking you stupid. His grip on your throat doesn’t help the situation- it makes you lightheaded in the best possible way, your stomach muscles tensing as your orgasm builds in the pit of your stomach.

“I’d like to hear you beg for this first one.”

You moan loudly, the throbbing intensifying between your legs. “Please, Captain, please-”

“You can do better than that,” he scoffs, lips finding the side of your throat before his teeth bite at your shoulder.

“I’m so close, please make me cum- only you can make me cum this way, oh my god, your cock- it’s so deep- it’s so good-”

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, and your core clenches unbelievably tight around him- you’re on the edge, but you can’t cum without permission. Mihawk has trained you well, and by the satisfied sound he lets out, you think he knows it.

“Good girl,” he praises, and it goes straight to your pussy, making your legs quake with effort- “Cum.”

It’s the one word you need to fall over the edge, and as your pussy practically explodes with pleasure, you find yourself being pushed down to the table again. Mihawk’s hand leaves your throat, fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you through your orgasm.

You can feel your juices dripping our around his cock, making a mess of your thighs- all you can do is claw at the wooden surface and take what he gives you, cries of ecstasy leaving you uncensored.

He fucks you until you’re shaking, fucks you until your core stops throbbing around his thick length, then he pushes into you completely, holding you flush to his front. “Take a breather, darling,” Mihawk tells you, “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be pleased if I leave you completely broken.”

You can’t believe he’s bringing up Luffy at a time like this- can’t believe he sounds so nonchalant, as if your pussy didn’t just try to milk him for everything he’s worth. Mihawk is just like this, you suppose. He’s always controlled, and it’s one of the sexiest things about him.

“You’re my Captain,” you whisper, heart still thundering in your rib cage. “You can leave me however you want.”

His hand caresses your ass, squeezing the flesh and making you twitch around him.

“Turn around, I want to see your face.” He pulls out of your pussy and you moan at the loss. Your legs are shaky, you can hardly stand as you move to face him, leaning back against the table.

Mihawk is too handsome for his own good. His facial hair is immaculate, and his eyes are bewitching.

He cups your cheek and you lean against his hand, enjoying the soft moment of reprieve before the next round that you know is coming.

“Beautiful,” he tells you, leaning in to kiss you gently.

You reach for his hat, taking it off his head to place on yours, and it makes his lips stop. He pulls away and looks down at you darkly. You can only grin up at him. “Am I still beautiful?” you prompt.

“Always,” Mihawk responds easily, reaching own to cup your ass and lift you off the ground, prompting you to wrap your legs around his strong hips, trousers now discarded on the ground.

Your lips find each other, and you kiss him deeply while he carries you through the kitchen. When you’re set down, you find yourself on top of a wooden table platform hanging from the ceiling on four chains- you’ve never realized before that this is practically a sex swing.

This wooden platform that Zoro laid on while recovering from wounds your boyfriend gave him, is now going to be the very tool used to fuck you absolutely stupid. You’ll never be able to look at it the same way again, and you don’t want to.

Mihawk pulls away from your lips, and you watch him take off his jacket. He places the duster and his beloved sword on the cooking table just behind you, taking the hat off your head to discard it with the rest of his clothes. You take the opportunity to remove your shirt, leaving you completely bare for your boyfriend, whose gaze takes in every inch of your body now that you’re exposed.

“I missed you too,” he says softly, reaching up a hand to grab at your breast, teasing your nipple between two fingers.

You arch your back, legs quivering around his hips from the stimulus as well as his words. “Then fuck me,” you tell him. “Fuck me full of your cum until I’m dripping. Fuck me so deep that I’ll have a part of you with me even after you leave- I want to feel you inside for a week.”

Mihawk gives you baby fever like no other man you’ve ever met, and staring at him now- knowing he’ll leave you soon after this, it makes you even more desparate. You love him more than you’ll ever be able to say- but maybe if you gave him a baby, you’d be able to show him that he’s the only man that will ever have your heart.

You watch his adam’s apple bob with effort, his hands slipping down to your thighs. He massages your skin, pulling you forward, his aching cock teasing between your pussy lips-

“You’ve always had such a dirty mouth, darling,” he tuts.

“You love it,” you insist, leaning back down against the wooden platform. “You love how dirty you make me. Love it when I’m begging for you.”

The tip of his cock pushes into your core and you both let out sounds of pleasure. You’re so wet, it’s the easiest thing for him to sink into you, and the swinging platform allows him to pull you close, only to push you away a little, using the hanging table to his advantage.

With one hand, he can control the table, and with the other, his thumb can find your clit.

Your legs shake around his hips, the sensitive bud is still trying to recover from your first orgasm, and the stimulation isn’t helping.

“Mihawk,” you moan, already feeling desperate again.

“You’re pretty like this, darling,” he tells you. “If you start to beg, I might just give you what you want.”

He’s not applying enough pressure to your clit to make you cum and you both know it. He’s just teasing you, gently rocking you onto his cock while your toes curl and your body nearly shakes. He’s such a fuck, but you love him so much.

“Please, you know what I want,” you whimper. “It’s the same thing I always want.”

“Go on.”

“I want you to fuck me rough. Want you to feel good. Want you to cum deep inside.”

“There’s more too it though. Don’t deny it, darling. I know what you want. What you really want.”

You blink at him in confusion, and he begins to rock into you harder, faster. His thumb applies more pressure to your clit, working it in tight circles that have your pussy clenching tightly around his cock.

“You want me to fuck a baby into you, don’t you?” he asks, although, the question definitely feels rhetorical. “You want me to give you the one thing I’ve never given anyone. You want me to make you mine, completely. To do the one thing that would show everyone who you really belong to.”

“Mihawk-” you whimper, body tingling with overwhelm from his words alone.

“This is why you’re always begging for my cum like a whore in heat, why you always want me to cum inside since the first time we fucked.” Mihawk lets out a small chuckle, grinning. “Bet you thought I had no idea, but trust me darling, I know your games.”

“They’re not games,” you try to insist, but your words are broken and whimpered as he fucks you more intensely, the wooden platform swinging almost aggressively now with each rough thrusts.

“Tell me what you really want.”

You gasp as he pinches your clit between two fingers, your body contorting against the tabletop. Your eyes clench shut and you feel your skin heating with your impending orgasms. “I want you to give me babies!” you admit, feeling a wave of relief to finally say what’s been on your mind for months. “I want to swell with your cum and have your children- I want to be with you forever-”

Mihawk lets out a sound that’s nearly animalistic, and then he’s hauling you off your back, leaning over your body and forcing his lips against yours while your hands grab at his shoulders.

It’s the most intense kiss you’ve ever shared with him, all tongues and growls-

Your pussy throbs around him, and you eat up his sounds, trailing your fingers through his beautiful dark hair and pulling gently-

Mihawk lets out another groan, fingers unrelenting on your clit.

“Please cum for me,” you mumble desperately, the cord in the pit of your stomach pulled achingly tight. “Please, Mihawk, I need it- I’m so close-”

He pulls his lips away from yours, your foreheads touching while he stares deep into your soul. You can feel tears of pleasure already building against your lashline, and the way he’s panting has your stomach twisting into even tighter knots-

Then he’s smashing his lips against yours again, fingers digging into your hip as he pulls you flush to his front, cock burried as deep as it can possibly go inside of you.

You can feel him cumming, and it triggers your own orgasm, which jitters through you like electric ecstasy, making your hair stand on end and your skin tingle. You’re gasping against his lips, enjoying his moans and returning them with sounds of your own.

Your arms are wrapped tightly around him while your pussy milks him for all he’s worth, your tits pressed against his strong chest. His hand moves from between your bodies to flatten against the small of your back, embracing you tightly.

You’ve never felt closer to him in your entire life.

There’s never been a moment like this one.

You can taste the love he has for you on his tongue as it invades your mouth, tracing your lips and teeth-

Even though he’s still inside of you, hips flush to your own, it’s one of the longest orgasms you’ve ever had. There’s nothing like this type of closeness, nothing like being stretched to nearly your breaking point while he fills you completely with his cum, cock so deep you can feel him painting your cervix.

It feels almost like a promise. As if he’s as dedicated to knocking you up as you are. He’s not said it explicitly, but you get the sense that he wouldn’t mind starting a family with you. In fact, he might even enjoy it.

You can imagine him teaching your child to use a sword, can imagine a three year old running around with the tiny little dagger Mihawk wears around his neck-

“I love you,” you whisper, tightening your grip on the warlord.

He lets out a groan. “I love you too.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I'm honestly considering doing more One Piece stuff on this blog, but I guess we'll see. My main account right now is kpop blog, which you can find here or @smileysuh

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here

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star-suh · 1 month ago

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Sea of Thieves

Bang Chan x Male Reader

cw: pirate au, top chan, bareback, rough sex, dacryphilia, non-con/dubcon, musk kink, restraints/use of shibari (kinda), degradation, spit, cumming hands free, fingering, blowjob, rimjob, a belly bulge mention.

—

yn was escaping from the law, he had just become the most wanted after stealing the black pearl from the royal family. with no other way out, he boarded a ship as a stowaway, hoping that it would take him to a place far away from there, but unbeknownst to him, he had made a serious mistake. he didn't know it, but he had boarded the ship of the pirate christopher chan.

chris was known for getting what he wanted, he doesn't care if he has to kill for it, he'll do it, a player who slept with the daughters of the kings of the areas he visited and then stole their precious jewelry and had loot in gold coins. truly a motherfucker.

chris was going downstairs to secure his treasures, then, he heard a sound, he dismissed it at first thinking it was just a rat. “fucking plague” he snarls, while moving one of the big chests a tiny vase fell from the top of one and fell right over yn’s head making him emit a whimper. chris turns his head quickly to the sound “that’s not a fucking rat” he furiously stomps to where he heard the sound. pushing chests and nests aside he found a man covering his mouth, fear plastered on his face.

“the fuck you’re doing here…” he asks. yn shakes in fear, his first reflex was to throw something at the pirate and run. he climbs the stairs and when to the top of the ship just to find out it already sailed, he was now in the middle of the ocean with nowhere to escape, seeing no other way he was already to jump when something hit his head. the world around him became blurry while he fell to the wooden floor. then suddenly everything turns to black.

in a dark room with only the dim light of a candle. the sound of a slap echoed on the room accompanied with a “wake up bitch”. yn opened his eyes, confused, “where am i?”

“in my boat” someone responded. yn tried to follow the voice then his eyes met with a face, a handsome one, but he was angry. “are you one of those spies that fuckers send to steal my treasures?” he stands up, walking towards yn, each step echoed in the room as if a giant was coming near the prisoner. chris tugged on the rope that was preventing yn to move. he was suspended on the roof in a rather uncomfortable position. the rope went all the way to his neck, circling it, then going down his body with lots of knots here and there, on his wrists, torso and feet. unbeknownst to him, the pirate chris, tied him as if he was going to practice shibari.

the ropes on his ass were uncomfortable, they were positioned as if he was wearing a jockstrap, the ropes highlighting his clothed ass.

the interrogation went for almost like an hour, yn’s pleas annoyed chris but his tears were causing something to him, something hardening in his pants. at first chris ignores it thinking it was because he hasn’t slept with someone these past couple of days, maybe it was because he was alone on the ship now, right?.

the pirate tried so hard to avoid that growing burning sensation on his crotch but failed. something about yn’s flushed and helpless face, the tears sparkling due to the dim candle’s light.

“please i just want to get away from these lands” he said, “if- if you help me i can give you something in return”. the last part catching chris’ attention, “what?”. “i have something that if you help me to sell it you can buy a new ship with it.. hell even 10 ships if you want” yn quickly offers “let’s split my treasure in half, just.. just take me away from here”.

chris was dumbfounded, what was that thing that he had that would cost so much but his dick was still aching, it was begging to be freed so he added something more to the proposal, “we have a deal but.. i want something more” he moves around yn then positioning himself behind the prisoner. his fingers doing circling motions on the other’s clothed ass and then grabbing it full with his hand “let me take care of this” as he said that he rips yn’s pants, exposing his back entrance. “what the fuck” yn yells but his protests are quickly muffled by chris’ fat manly dick swinging in front of his face. the pirate undoes a knot so yn’s head hangs lower and he can take all of his dick on his mouth “put that mouth to better use. whore” chris put all his shaft inside it at once, making yn gag. he starts slowly then increased the speed. everytime he pulls down to go back and slam his junk on that wet cavity lots of saliva dripped to the floor and yn’s face. “watching you cry made something to me, so you should take full responsibility for it. be a good manwhore and swallow it all”.

“open wide” he keeps demanding, his balls slapping against yn’s face. yn obeyed and chris forced him to deepthroat him.”you’re skilled at this huh?. it makes me wonder how many dicks have you sucked before”. the pirate keeps slamming himself against the restrained man as if he was some kind of toy made just for his pleasures.

while he waits to cum on yn’s mouth he starts to spit and finger his exposed hole. his trust were sloppy now, signaling he was about to cum, in one of the his cock slipped out of yn’s mouth. the stowaway asks “what are you doing to my ass?” he was about to keep protesting but chris’ cock enters again on his mouth, he shushed him, “keep on sucking me bitch boy. i’m just preparing you for later”.

chris spat, fingered, slapped and kiss the other’s ass, it looks as if he was making out with his already puckered hole, “look how he’s winking at me. he wants me so bad” chris joked about yn clenching onto nothing but soon he would have the other’s tongue inside to clench on it.

yn wet gagging sounds filled the room, he was trying to swallow all the sperm the pirate shot inside his throat, it was a lot that he choked on it, coughing out some of the liquid. “i almost die, you bastard” once again yn’s complaints were ignored because chris was only focused on sucking his hole ‘this motherfucker is so good with his tongue’ yn thought, the anger on his face being just a facade to hide the pleasure he was receiving.

chris rearranged the rope and the knots leaving yn still suspended on air but this time his legs are wide open so the pirate can get an easy acces to his hole “time for real fun” he jokes slapping his tip on the wet hole. “don't fucking put that thing on me.. it's too big” he cried, “don't worry bitch boy” the pirate reassured in a mocking tone that didn't convince yn at all.

“let me use that used hole” he muttered, ramming all his shaft inside at once. tears formed on yn's eyes accompanied with a guttural moan “what's up bitch boy, you can’t handle me” he laughs at how pathetic yn was looking but his hole feels good so he's not gonna complain.

he put his calloused hand on yn's mouth “you're crying it's getting on my nerves” using it as a way to pound yn harder, every inch of it making its way on yn's insides. once in a while he stops thrusting to spit on his shaft as if it was a lube. the warm sensation of the spit making yn ‘feel funny’ causing that he clenches even more.

minutes later yn was free, except by his hands that were tied behind his back. he'a riding the pirate who got tired of doing all the work, “come on, move faster” he demanded slapping his hand against yn's cheeks. “hngh” he squirmed, still feeling the hand imprint burning in his ass “yes sir” he accelerated his pace. gushy sounds echoed in the room, accompanied by the crashing waves outside the ship and some moon light.

chris locked his arm around yn's neck and thrusted like a beast, forming a bulge in yn's stomach “wait. ahhh~” and as if it was a fountain yn's dick spurted cum everywhere, white drops falling on his body, the floor and even some on the walls.

“hahaha” chris laughs, amused of what he just saw “look at you cumming just by your ass. and you swear you're not a bitch”.

yn legs tremble, the tiredness and overstimulaton mix hitting him. “don't sleep on me i still have to fill you up” the pirate cooed, moving his hips slowly in a sensual manner. knowing that he could stay the rest of the night being drilled by that fat dick and seeing that he's falling asleep he decide to made him cum faster.

he grabbed chris’ neck getting his face closer towards him and kissed him, tongues battling to control each other's. meanwhile he moves his hips faster meeting chris’ thrusts that never slowed their pace, “what's gotten into yo-” he was cut by yn sloppy kisses. he was determined to make that bastard cum no matter what.

few thrusts later the pirate cums, yn’s walls sucking the milk out of it like a milking machine, “holy fuckkkk” chris slurred “you know how to work with that hole of yours”. he didn't pull out until the last drop was emptied on yn, his face resting against the stowaway's back, “shit that was good” a smile creeping on the pirate's face while yn just nodded tiredly…

yn wakes up in a bed, with new clothes, he climbs the stairs to look for the pirate, “hey bitchboy you're awake” he waved “yeah but my ass is sore. and stop calling me like that” yn replied, brows furrowed showing how annoyed he was. “tell me about the treasure” he asked with a serious tone and yn told him about the black pearl and how he got it. they planned to stay with it but knowing how dangerous it will be when everyone finds out they have it they decided to sell it and split the coins in two.

“i'm gonna reunite with my crew, see you later” chris said and turn his heels to go back to his ship, “why did you say see you later?” yn asked, being quickly responded by chris “i have a feeling that we will meet soon again” he says while doing some vulgar signs with his hands and sticking his tongue out, “you're disgusting” yn yells and chris just laughs at him showing the middle finger.

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casuallyimagining · 1 year ago

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Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Summary: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count: 14,377 Genre: friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings: death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.

It’s cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesn’t bother Yoongi, necessarily. It’s been a while since he’s been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since he’d walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since he’d walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days.

But who’s counting?

There’s a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. He’s spent days–no, weeks–playing out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, he’ll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, he’s terrified.

What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you don’t answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.

You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. In many ways, you haven’t changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tired–and Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustion–and you were slouching, but now, you’re standing ramrod straight, and there’s a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.

“Hey.” He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. “I uh… I heard about your parents,” he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. “I’m sorry you have to go through it.”

“Brave of you to show up.” You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knows–he senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to you–that it’s an act. “You know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.”

“I know.”

There’s a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.

“Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I…”

I want to apologize.

I’m so sorry.

I miss you.

It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice something–anything–to come out of his mouth. “I wanted you to have this.”

He holds out his hands, and in an instant, he’s holding a box. It’s full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.

“A 10-year-old shoebox?” You do nothing to mask your surprise.

“Letters,” he corrects. “You don’t have to read them but… I wanted you to have them.” He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. “Thank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I… guess I’ll go.”

Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.

You sigh and shut the door, the box he’d given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You don’t have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you aren’t sure that you’ll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parents’ funeral.

Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.

You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you weren’t alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.

The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that you’d hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldn’t, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

Quite frankly, you didn’t care what he had to say in that moment.

“It wouldn’t be a permanent thing,” he continued. “I just… I don’t know. I need to do this.”

You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not being oppressed, Yoongi. No one’s stopping you from going out and exploring the world.”

“Maybe this way of life isn’t for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who they’re supposed to be with and how they’re supposed to live.”

His words stung, and until then, you weren’t quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationships–your parents were, sure, and Yoongi’s parents–but plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.

Until a few months before, you’d been content with that. There was no doubt you’d been best friends from the jump. You’d been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, he’d kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadn’t thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And now…

Now he wanted you gone.

“You want to be free that badly?” By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. “Fine.”

“Wh-”

There’s a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and you’d rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wild–you’d both so wanted it to be your friend. ‘If you love something, set it free,’ your mother had said, ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest option.’

Kinder for whom?

The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering.

Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongi’s eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi’s eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. “What the fuck?”

“You’re free.” And this time, you couldn’t hide your sadness behind your anger.

He didn’t follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you weren’t sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.

There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He must’ve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up.

Letters, he’d said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that they’re on the floor, they aren’t in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after he’d left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesn’t. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongi’s letter brings is sadness. Grief.

You’d spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadn’t died, but when he left, you’d lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, you’d grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasn’t the same.

Glancing through his letter, it seems you weren’t the only one struggling. You aren’t sure if that’s a comfort or not.

It’s been almost a year since the night market–one year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didn’t it? I really thought you would understand.

I’ve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I can’t wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?

At the end of the day, I guess we didn’t understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesn’t reveal everything. But… that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didn’t exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us… Maybe that’s selfish, too.

Why couldn’t you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldn’t hate me, and maybe then I’d stop hating myself too.

Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasn’t half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you?

Would you still be there if I had?

You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadn’t been back to it since the year he’d kissed you. It’s silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongi’s letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldn’t change anything, but there’s a part of you that won’t listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadn’t kissed you–if you hadn’t kissed him back–he wouldn’t have left.

The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you weren’t familiar with, they’d enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you weren’t sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic.

You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiars–books on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.

Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasn’t cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.

“Want to go sit?” you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables they’d set up under one of the sparkling trees.

His eyes widened. “No, that’s okay. You’re looking.”

“I’m done. Let’s go sit.”

“I-” He deflated a little and didn’t argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables.

You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongi’s arm pressed against your own.

“You okay?” you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.

Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasn’t to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didn’t talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence you’d ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.

But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that he’d rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too.

He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. You’d always thought that Yoongi’s eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned in–or maybe you did, you weren’t sure– as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled.

That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, you’d never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like you’d been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didn’t, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.

You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as they’d been before you’d kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.

Seeing him again was hard. You’re willing to admit that. You’d spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesn’t let you forget the betrayal.

You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didn’t have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that you’d officially call it a crowd. They’re all mingling–you’d bought beer and wine, and if you didn’t know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your mother–bright pink, fiery orange, deep yellow–and when you were a child, you’d loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors.

The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witches–especially those who were romantically involved with their familiars–wear them as jewelry. They don’t really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you aren’t really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).

As a child, you hadn’t been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. They’d been almost as devastated as you when you’d crushed your bond gem.

Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. You’d stayed home from school that day–sick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, you’d ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-

“She’s not here.” Your mother’s voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.

“Please.” It was Yoongi, you’d recognize his baritone from miles away.

Quietly, you’d slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the door’s sight.

A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, “Yoongi?” You couldn’t hear his response–he must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, “It can be scary, and you’re both still young. Give it time.”

The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.

A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your mother’s coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, you’re distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parents’ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.

He doesn’t move, just sits there patiently. Watching. He’s there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you don’t particularly want; he’s there when people start trickling out. And he’s there when you’re the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park.

It’s quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part you’ve been dreading. Because you don’t want to keep the damn thing–you could if you wanted to, but there’s also tradition to think about. But it’s also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if they’d felt like this when your grandparents had died.

At least they’d had each other during it.

You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the other…

“If you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be here,” you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until he’s standing beside you. It’s weird, having him this close again. You’d been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, you’re exhausted, yet alert.

His hair is longer–as a teen, he’d kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. He’s filled out and put on some muscle, and though he’s still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet it’s the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.

You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parents’ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.

At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism.

For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousands–maybe hundreds of thousands–of witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.

It’s strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.

Yoongi isn’t sure why you say yes, but soon enough, you’re walking into the Green Bean just behind him. He’s uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until you’re in line at the cafe.

“What are they staring at?” he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.

“You’ve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?”

Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But it’s not just him they’re watching. He doesn’t miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?

You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongi’s not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away. It’s like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.

The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. It’s warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.

“What happened to them?” he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. “Your parents, I mean. I… didn’t hear how they…”

You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. “I always kind of thought it would be dad who’d go first.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “He was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year and…” You shrug. “One of the neighbors found them.”

“I’m so sorry.” You wave him off. “No. Honestly. They were nice.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. “You aren’t living here anymore?” Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like he’s surprised? He supposes that he’s always just kind of pictured you still… here, in town.

“I’m over in Ashland,” you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. “I work at the library at the university.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

You shrug. “Mostly good. It’s a job. The library’s usually pretty quiet, so…”

“That’s really cool.”

Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. It’s a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the country’s top medical universities. He’s proud of you, he realizes. You’d always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, he’d planned on going with you. And then, of course, he’d ruined it. It stings a little to know that you’d gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadn’t meant that much in the grand scheme of things.

But then your eyes meet, and he’s confronted by the anxiety and sadness you’re feeling, and he knows he’s just being stupid. Again.

“So, uh…” He feels a wave of nerves wash over him–they aren’t his own. You tap your half-empty mug. “What have you been up to?”

If he’s honest, Yoongi wasn’t expecting you to ask about him. He’s shocked enough that you’d even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. “I was traveling,” he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you don’t react. “But now I’m up north in Ulmae. I’ve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh…” He chuckles, a little nervous. “They’ve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.”

Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. “They let you play?”

“It’s only like an hour a night-”

“No, shut up. That’s amazing!” You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it.

He’s disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. It’s starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. It’s not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him.

Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk past–people he recognizes but couldn’t possibly name–some are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like he’s doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.

You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. “I… probably shouldn’t even ask,” you start warily. “But do you want to come back for a drink?”

The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. There’s a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but it’s clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 years’ worth of more of them.

Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasn’t changed.

You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle ‘clink.” The shoebox he’d given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? There’s no way for him to really know.

Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. There’s something different about how you’re sitting, something in your aura that he didn’t notice in the cafe. Maybe you’d been saving it for private, but he can sense that you’re reining your emotions in.

But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. “I’m going to need you to explain these.” The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.

The first is dated only a few years after he’d left.

I’ve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that there’s still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like there’s a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and…

I would like to see you again. Someday.

How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope it’s treated you kindly. It’s what you deserve.

The other is from the day he turned 25.

A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didn’t understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free… but it never was about being free from you. I can’t even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for you…

I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didn’t want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasn’t you I was trying to be free from.

I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bond–I only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universe…

I realize now that I could have–should have–communicated it all better. If only so that I wouldn’t have lost you. So that it wouldn’t have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.

I’m sorry. I feel like it’s useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.

Wherever you are, I hope you’ll understand. Take care until I see you again.

I hope I see you again.

Yoongi sighs. The letters–all of them, not just these two–tended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. He’d been an idiot when he left–he was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit it–and it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.

For a moment, it’s quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, he’s quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. “Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I-”

“Because if the roles were reversed, I don’t know that I’d have the balls to come back. On one hand, I’m impressed. On the other…” You trail off and shrug.

He’s quiet, not sure how to respond. He’s got lots of thoughts, lots of feelings–of course he does��but right now, you’re a wall, and he’s not sure how to read the situation. He’s not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky you’ve nearly finished. “I’m running on like two hours’ sleep,” you admit. “But fuck, Yoongi, I… I was so convinced that I’d never see you again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” Then, softer. “I’m still not sure.”

“Why?” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” You practically spit the question at him. “You… you… Do you know what it’s like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?”

“I never said-”

“You wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.” You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. “And then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-” from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, “-and you just… What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?”

“I don’t know!” He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just… I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, and…” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. “And then I was on a train.”

You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. You’ve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the years–what would you do if he came back?–but somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, he’d never told you that he missed you.

You’d never considered that he would miss you.

But you should say something, right? It’s weird that you’re sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think you’re angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“How long are you here for?”

Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. You’ve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.

He sighs. “‘Till tomorrow.”

You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. He’s back in your life for two days, and then he’s gone again. That’s not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And that’s… you aren’t sure how to feel.

Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. He’s barely touched it. “Maybe…” he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. “Maybe I should go?”

Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But there’s a more logical part of you that’s overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. He’s offering to go, which means that he’s either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.

You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.

The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but she’d also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and he’d said he’d bring his trucks to play in the sand.

But he wasn’t there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.

“Remember what I said,” mama said softly. “Kick your legs.”

You weren’t quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward.

A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didn’t quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mama’s rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.

A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I brought all my trucks!” he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. “You can be the green one. Here.” He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.

You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright green–the same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongi’s mom usually bought–and it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didn’t take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.

Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldn’t be blue.

One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.

“Oh,” she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. “You two have found your gem.”

“Wha’s that mean?” Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom.

She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. “You know how I have this from your dad? It’s like that.”

“But-”

“Your friendship is special,” she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. “It means you’ve gotta look out for each other now.”

For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. “Okay!” He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. “Can I have it?”

“It’s not yours anymore,” his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. “It’s a gift.”

You looked to your mama and she nodded. “Take care of it,” she told you. “You only get one.”

Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick.

It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadn’t been to school in days. Your teachers hadn’t even asked, they’d just started giving you packets–homework and printouts of their lessons and extra materials–so he wouldn’t fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room.

You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politeness–you were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldn’t mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear he’d had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty.

But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. “You’re going to get sick, too,” he protested weakly.

You waved him off. “Everyone’s sick.” You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. “Ms. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, you’ll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what she’s talking about.” He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. “Here’s the novel for Brown’s class. She said she’d talk to you about making up the paper when you’re back.”

It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classes’ worth of homework and assignments, but you’d put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didn’t really matter.

“Will you stay?” he asked when you were done. “Help me with some of this?”

“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?” you teased.

“I mean, you don’t have to. If you want to go home, that’s fine, too. I just-” He coughed, burying his face in his blankets.

“You staying for dinner, hon?” Yoongi’s mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes please!” you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets you’d brought for Yoongi. “Wanna take a stab at math?”

Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get… weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. You’d tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet “just thinking about some things.” After that, he’d be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.

Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didn’t really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see.

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?” You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.

“I…” he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“You can just say it,” you told him. “It’s just me.”

He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘that’s the problem,’ but after a moment, he continued. “I need to be free of all of this.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe the universe doesn’t know what it’s talking about? That maybe you’d be happier if you chose things for yourself?” He frowned. “There’s rules for gifts. We’re only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-”

“-and we get told who we’re to bond to.”

He recoiled at your words. “That’s not-”

“But it’s true, right?” Your gaze fell from him to your hands. “It’s just one more thing you don’t get to control.”

Yoongi sighed. “I just… want to be able to choose for myself.”

Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing you’d expected. You didn’t particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didn’t want you. You hadn’t yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but you’d never guessed that he’d do such a sudden about-face.

“Right,” you said softly.

“Just… think about it?” he asked, dark eyes pleading.

You didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.

Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he’d gotten more insistent.

“I want to find myself,” he’d told you once. “I need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.”

“I just need to get away,” he’d said one day while you were doing homework together. “Start fresh somewhere new.”

And then, on the way home from school one day, he’d said, “I need to be free of it all.”

And you’d snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldn’t help it.

“Fuck off,” you’d told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, he’d had trouble keeping up with you.

He’d pushed. And eventually, you’d given in. Because despite everything, you’d loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And now…

Now you’re sitting alone at the train station at ass o’clock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already you’re inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that they’re staring. At this point, you’re used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar.

You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you.

Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.

Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the train’s luggage car.

Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.

You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.

Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. He’s wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and he’s wearing his glasses. He’s clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, approaching you.

“Hey.” You wave slightly–awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasn’t said much of anything to anyone this morning.

You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next train–his, you presume–isn’t due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.

“I didn’t like how we left things,” you admit. “I… I wasn't sure if you were serious.”

“Serious?” His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. “I did miss you–I do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.”

“Were you right?”

He chuckles. “Not exactly.”

You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something that’s been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.

“It’s been good seeing you again,” you say, and even though you mean it, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. It’s good to see that you’re… not that.”

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing I have ever done, and I just…”

“I get it.”

“What?”

“I think I kind of always did, but… it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-”

“You were the last thing I wanted to get away from.” Maybe it’s the waver in his voice, maybe it’s the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. “I was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.”

“I thought maybe I’d done something,” you admit quietly. “I thought that maybe after the night market-”

“No! Oh my god, no,” he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. “You’re my best friend! I lo-”

“Train 49–the Northern Limited–will be arriving on the platform in five minutes,” the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the building’s intercom. “I’ll take you over to the platform when you’re ready.”

Yoongi groans.

“Here.” You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. “Put your number in.”

For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You don’t even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.

You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe he’s just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.

“I’ll text you,” he promises.

You nod, almost mechanically. You weren’t expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.

“I- Can we-” You sigh, take a deep breath. “Can I have a hug?”

He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.

It’s shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. He’s warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isn’t leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.

“Text me,” you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.

“I will. I promise.”

And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform.

You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when he’d left the first time. You should be feeling optimistic–for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s hope. For you, for your friendship, for… whatever comes next. But it’s hard to feel any sort of positive when he’s on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.

As you’re walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that you’re flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. It’s nerves and it’s excitement and maybe, it’s also a little bit of hope.

Yoongi 💙: thanks again for not turning me into a bug

“I’ve been thinking,” Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see him–there’s a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.

“Dangerous,” you joke.

“Rude.” He nuzzles down further into his pillow. “I’d like to come visit,” he admits softly.

For a moment, your mind goes blank. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. He’d kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. You’d text throughout the week–little messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogs–and then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. You’d spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you.

The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, you’d watched him cook dinner, he’d played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, he’d called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldn’t fall asleep on the train.

“What do you mean?” You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.

He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. “I miss you,” he mumbles, and you almost don’t catch it, it’s so muffled by his arm and your phone’s speaker.

You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. “I guess you could come.”

“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

“Hey now. It’s against the rules to take something like that back.”

He laughs. “What rules?”

“You know. The rules.” You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?” He grunts. “Being away for so long has rotted your brain, I’m afraid.”

“So rude.” His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. “No, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?”

You frown. You’d been trying to forget about next weekend. “Normally I’d go home for the new year,” you say softly.

“Why don’t,” he begins, stifling a yawn. You’re a little surprised he’s made it this long without seeming tired. It’s almost 3am. “Why don’t I come hang out? We can do new year’s stuff together.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“What about work?”

He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. “I make the schedule. They’ll deal with it.”

“Yoongi.”

He continues on, ignoring you. “I can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldn’t get there until late, is that okay?”

You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, you’ve been talking to him in one way or another, but it’s different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.

The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than you’d expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so you’re mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the University’s faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for.

In the small handful of weeks since you’d seen him last, you’d replayed things in your mind. But mostly, you’ve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You aren’t fooling yourself. You haven’t forgotten. But there’s a part of you–a large part, if you’re honest with yourself–that hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.

After an eternity, it’s Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that it’s dark out–you’ve never seen it this dead. It’s late, the station is getting ready to close, but there’s one last train that has yet to come in. There’s another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who they’re waiting to pick up, but it’s fleeting.

The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.

He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey. How was the train?”

He groans. “Long.”

You hum. He’d worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But he’s here. He’s not a face on a screen, he’s in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s strange. You’d been without him for nearly 13 years. It’s only been a few short weeks since you’d seen him last, but you’re giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, he’s here. With you.

You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongi’s sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands he’d been obsessed with in high school, but you don’t turn it up. You’re fairly certain that he’s fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that he’s facing the window.

It’s a damn miracle that there’s an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who don’t know how to parallel park—who refuse to do it—but you’d taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think you’re going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.

Your apartment isn’t large, but it’s bigger than most for what you pay for it. You’re on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.

He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. You’ve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.

“You’re probably exhausted,” you say. “I’ll let you get settled.”

Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. “’m not tired.” Ever defiant. But you can tell he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, he’s up much later than this–you know, because sometimes, he calls you–but between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you don’t blame him for being a little sleepy.

“I put some towels out in the bathroom,” you tell him, gesturing down the hall. “It’s the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.

An hour later, you find that you can’t sleep. Not that you’ve even tried. You aren’t even sure why you’re so wired. But you’re sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. You’ve had friends stay over before. But this… you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, you’re just…

You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.

“You have the softest towels in the world,” he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels you’d set out for him.

“Would you believe I got them on clearance?”

“I’ll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.”

“I charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.”

At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.

“So… what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He shoots you a look that says he doesn’t believe you, and you relent. “Well,” you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, “There’s this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,” you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. “But it doesn’t start until late.” He hums. “Was there something you wanted to do?”

“No, just-” He stifles a yawn. “Curious.” He leans back against the headboard, settling in.

Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. It’s comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers.

And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesn’t respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.

For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as you’re about to kick the blanket off, you pause.

We’re adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space.

At least, you think you are.

But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, you’re suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. He’d always been handsome, and now that you’re both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable.

Oh no.

You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that you’ve shoved out of the way. Yoongi’s beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime he’d been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. You’re three episodes in, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, he’ll be gone again.

His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that it’s more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesn’t stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knew—the one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). He’s quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger.

You’re a little jealous of it, to be honest.

Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. “Do you remember,” he begins, settling back in against the couch, “when we were 16 and we went camping?” You hum an affirmative. “We spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.”

You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that you’d had to spend the whole time with Yoongi’s parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers you’d ever had. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. “I dunno. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler then…”

You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed.

“You know,” Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, “when you said ‘park’, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.”

“I think technically it is.” You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.

“We drove for an hour!”

You shrug. “Big city.”

He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether it’s part of the city or not, it doesn’t really matter. There’s a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. It’s busy–people mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing.

He adjusts his coat–it’s cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snow–and when he’s ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. It’s astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand.

So we don’t get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, he’s not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isn’t expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like he’s holding a candle a little too close to the flame.

The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isn’t really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, there’s a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But there’s also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongi’s age and older–professors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.

It’s subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. It’s the people who stand so close together they’re almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each other’s personal spaces.

You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response.

There’s a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. He’s a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic table’s bench. The other one–a woman–remains seated, eyeing Yoongi.

For a hot minute, it’s weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. It’s not even the side-eye that the woman’s shooting him. The man is handsome–Yoongi’s not blind–and you are friendly with him. But there’s a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongi’s arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.

You’re still holding his hand.

Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while she’s doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwan’s partner, and Yoongi doesn’t see a gem anywhere. He almost–almost–starts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.

You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. “What do they have good?”

“The pierogi guy from last year is back-”

Jihwan interrupts Alice. “Too much butter.”

It’s not even what he says. It’s how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you can’t be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy.

“Apparently, he’s got a new flavor this year,” Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. “But the taco guy is also back-”

“Is the popcorn guy back?” you ask. laughing. “Because I kind of want a front-row seat to that.” Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. “Pierogi guy’s daughter was engaged to taco guy’s daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-”

“-It was amazing,” Alice adds.

“It was ridiculous,” Jihwan mumbles.

You push him. “It was a little like having our own little telenovela here.”

Cautiously, Yoongi asks, “Why were they fighting?”

“No one knows.” You shrug. “But it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.”

Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what you’re talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadn’t cared much one way or the other–all businesses change their logos at some point, right?–and he always suspected that you didn’t either, but you’d both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and he’s pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons you’d made somewhere in their house.

You finally let go of Yoongi’s hand when you’re standing in line at the taco truck, and he’s painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You don’t go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. You’re scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. It’s gotten darker since you’ve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below don’t help to make the night sky visible.

You pay for his tacos–”I get an employee discount,” you say, brandishing your university id like it’s a black card–and Yoongi doesn’t think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone.

“Where’d-” He’s not even asked the question, but you’re already shrugging.

“Alice’s probably off calling her fiance,” you say it like you’re back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, “and who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.”

“He seems…”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

A pang of… something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. “He and I are the only two on campus without gems.”

Oh.

Well.

That makes sense.

“So they…”

You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. “Yeah, they know.”

Which explains Alice’s side-eye earlier. The weird emotion he’d gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings.

He hums, not really sure what to say. What’s there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.

“No wonder they didn’t kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.�� He takes another bite of his taco. “This is the best al pastor I’ve ever had.”

“His chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.”

“More special than…?” He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isn’t really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.

You laugh, and something inside of him warms.

He hasn’t even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. She’s looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. There’s an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sort–the city isn’t far enough north for it to be natural–but he can’t tell who’s doing it.

A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. You’re there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, it’s almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, you’re beautiful.

“Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get a good spot closer to the lookout.”

He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. It’s tight, and you grab his hand so you don’t get separated. Normally, Yoongi isn’t a huge fan of crowds like this. You’re a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand close–close enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.

The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildings’ lights begin to flicker out.

“They’ve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,” you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations he’d learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. You’d loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadn’t looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him.

He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They aren’t constant, only a few show up every minute, but it’s beautiful to watch.

There’s a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense something–he’s never really been sure what his emotions feel like for you–because you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.

Yoongi isn’t really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe that’s just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that he’s the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. It’s quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden.

He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like he’s made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculations–what he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you don’t react.

But then you whisper, “Why’d you stop?” and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring.

His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. He’d only kissed you that one time, but somehow, he’d missed it, missed you.

When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chest–though whether that’s fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyone’s guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, he’s pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.

For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then it’s like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.

12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. He’d spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t left. If, after he’d kissed you at the night market, he’d been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. He’d been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.

Now, he’d give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms.

okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)

#yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #suga fic #suga fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fic #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #myg x reader #bts soulmate au #bts supernatural au #set me free

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tetzoro · 1 year ago

Text

FROM THE START — ༉‧₊˚.

ft. jean kirstein !

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : your last semester is coming to a close with finals only a breath away. but your feelings for jean rage now more than ever. with a ticking clock now set, there’s only a matter of time left to confess your true feelings.

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : MDNI! f!reader. college au, pwp, mentions of alcohol, unprotected sex, praise, fingering, pet names (pretty girl, baby), jean has a horsecock, creampie. — WC : 5.1k.

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : this was going to be from a series i started a long time ago but i just condensed it into one lil fic. enjoy ^_^

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᰔ*.ﾟ

“alright hot shot, tell me what you see.” jean asks, readying his pen up, wiggling himself in false anticipation. you roll your eyes and lay your head back on the towel.

you took a moment to appreciate your surroundings. the way the sun kissed your face, it’s touch warming your whole body up in the softest form of intimacy. gazing up at the clouds, you see a few notable shapes you could point out but your eyes wander to the water. the sound of crashing waves further soothing your mind as you take it all in. off on the horizon, you see the perfect formation of clouds.

“there!” you point up at a cluster of clouds. “it looks like a pirate ship with a whale swimming under it.”

“where the hell-“ jean trailed off, searching the sky for whatever abomination you were looking at. it was your guys' favorite game to play. you got to cloudgaze and point out the shapes in the sky while jean did a quick sketch of it so you could hold onto your piece of the cloud forever. “you’ve been watching too much one piece.” he grumped, starting to sketch.

“oh shut up.” giggling, you flip onto your stomach, watching him as he sketches. he always did a quick one, not wanting to linger on something for too long as he wanted to keep playing. his face was relaxed except for his eyebrows. the furrow of his brow matching the intensity of the grip on his pencil as it flew across the page. he was so lost in his own little world he didn’t realize you were staring.

sighing from the lack of attention, you flip back over to look at the water. the waves were a force today, so strong that it scared even you to go into the water. but everyone else chanced fate as they swam around the shore.

“you better get your asses in the water!” eren shouts, making his way to you guys. judging by the look on his face, he was serious.

“it’s too salty, i always get the water in my mouth.” jean complained, tucking his sketchbook away as eren made his approach. you never knew what kind of stunt he was going to pull.

“yeah? you wouldn’t even go in to save a damsel in distress?” eren smirked, his gaze turning on you as the water droplets dripped down his body.

“eren don’t you da-“ you squeal as he hoists you up, running towards the water as your literally kicking and screaming. eren just laughed as he rushed into the waves. the water wasn’t as cold as you thought it would be but it was still a shock. one that shut you up and made you cling to eren. “don’t you dare drop me.”

“wasn’t planning on it.” he smirked, giving you a tiny wink. “i was going to throw you.”

“eren!” you scream as he tosses you into the waves, water flowing into your mouth as you sunk down a little. you weren’t under the tide for long as an arm wrapped itself around your waist, pulling you up from under.

“you’re such an ass.” jean’s voice rang out over erens laughter. you rub your eyes, trying to get excess water out before you turn your glare towards eren. you break from jeans’ hold as you launch yourself towards him, trying to push your weight on his head to push him under the water. but of course, he doesn’t budge.

“you’re so annoying.” you hiss, trying not to break out into giggles. “you always pull that shit.”

“come on, you like it. otherwise you would’ve learned your lesson by now and come swim with all of us sooner.”

you scoff, knowing that in his own twisted way, he was right. beach days like this were hard to come by, and with finals around the corner, it was much needed.

mikasa and armin were on the shore, oblivious to the games that you guys were playing as they looked for shells. armin had his collection in his dorm, all the ones he’s found stuffed into a jar.

connie and sasha had been in the ocean awhile ago but got out to take a snack break, leaving eren all alone in the water. hence, eren coming to bother you and jean.

“still.” jean rolls his eyes, making his way by your side. “it’s not like you give us a chance to come in by ourselves. we’ve been here for what, 30 minutes?”

“classic jean, always complaining about something.” eren rolls his eyes right back at him, effectively pushing jeans buttons.

“why you little—“ jean took a step forward, only to be stopped by your hand on his chest. you look over and eren who tried to puff up his, ready for jean to come at him.

“alright guys, knock it off.” you sigh, looking over to mikasa for back up. like a sixth sense, she knew you needed her and made eye contact with you. it didn’t take her long to reach your side.

“eren, come help me and armin with the shells.” she said, her gentle yet commanding voice taking over the previous tension. eren scoffs again, immediately turning pink as mikasa touches his arm, trying to coax him to come with her.

that was all it took— the two setting off to the shore and back to armin. leaving you and jean alone once again.

“anyway,” you drag out the word, turning to face jean. he had calmed down a little but no one could rile him up like eren could. “wanna find connie and sasha? maybe see what they found to eat?”

“like they’d share.” he laughed, looking down at you. “besides, i’m kind of used to the water now. we might as well enjoy it since we are here.”

“are you being optimistic?” you tease, splashing him with the water. he looked at you with intense mock offense.

“i’m always optimistic!” he retorts, splashing more water back at you.

“yeah, right. you mean you’re always so dramatic.” you laugh, keeping up the game your started as you push water towards him.

“i’m gonna get you for that.” he laughs, splashing again. you two go at it for awhile until jean accidentally took in a mouthful of water — one of the waves not too kindly crashing over him. he spits it out with a disgusted face, his tongue slightly hanging out as the salt water rests on it. “blegh. this always happens to me. c’mon, let’s get out of here. we should probably get ready for the party tonight anyway.”

you nod, excitement flooding your veins for the party later. everyone was going to be there and you needed time to get ready and more importantly, get the salt water out of your hair.

you didn’t get a chance to look at him before, but as jean walked out of the water, you were painfully reminded at how fit he was. water droplets cascaded down his body, following the dips and curves of his muscles. even his mullet looked good, all slicked back and drenched in the salt water.

you let out a silent sigh as you follow him out of the water, mentally kicking yourself for staring at him for too long again. but the feelings he gave you swirled in your stomach, expanding to every synapse in your body before exploding.

tonight would be the night you tell him. tonight will be the night everything will change.

jeans fingers clenched around the solo cup, the sound of it snapping easily getting lost in the sea of voices that filled the room. the remnants of his beer trickled along his fingers before he threw it to the side, wiping the rest on his pants in a haste.

it only took him a few steps to get where he needed to be — right in front of you. you with your perfect smile, perfect laugh, perfect perfect perfect. it’s all he could think when he saw you. how could you not realize that?

“you okay, jean?” you ask, the words sounding so sweet coming out of your mouth that all he wanted to do was savor them. your expression caught him off guard though, the sweet words not adding up to the coy grin you had spreading across your plush lips. “you look kind of angry.”

jean didn’t know what to say. did you know how he felt? were you trying to play him out to be a fool? but as soon as he heard erens stupid giggle, the words didn’t stop flowing from his mouth.

“you got a problem jaeger? something seem funny to you?” he snapped at eren, his voice low, signaling he wasn’t in the mood. but of course, eren was eren, and he loved nothing more than making a fool out of jean.

“yeah, actually.” he sneered, taking a step closer to jean. “i do think something’s funny.”

“enlighten me then. id love to hear what you find so funny.” jean fired back, taking a closer step to him, clenching his fist. they hadn’t fought in awhile but today, jean needed to let out some of his frustration. why did eren get your attention tonight? why couldn’t you talk to him instead?

he didn’t realize how close he had gotten to eren, practically touching noses, until he felt your light touch on his shoulder. a touch he had grown to be familiar with, something that never failed to soothe him, even just a little bit.

“guys, stop.” your voice breaks out. it was smooth, soft, but they both knew that underneath it lied something vicious. neither one wanted to see that side come from you, especially since mikasa was already side eyeing them. the two of you together was one of the scariest things anyone could ever face.

jean and eren took a hasty step away from each other, scowling and avoiding eye contact with one another. your hand slid from his shoulder down jean’s bicep, holding onto him gently. the act itself was so soft yet it held so much power over him. he couldn't help but lean into it before deciding to throw an arm around your shoulder.

something always felt so right when you were tucked under him like this. you fit so perfectly. your arm wrapped around his waist and he led you to the living room, away from eren.

“so, wanna tell me what happened back there?” you ask as the two of you manevoured towards your favorite spot. at every party, you guys would always find yourself at this spot by the end of the night. it was so cozy, the couch tucked in the corner of the room, away from the main sitting area.

he sat down and you followed suit. looking up at him, he looked slightly disheveled. his normally tamed mullet was all of the place, the result of him running his hands through it one too many times. plus, he didn’t look back at you. the bob of his left leg going up and down at an incredible speed.

you place your hand lightly on his leg and the response was immediate. his leg halted its movement and his eyes found yours in record time. offering him a small smile, you reach up to smooth his hair back.

“nothing happened.” he said softly, watching you very carefully as you tended to him. relishing in the touch you gave him. “don’t worry about it.”

“jean,” you start, your hand caressing down his cheek, moving over to tuck some of his hair behind his ear. “you know you can talk to me, right?”

his cheeks were tinted pink, something you chalked up to the alcohol he was drinking earlier. but his gaze was set on you, peering down deep into your eyes. the contact almost made you shudder.

“i know.” he bit the inside of his cheek as he contemplated what he wanted to say— or rather, how he wanted to say it. “i just got jealous is all.”

this, you weren’t expecting. out of all the things jean could’ve said, this never crossed your mind. the shock had your head reeling back, removing your hand from his hair. the loss of contact stirred a panic within him, mirroring the panic that was starting to bubble up in you.

“jealous?” you squeak out. jealous of what? of eren? or you? or what? jean stared into your eyes for a moment, the anticipation was rippling down your spine, finding it’s home in your stomach.

“yes.” he breathed out softly, placing his hand over the one you had resting on the couch. “i was jealous.”

“of what?” you blink, at war with yourself. his hand felt heavy, almost suffocating but it was the only thing that could soothe you. the room was too small and the alcohol was churning in your stomach. your hand turned over, gripping onto his as a way to ground yourself in the moment.

“of eren.” he said, his brows furrowing as he took in your reaction. he didn’t mean for this to come out now, but you looked so sincere when you told him to talk to you. all the things he’s never told you bubbled up in his throat, threatening to spill out if he didn’t do something. his fight or flight was activated, and he didn’t want to run away this time. “i wanted you-“

the gears start turning in your head as he spoke, knocking off the dust before it struck like clockwork.

the room around you guys came back into focus as someone knocked their drink over you both. the liquid seeped into the fabric of your dress, eliciting chills all over you but you weren’t sure if it was from this or from the conversation you were having.

normally, you’d laugh something like this off. it had happened before and it was bound to happen again. but the stakes had been too high, your emotions were already being drawn out and this was just too much.

“im so sorry-“ reiner said, trying his best to find something to help clean you up. all you could do was stare at your stained dress. what was jean going to tell you?

“way to go reiner.” jean hissed, standing up to face him. reiner was at a loss for words; it was an honest mistake. but jean wasn’t mad at him, he wasn’t even mad that he spilled his drink on you guys — accidents happen. no, he was furious because you were on the verge of tears and he couldn’t tell if it was because of him or not.

“jean.” you say, grabbing his clenched fist. he hadn’t even realized he had been so wound up. he helps pull you up, tucking you back under his arm. the smell of his colonge enveloped you in a warm embrace, one that felt familiar to you and cleared your head from the fog that was slowly wrapping itself around you. “let’s get cleaned up.”

he froze. he absolutely froze. the tiniest smirk rose on reiner’s face as he turned away, getting back to the party. jean wanted to punch it right off.

“let’s go to the bathroom.” he steered you away from the party towards the back of the house. many faces passed you guys as you walked forward, but all you could do was look at the man leading you. he held onto your hand as he dragged you through the party, pulling you behind him so you don’t get separated.

your eyes trail along his arm, lingering ever so slightly at his bicep — was his shirt always that tight? he looked good, even though parts of it held remnants of reiners drink. continuing upwards, you land on his face.

his jaw was tensed as he pulled you through the crowd. determined, fierce. like it was his duty to escort you to the bathroom and it wasn’t something he took lightly. in all your years you knew jean, you don’t think you had ever seen him as clearly as you did in this moment.

you two make it to the bathroom that was connected to his bedroom, shutting the door and closing you both in.

“i’m sorry about reiner.” he sighs, moving to grab a towel as you hop up on the counter. you watch him move with a strong purpose, a serious one that involves drying your dress.

“it’s okay, accidents happen.” you shrug as he starts patting the towel against the cloth, trying to absorb whatever he can. but you both know the damage was done — the dress was stained and seeped with alcohol, it’s only hope was to throw it in the washer.

“i think we need to call it.” he says with a small smile, looking up at you perched on his counter. you smile back down at him before feigning a frown.

“so soon? not even giving her a proper fighting chance?” you sigh, “but if you insist, what are our options.”

“well,” he took a step back to hang up the towel, the loss of his presence already hitting you in the gut. “you’ll have to wash it but in the meantime i can give you some of my clothes to wear.”

“aw, thank you jeanbo.” you hop off the counter. “that would be perfect.”

taking your hand, he leads you into his bedroom before he searches for something suitable for you to wear. you look around his room in the meantime, your eyes landing on his sketchbook — open to the boat he was drawing earlier at the beach. you smile to yourself, glad that he has kept it.

jean breaks you out of your head, tossing you some clothes and you go back into his bathroom to change into them.

after peeling your dress off and throwing on the clothes he gave you, you walk back into his room and see him sitting idly on the couch, twiddling his thumbs before you capture his gaze.

“what?” you ask him, eyes widening as you catch him staring. he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away like he wasn’t just giving you his undivided attention.

“nothing!” he quickly says, slightly pink in the cheeks as he turns back towards you. “it’s just, you look good in my clothes.”

“oh?” you give him a little smirk and he regrets ever opening his mouth. rolling his eyes, he goes to retort but it dies in his throat before he ever had the chance to spit it out.

you were right in front of him — how you got there so quickly, he’ll never know. the palms of your hands rest on his shoulder before you lower your face to his level.

“you really think so?” you tilt your head to the side with a smile, one of your hands running up along his neck and to the back of his head, playing with the edges of his mullet.

you weren’t sure what made you feel so emboldened, the alcohol you had earlier was long out of your system. but something pushed you towards him like a magnet, a voice in your head encouraging you to finally confess like you planned.

“i really do.” his breath almost hitches as he looks at you. “you always look good though, the prettiest girl in the world.”

his compliment hits you in the chest, blooming into a warmth that seeped through every nerve in your body. your faces were so close, your breathing was shallow, all it would take was a little nudge to —

but he beats you too it, forever a man driven by impulse. surging himself forward to capture your lips against his, pouring every ounce of passion into it — desperate to let you know how he feels without uttering a word.

his hand cradles loosely around your neck, using it to pull you forward so you’re falling into his lap. your heart was soaring with each kiss, already addicted to the way he makes you feel — how dizzy your mind grew as his sweet kisses filled your head.

“is this okay?” jean whispered against your lips. everything was so warm; like the beginning of summer igniting that special buzz in the air. you wanted it to swallow you whole, you wanted this more than you have ever wanted anything before in your life. you nod against him, moving your lips back onto his in a hurried fashion.

jean wasted no time now. he wrapped his arms around you and hiked you further up onto his lap, groaning so sweetly into the kiss you two shared. as each passing second went on, the messier the kiss got. breathing was the last thing on your mind right now, all you could do was feed off of what jean was giving you and hoped it would be enough to sustain you.

jean was no better, his hands couldn’t stay still. finally, he was able to be with you, no more dancing around each other. a part of him wanted to kick himself for waiting so long but the other part told him to enjoy this moment. so he planned on it.

his hands slide up under your shirt, the cold metal from his rings causes you to gasp at the sudden contact, arching your back and pressing your chest against him. jean took the chance to slip his tongue into your mouth, pulling you in closer.

there was no telling how long you two stayed tangled up together on the little couch in his room, the make out session only growing needier and needier. years of pent up tension was finally able to flow.

“let’s move on the bed, yeah?” jean asked, his eyes still shut from your kiss.

“yeah.” you nod, pulling him in for another kiss as you both stand up. he walks backwards toward his bed before the back of his knees hit it. he sits, pulling you down on top of him once again, his hips moving up so you can feel his hardness ache for you.

“been wanting this for so long.” he murmurs, moving his lips from yours, to your cheek, down your jaw and back to yours for a heated kiss. “ever since i met you.”

“me too.” you breathe out, already craving to be closer to him. “can't wait any longer.”

hooking his hands under your backside, he quickly flips you so you’re under him, sprawled out on his bed in ways he’s dreamed about for years.

“me neither.” he surges back down, his kiss growing needier with every second. the clothes you had just graciously put on were now being pulled off by him — along with his own. he pulls back for a moment to admire you, taking in every curve of your body. you almost want to shy away from his gaze but the look in his eye was so loving, so full of adoration, that you didn’t. “you’re so beautiful.”

and with the way he said it, you believed it.

he doesn’t waste anymore time, moving you around so he can ease himself over you, slotting himself between your legs. his hair fell in front of his face a bit so you reach up, tucking it back behind his ear. the sweet, simple gesture sent him into overdrive, hungrily kissing you as a man who had been deprived of it since the day he met you.

his hand smoothes down your side before his fingers find themselves between your thighs. hestitantly, he prods against your slick entrance, almost nervous to take the plunge. but you’re quick to reassure him, rolling your hips to greedily suck his digit in.

he moans into your mouth, feeling how tight you are around his finger. his mind already wandering to how snug his cock will feel once he’s finally inside of you. but he knows he has to prep you first, slipping in another finger to properly stretch you out.

and the sweet noises you make fill his head with a peace he’s always longed for. every sense was focused on you, addicted to showering you in pleasure. he could spend all day doing this, soaking up every mewl of his name.

“jean, please.” you pull back a bit to speak, the sounds of your cunt squelching from his fingers filling the room. “need you to fuck me.”

“anything you want.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, quickly taking a hold of his cock and pressing it against your entrance. “you ready for me?”

“i am.” you nod, hips already moving as you try to find friction. he starts to push in, the tip of his cock already stretching you out. the girth alone has your toes curling but it felt like his cock was never ending — consistently shoving more of it in, inch by thick inch.

“almost there, pretty girl.” he grunts, eyes trained on you, searching for any hint of pain. the stretch felt so good, splitting you open as he finally bottoms out. you both let out a gasp, your warm walls snuggly wrapped around his cock in a heaven he never dreamed of existing.

he murmurs sweet praises in your ear as he lets you adjust, telling you how good you are, how tight you feel. softly kissing your temple as you give him the go ahead to move.

he starts slow, sensual. taking his time and dragging his cock in and out, searching for that special button deep inside of you.

it felt like he was everywhere, so lodged up into you, you swore you could feel the tip of his cock pressing against your heart. it stole your breath away, lungs losing function as you gasp for air.

“that’s it, baby, just keep taking it. i promise i’m gonna make you feel so good, okay? you don’t have to do a thing.” he kisses your neck, leaving little marks of love in his wake. “you’re already doing s’much, making me feel so, so good.”

“jean i-.” you croak out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he finds the soft, cushiony part of you, a place where your fingers could never reach. he completely filled you up, your mind already growing hazy from it.

“gonna go faster, okay?” he presses a soft kiss against your jaw, your head nodding along to whatever he was saying. “so good f’me.”

his praise has you clenching around him, eliciting a guttural moan from him. it was all it took to break the last bit of his resolve — hips starting to snap against yours.

there was no way you could stay quiet, the pleasure was overwhelming, leaving you to forget where you were. the cry of his name had his ego soaring, cockiness filling his veins. his hand covers your mouth as he drives into you harder.

“can’t be too loud, unless you want everyone at the party to know how good i’m making you feel.” he murmurs. you could tell by his tone that he was feeling as good as you were, pleasure already threatening to consume him the longer he thrust into you.

his hand lowers from your mouth, opting to use it to hike up your leg, propping it over his shoulder. if it was even possible, he was deeper — his cock practically kissing your cervix.

he knew he wasn’t going to last long. a nearly impossible task that he knew going in, he’d fail. but as long as you came around his cock, he’d count it as a win.

his deft fingers find your neglected nub and your body all but jolts under his hold. he swirls your clit around in measured circles, your cries only growing louder. but he’s too entranced to cover them up — every instinct telling him to keep giving you more.

“jean!” you cry, “i’m s-so close!”

“go ahead and let go f’me, need to feel you.” he encourages, hitting that spongey part harder as his fingers deliciously dance along your clit. his approval pushed your over the edge, back arching up as ecstasy took you away.

the sight alone had jean’s hips stuttering. as if you could read his mind, you said, “cum inside, jean. need you to fill me up.

the whine you let out had him pushing his pulsing cock as deep as he could before releasing inside of you. his hips jolt with each rope of cum, groans of your name slipping out of his mouth as he fills you up. every time you clenched around him only pulled more cum out of him.

“cant stop cumming, fuck-.” he rasped out, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he finally finishes. he falls beside you, trying not to put all his weight on you as his cock continues to twitch in your warmth.

all you can do is try to catch your breath, gazing at each other, sharing the same thought of why did this take you so long.

he slowly pulls out of you, both of you letting out a soft noise. pressing a kiss to your head, he stands up and grabs a towel, carefully cleaning you up.

once he’s done, he lays back down in bed, his back hitting the pillows as he pulls you up into his arms. your head rests against his chest, no doubt listening to his ever-racing heart — the one that only beats for you.

“jean-“ you say at the same time as he says your name. you both giggle at each other, feeling weightless in each other's embrace.

“you go.” he encourages you, moving so he can get a better look at you.

“i um.” you feel heat rise to your face. after everything you just did, confessing your feelings still feels nerveracking. but looking into his warm eyes, it melts away those doubts, filling them with hope instead. “i love you.”

“i love you too.” his face splits into a smile, one that eases your soul and lulls you into him. he takes a deep breath, ready to spill out everything he’s been feeling. “i want you to be mine. i want to wake up next to you everyday, i want to draw you pictures of the clouds all day long, i want to kiss you whenever you need a kiss, i want to hold your hands on the days that life feels too much. please, be my girlfriend.”

“of course jean.” you smile, leaning up to press a lingering kiss on his cheek. “i was yours from the start.”

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