#Midas x ageless

[foundajonez]

Geno x Midas supremacy

They deserve more traction !!! Please please please plea

[foundajones]

They're boyfriends

[touyaz]

let us love each other until the end.

pairing inumaki toge x gn reader

word count 11,219

notes for @kodzucafe’s ‘a safe place’ collab. this is incredibly late, but thank you so very much for letting me join! read the other entries +here :) i made a little spotify playlist for this fic, so if you’d like some background music, click +here! @bunnys-babies​ @cursedarchiveblog @http-404-error-unknown

TAGS JJK SPOILERS! (this is my own spin on what happens to inumaki after shibuya arc, but there are major spoilers with regards to that arc, inumaki, and events that happen after that arc), non-sexual nudity, aged-up characters (it’s entirely sfw, but i have specified that the characters are graduates, so they’re 21+ in my mind), (emotional) hurt/comfort, angst that is resolved, codependency because they are both Going Through It (reader has a raging saviour and inferiority complex. inumaki is a mess because of spoiler reasons) but they heal! somewhat! friends to lovers.

minors (under 18), ageless, and blank blogs are fine to interact with this fic, but please don’t follow me or you will be blocked.

+

Morning arrives softly with the first rays of sunlight spilling through open curtains, soaking your room in its honeyed warmth. Everything in its reach — yesterday’s clothes sprawled across the tv stand, the half-empty bottles atop them, the man lying just a side table’s width away from you — is swathed in its Midas touch, drowsing in gold, waiting patiently for a kinder hand to break the spell.

A breeze drifts through the window as you rub your eyes awake. It's a tad too mean for the moment, softened by the chirpy trills that accompany it, the faint beat of wings as birds soar past. You see Inumaki scratch his cheek before turning around, nestling further beneath his blanket.

A few more minutes of rest won’t hurt him, you decide, walking to the bathroom rather than to his side.

There’s only one more roll of toilet paper left and his mouthwash has just a few drops in it. You add both to this week’s shopping list as you brush your teeth, grimacing at the dark circles beneath your eyes. The water is too cold on your face, but it serves as a decent wake-up call, taking the last few dredges of sleep down the drain with it. Before you leave, you pop open the toothpaste, squeeze a dollop onto Inumaki's brush, and leave it to balance on the brush holder like you always do. By the time you return, he's turned around again and a pout curls at his lips.

“Hey, are you awake?” you ask, gently shaking him by his shoulder. There’s a smear of drool sticking to the lines around his lip that you bite a smile back at, wiping away with the sleeve of your top.

He groans, sinking his head into his pillow and brushing away your hand.

“Come on,” you whine, sneaking your hand under his arm to graze his side. He shifts under your touch, grumbling a complaint, but he doesn’t move until you start tickling him awake. You’re stunned silent when his laughter rings out and, though it’s brief to you, it’s long enough in his mind, for his lips to curl grimly — too far downwards, compensation for indulging in happiness.

(You wish he would stop doing that. You wish he would let himself have a moment — take a moment — to embrace the small joys in life.)

"We need to go out today." He shakes his head, just as he did last week, and the week before that, and the week before that. "We're gonna run out of toilet roll otherwise."

You narrowly catch his voice as he lies on his stomach instead, what you're sure is a complaint muffled against white linen.

(His laughter plays in your mind some more. You take what you can. He hasn’t been very giving, but it's understandable; life hasn't been very generous, either. It's taken one too many pieces this time.)

With a gentle pat to his shoulder, you move away. Yesterday's clothes are picked up and folded away, then you busy yourself with taking out new ones to change into. He's quicker today by a whole fourteen seconds. Just like last week, and the week before that, and the week before that, Inumaki pushes himself up, sends you a sleepy glare, and stumbles over to the bathroom.

The toilet flushes a minute later, the tap runs for the briefest moment, and then he's outside again less than ten seconds later. You know he's going to play with the spring door stop before the metallic ring even echoes. Just like last week, and the week before that, and the week before that.

Today's outfit is plain and simple much like all the other clothes in your wardrobe. And the tune of today is—

"Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?" The harsh sound ripples into nothing as he stops, and he hums around the toothbrush to confirm your guess just as you pull your trousers up. "I'm getting better at this."

He says nothing in reply, but you hear his padded steps as he walks back into the bathroom. The sounds of him spitting toothpaste out and the water running follow before the bathroom door closes and he waits by the exit to your little makeshift sanctuary.

"Kelp?"

"One sec, almost—" you grapple with the collar of your top before you manage to poke your head through and pull the hem down neatly "—done!"

He walks over and settles onto your bed just as you fold away your night clothes and hold out what you'd picked for him.

"Is this okay?"

You don't really know why you still ask considering his answer has never changed. Just like last week, and the week before that, and the week before that, he shrugs his shoulders and shimmies the collar up to just below his eye level. You help him the rest of the way, easing his arms through the sleeves before pulling the top up and off of him. You help him put a fresh shirt on then take a step back, giving him space to stand and push the hem of his night shorts down.

He leans on you with one hand, but he never looks at you when he does. It hurts more than you'd like to admit, but you try to understand.

It's infinitely more painful for him.

(Knowing that truth and coming to terms with it are two different steps. You're helping him when you could easily leave him behind, but you're selfish. You think your armour could be whiter if he only let you polish it a little. He deserves someone with more altruistic intentions, someone like—)

Your hands rest on his ribcage and if he's ever been irked by how tightly you hold him, he's kept it to himself well. You just want him to know you'll always be there for him. Through thick and thin, you'll be his safety net even if it comes at the cost of your own downfall.

He kicks away the shorts and, when he's ready, he squeezes your shoulder gently. You ease your hands off of him, nervous like he might topple over if you move too fast, but he doesn't. He hasn't in a while, but you can never be too careful. He's gotten better at holding himself steady but he still trembles when he walks back. He still holds his arm out as if you won't be there to catch him if he falls.

Sitting on the bed once more, it's easier for him to lift his feet up and slide them into the legs of the joggers. The motions repeat as he leans on you, faces away, and loses himself in his own mind. There isn't much else you can do besides pull the pants up and let him know you're done.

Plain black socks are next. Then he slips into his shoes as you grab his jacket. He likes putting that on himself, so you search for his mask (under the pillow like it always is) instead. When he's finally ready — jacket zipped, hood up, mask on — he waits by the door as you grab your own jacket and wallet to take your leave.

The lift is slow to come up and even slower in taking you both down. Inumaki doesn't say much as he leans against the back panels, so you don't either until you reach the hostel's exit.

"It's cold," you grumble as soon as you step out. Rubbing your hands together does little to keep them warm, but you keep them clenched by your side. Inumaki nods to your statement, stepping away to let some people into the building before coming to your side.

There's a convenience store right next to your temporary home that you visit first. It's fairly empty given the early hour, just the harsh crackle of a news report being told over the radio that fills the silence. Something about a build-up of traffic because of roadworks — you figure if it was anything critical, the shopkeeper wouldn't be calmly tending to the displays at the front till. He greets you quietly as you enter and you reply, heading to the back of the store for the chilled food. He never says what's on his mind, but his eyes do wander between the two of you too often for you to miss. You wonder if he’ll ever voice his thoughts, or if you'll be long gone before he finds the courage. It's nice that he doesn't ask, though. You think Inumaki appreciates the quietude; it lets him stew in denial for a little while longer.

"I'll have the lemon one," you say to Inumaki as you pass by him. He's scanning the other drinks, picking a pink one up to read the ingredients before he puts it back and continues debating.

You stop by the packaged meals instead and choose something that has a little bit of everything in it. There's a heaping of plain rice and vegetables that look a little stale, but are otherwise fine. Colourful, if not tasty, so you're thankful it’s at least appealing at first glance. There's a triangle packet of onigiri just below and — if you'd calculated this month's expenditure correctly last night — you have a bit of money to splurge on one for Inumaki today. He could use a pick-me-up every once in a while. You grab two packets. 

"Is this okay?" you ask him, showing him the meal you've bought and he nods, holding up your own bottle for confirmation too. "Alright, good, let's go."

With the food all paid for, you head back into the hostel to eat. It's quiet downstairs with the outside hustle and bustle muffled behind the closed door. There's a mother and her child eating in one corner, an old man reading the newspaper in another, and the kid waves at you when you walk past them to a free table.

Sometimes you think about how you could get used to this. The man sighs as he flips the page and then sips from the glass beside him. The child sticks his tongue out at you and his mother scolds him quietly when milk dribbles down his chin. You could get used to opening the boxed meal for him as he puts his bottle between his thighs to twist the lid off by himself. It feels normal — or, what normal should feel like since it's nothing like your old norm. It feels safe, maybe a little boring, but a life where traffic is the most of your problems isn't the worst imaginable one.

Inumaki pulls down his mask to eat, and you're reminded of why this normalcy is short-lived. 

+

Unknown: How are you?

Me: we’re good! need to go to the store for some things. how are you? 

Unknown: I’m fine. What do you need? I can get it for you.

Me: ah, don’t worry! we can manage! thank you though

Unknown: Okay. Please let me know if you need anything.

Me: will do :)

+

The journey to the closest supermarket is longer than you’d like but it’s easy; there aren’t huge crowds that you could get lost in, no cyclists that prefer back-alleys to the convenience of main roads. You talk with Inumaki a bit, asking him if he dreamt of anything last night (he hadn’t), if he wants to buy anything that you haven’t thought of already (he doesn’t), if there are any new shows out that he wants to watch (there aren’t).

The rest of the walk is quiet after that.

(You wish he’d speak to you like he did before. You’re trying. You’re trying your best. Can’t he see that? You know he has it bad — it’s hard to miss, it’s even harder to forget because it’s the reason you’re miles away from the only family you’ve ever known, it’s the reason you get texts from a man you’ve never met every single day, and the reason you spend your nights sneaking out for money instead of sleeping. You know that he does, but what more can you do, and why won’t he tell you? You’re trying, so why won’t he?

You don’t know how to help him any more than you already are. Maybe if you were someone else, like Panda or Okkotsu or even Maki — they’d know what to do. They would know exactly how to help Inumaki recover and heal, but they’re not here. It’s just you and him and your ‘mind the step’ before you enter the market. You hope it’s enough.

You hope you’re enough, but he won’t ever say.)

You push the shopping cart around and he sticks to your side, holding onto the handrail for balance. The time spent here is shorter than the journey is worth, but you’re in no place to make changes to the routine. You pick up the toiletries first, his mouthwash, toilet roll, a refill on shampoo, before going down the store aisle by aisle.

A sale in protein bars catches your eyes, and you take up more time deciding whether you’re in the mood for chocolate or red berry than you should have. Red berry, you settle on, just as you hear someone fall to the ground, the sound of a trolley rolling and a box clattering follow. Your heart drops to your feet as you turn, and you’re rushing to Inumaki before your feet can even catch up.

There’s a woman in the aisle a little further down and she rushes forward at the commotion too, stopping next to her daughter. You’re helping Inumaki up when she asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, my friend just— slipped?” Inumaki nods, brows furrowed, staring resolutely at the ground. He brushes off your arms once he’s up, walking to the trolley by himself. “We’re okay, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, picking up her child and rocking her slightly. Her eyes follow Inumaki as he walks away, and the moment her eyes wander down, she tenses. “Oh, is he— um, sorry, he’s, uh—”

“He’s fine,” you cut her off. “Thanks again.” 

She nods, not knowing what else to say, and you turn around to join Inumaki.

“Are you okay? What happened?” He shakes his head, about to push the trolley forward when you hold onto it so it doesn’t budge. “Come on, can you just— can you not be difficult about this for once?”

He turns his face away when you try to look at him. A frown lines his face as he resolutely avoids you.

“Seriously, Inumaki? You know I’m just trying to help you, but I can’t do that if you’re gonna be childish and ignore me.”

You wait a moment, but his eyes are glued to the price tags on some boxes. If you could see it, you’d guess he’s clenching his jaw. Any other day and you might have reminded him that that’s bad for his teeth. Today, though, you’re tired. Your heart is sinking and your shoulders are aching and you know you aren’t built to carry these responsibilities — not alone, at least — but here you are, with no idea of how long you need to stay strong for, no idea as to what will happen when your body finally gives up.

“Fine,” you sigh. “God. I’m sorry I can’t fix this— I can’t change any of this shit, but I’m trying my best, you know? I’m trying for you, but you just— you keep—” A strangled huff leaves you before you shake your head. “Whatever. Ignore me. I don’t care, I just— I can’t do this anymore.”

You hate how your voice cracks near the end. You hate that you can feel tears burning at your lash line. You hate how he only looks your way when you’re turning away from him.

You pick up the Red Berry protein box that fell in your earlier haste. You put the chocolate box in your trolley, instead, and drag it with you to the self-checkout area. You pay, you leave, you walk home in complete silence.

(Unlike last week, and the week before that, and the week before that, you don’t ask Inumaki if he wants to hold one of the bags.

What’s one more weight when you’re already under?)

+

When you reach the hostel, the bags are dropped onto the tv stand with little care. You fall flat on your bed, barely listening as Inumaki pads over to his own side. You hear the squeak of his bed frame as he sits down and clears his throat.

All that talking must have gotten to him, you think bitterly.

He coughs after a moment, too.

(Maybe you should have picked up medicine, or at least some soothing sweets. The weather has been awful lately.)

“Salmon cod roe?”

Oh. He was trying to get your attention. 

(Maybe he should have asked for them.)

You turn onto your side, back towards him. He doesn’t try again after that.

+

Unknown: Do you need dinner?

Me: no, we’re good!

Unknown: Okay. Sleep well.

Me: you too!

+

Your neck is stiff when you wake up the next day. Rubbing over the crick brings both pain and relief; you’re not sure which feeling you deserve. Inumaki looks like he’s still asleep, so you trudge over to the tv stand as quietly as you can. Your hands are slow in going through the bag, making as little noise as possible if only to have some time to yourself, so you can pretend you’re alone in the room, and that’s your mouthwash, not his, because there’s no one but you here. Bed sheets ruffle as he turns over and your bubble bursts.

You store away the dry snacks in the cupboard before carrying the toiletries in your arms to put those away too. You close the door and go through your everyday routine: using the toilet, brushing your teeth, washing your face and wondering when the dark circles beneath your eyes will begin to fade away.

Inumaki is sitting up when you re-enter the bedroom space. Luck must be on your side today. He’s rubbing his eyes, looking your way, but you feign indifference, heading to the cupboard to pick out your clothes instead. He sighs, but doesn’t say anything as he passes by you, closing the bathroom door behind himself quietly.

(The door is never locked no matter which one of you is on the other side of it. You can’t remember the last time you heard it click. You wonder what that even means for the two of you. Maybe it means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things; maybe it means that there’s still hope for the people on either side of it.)

You change your clothes. He doesn’t come out to play a tune.

(You wonder if his eyes are open. You can’t hear him crying. Maybe he’s staring down at his new mouthwash instead.)

When he does make a reappearance, he loiters by the entrance in wait.

There’s an awkward silence, neither of you moving, both of you holding your breaths, until, “Kelp?”

“I’m done,” you reply. He walks forward and, just like yesterday, sits on your bed. You don’t ask if he’s fine with the clothes — there never was a point, was there?

(He takes a second too long to start taking his shirt off. You wonder if there’s meaning in that, too.)

You help him get changed and it’s as quiet as it always is. The silence is growing on you now, and you’re not sure whether you like that or not. How can you feel so alone when Inumaki’s hand is right there on your shoulder?

(When he leans on you today, his eyes are on you. Why is it that he only looks at you when you don’t want him to?)

The short walk to the convenience store is quiet.

(Traffic is fine today. You pick up the same meal as yesterday. No extra onigiri. Grape juice for you, lemon for him.)

The shorter walk to the downstairs eating area is only louder because there’s another lady here today on a call. Bar the ‘thank you for the food’ and the click of chopsticks, your meal is eaten in complete silence.

+

Unknown: How are you?

Me: all good! nothing to do today :)

Me: how are you?

Unknown: Good, too. Stay safe.

Me: of course! you too

+

It feels strange getting messages from someone you've never met before. You don't even know how he got ahold of your number — maybe it was Shouko-sensei or Ijichi-san — but that doesn't matter too much in the grand scheme of things. The world is strange and unfair and dastardly, but there's kindness in the blunt ‘How are you?’ you wake up to every day. There's a warmth and a compassion that you wish the world would overflow with. You can only hope to see that day. Nothing in life is guaranteed besides death.

(That's a lie, but it's comforting to your mortal soul. It would be a peaceful thought if you were any more naïve.

There are some that defy that natural order of life; most days you’re envious of their power, their insurmountable ability to violate the very laws of existence that keep you sane, human. But you wonder how they can live with all that melancholy. What did they give up for that life? What regrets have they carried in their hearts all this time? What lengths would they go to to take it all back — because in the end they must want that? How can anyone bear the pain of the world for that long?

Today you're glad you're not one of them. Weakness is ignorance and ignorance is bliss. You think you understand their sadness.

Maybe the only thing guaranteed in life is the desolation it’s rampant with.)

The conversations you have are always short. You’re sure he’s curious. He’s been messaging for months, every single day, without fail. He definitely has more important questions running in his mind, yet he never voices them. You’re grateful for the space. You don’t know if you could answer anything more.

Maybe you should tell Inumaki. He’s the only one that can answer the more important questions. You wonder if he’s getting the texts, too.

(He most likely is getting them. The reason you get them, too, is probably because he never answers them.)

You push those thoughts out of your mind, focusing on the task at hand. After hanging up your towel on the rack, you leave the bathroom and find Inumaki lying in bed with his arm thrown over his eyes. He doesn’t make you wait for long — how kind of him — pushing himself up to stand and walking to you without another word.

He sits on the lip of the bathtub and you undress him, shirt first, then his socks and sweatpants. Once he’s down to his boxers, you help him over the edge of the ceramic until he’s standing in front of the small stool.

As you’re picking up his clothes from the floor, he clears his throat, rocking back and forth on his feet. If it were any other day, you’d tell him to be careful or he’ll slip.

You’re folding the clothes over your arm, just about to leave, when he says, “Salmon cod roe.”

Normally, he waits for you to leave in silence before undressing fully and cleaning himself.

You pause by the door, looking back at him with furrowed brows. “What?”

He fiddles with the waistband of his boxers, gazing off to the side where the sink is. His voice is quiet beneath the whirr of the bathroom fan, but you catch his words all the same. Soft, secretive. “Thank you.”

The crease on your forehead lessens with his hopeful look. Wide, bright eyes, a dusky mauve in the dull light but they glint like amethyst when he rubs his nape and worries over his lip, waiting for your response.

Acknowledgement is what you’ve been aching for for so long.

Now that it’s here, now that his words of gratitude hang in the taut air between you, they feel so inconsequential. You still feel inconsequential. If the earth was syphoned of all its water, his thanks is a teardrop on barren land.

It’s something, you could argue. But is it too little, too late?

You still feel empty — there’s this hunger still clawing at your ribcage, scratching, scratching, scratching through flesh and bones slowly, so, so slowly, until you’re left hollow and bleeding, lacerated.

Are there still parts of the planet being twisted and drained, or is he ready to weep for your wounds?

Your heart sinks a little further in its cavity.

“Yeah,” you mumble, turning away from him.

He doesn’t call for you again. Amethyst doesn’t shine quite so prettily in the shadow of your frown.

His dirty clothes join yours at the foot of your bed to be taken down later. You idle around in the meantime, flicking through the few messages on your phone, finishing off the sudoku puzzle you started in the morning. It isn’t longer after that when his voice rings out, summoning you.

When you reenter the bathroom, he’s covered in suds, hand modestly on his lap, hunched over and shivering. He’s not staring at the ground in avoidance like usual, like you thought he would be. He offers a smile when you look at him, and you can’t find it in you to return the gesture.

You focus on what you came to do instead, picking up his boxers from where he had kicked them on the far side of the tub. Then, you grab the bottle of shampoo and squeeze a dollop onto your palm. He doesn’t say much, dropping his head so you can spread the product through his hair. His eyes fall closed and it’s quiet. Peaceful, almost, if it weren’t for the awkward synergy looming over you, the one that keeps you from speaking to him like you normally would.

When you reach for the showerhead, he makes a noise of disapproval.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Bonito flakes.”

“Did I miss a spot?” Your brows crease as you look over him. You’re sure you’ve lathered him in enough shampoo since he’s covered in bubbles.

He shakes his head again and it makes the foam drip down his forehead. As soon as you wipe the soap away, he grabs onto your wrist. You keep your eyes on him. He drags your hand up, weaving your fingers through his wet strands and slowly pressing down in circles.

You sigh. He smiles.

It grows wider when you move without his help, his own hand dropping to cover himself again, so he can fully savour the way you massage his scalp.

“You’re annoying,” you grumble.

He closes his eyes, humming and nodding his head in agreement. As you scratch over him gently, he tilts his head to direct you silently; he drops his head forward, so you drag your nails down the back of his neck, working through the tresses that have grown from being left alone for so long.

(Cutting his hair won’t make everything return to normal. You know that. That doesn’t stop you from hoping otherwise, though.

Would he even let you cut it?

Maybe he’s grown comfortable with split-ends and disaster. Maybe that’s all he thinks is left of himself.)

His head droops to the right and you push some curls behind his ear.

(He looks nice with long hair, but you really want to cut it.)

You sit on the lip of the tub as you continue. It’s cold beneath you, but it’s not awful. It’s refreshing. Inumaki opens his eyes to look at you and suddenly you feel too hot. He’s about to speak when foam drops from your wrist, smacking him right on his face. He flinches and hisses as it falls into his eye just as you panic and pull away from him.

“Oh, shit,” you wince, fumbling with the tap and picking up the showerhead to clean your hands first. “Why’d you do that?”

“Mentaiko,” he whines childishly, pout forming on his face. You cup your hand and pour water into it to wash his eye carefully.

“Don’t talk now,” you groan, trying to wipe the bubbly water away from his lips, too. He hums something that vaguely sounds like ‘Ikura’, his brows furrowing until you press on the crease and it softens. You pull back and turn the tap off, grimacing when he opens his eyes. “Sorry.”

The white of his eye suffuses with a startling red, glassy and glaring. It’s a stark contrast to the  purple of his irises. Crystals fall from his lashes and he closes the irritated eye in a strained wink. “Sorry.”

“Salmon,” he mumbles, mouth pulling into a half-hearted smile to try and ease your worries. 

“Close your eyes, I’ll wash it all out.”

He listens, and this time he doesn’t stop you when you start washing the shampoo out of his hair. It isn’t long until it’s all rinsed out, and you pass him the showerhead so he can work on the rest of his body as you reach for the bottle of conditioner. You turn the tap off when he’s done, and get to spreading the product through his hair.

The room goes still once you’re done. The sounds of your breathing, of water dripping, and the fan whirring fill the silence.

It feels less heavy than before, somehow.

(Why does change only ever come after pain?)

You tap on the edge of the tub mindlessly, watching as the sudsy drops chase each other down the curved inside. From the corner of your eye, you can see Inumaki fidget. You figure it’s just from the cold until he says, “Salmon cod roe.”

He pinches his index and thumb together, pressing them to the little space between his brows before plucking them forwards. Then his hand flattens, fingers tucked beside one another as he moves it forward further, like a karate-chop, only softer, much more kinder.

You know what that gesture means. It’s one of the first words you had learned all those years back, when he was just Inumaki Toge: fellow first-year student at Tokyo Jujutsu College. You thought he might have forgotten sign language, preferring to still be vocal, to not completely alienate himself out of society. But here he is: Inumaki Toge: battle-worn and a fraction of who he’s destined to be, slumped, swathed in shampoo, and shivering as he signs, ‘Sorry’.

“It’s fine—”

“Bonito flakes.” His hand slaps the wet skin of his thigh and you jump back from the volume of his words. The red in his eyes blares like a fire alarm and it’s all you can focus on as he huffs beneath his breath. He repeats the action once more. It’s sharper this time, too precise. Fingers to forehead, palm through the cold air as he stares right at you.

You don’t know why tears well up in your eyes then, but it burns all the same. Drops fall just as his shoulders do, his hand shaking as he signs the word once more. It’s calmer this time. His eyes soften around the corners, water springs at the line of his eyelashes, and when his palm sweeps through the air at the end of the action, it falls to your cheek. He brushes away your tears with a touch so gentle. It makes you sob, it makes you sniff too grossly for such an intimate moment; it makes your breath hitch in your throat when he follows it up by whispering, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you murmur, tilting your head down and wiping away your cheeks with the back of your hand. A humourless laugh escapes you. It’s broken. Bitter. Biting at the raw flesh of your throat on its way out. “I don’t know why I’m crying, I just—” If you looked up, you’d see his lips curl into a wry smile, but it’s easier to talk to the floor. “We should talk when you’re not… you know, naked.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, and then his hand comes into your view. Pinky outstretched, he shakes it, playfully bending the finger. You look up at him then, just as he says, “Tuna mayo?”

You sigh. He nudges your hand until you loop your pinky around his. Your heart feels a little lighter.  “Promise.”

He smiles and the violet quartz of his eyes has never looked more scintillating.

(His hairstyle’s beginning to grow on you, and you’ve always been more adept at using cursed tools than scissors.)

+

Inumaki: where are youuuuuuuuu

Inumaki: hellooooo

Inumaki: ur read receipts r on

Inumaki: u PROMISED

Inumaki: >:(

Inumaki: kasjdh

Inumaki: can u hear this

Inumaki: ksadgdkasjhdlashd

Inumaki: it’s the sound of me falling

Inumaki: help me </3

Me: stop it

Inumaki: come up

Me: i’ll come up later

Inumaki: when

Me: when you’re asleep :)

Inumaki: >:|

Inumaki: brb finding stairs to fall down

+

He’s right outside the lift when you come up. You wonder how long he’s been standing there — dressed down in his night clothes, hand on his hip, glaring at the doors before they’ve even opened.

“How many people have you scared so far?” you ask as he steps aside.

He huffs. Then, he holds up two fingers. You bite back a laugh but he digs his elbow into your side regardless, only satisfied when you squeak out an apology.

The tension is quick to settle over the two of you as soon as you cross the entrance to your room. You want to busy yourself with opening the meals you just bought, but Inumaki is quick to grapple with the bags. He knows you won’t fight against him if it might lead to him falling back and hurting himself. You grumble about how he’s taking advantage of your kindness and he’s quick to respond with a sneaky wink, a chummy grin, and a too-proud, “Salmon.”

He sits in front of you on your bed, legs crossed, food getting cold the longer he leaves it untouched. It’s unnerving, and you think that’s exactly why he’s doing it. He’s letting the silence fester so you can burst, just like you did the other day, so you can answer all the questions in his mind without him having to voice them. It’s too much pressure. You don’t even know where to begin — when did all these feelings start rotting inside you? When did your insecurities suddenly become so much worse than him losing—

He’s the first to move, sliding his phone across the short distance between you. It’s open on the notes application. You wonder when he wrote this all.

[The girl knocked something off the shelf and I tried catching it but you know… I slipped. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was just embarrassing because I thought I was getting better, but I still can’t get used to doing anything without you and I feel so… :/

I didn’t mean to make you angry. Or sad. I’m sorry. I just want everything to go back to normal again.]

He picks at his food as you read his words again and again.

“I shouldn’t have kept asking you,” you say. Your eyes fall back down to the device, to that emoticon with the slanted lips that somehow conveys exactly what he’d been feeling and yet barely scratches the surface. You bite your lips before they can mirror the downward curl. “I get it. I just… I guess I keep hovering over you because you feel so far away. Like— Like, even though it’s just been you and me, it feels more like you—” you hold up one finger and, a few seconds later, hold up another on your other hand, much further away from the first “— and me. Like we’re together, but we aren’t really. And I just… I can’t lose you, too.”

He nods, gesturing for his phone and you pass it along. You push around some of the steaming vegetables before taking a bite, waiting for him to finish swiping his thumb across the screen.

[I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you away so much, I just don’t want you to spend your whole life taking care of me. I don’t wanna burden you anymore.]

He gives you to the phone and you only read the first little paragraph before you look up at him and flick his knee. His sharp ‘Mentaiko!’ is an overreaction, as is the way he massages his leg, but you hope it did hurt him a little.

“You’re not a burden,” you state. The roles have reversed and now he’s the one pointedly ignoring your gaze, staring down at his hand instead. “Seriously.” You pause, hesitating for only a second, before you reach out for him, resting your hand on the back of his. You give a short squeeze, something tentative and hopeful. He turns his hand over and his palm is warm beneath yours, fingertips ghosting along the soft, sensitive skin of your inner wrist. He holds you like that; for a moment, you both simply watch as his thumb skirts the length of your pinky, as he drifts to your knuckle, as he follows the curved outline of your hand down to your wrist before repeating it all over again. He’s softer each time, light as a petal’s caress when he grazes the fine hairs on your hand. He’s focused. You continue, “I’ve never thought that about you.” The smallest stutter in his path tells you that he’s listening. “We’re friends, you’d never be a burden, okay?”

He nods. You pick up his phone with your free hand. You try to ignore the way your stomach flutters all of a sudden when he lifts your hand and laces his fingers with his own.

[And I’m sorry I didn’t think about how much everything affected you too. I kept thinking about myself and being selfish but you still took care of me even though I was being a dick. I feel like I’ve said sorry so many times but I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry I didn’t see how bad this was getting for you. I want to take care of you too. I know it’s late but… please?]

You clear your throat, worrying over your bottom lip as you consider his words. “It’s fine—”

“Bonito flakes,” he interrupts, squeezing your hand. He’s looking at you now, eyes narrowed, lips pursed with frustration.

You laugh beneath your breath at how intense he looks, and his lip wavers, gaze dropping to your twined hands once more. You give him a gentler squeeze. The corner of his mouth lifts up.

“What I meant,” you emphasise, “was it’s fine now. Yeah, that was shitty of you, but—” his thumb strokes over the back of yours, circling the ridge of your knuckle so carefully, a breeze through a windchime sort of a touch, it nearly makes you forget what you were about to say “—but I also didn’t tell you anything. I could’ve come to you, but I didn’t because—” You laugh a little bitterly, scrunching your nose when you realise the weight of your next words. The irony. “Because you were already dealing with so much and I didn’t want to, you know… burden you.” He drops your hand just so he can flick your knee. There’s mischief lighting up in his eye — maybe too much for such a serious conversation, but you like it.

“Bonito flakes,” he says, emphasising every single syllable so the sarcasm sinks into you. You like the smirk on his face even through the mockery that drips from its edges.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. We’re both as bad as each other.” He shakes his head, a little fondly, a lot in disappointment at how hopeless you both are. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you. Probably could’ve avoided this mess then, huh?” He huffs a laugh at that.

There’s a moment of silence, then. Of relief. You don’t know what to say now that the air is cleared. Your situation isn’t perfect all of a sudden, that much is obvious, but you feel less tense. As if the struggles that had been piling onto your shoulders have been spread out: you’re not any lighter because they haven’t diminished — your world is still turned inside out, you’ve lost things and people and parts of yourself you don’t think you’ll ever get back, you’re still on the run from people whose loyalties and intentions aren’t in your favour — but you know now that you’re not the only one shouldering those burdens. He’ll be there for you. With you.

He’s being there for you now as he cups your face, as he brushes his thumb beneath your eye, smiling breezily as you berate yourself for getting emotional.

“Stop making me cry,” you joke, closing your eyes so they don’t fall as easily.

He pinches your cheek lightly. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

He waits a moment, passing time by skimming his thumb across the apple of your cheek. It’s quiet again. The silences don’t feel as stifling as they did last week, and the week before that, and the week before that.

(His fingers sink into your cheek more. You miss the way he leans closer, the way his eyes drop to your lips before they catch the salty shine. You only open your eyes when he’s moved back and his thumb presses against the corner of your lip, wiping the teardrops away.)

“Mustard leaf?”

You nod, rubbing your nose and sniffling too loudly, but he smiles all the same. “I’m fine.”

He shakes his head, pointing between himself and you. “Mustard leaf?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, leaning into his warm hand. “We’re okay.”

And you are. For this moment, at least, you feel okay. The grass beneath you might not be the greenest, but it’s growing. It’s warm between your fingers and it tickles the palms of your hands as soft as the sway of a butterfly’s wings, a fluttering wisp of a touch that sends the hope you’ve been yearning for thrumming through your veins.

For tonight, at least, you’ll let yourself enjoy the serenity. You’ll picture blue skies above you, not a cloud in sight. It’s you and the sunshine, too hot on your skin, too sweltering, until Inumaki roots himself beside you to provide shade — because he’ll do that now. He’ll take care of you, too.

(He keeps true to his word. When you finish eating and grow tired, he listens to you ramble until your words slur together — he doesn’t have the heart to tell you how little sense you’re making; when you finish talking and fall half-asleep, he lets you rest your head on his shoulder and hums you the rest of the way there, voice sweet and lilting. When you’re tuckered out and all tucked in, he leaves a gentle kiss on your forehead and promises to be so much better for you.)

+

Unknown: How are you?

Me: good! nothing to do today either :’)

Me: yourself?

Unknown: I’m fine, thank you. Stay safe.

Me: you too!

+

None of your guesses for today’s tune are correct. Inumaki’s smirk grows each time you name another song only for him to shoot you down with a drawn-out, “Bonito flakes.” The way he enunciates every syllable is a blow to your ego; it reeks of smugness despite the way his words are slurred because of his toothbrush.

When you hound him for an answer right after, you’re met with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile that irks your nerves too much for such an early hour.

“Have fun changing by yourself,” you grumble as he pretends to zip up his lips, too. He laughs in response. This time, he lets his chuckles ring out. The seals around his mouth dimple as he grins at you, holding your hand and reeling you back to him when you try to walk away.

It’s that same hand he drags to the collar of his shirt, making your fingers curl around the loose neckline of it. He stares at you, and if you notice the way his eyes droop until they’re half-lidded, if you notice the way his smile shrinks so he can nibble on his bottom lip, you say nothing about it.

(There’s meaning in everything he does.)

“Tell me what the song was.”

You don’t know why your voice comes out so hushed, just that it does. Any louder and it would spoil the tranquillity that has settled around you.

The curtains are open again. Sunlight pours through and haloes the curves of his body; it streaks the dip of his waist, the rise of his shoulders, and the messy tips of his too-long hair in a delicate, ethereal amber. He doesn’t need wings to look like an angel.

You wonder when you started to look at him in this dizzying light. When did you look at him and notice the dust of stubble on his chin? When did the defined line of his jaw become a part of him that steals your attention?

He shakes his head and the sunshine moves with him like it bends to his will. It’s possible, you think. Maybe he could tell the sun to bow down to him, and it would.

(Maybe he’s another of those awe-inspiring, rule-breaking anomalies in this universe.)

You’ve never seen a solar eclipse, but you think this is as close as anyone has ever been to experiencing one.

(He’s a celestial body, and this universe cannot contain all that he is; no matter how much of his surface is cratered, he will always be too big for this room. 

Maybe none of those too-powerful, too-lonely souls handed over the fragments. The universe has greedy teeth for hands and it doesn’t take pieces away, it only leaves crumbs behind.)

You are the earth, and he, your moon; and shadows aren’t so bad when they’re his, when they’re blanketing you in his darkness.

But then he tilts his head.

It casts a narrow, golden line across your face; a partial eclipse made as sunshine travels almost 150 million kilometres through uninterrupted air, through the glazed windows of your temporary home, and past the tattered curtains he keeps forgetting to close — all for you. He tilts his head, and you squint at the light that crosses your eye.

(He tilts his head, and it’s a wordless tell that he doesn’t want you finding any comfort in the dark. Not anymore. He’ll hold a candlelight to your face and he’ll keep it there until the wax has melted down his arm, and then he’ll look at you with the light in his eyes and hope it’s good enough for you.

He hopes you understand.)

(Maybe you’re thinking too much into it. But then he lets go of your hand to graze where the gold rays touch you, and he smiles.)

You pull his shirt off and he lets you. Your hands hover over the waistband of his trousers and he gives a subtle nod. You push them down. Goosebumps litter his skin and his hand flexes on your shoulder, but he doesn’t move it.

He leans on you as he kicks the fallen clothes away, and he’s looking right at you as he does so — unlike last week, and the week before that, and the week before that. Your heart doesn’t ache, but each slow blink of his is another tug on its strings.

You think you understand.

He doesn’t tell you what song he was playing. He doesn’t tell you he was making it up as he went along.

(He doesn’t radiate his own light and he isn’t bursting through the walls and there will always be space for you by his side.)

+

Unknown: Do you need lunch?

Me: we just ate, but thank you!

Unknown: Okay. Stay safe.

Me: of course, you too!

+

When Inumaki looks at you like this, you feel like an absolute idiot. Regret rushes into your system, and you’re already conjuring ways to retract everything you’ve said thus far. There are half syllables and broken words that leave you as you stammer out, “Wait, uh, I don’t mean— I mean, obviously with everything, and the, the thing—”

He’s so dramatic — with his mouth agape, his eyes too white, too wide, for such a trivial confession.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you gripe, folding your arms across your chest. “It’s not that serious.”

You don’t think it’s possible for his mouth to drop any further, but he proves you wrong in the very next second. The slow, disappointed head shake that follows is what has you shifting in your seat, tightening your hold on yourself for extra comfort.

“Bonito flakes.”

“It’s not.”

“Bonito flakes.”

“This is stupid.”

“Salmon,” he says, grinning and pointing at you. You glare at him, batting his hand away just before you stretch your legs out in front of you.

He huffs when your foot knocks into his side, scowling at the ‘oops,’ that giggles out of you right after. He’s quick to join you, left side snug beside your right so you both fit on the single bed. His phone is in his hand, and you follow the quick swipes of his thumb as he starts typing.

[I can't believe I'm friends with someone who hasn’t watched Spirited Away.]

“It’s not that serious,” you defend. “And I’ve been busy! I can’t just blast away curses like you, I actually have to spend time training, you know?”

[Loser—]

His phone slips from his hand when you nudge him, and he lets out a yelp when it hits his chin. He glares at the smug grin on your face, ignoring your pointed ‘deserved,’ in favour of kicking your legs aside and picking his phone back up.

You don’t watch as he goes through the motions of loading the movie, instead shifting more comfortably, a little closer to his side. If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t make any move to shuffle away from you.

(You miss the way his thumb freezes over the on-screen keyboard.)

Inumaki raises his arm, holding his phone above the both of you so you can both see the screen.

“Mustard lead?”

“I’m good,” you say, assuming that he’s asking if you’re comfortable enough before he clicks play. “You’re gonna hold it up the whole time, yeah?”

His thumb hovers over the triangle button, but then he decides to lower his arm, swiping back to the notes app and hiding the screen from you.

When he makes the grand reveal, you immediately groan, covering your face as you feel heat rise to your cheeks.

[No, I’ll swap to my other one halfway through. Oh wait…]

You don’t know what to say to that, but he snickers as you stumble your way through, “Oh my god, I didn’t— You know what I meant. Give me the phone.”

He hands it over, still chuckling as you grumble an ‘I hate you,’ beneath your breath. You open up the movie once more, holding the device above your heads like he had before.

“Ready?” you ask, and this time he stirs closer, tilting his head to yours so the gentle flicks of his hair brush against your neck. You’re glad you never brought up cutting his hair. Like delicate brush strokes on the canvas of your skin, the ends tickle you as he cosies up to your side.

He doesn’t say anything, so you don’t either.

He’s so close, though. You can feel the firm line of his body silhouetting your own, where his hipbone sinks into yours, where his shoulder presses against your own, where the length of his arm seemingly disappears. Suddenly, you feel so aware of every inch of him. Too aware, too focused. You’re taking too long to start the movie, you’re sure, but he says nothing, so you say nothing, cherishing the heat that he weaves deep into your muscles when his thigh presses to your own, too.

He presses the button and the video starts. It’s a haze to you — blue and pink streaks across the screen, the sound of an engine revving crackles through the speaker — because all you can focus on is the hint of detergent that lingers in his long sleeve top, and the blend of lemon soap and coconut shampoo that wisps its way across the short, practically non-existent distance between you both.

You think he can read your mind because a moment later he nudges you with his shoulder. He’s already looking at you. His face is a little blurry up close, noses mere inches away from grazing one another, but you can still make out the smattering of freckles that litter the apples of his cheeks, the flush that dusts the tips of his ears, the smallest dip of his cupid’s bow. You’re staring at his lips — and there’s no way he doesn’t notice, no way for him to miss your eyes lowering because he’s so close to you — 

(He misses it. He mirrors it.)

 — but he doesn’t say anything, so you don’t either.

+

Unknown: How are you?

Me: we’re good, heading to bed! how are you?

Unknown: good. Let me know if you need anything.

Me: sure. good night!

+

Your funds don't roll in as steadily as they used to. It’s hard to find (and keep) a stable, well-paying job when you’re on the lam. There are the odd coins you find on the ground and pocket, and advertisements on flyaway papers with work offers that fall through more often than not.

Your wallet isn't empty, though, so you keep your complaints to yourself. Inumaki never asks how you get the money — even though you're sure he has his guesses — and you never tell him. Neither of you think he'd be able to handle it if you said it outright.

You still have money saved from the month that’s just passed. It’s probably enough to last you a few more days if you stick to your frugal regime, but you know that won’t stop your friend from coming soon with a renewal.

Your jacket does little to stop the battering of cold air that surges every other minute, but you pull it around yourself tighter. Your fingers are numb in your pockets and you can’t stop bouncing your leg in hopes of that warming you up as you wait. The wind is loud, angry and howling, but you’ve listened to more painful screams, had them ripped from your own throat too many times for it to make you wince. It’s the trickle of rain that you loathe at this moment, making the cold cling to your body like a second skin, seeping through layers of clothes as if they’re paper thin.

The light above you flickers and you count the seconds between each one to keep your sanity. It isn’t much longer — only thirteen plus seven plus eleven seconds — that the shadows move and the patter of rain on concrete is accompanied by footsteps.

“Long time no see,” he calls out.

“It’s been a while, huh?” You grin, bouncing off the wall to meet Panda in a hug. He’s sopping wet from vaulting across rooftops to meet you here, but that doesn’t stop you from holding onto him as tightly as you can.

“How have you been?” he asks. When you separate from the embrace, you go back to your little shelter by the roof’s entrance.

“Same old,” you shrug. “I think I’m getting used to this kind of life now.”

“Careful with that.” It’s a joke, but the chuckle you both share is soaked in bitterness. “How’s Toge?”

“Better, I think,” you say. Panda nods along with you, solemnly. “He’s talking more, making jokes, too, so he’s— he’s getting there. What about you?”

“Not bad.” He lets out a deep sigh, handing you the bag that’s hanging off his wrist — the reason he makes this monthly trek to wherever you are. “There isn’t as much in there as usual. Guess who I ran into.”

“You’re doing too much for us, anyway.” You roll your eyes. “Who?”

“Itadori.” He grins. “Cost me a match.”

You perk up immediately. You haven’t heard from any of the other graduates in a while. Not knowing which sorcerers are on your side has pushed everyone to minimal interaction.

“He’s okay?”

Panda nods. “Fushiguro as well. Those two…” He trails off, shaking his head fondly. He tells you what they’ve told him about their plans, what they’re going to do next, and the games. It’s a lot to digest considering how disconnected you and Inumaki have been from Jujutsu society. 

You’ve spent so much time running away every time a sorcerer comes near you, avoiding everything you’ve ever known in hopes of healing. Just the thought of confronting it, of falling back into old routines where you train and fight and exorcise, makes your head pound. You’ll miss the old man in the convenience store and his lemon burst drink in the morning. You’ll miss the petal soft pillows of the hostel you’ve been staying in. You try not to think about it too much, but the sand in the glass is running out and you’ll have to face the world — your world, your real and cruel and unjust world — again soon.

Panda stays for a while and you talk. He tells you about the new scars on Itadori’s face. You tell him you watched films with Inumaki until 4 in the morning. He’s just as surprised that you’ve never watched Spirited Away. It feels normal. It makes you wish he didn’t have to leave to go somewhere safer, but he does.

And then you’re alone. The rain only worsens, falling in heaps that are too loud, too wet. You head back inside only to freeze one foot in.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

Inumaki looks so small with his arm wrapped around his body, forehead dropped to the points of his legs. Raindrops cling to your lashes and his body is a blur, as if you’re looking at him through an unfocused camera lens, but you know it’s him even without seeing him. No one else would be sitting on the floor so late at night.

He sits up and his hair falls back, the curtains drop to make a grand reveal. That bleary expression of his reminds you of a ghost. Tired eyes, chapped lips, he looks half dead yet innocent. Child-like, still, with drool crusting at the edge of his mouth, with his knees knocking together as he looks up at you.

Your clothes are sticking to your body, they’re uncomfortable, and you should change out of them as soon as you can to avoid getting ill. You take a seat next to him, instead.

“If you were awake, you could’ve come out,” you say. The ground is cold and unforgiving beneath you. You can hear the water soak into your bones, feel its chill run through your veins. “He misses you.” Inumaki doesn’t reply. He just lets his head fall back against the wall. You fill the silence, then. You tell him about Itadori. You tell him about the games and their master plan and you focus on everyone but yourselves to avoid that dreaded conversation for a little longer.

It works until he looks at you and you see the red in his eyes. You see the crystals line his lashes and the lens grows more unfocused as they reflect in your own eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. His eyes droop. He looks past you, at the still-open door. The wind rolls in in vicious waves, ice at your sides as it hits you, and the rain makes puddles at the doorway. You can’t regret saying it when it’s the truth, when it’s all you have to say. “I don’t want to go back.”

He nods.

“I want to stay like this a little longer.”

He nods again.

“Just the two of us.”

He looks at you, but you’re looking down now.

Staring at your hands as they curl around the ends of your jacket, you miss the once-over he gives you. You watch as the dark fabric creases with your ever-tightening grip; you miss the way he bites his lip, the conflict unravelling in his eyes.

“I don’t want more people to die, Toge.”

Your voice cracks. It’s broken. Choked. There’s a cry caught in you that never comes out but you can feel it. You’re too aware of how it’s stuck in your larynx, half-in, half-out, unmoving and chafing. Gravel fills your throat, tearing through your vocal cords string by string. The taste of martyrdom is rotten in your mouth. You swallow rocks and drink self-sacrifice, ignoring the way it burns through your flesh on the way down.

Your eyes are shut too tightly, nails digging into your palms despite the layers, and you don’t see Inumaki move until he’s touching you. His hand brushes over yours, so much warmer than your own, and he pulls it up and away.

He’s too careful, filling the empty spaces between your fingers with his. He’s too gentle, curling his fingers so the tips soak up the drops that linger there. He’s too quiet, raising your hand to his face, and all you can do is stare down at your lap and let him.

His lips are dry on the back of your hand. Tentative. When he kisses you there, the dull smack of his lips overpowers the torrential rain. The small huff of air he breathes out is enough to warm your entire hand, and the way he squeezes right after sends that heat through the rest of you.

He rests your hand on your thigh and nods his head to it, making you watch as he drags his finger along your skin, slowly but surely working through the syllables to tell you, “We’ll be okay.”

“Promise?”

The rain doesn’t sound as harsh now. Maybe it’s dying down, maybe you’re just too focused on the curve of his lips as he smiles then, lifting his hand to your face to wipe away the water on your face. His hand is soothing to the touch, soft as a dandelion wisp as he grazes the tender lines beneath your eyes.

You don’t know where to look. His eyes are blazing as he follows his own movements, his lips parted, timid. You watch the slow bob of his throat as he swallows, and then he looks right at you.

At that moment, the rain stops. The wind is silent. The barest hint of mint fans across your lips.

At the next, the meagre distance between you is crossed and his lips slot against yours.

They’re damp from him licking over them, rough on the surface from sleep and nibbling, but it’s comforting. Awkward and hesitant, but nice. Easy. There aren’t any fireworks crackling and popping against the sides of your stomach; there are no stars bursting behind your eyelids and sending you into a tizzy, but the downpour returns and the door swings wildly on its hinges.

It doesn’t last very long either.

His nose bumps against yours when he tilts his head and presses forward the slightest bit, and his mouth loosens from its pucker to focus on the swell of your bottom lip, giving it a kiss, a squeeze, and then another. The quietest click sounds when he pulls away from you. Mint lingers on your lips. You don’t feel so cold anymore.

“Promise,” he whispers. His eyes are still closed. He leans his forehead on yours and you can feel each of his eyelashes caress your cheek. It’s as soft as grass, as the butterfly’s wings. It’s hope.

You close your eyes again. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Salmon,” he says. I don’t, you hear. I haven’t.

The tip of his nose nudges yours playfully before he pulls away, a dainty lilt in his lips.

“Mustard leaf?”

“I guess.” You sigh. “What do we do now?”

He shrugs, resting his head on your shoulder despite the water that drips down you. You should look for answers when your mind isn’t so sleep-addled, but you don’t know how you’ll fall asleep when your head is full of question marks and blank spaces.

You pull out your phone to check the time, and the screen is bright, showing a too-early time in all white. Just beneath that is a text message.

Unknown: Good night.

Inumaki makes a curious noise when you go to reply.

“Oh, it’s your dad.”

He leans away from you all of a sudden and you turn to him. His furrowed brows voice all the questions he has running through his mind.

“He’s been texting me, like, every day,” you tell him. “Just asking how we are and stuff. Does he not, you know, text you?”

Inumaki purses his lips, nodding his head.

“Do you reply?”

He scrunches his nose. You thought as much.

There’s a moment where neither of you say anything. He’s thinking. You’re thinking. The cursor on your phone blinks beside the unsent text.

“He always asks if we need anything, you know?” you mention. “I think he just wants to see you. Especially if you’re not even replying to him.” Inumaki worries over his bottom lip. “What if we… went to him?”

There’s another lull in the conversation. You watch him. He looks at his hand and then vaguely at the empty space where the other one should be.

When he’s ready, he faces you once more. And then he nods.

You hold your pinky out for him. “Together,” you say.

He loops his finger around yours. “Together.”

“Good. You’re stuck with me now.” He exaggerates a grimace. “Too late to take it back.” He rolls his eyes and you stifle a yawn with your hand. You reply to the message and then turn your phone off. “Come on, we should sleep.”

It’s not an ideal plan — if you can even call that. It’s a half-thought. One of the first ideas that popped into your mind that you voiced and have now decided is good enough to follow. Maybe you’ll regret it in the morning. Maybe Inumaki will.

You think you’ll go through with it either way because nothing is guaranteed in life besides desolation and you might regret it if you change your mind. You don’t want to drown under guilt and what-ifs anymore. Your shoulders already hurt. So you’ll pack up your bags and maybe you’ll tell the convenience store owner the story of how Inumaki lost his arm, or maybe you’ll leave this place without a trace, just as you had with the last, but you won’t regret whatever choice you make because Inumaki will be right by your side. Because if there’s one other thing guaranteed in life — in your life, the only one that you hope you’ll ever have — it’s that you can trust that Inumaki will keep his promise and stay by your side.

Me: Can we meet you?

[shuadotcom]

Stuck | MYG (1)

› Summary: When Min Yoongi’s parents arrange for him to marry their top business competitor’s daughter, he’s less than thrilled, but being the filial son he is, he does what his parents ask to keep the business successful. You’re much less receptive to the news, and it takes your parents threatening your fortune to get you to go along with it. As expected, things between you and Yoongi go from bad to worse. It only takes half a year before it all comes to a head, leaving you both exhausted, heartbroken, and unsure of how to pick up the pieces.

› Pairing: Yoongi x Female!Reader (nicknamed Peach)

› Genre: Angst, arranged marriage au, chaebol au

› Rating: NC-17 (MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED)

› Words: 11.2k

› Warnings: Profanity, alcohol consumption, implied sex, lots of arguing amongst married couples, toxic parents( (especially Y/n’s mom), Yoongi is mean and pretty slut shamey, Y/n slaps Yoongi once

› A/N: This is part 1 of 2 of my part in the Sons of Midas collab. It took much longer than I would’ve liked to finish, but it’s finally here!!!! Part 2 is being outlined as we speak and will be out... soon 😳

Thank you soooo much to @bangtanhome​ and @oftenderweapons​ for being my wonderful betas. Ily both and you helped me so much to get this right, more than you know! 💛💛

PART 2

Min Yoongi is a lot of things. He’s practically a genius - his friend Namjoon’s IQ aside. Namjoon is book smart, but Yoongi is just as intelligent and doesn’t do half the dumb things he does. He’s talented, being able to play multiple instruments flawlessly, just because he loves music. He’s handsome, which isn’t just him boosting his ego. Anyone with working eyes can see that he belongs on the cover of GQ (which could very well be in his future if the business card he received from a publisher of the magazine is any indication).

The list of his positive attributes goes on, but he wouldn’t call himself committed. Determined, sure. Ambitious, absolutely. But committed in the relationship sense? No.

Being the son of one of the top electronic companies in South Korea makes dating hard for many reasons. Yoongi is usually working most of the time, and when he’s not, he prefers to be home, taking time to himself. That’s not to say he doesn’t go on casual dates, but those are usually just that: casual. The girls he meets are usually wealthy and lack the substance of a woman he requires, or if they’re not wealthy, they make it clear that they only want him for his status and fortune.

He does not commit, which is why when the words “arranged to be married” slip from his father’s lips, he can only stare back, slack-jawed.

“I’m sorry?” Yoongi asks, wanting to make sure he heard correctly.

“This industry is all about strategy. If we want to stay on top of things, we need to make moves, and if that means-”

“I have to marry a total stranger,” Yoongi interrupts with an attitude in his voice. One look from his father though, has him clearing his throat and apologizing for his outburst.

“As I was saying, if that means us having to adjust things in our personal lives to stay ahead of the industry, then so be it.” His father finishes. Yoongi should’ve known his parents’ sudden call for an impromptu lunch would be for something more than simply “catching up.”

“Besides,” his mother chimes in, “she’s not a stranger. It’s the daughter of SK International; Y/n. You’ve met and spoken with her numerous times.”

This is true. Yoongi knows very well who you are. Y/l/n Y/n. Better known in their circle simply as Peach. You’re an example of the women that Yoongi tends to stay away from. Wealthy, superficial, and extremely extroverted. He always hears through the rumor mill about you at the latest events and parties with a different date on your arm each time.

There’d been a time where he wanted to ask you out but decided you’re much too high-maintenance for him. That, and the fact that you had a brief stint with Namjoon. It wasn’t serious, but Yoongi wasn’t partial to his friends’ seconds, so he quickly abandoned the idea of getting involved with you. (This doesn’t stop him from looking at pictures of you that pop up on social media or online. You may be problematic, but you’re also attractive)

“I see,” is all Yoongi says, picking at the steak in front of him.

“I knew you’d understand. We want to do this quickly so I can finish getting the contracts written up. Sometime within the next month at least. Your mother has already been working with Y/n’s family and a wedding planner who’s taking care of everything.” Yoongi’s father speaks with such casualty as if he isn’t discussing signing his son away.

Yoongi stays quiet and nods the whole time, humoring his mother’s excited expression with artificial smiles of his own.

“Are you fucking serious?!” You screech for what seems like the eighth time.

“Y/n, I will only tell you once more to watch your tone with me.” Your mom warns, her tone as authoritative as usual, even over video chat.

“I’m sorry, but how can I watch my tone?! You just told me you’re signing my life away to someone I don’t even know!”

“I am not signing you away, don’t be so dramatic. And you know Min Yoongi, remember?”

Of course, you remember him. Min Yoongi is one of the finest men you’ve ever seen, and you’ve seen plenty. Last year you wanted so badly to ask him out during a gala that you don’t even remember the purpose of. You’d had your eye on him for months, but you admittedly chickened out at the last minute. As good-looking as Yoongi is, he’s also just as intimidating. Those sharp, intense eyes had you tucking your tail and fleeing to hook up with the son of a smaller tech start-up instead. (You unapologetically thought of Yoongi the whole time)

Knowing who Yoongi is doesn’t overcome the thought of being married. You! Married?! Marriage is the furthest thing from your mind, let alone having a marriage arranged for you. You’ve had plenty of relationships, but none of them stuck around enough to entertain the thought of marriage and that’s completely okay with you. You don’t want to be married. You want to live in your cute apartment with all of your belongings and enjoy a good fuck in any room you want by someone new each time. This is the worst news you’ve received in a long time.

“I don’t care who it is. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife. What if I refuse?”

“Oh, that’s not an option,” your mom chuckles. “If you want to keep leeching off of me, you’ll marry Yoongi next month and you’ll like it.”

“Great, I can’t wait to marry a man that doesn’t actually care about me and would rather send me on extravagant vacations so he doesn’t have to deal with me.” You bite back, not caring how much of a low blow that was. You’re only growing increasingly agitated as this conversation goes on.

Your mom shoots you a look through the screen that has you shrinking back, but only a little.

“As I said Y/n, you don’t have a choice. You will be getting married next month. My assistant will be in touch with you with the details of your dress fitting and any other appointments the planner comes up with.”

“But-”

“Goodbye.” And with that, the video call ends, leaving you staring at your own angry expression on the black screen.

You let out a frustrated scream and plop back onto your bed. You force away the tears that prick at the backs of your eyes and try to think of any possible ways you can get out of this marriage.

After closing your eyes and coming up with nothing, you fall asleep, only to wake up later. The realization that you’re getting married in a month still weighs heavy on you as you mentally give up. Your mom always wins and this will be no different.

You had a Western wedding, per your mother’s choice. She claims it’s much chicer and on-trend.

Normal weddings look like so much work in the movies. Lots of running around and picking out flowers and plates and dresses. There’s always rehearsal dinners and bachelorette parties and then some kind of drama with the cake or the guests.

You don’t have to deal with any of that. Your mom’s assistant and hired wedding planner tackle everything. The only real appointment you have is the dress fitting, which you at least get to pick, then your hair and makeup the day of. You have no input on the flowers or the venue, which is a stale church your mom took you to all of once when you were little.

In the time leading up to the big day, you do your best to act as though nothing major is happening to anyone that isn’t in your close group of friends. Swan, Honey, and Candy, the closest of everyone you know, are nice enough to let you cry about it over video calls and in the group chat. Otherwise, you keep it to yourself and live your life as normal. The more you dwell on it, the more it gnaws at your mind.

After watching your parents in their loveless marriage for more than 35 years, the thought of ending up in a similar situation haunts you more than you’ll ever admit. Your parents are distant from each other and as a result, they’ve kept you at arm’s length all your life.

You try to text Yoongi a few times to get to know him more before this life change, but he is as cold over a text message as he often was anytime you’ve seen him. All you can do is hope you don’t end up in the same downward spiral that your parents are going through.

It isn’t until the day of the wedding that you finally see Min Yoongi in person after at least a year. He’s still as handsome as ever. Soft-looking dark hair that’s swept out his face, showcasing his beauty. Dark, sharp eyes that calculate you as you walk down the aisle towards him, and a black suit that he got tailored to perfectly fit his smaller, yet fit frame.

He gives you an artificial smile when you finally reach the altar that you expertly return, just as stale. The pastor immediately launches into the vows as you zone out, eyes scanning the room. You don’t recognize anyone in the pews except yours and Yoongi’s parents. Your mom’s assistant told you it would only be business people and the media. The press was told that you and Yoongi wanted to keep things small, which is why it was so quick with a “select” guest list.

For the rest of the ceremony, you operate on auto-pilot and the day carries on in a blur. You feel like you’re in a daze, only really coming to at the end of the day when you’re locked in the bathroom.

You married Min Yoongi. You’re now married. Legally, you are someone’s wife. The realization hits you like a ton of bricks as you feel panic start to grip your throat and tears well in your eyes. Try as you might, you can’t stop the sobs that slip out, only hoping no one hears you.

The next three months of being Min Yoongi’s wife are filled with frustration, to say the very least. To the outside world, you’re the perfect couple, but that can’t be further from the truth.

Both you and Yoongi’s parents make you move into a new penthouse apartment together. Since you’re now a married couple, you need to be seen as such, according to them, therefore you can’t live separately.

You put up as much of a fight that you can with your mom, which you of course lose, so you end up away from your luxury yet cozy, one-bedroom apartment that you decorated yourself, to a cold, almost clinical two-bedroom apartment that resembles an unlived showroom floor display.

Yoongi continually makes it obvious that he’s not happy. He barely speaks to you, and when he does it’s always an argument over something insignificant. The first week of living together, he bites your head off over not wiping up a splash of your coffee on the counter. The week after that, you get into an argument because you don’t pick up the mail that has his name on it from the mailroom, choosing only to grab yours. Which, in your defense, you simply forget about. You’ve been so used to getting mail for one that it slips your mind. You make sure he knows just how dumb he is before you storm out to meet a few friends at the bar.

Each day that ticks by is essentially nothing but a copy and paste of this. You either argue over trivial things around the apartment, avoid each other at all costs by going out with your friends to try and live a tiny resemblance of what your life was like before you became Mrs. Min, or stay holed up in your room.

Your room is the only place in the apartment where you get to be alone and in your own space. It’s also the only area of the apartment that you get to put any of your own tastes into. Your mom may have forced her choice of paint and furniture into it, but you at least can hang up artwork that you enjoy and cover the new bed in your own choice of linen.

The room is clearly the intended master bedroom with the king-sized bed, massive closet, and attached bathroom, but on day one of being married, Yoongi immediately retreated to what is most likely the guest room and stays only in there, so he makes his solo lodging decision early on.

This is fine with you. If you have to be trapped in a marriage with a man that doesn’t love you, at least you don’t have to sleep in the same bed as him.

You go through the days with no desire to see what’s in Yoongi’s room until one night. You were celebrating Honey, one of your closest friends, finally being back in Korea, so you’re rightfully a little more than tipsy when you get home. As soon as you’re through the front door, you hear the sounds of a piano playing through the apartment.

After spending a few minutes in the foyer simply standing and taking in the sound, you snap out of it and ungracefully tiptoe through the apartment to the source, heels in hand. Yoongi’s bedroom door is open wide enough for you to peek around the corner to see him seated in front of a keyboard in the corner of his room.

It’s the only real personal object in his otherwise empty bedroom that only has basic furniture in it. You spy stacks of books on his dresser and some notebooks, but not much else makes the room seem very lived in.

Yoongi is lost in the music with his eyes closed and a small, focused pout on his pink lips. His long fingers fly across the keys and his head bobs as he goes. This is the most peaceful you’ve ever seen Yoongi in any of the times you’ve seen the man. You don’t miss the way your heart jumps, just a tiny bit at how soft and calm the usually rude man looks. It’s clear he loves music as he loses himself in the melodies he’s playing.

Closing your eyes, you stand there and enjoy the music for a little while longer. If you associate the sweet sounds with the quiet, introverted version of Yoongi you knew of before you were married, it’s not hard to feel the crush that you originally pushed deep down creep back up.

Seeing him like this gives you an idea of how to possibly get through to the man you’re married to in hopes of building even a semblance of a positive relationship with him.

Yoongi equates his time being a married man to feeling trapped. Having to up and leave the apartment he has known and loved for the past few years only to move into one that he had no say in how it looks or where it’s located (of course it’s the halfway point between family companies) makes him miserable.

From the moment he walks in, everything just feels so fake, and wrong. The furniture looks different, feels, and even smells different.

It only takes a quick survey of the bedrooms to see which one is intended to be the shared master. He decides against this by deciding to live in the “guest room” and claiming it as his own.

Is he being moderately childish? Yes. Does he care? No.

Being entangled with you likely has its own set of drama that comes along with it, and having lived the calmest life as is possible for the son of a CEO, he’s not happy about that being disrupted. Maybe one day you’ll get a little more mature and you and Yoongi can even become friends.

Besides, you immediately get back to your own life soon after the wedding and are gone at all hours of the day with your friends, and likely other romantic partners, so what does it matter that Yoongi keeps to himself in his bedroom? If you want to live your way, he’ll do the same.

When he isn’t roped into pointless arguments with you due to the smallest inconveniences, he spends the next three months keeping to himself, working or playing music. He’s found that if he can stay away from you, there won’t be a need to get into a screaming match over him forgetting to lock the front door or not asking if you wanted anything from the store (which is ridiculous since you have a housekeeper that does the grocery shopping anyway).

Three months is a long time for someone to avoid speaking to the person they live with, let alone are married to, but Yoongi does a pretty good job, until one day when he comes home after a long day at the office.

He drops his bag and shoes by the door and shuffles into the kitchen to fix himself a drink.

With a tumbler of whiskey in hand, he collects his things and makes his way to his bedroom. The apartment is surprisingly quiet, but he knows you’re home because he can see the light emanating from your bedroom down the hall.

He’s ready to flop onto his bed and enjoy his drink when he sees a neatly wrapped box sitting in front of his bedroom door. Yoongi opens the door and slides the box in gently before setting down his drink and his bag and picking the box up.

Typically, when he gets mail he’s notified that he needs to pick it up in the mailroom or the housekeeper will tell him, so he’s curious about the box. After untying the white ribbon he shimmies the top off and digs through the tissue paper. Underneath the paper is what appears to be a miniature grand piano made of black wood. Yoongi picks it up, noticing the weight of it, and is further confused until he finds the silver knob on the back.

He turns the knob, which makes the tiny piano begin to play a classical tune that he’s unfamiliar with, but sounds beautiful playing through the room. A smile creeps onto Yoongi’s face as he further admires the music box, noting that his initials are carved onto the bottom. He moves to dig through the box and finds a folded note with a peach emblem on the front.

It’s not weird if spouses get each other wedding gifts right? I saw this and thought of the beautiful music you make. I hope you like your piano partner :) - Peach

There’s a smile on Yoongi’s face as he reads your note. He had been sure he only played piano when you were out, and the idea of you hearing him has a blush creeping up his neck, but your gift also flatters him. He was so sure you hated his guts, yet you got him a present, just because.

Taking a deep breath, Yoongi gently places the music box on his dresser and heads for your room, intending to properly thank you. When he pokes his head into your room, you don’t notice him, as your head is quite literally buried in a thick book in your hands.

Yoongi is taken aback by your appearance. He’s used to seeing you in tight dresses and small skirts, face full of makeup and accessories lining your arms and neck. The Peach he sees is different.

You’re cross-legged on your bed in black sweatpants and a light pink, oversized hoodie. Round glasses are perched on the brim of your nose and large headphones sit on your ears. He watches as a range of emotions flutters across your face, ranging from shock to anger, to happiness. His eyes flicker towards the floor next to your bed, seeing three hefty stacks of books, almost falling over from being haphazardly stacked.

You look like a completely different person and though it’s only a fleeting thought, he briefly notes how beautiful you look. You look like Y/n, not Peach, the party girl that everyone knows. The thought of seeing you privately from the outside world makes Yoongi’s heart jump.

He decides to leave you to your book and quietly heads back to his bedroom, deciding to thank you later. He also decides he needs to return the favor for you and starts to think up a gift to get you that he hopes you’ll like as much as he likes his gift.

Yoongi’s been so busy with work all week, that you haven’t had much time to see him, so you’re dying to know what he thinks of his gift. He surely has it, as the next morning after leaving it in front of his door, you saw that the box was gone. It wasn’t in the trash or any other room, so he must have kept it.

Your question is answered when you get home the next night after a self-care day and turn the light on in your room. You jump at first when you see the new armchair in the corner of the room, cautiously going over to inspect it.

It’s wide and looks to be made of thick, dark-washed wood. The seat is nook-like and the cushions are rose gold-colored and plush, made of some of the most comfortable fabric you’ve ever touched. The seat, backrest, and both sides are padded with this pillowy material. The real appeal of the chair is the fact that the structure of it is a bookshelf, all the way around it. You spot your book collection placed into the chair on every shelf, so when sitting, you simply need to reach over and grab a book to read.

You see a folded paper on one of the armrests and eagerly reach for it to read.

Slouching over your books on your bed is bad posture. Enjoy your reading in comfort and take care of yourself. - Yoongi

The way your heart flutters upon reading the note is ridiculous, but it feels good to know that Yoongi seems to like your gift enough to give you one in return. You can’t help but flop into the chair, sinking in and letting the cushions form to your body. You reach an arm over one of the armrests and pluck a book from the shelf, loving the convenience and the comfort of the chair.

You make a mental note to thank Yoongi as soon as he gets home and maybe start the work towards building something with him.

As luck would have it, you end up curling into yourself and falling asleep in your new chair. Yoongi catches sight of you like this later that night when he comes home, smiling so widely that he’s glad you didn’t see. He tiptoes into your room and places the throw hanging on your computer chair over you, making sure not to disturb you. He’s relieved you like the gift and he tells himself he’ll take the time to thank you properly tomorrow.

The next morning marks the beginning of the first string of pleasant interactions between you and Yoongi. Yoongi calls over a personal chef he’s used before to make breakfast for you, so when you finally stumble into the kitchen, you’re left standing in the entryway to gape at the spread on the dining room table. Yoongi’s sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone but puts it down as soon as he sees you.

“Hey, good morning.” He offers you what you’re pretty sure is his first smile in your direction.

“Good morning,” you smile back.

“I asked my chef to make us a nice breakfast. I wanted to do something nice and uh, thank you for the music box. It’s lovely.”

You have to keep yourself from gaping at the fact that Min Yoongi is not only being nice, but he also thanked you and has done another nice thing for you.

“Thank you too, for the chair. I love it a lot.”

Yoongi flushes at your words, looking away bashfully. It’s awkward between the two of you until Yoongi gestures to the table. You both sit, still silent as you begin placing rice and fish onto your plate.

Only the soft sounds of chewing are heard for a while longer until you decide to break the silence, asking Yoongi how he got into playing the piano. As if a switch flips in him, Yoongi’s eyes light up, and he dives into his background and how he fell in love with the piano after his parents forced him to go to a symphony when he was young. He hated it at first, but when the orchestra began playing, especially the pianist, Yoongi was transfixed and immediately begged for lessons.

“Simpler times in my life too, I suppose,” he shrugs, stuffing a spoonful of soup into his mouth. “What about you? I never really thought I’d see the great Peach with her nose buried in a book.”

“The majority of people I know don’t even think I can say the alphabet, let alone read entire novels.” You laugh, rolling your eyes. “My nanny when I was young used to read to me every night for as long as I can remember. The way she read was always full of emotion and very involved for a bedtime story for a toddler, but it made me love it. She also taught me how to read and eventually I was reading all the time, well at least whenever my mom wasn’t forcing me to go to events and all that. It’s my only real hobby outside of like… going out.”

Yoongi nods, offering a look of understanding. “Yeah, my father let me take piano lessons, but it was always an unimportant hobby to him. If it isn’t about the business, it doesn’t matter.”

“Ugh, don’t get me started! I feel like my mom has said some shit like that to me before. She’s never admitted it outright, but I know she just wants to parade me around for the paparazzi so people will know and remember the business; it’s been like that since I was a teenager.” Yoongi gives you a frown in response, but you wave it off. “It’s fine, I’m used to it. I’m just waiting until I can take over the company and do what I want with it.”

“We definitely have that in common.” Yoongi smiles at you, making your stomach flip yet again. It’s a little embarrassing how easily he can make you feel giddy, but you do your best not to let it show. This is the first time a conversation between you and Yoongi didn’t turn into a screaming match, so you remain as casual as possible.

That breakfast is the open door that you both need to begin to feel more comfortable with one another. That morning is spent with the two of you going back and forth about how exhausting being an heir is and snippets of how equally exhausting both of your parents are. You and Yoongi may be different in many ways, but you both share the same burden of over-controlling, never-around parents.

After that morning, Yoongi finds himself seeking you out more for conversation and vice versa. You eat more meals together, and eventually, a month has gone by and he’s texting you on nights that he’s coming home late from the office, asking what you want him to pick up for dinner.

You wish each other good morning and good night every day and offer one another genuine smiles. At some point, you catch yourself thinking about Yoongi when you’re not together and vice versa. He’s even initiated movie nights at home with you and the more public events you go to, the more his hands on your arm or lower back don’t feel so forced.

Yoongi, being the usually stoic man that he is, even feels comfortable enough to show extreme emotion with you. When Jimin, one of his best friends, tells him that Jungkook’s mother, another one of his best friends, was in a car accident and is in the hospital, he panics. He receives the news one day when you’re watching tv together, and you know something is wrong as soon as he answers the phone.

After he hangs up, he tells you what’s going on and that he needs to get to the hospital. Yoongi’s frazzled and rushes around the apartment as if he doesn’t know where anything is. You finally get up from the couch and grab him by the shoulders as he’s about to pace the hallway for the third time.

“Hey, I need you to calm down, okay? Just grab your bag and your keys.”

“I - yeah okay.” Yoongi turns to go into his room but stops to look back at you. “Can you, um, come to the hospital with me?”

You’re caught off guard, but agree nonetheless and head to your room to get dressed. The ride is silent, and Yoongi’s on edge the entire time, even as you stop to grab flowers. He finally relaxes when you get to the hospital with him and he sees his friends and Jungkook’s mom. You give your hellos to everyone, only knowing them a little, except for Namjoon who you know much too well. You smile at him and he returns it, very half-heartedly which isn’t a surprise given how much of a near recluse he’s become, but you don’t dwell on it. You’re here for Yoongi and Yoongi only.

That night, once you’re back home, and Yoongi’s much calmer, the two of you end up falling asleep on the couch together, not touching, but sharing the same blanket, which in itself is a feat.

A month and a half of peace goes by with no fights and no animosity in the apartment, which both you and Yoongi are thankful for. You’ve found yourself feeling much more zen in your everyday life.

Your phone rings when you’re neck-deep in the newest young adult novel you’ve ordered, disrupting your evening. You sigh, placing your bookmark in the book and answer it, seeing it’s your mom and rightfully bracing yourself.

“Hi, mom.”

“Wow, don’t sound so thrilled to speak to your mother.”

You take a deep breath, refusing to take the obvious argument bait. “I was just reading, that's all.”

“Is that what your time has been dedicated to? Is that why you look the way you do recently?”

“What?” You gape

“I saw a photo of you online from the Louis Vuitton event you and Yoongi attended last weekend. He looks as handsome as always, but Y/n, what on Earth is going on with you?”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with me?!”

“Oh come on, Y/n. It’s obvious how much weight you’ve put on. And who did your makeup? Your foundation looks awful.”

“Did you just call me to be rude to me?!” The anger that your mom usually causes you bubbles up, and you don’t notice how hard you’re gritting your teeth.

“It’s not rude, it’s criticism. And you should hear it from me before anyone on the internet.” She says casually.

“Are you sure? You sound like just as much of an asshole as people on the internet.”

“First of all, watch your mouth when you speak to me. Second of all, as I said, it’s criticism whether you like it or not. Besides, someone has to tell you so you can match Yoongi. We can’t have the future CEO of SK Min Electronics International walking around with an ugly wife now can we?”

There aren’t enough words to describe the flurry of emotions her words make you feel, but her mention of Yoongi as the CEO stops you. “What do you mean ‘future CEO’? I’m taking over SK International.”

Your mom chuckles in response and you hear the yipping of her dogs in the background. “Oh, Y/n, what? Did we not tell you? Your father and I decided we’d just merge the companies completely and have Yoongi lead the one, mega-company.”

“You can’t just make me not the heir anymore!” You jump up from the couch and begin pacing in irritation.

“We can and we did. Besides, you haven’t really shown that you can handle being CEO. I mean, before the marriage, you know very well that all of the articles published about you showed you out at another club or bar. And Y/n, the rumors about you and all the partners you’ve had are too much for you to be the CEO of the family business. Maybe you can start a makeup or clothing line instead.”

You’re silent as she prattles on with you barely listening. This phone call morphed from casual verbal abuse to news of your future completely changing from what you knew it would be for the past twenty or so years.

At some point, your mom decides she’s tired of speaking at you and says goodbye, barely waiting for you to respond. You sink back onto the couch, mind still reeling. It’s not the first time she’s nitpicked the way you look or behaved, but it’s the first time in a long time that it’s been so cruel and you let it get to you. Not to mention the fact that you will no longer inherit your family’s company.

Her sharp words keep replaying in your head and you eventually end up in a heap on the couch, sobbing. Yoongi finds you there after work and you’re surprised when he comes over to rub reassuring circles on your back and shoulders.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” He asks. Through teary eyes, you meet his gaze, seeing true concern. You’ve come a long way in the short time you’ve been married to Yoongi, and to have him here comforting you has to mean something right?

“My mom… she’s just… she just said some terrible things to me, as usual.” You sniffle, forcing a smile on your face. Yoongi’s grip on your shoulder tightens, almost protectively.

“Well, you don’t have to tell me what she said if you don’t want to, but I’m sorry.”

You blink at him, trying to make sure you heard him right. Yoongi apologized to you. He’s never said sorry to you. Sure, it wasn’t an apology for something he did, but it has to be a start.

Sitting so close to him for a few seconds longer gives you ample time to admire how soft his lips look.

Unsure if it’s the onslaught of emotions rushing through you, you lean up before you can talk yourself out of it and press your lips to Yoongi’s. You can confirm that his lips are as soft as they look.

Unfortunately, the moment is cut short when Yoongi pulls away harshly, pushing you back in the process.

“Y/n, what the fuck?” It’s at this moment that you realize the work you’ve put in to bridge the gap between the two of you is for not as Yoongi shoots you an intensely deep frown, similar to ones he’s given you before you had reached a truce.

“Sorry! Sorry I couldn’t help it but… Yoongi, we’ve gotten a lot closer lately, and we’re married. What do you say we go out maybe? Give this a real chance?” A voice in the back of your head is telling you this is a bad idea, but you’re not listening, too overcome with emotions.

“No.”

“Yoongi, come on, we-”

“I said no!” He snaps. “Did you forget that this is essentially a fake marriage? We’re not some happily wed couple. We’re not together!”

He’s right, but hearing the amount of venom in his voice when he says it still stings.

Pushing the hurt down, you quickly replace it with anger and pull yourself up quickly from the couch. “Alright, I get it! No need to be a fucking asshole!”

“Well, maybe that’ll make you remember it next time you throw yourself at me like you just did.” His change back to the asshole you knew, has you immediately on guard.

“Oh, give me a break I did not throw myself at you. I’m sorry I kissed you. I shouldn’t have done that without consent.”

“As if someone like you would get my consent.”

You scoff. “Okay, asshole, fucking forget it. With such a shitty attitude, it’s not like you get women asking to be with you anyway.”

“Why, because I don’t go out every night fucking anything that moves?” He shoots back.

“You know what Yoongi, fuck you, okay? I don’t know why I thought things were getting better.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why you did either. This is still a fucking nightmare.”

“Wow. Okay, I’m done. You make me sick.” You spin on your heel, stomping down the hallway with your room in mind.

“The feeling is mutual!” Yoongi calls at your retreating back, always needing to have the last word.

You slam your door behind you, immediately crumpling to the ground, sobbing into the plush carpet. First dealing with your mom, then having Yoongi be just as nasty, is all too much. You didn’t expect him to be in love with you, but you like to think you were growing closer to him the past two months, even having your old feelings resurface, only for him to trample over those without hesitation.

You had grown to know him as more than an arrogant, nasty tyrant. He could be sweet, funny, thoughtful, and enjoyable to be around. This Yoongi, the cold and mean one though, you thought was finally gone. You were wrong.

Letting yourself wallow for much longer than you should, you finally pull yourself off the floor. Mascara stained and face hot, you stare at your reflection and are filled with a sense of anger. Angry at your mom for treating you like shit your whole life and angry at Yoongi for treating you like shit for months and angry at yourself for crying over them both.

With a renowned sense of determination, you stomp to the bathroom for a shower and decide that if you can’t get appreciation from the people closest to you, you’ll find it elsewhere.

It only takes you an hour to get dolled up and into one of your shortest, tightest dresses. You shoot a text to the group chat with your friends, only to find out that they’re all busy for the night. While you could invite any of your other contacts, you decide not to bother and go alone. The attention you’ll receive will be the same either way.

Yoongi’s bedroom door is shut and the apartment is silent when you leave, but you don’t care. When your driver pulls up, minutes after you step outside, you have him take you to a nearby bar that you frequent enough that the bodyguards and bartenders all know you.

This is proven by a simple wave at the door and you’re let inside. You receive the same treatment at the bar, the small crowd surrounding it immediately parting to allow you to sit as the bartender working immediately comes over and places a rum and coke in front of you.

“Hey beautiful,” A voice immediately murmurs from next to you. Flirtatiously, you turn to the voice, seeing a handsome face smiling at you.

“Hi there,” you purr, and the man takes this as his cue to take the seat next to you.

“Peach, right?”

“Mmhmm.” You offer out your hand and the stranger smirks, taking your hand and placing a kiss on top.

“Wonwoo. It’s great to finally meet you in person, Peach. Are you as sweet as your name suggests?” He flashes you a wide smile that you find extremely charming.

“Buy me another drink and you just might find out.” You wink. He immediately calls over the bartender, ordering “whatever you’re drinking now” and asking him to keep them coming as long as you’d like.

You offer Wonwoo a genuine smile, acutely aware of the eyes of other people in the bar locked on you, and your earlier trouble at home is just that easily forgotten.

Yoongi is an idiot. He’s a huge fucking jerk. He keeps telling himself this all night after you disappear into your bedroom after your argument.

The argument that he admits he started.

He shouldn’t have taken the tiring day he had out on you. His father spent the day talking over every decision Yoongi tried to make, denying him any room to contribute in any of the many meetings they had to sit in. When he confronted him about it at the end of the night, he excused it with him not feeling as though Yoongi was knowledgeable enough, which led to some heated words and Yoongi storming out to go home.

When you kissed him, the way he reacted was wrong. He should have told you that he felt that things were complicated and that it’s better if you don’t get into a relationship right now. He’d be lying if he said getting close to you for nearly two months hasn’t had the earlier crush he harbored on you ease its way back into his heart.

But, he can’t be with you like that. How your relationship started is under false pretenses, and he doesn’t even know how to process his feelings. Not to mention he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to look past the relationship you and Namjoon had. It’s too much for him to try and dissect, so he’s opting not to get into that with you.

That’s not to say it’s what he wants. What he wanted earlier was to grab you and pull you into his arms. He wanted to grasp your face in his hands and let his lips collide with yours, and then maybe, just maybe, take you on the couch of your shared apartment.

He didn’t do this. Instead, he said things he shouldn’t have and sent the wedge that had eased its way out from between the two of you, back in with a vengeance.

After you storm to your bedroom, Yoongi sulks into his room and absorbs himself into his computer, headphones on, and music turned up to drown out the way he’s cursing himself for being an absolute moron.

Eventually, with tired eyes and a headache from staring at the screen for so long, he takes his headphones off. With a glance at the time, he sees that he’s been focused on his computer for at least three hours. His mind flickers to you as he stands to stretch, and he thinks about apologizing and seeing if any form of amends can be made.

This idea quickly leaves him when he suddenly notices the sound of you in the distance. He holds his breath and walks to his closed door, pressing his ear to the wood to hear better.

“Oh fuck.”

That’s definitely a moan he hears coming from you.

Yoongi’s face heats up at the thought of you touching yourself only a few feet away from him. He knows he shouldn’t, but he opens his bedroom door and creeps into the hallway. Your door is half-open and he can hear you letting out more breathy moans.

He makes it halfway to your door when he hears a moan that mirrors yours. A distinctly male moan.

Yoongi can’t explain it, but he suddenly feels rage run rampant over him. The earlier fight aside, the fact that you brought home another person to fuck in the place he also lives in has him seeing red. As much as he doesn't take your marriage seriously, he never thought about sleeping with someone else in your home.

He’s bursting into your room before he can stop himself, causing you to shriek in surprise. You’re completely naked, mounted on the lap of a strange naked man in your bed and Yoongi has the urge to drag the man out by his head of dark hair.

“Yoongi,” you slur out, “what the fuck?” He watches as you fall to your side on the bed, having lost balance.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” He practically roars and sees the man sit up quickly. He immediately recognizes him as someone he’s seen at plenty of his mother’s fancy dinners. Jeon Wonwoo, the son of one of the country’s biggest accounting companies, that Yoongi’s father happens to have a large stake in.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” You sass and roll off of the bed, hands grasping for your dress on the floor.

Wonwoo does the same, eyes meeting Yoongi’s rage-filled ones as he hastily pulls up his underwear. “I - uh - she said you weren’t home.” He stammers.

“Well I’m standing right in front of you, aren’t I?” Yoongi grumbles. “And I suggest you get the fuck out of my house before I make a call to my father who’ll make sure your miserable life is ruined along with your family.”

“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!” Wonwoo bows furiously more times than Yoongi can count and scrambles out of the room, arms full of his clothes.

Once he’s gone, Yoongi turns his fiery gaze to you as you sway next to your bed, dress pulled on backward.

“What gives you the right to storm in here?!”

“This is my house! I live here too, or did all the alcohol give you sudden amnesia?”

“So what? I can do what I want in my house!”

“And that includes sleeping with strangers?! We’re married, remember?!”

You let out a frustrated scream, tugging at your dress. “Oh spare me! A few hours ago you told me this marriage means nothing to you and now you’re inserting yourself into my fucking business and trying to take charge of my personal life. That’s not how this works, Yoongi!”

You’re right and Yoongi knows it, but dammit he’s too stubborn to admit how jealous he is.

“That’s not the point! Do you know how disrespectful it is for you to bring some other person into the house that you share with the person you’re married to only to fuck them loud enough for the whole building to hear?!”

“You know what, I’m done with his conversation. Leave me alone, Yoongi. Stop talking to me, stop thinking about me, and stop existing around me!”

“Fine, I will! As a matter of fact, I’ll go ahead and exist in my own apartment away from you!”

“Great!”

With a final venomous look shared between the two of you, Yoongi storms to his room, immediately packing a bag of clothes, his laptop, and anything else he can get fit.

He throws a final glance at your now closed bedroom door before he’s out the front door and going to the parking garage to take his car and go back to his own apartment.

Yoongi is gone for three days before his assistant shows up with a mover to collect the rest of the things he left behind. He hadn’t brought much in the first place, so it doesn’t take long.

“Did he tell you not to tell me anything?” You ask his assistant flatly, watching as she grabs the last box of knick-knacks. You’d been badgering Tzuyu since she showed up early in the morning to try and tell you when Yoongi would come back, but she was tight-lipped and turned you down each time.

You follow her to the front door, asking once more, and she turns to face you before you can finish the question.

“For the last time, Peach, I can’t say. All I’ll tell you is that I’m bringing this all to his apartment now.” Tzuyu is out the door before you can prod her with any follow-up questions.

It only takes a couple of hours before you find out what Yoongi’s plan is when you get the screaming phone call from your mom.

“What did you do?!” Is the first thing you hear when you answer. Pulling the phone away from your ear, you put the call on speaker. You’ve been rummaging in the kitchen for a few minutes before she called.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why the hell did I just get a call from Yoongi’s mother telling me they may be following through with a divorce?!”

The word ‘divorce’ has you faltering, your hand completely falling limp as you almost drop the bag of cookies in hand.

“A divorce?”

“This could ruin the business, you know! A divorce after being married less than a year will look so incredibly messy!

For some reason, even after having the apartment be empty for days, and all his belongings being taken out, the true realization that he wasn’t coming back and wanted to end things with you hurt. You’re aware this makes you sound like a fool, given the way you’ve interacted with him for the majority of your time married, but with your roller coaster of emotions for him, you’re more disappointed than anything to hear that he just wants it to be over.

“Y/n! Have you heard anything I’ve said?!” Your mom shrieks particularly loud, bringing you back from your thoughts.

“What?”

“Damnit, Y/n! Where’s Yoongi now?” She hisses.

“Not here. Pretty sure he moved back into his old apartment after we fought a few days ago.”

“Well, you better fix this! Your next major event together will be Jeon Jungkook’s birthday party so figure it out then. Make sure he does not go through with this divorce! Do something right for once for fucks sake!” She hangs up after that, leaving you no room to say anything else.

Stress washes over you immediately to the point that it’s suffocating. If Yoongi divorces you, the companies will be negatively impacted, which will lead to you taking even more shit from your parents - your mom especially - and this thought both terrifies and exhausts you.

In the same breath, you don’t know if you want to continue with someone who can be as wishy-washy as Yoongi can. It’s clear he doesn’t have his feelings together, and you’ve only had a short amount of time together to try and get closer with him, which hasn’t been incredibly successful, and you don’t even know if you want to try.

As she said, Jungkook’s party is the last chance you two have to try and mend things to stop the divorce. This seems much easier said than done of course, but you're not sure how successful it’ll be when all you do is yell at one another. You don’t even want to call him, as you don’t see that turning out well and you’re not even sure he’ll answer your call. All you can do is collect your thoughts in preparation for when you’ll see him in a week.

Yoongi hates how anxious he feels to see you when you arrive. He’s been outside of the yacht where Jungkook’s birthday party is being held for only a few minutes before you. When he pulls up first, the waiting paparazzi hound him, throwing questions at him as to why his wife isn’t with him. He supplies them with a tale about how you told him to go first because you were running late from a dance class. He waves off any other questions and ignores them until your arrival.

He watches as one of your bare legs peeks out from the open car door, followed by the other, and then you. Your dress is a light shade of purple and clings to your curves from your chest to your hips, stopping right above your knees. The black heels you clack in over to him bring you and he nearly eye level.

He can barely take his eyes off you and the sound of the flashing cameras behind him signal that neither can anyone else. You stop in front of him, something unreadable in your eyes as you take in his fitted Armani suit.

You bring your arms up and around his neck while his arms go around your waist and pull you into him. The two of you have shown faux affection in public so many times that you both know without saying anything.

The hug is quick and you pull away to pose next to him for the cameras, a strained smile etched onto your face. He copies you, turning to the cameras, and offers waves and casual poses. You only take a few pictures, as he feels just how stiff you are next to him. You take his hand as you walk through the paparazzi, throwing smiles at them until you get to the dock where attendants are waiting next to smaller boats that will take you to the yacht itself.

Yoongi’s hand stays wrapped around yours as he helps you aboard then follows suit after you. You both offer a few more waves to the cameras until they’re far enough that you can’t see them.

The smile you had been wearing slips from your lips immediately as you let out a breath. Yoongi watches as your eyes fixate on the large boat ahead, not glancing at him again. He’s sure your mom has already berated you about the possibility of divorce, so he knows you need to talk.

He hadn’t meant to say it, but the night you had your big argument and he sped to his apartment, his mother called and he was so angry that he exploded, saying he was staying at his old apartment and that he didn’t care what she and his father wanted, but he was thinking of getting a divorce as soon as possible. He asked her not to tell anyone, but she of course did.

Your mom sent him an email a few days later, apologizing on your behalf. She assured him that married couples get into spats all the time and that you would be able to reconnect and settle any issues. Knowing your mom, he knew it was all fluff and that she was sucking up to him, but he was curious as to how you took the news.

The question continues to swirl in his mind as you step onto the yacht.

“Hyung!” Jungkook’s voice takes him from his thoughts and Yoongi waves as the younger man approaches. He is so focused on you, that he nearly forgot the reason he was here, which is to celebrate his friend.

“Hey, Jungkook. Happy birthday!” Yoongi pats his shoulder, his young friend beaming up at him.

“Thanks, Hyung.” He turns to you as you reach out for a quick hug.

“Happy birthday, Jungkook” are the first words he’s heard you utter all evening.

“Thank you, Noona! I’m glad you could both make it,” The tone in Jungkook’s voice suggests that he knows something is going on between you two. Yoongi sighs, knowing his mother must have taken the information about the divorce further than just your mom’s ears.

Yoongi narrows his eyes at Jungkook who simply shrugs. “Sorry, Hyung, I’ve gotta keep making the rounds to everyone, but I’ll talk to you later!”

Jungkook whisks himself away before Yoongi can try and question him further, which only serves to confirm his suspicions.

Setting that conversation aside, he turns to you, a flute of champagne already in hand. Yoongi frowns, seeing you easily knock it back. He remembers how your drinking tends to loosen you up, making you prone to speak without a filter as the flashbacks of quite a few arguments play in his mind. You should talk about things before you have too many more.

“Hey, Y/n, we need to talk.” Your eyes flicker up from your phone as you truly look at him for the first time.

“About how you want to divorce me?” The question tumbles out as if you’ve been bottling it up for much too long.

“Yeah, that. Look, I said it to my mom that night we had the big fight and I told her to keep it to herself, but I mean, there’s a reason she’s known as our circles’ gossip column.” Yoongi chuckles, but you don’t return the gesture.

“So, what, do you just want to talk about the terms of the divorce? I won’t take your money or anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s not why I’m bringing it up.” Yoongi says with too much attitude in his tone. You click your tongue at him and he shakes his head, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t know why talking to you always turns into a fight, but he does his best to stop himself. “What I mean is, she wasn’t supposed to blab to everyone. I’m not even sure if I want a divorce.”

“Of course, not. You can’t ever get your feelings together to talk to me about it.”

“Come on, Y/n, don’t be like this.” Yoongi feels his aggravation rise.

“Being like what? I’m tired of playing this game of emotional roulette with you. I feel like I never know the next thing you’re going to say to me at any given time we talk and it’s exhausting.”

“It’s not exactly fun for me!” He shoots back. Before you can answer, someone comes over and sweeps you into a conversation. Yoongi doesn’t know her personally, but he knows her name is Im Nayeon and that her family is one of the wealthiest in Korea - possibly even more so than both your families and a few other of his friends’. That’s why it’s in your best interest to entertain conversation with her.

She goes on for longer than Yoongi can keep track of and he isn’t even sure of what she’s talking about. Eventually, the three of you move to lean against a nearby railing as Nayeon is joined by her date and she continues going on about some trip she just got back from. As stealthily as he can, Yoongi eases his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through local news outlets and the updates he receives on his phone.

Everything is standard - stocks, new contracts, and mergers - all until he sees Jungkook’s name in a tabloid. The article mentions the name of Jungkook’s girlfriend in the title, and it doesn’t read like a particularly positive article about her and their relationship.

Yoongi scans the boat, looking for any sign of him.

“Right, Yoongi?” You call his name, elbowing him harshly in the side and making him jump.

“Huh?”

“I said, we’re still deciding where our first vacation as a married couple will be, right?”

“Oh yeah, right. Hey, I gotta go find Jungkook, okay? It was nice speaking with you, Nayeon.” He bows at the group before picking up the pace to find his friend. This wasn’t the best place and time to do this, admittedly, but if it was him, he’d want a friend to tell him this truth as soon as they found out.

He’d just talk to you later to clear things up and go from there.

You lose track of how many vodka and Red Bulls you’ve thrown back somewhere between five and six. You know Yoongi’s been off doing whatever he wants the entire time, but you don’t care. He’s made it abundantly clear that he’s not interested in pretending with you further than some fake photos and equally as fake smiles, so he can do what he wants at this point.

Any buried anticipation you had about seeing him died when he left you in the conversation you had been trapped in with Im Nayeon. You know your friends are around here somewhere, but you’re much too tired to be social anymore. Nayeon chatted your ear off about her wonderful, perfect little life enough to make you want to jump over the edge of the yacht, so you were all socialized out.

Your mind flickers to whatever it was Yoongi tried to talk to you about the divorce, but you push it away. It clearly wasn’t important enough for him to stick around.

Besides, the bar seems like a better place to be than talking about your feelings and how miserable you’ve been.

“Another,” You motion to the bartender. The woman arches her eyebrow at you and you return the expression. This is all it takes to have her taking your empty glass and moving on to prepare you a fresh one.

“You know, you are much too gorgeous to be sitting here drinking alone.” You glance to your left, seeing a man who looks vaguely familiar slide into the empty chair next to you.

“Oh yeah? So who should I be here drinking with?” You scoff in response, eyes focusing back on the bartender as she adds the comical splash of Red Bull to your mostly clear glass.

“Well, I know you’re married to Min Yoongi, but he’s nowhere to be seen, which means you must need some company.” You roll your eyes at him, hands reaching for your full glass when it slides in front of you.

You take a generous sip, the alcohol burning on the way down. “And you think I want your company?” You turn in your chair, finally facing the man head-on. Taking in his expensive suit, slicked-back black hair, and tall stature, even when sitting down, the name Hyungwon pops into your head. His father owns a chunk of banks in the country if you’re not mistaken. This also isn’t the first time he’s tried to pick you up either.

“Oh, I know you want my company. Most women do.” You let out a bitter laugh, taking another swig. A previous version of Peach would’ve eaten this egotistical act up. You would’ve given him back a witty response of your own and there would only be a short bit of banter before you let him fuck you in some nearby closet or secluded part of the boat.

The you of today only feels exhaustion and slight disgust. Something seems to have shifted about the way you see the men in the circle you run in, and whether it’s Yoongi’s fault or some self-actualization bullshit, you’re not sure, but you don’t have time for it at this moment.

Your third gulp empties your cup, Hyungwon’s eyes on you the whole time. You take a deep breath as you set the glass down and fix him with a look that’s as intimidating as you can muster. The panicked look in his eyes has you thinking it’s working, but the sound of a throat clearing behind you makes it clear it wasn’t you.

“Hyungwon.” Yoongi’s voice, as hard as stone, has you even going rigid in your seat.

“Yoongi.” Hyungwon mumbles in response. “I was just asking your wife if she, uh, got to see the birthday boy. I wanted to give him my wishes again.”

“Jungkook was just with me. He’s just gone I’m afraid.” Yoongi says simply.

“Oh, that’s a shame. I’ll have to send him a text. Well, thanks Yoongi. See you around. Have a good night Peach, er, I mean, Y/n.” Hyungwon nods at you both before all but sprinting away from the cold eyes of your “husband.”

“Wow,” Yoongi huffs as soon as Hyungwon is out of earshot. “You can’t go a single night without whoring yourself out can you?”

You choke on your spit at that, turning in your seat harshly to fix Yoongi with a glare. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

He returns your look with the same intensity. “You heard me. Embarrassing me in our home is one thing but in public? How do you not have any shame?”

“First of all, you absolute asshole, Hyungwon approached me.”

“Oh, so that makes it better?” Yoongi laughs bitterly. “I bet if I hadn’t shown up when I did you’d already have his dick down your throat for everyone to see.”

The sharp sound of your hand connecting with Yoongi’s cheek is loud and crisp, catching the attention of everyone nearby, but you don’t care.

“I’ve let you get away with saying a lot of fucked up shit to me throughout this entire marriage, and it stops now. You’re not the only one with mommy and daddy issues, but the difference between the two of us is I don’t use it as an excuse to be cruel. You’re rude and miserable and take your own shit out on everyone around you.”

“And the way you party your sad little life away and fuck anything that’ll have you is a great way of coping with your issues?”

“At least I don’t treat people like shit, you heartless prick!”

You and Yoongi are both breathing heavily, staring each other down with fire in your eyes.

“Now listen to me, you -”

“No, you listen to me, Min Yoongi. I’m not going to let you talk to me however you want to anymore. For the past six months, I’ve let you get away with a lot of shit, but no more. You can do whatever the fuck you need to do about this marriage, but I’m not about to try with some asshole who doesn’t care about me. I’m done.” You slide off of your seat, stumbling only a little on wobbly legs.

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll do whatever I can about it whether my parents like it or not.”

“Good. Now, I’m going home so I don’t have to see your stupid fucking face anymore.” Your anger, having reached its peak only a few seconds ago, seems to be simmering down. That is until Yoongi decides to open his mouth again, to try and get the final word in.

“Try not to open your legs for anyone on the way home. I know how hard that is for you.”

Fists clenched and anger surfacing again, your eyes flicker to the full glass on the bar next to you. When did the bartender slip another drink to you?

You don’t think too much about it and instead reach for the glass, tossing the entire thing right in Yoongi’s face. His angry expression only intensifies into something akin to rage, but you don’t care to stick around and continue this game with him.

Turning on your heel, you beeline straight to the entrance where you came in and where you know there are attendants on standby to take anyone who wants to leave back to shore.

Judging by the gasps and the looks you received during the argument, you know there will be plenty of people in your circle talking about what just happened, and you know you’ll be getting a scathing phone call from your mom about this, but the only thing you want to do right now is get away from Min Yoongi, for as long as you can help it.

[foxandtonic]

Lovely, Abject: A Humorous and Genuine Review

I attended a con over the weekend and bought @glasscatfish​ ‘s Monster Dating zine, and I decided to write a review of each of the boys in the book! You can pre order them on their etsy HERE

I.

Clarence “Bone McGee”

I feel like this poor old dude was a sailor who’s heart will yearn forever. He’s such a calm and sweet mellow boy. Not in a rush, because obviously he’s been around for a while and the fact that you take the time to get to know him and spend time with him warms his soul and body despite him being… well all bone. A true gentleman who lets you know how much you mean to him.

Rating: 10 / I want to draw him before he was bones

II.

Lai “Helpful Bean of Purity”

Lai, what passion and brothership I feel with him. Such measured pace and energy could only come from self discipline and true intentions. Maybe someday the calm mantis-man and you will blossom into love, or maybe not. But regardless the result its clear to see he will be there to support you and just about anyone on their own journey of self discovery and love. He is a patron of Venus afterall!

Rating: 10 / Could kill you but would be horrified at the thought of harming another being

III.

Inna “Murderous Bean of Definitely Not Purity”

This motherfucker, oh man does he look… enticing. Thicc for days and a odd taste for interior decorating… well, with all those tarps covering everything… Maybe he’s painting. Yeah that’s it. For some reason the primal instinct in the back of your head is screaming at you, but it’s definitely drowned by the whispering music that you can’t quite place a source of… strange. And why does he have... six eyes and such sharp... teeth--- Ooh! Wine!

Rating: 10 / I welcome death between those thighs

IV.

Grey “Got creative with the Afterlife character customization”

What a good boy! Though probably in need of a leash, let’s be honest he’d be the one leading you around anyway just as he is now. And why would you want to stop him? This trouble making bad boy with a heart of gold knows all the best places in town, though its best if you don’t get caught. With an air of agelessness to him you know you’d be in safe hands regardless. Come to think of it he probably knows who made the pottery in this museum anyhow.

Rating: 10 / Def has a leather kink

V.

Castor and Pollux “Bring catnip”

This isn’t a case of buy one get one free. Oh no, these sweet boys, the perfect combination of clouded day dreams that live a smile on your face and astute observations that could make any person blush, these boys are deserving of full on desire and love. The passion they have for their work and the world around them may have no rival, and what better way to live life? And who better to live life with? Perhaps an ‘extended interview’ session is in order...

Rating: 10 / OwO *notices camera placement*

VI.

Midas “Totally isn’t a sugar daddy, totally”

If there’s a link for meeting monster boyfriends who pay for dinner I am in a deep need of such a link. Surprisingly, despite the obvious magic and the fact that he’s a giant deadly snake, he does a great job at putting your fears to bed.  Such a suave gentleman, you can’t help but trade compliments back and forth getting your fill of wine and… snake. Oh, he’ll be your ride home all right~

Rating: 10 / I’d be willing to call him Daddy

VII.

Ӓgid “Watch the elbows”

IM GONNA HAVE TO YELL IF YOU WANT TO HEAR THIS REVIEW OVER THESE SICK BEATS. But honestly, a punk rock band leader and you? Who would have thought! We can all live our sweet, sweet emo dreams of dating the hot lead singer, and I do mean hot. Like literally, he’s on fire. And that  waist to chest ratio?? Hoooo boy and dont forget, he is a type of equine...

Rating: 10 / wont be able to walk straight the next day. Or hear. Bring earplugs next time.

VIII.

Panoptes “Please schedule an appointment in advance”

I’m not exactly sure what he did to require the installation of an entire iron staircase but it's probably best you don't ask. That being said, you know he will help you with whatever is troubling you whether it be prophecy, the fae, or the eldritch. If you get to know him he might offer you tea, if you survive of course. And despite looking like he gives good hugs, I imagine he’d rather you not touch him ever. It’s not personal, it just is.

Rating: 10 / I just realized his name literally means “All Seeing”

IX.

Kou “True Husbando Material”

He’s absolutely perfect. In no uncertain terms is a person I swoon so hard for and want to emulate in my actions more that Kou. It’s one thing to pay for dinner like Midas, but it’s another to put love and effort into making food, and your favorites no less! It’s one thing to lure you in with magic like Inna, but it’s another to not use it despite his clear ability to. And to speak to his trust, even though you were blindfolded and he, a trickster fox, did not lead you astray in the slightest. Perhaps he’s not even of this Earth, the way the stars dance in his eyes. Such joy, and pure pleasure you are to be with him, and him with you. Forever is a long time, and it’s time well spent.

Rating: ∞ / Our souls entwined, not even death could tear us apart.

X.

Maleko “Look out Sidon there’s a new Sweetheart in town”

If Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and a sea serpent had a child, Maleko is that child. If Maleko was the monster sent to eat Cassiopeia, she would unchain herself and go for a swim. Maleko is friends with the Obamas. He’s just that awesome. A true gentle giant, Maleko knows his way around the sea and your heart, a warm and tender lover. Surfs up, brah~

Rating: 10 / I will smother myself in his pecs

[amandawhoo]

💜 This makeup look is inspired by @emilycasanovamakeup 💜 Here are the products to help me achieve this look which i wANNA LIVE IN 😭 ____________ °FACE° •@covergirlau + @olay Simply Ageless Primer • @maybelline Fit Me Matte and Poreless foundation in 'Porceline' •@maccosmetics Coverall concealer in 'NW15' •@lagirlcosmetics Pro Coverage Concealer in 'Highlight' • @tartecosmetics Bling It On Amazonian Clay Blush Palette (Fetching) • @nyxcosmetics_australia Highlight and Contour Pro Palette •@maccosmetics Soft and Gentle Mineralize SkinFinish in 'B16' • @essence_cosmetics I Heart Runway Highlighting Pen •@wetnwildbeauty Coloricon Bronzer in 'Reserve Your Cabana' (Thanks @itslikelymakeup for getting me so addicted to this 😍) °BROWS° • @pricelineau Savy Eyebrow Pencil in 'Autumn' • @essence_cosmetics Make Me Brow Eyebrow Gel in 'Browny Brows' °EYES° • @inglot_australia Body Pigment Powder in '237' • @shaaanxo x @bhcosmetics Eyeshadow Palette + Foil Eyeshadow Palette • @maccosmetics False Lashes Mascara in 'False Black' • @glambymanicare Eyelashes in '35. Sienna • @nyxcosmetics_australia Eyeshadow Base in 'Black/Noir' •@chichicosmeticsofficial Eyeshadow Pigment in 'Carribian Queen' • @maybelline Master Precise skinny Gel Pencil in 'Defining Black' °LIPS° •DB Retractable Pencil in 'Charcoal' •Manic Panic Glamnation lipstick in 'Hells Bells' •Sleek Midas Touch Highlighting Pallette (Rhinestone) ____________ #amandawhoo #selfie #100daysofmakeup #me #makeup #beauty #mua #makeuplover #cosmetics #higlighter #pout #hudabeauty #makeupmafia #makeupdolls #instagram #makeupaddict #instabeauty #instamakeup #instadaily #beautybloger #melbourne #australia #muaworldwide #makeupjunkie #ilovemakeup #alternative #grunge