#i swear i have a problem with understanding song lyrics

[unized-3]

Y'ALL YOU KNOW THAT BIT AT THE START OF ONE OF THE DRUNKS? WELL I CAN ONLY HEAR 'DOUGH, WHERE'S THE SAUCE' OVER AND OVER SEND HELP

[cemeteryvalentine]

astro observations part 4 !!! ^____^

(specifically based off my family :3 pleaseee don't get offended at anything that doesn't resonate)

🗝️: one thing about a sag placement, they are gonna hang up FIRST !!! i swear, if anyone misses flip phones, it's a sag placement/dominant. i just know they miss snapping that phone shut in a petty manner LOL. my mom is a sag moon AND rising, and she'd call me and demand me to do something in such a bitchy tone and then hang up on me like girl who tf do u think u areee 😭😭😭😭 LMFAO. but honestly good for her, i love being petty like her.

like i swear i take after my mom because everytime she does that annoying hang up before i can respond thing, i call her again just to say a snarky remark, and hang up on her back!

🐇: i swear, virgo placements have no problem being the grossest people alive, but suddenly it's a problem when someone else does it :/// it's really annoying. my brother has a pigsty of a bedroom, doesn't wash his hand when he pisses unless i make him, and leaves his trash everywhere, but constantly gets on my sister for the same things 😭. like the calls coming from inside the house !!! i think basically, (some) virgos are like picky(?) with what areas they'd want clean. like they're only really comfortable with THEIR mess and no one else's.

🗝️: i love how pisces mercury communicate because it's like what the hel are u awn about 😭 in the NICEST way though :3 they're so kewl and interesting to talk to, plus they're so nice and understanding. maybe because they're water mercuries after all. speaking of, my favorite artist ever kurt cobain was a pisces mercury and it SHOWSSS. a lot of nirvana lyrics feel artistic and metaphoric, or just realllyyyy silly. liiike "angel left wing, right wing, broken wing. lack of iron and or sleeping" from milk it, one of my nirvana faves. and "i vomit C*M and DIARRHEA". like girl whatever that means !!!! (song, mexican seafood)

🐇: mars influence on the asc makes for prominent features. especially eyebrows. my brother has an aries rising and he has such a bad case of RBF. i swear he never looks happy 😭 his virgo sun and cap moon definitely don't help at all either. then im a mars rising and i have big eyebrows like my brother. like we're the only ones with big eyebrows, while our parents brows look invisible LOL. also i'm a virgo rising !! and ppl are always saying i look mad which honestly pisses me off :P so in conclusion, mars influence + virgo placements = major rbf

🗝️: i HATE to add on to the cancer hate train since i'm one myself and i loveee being one + we get soo much hate, but i feel a (unevolvled) cancer makes for the worst pick me girl ever !!!! this def doesn't apply to all cancers, but the few cancer women i know can be so mean to other women so unprovoked. especially my mom, it gives me the ick when she calls random women b*tches or makes fun of them to me for their features or success or soemthing. i used to be a pick me too up until i was like 13 (im soooo happy i grew out of that mess QUICK!). i would constantly strive for male attention, it was embarrassing 😭. ik another girl who values her shitty boyfriend over her (girl) friends and i haaate it. like ive only known a few cancer women, but a lot of them are like the meanest pick me bitch ever, or such a sweeet, caring soul :). i feel like being a pick me stems from cancers being feminine AND traditional. yk? i pray i make sense, but yk how it's traditional for girls to be perfect for her man, and value him no matter the circumstance ?? and cancer/moon being **traditional** ? yeahhh 😭

anywayzzz that's all :3 tyyy for reading !! i had sm making a new observations, considering it's been a year since my last LMFAOO. and again, if it doesn't apply, let it fly. ty bye ^__^

[ugh-yoongi]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him, if you were a betting man.

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

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

You already know which one Yoongi is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

“Can you expand on that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s rich.”

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

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

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

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

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

“Can we talk about it now?”

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

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

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

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

Is that why… “The song?”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Can you now?”

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

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

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

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

“But you are.”

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

“Relationship euthanasia.”

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

“What would that even look like?”

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

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

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

“Yoongi...”

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

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

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

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

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

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

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

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

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

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

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

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

“The one in Oakhurst?”

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

“How long?”

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mouth.”

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

He’s not so gentle after that.

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

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

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

“Fuck, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

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

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

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

“I’m sorry—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’d gone like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

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

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

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

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

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

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

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

“Are you all packed?”

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

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

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

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

“With what?”

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

“How much are you bringing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?”

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

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

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

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

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

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

—

Oakhurst is small.

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

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

A place that makes you smile.

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

Yoongi laughs anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

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

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

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

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

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

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what you think?”

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

“Leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

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

You think thirty will look good on him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I went to the grocery store.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

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

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

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

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

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

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

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

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

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

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

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just sends you A Look.

—

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

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

“SURPRISE!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you—”

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

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

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

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

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

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

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

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

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

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

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

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

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

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

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

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

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

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

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

“Real answer, please.”

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

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

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

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

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Everything reads like an attack.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Something that’s true.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[interlude: monday morning]

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

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

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

“Should we go home soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just seventy-five percent?”

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

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

“Not this shit again—”

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You listen.

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

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

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

It’s the thirtieth of December.

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

Good riddance.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Like each other.)

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

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

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

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

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

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

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

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

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

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

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

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

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

You are, and you do.

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

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

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

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

[nom-nommmm1]

EURONYMOUS - ONE SHOTS

Masterlist for more !!

A/n: this is just something small while I work on my request pls be patient with me :(

Content warning !!: it’s all just fluff and some swearing

Euro tries to act tough in front of the guys but when he’s only with you he is the sweetest little thing ever

He totally keeps snacks EVERYWHERE “just in case” idk why I think he does that buttt he does in my mind

If you have a different native language than him he will totally learn the basics of it, like I love you, good morning, hello, goodbye

He isn’t a huge fan of cuddling but he knows you like it so he cuddles as much as he can with you

In public he stays a little ways away from you, but when you get closer to him he always has his hands on your shoulders, arms, waist, always.

SHOULDER KISSES.

When he’s in public he will be going behind you and hold you by the waist whilst kissing your shoulder softly

He’s absolutely whipped for you and tried his best to hide it from the guys because it wasn’t “metal of him”

Even before you guys were even a thing, before you even met Euronymous he would stare when you came to one of his friends parties. Of course his friends noticed and told him to shoot his shot

You guys love to play pranks/jokes on your friends, like just trick them to think something

Very mischievous duo, you two

You’d tell Faust that there was going to be a party in downtown but when he got there he went into the quiet house, all he found was a note that read ‘thanks for being gullible, we love ya - Euro & y/n’

Stupid pranks like that

Now Euronymous is very big on the metal scene but I think if you had different style then him but the same music taste as him he’d be very interested in you, he’d watch you (not in a creepy way) he just wants to understand your style more.

If you had the same style and music as him he’d love it too. He’d rant to you about “the bullshit some people in the scene call music” and all of his work problems

Euronymous wakes up very late every single day, and when he does so he just keeps you in bed with him, almost suffocating you while you’re just trying to get up and go to work.

I think the first few weeks of the relationship Euronymous would’ve been cold, not because he didn’t like you but he was afraid he’d mess up by opening up and you’d leave him just like that.

But when he realized you would never leave him he clung onto you for dear life

He loves movie dates. I feel like he’s super anxious around even though you’re his partner he gets very conscious of what he says around you, and movie dates are perfect because you can exchange very little words to each other but still sit in comfortable silence and enjoy each others presence

I think he also counts cleaning his shop every once in a while with you a date. You guys just cleaning for hours together.

You sigh, you’d been scrubbing the floors of Euros shop for hours. “You ready to get out of here babe?” He asks coming over to you once he’d finished reorganizing all of the records in the shelf’s and setting up with display. You stand up before turning to face him “yea let’s go” he brushes a stray hair out of your face as you hand him his keys. You guys lock up and head off to your house for some movie watching and giving over some lyrics he had thought would be good for a song.

Speaking of lyrics for a song, he always makes you read and listen to his song before he puts it out to the public. He trusts your judgment more than his own when it comes to music.

He has a special blanket he puts on his bed everytime you come over because he knows it’s your favorite.

You give this man stuffed animals? Yeah he keeps them on his bed, his shelf’s for decor? You name it he’s got it there. He loves to stare at them and just think of you.

OBSESSED WITH DRIVING YOU AROUND.

Especially at night, this man doesn’t care if you’re going to a club or Walmart to get something to make a midnight snake he LOVES it. He loves just being there with you making casual conversation while having his hand gently placed on your thigh.

If you get insecure about yourself when you put your hair up he will put his hair up like yours and keep it that way till you take yours down.

He adores matching with you, so you guys basically do it everyday, even it’s just something little like having the same slayer pin on your shirts. He loves it so much

He loves rubbing his fingers along your knuckles, it’s almost like a nervous tic he does. In public when he gets overwhelmed while holding your hand he’ll just sit there and play with your hand until you guys have to let go

He loves eating meals you cook bc it makes him feel proud that one day his children will have you as a parent

If your not happy he’s not happy, he can’t be happy when your suffering because his whole life basically revolves around you

Thank you for reading !! :)

Enjoy!

[crumblinggothicarchitecture]

Hey. This might be very stupid, but i hope you answer this.

Today I accidently got sucked into your blog, which is ironic since I'm a huge swiftie. (but I'm not here to hate on you, I swear)

The thing is for months I've been doubting where I stand on that. Like if i should call myself a swifte or not. when I was young, I used to worship the ground she walked on. but in the past year, I've slowly realised I've been very sheltered. like the problems people point out about her sometimes are actual real problems, but my brain just doesn't know how to respond to that as it has been taught taylor swift is a goddess and can do no wrong. Since your posts are tagged with #exswiftie, i figure you'd understand.

I am not from america, so I can understand then politics part of it all only to a certian extend. the other things, I just dont know what to say to that. The most i can reply is..."yes that is a bit of a problem". I feel don't feel like a swiftie at that moment.

I had fed my mind this narrative that people who hate taylor swift passionately are like untrustworthy or just a walking red flag, or just "don't get it". Now after reading your actual breakdowns I understand you have a rather educated opinion and perception of things. Which clearly rules out my narrative.

I don't know what I feel like I have to define where I stand on this, I just do. I know I genuinely enjoy her music a lot, even there are songs I don't want to hear more than once. I love the whole swiftie lore, digging deep on each lyrics finding out what they mean, finding clues easter eggs just losing my mind over surprise songs. Then i see this other side, which can't be defined with anything less than deeply toxic, which makes me question whether or not this thing i love so much is genuinely good or not.

Hello dear, apologies for the delay in reply :) I am happy to chat with you. I hope that you did not think I would ignore you.  

I was also a Swiftie for nearly 15 years. I got her debut record as a Christmas present in 2006 or 2007. Though I cannot remember which year it was, I loved her from the start. At 10 years old, I was immediately interested. My mother approved of me owning her music simply because she was inoffensive. She didn’t curse or talk about sex, in the beginning, so she was deemed appropriated for my childhood self.  She and I have since grown up. She is now a terribly pretentious bully- and, well, I grew up much too poor and much too hungry to turn into a bully like her. 

The problem- and something I think you’re very much aware of- is that Swift has built herself up in her fandom as perfect. She encourages fans to defend her every action- and rewards them for their efforts through “Swiftmas” or “Secret Sessions” or “hidden easter eggs that only the smartest- most dedicated fans will figure out.” It’s all methodically calculated to keep up an air of reciprocity between Swift, as the fearless leader, and her band of merry misfits- the fans.  

You are not dumb for falling into her rhetorical situation - she's set the marketing strategy up on purpose. It’s specifically created to attract attention- and, to make people feel good, or productive, by participating in her marketing strategy. She gives people an image of herself as a poor innocent victim of the media, or of any critique, and then rewards people for defending her. In Literary study, we call this “Pathos” as the rhetorical appeal to emotion through messaging- textual work of some kind. Rhetoric like this can be found in all sorts of media- commercials about starving children or beaten dogs, charity event banners aiming to persuade someone to donate. It’s all predicated on the appeal to our common emotion, or human capacity to empathize with each other. For, every time fans are rewarded by her attention- after defending her from a perceived enemy, or figuring out some hidden clue- they feel closer to the idol, they feel happy to have her attention. They get that emotional impact of believing they are helping Taylor Swift, or understanding her better on some more human, connected, level. It’s a game of risk and reward for her. Never mind that none of this altruistic- she gets paid through our attention on her- and if you are not directly lining her pockets with your cash money, she does not actually care about you. It’s the image of caring she projects that matters much more than the fact that she doesn’t actually care.

I’m sure you can think of many more examples wherein Swift has played this game of attention and reward with fans. It’s everywhere- her easter eggs are a great example. Sometimes her use of Pathos is benign- non malicious, therefore a non-issue. However, she often weaponizes this rhetoric in a way that is harmful.

This interplay she sets up, between herself and her fans, is made more intensive through her pathos- heavy approach to Rhetoric. To further illustrate, one of the ways people often explain Pathos is by saying that it represents our, as human beings, judgement affect. We see, or hear, the narrative Swift espouses and make judgements about it. If she says: The music critics are sexist towards me. We say: 1.) Sexism is morally wrong, 2.) Taylor Swift is facing sexism from Music critics, Therefore.) The music critics are sexist and morally wrong, because they are criticizing Taylor Swift.

So, all the critics are bad- and we don't need to listen to them. It's also a way Swift creates permissive attitudes towards attacking anyone who critique's her- because she can so easily label them all as sexist.

She uses this basic syllogism to justify leveraging her fans against all kinds of people- it's not just the critics. I just wanted to give a concrete example, and I will go more in depth on this subject in another post.  

She is playing with people’s emotions, while she is also self-victimizing,and leveraging her audience’s innate human rejection of, for instance, sexism as it offends our personal values. No one is saying that sexism isn't morally corrupt; however, Taylor Swift points to valid criticism and calls it sexism so that her audience will attack. People often have valid critique of Swift- She just doesn't want to face critique at all- ever. If people say her music is too self-centered- Swift says that is Sexism. If people say her music is boring- she calls it sexism. If people say her music is shallow and only centered are relationships- She calls it sexism. When, in reality, it's valid criticism that has nothing to do with her being a woman. Only ever writing songs about your own myopic, self-centered perception of interpersonal relationships is shallow. Her music is objectively boring, because it's derivative. Her music is completely self-centered- and she only admits to that when it benefits her, but when critics say it, she calls it sexism.

Please don’t think badly of yourself. I am not here to hate on you either- I was you. I am not here to hate on anyone at all- I just want to share how my own knowledge, and expertise, of rhetorical appeals and literary analysis can expose Taylor Swift. Swift relies on this rhetorical technique to thrive, she obfuscates the truth, schemes, and manipulates people into thinking her music is the best thing on Earth- or thinking that she is literally a Saint. Clearly- nothing on Earth is that perfect- So why does she need her fan base to consider her a genius, and a saint, so badly?

Personally, I have no problem admitting I have flaws. I think most sane people can admit to their flaws. It’s not a bad thing to have flaws. So why does Taylor Swift react to all criticism like it’s the worst thing on Earth. Why does she have a whole song about calling critics “mean/ and a liar/ and pathetic/ and alone in life” (“Mean” 2010). She has the nerve to call that song an “anti-bullying” song; yet, is it so clearly bullying that random critic who wrote a bad review about her concert one time in 2009? She really hated that guy- and all he was doing was his job. She called him a drunken loser for just doing his job. 

She's written so many songs about how all her critics are just stupid, morally corrupt, or sexist: "The Man" (2019), "Mean" (2010), "But Daddy I love Him" (2024), "New Romantics" (2014), "Shake it Off" (2014), "I know Places" (2014), "Anti-Hero" (2023), "Paris" (2023), "Blank Space" (2014), "I did something Bad" (2018), "Dancing with our hands tied" (2018). There are more songs wherein she carries this theme of "everyone is out to get me, and they all hate me for no good reason" but I think I've listed enough.

The general message is all over "Evermore" and "Folklore" too every time she calls the general public "Clowns" or "masqueraders"

It's just everywhere- her subtle devaluation of legitimate criticism. Trying to chalk it all up to the critics being simply dumb, sexist, or malicious in some way. Perhaps some people are mean- true- but to generalize every criticism as evil? That's just her actually playing a victim card. There's no way every single critic, or person who doesn't like her, is evil, bad, or malicious in some way. Okay?

I’m tired of her claiming to be an amazing person and an amazing poet- when she is just not either of those things. She’s not a kind person- it's all over her music in the ways she maliciously hurts people for fun. She’s not an amazing poet either. I have a few college degrees- and one pass through her work, with a serious intention of literary analysis, I discover that her writing is plain, banal, and derivative. 

She wants everyone to compare her to Emily Dickinson, Dylan Thomas, and Shakespeare. So, I’m doing what she wants and taking her work seriously enough to critique it. Except that, in critique, I find out why it’s all poorly written- and why it’s just a bunch of thinly veiled conservative iterations of the same boring message over and over. All she ever says in her music is “poor me” and “I hate” (insert person- Kim K., Kanye, Matty, Joe, Jake, John, Scooter, Scott, Harry, Calvin, the media at large, anyone who critiques her, and men in the music industry as a whole). She has the longest list of enemies I think I’ve ever seen- and the funny thing is that all these people avoid her at all costs. None of these people talk about her- yet she is still singing, writing songs, and getting her fans to post memes about how awful they are years, even decades, later.  

It all gets a bit tiresome? No? Personally, I don’t wish to live a life full of such self-pity and hatred- so why should I listen to it in music form? Ya know?  

In my posts, I am attempting to find the truth. I don’t want to “hate” on anyone or anything- but I am going to seek truth in her work.  

I will be posting more about how she devoids Shakespeare of his social reformist efforts. I’m going to post more about how she twists the meaning of every literary reference she’s ever made. I am not kidding, she has misrepresented, and misinterpreted every single literary reference in her entire discography. It’s astounding how hard Swift tries to sound thoughtful- without actually being thoughtful. I will be posting about how she only ever name-drops to either tear other people down or self-depreciate herself in effort to seek pity. I will be talking more about her use of rhetorical appeals to both attract an audience, keep their attention through risk-reward trade-off, and manipulate them into fighting her battles for her. I will be talking about how she upholds a bunch of harmful stereotypes in her music. She often alludes, or blatantly includes allusion to colonialist attitudes. She’s used the LGBT community for profit without making any real activist efforts. She’s leveraged feminism like a weapon against other women- yet never actually has feminist themes in her music. She’s just so painfully hollow- upon closer inspection.  

I don’t hate her as a person. I think she’s unethical, sure, but that doesn’t mean I hate her, want her to die, or anything extreme at all. I would never wish harm to another human being. In fact, after seeing a lot of the harmful stuff in her music, especially about her kind of fucked up views on relationships, I sincerely hope she gets some professional help and finds some peace in this world. When I critique Taylor Swift it’s about her work and her brand- It's not about her personhood.  

I just think that no one Earth is above reproach, or critique, and we must all be held accountable for our own actions. She’s the one that puts her work out there for people- It's therefore completely appropriate for me to discuss her work. 

Edit: Oh and I want to add- I wish you luck in figuring out what you really think about Taylor Swift. If you ever need to talk or vent more- my inbox is always open. :) With peace and love- bye bye

[humblequestvinyl]

just married

JUST MARRIED, EDDIE DIAZ X FEM!READER

APART OF THE 'ROLLING UP THE WELCOME MAT' SERIES

SUMMARY: after leaving LA, y/n flies to nashville, reflecting on her marriage with eddie, staring at the pictures of the two on their wedding day, wondering how they went from love, to just married.

inspired by just married by kelsea ballerini

previous chapter, | next chapter,

lowercase intentional! wc: 1.07k

warning: mentions of sex (no smut), divorce, swearing, marriage problems, brief alcohol mention.

a/n: THIS IS SO SHORT I AM SO SORRY BUUUT! i am so excited about this series, and im SO SO SO excited to write the next chapter !!! 

“SO YOU AND EDDIE ARE GETTING A DIVORCE BECAUSE HE WAS COMING HOME LATE?”

“i’m sure that there was a good reason for the fact that he was coming home late. there has to be.”buck tried to reason with the girl, and she shook her head slightly as she fixed the glasses that were on top of her head, “you two could’ve worked that out!”

“it was more than that buck.”she whispered, trying everything she could not to cry, “there was more than just that buck, we haven’t been on the same page for years.”

“y/n, you and eddie are the only thing that makes sense in my life. if the two of you break up, nothing in this world makes sense.”buck stressed, and y/n stood in front of him, with her hands shaking.

“buck the only reason i’m in LA is to sign the divorce papers. our marriage started to fall apart years ago.”she tried to tell him, but buck couldn’t accept it, “it started 10 months after we got married.”

—

(ONE MONTH BEFORE.)

“I WROTE A NEW SONG.”

y/n announced as she sat down with her producer brynn, who gave the girl a look as the h/c girl sat on the floor of the studio,  “i was looking at the old wedding pictures i had up in the apartment last night and started writing.”

“what’s the lyrics?”brynn questioned, before y/n pulled out her phone, and opened up her notes app, grabbing the lyrics.

“i don’t think i lied when i said i wanted that life.”she started, tapping her fingers against the ground, with her wedding band still in plain view, “maybe i was too young to understand what i wanted at all.”

“but baby it was true, with all that i knew, it felt like forever that december two.”she went on, not daring to glance up, knowing her bloodshot eyes would give away everything, “a fairytale start, with us crossing our hearts, we rode off in a car that said “just married.””

she stopped herself after the first verse, before clearing her throat and pushing her beanie down on her head more, “the rest of the lyrics are a bit rough and have to be cleaned up if we’re able to do that today.”

“yeah of course.”brynn nodded, before grabbing out a notebook and a pen, helping the girl fix up the lyrics, before they had quickly moved onto creating a sound, one that reminded the h/c girl of a wedding song.

“i don’t know what i’m supposed to do with my wedding dress now.”y/n’s voice rasped as they took a little break, and brynn looked at the girl with such sadness in her eyes, knowing exactly what the girl was going through.

“if you do anything with this song, either releasing it as a single or even have a music video for it, wear your dress in it.”brynn suggested, and the singer shrugged, picking at the rug of the studio floor, “it’s a gorgeous dress, and you can create better memories with it.”

“i feel bad about wanting out knowing chris is going to get caught in the middle of all of this.”she whispered, feeling tears threatening to spill as she thought about the boy who she adored, “i just couldn’t stay there any longer. i couldn’t continue killing myself over a marriage that was one-sided.”

“and you shouldn’t have to.”brynn reassured the girl, grabbing her hand and giving it a comforting squeeze, “in this instance, you have to put yourself first, and if leaving is the solution, then so be it.”

“chris will forgive you.”brynn told her, causing y/n to look up at her, “i’ve met the kid. he will forgive you.”

after a bit, y/n got up wordlessly and walked into the studio with the notebook, giving it one shot to sing the entire song without crying, which is something she hadn’t been able to do yet. once she got through the first part of the song, she looked up at brynn who gave her a reassuring smile.

“long distance text, make-up-for-time sex, tired of asking when i’ll see you next.”she sang, with flashes of memories from when she would constantly text eddie, asking when she would be able to see him next, the endless booked flights that he constantly missed to go and see her, “i’m too mad to fight, so i’ll stare and cry at the picture of you, and me wearing white.”

“just married.”

“but i wasn’t made for fixing a plate, and keeping our problems buried.”she went on, feeling her heart shatter into a million pieces, just like a plate would after it had been dropped onto the ground, “no i wasn’t strong enough to hold on, with all of the weight i carried.”

“yeah it was love, then it was just married.”

flashes of her wedding went through her mind, with the vivid taste of veuve they had drank as their celebratory drink on her taste buds. their vows ringing through her mind, always promising to stick by each other throughout everything.

everything little memory of the past five years tainted from her soon to be ex husband, and every little thing they had done together.

“but dammit i wish i wasn’t this ready, to undo i do.”she paused, swallowing hard, knowing she had one more verse left before she was finished with the song, “but i wasn’t made for fixing a plate, and getting divorced sounds scary.”

“but i’m just not strong enough to hold on, with all of the weight that i carried.”she admitted, playing with the strings of her hoodie, knowing she was at the finish line, “yeah it was love, it really was.”

“then it was just married.”

[hlficlibrary]

Hello, do you know some fics where they are pretending to be someone else? Could be anything for example:

one is famous and pretends to be someone normal, or Liam is texting with someone but doesn’t know what to say and then the other one helps and keep texting with them….

Hope you have some good ones and that you could understand what I meant hahah felt like it’s hard to explain but if you didn’t get what I mean no problem just recommend me some stories that you think will fit. Thank you so much!! :)

Hi, anon! I know exactly what you mean! Here are some fics that fit what you're looking for!

Your secret's safe with me by lightswoodmagic / @lightwoodsmagic

He knew almost everything about Haz, considered him his best friend. He knew his favourite movies and books, how he liked his coffee, knew how many pets he had and what he was most afraid of. Louis knew how to calm him down when he was panicking, and that he’d lost his virginity to his ex-boyfriend when he was 17. He knew that Haz had curly hair, green eyes, that he was tall and considered himself slightly awkward. He knew his Instagram account that only had aesthetic pictures or ridiculous jokes, but in the all the time that Louis had known him, he’d never learnt, or been allowed to know, Haz’s full name, what he sounded like, or what he looked like.

Louis didn't care.

Or, when Louis' favourite singer comes back and announces he's performing again, him and the rest of his group chat decide to go. When Haz, the man Louis' fallen in love with without meeting him, says that he can't, Louis tries his best to convince him with a drunken phone call, hearing his voice for the first time. It's not until he's at Royal Variety that he swears he can hear it again.

Life Was a Song, You Came Along by rainbowninja167 / @rainbowtitania

It's embarrassing how long it takes Louis to recognize his own song. Niall had sung it as a bright, hopeful love song, and that’s honestly how Louis had always assumed it should sound. But this new voice, slow and rough, stripped of any backing instrument, has infused the lyrics with just the tumultuous mix of fear and defiance that Louis can remember so clearly from the night he wrote them.   It’s not a comfortable thing, to feel like someone is singing all your secrets back to you.  

Louis is a songwriter trapped in a lie that could ruin his best friend's career. Harry owns a record store, distrusts everyone in the music industry on principle, but loves Niall Horan's newest album. A modern retelling of Singin' in the Rain.

Just for Tonight (I can be yours) by @sadaveniren

Harry, prince of Cestrescir, has been betrothed to Ludvic, prince of Yorvik, since birth. He'd accepted a loveless marriage as his duty to his country, until an accident threw him in the path of a gentle alpha

[jadewing-realms]

on a moonlit stage - astarion oneshot

surpriiissseee i wrote another thing!

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Title: On A Moonlit Stage

Characters: Astarion; Naven Tlin'orzza/Tav

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Word Count: 2636

It’s a tale as old as time: salacious vampire meets gullible fool. Astarion knows the script backwards and forwards, but he swears on everything he knows this is going to be the last time. The last time he grovels at someone else’s feet. The last time he bows. It’s for his own protection, he tells himself. It’s insurance. The fact that the drow bard is frustratingly handsome as he is naive is an afterthought.

TW: allusions to sexual themes and SA

_______________

There was something uncomfortable, heavy, dense, settling in the pit of Astarion’s stomach. It was miserably distracting. It didn’t seem to matter how many gulps the vampire took of the tart, chalky excuse for red wine that the devilkin had proffered as party favors, it didn’t – couldn’t – drown out that cursed feeling. Instead, all it served to do was add to it and sour his mood even more.

Oh, he kept it from his face of course, as was expected. He froze his practiced mask in place, grinned when appropriate, nodded, winked, and gave theatrical bows to the stream of people who were determined to thank the entire party for the great, selfless work they had done. The goblins were vanquished! The Grove saved! So many cheery faces. So many boisterous voices and empty words, so much bad wine and tasteless food.

‘Our heroes,’ they kept calling them all. ‘Courageous.’ ‘Warriors.’ ‘Right decent folk.’ It made him want to spit their peasant liquor at their feet. 

Ignoble fools, all of them. Heroes didn’t exist, and if they did, this group of freaks certainly weren’t them. Only Wyll – local hero as he was – had truly wanted to help these people; the rest wanted only the kidnapped healer’s skills; saving the tieflings was a convenient bonus. Astarion hadn’t even cared about that, set as most of the party was on getting rid of their little cranial stowaways rather than using them, common sense be damned.

Nobody else seemed to have any problem accepting the shallow jubilance and praise, either. Least of all their new permanent companion, Karlach, who was beaming bright as the bonfire. The red tiefling made up for her inability to mingle without roasting the skin off anyone unfortunate enough to bump her arm by shouting her greetings, waving high, laughing low and loud; and when their illustrious leader – that arrogant, guileless sucker that was drow bard extraordinaire, Naven fucking Tlin’orzza – whipped out his lute and strummed up a jaunty little tune for the mood, Karlach trumpeted the lyrics louder than everyone else. Astarion was sure he heard the frantic flutter of feathered wings as it set alight a few poor evening doves roosting in the trees. 

The whole affair was as sickly and saccharine as the bottle he nursed. Perhaps Wyll had the right idea, wandering off to the riverbank as he had; perhaps Astarion could simply steal away. Go on a hunt. Get something out of the night. 

The thought reminded him that he’d already made previous arrangements for the hours to come. Plans with the aforementioned drow. He almost grimaced past the next draught of wine.

Gods, he’d be glad when the whole song and dance was over. The drow was insufferable, naive as he was aloof, painfully polite, and a terrible conversationalist unless there was an audience to entertain. He also got along far too well with their resident wizard of hubris for comfort, and the two engaged in regular pontifications that went on for far too long and contained far too many obscure terms no one else could understand. He was also constantly sticking his nose into everyone else’s business, asking about their lives and histories and secrets…

On top of it all, he was either a liar and a charlatan equal to any of Cazador’s best thugs, or he genuinely believed in the do-gooder bullshit he spouted. Astarion couldn’t decide which was worse at this point. The only positive thing Naven had going for him in Astarion’s book was that he was the only one who seemed interested in taking advantage of the tadpoles in their brains for the power they provided.

Well, and he was easy on the eyes. But that, of course, was a requirement.

It didn’t really matter whether he liked him or not, though. Somehow the drow had wormed his way into everyone else’s trust, despite everything, and that made him the most important person to have on Astarion’s side if he didn’t want to wake up staked to the ground one of these nights. 

It hadn’t taken much; it never did. A few well-spoken words, shallow compliments; a brush of a hand here, a hooded glance there. If he’d done it once, he’d done it a thousand times. Carnal lust was always so easy to invoke, mortal feelings like clay beneath the hands of a skilled artisan. Naven was practically in his pocket at this point and tonight was sure to cement his position nicely. 

Second to the man in charge. An auspicious match indeed. 

Over the rim of the bottle, his gaze slid across camp, to the little ring of bystanders gathered around the music makers. Naven, the court jester tiefling, and even that fool Volo, the music flowed from them, honey on the air. 

They… weren’t half bad. As far as music went. It was no symphony or opera, that was for certain, but they had a folkish charm to them at least. And they stole the attention from everyone else, which gave the odd pit in Astarion’s belly a chance to fade.

Until the drow’s gaze rose to meet his. Golden eyes caught firelight and moonlight both at once, a broad grin split his face through the words he sang, and Astarion almost choked on his drink.

Was that… a smile? A real smile, the first he’d seen on that man’s face? He had to pause, think back, skim his memories from the day they met to the present, and he couldn’t actually recall a single moment he’d seen… that smile. Oh, there’d been little glimpses, quirks of his lips, placating smirks or bewildered half-grins. Never teeth, never so strong it wrinkled the dusky skin at the corners of those eyes. Never something so… radiant.

Gods damn this drow. Of course he would have a gorgeous smile hiding under the pomp and intellect. How infuriatingly unfair! Astarion hadn’t been aware dark elves could smile. 

It lingered, too, as did that burning gaze. For the sake of appearances, Astarion didn’t let himself look away. He shifted his weight, let the lines of his body do the talking, knocked back the bottle and slowly, deliberately downed the last of the liquor, swiped his lip with his thumb once it was gone. All the things he knew would have the drow looking at all the right places.

The smile dimmed to something softer, something… fond. 

He couldn’t be serious. 

A patronizing play, perhaps; Naven had mentioned having been an actor before all this. Astarion had watched him charm his way through a horde of goblins without trouble, behaving by all accounts like these True Souls they couldn’t shut up about, never giving anything away. Every word, every glance, it could be nothing more than an elaborate facade.

They were both playing the same game. But when it all came down to the wire, a vampire would always play it better. If only for the centuries of practice.

Though… he didn’t actually know how old Naven was. The way he behaved, the way he trusted, surely he had to be fresh off his Naming. But then again, there were those creeping lines under those eyes of his, the barest hint of creases striking through the tasteful tattoo on his forehead. It could be age, or it could be… well, grief.

The pit was coming back, and the wine had done absolutely nothing. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. It had been two-hundred years since blessed inebriation came to him from a bottle. He recalled the night he’d drained the bear, the absolute euphoria he felt afterward. What he’d give to engorge himself again now, before his moment came. Before he knelt at the feet of another for the last fucking time, and laid the last nail to the emotional coffin lid. It’d certainly make it easier to get through if he could be drunk as the Hells.

But alas. Would that the gods could be so kind. They weren’t. He could only sling the empty bottle to the side for its personal offense to him, where he didn’t even get the satisfaction of watching it break. It simply rolled across the dirt and clinked to a stop against a stump. He pouted at it for good measure. It did nothing more.

It had to be better if he took his leave now. The party would wind down before long, he wagered. He needed to be in place, ready and waiting, properly alluring, for when his quarry came looking for him. 

He gathered what he knew he would need in a pack. Then, steps composed but quiet, he idled backward, away from his tent, into the treeline. He slipped from the edges of camp without the notice of a single soul and plunged into the darkness beyond the fire’s light. His eyes and light feet, used to the shadows, made entering into them easy as breathing.

The long walk that followed, that was another story entirely. Stumps and dirt and grass and stones made what might’ve been a leisurely stroll into a struggle that no amount of shadow could ease. Roots snagged his boots. Branches clawed at his face. Bloody nature! He grew more and more weary with it each passing day, each night he laid his head on a pack draped in a blanket instead of a pillow. 

He missed proper beds. He missed private baths and locked doors and armchairs. He missed… the city.

The city meant the clan, though. The clan meant Cazador. Cazador meant… He stopped, shaking the creeping memories from his skull. Flashes of blood and bile, hunger pangs, the pitch black of a closed coffin. A ripple of discomfort seared across his back. 

“No! That’s enough of that.” The words left him without permission, murmured to no one but his own mind and the deepening night. He shoved the memories down, down to that blasted pit in his gut. He was far, far from Baldur’s Gate. Far from his reach. He strode deeper into the night, imagining each step as another one further from those long-reaching arms. 

This is mine! All of this. My night. My mind. My choice! No one was ever going to take this away from him, not with freedom in his hands, at long last.

His feet had stopped again, and that wouldn’t do. 

He needed to find a place for tonight. The perfect place. Yes, somewhere properly… romantic. Ideally, in the cradle of two luscious trees, with the moonlight beaming down just so. Mortals did adore when their lovers waxed poetic to them beneath the moon.

Ah… he needed something to say. Just the right thing.

He found a deer path and began to follow it, keeping his steps close together to avoid any sudden obstacles in the gray landscape. The trade-off for the gift of night sight, of course, was that he wouldn’t be able to take color into consideration when picking his spot. But then, neither would a drow. Double negative makes a positive and all that. 

His gaze wandered aimlessly as he went, and he let his mind go with it. “What to say… I’m thinking literary. He seems an educated man.”

Some classics, perhaps. ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire’ sort of thing. Yes, that could do nicely. Everyone loved that one. It had been a while since he recited it, too; he practiced a few stanzas to test the rhythm and rhyme on his tongue and when it didn’t sound quite perfect enough, he tried again. And again, and so forth, until he began to hear the rippling of water nearby.

He’d circled back to the edge of the river, it seemed. Which wasn’t a terrible thing; the serenity of the sound would only add to the desired ambiance. He kept it just out of sight.

Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. Something in his gut told him right here… it felt close. Eyes narrowing, he raised a hand, thumb out at an angle like the corner of a frame, and he swiveled across the trees that surrounded him. He needed just the right spot…

There. Two grand oaks standing side by side, framing a small clearing, moonlight streaming down in divine shafts. It was no mansion bedchambers, but it would do.

He winced, immediately regretting the comparison. Now he was thinking of Baldur’s Gate again. Of his service room. Of Cazador.

“This isn’t for you!” he spat to nobody. Skin immediately crawling, he spun a quick circle, just… to make sure. He was alone. “This is for me! Me.”

He raked his fingers into his hair, distracting his mind by making sure not a single strand was out of place. He had to be perfect. Everything had to. Like a dream. When all was said and done, that drow needed to leave this place so enthralled, he couldn’t bear for Astarion to leave his side ever again. Then Astarion would never have to worry about Lae’zel getting a bit stab-happy if he smirked at her wrong, or Wyll living up to his status as a monster hunter if the mood so took him. Not unless they wanted to face the wrath of their beloved man with the plan.

So it was decided. This was the place. He stepped between the two trees, gave one trunk a light pat before he rid himself of his shirt and shoes. The grass was satisfyingly cool beneath his toes. A breeze whispered through the summer leaves and he paused folding his clothes, just to watch them dance.

It… really was a nice spot.

Getting here had been an absolute drag, no doubt; the Great Outdoors were not his natural habitat and never would be, but he couldn’t deny that when he didn’t have to trudge through knee-high brush or duck under rudely low-hanging boughs or wave bugs out of his face or watch for animal scat… well. It was peaceful enough.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This moon felt much kinder than the one he knew before. She was soft. Soothing. The night’s watchful guardian, shining silver just for the bards that might look up and write of her beauty. Or for anyone.

Back in the city, the moon was simply a hollow sun for the likes of him and his ‘siblings.’ They couldn’t have the real thing, so they settled for experiencing a world that was only half what it should be. Add to that the fact that the moon could not penetrate the deep, dark alleyways of the city where vampires best hunted, and it was never a friend of theirs.

Strange, to find it so different now. 

Then again, everything was. Everything except for the scars on his back; his permanent reminder. And he still didn’t know what they said.

Absently, he reached a hand back to trace his fingertips over the raised edges like he’d done countless times. They felt so terribly pronounced, so… ugly. A hideous presence amongst such serene midnight perfection.

Would… Naven notice them?

“Hello?” a distant voice called. Louder than it usually was, but still familiar after traveling together so long. The man himself, come to join him at last. “Astarion, are you… close by?”

Astarion’s hand fled from his back. His stomach seized again and he wished he had wine to pretend to drown it with. He took one last deep breath and the way it stuttered would have made him scowl, were he not already schooling his features into the very picture of debonair charm.

“Over here, darling,” he called back, taking his place behind the tree, readying words in his mind for the moment his companion came into view. “Just a little closer.”

It was time to play his part again.

But the pit never went away.

[mlmxreader]

The Flirting Game | Eames x gn!reader

Anonymous asked: Eames: Hi!! Hope you're doing good 🖤! May I please request something using the following prompts for Eames X non-binary, male, or gn!Reader: "Just fucking leave it, alright?!" Thank you 🖤!! 🐍anon

summary: tensions are rising, and it's not fun for you or Eames.

tws: swearing

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

Eames hummed as he shuffled his playing cards at the table, only daring to look at you from the corner of his eye; you had been sour all day, and he couldn't pinpoint why. Your bad mood, he assumed, was just one of those days. It had to be. He couldn’t think of any reason why you would be in such an awful mood, after all.

But then, maybe it was something he had done; he thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. No, he hadn’t even spoken to you that day except a few texts here and there to check in with one another like usual. But Eames couldn’t wrap his head around it, and frowned as he looked over at you as you made yourself a cup of coffee; something was definitely wrong, as a heavy metal song he knew you loved was playing on the Bluetooth speaker connected to his phone, but you didn’t even mouth the lyrics like you usually did when you made coffee.

He furrowed his brows, you were definitely up shit’s creek and he was sure that he was holding the paddle; he used his phone to turn up the volume a little bit, but you didn’t notice. Something was absolutely wrong. He rose from his chair, letting his playing cards fall to the table before he made his way over to you, grabbing your sides like he usually did but doing his best not to hum in disappointment when you didn’t play along like usual. 

“What is it?”

“Don’t fucking worry,” you huffed, brushing him off. 

That wasn’t normal, either.

You never brushed Eames off, the same as he never brushed you off; you were the best of friends, always had been. You never brushed one another off - sure, you kept secrets and you had boundaries, but you never, never brushed each other off or pushed each other away. He was confused, and admittedly, a little hurt.

“Darling-”

“Just fucking leave it, alright?!” You snapped, pushing him away from you before storming off to the bedroom. 

Eames frowned, wincing a little when the door slammed shut. He sighed, shaking his head as he didn’t know what the fuck he was meant to do. He didn’t know how to comfort you, he didn’t even know what was eating away at you so terribly. If he knew, maybe he could have comforted you; he knew though, that his own problems would have to wait.

Sure, Eames had been pining after you for years upon years and had wished that he had had the time to tell you how he had felt for so long - but either his work, personal shit, or your work always got in the way. Like the universe was against him and didn’t want you together as anything but friends. He sighed, resigning himself to the table and drinking your coffee. He hated it, it wasn’t made the way that he liked but he drank it anyway because he loved you enough to look past a different taste in coffee.

He sighed, going back to his cards and shuffling them as he waited and waited; it felt like years before he heard the door open again, and quiet, hesitant footsteps approached. Eames looked up when you reached the chair beside him, and he dared to smile as he cleared his throat. 

“Good evening, darling.”

“I’m really sorry, dearest,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I just… a lot of shit right now.”

Eames nodded in understanding. “For all of us. It’s alright.”

You sighed, shaking your head again. “It’s not.”

“Darling,” he scoffed, shaking his head fondly as he started to lay his cards out for a game of solitaire. “I love you enough to forgive you for drinking shit coffee. I’ll forgive you for a little lashing out.”

“You’re not pissed?”

“No!” Eames almost laughed. “If you had broken my mum’s shire horse ornament, then yeah - but you didn’t. So I don’t care. A door can be replaced - you can’t.”

“Thanks…” you muttered, leaning your arms on the table. You rested your chin just below your hand as you sighed. “Can I let you in?”

He nodded, placing one card on another. “Always.”

“It’s Cobb,” you explained, “he keeps flirting with me and sending me all these really flattering and… weird, if I’m honest, messages. Like he wants to, I dunno, go on a date or something but I… shit, Eames, I can’t imagine doing something like that with anyone but…”

“But?”

“Anyone but you,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I know, I know I’m an idiot and I should probably jump at the chance to spend time with anyone else but… but you get me. You let me in, and I let you in. We’re…”

“We’re good together, darling,” Eames replied, doing very little to not sound smug. “Aren’t we?”

You nodded in agreement, daring to smile. “We are, yeah… quite honestly, I’d be fucking livid to spend my days with anyone but you.”

He grinned, nodding. “So it’s mutual… can I let you in?”

You nodded. “Always.”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages,” he started, “but my work, your work, personal shit with both of us always gets in the way… but, my dearest darling, I’ve wanted to be something different to friends for so long. I told you - I said, you mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger. What if my dream’s being able to spend my years with you?”

“Then I’d tell you we need to do everything we can to make it real,” you said softly. “But, y’know, Eames, I have to admit something.”

“Go on.”

“You’re so much better at flirting than Cobb is,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Really. So, so much fucking better.”

Eames grinned as he licked his lips. “Someone like you? I always have to be on top form - can’t have someone else snatching you up, can I?”

You grinned back as you shrugged. “I guess not.”

[xeroscribed]

So, uhhhh...

I broke

Just like that, huh (definitely not typing rn to try and hold myself together 🙃)

I

Hmm

Fuck

Yeah, there have been signs, and [I really should smoke more] it finally came to a head.

"You're making yourself upset?"

"If I'm hearing wrong, I must be senile/I should go and get my hearing checked."

"Oh, so I'm the reason your life is so bad, am I?"

Etc.

Etc.

Sigh

Well [breathes], I understand my tension, my stress, my inactivity

No, it is not all her.

No, I did not tell her this

I'm kinda just finally realising it

This voice I've been fighting, that's been slowly creeping it's way back into the drivers seat with me lacking awareness of how significant the impact

For a few nights running, early this week, I struggled to sleep. Jerking awake as I dozed off at the sudden incomprehensible rage I heard quietly blaring in the back of my mind, as if in real time.

And I've no idea what words were said, or when. Something like a disembodied voice. An echo of a memory of a moment lived so many times over they've blended to one passage of indistinguishable vitriol hurled over decades with reckless abandon. No words to be placed but the undeniable cadence of the maternal howl. [Gone the wonder of why I excel at recognising voices].

.

The agonising pleading with the girl in the mirror, only increasing; I know that you're in there, so why won't you listen?

The constant convincing still so unconvincing

.

The frustration at the name in the bubble of notification. The constant exhaustion. The tension. The waning of patience.

There, you see...

I'm feeling okay.

Breathing somewhat steadily

Declining heart rate.

I'm straight.

So there was a moment. And-

A less evolved version of me would think my ma did it on purpose to force interaction or just to be petty.

Because after days on end of getting it right, she somehow gets it wrong. And gets me. In a gesture way off.

But...

I'm above that line of thinking and it helps me not

Fuck it.

Either way, interaction was had. A question asked. A tone misperceived. A flame thrown back. Which, at this moment - too hot to handle. But I do. Unsteady-like until I catch myself and...

I calmly highlight, yet again, this problem I'm having [we're having, but i digress]

See

Ffs

It's so frustrating

Yes, this is gaslighting.

But being gaslit by a person who doesn't actually understand that they're doing it.

Who is so trauma bound that they would swear blind if anyone were doing the harm it is you.

For being tense like you are. For avoidance. For snapping sometimes. For addressing the issue.

Here. I have to lead with understanding first. I have to moderate her emotions and redirect her to the topic at hand and manage her way of thinking and reiterate my point and do it all calm, don't dare raise your voice and-

Fuck

I have been thinking and writing in this stupid lyrical manner. This sing-song nursery rhyme bullshit.

Last night, for some reason, recollections of past traumas. Of hygiene. Of solitude. Of lessons in abandon.

Things I am still ashamed of.

But wish to speak on. Because there are so many of us. Hidden. Getting by

Getting on. Battling our demons.

Some, like me, still living with them. At least... that's what she thinks. I don't share the opinion.

I said I broke. It was... incredibly emotional and vulnerable and-

You can't show your pain because it's seen as a tool to make them feel guilty and feel like the fool so they flip it back on you without a care what you've said coz it's easier to claim they'd be better of dead than to take a step back and to listen instead.

I heard you I heard you. Then exaggerates context. Exaggerates impact. Inflates the intent and warps it to suit their ego.

.

This is the matter at hand. This is the plainness of speech. This is the intent.

Do not take to heart the things you think that I meant.

Do not ruminate on your past wounds or fears of your failure [the ones I'm beginning to share].

Do not put on me all the harm of past aggressors. Of the attitudes I've shed. Of the fallacies in your head.

.

"Well, I can't help it, can I!?"

I ask you, who can?

If not you than who?

Not seeking apology. Don't want you to feel bad.

Just asking you to see me as I truly am.

See the work I've put in. See the intention within. See the years of the patience and commitment that's been repairing this ship, drawing us closer, trying to establish something vaguely familial.

.

Yet you see me. Villain. Who hates. And spits sin. Who lies and denies you your right to feeling.

.

Here am I sharing this ache in my chest, this knot in my gut, and this pit in my head.

"It's always about what I'm doing to you!".

I've had an ear worm lately: "I need you, too". Still don't know what it means. Don't think I'm meant to. Not ready yet.

.

You ever notice when one has just formed?

"You're upsetting yourself/You're getting yourself upset."

Because everything is always repeated. They want you convinced.

That's the moment I realised the futility of going further. I'd said what I'd said. Clarified. Reiterated. Took my time. Found my patience.

I stopped. Composed myself. Said goodnight.

Again: Please remember the words that I've said. Please do not focus on what you think I meant.

A final attempt to beg. To plead. That she'll hear me this time.

Coz its taking it's toll. On my soul.

Oh yeah, that's the revelation.

See

That voice is winning. My energy waning. My faith fading. My hope withered.

And instead of knowing I'm good and great, I'm trying repetition hoping the thought integrates.

Like it had before.

But I'm battling two voices.

Both equal in strength.

One cultivated by me, with unending resistance.

The other, nurtured and festered inside. The one I seek to hide.

I

Had manage to quell it, pushed it to the side.

I was golden. Confident. I'd finally found pride.

And now both the knowing and the fearing have taken up residence. Battling it out for the number one spot.

And as I look out, I see the crowd forming.

The faces of friends. Some clear as day. Some so distant.

Some I can hear. Some I just get a glimpse of. But what carries through; words of love and peer wisdom.

That's one side. With the sun. With the me fueled by loving.

.

The other. Barren. Cept for one figure.

One I try not to witness til she toes the line to the sunny side. A gift yet a rarity.

Typically, she resides in the shady seats but stays squinting. The most notable impression of the twisted expression.

Some days are more dreary. And I can't see her clearly. But her voice steady travels on the wind and whips through me.

.

I watch these two battle it out - the crowd cheering.

But that voice doesn't shout. It whispers so clearly.

And the wounded looks through you: I know you can hear me.

.

Those supporters, so loving, well their chants are drowned out. And the two are left standing in a haze of pure doubt.

Neither sure. Both uncertain. Of which one will win.

Sometimes I think it's a matter of time.

Eventually the clock runs out and the stands will be missing their most loyal voyeur.

All that will remain will be sunshine and well wishes.

But its not really so dire. I suppose.

I recognise now what has it's hand round my throat.

May I not amplify it.

May I stand by the sunny side and know that clouds pass and find my place in the rain.

Let it wash over and all that malarkey.

So much has been said. So much I will probably read again and find lacking sense.

But you cannot tame a beast you have not named and I've named it. I know it. And I'm bound to defeat it.

So fuck it.

In the meantime, keep it going.

Find peace. Things will improve. It's just trauma. Not you.

You're better for knowing.

[raviliuz]

Slytherin Quidditch Team as songs from my playlist (part 1)

Marcus Flint ~ .intoodeep. by Dead Poet Society

Maybe let's start with overall vibe and melody and stuff. It sounds so dramatic, I can't explain it with simple words but it's giving walls falling, internal chaos that has to be sorted. And it fits Marcus so well, especially during summer of '93 when a lot of things went shite, he got disowned, had to repeat 7th year and just sort out who he is. The song is about making music which obviously doesn't apply to Flint but I think it can be fairly translated to quidditch for him. Spending so much time and blood, sweat and tears on the quidditch pitch, it being what saved him, where you sought a break during his worst times. It's so hard to leave it, it feels like a betrayal. But he had to make that decision when it came to a professional career.

But let's get to the lyrics

I heard my boy just bought his own house

Told me I could crash while I figure it out

I mean, he literally stayed at Higgs' during that time

I know I'm sounding crazy, know you think I'm fucking lazy

But you'll never understand

Marcus has ADHD which was undiagnosed for like 17 years of his life. That obviously affected him, his education and thus his self esteem. Flint for years thought he's just dumb and lazy because everyone has to do all that school stuff and everyone is doing okay, so clearly there's a problem in him. Finding out that he has ADHD and that was the reason for all of it was so calming and reassuring. But still it didn't mean people around him, even teachers, would understand his disability and how it affects him.

There's no light, inside I'm paralyzed

But fuck it 'cause I'm in too deep

I think it fits Marcus seeking himself around all the shit planted in him by his parents, trying to sort the true him around all expectations and opinions of his parents which he wanted to just erased.

Goodbye to my memories of being at home

As I said, erased them.

I know my mind is a mess

Well, ADHD affects the way one think so he could have issues with like- sorting his thoughts and refering them to others because for them they might seem random and unrelated

My confidence making claims

In Marcus case more like the lack of confidence. Tho it has gotten much better through the years it still wasn't the best and affected him. Flint hated himself, considered himself a disappointment for everyone, felt so ashamed. It was coming back late at night, during worse moments, bringing him back down.

I swear it's all 'bout to change

I'm not just faded

I see Marcus telling that to himself. Like a promise he's going to get through this, that he's so much more than his parents' son.

I'm alive btw, uni is so awesome, I hope you're doing great

[inkystaar]

mafia :looksatyou:

hi merc we are going to pretend like this ask isn’t months old, okay?

me losing my mind under the cut

(ft. multiple crane wives songs)

little soldiers by tcw….. mafia…….. specifically braid duo….. but also angel duo…..

the “i swear that you loved me” is angel duo..

“we didn’t give up, we wouldn’t dare surrender, it was an honest loss!” is braid duo to me. like. ough. they’ve been through so much but they’re still going (as far as i know LOL)

i’ve also thought about little soldiers as gem and bowie which is just. ouughhh. “i swear that i loved you” <- that one scene on the rooftop where gem finds out bowie started the loops….. “beneath the table you would offer up my bones” is gem telling people about it, and “all the dogs would lick your fingers” is people then going after m!bowie… “now the aftermath will ring with songs you’ve sung, all our words sent home in boxes” THE AFTERMATH. OF GEM. TELLING ICARUS ABOUT WHAT BOWIE TOLD IT. OURHEHDHSHHDHSJSJSJDJDJ. THE AFTERMATH WILL RING WITH SONGS YOUVE SUNG…..

SPEAKING OF M!BOWIE AND M!GEM…. canary in a coal mine is THEM. “am i the only thing that keeps you safe when the light is gone?” <- them. somehow. i know it’s them. i just KSJJDJDND i can’t figure it out COMPLETELY. hhhhhhhhhh

“but i still hold out hope that maybe someday ill be worth more than all the silence left in my way” <- m!gem. no i will not be taking questions. goodbye.

also!! metaphor is so m!merc and m!bowie to me. i love m!merc and m!bowie so much they should be allowed to blow shit up. specifically m!merc should be given explosives.

okay no one is going to understand this because i never shared what i wrote for m!bowie’s ending (i will…. at some point maybe……) but sleeping giants is m!bowie and xer relationship to the loops…..

the personification of the nature is just. it’s the timeloop to me. it’s the loops. that dimension, every part of it, so so so fucking alive….. “the trees are crowing hungry, hungry harmonies” RAHHHG

“my pulse is clear, rushing in my ears, i hear something calling me” 🫵 m!bowie’s ending btw. btw. if you care. also. the pulse thing relates even though m!bowie doesn’t have a pulse!!!! right as their… not really?? dying??? but i guess they’re dying. they’re being reborn into like. a different life. and that’s the one time during the loops that they actually have a pulse, hence the “my pulse is clear”

hollow moon by tcw is unexplainable but for sure a mafia song….

the glacier house is revengers to me?? “i saw your eyes so sweet go cold” is such a m!iced lyric to me? “bundle up darling, you’re on your own now” is literally that one time iced told jordan they were using her. or something. (i forgot exactly what happened. (i read that rp very late at night))

“you sought to hold yourself in, wait out the weather” <- also m!iced. to me. what the fuck is their problem /pos

[phoebeseb]

Eurovision and the making of a "good song"

Ok, so for context, my music taste is a mess and it's all over the place. I like different genres, some more popular and mainstream and some more alternative. This year (and the last one) I watched eurovision with my family, who tends to have a more traditional taste in music and by that I mean they tend to like the ballads and more generic pop music.

And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that! Music taste is a very personal thing and to each their own.

My problem is that every single year, without fail, the same argument rises. This year's targets were mostly Finland and Germany (I think they didnt criticize Croatia because they didn't see it XD). I think you can see where this is going...

When I don't like a song, I don't like it. I might make a "snooze fest" joke but I understand that some people might be into it. What annoys me is that every single time a more alternative song comes on (this year, metal took the brunt of it) they are always criticizes with "This is not music, this is just screaming" or "I can't believe what this contest has become... back in ny day, we took real music produced by prestigious musicians to eurovision"

And, oh boy, how I HATE that. I swear I just get so riled up...

First of all, there is talent and skill involved in making metal music. METAL MUSIC IS STILL MUSIC. It might not be your type of music, but don't discredit the artists that take their time to make it, to write the lyrics, produce the beat... (idk what it takes to make a music).

It annoys me how close minded some people are that they can't even recognize that just because it's not your type of music, it doesn't mean it's not music! Metal is not just screaming to the mic. What is so hard to understand about that?

Besides, you can argue that it takes more talent to make those songs that tiktok song n14827.

And don't get me started with the "back in my day argument". Like perhaps back in your day there weren't all these music styles to choose from or perhaps they existed, but their chance to take part in ESC was denied.

Besides, the appearance of more styles reflects the change of audience, the way their tastes change and how the ESC fandom has been growing and I think that's beautiful. The whole point of ESC (at least for me) is to celebrate diversity. It's to get exposed to new genres and new artists and expand your music horizons.

However, no matter how much I try to explain it, it always reverts back to "oh but the public now can't recognize good music" or "ik the styles have changed but, it's not my thing and therefore it's bad" or "it was better before, not it's just a circus"

I swear, I cant argue with them if they don't want to listen. I won't even start on the styling and clothes of these acts because honestly...

Metal can be good music and surprise, surprise, ballads and pop songs can be crappy music. The genre doesnt dictate the quality of the music. The music dictates the quality of the music

[miricalsolana]

Team 1 Anthropology Playlist

Chapter 5: Race & Racism

The Bigger Picture - Lil Baby

"It's bigger than black and white It's a problem with the whole way of life It can't change overnight But we gotta start somewhere"

During the many protests that took place during the height of the Black Lives Matter protests, a rapper, Lil Baby released a song relating to the struggles of black people and treatment inflicted.

Chapter 6: Ethnicity & Nationalism

Don't Mind - Kent Jones

"She said, "Hola, ¿cómo está'?" She said, "こんにちは" She said, "Pardon my French" I said, "Bonjour, madame" Then she said, "Sak pasé?" And I said, "N'ap boule" No matter where I go, you know I love 'em all"

Artist, Kent Jones, expresses is love for many different nationalities, expressing the many ways they communicate and make him feel.

Chapter 7: Gender

If I Were A Boy - Beyonce

"If I were a boy I think I could understand How it feels to love a girl I swear I'd be a better man"

This song brings to realization the double standards between a boy & girl; what exactly is acceptable behavior exhibited by each gender. The lyrics constantly name actions men tend to do that women would be judged for, while pointing out the fact that as Beyonce thinks as a woman (because she is a woman), she would be able to properly treat one.

Chapter 9: Kinship, Family, & Marriage

LET'S GET MARRIED - partynextdoor

Oh, make it feel like forever When it's temporary, let's get married

Party reveals his ideal woman he would want to marry through this song, and build a family with...even if it may be temporary.

Chapter 10: Class & Inequality & Chapter 11: Economy

Lose You - Drake

Winnin' is problematic People like you more when you workin' towards somethin' Not when you have it

We all agreed on this being our final song as it can be interpreted in multiple lenses, not even just topics of the chapters mentioned. Through a poetic set of lyrics, Drake proposes many thoughts that a person elevating their status in society feels. He himself going from "unknown" and in a way, struggling, to one of the most popular rappers at the moment; he is able to convey how capitalism truly works. The harder the worker, the more money made; there is a fear that the worker can too be just like the boss if they invest their hard work elsewhere. Everyone wants to be the boss, nobody wants to be the worker, but both come with a price.

[beautouslysandy]

idk if you still do matchups but here is mine, it’s for outer banks, and it’s anonymous bc I am a 🐱. :

I’m on the shorter side for girls, like 5’3ish, but everyone else in my family is TALL ASF so im a fast walker. I have light brown straight hair and curtain bangs (that take far too long to style), hazel eyes, fair skin, and my cheeks are always flushed so it always looks like im blushing when im not (most times).

My friends tell me im very funny and outgoing but deep down I am very sensitive and emotional- I’ve just found ways to hide it. I’m an extremely loyal friend, and I’ll defend a friend even if I don’t agree with what my friend said or did. I’m very shy and quiet when I meet people at first, but once I’m comfortable it’s hard to get me to shut up.

Im always listening to music, and i swear one of my super powers is knowing the lyrics to every song. I stay up late making playlists and reading books. I randomly get outbursts of energy where I can run 5 miles no problem and feel like running in circles around a room, but I’m also constantly tired and always sleeping.

I laugh really hard at stupid things, like videos with animals or the impractical jokers show.

I don’t think I’m clumsy, but apparently I am because I always have something wrong with me. Like if I don’t have a third degree burn on my arm than I have a broken finger and if not that than I’m limping. Like I always am going to the doctor to either get a cast or medicine for an injury.

I’m very good at talking my way into and out of things, but I don’t do it often bc I get anxious.

Also random fun fact: EVERYBODY is convinced I smoke 🍃 when I don’t. Im told its because I’m very calm and can hide my nervousness well- I think its because I could get hit by a car and still be calm and collected, I’m just very zen at all hours and I don’t know how.

This is probably tmi but it’s kind of fun to debrief!!

honestly i think we would be good friends if we knew each other in real life! just a little fun fact about me, i am told I have a very loud personality meaning i am extremely outgoing and stuff haha.

it is fun to debrief! glad you enjoyed it!

hope you like your match up!

OUTERBANKS:

john b, one hundred percent. i think he likes having some calmness in his life, he has got quite the chaotic life. and he loves loves having a short girlfriend, he definitely will tease you about it every now and then but you he is just joking. anybody else though, they won't see the day of light ever again. i think he would find your sparks of energy very amusing. he always gets super worried when you get hurt, he warns you that you should be more careful. he has successfully caught you a few times preventing you from getting hurt, a few times. he probably loves that you are so calm, like said before. it’s nice to have something calm and dependable in his life. i think he loves making you laugh so he will say really idiotic stuff just to hear that laugh he loves so much, it makes his day to see you happy knowing that he is the reason you are. you guys probably watch those try not laugh animal version videos on youtube and just sit there cackling like a pair of little kids. he likes to help you sometimes with your hair and at some point he has mastered it but that is in the fair future (sorry john b). i think his favorite thing about you are your personality, it’s super important to him that his significant other has a good personality that he loves and you provide that. he respects your loyalty as he is as well, i think he is comforted with the fact knowing you are super loyal to him. when you first meet the group they are confused on why john b and you are together as he doesn’t really go for shy girls but once you break out of your shell and the true you shows, they understand. he loves to play with your hair, he loves it when you get flushed to the face because he thinks it’s adorable.

little drabble/skit

“hey, sweetheart, oh are you doing your hair?” john b said peering into your room.

“yeah.” you said looking at him though your mirror

“want some help? i am a professional.” he said with a chuckle as headed over to you to give you a kiss on the cheek

“yes please, i need some professional help.” you said laughing

“okay, then. prepare to be wowed.” he says as he starts to style your hair, five minutes in and he has already burned his finger two times

“ahh, shit!” he exclaims

“burn your finger, again? want me to do it?” you ask with a sympathetic smile, you grab his hand and kiss his finger

“thanks, babe. i wanna do this for you, you do a lot for me…it’s the least i can do.” he says with a smile

“okay. just let me know if you want me to take over.”

he nodded and then went back at it

ten minutes later

“ahh, shit!”

[gordontheengineswifenirmal]

Ok, he’s not wrong about rap in general being anti music, or being degrading. I grew up when rap was young yet, n purposely avoid it in English, not because of culture involved, but because I find it deeply offensive. I know a lot of folks from many backgrounds who listen to it. In other languages, it can be funny. I do like other forms of music traditionally connect to black cultures, such as a reggae, soca, jazz, Motown, soul, funk, and the like. These are not so negative in nature. I AM willing to give a chance to a rap song that does not have offensive lyrics.

To be fair on both sides, rap has a conflicting reputation. To some, it’s positive. To many of us, it’s negative. It could be said that both sides of the argument may be biased to some degree.

Anyhoo, that aside, the problem I have is this -

Whilst he does make some good points, he defends Trump. This sets him up for failure. This leads most of his arguments to become logical fallacies -

He has no actual, unbiased proof to back up what he says. This also leads me to believe he’s taken trump’s comments out of context as well. This is especially damaging because Trump ALREADY does this, leaving twisted information to be twice regurgitated in a metaphorical sense. This article reminds me of that kid in a writing class who makes some good points, but they r marked opinion, because they fail to back it up, then cowardly cover their tracks with utter bollocks, because they couldn’t be arsed enough to make an effort with proper information, so they sound as though they’re talking out their bum. He’s the proverbial ‘this bloke I look up to said this, so it’s gotta be true instead of giving actual reasons WHY it might be true’ type. This is very common of evangelicals, and of Trumps followers and defenders. These can be seperate groups, but they rely solely on bias and logical fallacies, pandering to those willing to take anything said at face value if it pleases them, rather than instead of giving actual facts to back up what they are saying. They also don’t allow debate or open minds to challenge what they say. His article also comes off as a stereotype- as if rap is the ONLY music attributed to black folks, and therefore is the standard for generalisation. This is damaging.

Instead, first understand that not all music related to black cultures are inherently negative. They come from struggle, from pain, but they can be just as positive as others, just as any other music. Then, challenge yourself to find rap lyrics, videos, and such that truly AREN’T offensive, negative, or damaging - and don’t have sex, violence n the like. Look for things that are positive and counter the stereotypes.

Not all stereotypes are completely wrong, they have some basis in facts sometimes. However, that doesn’t mean we can’t challenge how we feel about them. This doesn’t mean we necessarily HAVE to change our minds about the stuff that truly is bad. However, it’s healthy and positive to open our minds, and look for stuff that although may be out of our comfort zones a bit, could allow us to see that there are more than one side to the perception we have. There may be more to learn and understand here.

For me, this is one rap song that does swear (which I dont mind), but it also sends a message to grow up. There are certain behaviours that you don’t need to engage in.

Here’s the dirty version -

And the censored version -

We can celebrate black cultures, but we can learn to seperate negative behaviour from good, and realise that these behaviours aren’t necessarily attached to any one culture. They are a result, and a learned response. They can be changed for the better, but we on the outside are not helping to foster that. We are guilty of feeding into it from the outside, just as it is from within. Every culture has stereotypes. We don’t have to be blind to and give into negative stereotypes if we make an effort to collectively be better, and to teach others to learn about and appreciate instead of exploit and manipulate each other. It can lead to the argument of cultural appropriation, which often results from attention seeking behaviours. Cultural appropriation itself is misused and grossly misunderstood. It is often manipulated when used for a benefit.

We need to remember that this is related to assimilation, which sounds nice at the core, until one really understands the full implications of it -

But is misleading. Appreciation is a better approach -

If your goal is to learn, listen, understand, and honor a culture without benefit to yourself, you are most likely showing appreciation. It is a good idea to learn about and honor other cultures. (But also respect your own, and create a healthy exchange)

I searched up his commentary on rap, simply I thought ‘well, maybe he actually had some good insight’. Sadly, despite the Victorian/edwardusn getup giving the impression of a villain to some, or to others, an eccentric professor - he sounds like an utter cock up. You loose all credibility when u blindly defend the blathering eejit convicted criminal. This also does not help anyone.

no fucking way

“What is keeping down American blacks today is not racism, oppression, or lack of opportunity. That’s over.” - Myron Magnet, 2018.