#Knucklehead Big Show

[ringthedamnbell]

Top Five Horrible Movies Featuring Wrestlers

Top Five Horrible Movies Featuring Wrestlers

Brian Damage For every good to great movie featuring a professional wrestler, there have been some real clunkers as well. Last week, I took a look at some of my favorites starring a wrestler and this week, we look at a few flicks that were not as good…as a matter of fact, were pretty awful. Of course, these choices are my personal selections and are always up for debate. Which movies featuring…

[ffsg0jo]

boynextdoor! choso who you've had a mini crush on ever since you saw him move in with his two brothers yuuji and sukuna. yuuji is the 5-year-old who is just the sweetest ray of sunshine, and sukuna (kuna) is the grumpy undergrad whose name you only know because of yuuji's incessant need for 'uppies'. you don't know much about choso, though, except that he's the eldest, is always working to pay for the bills/rent, and is scarcely home.

boynextdoor! choso, who invites you over for dinner a couple of days after moving in to get to know you a little better and introduce him and his family. you notice the lack of parents, but you don’t say anything or bring it to attention, seeing first-hand how hard choso works as you help him with all the dishes he cooked, and as sukuna sets the table. immediately, yuuji is smitten by you (and you, him) constantly trying to get your attention and talking to you about his new friend called gumi, your shared neighbour's son. choso watches you with yuuji in your arms while you're animatedly talking to his baby brother. the genuine interest you show in what yuuji says makes his heart pitter patter.

(sukuna is quiet throughout the whole affair, only speaking when spoken to and even then keeping it prompt, but he notices the way choso looks at you when you're not watching and vice versa. you’re kind, polite, and seemingly loving. you could be good for his older brother; he thinks to himself.)

boynextdoor! choso, who knocked on your door and asked if you wanted him to take the trash outside your door to the big bins since he's throwing out his own as well on the second week they moved in. your face heated up, and you swooned at his thoughtfulness as you shyly nodded, adding if it's not too much trouble for him. ever since then, he's assumed the role of taking out your trash, making sure to dispose of all the rubbish in the appropriate bins. does it make him a little late to work? yes. but the look on your face when he first asked was worth it.

boynextdoor! choso, who secretly tries to find excuses to see you more and more often in his busy schedule. he caught a glimpse of you through your window when first moving in, and he can't get enough of you ever since. whether it's bringing round some 'extra' cookies, he's baked for sukuna and yuuji or asking if you'd like to join them for dinner again. you've never really taken him up on that offer, though, worried about intruding, and he's almost on the verge of begging you, insisting you could never.

boynextdoor! choso who bakes the best cookies and muffins. you're half convinced he's lying to you, and he's just bought them from the local bakery. but you've seen the evidence through the window directly opposite yours, with little yuuji chasing both of his brothers round the kitchen with tiny fistfuls of flour. it's the first time you've seen choso smile so brightly, and something in your heart melts. even sukuna is tame and soft in the presence of his older brother, you've noted.

boynextdoor! choso whose brothers notice the badly hidden crush he has on the cutie next door. (yes, it's gotten so obvious that even little yuuji recognises the fact that big bro really wants to be your friend). he works so hard for them, and he deserves happiness, so it's in his best interest when both knuckleheads (mainly sukuna) put their heads together and start plotting and devising a plan to try and get you both together. they've seen the longing in both of your eyes and are sure it'll work.

boynextdoor! choso who knocks on your door at 4 something am in the morning whilst you're half asleep asking if you could babysit yuuji. his shift starts two hours, and he needs to leave in one, and sukuna is nowhere to be seen. he's so apologetic, and he promises to make it up to you however you want. you see the bags under his eyes and the heart-breaking frown on his face, and you immediately agree. yuuji's a delight anyway, and you'd be more than happy to.

(yuuji is gently woken up by his big bro before he leaves, who explains what's happened. he smiles a wide, sleepy smile and is excited to spend time with you, ready to set his and sukubros plan into motion. but first, he needs another nap and some cuddles.)

(choso is forever grateful for the angel of a brother yuuji is. it balances out sukuna for sure.)

boynextdoor! choso, who seems to talk about you a lot, and how beautiful you are. at least according to yuuji. yuuji says sometimes big bro sees you outside from the kitchen window whilst he's cooking and looks at you with a smile. a smile yuuji's only seen him give to two other people, but other big bro said that choso wants to crush you? he doesn't understand why because you're really lovely to yuuji and to everyone in general and you play with him and let him take pictures on your phone and secretly let him have his dessert with his meal. anyways if big bro tries to crush you, don't worry, you've got yuuji to protect you!

(his words make you blush at the implication as you realise what yuuji means.)

boynextdoor! choso who comes back from his long shift to you and yuuji napping on his couch. he’s exhausted, but the sight of you two together warms his heart, and he suddenly finds himself with bucketloads of energy. he gets started on making dinner for you all whilst you’re napping, and he hopes that you’ll stay this time. halfway through prepping, he hears a door open and a worse for wear sukuna stumbles in with a hard look on his face. quietly, sukuna joins his brother, muttering a small apology and washing his hands before taking over on chopping the onions. the two cook in silence, knowing that sukuna would open up when he’s ready.

boynextdoor! choso who gently nudges you awake when they’re finished cooking. at first, you think you’re dreaming with an angelic looking choso hovering above you. but then you cringe, feeling the drool on your cheek, wiping it away quickly, praying choso never noticed. (he most definitely did, but he found it incredibly endearing). he thanks you profusely and insists on you joining them for dinner. you’re glad you did because there’s just something so sweet about the three brothers interacting with each other. even sukuna lightly jokes around and teases little yuuji at the dinner table, trying to get him to eat all his veggies.

boynextdoor! choso, who keeps trying to pay you for looking after yuuji when you’re about to leave. you refuse knowing that his family needs it more, plus you’re more than happy to look after yuuji, he’s an angel. choso still insists, adamant on paying you and only shuts up when you tell choso to take you out on date instead, emboldened by everything yuuji’s told you. choso short circuits, blushing furiously. he nods, unable to form words, and stutters out an ‘i’ll text you’. you turn around and leave, and choso is still rooted to the spot, replaying your words in his head. it’s only when he’s giggling and kicking his legs in bed that he suddenly realises he doesn’t have your number. oh well, it’s just another excuse to see you then.

(sukuna witnesses the whole thing and is lowkey mad because he spent all that time planning and plotting for no reason. he hears choso’s giggles through the thin walls, though, and fights back a smile. to hell with his plans.)

© ffsg0jo 2024 — do not plagiarise, repost, modify, or translate any of my work, in any way shape or form; i will piss in your cereal if you do. all work belongs to me and me only.

[barbaricjester]

Thinking about an AU where Stanley actually did make it big. He's still living out of his car when some music agent hears him singing to himself or playing guitar or something, and they offer him a chance.

In a matter of weeks, he's got a song made (he goes for a rock/metal genre) and he drops a single. By a stroke of luck, it explodes. Suddenly he's handed a check with more zeros than he's ever seen. He's practically handed a nice apartment and an entire team of people to help him make more music.

Stan throws himself into it. He crafts a whole rocker persona, starts calling himself Knucklehead because it sounds cool. He's half convinced it's all a dream, half sure this is his greatest ruse yet. Soon he's released another single. Then another. Then an album. Then they're asking if he wants to do live shows.

His music plays on radios, on TV. There's posters with his face on them (he keeps his mullet for the scruffy rocker look). He hears people rave that his songs are raw, are real (they are; they're all about past mistakes and fighting for survival and being a disappointment).

One day, Filbrick Pines gets a letter in the mail, from the son he's seen on TV the past few months. It's a check, for exactly one million dollars. "Told you. -Knucklehead" is all the message says.

Stanford, who is still in college, has watched from a distance as his brother rose to stardom. He's proud of him, and one day he gets a letter in the mail, too, which is just Stan gloating for three pages before he asks if they can catch up, admits that he misses his brother. Stanford packs up and goes to him immediately.

Idk where this all goes, but I've been unable to get @pinkchup 's art of Stanley playing guitar out of my head since I first saw it. Just- Stan getting a chance to get on a stage, scream sing his feelings, and prove his dad wrong. Yeah.

(OH and years down the line, when Stan's retired, Dipper and Mabel discover that one of their favorite classic rock/metal singers, Knucklehead, is actually related to them when they find a box of Stan's old merch in his office. O.O)

[literaphobe]

toxigriffe show up to their universe all evil grins and chemistry and imagine ladynoir just ASSUMING they’re dating and then they try and use that against them and they’re like WHOA WHOA WHOAAAA u knuckleheads think we’re in LOVE?? EWWW GAG PUKE THROWS UP and they’re both acting all grossed out but ALSO getting really offended that The Other is grossed out like are you kidding me???? u would be LUCKY to date me GRRRR and it culminates in toxinelle grabbing griffe and kissing him on the lips since he thinks it’s SOOOOO gross and he winds up melting into it and going all Big Baby Bell Eyes and she’s like what . why are u being so weird. and he’s like I Don’t Think I’m Evil Anymore. and she’s like HUH?? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING. and he’s like I Think I’m Love With You. I Don’t Want The World To Be Destroyed Anymore. and she’s like WHAT THE FUCKKK. ok. and then they go back home and ladynoir stand there having been completely motionless the entire time like What Just Happened

[sleepinthrumyalarms]

— to tame a demon

pairing: wednesday addams x fem!oni!reader

warnings: none

summary: a new mid-semester arrival in the face of the gloomy addams girl meets the resident demonic student who's all witty remarks and tusked grins, and something inhumane draws her in

word count: 4.8k

"There are many flavors of outcasts here," Enid began, hands behind her back as she guided Wednesday through the yard, "but the four main cliques are Fangs, Furs, Stoners, and Scales," she counted, pointing to the table where a group of neat-looking students sat, sipping at some bottled red liquid, "Those are the Fangs, a.k.a, vampires. Some of them have literally been here for decades."

The girl moved on, and Wednesday's unimpressed glare flicked to another group of students.

"That bunch of knuckleheads are Furs, a.k.a, werewolves. Like me!”

The fuzzy-haired teens sitting at the table howled at the mention, greeting their kin.

"Oh, you see that girl? That's (Y/n) (L/n). She's not a werewolf, but a close thing. An oni demon.”

The young woman was sitting at the table next to the Furs, hitting her werewolf friend in the shoulder to get him to stop with the loud noise. She didn't really stand out — the girl wore a set of the standard issued uniform, her jacket and a few top buttons of her shirt unbuttoned. But one thing about her appearance really did catch Wednesday's eye — her canines, both top and bottom, crooked at the ends and big enough to protrude from a small slit between her lips. Despite the effect they had on her mouth, the tusks didn't make her face look inhumane, and, as the demon looked up to wave at Enid, Wednesday noticed a pair of snake-like slits in her (e/c) scleras.

The ravenette caught herself thinking of how pretty those eyes were.

"A close thing?" She wondered out loud, making a show of gazing somewhere away from the face of the oni girl, as if she was asking the question out of sheer curiosity.

"Yeah, well, she doesn't exactly "wolf out", per se. Think of her as... a girl with unresolved anger issues who lets her inner demons out every Blood Moon. So like, basically all of us," the blonde said, giggling at her own joke, "Dunno if it affects her looks, though... No one has ever seen (Y/n) during one of her demon furies."

Wednesday looked back at the oni, catching sight of the girl talking with her friends, a small grin on her face as she listened to their energetic rambles with amusement.

What an interesting creature.

Wednesday wasn't extremely enthusiastic about botany lessons. Thanks to her mother, she was practically an expert in the field of carnivorous plants. But skipping just wasn't her style, and she walked into the classroom, hoping the disinterest she had in the subject was clear on her pale face.

As the girl looked around the class to find herself a seat, her eyes quickly traveled above the heads of her classmates. She noticed Enid next to Yoko, so sitting with a person she was at least a bit acquainted with was off limits. Wednesday felt far from sad about the fact - having to neighbor with the hyperactive blonde in the dorms was enough excitement in her life.

Her gaze then suddenly fell on the two half-empty desks in the second row. One of the vacant seats was right next to Xavier, and mulling her decision over she realised she would prefer to sit next to a wolfed-out Enid rather than the miserable artist. Quickly making up her mind, Wednesday walked up to the other desk, and felt Xavier's gaze on the back of her head as she sat down, taking her backpack off to place it at her feet. She still had a few minutes before the class started, she could indulge in some macabre reminiscings of hers before the actual torture began.

"Oh. Hey," the gloomy girl heard a voice call out on her right, and turned to look up at her neighbor. Her breath hitched as she realised it was the oni girl, her cheek leaning against her fist as she smiled at Wednesday lazily, her top lip rising to her gums slightly to bare the intimidating tusks. If she was trying to scare Wednesday away, it certainly didn't work, "You're Wednesday, right? Enid wasn't exactly secretive about her new sombre roommate. I was hoping I'd get a chance to meet you."

The girl offered a clawed hand as a greeting, "I'm (Y/n)."

Wednesday took a moment to look the demon over. Her (h/c) hair was put up in a messy ponytail, some of the locks falling in front of her pointed ears, framing her face, and her (e/c) cat-like eyes were staring down at Wednesday with a playful glint. She was wearing the same uniform as the rest of the class, and the undone buttons exposed the top of the girl's collarbones.

What an annoying habit. Didn't she know what formal dress code was?

“Huh. The teeth don't seem to affect your speech, despite their uncomfortable positioning,” the ravenette noted, shaking the taller girl’s outstretched hand, finding it rather warm in contrast to her own dead-cold skin. If the demon found the temperature or the rather rude comment off-putting, she didn’t show it, “I hope I didn’t intrude.”

“No, no, you’re good,” (Y/n) reassured, leaning her elbow back against the seat, “And those? Yeah, I’m not an orc, you know. You should see how big they get when I... on second thought, you probably shouldn't." She stopped her rant bashfully, cheeks warming slightly at the realization of a rather sensitive topic not being suitable when meeting someone new.

"Not a pretty sight?"

"Outrageous."

"Hm.” Wednesday looked away from the other girl’s face, staring at the board in front of the class.

“I think I'd love to see."

That made (Y/n) chuckle, “You do seem like the type to enjoy outrageous and hideous things.”

Their conversation came to an end when Ms. Thornhill entered the classroom, holding a big pot in her gloved hands, and both girls turned their attention to the teacher.

(Y/n) had to admit that hers had seemed to switch to her new intriguing neighbor a few times. She watched Wednesday from the corner of her eye, taking in the girl’s frigid expression as she listened to the lecture without any interest, and found it hard to refocus on the lesson again.

It was the early hours of morning as Wednesday walked to the dining hall, completely devoid of any appetite but having nothing to do in this ungodly time. Most of the students were still asleep, and the halls were empty, letting the gloomy girl enjoy her solitude, her platformed shoes the only sound accompanying her.

Seemingly enjoying the peacefulness too much, she didn’t notice another person coming down from the other side of the stairs, and bumped into them, the collision powerful enough to tear her out of her thoughts.

Ready to put the culprit into the hospital for the rest of the school year, Wednesday looked up, and her emotionless gaze met the (e/c) - colored one.

“Good morning, Wednesday. Up to tackle people to their deaths so early?” (Y/n) chuckled, straightening her jacket before looking the smaller girl up and down, “You alright?”

“Peachy.” Wednesday deadpanned and turned around without another word, continuing on her path to the cafeteria. Much to her disappointment, she heard the other girl follow her, catching up to her smaller strides with ease.

“Were you walking to breakfast too? What a coincidence. A perfect morning for an early snack, I’ve been feeling hungry myself.”

Wednesday didn’t answer, and it was silent again, for which the ravenette was thankful. She could even say she enjoyed walking in the presence of the demon, as long as the latter kept her snarky toothy mouth shut.

"So, do you prefer your human flesh rare or straight from the limb?" The smaller girl asked suddenly without looking at her companion.

"Why, you got some to share?" (Y/n) chuckled, "Nah. I'm more of an animal meat kinda girl. Some of my ancient ancestors did have their man-eating tendencies, but they didn't exactly wear uniforms or went to school either."

"Sounds about right. Otherwise Nevermore would be an all-you-can-eat restaurant for you. Maybe even the whole Jericho town."

The oni laughed at the statement, a loud rough guffaw that almost made Wednesday’s ears bleed. Except it didn’t.

Wednesday found herself standing in the center of the dorm of her demon friend, hands dutifully by her sides as she looked around, catching the smallest details of (Y/n)’s lair. Her bed was made neatly, and some of her notebooks and papers seemed to had been hastily put in a messy pile on her desk, an obvious last-minute measure to make her working space look presentable.

Before she left to get the textbooks she had forgotten at Yoko’s the last time she had a sleepover with the vampire, the girl pulled up a stool to the desk, inviting the other girl to sit down and make herself comfortable, then, before Wednesday could utter a single world, sputtered some nonsense about her awful hospitality and gestured at her own, admittedly much bigger and softer chair, kicked the stool away, and left the room as fast as she could, promising to be back in a flash.

The girls had agreed on studying for the upcoming exam period, and, considering Wednesday was in no need of preparation, let alone tutoring, she made it the most heartfelt gesture to help the (h/c) – haired demon not fail any subjects. The ravenette told herself that she had no choice, that the oni wouldn’t stop whining and pestering her about how much work there was to be done and how little time she had left, but in reality (Y/n) had to only ask once.

Wednesday agreed, but not without grumbling about how annoying and tiresome the demon’s presence was.

Addams moved to take off her backpack and placed it on the desk, taking some books out of it before she took a seat in (Y/n)’s chair. She looked up at the opposite wall, examining the different posters and trinkets hanging on it. A small bonsai tree was sitting on the table that stood against the wall, obviously tended to caringly every single day, if the flourishing green leaves were anything to go by.

Noticing a much more imposing decoration, the girl stood up to get closer to a stand where two samurai swords were displayed in a matching daisho set, a katana and a smaller wakizashi sword. The sayas were of black waxed wood, golden kashiraes mounting both in peculiar bows. Wednesday moved to take a closer look, noticing a face of an oni demon neatly engraved into the scabbard of the katana.

"Something caught your eye?"

Wednesday turned around and away from the sword stand to look at the oni who had managed to sneak up on the other girl, but didn't scare her in the slightest.

"It's nice craftsmanship." Wednesday deadpanned, staring up at her.

(Y/n) looked somewhat pleased with the comment.

"I'm glad you think so," her slitted gaze moved from Wednesday's face to the kake, and the (h/c) - haired girl sighed, her hands behind her back and her shoulders tense, "It's been a while since I've last touched the blade. Don't exactly have a reason to train right now. Peaceful times." She said, almost with a hint of sorrow.

"Why didn't you join the fencing club?"

"Because I deem my swordsmanship a resemblance of my bloodline's ancient traditions, not a sport or a hobby." She answered firmly, but her tone held no offence.

"Strange. I'd see it as an opportunity to be undefeatable at something."

And to outdo Bianca again, no less. What a pleasurable thought.

Wednesday watched the other girl chuckle sheepishly and move her hand up to scratch at the back of her head.

"Well... My thrusting speed has been slacking lately. I'm more into powerful crushing slashes, you know."

"Hm." Wednesday seemed lost in thought, her gaze distant, before she turned to the taller girl again, "You and I should fence sometime. To keep you in shape."

The demon looked taken aback, both at the proposal and the intensity of the ravenette's gaze that wasn't there before. Then she smiled, her eyes warm.

"That'd be an honor. And you know I how I feel about that thing."

Wednesday stared up at the top shelf, aggravated, as if the glare adorning her face would make the book budge and fall into her hands.

She was at the library, looking for the Nightshades book, or anything that would lead her a step closer to the mysterious society. She wished she had brought Thing along. Tall bookcases wouldn't be a problem for him.

Frowning deeper, the ravenette tried to raise her hand a bit higher and jumped, the tips of her fingers barely grazing the spine of the book she assumed was the one she was looking for. She huffed, crossing her hands on her chest and looking around the room for some stool or a ladder.

"Wednesday, good evening. Up to some late night reading?"

Wednesday looked up at the entrance of the library to see (Y/n) going down the stairs, a smirk on her toothy lips as she observed the scene in front of her.

"Yes, I am, actually."

"Which one do you need? I'll get it for you."

Wednesday pouted for a few seconds, then pointed at the top shelf where the dark - purple book was sitting, taunting her.

The demon raised her hand to reach for the book, "Honestly, how are you so tiny?"

"(Y/n), I'm at a perfect height for breaking your kneecaps. I won't hesitate."

"Mhm, I'm sure you won't," grabbing the book, the taller girl took it off the shelf, but didn't hurry to hand it over to Wednesday, "Now, what's the magic word?"

"I don't have time for -"

"Wrong, Addams. Try again." The oni grinned, clearly enjoying herself.

Wednesday glared at the girl, her gaze murderous, but after a few moments she complied.

"Would you give me the book, (Y/n). Please."

"There, was that so hard?" (Y/n) pressed the book into the ravenette's hands, and the shorter girl quickly looked over the cover, exasperated when she realised it wasn't the one she was looking for, "Are you up to a research or something? Do you need an extra pair of hands, maybe?"

"Why would you want to help me?"

"Isn’t that what friends are for? And maybe it's the lack of anything better to do."

"You're such a slacker. I have no idea how you're still in this school," She put the book on the first shelf she could reach for, then turned around and headed for the exit, "Let's go."

The (h/c) - haired demon shook her head with a small smile before moving to follow the busy girl.

"I want to punch Xavier in the face," (Y/n) grumbled, her hands folded on her chest, a brush covered in yellow paint sticking in between her clawed fingers as she stared daggers at the pair of young people a few feet away from her.

"Huh? Why?" Enid looked up from the boat she was painting on, crouched on the ground, confused at her friend's sudden violent statement.

"Because he's a creep and he has a stupid face with that pitiful look of his." The oni muttered, furrowing her brows as she watched the young man bother Wednesday, the ravenette's expression and body language doing little to tell whether she was irritated by his presence, which pissed (Y/n) off even more.

Enid followed her gaze and smirked when she realised what the source of the demon's sour mood was, "If you think he's giving her a hard time, why don't you come over and talk to him?"

"I'm pretty sure Wednesday isn't the type to be sly and subtle when someone's vexing her." The oni huffed in reply.

"Well, doesn't that mean that... On second thought, I shouldn't be the one to judge the situation," the werewolf quickly stopped herself, noticing (Y/n)'s scowl now directed at her, turning away to continue painting the boat nervously.

The (h/c) - haired girl sighed, "You're right, actually. Maybe that means she doesn't mind his company. Or maybe she doesn't want to kill a guy in broad daylight," the brush the demon was holding finally snapped under the pressure of her grip, and she gnashed her teeth, seething, "I could."

"That's the third brush today, (Y/n)," Yoko chided from Enid's side, clearly tired of the oni's behavior.

"Sorry," (Y/n) turned her gaze away from the scene she was watching, her eyes like that of a kicked puppy's as she sat on her knees next to the vampire, taking a new brush from her outstretched hand, "Thanks."

Yoko hummed and resumed painting, "You should really talk to her, you know. Before it's too late and she's snatched from under your nose."

"Yoko's right. You jealously watching her like a hawk won't do either of you good. It's kinda weird that Wednesday herself hasn't noticed the heart-eyes you constantly have whenever she's around."

The demon grunted, trying to busy herself with lining out a yellow cat eye on the side of the boat.

"Seriously, (Y/n). Tell her. What's the worst that could happen? You don't seem like the type to be afraid of rejection," Enid grinned at her friend, winking, "Personally, I'm rooting for you. I’m sure you can make my roomie happy, well, to an extent, you know.”

Except the demon was afraid of rejection her whole life. And considering Wednesday wasn't the type to give any signals, (Y/n) wasn't sure where she and the gloomy girl stood.

She tolerated her presence, at least. That was a start. But she seemed to tolerate Xavier’s, too. God, what an enigma Wednesday Addams was.

The Rave'N Dance was at its peak. The music was loud, and most of the students had long since hit the dance floor, enjoying their time in groups and pairs.

Wednesday herself was feeling rather out of breath, the collar of her black vintage dress clinging to her neck uncomfortably as she stepped into a closed-off room to escape the noise of the party for a bit.

She was alone as she sat down on one of the couches, a sigh of relief escaping her mouth as she felt the pressure leave her sore feet.

Well, despite the abruptness of it all, Wednesday would lie if she said she wasn't having at least a bit of fun.

“Hey.”

Wednesday looked up to see (Y/n) come into the room, moving the blinds out of her way carefully. She smiled at the smaller girl, and the ravenette realised she was seeing the oni for the first time that evening.

The demon was wearing a black and white haori over a crisp white high-collared blouse paired with black hakama pants, and the combination of formal wear in different styles made the girl look very dapper. She had winged eyeliner on her face, (f/c) eyeshadow framing her lids gorgeously, and her lipstick was smudged on her canines just a bit, no doubt from all the talking and drinking the oni had done throughout the evening.

(Y/n) walked over to take a sit next to the smaller girl, letting her back slump over the couch with a grunt.

“Out of your notorious inhumane stamina already?” Wednesday asked teasingly.

“Uh-huh. Thought the girls were gonna dance me to death. I needed a breather,” the oni opened her eyes and straightened in her seat, looking around the small closed-off space, “Where’s your date?”

“You could say I needed a breather too. These shoes are killing me, and not in an enjoyable way.”

The demon hummed, her eyes moving from Wednesday’s legs up her face. Their gazes met, and (Y/n)’s didn’t falter.

“You look deadly beautiful yourself, Wednesday. Very much so.” She muttered quietly with gentle admiration, and Wednesday felt her stomach flip.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from you this whole evening, was what the demon wanted to say. I wish I was the one to share the dance with you, wish I could tell you how much I adore you, and how badly I want to hold you close, to feel your touch. Me, not anyone else.

The girl averted her gaze again, moving to stand up, "Gotta go before they think I've ditched them. No patience with the vampires. Ironic, huh?" She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes, and went to the exit, looking back at Wednesday one last time.

"Have a good night, Addams."

"Is there something on your mind? You've been very quiet for the past hour, I've gotten a lot done. It's getting unnerving."

(Y/n) smiled slightly, huffing out a laugh through her nose, her elbows resting on the stone railing of the balcony as she turned her head to look at the ravenette, "Nothing much. Just... things, I guess."

"Are they bothering you?"

Never. When I'm thinking of you, it's never a bother.

"I think I'm in love with you, Wednesday."

For the first time ever, (Y/n) saw the gloomy girl get caught off guard. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn't say anything. Her gaze traveled up to the face of the demon girl, and she stared at her, unblinking, like a hunting cat expecting a sudden attack.

"You'll get over it."

"You think so?" (Y/n) chuckled, looking out at the dark scenery in front of her, "I never thought I'd get to say that you might be wrong."

It was silent between them again. Wednesday seemed to be lost in thought as she observed the side profile of the taller girl, noting all her features lit by the dim moonlight.

"When have you started to feel this way?" She asked at last, as if a doctor examining her sick patient.

"A while ago, I guess."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I was afraid of... how you'd react. And I didn't want to overwhelm you. You seem to have a different type of obsession going on." (Y/n) looked at Wednesday, eyes gleaming with honesty.

"I hate you." Wednesday deadpanned, unconsciously moving closer to the taller girl.

"Really? Why?"

"I hate the way you make me feel. Your mere presence is what constantly overwhelms me."

Barely any inches were left between them as their gazes met, electicity going through the sudden connection.

"Do you want to stop feeling this way?" The oni whispered, barely audible through her heart thumping in her ears.

"No."

(Y/n) froze, and Wednesday leaned forward on her tip toes to meet her, pressing her plush lips against the demon's. The kiss was soft and warm, and (Y/n)’s stomach was instantly swarmed with butterflies, the heaviness leaving her shoulders. She felt the hand of the smaller girl move closer to hers, and Wednesday pressed a finger on top of her palm gently, before the cold touch engulfed the whole hand of the oni as their fingers entwined.

“It’s been an hour already, Wednesday.”

“I know.”

“It’s getting late. We should get to bed.”

“Do as you wish, (Y/n). I’m not finished yet. Good night.”

The demon groaned at the words, standing up from the bed to walk over to the smaller female where she was typing away, the clicking sounds almost enough to lull (Y/n) to sleep. But she couldn’t, not without the presence of the other girl.

Draping herself over Wednesday’s shoulders, she watched the typerwriter print the letters at a steady pace, Wednesday’s brows furrowed in focus.

“Come on,” the oni whined quietly, “This can wait until tomorrow. You have to rest.”

“(Y/n), I’ll suplex you out the window if you don’t stop bugging me.”

(Y/n) sighed, burying her face in the smaller girl’s shoulder, “You’re so mean. You know I can’t sleep without you.”

The typing paused, and Wendesday turned to face the demon who was still mumbling something into the fabric of her sweater, blunt tusks scratching at the clothed shoulder as her mouth moved. The shorter girl exhaled tiredly before turning back to the typewriter, finishing her last sentence and taking the paper out before putting it into a neat stack next to the device. Then she turned to (Y/n) again to press a light kiss on top of her head.

“Fine, you big baby. Let’s go to bed.”

Raising her head, the demon smiled, straightening her back and taking Wednesday by the hand, pulling her up and to the bed they shared now that (Y/n) was allowed to sleep next to Wednesday instead of the hardwood floor. It was a long process, but the ravenette was able to get used to the presence of the other girl, comfortable enough to push her boundaries to an extent.

“Want me to do your hair?”

Wednesday nodded, and (Y/n) sat down on the bed, taking a black brush from the nightstand before motioning for the smaller girl to sit between her legs. When they were situated comfortably, the demon started to unbraid Wednesday’s dark hair, careful not to tangle her claws in the tresses, before brushing it gently. Wednesday closed her eyes at the feeling of the oni’s hands in her hair, goosebumps raising up her neck as she leaned back into the bigger girl’s body.

This was nice. She could get used to this.

Skipping was never Wednesday's style. She was a responsible student, dutifully attending every single class and never missing on her extracurricular activities. Not like she'd ever want to, anyway. She liked spending time with the bees, even if the girl herself would never admit that.

So what was Wednesday doing, away from her class during school time, hidden inside a barely lit broom closet as she pressed her mouth against the resident demon's, kissing her feverishly and licking over her tusks?

Oh, if only her parents could see her right now. They'd probably be ecstatic.

"Fuck, Wednesday," (Y/n) sighed against the smaller girl's mouth, hands on her waist as she pressed the ravenette closer to herself, wanting to leave no space in between them.

"Make no sound," Wednesday scolded the (h/c) - haired girl, biting at her lower lip and sliding down to place a chaste kiss along her jawline, "We don't want to get caught, now do we?"

The only response she got was a quiet whine, and she smiled against (Y/n)'s neck, pressing a few kisses there, right by the jugular, and feeling her pulse quicken under the cold touch, the demon's clawed fingers digging sharply into her hips.

The ravenette moved away, and the taller girl breathed in sharp sighs through her mouth, skin tingling and positively on fire.

Wednesday kissed her again, just for the lovesick look in her eyes.

"I'm afraid we have to go before someone notices our absence and thinks I've kidnapped you to torture for fun."

The oni girl huffed, running her hand through her (h/c) hair both to fix it and to relieve the tension that was clearly still there, her other hand resting on Wednesday's waist, rubbing her thumb against the cloth of her uniform affectionately.

"You're such a tease," she sighed, lowering her face a bit, slitted eyes glowing and hopeful, "One last time?"

Wednesday pressed her palm against (Y/n)'s cheek and got on her tip toes to gently kiss the other, lingering there before pulling away completely, leaving a small but noticeable mark of her dark lipstick color.

"There. Let's go."

The oni grinned, cheeks still red, and Wednesday couldn't fight the warm feeling bubbling in her stomach at the way the taller girl looked at her.

"Let's hope Ms. Thornhill doesn't get too mad," (Y/n) chuckled, moving to open the door of the closet, letting some bright light in through a small slit. Then she closed it with a sharp twist of her arm, eyes wide and panicked.

"Wednesday, we've skipped the whole period here."

"And?" The ravenette deadpanned.

"The class is over!"

"And?"

"What do you think! The halls are filled with people right now. There's no way in hell we're getting out of here unnoticed."

"Why would we need to do that?"

The demon girl tore her gaze away from the door, looking down at Wednesday as if she was mad, making the ravenette roll her eyes.

"You're stupid. Come on."

Grabbing (Y/n)'s hand, she opened the door and led the girl forward, tugging when she felt resistance and heard the oni groan.

"I can't believe you sometimes," (Y/n) muttered, embarrassed.

"For someone who seems to always act so cocky and aloof, you care too much about what others think. Besides," she turned around to glance at the frustrated girl, a small smirk on her lips, "the color looks good on you."

(Y/n) didn't answer, too busy avoiding the amused stares of her fellow students passing by.

Oh, they were certainly not going to let her live.

[lafaiette]

I've seen some people ask for comparisons between Pen's Chinese and English lines, so I made a small compilation to show the biggest changes that most baffled me.

There is a kind Chinese player, Yu, who offered the fandom much of the info and insight contained in this post, and she was the first to shed light on these differences! Without her enthusiasm, I doubt people would have started investigating Pen's original lines ;_;

Under the read more because this is long!

Brief premise: the Chinese dialogues in the game are often less "harsh" than the English ones. For example, Qi can sound rude and condescending in English, while he's pretty polite, if not a bit aloof, in Chinese. Justice's lines in English rely on the typical "hey pardner" cowboy accent, while in Chinese he's very professional, almost overly so.

That said, the English writer who worked on Pen made it no mystery that he based his characterization of Pen on Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. There is even a line directly referencing the movie: "[...] when I was a boy I ate four dozen eggs every morning to help me get large. Now that I'm grown I have five dozen eggs [...]"

As such, English Pen sounds much different from Chinese Pen. He's more patronizing and rude, and the writer added stuff that it's simply not present in the Chinese text. So while in English Pen can sound like a knucklehead obsessed only with muscles and training, surrounded by adoring women and fans when in Duvos, in Chinese he shows a different, almost more innocent side, as if he were a very tall and big child who has never had a day of legitimate and healthy fun in his life (and that's carried across in some of the English lines - that's why his English version is a bit contradicting sometimes).

Here are some examples:

One of his lines as a Good Friend is:

Here it's implied that Pen gives the Builder a hard time not only to push them to improve themselves... but also because he likes doing it, referencing his friendship mission where he admits he doesn't like teaching people anything, he just wants to fight them.

Meanwhile, the Chinese version says:

I keep calling you a weakling just to urge you and encourage you to exercise hard and break through your limits. If you won't have me to protect you in the future, you will have to become an eagle for me!

Here "eagle" is a reference to the way Pen calls the Builder in Chinese: 小弱鸡 "little weakling/little chicken" - and the latter is a rude way to call someone in Chinese, especially if they are a man and the "chicken" character (鸡) is repeated twice (but 鸡 by itself is also slang for "female prostitute"... so if you want to read it that way, Pen can call the Builder "my little slut" when in a relationship. HEH.)

In any case the tone in this line of dialogue is much different from the one in English, and Pen sounds genuinely enthusiastic.

Another example:

At the start of the game, Pen asks the Builder to craft a Sword and Shield for Burgess, who apparently misplaced his own. It turns out Burgess hid them under his bed, so when the Builder tries to give the weapons they crafted to Pen, he will tell them to keep them.

As usual, the English version is mocking and patronizing ("Hah! That'd be rich!"). In the Chinese version, Pen first compliments the desert:

In this case, take it back and use it for yourself! Use it to explore the desert and fight those monsters - what a thrill! The desert is very dangerous, but it is also full of charm.

Then there is the line about Logan and his band:

Hey! Maybe you can still find traces of Logan's gang! If you subdue them, you will gain both fame and fortune! [Okay, see you next time] [not shown here]

Now, some romance stuff : >

This is the description for the Robo-Love Couch. In English it says:

Meanwhile the Chinese description:

Referred to as the "Love Sand Machine", Peng Hu specially built a loving sofa for you, pieced together from the remains of robot monsters in the ruins.

He specially built a loving sofa for the Builder. It seems like a silly detail, but wording is important!

And yes, Pen's full name is Peng Hu, 彭虎. Peng is his family name, Hu his birth name. Hu 虎 means "tiger", and now you can understand why Grace suspected him to be Tiger the spy. But that would have been too easy!

Peng 彭 is a common Chinese surname. Its original meaning is believed to be "sound of war drums" (sad implication), but it's also used as an adjective to mean "big". So Pen's full name can mean "big tiger" :D

Back to the couch! Lines are different during the date in Paradise Lost, too.

Come on, little weakling, come and sit next to me. Let's give this trophy a "kiss of victory"! Do you do this with everyone you date? Wait, it seems I'm regretting it a bit... Happiness comes too suddenly...... (Kiss Peng Hu)

In the English version, the Builder can ask "How many of these thrones have you built...?", implying that Pen has had so many lovers he can craft this couch in a matter of few seconds. But in Chinese, the Builder's question is much different, it's more like: "Damn, are you always so over the top when dating someone??"

One of the biggest differences is in this set of lines:

Okay.

Meanwhile, in Chinese:

Today's experience made me realize that love has used a deadly locking technique on both of our hearts. Let me no longer doubt the feelings between us. This love is true love! Now, I am even more unwilling to take my eyes away from you! Haha!

I MEAN.

Also, in Chinese Pen never mentions the infamous 12 girlfriends when the Builder and Grace question him in jail. Yu confirmed that throughout the game Pen doesn't brag about his love life or his popularity with women, probably also due to the negative way Chinese culture sees this kind of "bragging".

Not only Pen and many other characters are younger in Chinese Sandrock (Pen's age ranges from 25 to 27, while he's confirmed to be 31 in the English localization), but he's depicted as being not very experienced in relationships in general. He basically only knows how to fight, punch people, and destroy stuff. Anything else - having friends, being with someone who truly loves him and whom he truly loves, having a normal life - are something he never experienced before. He did date (see his final letter later), but he's not described being the Casanova of Duvos like he is in the English version. In fact, it seems people only liked him due to his body and status, and a remnant of this piece of characterization is left in the English text when he says:

Surely, you understand… I am quite the prize. I can’t take myself off the market just to become arm candy for you to show off at your little buildy guild awards or whatever it is! No, what I desire… is true love…

Furthermore,

In Chinese, he says during the Masterclass friendship mission: "To be honest, I never thought I'd be able to make friends, let alone with someone of your stature/body size! But here we are, with a sick relationship!"

In English: "You know, Skinny, I’ve never had someone I really considered a friend before. Furthermore, I always promised myself I’d never be friends with anyone who didn’t have an awesome cape, but… you made me break that promise."

"I never thought I'd be able to make friends" is different from "I’ve never had someone I really considered a friend before." In the first line, the focus is on Pen ("I don't know how to make friends; I'm not good at it; it's not for me; how do you do it?"), in the second it's on other people ("I've been surrounded by people all my life, but I don't consider any of them to be a friend of mine; yeah, I call this one 'friend', but... they are not really really a friend")

The Chinese line is much sadder, and it shows how lonely Pen's life has been. One of his main characteristics, after all, is being "special", "the strongest", "different from everyone else"; but more often than not, being special and different also mean being "lonely". ("I must say it gets lonely at the top… What I wouldn't give for a truly talented opponent who could really keep me on my toes! Alas...")

And now, the grand finale :'>

A screenshot from Yu's playthrough, Pen's final line:

Farewell, Yu. This time it's for real. You're free.

The Protector, the bracelet Pen will leave for the Builder in the cave, is called "Guardian of Love" (爱的守卫者) in Chinese. Its description says:

A very delicate bracelet that protects the wearer's wrist. Wearing it gives the wearer a feeling of being emotionally confined. Perhaps this feeling is similar to what Peng Hu often said, "Marriage is a boring bondage".

His letter in Chinese is also sweeter and sadder:

最近在这所谓的阿塔拉最高监狱，我也多了点时间思考，没法带你一起来陪我，多少有些遗憾。罢了，这事也怪我。不管怎么说，你也算是我交往过的恋人里最让我上心的，也是为数不多分手之后我还继续挂念的。所以，我打算原谅你了。对——我原谅你了。我想我们也没有机会再在一起了，你也不过是做了你那个位置该做的事，没什么值得抱怨的。我应该一开始就努力把你“招安”了，让你跟我一起，才是最妥当的做法。当然我也没怨你，你确实很优秀。我还留了个最后的挑战给你。在某个遗迹里，有我最宝贵的几样东西，如果你能拿到，就归你了。运用我教给过你的一招半式，要去到那里应该很容易。我亲爱的小弱鸡，这是我最后一次这样叫你了，我相信你的能力。记住，不要怠慢了训练。我们，后会无期。

Dear [name], I've had a little more time to think lately in this so-called Atara Maximum Prison, and I'm more than a little sorry that I couldn't bring you along to accompany me. Well, it's my fault. Anyway, you are still the most beloved lover I have ever been with, and one of the few that I continue to miss even after a breakup. So, I'm going to forgive you. Yeah - I forgive you.I don't think there's a chance we'll ever be together again. You're just doing what you're supposed to do in your position, so there's nothing to complain about. I should have tried my best to recruit you from the beginning, and it would have been the best way to keep you with me. Of course I don't blame you, you're indeed excellent. I also left you a final challenge. In some ruins, there are a few of my most valuable things, and if you can get them, they're yours. It should be easy to get there, using the tricks I've taught you. My dear little weakling, this is the last time I'll call you that, I believe in your abilities. Remember, don't slack off on your training. We won't meet again. (but 后会无期 can also mean "meeting at an unspecified/unclear date")

And finally, if romanced, Pen will leave for the Builder 5 pieces of gold, 2 diamonds, and 1 Protector. 521 (and 520) are a cute way to say "I love you" in Chinese, because when read aloud they sound like "我爱你, Wo ai ni, "I love you". But in some cases, 521 also means "Yes, I will [marry you]" - and Pen does drop a diamond ring after his final battle (apparently he drops it only if you romanced him, but it's unclear yet. I'm pretty sure he didn't drop it during my Fang playthrough, while he did drop it when I romanced him, but I'll need to check that).

WELP, this is pretty much everything I got on this! If the kind Yu will tell us more or I find anything else, I'll update this post!

[ugh-yoongi]

by the time i've figured out what it's worth | myg

(or, sometimes you go through hell, and sometimes you make it to the other side.)

✤ PAIRING musician!yoongi x f. reader ✤ SUMMARY you used to find comfort in it—listening to those old songs. the shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. all those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and yoongi’s got one foot out the door. ✤ GENRE est. relationship, marriage au | angst, smut, fluff ✤ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✤ WARNINGS this fic deals with a lot of unhappy topics: mental health, self-worth, divorce, the general demise of a relationship & marriage, counseling & therapy—therefore, there are moments of heavy-ish angst. there are moments where this couple is not all that nice to each other. there are arguments and resolutions. so, it's heavy but they get through it (aka there is a happy ending). american setting, yoongi is a solo artist, everyone pls pray for marriage counselor kim namjoon, seokjin is once again the fic's mvp, swearing, alcohol, recreational drug use (weed/edibles), one quick reference to c*vid, emotional hurt/comfort, miscommunication, two knuckleheads engaging in knucklehead behavior, lots of repetition and space metaphors. this is basically "what would happen if yoongi wrote tiny vessels about his wife: the fic," so do with that what you will. ✤ SMUT WARNINGS oral sex (both receiving), fingering, very slight dom yoongi, dirty talk, unprotected vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, angst and crying during sex, hands on throat but no choking, fingers in mouth bc it's me. i think that's it. the smut is mostly tame. ✤ WORDCOUNT 20k ✤ LISTEN TO all of transatlanticism by death cab for cutie, especially "tiny vessels." all the lyrics used throughout the fic are from this album, so it'd help contextualize a lot! also "monday morning," "stay young go dancing," and "you are a tourist." ✤ WRITTEN FOR the composition of the century collab. thank you to isi (@raplinesmoon), ryen (@kithtaehyung), and mars (@joheunsaram) for letting me participate. ♡ ✤ THANK YOU to jess (@the-boy-meets-evil) and bee (@hot-soop) for being my betas. this was a labor of love and a big ask, so i appreciate the both of you very much. ✤ AUTHOR'S NOTE hi! thank you for checking out my fic. before you read, i just want to overemphasize that this is a pretty angsty piece at times. a lot of it is very personal, and therefore i understand if it's not your cup of tea! if you do read it, i hope you enjoy it and find something human here. relationships are messy because humans are messy, and sometimes both the easiest and most difficult thing you can ever do is love another person.

so this is the new year, and i have no resolutions / or self-assigned penance for problems with easy solutions.

There’s a woman on the television trying to sell you a recliner.

Yoongi isn’t paying attention. He’d downed two glasses of whiskey and said he had something to work on, and he’s here, just like you’d asked, but the distance between the two of you feels insurmountable. Your ninth New Year’s Eve together, and all you’ve got to show for it is a crumbling foundation, a pair of headphones shoved over his ears, a woman on the television trying to sell you a recliner. Some home shopping channel, because you couldn’t bear to see anyone else having a good time. Selfish. Fucking selfish, and you wonder if Yoongi would be on your end of the couch if you weren’t.

What does it matter. You’d be here either way, because you’ve made peace with knowing there are things that are built to last and things like what you and Yoongi have: things that make you hesitant, things that make you yearn, things that sit in your stomach all wrong, taste caustic on your tongue.

It’s logical, then, that you just need something to do. A distraction. You push yourself up from the couch with a sigh, joints cracking, and you feel old. Exhausted, more like; something bone-deep and not easily cured. You pass through the dining room on the way to the kitchen, and all those wedding photos taunt you. Happier times, the two of you smiling into a kiss, Yoongi’s hands on your waist, fingers tangled in chiffon.

You wonder which one of you will stay here after it all goes to shit.

Him, if you were a betting man.

You scrub at the dishes in the sink until your hands are nearly cracked from the scalding water. Yellow gloves sit unused on the counter—sometimes you want the burn because pain is familiar, and a physical pain is easier to solve than your failing marriage. So you scrub away the remnants of a dinner that found you and Yoongi eating in silence. Nothing to say to one another after another year gone by. Not much to look back on fondly. And then you scrub some more, like you could get rid of all the scabs inside of you just as easily.

Some things circle the drain and wash away. Others stain.

You already know which one Yoongi is.

From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you should be able to feel, but find only numbness instead. Yoongi must have changed the channel. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? What does it matter. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you, so what does it fucking matter.

Fireworks explode outside. A sob wracks your body as you crumble to the floor. There’s a small puddle of dishwater that seeps into the hemline of your shirt. Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you and he can’t hear you, so there’s no one to witness your breakdown but the fucking dishes in the sink. Yoongi had chosen the countertops.

You’re going to miss this place when it’s no longer your home.

instincts are misleading / you shouldn't think what you're feeling / they don't tell you what you know you should want.

Kim Namjoon wouldn’t have been your first choice, if you’d had the luxury of choice.

You like him enough, though. Wicked smart, patient to a fault, pragmatic when it’s required. There’s not much more you could ask for in a marriage counselor besides not needing one at all, but that hadn’t been in the cards. The first time you and Yoongi had met him, you’d cracked a joke that hadn’t landed. The embarrassment of it still stings, made worse by the discomfort of the couch in his office.

“How are things?” he asks. He always dresses impeccably. Today he’s in a sage green sweater and tan trousers that must’ve cost a fortune to get tailored. Even his notebook is genuine leather; sometimes it squeaks when he jots down notes too fast, friction against the fabric of his clothing.

Yoongi is quiet. If you’re embarrassed over a joke, he’s embarrassed over everything else. At least you’re willing to work on things. Getting Yoongi to do anything these days is akin to pulling teeth, and you’ve got a mouth full of blood. “Fine,” Yoongi answers, eyes locked downward. Namjoon’s office has hardwood floors. Tigerwood, he’d said once. Yoongi had complimented them. That had stung, too.

Wicked smart. Namjoon turns to you, glasses slipping a little down his nose. “Would you agree with that?”

You wouldn’t, but the urge to make this easy on Yoongi is hard to fight off. Everything is hard. It’d taken him twenty minutes past midnight to come find you in the kitchen all those weeks ago, chest still heaving, eyes swollen. He’d been distraught, tried to kiss your tears away, apologized over and over like they were the only words he knew. Things aren’t fine, but at least you’ve been willing to fight, and the cost of that persistence feels like the weight of the world.

“No,” you admit, and Namjoon just nods. Writes something down. You don’t have the courage to look at Yoongi. Sometimes it’s easier to let go of a dying thing.

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

It’s hard to breathe around the lump in your throat. All you want to do is hold Yoongi’s hand, scream at him, shake him and ask why he’s doing this to you. Why he’s giving up. Why you aren’t worth more effort—not worth it anymore, when you used to be. If he doesn’t love you anymore you’ve already said you’ll go, and he begs you not to, says he’ll do better, he’s sorry, please don’t.

“They were hard,” you answer, and Yoongi nods his agreement in your peripheral. “We didn’t exchange gifts this year. First time ever.”

“And why is that?”

Yoongi stays quiet. Like pulling teeth, you think, and there’s a flashbang of anger, resentment. Sometimes you want to hurt him. Sometimes you want to make him feel as awful as you do, want him to suffer, want him to atone. It isn’t fair, the things you think, and all you want to do is love your husband without guilt, without wondering if there’s someone out there who’d appreciate it more. Still, you’ve got a nasty streak, and you can’t help but press on the bruise. “Because I knew I’d be the only one.”

“Can you expand on that?”

You shrug. Pick at invisible dirt beneath your nails. “Yoongi said he’d be busy this year. I know what that means.”

“That’s not—” Yoongi sighs, cuts himself off. Runs his hands over his face, sick of this same argument. “Baby, that isn’t fair. I asked you if you wanted to do gifts this year and you said no.”

The laugh that bubbles out of you is derisive, cruel. You’re sick of the same arguments, too. Sick of feeling stuck, some helpless animal in a glue trap. Sick of this office, with Namjoon’s priceless art that doesn’t mean a fucking thing to you; the tigerwood floors that got nicer words out of Yoongi than you have in months; the low thrum of the baseboard heat. Sick of asking Yoongi what you can do, what you can change to make this work, and getting nothing besides a self-deprecating sigh.

Yoongi loves you. Doesn’t want to hurt you. Doesn’t want you to put those kinds of burdens on your shoulders, but taking on all that water himself does nothing but make the both of you sink.

He’ll write about it, though. That’s the thing. Yoongi will write about it, and it used to bring you comfort—listening to those old songs, an aural timeline of your and Yoongi’s relationship. The shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. All those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and Yoongi’s got one foot out the door.

“Because I listened to the song,” you say, and it should feel relieving, should alleviate some of that weight you’ve been carrying around. Instead, you just feel guilty, confessing to some cardinal sin. Yoongi goes stock-still, doesn’t dare to breathe, spine straighter than it’s been in years, and all you feel is guilt.

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

this is the moment that you know that you told her that you loved her, but you don't / you touch her skin and then you think that she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me.

“It wasn’t meant to be about you,” Yoongi says, and his words are pleading, like if he uses the right inflections he can get you to understand. “It was just—shit, I don’t know, I just. I was just writing. I needed to do something with the way I was feeling.” His words take on more panic the longer you’re quiet, and by the end there’s a dazed look in his eyes. They’re taking on water, too. “Baby, please. Did you really think—”

This isn’t the kind of argument meant for an audience, and you’d said as much in therapy. Told Namjoon you’d like to discuss it with Yoongi in private and maybe you could all hash it out during your next session, because you knew this would happen. Knew you’d break down, knew you’d be embarrassed. How do you say your husband wrote a song about not loving you anymore and make it out still feeling whole? How do you swallow all that anger and remember all that bullshit Namjoon had taught you about how to communicate? Your stupid fucking “I” statements.

“Silver Lake?” you retort, resentment burning in your veins. “That wasn’t supposed to be about me? What, are you fucking someone else out there?”

Your husband looks like you’ve slapped him, and sometimes you want to. Sometimes you want to opt out of this life—where they’re just words to Yoongi, but a little too biographical to you. Because you’re not the only one who listens. Yoongi writes these songs and people listen to them and they think, isn’t he married. They think, did he really write a song like this about his wife. They think, that’s a little fucked up. Because they’re just words to Yoongi, and the rest of the world doesn’t know. They’re not in on the joke, and neither are you.

There are few words you can use to explain your hurt. How you’ve sat with that song these past few weeks, scouring each line for something to tell you it hurts now, but it’s going to be okay. Always coming up empty. Those lines you’ve fixated on, refused to let go of—

So when you ask, "Is something wrong?" I think, "You're damn right there is, but we can't talk about it now.”

—because that’s how it is, how it goes.

“This is my fucking life, Yoongi.” There’s only heat where there used to be patience. “You write these songs and you don’t spare a single thought for how they might affect me. You write these songs instead of talking to me, and I’m supposed to know how to fix everything, right? Aren’t I? You can’t even tell me how to fix this fucking marriage, but you’ll write a song about how I don’t mean a goddamn thing to you.”

There are tears rolling down your face. You hadn’t realized you started crying, but everything feels wet, feels wrong. Feels like you’re occupying a body that isn’t yours. You’re having this argument in someone else’s bedroom. You’re watching someone else’s marriage fall apart. Someone else’s life. “Either help me fix this and put in the work or let me go.” Everything boils over eventually. There’s only so much you can stave off before the inevitable, and now it’s come for you. “Please.” You choke on a sob. “Yoongi, please, I’m so tired.”

And Yoongi—Yoongi’s got a lot of nervous habits. Little things he does when the anxiety gets to be too much, and there’s one you share, one of those couple things where you pick up one another’s mannerisms, ways of speaking, specific inflections. Yoongi fidgets with his wedding band, pushes it up to that knobby fourth knuckle with his thumb, twirls it around.

Usually, when he pushes it far enough, there’s a strip of even paler skin. A place the sun hasn’t touched; a place that bears proof that Yoongi is yours. Yoongi pushes his wedding band with his thumb and that strip of skin matches the rest, and it strikes someplace deep that’s irrational and unfair. Because it makes sense that there isn’t a discrepancy, that everything is uniform. It makes sense, but everything is so fragile that the thought comes unbidden. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi isn’t wearing it. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi has let go without letting go, and there’s nothing to salvage, no point in begging, in putting the gun in his hand and forcing him to make the decision. It all tastes sour, tastes like your tongue has crumbled to ash, but—

“I’m not letting you go,” Yoongi responds, words just as waterlogged as yours. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“But you want to,” you say, and it sounds like a conclusion but you mean it like a question. A plea. Perhaps that’s the crux of it: you just can’t say what you mean. Sometimes Yoongi’s honesty feels like a brand, a permanent reminder of everything he’s ever felt that you’re forced to carry, but at least there’s honor in that. At least Yoongi doesn’t talk in fucking riddles.

He shakes his head. “No.” At least there’s conviction in his words. “No, I don’t. This is just—it’s hard right now, okay. It’s hard and it fucking sucks, and I don’t know why, but I’m not—” He sucks in a breath. Sometimes Yoongi can’t say what he means, either.

“Just say it, Yoongi.” So, you prod. Sometimes you find the most mottled bruise on his body and you press on it, because when you love someone the way you love Yoongi, you also know all the ways to hurt them. Sometimes you hurt Yoongi when you mean to hurt yourself because it feels the same.

“What do you want me to say,” he answers, defeated and raw. “Tell me what you want me to say, because if I didn’t know better, it’d sound like you wanted me to leave. It sounds like you want that but you want me to be the bad guy. You want me to pull the trigger.”

You don’t. You know that for certain, just by the way it feels excruciating to merely think about. What would your life even look like without Yoongi? What would it be? But you’re still that caged animal. Still resentful of Yoongi’s composure, because you can fall apart at a moment’s notice and Yoongi is always calm, prepared; always the last building standing in a hurricane.

“I don’t want that,” you say, borrowing a bit of your husband’s honesty, his fortitude, “but I need you to know that’s where we’re at. I need you to be able to say it, instead of treating it like it’s some impossible thing—“

“It is,” Yoongi argues, brows pinched, lips pouted. “Baby, what are you saying? It is. Why wouldn’t it be? That’s what you want?”

“You don’t write songs like you did about someone you’re not planning on leaving, Yoongi. I don’t know how you don’t understand that. I don’t—how can you think it’s impossible? You think I’ve just been doing all of this for fun? The therapy, the crying? You think I haven’t already—” Mourned the end of my marriage, you want to say, but you can’t. You need to be realistic. You need to say what you mean, and even if it’s true—even if you’ve mentally divided up everything in this house, thehouse itself—it doesn’t do you any good to create new wounds when both of you are already beaten and battered.

“You’re my fucking wife,” comes Yoongi’s response, and the way he says it feels dirty. Yoongi calls you his wife the way lesser men would use a slur, and sometimes Yoongi is composed but sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he’s so angry the world becomes too small to contain him. “I’m not gonna—you’ve already what? Given up? Checked out? It’s not fair, this thing you do. Decide how things are gonna play out before they even happen. It’s fucking bullshit. You’re my fucking wife, and the least you could do is give me a little credit—”

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Yoongi’s pupils blow wide. Sometimes you think they’re the darkest thing in the universe. Vantablack. “Yeah, it is. It is fucking rich.”

“At least I’m trying! At least I’m doing something, not just writing little fucking songs about how much I don’t care about you.”

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

For the first time, you wonder if he’s coming back.

i am waiting for that sense of relief / i am waiting for you to flee the scene / as if you held in your hand the smoking gun / and on the floor lay the one you said you loved.

You feel him before you hear him, and he doesn’t wake you up.

It’s dark. Probably sometime between one and two, judging by the pillar of moonlight creeping in through the curtains. Yoongi is quiet as he moves around the bedroom, still so considerate even now, and you just watch. Jeans removed one leg at a time, hung neatly in the closet; socks removed one by one, into the hamper; flannel unbuttoned with calloused fingers, dropped on the floor. He’ll pick it up tomorrow, just like he always does. Down to just a t-shirt, neckline loose and stretched from overwear, and black briefs.

Moonlight suits him, you think. (You’ve always thought.) Casts silver shadows on his skin, fills in the contours, lends credence to the thought that Yoongi is something ethereal, someone wasting his time on earth.

He’s down to a t-shirt and briefs, and he hesitates. Takes a step toward the bed and thinks better of it. Doesn’t know what to do in this liminal space, in this liminal period of time. There’s only two ways to go, and Yoongi will either leave or he’ll stay, and right now he doesn’t know which one it’s going to be.

“Yoongi,” you say, and you try to make the decision for him. “You’re home?”

You see him swallow, watch his shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s quiet like the nighttime. You’re in the middle of the city and this moment is so quiet. “I’m—did I wake you? I’m sorry, I just—”

“No,” you answer. You don’t want to fight. “You’re fine. Do you—are you coming to bed?”

He nods. Seems to fold in on himself just a little more. “Yeah. Yeah, just have to brush my teeth.”

There’s the padding of feet on hardwood. Something that sounds like a stubbed toe. A loud curse. The flick of the bathroom light, the faucet, spit. The padding of feet on hardwood, then the bedroom rug. The depression of the mattress, his phone plugged in and discarded carelessly on his nightstand. An exhale, like he’s finally home after a long day.

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

“I’m sorry,” you say. Still quiet, just like the nighttime. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

You hear Yoongi swallow again. Smell just the faintest hint of alcohol. “No one’s fighting, baby,” he answers. Woven into his words is a softness you don’t deserve. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Can we talk about it now?”

Yoongi suits the moonlight, but so do you. It makes you brave. Sometimes things are easier to say in these in-between spaces: love and heartbreak, midnight and morning. Sometimes the sun is too reflective, and sometimes it burns.

“Do you want to?” You nod, even though instinct tells you to shirk away and take it back. A small piece of honesty to work yourself up to something bigger, more consequential. “Okay.”

Sometimes you get what you want and aren’t sure what to do with it, so you roll onto your side, the one facing your husband, and suck in a breath. Hold it. Count to five. Let it go. Yoongi reserves all his patience for you, always. “I’m really scared, Yoongi.”

His sigh is fractured, watery. “Me too,” he admits. “There’s a lot I want to say and I just—I don’t know how. Which makes it worse, I know, and then I don’t know how to fix it.”

Is that why… “The song?”

Yoongi nods. “I needed to get it out. Like, some call of the void shit, you know? Put those big fears into words in a way that—it doesn’t make sense, looking back, because I thought it was just an outlet. Just, write this hypothetical song about the collapse of our relationship because it fucking terrified me and then let it go. Like how sometimes Namjoon tells us to write letters to each other and burn them.” He fists the duvet. Moonlight gleams off his wedding band. “I’m sorry. I need you to know it wasn’t real… like that.”

“Okay.”

“I—you were right. About the other thing. About me not being able to say it.”

“Can you now?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I don’t think I can. Makes it real.”

“You also can’t stand in a burning house and pretend it’s not on fire.”

That gets a laugh out of him. Sardonic, a little self-deprecating, but it’s there. “Is that where you’re at? With me.” He makes a sound that’s a lot like a whimper. “Divorce.”

“I don’t want to be,” you answer. Another small truth leading up to a bigger one. “I’m trying not to be.”

“But you are.”

Shakily, you nod. “Yeah, I am. Things just aren’t… they’re not working, even though I’m trying, and I just.” Yoongi’s hand finds yours. It’s sweat-slick and cold. “Sometimes I think it’d be the kind thing to do. Put us both out of our misery.”

“Relationship euthanasia.”

“Yeah, kind of. It’s funny, you know. My vet always used to say you’d know it’s time when there’s more bad days than good, so I guess that really is the best way to put it.”

“What would that even look like?”

You want to say you don’t know. That you haven’t thought about it. Is this the call of the void again or is this for real? But the twilight makes you honest, so you tell the truth. “I would leave,” you say. “I wouldn’t be able to stay here, and I couldn’t ask you to go. It’s always been more your space than mine.”

Yoongi hums an agreement. Not cruel, it just makes sense. “I’m not tied to this place,” you continue. “This city. This state. I’m not sure I’d be able to stay, knowing you’re still here in a house that used to be ours without me in it. But sometimes I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to leave, either.”

“You could,” Yoongi answers. When you look up, he’s crying. Cheeks streaked with tears, eyes swollen. “You can do anything, you know? You’re so much stronger than me. You could do the hard thing and be okay. It’s part of the reason I’ve been so scared to have this conversation. You might leave, and you’d be okay, and I wouldn’t.”

“Yoongi...”

“I know you’re tired,” he says, voice laying his own exhaustion bare, “but I want you to be happy. So I will—I’ll let you go, if it’s what you want.” He’s crying harder now, staccato sobs wracking his body, making him smaller. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can, but I will. For you. If it’s what you need. If it’ll make you happy.”

You can’t stand it. “Yoongi, no.” You’re on your haunches, wiping furiously at his cheeks, thumbing beneath his eyes. “Being apart from you would never make me happy.”

You’re in his lap. He’s still too anxious to reach out and touch, maybe still a little scorned, and his hands lay at his sides. Twist into the duvet again. You want them on you. You always want Yoongi on you. “Tell me how to fix this,” he begs. “Tell me and I’ll do it, I promise, baby, please just tell me. I can’t—I don’t want to—”

“Yoongi.” He looks up, meets your eye. Moonlight suits him. “Something has to change, and you know that as well as I do. We can’t keep going like this, but just—just meet me in the middle, okay? Help me. Let’s start there.”

“Okay,” comes his automatic response. He’d agree to anything right now. Take any lifeline. And then the words sink in, and the sobs taper off but he’s still got the shakes, so you hold him. Wrap him in your arms and just let him breathe. “Okay,” he repeats. Measured. Considered.

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

Also the mug of coffee on your nightstand, Yoongi’s hand splayed on the swell of your hip, the warmth that seeps into your skin. He’s typing away on his phone with the other, and he abandons it to pull you closer when you stir.

“Morning,” you murmur. Yoongi’s reply rumbles against your back.

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

Your laugh is abrupt, soft. Dissipates into the air as quickly as it’d arrived. “Okay. Good afternoon, then.”

Yoongi shuffles closer, adjusts so he’s pressed fully against your back. The hand that was on your hip moves beneath the hemline of your shirt. Explores the soft skin of your stomach, thumbs at the valleys between each rib. Yoongi’s touch is always laced with soft confidence; now, he still knows the way, still has the map memorized, but he’s reluctant.

You place your hand over his, move it higher. His thumb grazes the bottom swell of your breast and he sighs, presses impossibly closer still. “I love you,” he says quietly, like a secret. “Want you to know that.”

“I do,” you answer. He sighs again at your affirmation—more of an exhale, all relief—and drops his head to the crook of your neck. Presses a kiss there. The heat of him is almost disorienting, especially after being deprived of it for so long. “Haven’t been this close to you in months.”

He nips at your ear with his teeth. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, and something stirs low in your belly. “Take a shower with me. I still smell like the bar.”

You snort. “Very sexy. Top tier dirty talk.”

He presses another kiss beneath your ear. “Please?”

“Let me drink some coffee first. I’m barely awake.” When you roll onto your side, Yoongi looks small, on the verge of dejection. Soft. You can’t help but smile. Can’t help but reach out to smooth the furrow between his brows, kiss away his pout. “I’ll be there, I promise. Give me five minutes.”

He wants to push it, you can tell, but he just says okay, baby. Presses one final kiss to your forehead before he’s gone, before the sound of bare feet on hardwood returns, before you hear the shower turn on, Yoongi’s low hum as he patters around and talks to himself.

You sit up and take stock. Your eyes are sore, head feels like it’s been split in two, but your heart feels… lighter. Scabbed over. Another battle fought and won, and even though the war isn’t over, you feel cautiously optimistic. Better than you have in a while, and you’re smiling when you press the coffee mug to your lips. Still warm, so Yoongi hasn’t been awake much longer than you. You wonder how many cups he’s already had, if he drank them black.

Half your cup is gone before Yoongi starts yelling from the en suite, complaining loudly that he’s cold and lonely, to hurry up. That he’s going to use all the hot water out of spite, but what if it gets too hot, what if he perishes in here and you have to live the rest of your life overcome with guilt. If it’s too hot, wouldn’t I perish too? you call back. Yoongi’s responding silence is so loud, but you fill it with a wild cackle.

“I’m gonna use all the nice shampoo!” he yells, but you’re already in the bathroom.

“And you’re gonna pay to replace it,” you retort, and he’s so caught off-guard that you’re there that he screams, drops a bottle on his foot, screams again. Up and off goes your t-shirt—Yoongi’s; smells like him and not a bar—and then you’re peeling off your underwear, tossing everything in the hamper. Into the shower. You reach out and touch Yoongi just so he knows you’re there even though he already does, but you press a kiss between his shoulder blades all the same. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

Yoongi had insisted on a large shower. Something big enough for the both of you to fit in, and he’d blushed furiously when talking about it, but it was never anything sexual. You’d tried shower sex once, back in that shitty Silver Lake apartment, and never bothered again. But Yoongi craved the intimacy of showering together, the vulnerability, and over time you found it almost lonesome to shower by yourself.

So when he says, “Come here,” there’s enough space to maneuver beneath the spray, warm and not perishable-hot, and stand beside him. Enough space for Yoongi to rake his hands through your hair, get the strands wet; enough space to reach back for the nice shampoo he didn’t use all of; enough space for him to lather it in his hands and massage it into your scalp. A practiced song and dance. Something Yoongi could never forget the steps of.

Rinsed out, down the drain. Yoongi works in the conditioner next, brushes it through with his fingers, presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I was talking to Jin,” he says, and your mind is blank for a second. Then—when you woke up and he was on his phone. “About the cabin.”

“The one in Oakhurst?”

Yoongi nods. Turns you around so your back is to the spray, facing him. Lets the water rinse the conditioner away, too, before he’s placing a hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up. “Would you wanna go? Just us?”

“How long?”

A thumb settles in the contour of your cheek. Third finger traces the bridge of your nose. “However long you want. I—I don’t have anything, for a while. Could you work from there?”

You nod, a little delirious on how gentle Yoongi’s being with you. “Ye-yeah. Should be fine.”

You suck in a breath, shuddering as Yoongi brushes your rib cage when he reaches for the loofah. “D’you—” A pause. Time for you to swallow that familiar lump in your throat, keep from crying. “D’you think it’ll help?”

He pauses. Nods, so minutely you almost miss it. “I don’t know,” he admits, “but I want to try.”

“Me too.”

“Okay.” Presses his lips to yours. “However long you want, then.”

After he’s scrubbed the scars from your skin, the sadness, he wraps you in a warm towel. Stands behind you and wraps his arms around you as you both brush your teeth. Presses a kiss to your temple. Watches, so fond it makes you ache, as you dry your hair. Cracks little jokes about each product you use, says surely you don’t need all that, and you swat at him because you do. Because he uses just as many as you do, and sometimes uses yours. Tenderly takes the lotion from your hands and rubs it into your skin. His hands are firm when they run over your calves, your thighs, and your moan is quiet but it’s there, and you watch, mouth open, as Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut. As he takes a second to collect himself, breathe through it.

He just hasn’t heard that sound in a while, is all.

“Can I make it up to you now?” The words are spoken into your skin, pressed into the ditch of your knee, all warm breath skirting along your skin. “Show you how much I missed you? How much I love you?”

Goosebumps erupt all over. Dazed, you nod, and instead of words, you can feel the way Yoongi smirks. “Gonna take my time with you,” he promises. “Gonna take you apart. Would you like that, baby? Want me to take you apart?”

You meet your own eyes in the mirror, quick to forget where you are when Yoongi’s like this. You already look picked apart. Glassy eyes, mouth parted. The towel slips in your slackened grip and you dare another glance in the mirror, already knowing you’ll find Yoongi’s hungry gaze staring back, at full height.

“Look at you,” he chides, tone husky, and it’s not a shock that your husband wants you, that you’re both desirable and desired, but Yoongi is usually so unshakeable. Stable. Seeing him so affected from so little has you lightheaded, has your thighs clamping together unconsciously. “No.” Words firm. “Don’t hide from me.”

You reach back, still staring into the mirror, eyes still locked with Yoongi’s. Your hands tangle in his hair. Dark, longer than it’s been in so long, soft when you pull on it a little. Yoongi groans, buries his face in your neck, nips at the skin there. Through half-lidded eyes you watch as his hands roam your body. Feel the way he grows hard against the small of your back. Briefly, you think you might want it like this. Might want Yoongi to hike up the towel, bend you over the counter.

(Impersonal, because that’s what you’ve grown used to.)

But your hand finds his, slow their travel, lace your fingers together. “Not here.” He bites at your skin again and your whole body flushes when he begins to suck a bruise into your neck. “Yoo—Yoongi. No-not here.”

The bites slowly melt into something taunting, almost cruel. “You sound a little needy, baby.”

“I am.” You’re not embarrassed to admit it. It’s been so long you’re nearly aching with want, and you know Yoongi, know the kind of lover he is. The want is so strong you’re trembling with it. “Yoongi, please.”

Your words are hushed, meant only for the sanctity of this moment. Yoongi looks up long enough to catch your eye—long enough for the corners of his lips to pull into a smirk, to squeeze your hand tighter. “You don’t want it like this?” he asks, even though he knows your answer. But he still makes a show of it. Uses his free hand to grip the edge of your towel, drag it up and over your ass. Pauses to knead the flesh there before planting his hand in the center of your back and bending you over the counter. “Bet I could take you just like this, couldn’t I? Bet I’d just slide right in.”

The whine that escapes you is honestly pathetic, but you’re already so wound up, coiled tight, that you’re long past the point of caring. And you wonder, briefly, why you should care at all; why you care about the sounds you make, the way your body looks, when it’s Yoongi. When it’s your husband and not some random hookup. It’s that thought—this is my husband, my husband, my husband—that has your toes curling against the cold tile. It’s seeing the glint of his wedding band in the mirror.

“Do it here.” Your voice betrays your desperation. “Just—fuck, Yoongi, do it here, I don’t care.”

It’s maddening, the fact that he hasn’t even touched you yet. Not properly. But that’s the thing about space: sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s a dying star, a supernova explosion, and you know what comes after. A black hole. Endless, inescapable, dark dark dark. That’s where the two of you are. That’s what all of this is, just a perpetual pull towards Yoongi, fated. Perhaps nothing more than gravity, but you let it reel you in nonetheless.

If the two of you are fated to go out the same way, the same dying star, you’ll go willingly.

“I’ll give it to you how you wan’ it,” Yoongi slurs. Leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses across your neck. “Get on the bed, baby, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He’s on you before you even have a chance to drop the towel. Drapes his body over yours and presses you into the mattress, wraps one hand around your throat just to keep you there. Like you might leave. Like you might decide you don’t want this, don’t want him. As if you could. “Tell me what else you want,” he says, words unstable and wavering. He’s so fucking hard.

“Your mouth.”

He cock twitches at your words, your direction, and he smiles down at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re burning. “Yeah? That’s what you want?” A switch flips when you nod, chest heaving. Yoongi gets so serious, laser-focused, and it’s overwhelming when it’s pointed at you. You reach out, trace two fingers over his cheekbones just to make sure he’s real, and Yoongi captures them, presses a kiss to the center of your palm.

He’s not so gentle after that.

Yoongi moves slowly, intentionally, and you feel like prey, all part of the show. He trails his tongue down the column of your throat, the space between your breasts, your stomach. Spreads your legs and settles between them, places them over his shoulders. Stares. You can only imagine what you must look like: how wet, how open. His breath is so warm against you when he speaks. “You have to come on my tongue before you can have my cock.” He presses his thumb against your clit and circles slowly, and you can’t remember the last time he touched you like this. “Do you understand, baby?” A few months at least, maybe longer.

You nod. You’d agree to anything to feel Yoongi’s mouth on you, and he knows this, laughs before he leans in to lick a fat stripe against your slit. It’s instinct, the way your hands fly to his hair, trying to pull him closer. Having him here isn’t enough; you need to be consumed by him, need him to ruin you from the inside out, even though he already has. It’s also instinct, the way you know you belong to him, the way everyone who might come after him will pale in comparison.

As diligently as ever, Yoongi works you over. Eats you out so sloppily you can feel it pooling between your legs, seeping into the sheets below you, and the way he’s moaning around you makes you writhe. Has you gripping at the duvet, his hair, his hand. Has you rolling your hips against his face, groaning when Yoongi just takes it. When he says like that, yeah, so fucking hot, baby, love when you use me. When he reaches up to shove two fingers in your mouth and gives you no warning before he presses them inside.

“Fuck, fuck—”

Embarrassing, the way you can hear yourself, the way you can hear every wet pass of Yoongi’s tongue. Embarrassing that he’s only had his mouth on you for a few minutes and you’re already teetering on the edge. Embarrassing how hard Yoongi has to grip your hips to keep you where he wants you. Embarrassing that you welcome the bruises, want to be marked by him. “Are you close?” You think you nod. It’s hard to do much of anything when Yoongi crooks his fingers, presses firmly against your g-spot. “Is my beautiful girl gonna come from my fucking fingers? My mouth?”

(You are beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me.)

You try not to go there. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to think about the words in that song, try to remember that’s all they are. If Yoongi had meant to hurt you, though, he’d hit his mark. Just words, you remind yourself, but they take you out of your body completely.

And it’s a funny thing, this almost-grief, because you’re hurting so badly it feels like you’re drowning, but with the pain comes guilt. What do you do when the person who cut you is the only one who can bandage it? What do you do with this pain when you want to talk it to death, make sense of it, but you don’t want to make Yoongi feel worse?

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

You’ve gotten good at it over the last few months, too much practice, so you let Yoongi suction his lips around your clit and get you off just the way he said he would. You let him kiss you after, taste yourself on his tongue, and you think, This is what you deserve, I hope you taste like me forever, I hope it never washes away. You tug your lip between your teeth when you push him away and reach for his cock. Spit into your hand and say something dirty as you jerk him off, and Yoongi falls for it. Moans brokenly and thrusts into your hand, gets greedy just the way you had before reality humbled you.

“Ba-baby,” he whines, rutting a little harder, a little faster. Everyone gets selfish eventually. “Gotta fuck you.”

It should feel satisfying, seeing him desperate like this, seeing firsthand how badly he wants you, the fucked-out look on his face, but it all rings hollow. So you finish the show—push two fingers into yourself and coat Yoongi’s cock once more with your own slick—and roll over onto your stomach, arch your back the way you know he likes, and beg him to fuck you.

Yoongi falls for it. Yoongi pushes inside and groans, and you moan because you should and not because it’ll cover the sound of your sobs. Yoongi rolls his hips and lets whatever he thinks come out of his mouth, all filth, and it should do something for you but instead you’re wondering what he’d say to someone else. Would he fuck someone else like this? Would he be as desperate for it?

Eventually you forget to keep moaning but you don’t stop crying. You wonder if it should feel cathartic or if it’ll just feel like this forever. You think about New Year’s Eve and crying alone in the kitchen, how Yoongi hadn’t known. You think, I’m scared I could eventually hate him. I’m scared that line gets blurrier everyday.

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

You think, Maybe I’ve already burned up. Maybe this is all that’s left.

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

You think, How many holes can you patch before it all sinks anyway?

“I’m sorry—”

You think, I’m scared of how much I want to hurt you. I’m scared I’m going to be angry forever.

Yoongi turns you gently onto your back. Takes a long, hard look at the tears rolling down your cheeks. Seems to commit them to memory. Starts crying, too, and it’s nothing more than vindication that doesn’t feel satisfying. Everything just tastes like ash: remnants of the supernova, the crash and burn, a thousand cuts.

Yoongi loves you. “Keep going,” you say, because you both need it. Not every problem can be fucked through, but you think this one can. “Please, keep going.”

Yoongi hesitates. Must find whatever he’s looking for as he stares down at you before he nods minutely and pushes back in. This is not the way you thought you’d heal, but there is only one way this is going to end, so you might as well. The first time was always going to be the hardest.

“I love you,” Yoongi says, and it’s raw. It’s real, the way he drops his head to the crook of your neck and cries. The way he finds your hand and laces your fingers together. His wedding band is cool against your skin. “I fucking love you. I’ll love you for the rest of my fucking life, you know that?”

He’s got something to prove. Wants to fuck devotion into you, wants to promise you impossible things. You wrap your legs around his waist and whimper, ask him to fuck you harder, but he doesn’t. Fucks you steady. “We’re gonna go to that cabin,” he rasps. “We’re gonna figure this out, and we’re gonna do all those things we talked about years ago. I’m gonna fuck you in every room in that place, just like this. I’m gonna make sure you know—even if you leave, you’re gonna know how much I love you.”

He’s going to be the end of you. “Yoongi.” He already is.

He moves your hand to your clit, tells you to make yourself come. Tells you he wants to see it. Fucks into you just a little faster, a little deeper, and you can feel the coil tightening again. Another supernova, you think as your body surrenders and shudders, and buries himself to the hilt and comes with you.

Sometimes space is a dying star, and sometimes it’s salvation.

and when i see you, i really see you upside down / but my brain knows better. it picks you up and turns you around.

There had been a time, years ago, when you and Yoongi would sit at your cramped kitchen table and pluck scraps of paper out of a bowl.

A lot had been left to chance back then. Probably too much, in hindsight, but that’s just the way life was. Carefree, a summer breeze, blissfully naive. The two of you were young and love-drunk and warm from the sun. Yoongi had worked endlessly—gigs for shit pay in shittier bars, overnights in his studio, fingers calloused from guitar strings and networking—to put a ring on your finger, nothing certain except how he felt about you, and that had been enough.

It’d gone like—

(“What’d you write on that one?” you ask, trying to peek over the bowl between you to see. Yoongi laughs, swats your hand away, says oh my god, go away, you’ll see if you pick it. “You’re no fun.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m no fun because I don’t want to spoil a surprise.”

“But you know what’s on all of mine!” you argue, and you feel more in love with Yoongi than ever, picking a place out of a bowl, leaving things to fate.

It’s your pout that does it. You jut out your bottom lip and turn on the puppy dog eyes, and Yoongi folds like a bad hand. Yah, yah, don’t do that! he says, laughing harder than before, covering his eyes with those calloused hands. There are so many stories in those hands.

So Yoongi laughs and unfolds his scrap of paper and pushes it in your direction. Refuses to meet your eye as you read it over, and you can’t figure out why he’s embarrassed of it. “Jin’s cabin? It’s up in Oakhurst, right? That’s only a five hour drive.”

“For a honeymoon, though?” Yoongi’s question is quiet, small. Still embarrassed. “Isn’t it kind of lame?”

“No, it’s not lame. You’ve wanted to go to Yosemite forever.”

“Yeah, I’ve wanted to go. And it’s mostly just for Horsetail Fall—”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing dramatically. “Yoongi. Put it in the bowl.”

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

A flush creeps up his neck but he listens nonetheless, re-crumpling the paper and tossing it into the bowl. You’ll be picking soon, and you know the odds are slim, but you put a silent hope into the universe for Jin’s little cabin in Oakhurst to be the one, to be able to do this one thing for Yoongi when he’s been working himself to the bone to do so much for you.)

—and it hadn’t worked out, that cabin trip. The two of you had gone to Italy, Yoongi having been the one to pull it, and you rented scooters and ate gelato and soaked in the coastline. You’d dragged Yoongi on a tour of the catacombs and he spent hours at the Roman Forum, reading all the plaques and taking it all in.

You hadn’t felt like you’d missed out. Time hadn’t been wasted, and you still look back fondly at those pictures—the one of Yoongi with powdered sugar on his nose from too much sfogliatella, the two of you at Lake Como, you with all the stray cats at the Gatti di Roma, one in your lap, all gray, that you said had looked like Yoongi.

But, going to that little cabin in Oakhurst now, it feels a little like redemption. It feels like the universe is handing you the keys on a silver platter, saying, it’s okay to do it again; even if you got it right the first time, who says you can only do it once. So you take a day off for the drive and your boss gives you the week; you pack as many clothes as you can fit in your suitcase; you set an alarm for seven o’clock and try to stay grounded.

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

“How are things?” he asks, folding one endlessly long leg over the other.

Beside you, Yoongi radiates nervous energy. Jittery but not anxious. The kind of pent-up energy a runner might have: in position, awaiting the gunfire before a race. Composed to a fault, it’s not often you see him like this. Maybe right before an album drop or a big show, but never in marriage counseling.

So it doesn’t feel like a lie or lip service when you say, “Better,” and Namjoon and Yoongi both swallow down the same kind of smile.

“And why is that?”

“We’re going on a trip,” Yoongi says, and this surprises you, too. Protective, fiercely private Yoongi. “To, um. A friend’s place. Up in Oakhurst.”

Namjoon looks excited. “Near Yosemite,” he says. Not a question. “Is this a getaway or just a change of scenery?”

You look at Yoongi; Yoongi looks at you. “I’ll have to work some of the time, so I guess it’s a little bit of both,” you answer, “but it feels… good, exciting. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah?”

You’re fidgeting, digging imaginary dirt from beneath your nails again as your cheeks warm. “Yeah. I know Yoongi has wanted to go for a long time, so I’m excited for that. I think… I think it’s important for him to do something like that, right now. Something big, you know? Or, something that feels big, I guess. I think it’ll be good for him, and—”

“It’ll be good for us.” Yoongi’s correction is gentle, dandelion-soft. He can’t look you in the eye as he says it, but he doesn’t need to. His neck is flushed and Namjoon’s expressive enough for all three of you. “Anything that’s good for me is good for us.”

If you’re stunned, Namjoon is shell shocked. It lasts all of five seconds before he’s coughing to cover his grin, jotting down notes like a mad professor, and it’s a little tooreminiscent of the way your parents had pushed you out the front door on your prom night—that same brand of giddy excitement, like they knew something you didn’t. But, Namjoon is a professional before anything else, so he simply asks, “How long are you going?”

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

Right back to earth. Another sore point, because sometimes, like now, it’s easy to forget who you’re married to; easy to forget when you’re the pinnacle of American suburbia—standard nine-to-five, family health insurance plan, a maxed-out Roth IRA—and Yoongi is anything but. It’s easy to forget when your lives are so different. When Yoongi’s got songs and albums to write, for himself and everyone else, and shows and tours to plan, for himself and when someone else needs him as a fill-in, and you’re gearing up for another half-year spent alone at home.

Sure, it sucks sometimes, but getting to watch Yoongi live out his dreams tampers down all that negativity. When it’s two a.m. in Los Angeles but midday where he is and he sends you pictures of whatever he’s doing, what he’s eating, candids of his tourmates, all the sights and sounds. Yoongi’s doing exactly what he’s always wanted, what he’s meant to, and it’s okay.

What’s good for him is good for you, after all.

“I, uh—” He pauses, rubs at the back of his neck. The flush is still there. “I put a pause on the stand-in work for the rest of the year. Told everyone I wanted to focus on writing and producing and… stuff. Everything else. Getting my shit together.” You can hear it when he swallows, can see the slight tremor of his hands. Yoongi has never done well when he’s not working himself to the bone—when he has too much free time to spend in his own head. “And I can do that from anywhere, so.”

Namjoon catches your eye over the rim of his glasses. Seems to ask a question you’re not sure the answer to so you just stare back, and then his attention turns back to Yoongi. “When you say ‘stuff,’ what do you mean?”

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

From anyone else, it would sound snappy and bitter, but from Yoongi it’s just… self-deprecating, wounded, like it’s nothing more than a personal failure. Like Yoongi is the only reason the two of you are in marriage counseling and not a million little things the two of you have done. “We,” you correct, dandelion-soft just like Yoongi had been, and his head turns toward you so sharply you worry his neck is going to snap. “Don’t do that, Yoongi.”

He’s stock-still, back uncharacteristically ramrod straight, jaw dropped slightly. “Don’t take on the full burden of this. We wound up here. It’s okay to say that.”

Namjoon tries so hard to hide another smile that his dimples look more like craters.

i roll the window down and then begin to breathe in / the darkest country road and the strong scent of evergreen.

“Hi.”

Yoongi is slouched in the doorway of your office, beanie pulled down low. Strands of curls stick out of the bottom and you shoot him a smile, distracted from your task of packing up your work equipment. “Hi. What’s up?”

“Are you all packed?”

You shrug. “Just about. I don’t really have that much stuff. Just my laptop and some files.” You eye him skeptically, already sensing where this is going. “Are you?”

Your husband pouts, and it’s such a pathetic expression that you swear you can feel your heart grow three sizes. “In my defense—”

“Oh my god.” You try to look stern, but a laugh bubbles out of you anyway. “Why do you always do this?”

“I don’t like packing,” he whines. “And I need help.”

“With what?”

“Some of my production stuff.” He pouts deeper, sends you an impressive pair of puppy dog eyes. “Please help me. You’re my only hope.”

“How much are you bringing?”

“Not that much,” he answers in a way that sounds like a promise. “I wanted to bring the Yamaha because the cabin has that screened in porch and I think the acoustics could be really interesting in there, but it’s really heavy—”

You sigh. Look down at your laptop and stack of paperwork and wireless mouse and sigh again, then nod your agreement, because it’s not the first time you’ve helped Yoongi lug his gear in and out of your place and it won’t be the last. You’ve all but perfected it by now.

The car looks more like you’re moving than going on a trip. Your neighbor’s such a shithead you’re surprised he hasn’t poked his head out by now and asked when the house is getting listed so he can buy it and flip it for three times the price. Another brainless capitalist shill, Yoongi always says, and you laugh to yourself as you force another duffel bag of god-knows-what into the trunk. And we’re his neighbors, so what does that say about us? you always reply.

It takes the better part of twenty minutes, but then it’s done and you’re left with sore arms and a sweaty brow. Yoongi looks like the weight of the world’s been lifted from his shoulders rather than his hefty digital piano, and the thankful smile he shoots at you is worth any price.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“No,” you respond, picking up the stack of files only to drop them back down on your desk. “It’s really just my laptop and this stuff. I’m fine; go do whatever it is you’ve got left to do. I’ll take care of it.”

There’s a look Yoongi gets when he’s laser-focused. Intense, unmistakeable, intimidating, especially when it’s trained on you. That’s how he’s looking at you now: looking at the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your tongue runs along your bottom lip, your mussed-up hair. Both of you know exactly what he wants, and it drives you a little crazy when he’s shameless like this. When he’s not shy about looking, about wanting.

So Yoongi bends you over your desk and fucks you right there, right in your office in front of the street-side window. It’s hazy and primal but he takes his time, does and says exactly what he wants, has you a trembling, incoherent mess in record time, and it works. You come so hard you don’t think about the song, you don’t cry, and those threads of optimism start weaving something you can hold in your hands.

—

“Shut it off,” Yoongi slurs, voice deep and raspy from sleep.

You snort, turning off your alarm, seven a.m. sharp, and roll over to press a kiss to his forehead. “Wake up, sleepyhead, I got breakfast.”

He opens one eye, looks at you questioningly with it, blinks in confusion. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. Now, come on, I ordered your favorite.”

That piques his attention. “The breakfast sandwich?” You nod. “And the little strudels?” You nod again. “Coffee, too?”

You grab the plastic cup and shake it, rattling the ice. “One large iced Americano, at the ready. I even got you one of those bottled horchata cold brews for the road, even though you swear you don’t like them.”

“They’re too sweet,” Yoongi answers. It might be early, but apparently not early enough to not lie right through his teeth.

You glare. “You steal mine every time I order one.”

“That’s not true,” he grumbles, accusations forgotten as he spots the greasy takeout bag. “I should brush my teeth first,” he whines, looking agonized. “I should, right?”

“Says who?”

“I don’t know. The universe or whatever.”

You laugh. Watch, fond, as he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Watch, even more fond, as he returns with a little toothpaste on the corner of his mouth that you thumb away. Watch, hopelessly and forever endeared, as he buries himself back under the duvet, pulls it up and over his nose. You can see the way he’s pouting from his eyes alone, and he starts whining about the cold, how early it is, how the only thing that’ll cure him is a kiss.

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

(And the two of you barely make it to Santa Clarita before Yoongi cracks open the cold brew he didn’t want. Doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet, just sits quietly in the passenger seat, half asleep, as he scrolls through his playlists. Queues up something soft, easy to listen to, and talks your ear off about Jeff Beck when one of his songs comes on.

Beck’s Bolero, which is not as soft and easy as the songs that played before it, but it makes Yoongi’s eyes light up. Has him seemingly speaking in tongues as he spits guitar terms to you, half of Jeff Beck’s life story interwoven with endless praise and awe, all the while he drinks his horchata cold brew and doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet.

You want to listen to him for the rest of your life.)

—

Oakhurst is small.

Only two traffic lights before you reach the road Seokjin’s cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. You’re glad you’re doing this in early March and not the dead of winter. Doubly glad you’d ignored the judgmental stare Yoongi had given you at the car dealership when you’d insisted on an SUV, all-wheel-drive.

You’d know the cabin was Jin’s even without an address. Baby blue exterior, pink front door. Blends in but still manages to stick out, much like the man himself. More like a bungalow, maybe. Looks, from the outside, like the kind of place that might be good for starting over. Someplace small and unassuming—someplace with a screened-in porch with two rocking chairs. A place where you can drink coffee. Decompress from the city. A place where the only thing you know is Yoongi, so he’s your focus.

A place that makes you smile.

You kill the engine. Just sit in the silence for a moment, hesitant to wake up Yoongi. Unsure, honestly, how he’d slept through the last leg of the trip, all the hairpin turns and uneven roads, but you close the car door gently and punch in the lock code for the house and lug in everything except Yoongi’s gear and let him sleep. Then, when he stirs awake, looking confused and a little lost, you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and gesture theatrically at the baby blue bungalow with the pink door and say, “Surprise! We’re here!” even though it’s not a surprise.

Yoongi laughs anyway.

There isn’t much to unpack, nor is there much space to put it. Only a closet in each of the bedrooms, so you dump everything out of your suitcase and thread your clothes through velvet hangers. Laugh at the thought of Yoongi doing no such thing—of Yoongi living out of his luggage for the next couple weeks, everything wrinkled and looking lived-in.

He comes and finds you, places a hand on your hip as he asks for the car keys, says he’s going to the store. Seokjin had stocked the pantry, but he wants to get fresh stuff, and you know that means he’s going to come back with more coffee than groceries. So you just nod, say okay, ask if he’d like you to unpack and put away his clothes. His nose scrunches; you hide your smile and leave it alone.

When he’s gone, you crack a window in the living room to air out the lingering emptiness. Suck in a mouthful of fresh air that seems to sting your lungs, all evergreen. There’s still so much to do, and you should probably stretch your legs after so long in the car, but the temptation to sink into the couch is strong. Seokjin’s got a soft blanket thrown over the back that you arrange over your legs, and then you’re asleep, some stupid paranormal show playing on the television to greet Yoongi whenever he gets back.

You dream of forgiveness, endless sprawling mountains, and the smell of coffee.

the rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door / have been silenced forevermore. and the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row. it seems farther than ever before.

There’s a dive bar up the highway that does karaoke on Friday nights. You crack a joke about going.

“Fat chance,” Yoongi answers. He’s driving this time, and his hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have gone purple-white.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Left those days back in college, where you were suffering through your economics courses at USC and barely had two nickels to rub together. Yoongi would play open mics during the week just to cover the bus fare for the two of you to go into Koreatown on Fridays—enough to cover a noraebang for an hour, just to sing some girl group song horribly off-pitch just to make you laugh.

So it shouldn’t sting when Yoongi scoffs and says fat chance about singing karaoke at the dive bar when you drive past it, because Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Now he’s the kind of guy who gets up on a stage and sings songs to thousands of people. They don’t laugh; they take pictures and videos and sing along to words he wrote, so it shouldn’t sting, and you try not to let it.

Instead, you focus on the blur of scenery: all the greens and browns; whites and deep grays from all the trees that have burned; the blue of the endless sky; the color of the asphalt, the edge of the world, like you could tip right over and disappear, nothing beyond the margins. Yoongi drives the thirty minutes to the park and it doesn’t sting, and you wonder if it’s just because it doesn’t or if it’s because you’re numb.

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

You feel small, wrapped in the expanse of the mountains, in this ancient nature that has existed long before you and will persist long after you’re gone. Maybe insignificant is a better word for it, because there’s so much to see—so much that’s known and unknown—and it feels like counting grains of sand. Feels like you could never possibly catch up.

So you sit on the ledge of an overlook and just exist. You don’t watch Yoongi take pictures on an old point and shoot, the one he’d ordered from Japan, because this is just for you. Whatever happens between you and Yoongi, these memories will only belong to you, and you don’t want to override something that’s happy with something that could eventually be sad.

The two of you get back in the car. The drive to Yosemite Village is slow, made even slower when you pass a bunch of cars pulled over. There, about thirty feet from the road, is a baby bear and a crowd. There’s a woman standing too close in order to take a picture and ten more people screaming at her for it. Yoongi looks awestruck when you catch his eye.

“I’ve never seen a bear before,” he says, and you nod. Neither have you.

Maybe you were a little stung before, about the karaoke, even though it’s stupid. But the fact that you and Yoongi have been together for so long and still manage to see new things together eases it a little. Plants a tiny, hopeful little seed.

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

Both of you are wrapped up tight, only your noses peeking out from between the layers of your scarves, tinged pink. Yoongi had wanted to go to Mirror Lake; didn’t seem at all deterred when he found out the shuttles were only doing basic routes so the two of you would have to follow the trail from the shuttle stop. Just under two miles. Hadn’t seemed so bad at the time, but now your lungs ache.

Snow and ice cover most of the lake. It isn’t as reflective as it’s known for, but you’re glad to experience it nonetheless. The sand crunches beneath your boots as you look for a log to sit on, the chill seeping through your clothing as you rummage through your backpack for a protein bar. Yoongi’s off taking pictures again, and it’s another moment you’re content to sit in the quiet.

Gives you time to take stock, figure out how you’re feeling. Instinct wants to say better, but you know it’s wishful thinking. Immature. The tendrils of hurt are still wrapped around your heart, and it’s only been a few days. Not enough time to hack them away. But you’re… at ease. For the first time in a while, it feels like you can breathe, and doing so doesn’t make you feel heavy, doesn’t weigh you down with guilt. Things might not be okay right now, not all the way, but you think your compass is finally pointed in the right direction.

Your husband joins you once he’s done. Doesn’t say anything, just sits beside you on the log and accepts when you offer him half of your protein bar. He’s got a nervous energy about him, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t figure out how to, and that feels familiar. That feels like the status quo. Two people who love each other but can’t figure out how to talk to one another.

So you say, “It’s gorgeous here,” and hope it’s enough. You’re not going to push him if he doesn’t want to talk, but it feels necessary to extend an olive branch. It feels necessary to try.

“It is,” Yoongi agrees. Rubs his hands together. Watches his breath dissipate in front of him. “It feels different.”

“What do you mean?”

A bird lands on a branch in front of you. Orange chest, vibrant blue on top; striking against the dreary backdrop of winter. You watch as it ruffles its feathers, shakes off the snow, and Yoongi cocks his head to the side. A guy who knows a little about a lot, full of knowledge, so you aren’t surprised when he says, “That’s a western bluebird.”

You hum an acknowledgment, because you know what it means to see a bluebird. You know the symbolism, but it feels a little too heavy to bear right now. “Pretty.”

“Yeah.” Then he’s sucking in a breath. Says, “There’s a ramen spot in Mariposa, if you’d wanna go there for dinner.”

It’s not what you were expecting him to say, but you nod anyway. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Yoongi finally turns to you, then. Raises an eyebrow in question. “But is it what you want?”

“It’s just dinner,” you shrug. “Something warm will be nice after this.”

That nervous energy amplifies. Turns all those words clearly biting at the back of his teeth into a tangible thing. “Something warm—yeah, okay. Sounds good. They have matcha cheesecake.” He smiles, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help himself. “Seemed like something you’d like.”

Two things strike you, then: that your husband is always centering you in his world, even when the two of you are like this, and how badly it hurts that you can’t seem to talk to one another. Because you aren’t taking pictures with him because they might turn out sad, and Yoongi is choosing restaurants because they have matcha cheesecake.

And to hell with that, you think. Yoongi is your husband, and if you can’t talk to him then who can you talk to? So you sigh, say, “Look at me, Yoongi,” and you know there’s a fragment of surprise evident on your face when he listens. You know there’s a fragment of sadness on yours when you take in how exhausted he looks. Almost defeated. “Why can’t we seem to talk to one another?”

It must be what he was working up the courage to say, because his shoulders sag immediately. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m trying, but it’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes I’m scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing and that’s gonna be it.”

Your brows pinch. “Okay,” you say, because sometimes you aren’t easy to talk to. Sometimes you take things too personally, sort of revel in the hurt. You understand hesitation. “I… want to fix that. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah,” he eventually answers. “I do, too. We’re not really gonna fix anything unless we can talk to each other.”

“Yeah, true.” The bluebird chirps from its spot in the tree. Stares down at the two of you with these jerky little tilts of its head. “Do you think that’s our problem? How it got… like this.”

“I don’t know, baby,” he says again, and you immediately want to push back on it. I don’t know doesn’t tell you anything. Doesn’t tell you how to fix it, how not to let it get this bad again. But then he says, “It could’ve been anything, you know? A million things. I think—I know that doesn’t help you, but for me, it’s less important how and why we got here because that’s… gone. I can’t change it, and the more I dwell on it the more I spiral, so I’m trying not to do that.”

A stuttered exhale. “I haven’t felt present in a long time and I guess it just compounded. Like, once I realized something was wrong, it felt like I’d left it too long to try and do something about it. I knew you were hurt, and instead of trying to fix it, I’d just think, of course you hurt her, because you’re good at that.”

“That’s what you think?”

“Sometimes.” You reach over and take his hand, barely able to slot your fingers together with the thickness of your gloves. “I know I explained it to you before, but the song… it wasn’t honesty, it was self-destruction. Because I thought if all I do is hurt you, then you should be with someone who doesn’t do that. Someone who knows what they have and is able to hang onto it.” He hangs his head, guilt-stricken. “I don’t know why I wrote it. Call of the void shit, I guess, like I told you. I knew the whole time it was a bad idea. I just thought… maybe you’d hear it and do what I couldn’t.”

“Leave?”

He laughs, all derision. “Yeah. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m scared to death that you’ll leave me, so I tried to speed up the process.”

You sit with his words for a minute. “I don’t think it’s stupid, Yoongi. Can I tell you what I think? I think you feel like you deserve to be a little sad, like some kind of artist’s curse. I think you think you need to feel tortured in order to create, and I think you’ve appointed yourself the arbiter of my happiness, so you see me being human as a failure on your part. And I think I made a very smart choice when I was twenty-one years old, because I think you’ve taken my heart and kept it safe all these years.

“It… does matter to me, how we got here,” you continue, “because if I don’t know why, I’m scared it’ll happen again. But you told me I need to give you more credit, and that goes both ways. I know I can be a bastard, so I’m going to be selfish and ask for patience, and I’m going to give you the same. Just… please believe me when I say I’m not going anywhere. Not as long as we’re both gonna try to fix this.”

Yoongi stays quiet. Sticks out his pinky, and you hook yours around it.

(You know what it means to see a bluebird. Remember reading about it once, back when you were desperate to find meaning in everything. Right after a time of tremendous difficulty, the bluebird comes to bring good fortune in all things such as love, healing, and happiness.)

and together there in a shroud of frost, the mountain air / began to pass through every pane of weathered glass / and i held you closer than anyone would ever get.

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

Four days, to be exact. The two of you will be celebrating in Jin’s cabin in Oakhurst, surrounded by nature and a town still foreign to you, Yoongi’s music gear scattered all around like a treasure hunt. Follow the cables until you find him, hunched in front of a glowing computer screen, massive headphones shoved over his ears as he gets absorbed into his own world, strumming his guitar all the while.

You think thirty will look good on him.

The weather’s still mild, still colder than you’re used to, but the breeze feels nice when you open the small windows in the kitchen and let it blow through. It feels nice when you run to the grocery store and stand in the foreign aisles, staring at all the ingredients you’ll need to bake a cake. You haven’t done it in ages; since Yoongi’s twenty-sixth, you think. Almond with chantilly cream. It had taken you ages because the cream kept splitting, and you insisted on meticulously arranging little strawberry slices between the layers, but Yoongi had loved it so much it hadn’t felt like work at all.

So you grab what you need and some things you don’t and you feel as light as the breeze on the drive back to the cabin. You make a last-second decision to stop at the donut shop because it closes in the afternoon and you never catch it when it’s open. Two blueberry old fashioneds, a large Americano for Yoongi, and a mocha iced coffee for yourself. Six dollars, and the woman behind the counter is kind.

“What’s that?” Yoongi asks when you place the coffee and donut on his makeshift desk. The headphones are looped around his neck.

You click your tongue, all sugar. “What does it look like?”

“This looks like a donut and an Americano. What’s in the bag, though?”

“I went to the grocery store.”

“For what?” he pouts. “I was just there!”

That pout fades when you press a kiss to the top of his head. “Don’t pout. I picked up stuff for your birthday cake.”

“My birth—” he begins, seemingly offended by the mere thought of his birthday and that it might be soon, and then he looks at the date on his computer and mumbles an, oh shit. “You’re baking me a cake?”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

He tries to peer into the bag. “What kind?” You swat him away.

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

“No you didn’t. Now, eat your donut and get back to work.”

Yoongi pouts again. Really exaggerates it. “I’m really stuck on this bit. I might need a kiss for good luck.”

As you press a kiss to his lips, you think you might give him whatever he wants.

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

You spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday beneath the duvet, hands roaming every inch of your husband’s body. Thumbs digging into the muscles of his calves, sore from the overuse they’ve suffered the last few days. Nails grazing the sensitive skin of his biceps, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. Lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to his forehead, his temple, his neck, down his chest, the jut of both hip bones. And then, once he’s whining and writhing and just on the verge of begging, you spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday making him come with your mouth.

He spends the early afternoon in his makeshift studio with a cup of coffee. Answers a couple emails. Calls his parents. Messes around on Cubase. Fixes the two of you a quick lunch and says he might want to wander around town for a little bit. Check out the antique store down the street, maybe spend a few hours in the park with his guitar, get some fresh air. Thirty feels weird, he says, and you’re anchored to your laptop at the small dining room table, so you just say okay, I’ll see you later for dinner. There’s a crooked smile on Yoongi’s face as he hikes the gig bag over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

Seokjin: Thank fuck, I’ve been sitting at this Starbucks for 500 hours

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

When he arrives, Seokjin blows right by you and locks himself in the bathroom. You know I refuse to use public restrooms, he says after, slinging his arm around your shoulders. He’s not a hugger, so it’s the closest you’re going to get to one.

“My car reeks of kimchi and soup,” he says, dropping a bag of groceries in front of the refrigerator. “Won’t be able to get that smell out for weeks, probably.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” you intone. “You’re a god amongst men, Kim Seokjin.”

It’d been your idea. Wanted Yoongi to ring in his thirtieth birthday surrounded by as much love as possible, and a cabin-bungalow nearly five hours away from home wasn’t especially opulent. Not to mention Yoongi had been on tour the last two years—spent twenty-eight and nine in grimy venues in Texas and Birmingham, respectively—and the less said about 2020 the better.

So Seokjin had fucked off from his cushy job for the day and made the drive from San Francisco. Made the miyeokguk and myeongnan-jeot himself, and had whined when you told him you already bought the ingredients for a cake because I was gonna pick up mujigae-tteok, to which you replied, pick it up anyway.

Now he’s standing in the small kitchen of his own small bungalow, and you’ve got a one-thirty meeting so you can’t help, but he’s determined to make gyeran mari anyway, even if it inconveniences you. “Maybe I should make it closer to when he’ll be back?”

“Up to you,” you shrug. “You could also stand on the side of the road and resell all those eggs for ten times the price.”

He just sends you A Look.

—

You watch through the small window above the kitchen sink as Yoongi returns just after six, cheeks pink from the wind, arms full of goodies.

“Hey,” he says, kicking his boots off on the porch, “is that—”

“SURPRISE!”

Seokjin’s scream is so shrill you think you black out for a second. Nearly topple over from your spot in front of the island, frosting knife poised to strike. Yoongi’s still out on the porch, and there’s a terrible crash that can only be him startling and knocking into one of the rocking chairs. He’ll appear any second now, brows pinched, and go is that Seokjin? and once he confirms it is, in fact, Seokjin, he’ll start yell—

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, appearing in the doorway. Brows pinched. “I was gonna ask if that’s Seokjin’s car outside, but now I don’t fucking need to.”

Seokjin tuts, ladles another bowl full of miyeokguk. “Is that any way to speak to your elders? Now, get in here and sit down. It’s not breakfast, but it’ll have to do.”

Yoongi grumbles the entire time, but you see the way the flush deepens on his cheeks. The way he’s pleased to be fussed over, to have you and Seokjin in the same room as him. Pleased to be celebrating thirty surrounded by people who love him, people he loves in turn.

“Did you call your mother?” Seokjin asks, setting the bowl in front of him. He jokingly tucks a napkin into the front of Yoongi’s shirt.

“Of course I called my mother.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Are you stupid? It’s not my first day being Korean.”

“That’s correct! It’s your 10,950th day being Korean.”

“How did you—”

“I knew you would say that so I looked up how many days are in thirty years. Now, is your lovely wife done with the cake?”

You are, just about. Just a few more slices of strawberry to place on top, and you take a step back once you do so. Admire your hard work. Send up a quick thanks that the cream hadn’t split this time. Seokjin and Yoongi are still bickering—

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

“I’m offended, Yoongi. Of course I made it last night, the broth needs time to develop! It’s not my first day being Korean, either!”

“No, it’s your ten billionth, you decrepit bitch.”)

—and your heart feels full. Content. You see Yoongi laughing, all gums, and feel untethered. Like any second now your ribs are going to crack apart and give way, let your heart tumble right out of your body. Because it belongs next to Yoongi, always. Because it wants to be next to Yoongi.

So you finish the cake and set it aside. Sit down at the place Seokjin set for you, right next to your husband, whose hand immediately goes to your knee; who immediately turns and smiles at you, even though Seokjin is still squawking in the background. Yah, Yoongi, compliment the soup! Tell me how good it is! Yoongi doesn’t, because he’s still smiling, can’t look away from you, and you swear you can hear a fissure forming, except this one doesn’t hurt.

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

That traitorous combination of alcohol and sugar. A shot of soju, a bite of cake, some mujigae-tteok. Seokjin’s endless chatter as background noise. Yoongi’s hand still on your knee, warm warm warm. Liquor loosens him up a little, has him bashful, chin tucked to his chest, when he offhandedly mentions Namjoon and Seokjin says who’s this Namjoon, and Yoongi says he’s our marriage counselor. Seokjin looks to you, then. Connects some dots.

Says, “Ah, Yoongi, did you eat your tteokguk on Seollal? No? See, this is why things are hard right now, because you didn’t eat your tteokguk. It’s good luck, that’s why you eat it,” because it’s easiest to get through to Yoongi, to let him know he’s okay, when you’re scolding him a little. When you treat it kind of like a joke. No big deal.

And Seokjin follows that up with, “How are you settling in here?” when what he really wants to know is are things better, are the two of you doing okay. Yoongi grumbles again, barely coherent at his current level of inebriation, and Seokjin says, “Ah, I bet not well, huh? There’s just the one Starbucks, can’t find your bougie pour-over, LA coffee here, can you? Do they even have oat milk? Are you—”

“It’s still California,” Yoongi argues, “there’s fucking oat milk everywhere. Hey, hyung, did you—did you know there’s, like, the tree nut milk orchard near here? Not far. Close by. I could drive to see the al-almonds.”

“Tree nut milk,” Seokjin deadpans. “You know, Yoongi, I did not know that. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

By eleven-ten, Yoongi has convinced you to lay in the grass with him. A minute later he’s staring up at the sky, making wishes on superstitions. His breath vaporizes in the cold, and he’s not wearing a jacket, but he’s still flushed from the alcohol, feels invincible.

“Think the edible’s hitting me.” He laughs, short and raspy, and he doesn’t seem to care that the grass is wet with dew. Doesn’t care that it’s in his hair, seeping through his clothes. “What’s your favorite one of those?”

He’s pointing at the stars, wants to know your favorite constellation. All of them, you want to say, following his line of sight. Because they’re all different. All meaningful in different ways. All have their own story. Instead, you roll your head to the side, take in Yoongi’s profile. Say, “You’re my favorite,” and laugh at how flustered he gets, laugh at his gravelly protests.

“Yah, you can-can’t say that,” he whines. “That’s so greasy, you can’t say that, it doesn’t count. Give me a real ans—”

“Then why are you smiling?” You laugh as he grows even more thunderstruck, completely caught-out, and it’s nearing midnight but it does nothing to hide the blush creeping down his neck, tingeing the tips of his ears. “You’re so red. That’s exactly what you wanted me to say, you absolute—”

“Real answer, please.”

You decide to take pity on him. Poor thing, can barely look you in the eye because of one terrible pick-up line. “Fine. Pisces.”

His responding groan is so loud you have to slap your hand over his mouth. The grass is so cold but Yoongi’s laughter, the way his shoulders shake with it, makes you warm. “You’re just saying that,” he says once you remove your hand.

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because you’re a Pisces, first of all—”

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

“—but I just like the myth. Aphrodite and Eros transformed themselves into fish to escape Typhon, and tied themselves together with rope so they wouldn’t lose one another.” You sigh, watch your breath dissipate into the dark. “I don’t know. I like to think… I don’t believe in soulmates, but I like to think some people are meant to tie themselves together. Some people aren’t meant to be apart.”

There’s a quiet little oh, and then there’s silence. Just the distant sounds of the highway, a dog howling, and, if you listen closely enough, Seokjin’s snoring from inside. Yoongi finds your hand, brings it to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of it, and he’s oddly quiet. Contemplative, maybe. Usually gets a couple drinks in him and starts talking your ear off, but this is nice, too. It’s nice to just exist in the silence alongside someone else.

“Do you know the myth about Eurydice and Orpheus?” he finally asks, and you nod, suddenly understanding why Yoongi doesn’t care that his hair is wet. So inconsequential to this moment where you can exist in the silence alongside someone else. “I was thinking about it today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think… I think I’d fuck it up. I think I’d look back. And I think you wouldn’t.” He sighs, and the weight of the world expels alongside it. “What you said about Aphrodite and Eros, that some people are meant to be tied together—if I couldn’t hear you, or touch you… That’s what you are for me, you know? An anchor. The first time I read it, it made me so fuckin’ angry, like why can’t this guy just listen, if he loves her that much wouldn’t he listen, but… I dunno. I think I get it.

“I’m so scared all the time that one day I’m gonna look back and you won’t be there anymore. What would I even do? Baby, what would I do? Sometimes I’m fuckin’ terrified that I don’t think I could have that kind of faith in anything, and I’m finally gonna make it to the end of this cave and they’re gonna lay all my betrayals at my feet.”

Midnight finds you still staring up at the sky, hair wet, breath tangible, wondering how you can be both an anchor and an albatross.

—

(In the morning, Seokjin makes tteokguk and ladles extra into Yoongi’s bowl.)

i'm reaching for the phone to call at 7:03, and on your machine / i slur a plea for you to come home, but i know it's too late / and i should have given you a reason to stay.

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

Because it has no context. Grief doesn’t know that things are better, doesn’t know that the two of you have stuck to your appointments with Namjoon and are able to talk honestly; doesn’t know that laughing feels lighter, easier; doesn’t know that guilt isn’t weighing you down as heavy. So it feels a lot like treading water, and sometimes you’re able to float and sometimes you slip beneath the waves, struggle to breathe.

And it’s stupid, you think, that you can disappear too far into your mind to the place where everything feels bad. Where progress is meaningless. Where there’s still you and Yoongi and a crumbling marriage. Where the only words ringing in your ears aren’t I love you, but you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me. Just like last time. Regression.

There are only so many distractions. Work helps, because you can’t focus on how shitty you feel—how scared you are—when your boss is on your ass about deadlines. The antique store in town helps, too, though you must’ve worn a pattern into the floors by now, but you can’t help it. It’s nice to hear the stones crunching under the tires when you pull into the parking lot; nice to laugh at the giant Sasquatch outside and greet them like a friend; nostalgic to breathe in the scent of old stuff—belongings that were once well-loved, now free to be loved by someone else.

Grief doesn’t care that you’re sad and Yoongi has that spark in his eyes.

But Yoongi is smart. Wickedly perceptive. Knows there’s something bothering you long before you gather the courage to say it, because it feels wrong to dim that spark, take it away, so he lets you sit with it. Lets you take your time, and that endless patience just makes you feel worse. Makes you think, he deserves better. Makes you think, what’s the point of any of this. Makes you angry, because things aren’t fixed but they’re better, and why can’t everything hurt all at once instead of incrementally.

And, just like always, you can only tread water for so long, stave off the inevitable.

Because Yoongi’s giving you time but when you feel like this, everything reads like an attack. Feels like disregard and indifference. What you want is unfair, and you know it, because you want Yoongi to be able to reach into your mind and see everything that’s turned necrotic. You want him to know how to fix it without having to talk about it, because talking about it makes you feel guilty. How many times can you press your fingers into the same wound and be shocked when they come out bloody?

So it isn’t fair and it’s also hard. Words bite at the back of your teeth, because this is your husband—if you can’t talk to him, what are you even doing? Namjoon would laugh. The one that’s equal parts patient and exasperated, like he can’t believe someone like you exists even though he’s seen some shit. Worse shit than you and Yoongi have, that’s for sure, so it should be reassuring.

(Everything reads like an attack.)

“Hey,” Yoongi says, hip resting against the counter, towel thrown over his shoulder. (These things always happen in a kitchen.) “You okay?”

How doubly unfair is it that your first instinct is to lie? To say yeah, I’m fine—not to be deceptive, but because you’re sure with enough time you can make it true, foolishly certain you can either bury it or delude yourself. But Yoongi is looking at you like a caged animal; like he, too, is foolishly certain of foolish things. Yoongi is looking at you like he knows this is it. Like this is where you say I’m sorry, this just isn’t working, we were stupid to think it would even though we’re trying. Like this is where you take off your wedding band and place it calmly in his hand. No dramatics, just resignation.

So you don’t lie. You can’t. Instead, you say, “Yeah, I think… I think it’s just been a little hard lately.”

Yoongi tries to lie, too. Tries to hide how relieved his exhale is, but the smile peeks through, the flush on his cheeks. Can’t hide that he’s pleased because all those nightmares he’d conjured in his head aren’t coming true.

“I should’ve said something earlier,” you say, because it’s something that’s true, “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t want you to feel bad, you know? I don’t want to keep rehashing things.”

He closes the distance. Wraps you in his arms, all warmth. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard to talk about these things sometimes. I just wanted to make sure we’re okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Yoongi, I think we will be.”

(Something that’s true.)

it felt just like falling in love again. and it felt just like falling in love again.

On Friday, the two of you go to the bar for karaoke night.

As he’s buttoning his shirt, Yoongi says do you think they’ll have Epik High? and you can’t help the ugly laugh that tumbles out of you even though it’s not really funny. Because no, this two stoplight town won’t have Epik High, but it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re feeling terribly fond, horribly endeared—it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re riding the high of going through hell and making it to the other side.

It’s the kind of thing you laugh at instead of detailing every reason you’re in love with him.

So you do your hair and makeup nice. Barely make it out the door, because Yoongi stumbles into the bathroom to fix his hair and put on cologne and stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. Mutters a goddamn under his breath before he’s all over you. Kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, hips pressing you against the counter. The right side of painful.

You manage to pry him off of you long enough to shove him out the door, thighs just a little bruised, Yoongi’s lips a little too red. He’s still all over you at the bar. Still rests a possessive hand at the small of your back, still presses a kiss to your cheek every time he gets up to order another round of drinks, still whines and pretends to drag his feet when the house music plays and you pull him onto the dancefloor.

Someone sings “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra. It’s off-key and a little grating and Yoongi’s got wing sauce smeared on his cheek, but he still mouths the words to you. You are all I long for. All I worship and adore. You know you look lovestruck, and you think it’s a shame there’s barely anyone in this bar to witness it. What you and Yoongi have—it should be seen. It should be screamed from rooftops.

When the two of you go back to the bungalow, you split a bottle of red wine and sit on the living room floor. Yoongi has his guitar in his lap, barely able to play the chords properly, but he serenades you anyway. Does a better rendition of Fly Me to the Moon than the guy at the bar just because it’s his, and he’s singing it for you. He sweeps the blankets from the back of the couch onto the floor and fucks you slow. Holds your hand and kisses you until you’re breathless. (You already were.)

The rest of the weekend is spent similarly. Yoongi can’t keep his hands to himself, fucks you in nearly every room of Seokjin’s little house in Oakhurst, and presses praise into your skin like a brand. Sits on the living room floor again as you cook dinner, back ramrod straight against the couch; has a spliff stuck between his lips as he jots down words into a notebook. Looks up and over at you every now and then, cheeks reddening each time you catch him staring. You, too, refuse to smile until you’ve turned back around.

On Sunday night, Yoongi ducks out to go to the drug store and returns with an armful of bath bombs. Looks like he looted a bank, but he asks do you want to use the lavender one in that soft, shy voice, and you wouldn’t be able to say no to him even if you wanted to, so you don’t. You sink into the warm water, let the lilac swirl around you, make you soft, and you feel safe here with your back pressed to Yoongi’s chest. With his legs caging you in. With his words in your ear and his lips pressed to the top of your head, fingers dancing along your ribs, clearing the cobwebs from in between.

Monday comes before you’re ready. Insistent, inevitable—the sunlight streams in, wakes you slowly. Yoongi’s arm is thrown over your middle, both of you still lavender-soft, and he groans when you stir, buries his face in your neck. Everything is warm. A blissful little cocoon, made even more so when Yoongi pulls himself out of bed, makes a pot of coffee, returns with your mug steaming hot. He sets it on your nightstand, doesn’t want to risk burning you by handing it off, and tilts your chin up to press a quick kiss to your lips.

You’ve got a nine-thirty meeting, so you tangle your legs together and drink it as fast you can. Shameless, Yoongi watches as you undress—watches as the sun paints you in golden light, watches as you pull his t-shirt up and over your head, watches as your shoulder blades move beneath your skin. It’s the t-shirt that fucks him up the most, has him a little hard in his briefs. One of his tour shirts, the last one he’d gone on before the two of you got married. Says, a little awed, “I’d follow you anywhere,” and he doesn’t elaborate but somehow you know exactly what he means.

And he stays in the bedroom when you log on for your meeting. Listens to you talk to your team, your laugh soft and bright, and feels entirely dumbstruck. Feels overwhelmed, wonders how his body can possibly contain so much affection. Wonders, briefly, where it goes when everything hurts. If it’s just in a reserve, because Yoongi has loved you as long as he’s known you, and he’s not sure it’s ever felt like this; ever hit him this hard.

So, he locks himself in the second bedroom until the late afternoon. Pours over his notebooks, strums every chord he knows until he finds the right one. Jots down words he scribbles over and jots down more. Writes until the calluses on his fingers turn to blisters, writes until the words all blend together, until there’s something singular instead of tendrils. Yoongi writes until there’s something he can feel proud of; something that might feel a lot like redemption.

[interlude: monday morning]

(You listen to it far later. Back in your home that isn’t the apartment in Silver Lake but contains just as much love—perhaps more now than before you left; certainly more patience, more hope, more resilience. And as you take in Yoongi’s words, wrapped in their metaphors and their honesty, you cry again, but this time it’s quiet rather than heaving.

This time Yoongi is singing love, keep your arms around me.)

looking upwards, i strain my eyes and try / to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites from the passenger seat as you are driving me home.

“Should we go home soon?”

It’s a Saturday morning, and you and Yoongi are on the porch. The air is crisp and cool, makes your coffee a tolerable temperature, and it’s early enough that the world is largely still asleep. There’s no polluted noise, just the rustling of the grass that’s now a little overgrown and the one neighbor from down the road who always wakes up early to run. He must hear your muted voices, because he waves as he passes by.

Home. Back to Los Angeles. Back to your two-storey home with the awful neighbor who doesn’t wake up early to run and never waves to you. Back to the chaos you know. Back to a home that hasn’t felt much like one lately, but one that can be repaired, just like everything else. A home that’s got enough love stored between its walls that you aren’t worried.

But it’s still daunting, somehow. Things feel solid here, like a houseplant sprouting new life—resilient, but a little fragile, too. So you’re scared to burst the bubble and doubly scared of what that hesitation means. “I don’t know,” you say. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, either,” Yoongi answers. Takes another sip of his coffee, rocks a little in the chair. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest. Looks impossibly small, especially in his oversized pajamas and the even larger hoodie he’d thrown over them. “It’s nice here.”

It is, in more ways than one. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss it.”

Yoongi hums. “Maybe I’ll just buy it from Seokjin.” Words muffled by the rim of his mug, like he’s trying to hide them from you.

Doesn’t work. Instead, you turn to him, eyebrow quirked. “Oh, really?”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Gotta do something with all this money, hm?” Then he sighs, picks at imaginary lint on his pants. “You like it here, though, right? Not saying I am, but—”

“Oh no,” you interject, voice at least fifty decibels higher. “I know you, Yoongi! You wouldn’t be asking me any of this unless you already had some half-baked plan in the works—”

“Yah! It’s at least seventy-five percent baked!”

You laugh, the sound the loudest thing for miles. “Yeah, okay. How much did you offer him for it? You spend all my money?”

“Your—that’s not funny.” He pouts. “I didn’t spend all of it.”

“Just seventy-five percent?”

“I’ll have you know I am a very successful musician. I could buy you ten of these cabins if I wanted to.”

You drop your mouth open in mock-affront. “And yet I have zero cabins, so what does that say about the state of your priorities?”

“Not this shit again—”

“I think it’s more of a bungalow, anyway.”

“Yeah, Seokjin said the same thing. Was really offended that I offered to buy his cabin.” A pause. A small lift at the corners of his mouth. “Still offered to sell it to me, though.”

You can’t help the smile that splits your face. “And I’m sure you said yes, of course.”

“I’ve grown very attached to those blueberry donuts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“...And it’s been good for us. We’re happy here. Happier.”

“Yeah, we are. You just needed some fresh air.”

Yoongi’s cheeks tinge pink. “Yah, knock it off! You’re making me sound like a tuberculosis patient. Like I just needed a trip to the seaside to heal.”

“I’m just stating facts, Yoongi. You’re a little studio hermit, barely witnessing the light of day. I bet you got one lungful of this mountain air and almost keeled over.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he accuses, “I’m revoking my offer.”

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

As you load the last of your belongings into the car, it feels like you’re leaving behind a friend. You know you’ll be back (because Yoongi actually did offer to buy the cabin-bungalow and Seokjin seems keen, but whether that’s because he actually wants to offload it into the two of you or because he wants to salvage your marriage any way he can, you can’t be sure), but tears prick at the corners of your eyes anyway. Because you were desperate when you arrived, and now you aren’t. You were scared and lacking direction, and now you have another place to rest when you get tired.

Yoongi joins you at the car, his guitar bag slung over his shoulder. Just stares at the little blue bungalow with the pink door and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Whatever he’s thinking, you know he’s saying it in his head in that fond tone of his. The one that’s bordering on thankful, and you are, too.

On the way home, Yoongi drives and treats you to (read: makes you suffer through) John Denver karaoke. Sings “Take Me Home, Country Roads” the way he used to sing girl group songs at the noraebang. Holds your hand the entire way, and the two of you stop at some hole in the wall for lunch, still a few hours from the city. He orders a beer—some disgusting IPA you know he only drinks to seem distinguished, even though this is the same guy you watched do keg stands in college for free Natty Light—to get out of driving the rest of the way and it’s your turn to call him a pain in the ass.

But he’s quiet in the passenger seat, and it’s not from the alcohol. He’s typing intermittently on his phone, pink tongue darting out from between his lips when he gets especially focused. “I think I got something,” he says eventually. “If I read it to you, will you tell me if it sounds alright?”

“I majored in economics,” you say, because you always do. It’s been your go-to since the first time he asked, all the way back in your junior year.

He laughs anyway. “Perfect, then you can tell me if this shit is gonna make me any money,” he answers with a wry smile, because he always does. “I’ve had this stuck in my head for days.”

You nod. You listen.

“And if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born, then it’s time to go. And you find your destination with so many different places to call home.”

You wonder how Yoongi is always able to put to paper all the feelings you’ve got locked up tight. You wonder how Yoongi always makes Los Angeles seem less daunting.

there'd be no distance that could hold us back. so this is the new year.

It’s the thirtieth of December.

Your shithead, capitalist shill of a neighbor doesn’t wave when you and Yoongi pack up the car this time, either, just watches from his front porch. You can feel his brooding; worse ever since Yoongi had offhandedly mentioned buying a place up near Yosemite. Got a really good deal from a friend, he’d said, just when we need to get away, you know how it is, and that had your neighbor’s jaw clenching, nodding in faux politeness. Even illuminated by the golden ambiance of icicle lights, he still manages to look like a dickhead.

Good riddance.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks, catching the keys with one hand when you toss them to him.

You nod. Then you fold yourself into the passenger seat and reach for his hand.

—

Oakhurst is still small, but it’s made room for you, now.

There’s still only two traffic lights before you reach the road your cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. It doesn’t matter what time of year you make the trip, because the uneven, precipitous little road always makes your stomach drop, but it’s home now. Another physical one, because you and Yoongi have worked hard over the last year to make as many as possible.

(And, even still, the strongest home you’ve made is Us. What the two of you have is something still standing long after the storm. Something that has persevered and stood tall, even when the foundation was shaking. Even when you wanted to tear it down. Even when it seemed beyond repair.)

“Home sweet home,” Yoongi jokes as he kills the engine, and you laugh because his tone is flat and dry. Belies his excitement, his insistence on digging out an old box of Christmas lights from the attic and bringing it with you. That he has this whole plan to spend New Year’s Eve decorating, bringing life to this little blue bungalow with the pink door.

“It is pretty sweet,” you agree, and just like before, you neatly unpack your stuff and thread your clothes through velvet hangers and Yoongi abandons his suitcase in a corner of his studio.

—

There’s a woman on the television with rosy cheeks and a drink in hand. She isn’t trying to sell you anything.

She’s lovely and very drunk and even more beautiful when she laughs, teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white. She’s prattling off questions to some celebrity, rapid fire, and they’re trying their best to keep up but it’s hopeless. Eventually they, too, just smile into the camera.

Yoongi’s in the kitchen fixing drinks. Expensive champagne flutes filled with inexpensive champagne, a pair of raspberries tossed into each one as a garnish. Your husband doesn’t even like raspberries, but he’d wanted to feel fancy, so you don’t bother questioning it. You know what it means—wants a do-over of last year. Wants this year to be what the last should’ve been, because this year the two of you will be sitting on the same side of the couch, drinking cheap champagne from Vons out of expensive glassware.

A gift from Seokjin, because he’s a bastard. A housewarming gift for a house you’d bought from him.

There’s still an hour before the countdown. There’s still an empty pot on the stove that used to be full of tteokguk. It’s a different New Year, not Seollal, but Yoongi had wanted to make it anyway. Cracked a joke about not wanting to risk it, so he’s going to eat as much tteokguk as possible, that he might need the luck, you never know. I didn’t eat any last year and still bought a second house, he’d said. Imagine how powerful I’ll be if I eat ten bowls of this.

Your husband is always powerful, but you hadn’t pointed that out. Hadn’t pointed out that the only reason the two of you could afford a second house was because Seokjin gave you a steep pity discount, either. Sometimes it’s just nice to believe in luck, on top of all the other things you already have to believe in.

(Like each other.)

There’s still an hour, and Yoongi hands over a flute of champagne and sinks into the couch beside you. You forget about the woman on TV, but you don’t forget about—“You know, I distinctly remember you making me a promise before we came up here last year.”

Yoongi quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? Did I make good on it?”

“For the most part,” you answer. “Like, eighty percent.”

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

You set your glass on the coffee table. Angle yourself so you can swing a thigh over Yoongi’s lap to straddle him, earning you another quirked eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you promising to fuck me in every room of this house.”

His own glass abandoned, Yoongi settles one hand on your hip, the other on your thigh. “Surely I already did,” he answers, words spoken into the crook of your neck, goosebumps rising along your skin. “No way I would’ve been able to keep my hands off you.”

Warm lips press against your neck. Kiss their way to your jawline to the corner of your mouth. “Do you remember me fucking you on this couch? On the floor? You remember how hard you came that time?”

Your hips start to grind, seeking friction. This time, the cool metal of Yoongi’s wedding band against your flushed skin doesn’t shock you. Just feels like another home. His hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt feel like home. His tongue licking into your mouth tastes like home. When he pulls away to say, “I know you remember the time in the kitchen, the way I fucked your mouth,” you lose all concept of home entirely.

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

“I fucked you in that bed so many times. Against the bathroom sink. Always so good for me.” He’s thumbing over a nipple, embarrassingly hardened from the husk of his voice, the way his cock is filling out in his joggers. “Where’d we miss, baby?”

You swallow. Know it’s audible even over the sound of the television. People are cheering, but you aren’t turning around to look, because what could they possibly have to cheer for when they don’t have Yoongi? When Yoongi only looks at you like this—like he’s already a little crazed, a little fucked up?

“The st-studio,” you choke out. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Not a drop of champagne made it past your lips and still the world spins.

You can feel Yoongi’s smirk against the column of your throat. Hate what it does to you, because Yoongi could talk you off a ledge when he’s like this. “Ah, you’re right.” Fingers trail along the hem of your pants, toying with you. “Is that what you want? You wanna ride me in my chair? You want it fucking dirty like that, my sweats barely pulled down, like you’re fucking desperate for it?”

You are, and you do.

So that’s how Yoongi fucks you. Gives you exactly what you want: sits in his oversized chair, pulls you into his lap. Sweats pushed down only as far as he needs to fish his cock out, slick it up, and then he’s pushing inside of you. Groans loud, tells you how tight you are, how wet and warm. And it’s stupid, because your husband is fucking your brains out, but there’s a little window in his studio, just above his desk.

Through it, you can see the Christmas lights the two of you spent the afternoon putting up.

You can hear Yoongi’s grumbling in your head, all his shouting when he thought he was going to fall off the ladder even though you were holding it steady. Cursed about not having enough zip ties. Cursed about one lightbulb being burnt out. Cursed when the extension cord wasn’t long enough. Only stopped cursing when you shut him up with a kiss.

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

(From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you’re finally able to feel, last year’s numbness long gone and replaced with endless warmth. Yoongi only leaves to grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and then he’s cleaning you up and pressing his lips back to your kiss-reddened mouth. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? Just minutes ago. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi is right beside you.

Fireworks explode outside. You cry this year, too, but they’re happy tears. They’re tears that serve as proof you survived, that you went through hell and made it to the other side. Yoongi sheds a few of his own. Laughs, almost disbelieving, as he tells you he loves you. Smiles, certainly disbelieving, when you repeat it.

You’re going to miss this place when you leave, but there’s a ring on your finger and a man beside you that tells you home can be anywhere, be anything. Tells you that sometimes you’ll have to fight for it, but it’ll always be there so long as you choose to.)

if you've made it this far, i'd like to say thank you again for reading this. as i said, this fic is deeply personal to me, and i hope you find something relatable in it as well.

i know people don't always love to read the members in westernized settings, and i completely understand. i chose oakhurst/yosemite because it's where i went for my own honeymoon, and, well, personal.

i'd love to hear your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are always appreciated. ♡

[couch-house]

sonic get hug dot ms paint

[full transcript under the cut]

Page 1:

Sonic and Knuckles stand on a hill overlooking Angel Island.

Knuckles folds his arms and leans back.

Knuckles: Y'know. You never told any of us what it felt like in your cybercage.

Sonic: What!! Man, you can't just ask a guy what his cybercage is like!

K: Well we all told you about ours. It's only fair.

S: Yeah but--!

K: Plus I'm worried about you. It's not good to keep these things bottled up.

S: What's this? I thought Amy was supposed to be the emotionally mature one. Don't tell me you've been paying attention to what she tells you?

K: Maybe I have been! I can be emotionally mature too, y'know. If you talk about what's bothering you, it can help you deal with it better. And you seem pretty bothered by what happened in cyberspace.

Knuckles playfully punches Sonic on the arm.

Sonic looks down in thought, scratching his chin.

K: So TALK, YOU!!

S: haha, Okay, okay!

Knuckles looks frustrated by this answer.

S: Hmm... It was kind of like what Amy described--numb, disorienting. Everything was fragmented and dreamy. But it mostly felt empty. Huge and empty. Freaked me out (haha...). Felt like I was in danger for some whatever reason. Just like a bad dream is all.

And I was completely alone.

Wasn't too bad, all things considered. Your experience definitely sounded worse.

Page 2:

Knuckles grabs a startled Sonic by the upper arms.

K: Listen to me, Sonic.

A wide shot of the two of them on the hill as Knuckles speaks.

Knuckles holds Sonic in eye contact.

K: I've spent most of my life alone. Sure, I had the island. The chao, the animals make a difference. But I know what it's like to be alone. And I probably would have stayed that way if you and Eggman had never showed up.

I know what you went through was awful. But I also know that's something you saved me from. And it's not something I'll let happen to you.

K: You were the first friend I ever had. Not counting Eggman, obviously. You are my first friend. And my best friend. I'm not going anywhere.

Sonic shakes and holds back tears. He turns away sniffing and coughing to wipe his eyes.

Page 3:

K: S-shit! Sorry, I wasn't trying to upset you, I was---!

S: No, no. It's cool man. I appreciate it.

Sonic calms down, still facing away.

S: heh...

Sonic whirls around pulls Knuckles into a hug.

S: Thanks, Knux. It's not that I didn't already know that. It's just nice to hear aloud I guess.

Sonic pushes Knuckles away.

Sonic turns away and stretches his arms behind his head.

K: Is that... something I should be saying more often?

S: Nah, once is enough for me.

S: Anyway! That's enough emotional vulnerability for one day. Want to hit each other with sticks?

Sonic races off down the hill as Knuckles enthusiastically grabs a big branch off the ground.

K: Hah! You say that like you could handle a single hit from me!

S: You'll have to catch me first, knucklehead!

[happypotato48]

Only Boo! EP 7 Unhinged Tangent Thoughts

I'm BACK! with this week ep of Only Boo! i didn't write anything last week because i wasn't feeling cute, but now i'm back to my adrob self so let's fucking go!!

tldr for my last week ep thoughts : these boys are too dumb and too gay to get aways with anything.

Oh no a public proposal. thanks god it's just a dream cause like, Moo did you learned nothing about what Kang likes? btw i'm not a person who like big public display of affection, so satan if you're listening plz marcy kill me if this happened to me.

This boy is too gay to function.

Ok, all the boys in this show are too gays to function in society.

These knuckleheads. i understand that they're both angry for valid reasons but like stop being so self absorb for a bit and asks payos how he's feelling for a change.

Good on you Kang for being direct and honest. i'm totally not jelly of you at all for having two manic pixie dream boys fell head over heels for you. *sobs in single*

Hunny, you don't need radar to detect this shit you just need an eyes.

WHAT DID I TELL YOU! good dicks come to you naturally. and lo behold. Payos babe, the universe is telling you something here.

*dying from them cheeks*

Moo i know you loves Kai palo but you need to change it up sometime. Thai food has so much to offer especially in khao kaeng shop.

Potae, you came through this time so i give you a pass. but this boy deserves better than what you're offering him right now.

Oh my god indeed. แกง มึงก็ร้ายเหมือนกันนะ.

DRWAAMAA!!

I could and had finished what these two are eating all by my self.... Waahhh I'm a pig! Wuahhh! anyways i'm honkgry for hotpot now and food are amazing who give a shit about being a skinny BL boy.

Carrot the gayest vegetable second only to eggplant.

Owww! my beautiful baby, don't cry. You will fall in love with a handsome business man who also happened to be your long lost childhood bestfriend soon. just keep you chin up baby.

opkdgogkrkgkkgkrkegokslfpdsp!

*continuing to giggle uncontrollably like a madman*

I will not feel bad for this boy I will not feel bad for this boy I will not feel bad for this bo... Fuck!

YAY! Gay Magic!

Heheheheee that was the cutest shit i ever witnessed i legitimately gone complate gagabanana over that scene at the pier my heart is so full right now. i think i don't mind much about the fake out kiss at the end cuz both the actors are very young and very news. they also been giving their all in other aspects. for the side couple, Potea and me are still on thin ice but we'll see what happened after Payos confessed maybe they will finally win me over.

[napakmahal]

FIFTEEN DOLLARS? (W/ Hiro & Tadashi Hamada)

“Are you sure this is safe?” Hiro’s sassy voice questioned staring at the apartment building.

A few weeks ago, Aunt Cass had signed Hiro up for a teen connection class because she just wanted him to be around people his age. A fourteen year old in college didn’t make a whole lot of fourteen year old friends. A girl, Esmé, had invited everyone in the group to her quinceañera. After an entire week of deciding what to wear and what kind of gift to buy they were left with one question: What to do with Hiro’s hair.

Hiro’s hair was wild, thick, and untamable. Nothing could persuade it to lay flat. Even as a baby, Hiro was born with anentire head of hair that the doctors swore up and down would fall off within a few weeks and that they should enjoy it while it lasted . Dead wrong. Hiro’s hair only got bigger and more wild resulting in him having to get his first haircut before he’d even turned a full year old. And Aunt Cass refused to be embarrassed by having him show up to a fifteen year old girls birthday party just looking any ol’ way.

As a solution, Tadashi had heard through the grapevine (Wasabi) about a cosmetology student that did hair for cheap out of her apartment. All her socials were promoting her business and posting photo’s of her different clients with all types of lengths, textures, and colors. It seemed like she could do anything. Having someone else deal with Hiro Hamada’s kraken hair for only twenty bucks was a straight up steal.

The only conditions was Tadashi had to go with Hiro and stay the entire time. Aunt Cass was slightly skeptical about her nephew being in someone else’s house they they didn’t know personally.

“Yes it’s safe knucklehead, lot’s of people do stuff like this.” Tadashi explained. He’d be lying if going to someone else’s home to get his hair done wasn’t in some ways a culture shock. His hair was fine and never too complex to the point where sometimes he could trim away at his own bangs until he could get a haircut. But he’d never been to someone who could do hair like she did. Seemed fine.

But just as he’d said that, the doors to apartment 512 burst open and reveal a mother wrestling to hold her young daughter who’d just gotten small scalp braids in the shape of hearts. The little girls head was tender as the hair pulled at her scalp and the mother daughter duo left, with her still screaming her little face off.

Hiro’s jaw nearly dislocated from his face. “Dude!”

“W-well,” Tadashi stuttered. “Little people, low pain tolerance. Let’s go!”

No amount of jumpscares could inspire Tadashi to even touch Hiro’s hair. Once when he was younger, Tadashi noticed Hiro had a large knot carefully hidden in the back of his head. Trying to be a role model big brother, Tadashi sat him down in the bathroom with a wet brush and detangler. After nearly two hours, tender-headed Hiro was crying over his scalp and Tadashi was about to start crying over the carpal tunnel he developed trying to brush out the knot and the brush Hiro’s hair had snapped in half. Even after all of that, there was still some of the knot left Tadashi left Aunt Cass to take care of herself.

The closer the brothers got to the door they could hears shuffling and moving around. “Sorry, sorry! Just come on in!” A girl shouted from inside the apartment.

She was switching out all of the little bows for different color mini elastics, the butterfly clips for bobby pins, and a hair pick for a regular brush. The TV was on to different movie watching apps that the client got to choose from and a small tray of snacks for them to take from while she did her hair.

“Hi, um y/n?” Tadashi walked in after Hiro.

Breathlessly, the girl turned around to look her client and his big brother in the face. “Yeah, you’re Hiro and Tadashi right? Wasabi’s friends.”

“Yeah-oh” Gah Dayum.

She was pretty. Like ‘pretty girl rock’, ‘Hrs & Hrs’, ‘Golden Hour’ pretty. Tadashi was biting back a smile but it’s very hard to mask emotion filled eyes.

“Bro,” Hiro cleared his throat and elbowed his big brother in the ribcage.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Yeah that’s us.”

She laughed at his mistake and it was over. Her teeth were beautiful and her laugh made the songs of whales sound like someone needed their tonsils taken out.

“Alright, Hiro you can sit down on the pillow there. Tadashi there’s a chair right next to the couch and you guys can take from the snack tray.” Hiro criss crossed onto the pillow she’d placed on the floor after helping himself to a small bag of shrimp chips and Tadashi simply took a chilled bottle of water.

“So what are we doing today?” She started by brushing Hiro’s hair.

The fourteen year old shrugged. “Umm, I’m not sure I just need to get it out of my face and look nice.”

“ Well can I just say, you have very beautiful hair. It’s so thick, I can do a lot with this.” She continuously ran her fingers through Hiro’s hair, all the way down to his scalp.

Now, Tadashi is a very emotionally mature person. Even as a child he was always reserved adn very logical. With that ideology he has come to understand that jealousy is a very ugly emtoion and if you are jealous that’s just a sign you need to communicate your feelings. But how to you communicate that you’re jealous because the girl you met a few seconds ago is touching your fourteen year old brothers hair and not yours?

“What do you think about, dutch braids?” She took her index fingers and ran them from the tops of his forehead, down to the back of his neck.

Tadashi nearly spat out his drink at the idea of Hiro having dutch braids. “Does he have enough hair for that?”

“Oh definitely, he has more than enough.”

Hiro, not knowing what dutch braids were just let them talk and they decided what to do with his hair. Honestly, he didn’t care but he knew that it would be embarrassing and rude to show up to Esmé’s quinceañera looking messy.

The three ended up watching Game of Thrones in classic nerdy fashion, but it was definitely shocking when Hiro had no reaction to Viserys taking off Dany’s dress or Ned chopping off the deserters head off.

“Have you seen this show before?” Y/n asked almost outraged that Hiro had no reaction to seeing Dany’s wedding to the Khal along with all the death, blood and fornication.

“Yeah,” He answered plainly. “But I didn’t read the books. He did.”

Tadashi had read all of the game of thrones books and was waiting for the author to finish the series. Season eight almost made him walk into moving traffic.

“I finished all the published ones and I wanted to watch the show for comparison but we share a room. Everything I watch he watches too even if he doesn’t want to see it.”

“Aww, you guys share a room that’s so cute.” Y/n gushed while applying hair gel to Hiro’s parted hair to make the style tight and clean.

“Ew no!”

“It’s not cute, he’s messy.” Tadashi kicked his brother in the leg.

Hiro stuck his tongue out, “You’re bossy.”

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes and continued to braid but not before looking Tadashi in the eyes for just a few seconds before his brown eyes drifted down to her lips. He didn’t mean for them to he just got a little…distracted.

Soon the conversations just started flowing as if you’d known them all your life.

“Wait, you used to be a bot fighter?” She practically screeched.

A little embarrassed, Hiro blushed and looked down into his lap. “Yeahhhh.”

“Oh my gosh, Hiro that’s not okay! That’s so dangerous!”

Tadashi pointed at the girl in victory. “See!”

“Okay in my defense I was bored, I wasn’t in school, and it was an easy way to make money.” He justified.

The two of you just laughed at the teenager as he started scrambling to defend himself like he was in court and the jury was laughing.

“Plus, you know what else was dangerous? When you’d come bursting into the rings to save me.”

Tadashi finished off his water before answering. “Yeah because I cared and didn’t want to turn on the news one day and find you dead or have you come back beaten up.”

“Okay, you guys didn’t seem to care that much when I payed the light bill on café or when I paid the car note!”

Y/s removed one hand from his hair to ball it up into a fist and place it in front of her lips, “Ooooh!”

Tadashi flattened his mouth before saying, “Next topic!”

After about an hour, Hiro’s hair was finished, the show playing in the background was long forgotten, and they were getting ready to leave. It was sad that it was coming to an end. They were so nice and natural. There were clients she’s had that came inf or services that took hours longer and they didn’t speak to her once. Talk about awkward.

Hiro ran to the car, carefully rubbing his finger along his middle part trying to itch it with compression instead of with his nail. Leaving Y/n and Tadashi along to discuss ‘payment’.

“So I’ll just pay and tip you through zelle?”

“Yeah that works fine.”

“Alright. Thank you so much. You did work I could never.” He breathed out.

Y/n smiled and laughed again for the millionth time that day, a sound Tadashi was getting more and more used to listening to that he was sad to think he may never hear it again.

She clapped her hands together, “You’re so welcome. You guys were so awesome and his hair turned out great. Just make sure to wrap it before the party and put more gel un the day of so it still looks fresh.”

“So I-I guess I’ll see you?”

Her eyes softened. “Yeah, I’ll see you too.”

Tadashi thought about opening his mouth. Should he ask? Would she be weird out? I mean they’d never met before since now. But wasn’t that the whole point of going out on dates? To achieve the process of dating?

“Hey would you ever-” He coaxed up the courage to start his question.

Y/n’s face pointed up at him, waiting for him to ask the question. Would he do it? Or was she being delusional and he was just a really friendly guy?

“Yes?” She encouraged.

Defeated at the feeling of knowing he couldn’t say it, he back peddeled. “Would you ever consider cutting my hair? Or do you not do that?”

“Oh um, I’m not the greatest at using my clippers so I could if you don’t care what your hair looks like.” Her voice dripped with disappointment.

In the midst of all the silence came a loud HONK . Tadashi stuck his head out from the door hinge and saw Hiro sitting in the drivers seat with the keys in the ignition of their rust blue truck. Honking the horn to get his brothers attention.

“Ahh, okay we’re gonna go now. But thanks again!”

“No problem, bye. Drive safe.” She smiled, and then shut the door.

Damn it. What if he’d just asked her? Worst thing that could happen is that she just didn’t go out with him. She didn’t go to SFIT so it’s not like she could tell anyone else at his school that he was a weirdo or something.

Tadashi walked back to the car with his tail between his legs and kicked Hiro out of the drivers seat.

“So,” Hiro asked picking at his nails. “Did you do it?”

“Did I do what?”

“Ask her out,” He said like it was obvious. “You clearly like her and she was way into you.”

“Oh my god shut up,” Tadashi rolled his eyes.

The two drove in silence most of the way back until they got back to the café where Tadashi had finally asked Hiro as he hopped out of the truck:

“You really think she was into me?”

Hiro scoffed, “Dude, duh.”

Tadashi stood their contemplating as Hiro got closer to the big glass door before asking again, “Are you sure?”

But instead of answering this time, his little brother just shook his freshly braided head. “You’re pathetic.”

Y/n wasn’t expecting to hear from Tadashi ever again after that. He was the guardian of a client who just happened to sit there, and she’d convinced herself that he was into her. That was on her. Hiro was her last client of the day so she was just left to think about him for the rest of the night. His scent was still lingering on her furniture, completely ruining her mood. Did she do something? Or was it just that he wasn’t into her? Maybe he had a girlfriend. He was cute, nice, and really funny without trying. It would make perfect sense for him to have a girlfriend.

Just before she was about to start doing her skincare routine her phone dinged. A notification from her cashapp showing Tadashi had paid her twenty dollars for the style and then a fifteen dollar tip- wait what? FIFTEEN! Holy shit. And just beofre she closed her phone, she scrolled down ever so slightly to see that there was a message attached to the payment.

I know this is a little forward, but I’d love to see you again. What do you think? Give me a call.

Of course she wasn’t being delusional…this time.

[kurov1864]

Robin dating hcs!!

- Aggressive cuddler. As in, he'll jump onto you kind of hugging. He'll wrap around you like a snake when cuddling. He'll squeeze you until you can't breathe and wouldn't let go even if the world was ending type shit.

- Might be projecting a bit but he might be insecure about being from a branch family?? In one of the manga chapters, Bachiko mentions that Robin is the perfect archer, but it was a shame that he comes from a branch family.

- ACTS. OF. SERVICE. While he is super clingy, making you think that his love language is physical touch, he actually expresses way more affection through doing stuff for you!! Like cooking for you (malewife material fr), pulling your blanket up when you fall asleep, preparing you a snack pack to boost your energy (and hopefully your patience) after being drained by an exhausting morning of teaching students, and organizing surprise dates. Mostly food-related tbh,,,

- Ohmygod the dates. I'm not sure what is up with him and dates but he love love loves to make each date more unique then the last. For example? A picnic date near the everflowing lava lake, where you both compete to see who can guess which geyser shoots the highest. A fishing date in the clouds, where you both quite literally fish for birds. An archery date in a crystal cavern, where you both rely on your senses and the random bursts of light the crystals emit to take each other down. With him, you would never have a "normal" date.

- Also really connected with nature. If you're not the outdoorsy type, you two might not be the best match. When he's not focusing on his students or his many teacher tasks, you can probably find him wandering around Babyls, exploring every nook and inch and finding more hidden gems. (I have a hc that Babyls is a lot like Hogwarts, with many unexplored areas that aren't shown on screen, just because it would be cool)

- Communication is key!! He's not afraid to state his feelings loud and clear, and probably expects you to do the same. If you don't say anything nor show any physical signs of discomfort, he'll take that as an OK to continue doing whatever he's doing. Please don't make him have to guess why you're in a bad mood. No matter how observant his archers eyes are, they're not all-seeing. This also means that if you're doing something that makes him uncomfortable, he'll tell you in a very straightforward manner, maybe a little more hesitant if you enjoy doing that thing a lot.

- The whole "communication is key" part will also carry over to fights. Remember, when you two fight it's you two against the problem, not each other. While that doesn't mean that you both can't show emotion to have a perfectly rational conversation, it would be appreciated if there were no emotional walls up.

- Big on PDA in front of friends/in public, a bit more toned down in front of students. Like, you cannot tell me that he's not the type to jump on you, sit on your lap, intertwine your hands and kiss your cheeks. He doesn't really see a need to keep his relationship private (not that he can), but did he really have to stuff it in everybody's faces that you two were dating? Oh absolutely.

- This brings me to my next hc. Despite being sunshine incarnate, he can get awfully possessive. That's why he wants to tell everybody that you were his by acting so affectionately out in public. This way, nobody could ever doubt or even think that you two weren't together. And well, if there actually was some knucklehead that apparently didn't get the message, he would make sure that before your next meeting with them, you would be... appropriately marked as his. Of course, he could always use his image as a socially oblivious teacher to use and scare them off imply that you two were dating.

- Speaking of socially oblivious, I hope you realize he is anything but. As I've mentioned before, being an archer and all it's in his blood to be observant. This translates to him being able to sense anytime you are in a foul mood. And being the attentive and caring lover that he is, of course he's going to try and comfort you! You don't want to tell him what's wrong? That's totally fine. He'll cook you a nice hot meal while you shower, and try to cheer you up by telling you silly stories over the dining table. Expect a few movies to be put on while you two cuddle, anything to make you feel loved and protected. You want to vent about your day? That's good as well! He'll take it as a compliment that you trust him enough to not tell anybody. Although he's usually hyper and speaks up whenever he wants, for you Robin would just sit and listen, nodding and giving appropriate comments whenever needed until you're all tuckered out.

- When finding out you're human, I honestly don't think much would change. He has full faith in Suvillian's evaluation of you, and he wouldn't allow somebody who is weak and defenceless to join the faculty. Probably the only difference would be him trying to find out more about the human world, because he's just naturally curious about everything.

- DATES FOR MARRAIGE. I cannot stress this enough. Although he's not extremely traditional like Kalego, he is extremely loyal. This means that if he agrees to date you it's basically a declaration that he wants to marry and spend the rest of his life with you. He will not get into a relationship that he thinks won't last because he simply thinks it wouldn't be fair to both parties.

- Loves cheesy nicknames. Things like "cutie pie", "bugaboo", and "my lil cutie patootie". He absolutely refuses to use normal nicknames, just because. Favorite part of the day is to shout those in front of students, just to see your face turn red and try to shut him up.

[igotanidea]

Bodies : Hotch x reader (part 2 to cold weather)

previous part

You would think that the end of the year would be a nice, peaceful time filled with joy and reflection about the passing year, and probably somewhere in the world it was like that. However, when you are a DA in one of the busiest cities in America, you can only quote some comic heroes while saying: the crime never sleeps.

To put it bluntly, Christmas and New Year’s Eve were nothing less, but a perfect opportunity for both petty criminals and organized crime groups to commit atrocities. Theft and assaults were – well – as tragic as it may sound – normal - but in the crowd of people at the city events there were always a risk of something bigger and worse.

Killing.

Shooting

Bombing.

You live and you learn.

And Y/N had seen enough of it, both in her career and in her private live to behave cautiously even though it was not her job to secure the place or make sure everyone was safe. But hey, here comes a surprise – being DA is not only about inspecting dead bodies and prosecuting killers.

For her – it was about people and serving justice.

Truly. Not only in theory.

And given her experience she knew something big was coming making her dread.

***

“JJ. I’m being serious.” She was sitting in her office, talking through the phone with her friend from the BAU, who also happened to be the only person who could get the whole team of agents to come. “this whole situation is serious. I can’t let it accure.”

“I can only do as much as present it at the briefing.” JJ responded though it was clear in her voice that she was struggling between her professionalism and sympathy for the young DA.

“Right. Sorry.” Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose swirling in the chair nervously while looking at the street below her. Full of police officers, CSIs, reporters and very characteristic yellow tape. “Didn’t mean to be demanding. I’m just – “ the words barely got through her throat but Y/N was pretty sure if there was anyone trustable in the whole wide world it was definitely JJ “ I’m kind of desperate. This is way beyond my pay grade.”

“I promise I’ll do my best Y/N, but it’s not my call.”

“Yeah, I know….”

Oh yes, she did.

There was too much to risk and Y/N could not sit in her chair doing nothing. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain. 

***

“Y/N!”

“Get out of my way Morgan I’m here on business.”

“Oh wow! Slow down Katrina.” Morgan chuckled and  Y/N raised an eyebrow at him “The hurricane.”

“I understood the reference.”

“What’s with the stormy attitude then?”

“Where is he?” she swiftly avoided the answer getting straight to her point.

“Can’t you at least say hello first?”

“Hello Morgan. Now where is he?”

“Who?”

“Stop playing with me.” She warned throwing daggers at him. It was the first time anyone at the BAU saw her act like a force of nature and even Emily couldn’t hide the amused smirk of approval. Y/N was finally showing her true side as driven and strong DA and not the withdrawn public prosecutor’s trainee they met her as. And it was both admirable and terrifying, especially to Reid who was so taken aback that his mouth hung open for a moment. The girl  woman, who saved him from drowning some time ago was a lioness and after the initial shock, he was the one to point her to the direction were the reason of her visit has been currently sojourning.

***

“The local authorities-“

“For god’s sake Hotch I am the local authority!”

“The mayor-“

“The mayor is a knucklehead who can’t speak publicly without having the speech written by ghostwriter. He has no idea what’s happening in his own backyard. And frankly I don’t think he cares.”

“You’re forgetting yourself.” Deep, calm and cold voice of the BAU chief was an evident contrast to his smirk and watchful eyes. Y/N was definitely a view when she walked into his office with a face expression so stern it could match his own.

“Oh I am?” she spun around, loosening the collar of her shirt, since the situation was making her blood boil. A little gesture that did not slip by the agent, even if he didn’t let it show at all.  “Okay then. I’ll calm down and resort to your way of understanding.”

“Which is?”

“Logic, obviously. You have no imagination whatsoever. Everything must always make sense to you and form a perfect whole. Let me present it to you then.”

“Please.” Hotch responded, still calm and collected pointing the chair to her. “You know the rules.” He added when she finally took the place instead of walking around his office like a caged animal.

“I got a killer on the loose.”

“Yes. Like many other states and cities.”

“A very specific kind of killer.”

“You’re wasting my time.”

“And mine apparently.” She muttered

“If you excuse me I got-“

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“I won’t excuse you. I’m here for something and believe me I won’t leave until I get what I want.”

“You’re being-“

“Unreasonable? Crazy?” she leaned slightly forward, almost leaning on his desk “Go ahead. Think what you want, I’d rather consider myself driven and concerned about my people. It’s part of my job to make sure no more families cries at night because some psycho is on a killing rampage. And you’re the fucking BAU supposed to –“

“I know my duties.” Hotch cut her off getting a bit agitated by her behavior.

“Do you now?”

“Leave L/N.”

“Nah, don’t think so.”

“You have no authority here.”

The sudden slap of a paper file on his desk didn’t make as much dramatic effect as she expected, but got his attention regardless.

“Come on Hotch. Don’t be shy, open it.”

 The ruffling of the pages was the only answer she got as Hotch’s eyes were moving though the file and the photos attached, scanning through every detail and blood mark on the bodies of the killed. Every line, every cut and wound inflicted on the flesh had a meaning. They both could sense in their bones even if didn’t make any sense at the point.  

“Bet they didn’t show you that, did they?” she whispered taking in his seemingly unfazed expression.

“This is-“

“Yeah, I know.“ she bit her lip hard enough to make it turn red from the pressure.

“Try to not bleed on my papers L/N.” his eyes flickered to her mouth for a split second.

“Look Hotch, I know we have our differences, many differences, but please.” She noticed, but decided to drop it due to the more urgent matter than his gaze and the sudden wave of heat. “Please work with me on this.”

She sighed hating the fact she was forced to plead with him. But it was all for the greater good and if that was what it took to ensure safety and peace in town – so be it.

“Why?” his dark eyes landed on her, piercing right through and it made her shiver in the same way she did when he grabbed her hand at the lake when they were working together before Christmas.

God, she hated her feelings. It was job, for crying out loud, and she didn’t need any exposure. Aaron could read her like a magazine, and it was very uncomfortable, to think he knew her better then she knew herself, while hiding his own motivations and emotions at the same time. Treating her like a mouse he could play with.  

“What do you mean why? Why do I want you to come?”

“Why are you pleading with me? You’re proud. You’re hot tempered. You do what you believe is right even if it violates someone else’s rules and patterns of behaviors.”

“And procedures.” She smirked

“Yes.” He nodded “So why?”

“You really want me to say it, don’t you? Some ego-feeding agent Hotchner?”

He looked at her in predatory, warning way even if his whole posture was revealing he was the lion falling for a lamb.

“Fine. Fine! You’re my last hope. I need you.”

Hotch’s face expression didn’t change even in the slightest when he stood up and opened the door motioning her to walk out.

“Aaron I –“

“Y/N.” He shook his head and waited patiently till she finally moved from the chair, defeated.

So she fought and lost and now the stupid mayor, who was only caring about the pretenses and appearances would be on top.

Over her dead body. She would catch that killer freak herself even if it meant –

“We’re going to Washington.“

Wait, what?

Hotch’s voice got through to her brain, but his words made no sense to her.

Did he just say -?

She frowned and looked at him in a bit of confusion.

“why does your action and your words never match?”

“Better get yourself on the plane L/N.”

“Since when do you take additional passengers?”

“Since I need to keep an eye on a rowdy DA, who wants to pursue a dangerous criminal on her own.”

“I did not-“

“You did.” He muttered handing her the coat in a very telling gesture

Um. Thank you?

“Are you concerned about my safety or something now?”

“You’re reckless and tend to put yourself in danger. I’m always concerned about your safety. Who would be my partner in investigating the bodies if something happened to you?”

Sure.

It was all about the bodies.

Not necessarily the dead ones though.

And very natural human instincts, even if forced to stay in hiding.

@somest1 @taygrls

[lucidheart3]

I love how Knuckles bullies Sonic in the movies

“He’s much more impressive than the hedgehog I fought previously.”

“Dude, I’m standing right here!”

Like, if this isn’t big brother behaviour then what is? Sonic is totally getting the middle child treatment™️

Please elaborate if you disagree because I’m an only child lol.

Also take this scenes of Knuckles bullying Sonic from my fics if you’re interested :))

Late Night Endearement:

“I was… thinking of something! “

“Hedgehog, thinking? Unheard of.”

Cards On The Table (We’re Showing Hearts)

“It was quite nice, hedgehog. I never knew you were capable of producing pleasant sounds.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Knux!”

Break Into Contents, Never Falling Down

“What would you desire for me to do to forgive me, his royal highness the Drama Prince?” He says, and stands straight, snickering to himself. Sonic crosses his arms against his chest, but barely holds his laughter in.

“Dad says just let him get it out of his system.” Tails says then giggles, Sonic snorts.

“Okay, okay, fine. You two are forgiven.”

“Two? What did I do?”

“Tails, obviously you committed an atricous crime which his highness was generous enough to forgive you.” Knuckles says and laughs, then Sonic gestures to him.

“You gave him ideas!”

“In my defence it was Dad who gave me the exact idea first!”

————————

“Seriously, you forgive me, right?”

“I do.” Sonic mutters, his voice barely audible.

“What? I couldn’t hear you, hedgehog.”

“Don’t push your luck, echidna.”

“Very well. This calls for a special occasion.” Knuckles says, catching Tails’ gaze, who nods, a huge grin on his face. Sonic looks at Knuckles, then Tails, and frowns.

“Don’t you dare-“

Before he can complete his sentence, he is flung right into a tickle attack

Visions Of What We Could Be

“Maybe this will teach you to think deeper before weeping, hedgehog.”

Knuckles teases, Sonic groans, this is why they can never have heartfelt moments. Sonic elbows his side, effectively breaking out of their embrace Knuckles has the nerve to fake being hurt, and Sonic frowns.

“Don’t you think that I missed you calling me shallow, Knucklehead! And quit the act, I know it didn’t hurt. Sadly!”

“You want to wound me? I change my mind, I’d gladly replace you with this Nick.” Knuckles teases further, and Sonic gasps and places a hand over his mouth, mostly for theatrics and to hide the grin he can’t supress.

“You hurt me, brother. Just when I was about to say I’d never want Andy instead.” He says, making his lower lip quiver for extra effect. Knuckles looks at him sideways, and snorts.

[dutiful-wildcraft]

So I've been at a metal festival the past few days and just-

Ghost who adores festivals, the loud noise and mud. He can be big and dark. Ghost can wear his skull mask and matching gloves, and for once it's not intimidating. Nobody bats an eye at the big fucker in the skull mask.

Kind strangers fist bump him gently on the shoulder, shower him with compliments, light up like christmas trees when he tells them he made the mask himself. Little ones look up at him with big shiny eyes, toy with the spikes on his boots and battle jacket.

People wish him all the genuine ‘be safes’ and ‘see you in the pits” as they wave him goodbye.

Ghost loves sifting through the crowd where he can bounce and roughhouse and run with a bunch of other knuckleheads looking to get out the aggression. Somehow no one and everyone looking at him, in a way that doesn't make him feel uncomfortable.

Here he is just some guy. A big fucker who talks with all the old heads about their favorite shows just to hear the stories. He adds the bands to a mental list to check out later.

Ghost who yanks people up when they fall in the pit with a good natured pat and a “get back after it” before nudging them back in.

Ghost who gently moves you with a hand against your back and a soft “s'cuse me love” as he makes his way deeper through the crowd.

Ghost who keeps ending up next to you at every stage. Turns to you with question in his eyes when they open up the wall of death. Hangs back and keeps you behind him if you refuse to join in. Shoving off the rowdy ones when they get to close to your position. Hauls you down from your crowd surfing and plops you right next to him where you belong.

[thornsnvultures]

a nice day to start again

eddie munson x plus size!reader

summary: a little rain isn't going to stop your special day

a/n: super short drabble ft. wayne the best duncle (dad uncle) ever, suggested rockstar!eddie au at the end, cw: eddie & reader have pos dads but they have each other so fuck em, <800 words

---

On a Friday afternoon in June, you and Eddie stood by the living room window of his trailer and watched as the skies opened up.

"Did neither of you knuckleheads check the weather?"

Wayne didn't look up from his newspaper, oddly scanning the sports page while Eddie nervously wrung his hands.

"Well, y'see...uh-"

"No, I guess we didn't," you nervously chuckled. You took one of Eddie's hands so he'd stop picking at his fingernails. "But that's okay. We'll only be in and out of the courthouse anyway."

A gentle squeeze to Eddie's hand and a smile softens the worry on his face. All you have to do is drive to the courthouse, do the dang thing, and drive to Steve's for the after party he's throwing with all your friends. Easy peasy. What's a little rain?

The sound of rustling paper and the squeaking groan of Wayne's chair pulls you from your thoughts.

"Grab the umbrella," Wayne grumbles. "The big one. I'm driving."

"Wayne you don't need to," Eddie waves his hands as Wayne pulls on his coat over his dress shirt and tie.

"If y'all want to do this, I am. Not sittin' in the back of that death trap again, Ed." Wayne grabs his keys and quirks a brow at his boy. "You still wanna do this, yeah? Not gonna let a little rain stop you?"

"Hell no," you grin, softening Wayne's gruff expression. Your eyes water, Wayne looks at you with all the fondness of a father you've never had.

"No, sir," Eddie gulps.

"That's what I thought."

He claps Eddie on the shoulder and Eddie rushes off to grab the umbrella.

You hold your dress up and out of the mud as you race with Eddie to Wayne's truck. His borrowed boots are heavy on your feet but it's better than heels.

"Your friends meeting you there?" Wayne eyes the lack of space in the small cab, already too small for the three of you.

"No, they were fighting too much over who got to go and the county clerk told us only two witnesses allowed."

"Ah. So it's, uh, it's just me then?"

"Unfortunately, yes," you tease and pat Wayne's arm.

The poor old man grumbles to himself about punk ass kids while trying to choke back the emotion clogging his throat. You squeeze Eddie's hand in his lap.

"Ready, big guy?" You lean into Eddie's side, resting your head on his shoulder. His thumb rubs across the back of your hand as rain patters against the windows.

Eddie just nods, squeezing your hand tighter for a moment.

"I'll be fine," he relents after a moment of silence. "Just nervous, y'know?" He's quiet, whispering against your hair. "Wanna do right by you. Not like..."

"I know," you bring Eddie's hand to your lips. "Trust me I know. And you will. You already have, every day. That's why I'm here, silly."

Eddie kisses the top of your head but doesn't day anything else, just holds you close until you have to make another run for the doors of the courthouse.

The county clerks office is a tight squeeze just like they said, but it feels that much sweeter. Just you, Eddie, the judge (and his assistant) and a teary-eyed Wayne quietly blubbering in the corner. And when it's all said and done, Eddie's holding your face so gently, so tender that you can't hold the tears back either. You owe Nancy big time for letting you borrow her waterproof mascara.

"You kids have fun," Wayne says as he pulls up in front of Steve's house. "But not too much fun. I'm not ready to be a grandpa, y'hear me?"

"Wayne," Eddie whines and flicks the umbrella out of the cab and into the rain. It's still coming down hard.

"Drive safe, old man," you say as you squeeze Wayne up in a tight hug.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get me goin' again with the waterworks or I'm gonna miss my shows."

You climb out after Eddie, waving goodbye as Wayne's truck pulls away.

"Ready?"

The front door to Steve's house is already swinging wide open with Robin standing there waving a bottle of champagne around shouting about starting the party without them if they don't get their asses inside already.

His hand is warm and a little sweaty. It's real now, the promise you've made to be together forever. Greater than any record deal Eddie's ever signed.

You squeeze his hand.

"Ready."

[imagionationstation]

These two, I swear-

I mean- the way they light up when big sis enters the picture??

In that first pic, they literally smiled in sync!

Donnie’s smile is easier to spot while the show is rolling, so I found ya’ll a close up later on! IN A DIFFERENT EP! THAT MEANS DONNIE AND KARAI ACTUALLY BONDED AND WE WERE ROBBED OF IT!!

AND THIS SCENE:

Leo looks completely taken aback by her big sister intervention right here- big bro isn’t used to such older sib interferences when he’s having his say on something!- and Donnie immediately dawns an softer sort of upset/guilty expression, similar the kind that comes with upsetting an older sibling! I’ve only ever seen his face change like that in regards to Splinter, Raph, and Leo- AND THAT’S A SWIFT BUT TELLING FEATURE TO ME, MKAY?!

She is part of the fam and these two knuckleheads accept and love her without question! (And Raph and Mikey accept/love her too, but I’m talking about the cool colored bros. Deal with it </3)

Leo accepted her long ago, and while Donnie was letting her stick around because big bro in blue said no matter what background she comes from, she was a Hamato, end of story. So Donnie just takes him at his word because he hardly ever does otherwise. Then he spends hours upon days making tech to search for her and developing a cure, but now he’s not just obediently following Leo’s lead- she’s officially fam! THEY HAS A BOND!

I love their relationship so much more bc while Leo liked her right off the bat, her&Donnie’s first meeting was so rough and he literally would have disowned her on day one, Miwa or not. 🤣

“I don’t know who she is but I know I HATE HER!”