#musician yoongi

[xcziel]

Hip-hop producer Sleep Deez introducing friend and colleague to Agust-D's second mixtape

their previous video was an introduction to RM's Right Person Wrong Place which is where i started watching and it's also a great vid

really enjoying seeing someone new finding out about the various facets of BTS members, and how educational the vids are music-wise. they are both dropping a lot of knowledge and appreciation for music production expertise

if you enjoy the rapline this pair of vids are super rewarding and validating

[sugajimin]

...

[shapinginvisible]

Min Yoongi for Marie Claire 2023

He is so fine!

[moonlattae]

in conclusion the only bangtan that are having a really interesting music career as solos are yoongi, namjoon (and hoseok).

[glossdebut]

PRICE OF FAME | MYG ★ 01

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SERIES SUMMARY: You were about ready to give up, your career nowhere near what you dreamed it’d be when you started at eighteen, bright-eyed and naive. Reality for you these past few years has consisted of pouting at a camera, ignoring whispers of your name at company events, and ensuring that the stupid, tiny designer purses they keep forcing on you can at least carry a flask. But now, you’re helping a friend in need. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you’re doing something worthwhile with your life. Too bad Min Yoongi, the newest thorn in your side, seems insistent on stopping you.

✧ SERIES TAGS: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fake/pretend relationship (not main couple), rockstar!yoongi, model!reader, guitarist yoongi, singer jungkook, bassist taehyung, drummer jimin, manager namjoon, yoongi & maknae line are in a rock band, reader & seokjin are best friends, yoongi & hoseok are best friends (sope duo ftw), yoongi has a tongue piercing, reader is a brat

✧ CHAPTER WARNINGS: recreational drinking, yoongi is an asshole (see series masterlist for series warnings)

✧ CHAPTER WORDCOUNT: 6.1k words

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: NEW ERA NEW ERA NEW ERA! whew!!! i’m excited for this one! this is going to be a loooong ride, so buckle up and enjoy! please note the slow burn tag on this one, because i’m not joking around with it. trust me, it’s going to hurt me just as much as it hurts you.

a HUGE thank you to tanni @yooniivrse for continuing to beta read for me <3 your commentary never fails to make me laugh and your edits save my life.

P.S. everything i know about the korean music industry is informed by my years as a kpop fan. i don’t know much about the rock scene there, so expect inaccuracies galore going forward. i do my due diligence where i can, but that can only help so much.

CH. 01: ALL YOU PEOPLE ARE VAMPIRES!

You aren’t entirely sure when you stopped feeling at home in places like this. There has to be some kind of defining event, some kind of indicator of The Before and The After, but every time you try and figure it out you come up short.

In The Before, not all that long ago, you would be scrounging for the bus fare rattling around in your pockets to get to a place like this as soon as you punched out from your shift at the Speedy Mart.

During your short stint in college, your friends didn’t understand your obsession. Music venues, to them, were fun for a weekend’s night out. The thrill of flashing a fake ID, of flirting with the musicians after their set, of getting said musicians to buy them drinks—it was a satisfying rebellion, a fun story to tell people at school and hide from their parents.

But you were there every day, even after classes and graveyard shifts under fluorescent lights, always racing to the nearest show without even changing out of your polo. It was never a rebellion to you. The lights, the thumping bass, the secondhand smoke—it made every nerve ending in your body light up.

You were born in this smoke, as far as you’re concerned.

Maybe it’s different now because it’s work to be here. But what isn’t work, these days? Your life is micromanaged down to the minutiae—the meals you eat, the products you use in your hair, your goddamn piss breaks. There’s no clocking out for you, no gasp of relief that comes after. Such is life for one of Seoul’s many playthings.

Even in the dead of winter, your stylist, Hyerin, has you in a dress that begs to be pulled down every five minutes like clockwork. 

You learned a long time ago to bite your tongue on matters like this. The brands you work for pay you for the exposure you give them, after all. The chill that settles in your bones from the ten steps you take from your paid car to the venue door will be well worth it next time you count the zeroes in your bank account. At least, that’s what Hyerin told you as she pushed you out of the car and into the cold.

Wasteland looks the same as it did the very first night you ever stepped foot inside. Same red, glowing guitar sign above the entrance. Same shitty overpriced drinks. Same sticky floors. It’s nice that some things never change even when you do.

You’ve never been on the balcony, though. You’ve gotta hand it to Jeongguk—he’s really pulling out all the stops. To your knowledge, the balcony is normally reserved for VIPs. Close friends and family of the band, other celebrities, lucky and well-connected fans. Significant others. You suppose you fall under more than one of those categories now.

The crowd gathered on this side of the stage buzzes incessantly around you, waiting for the set to start. The excitement is palpable, and you understand why. It’s the very last show of Burn The Stage’s very first world tour following the release of their third studio album, and they’re ending it here: in Seoul. At Wasteland no less, the venue that housed the show that got them signed in the first place. Of course people are excited.

If you were the same person you were in The Before, you would be, too. 

Instead, as the stage lights go down and the crowd roars around you, you down the rest of your drink and pray it’ll do its job and calm your fidgeting. For a split second, the thought that maybe you shouldn’t be drunk tonight passes through your brain, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. Your hopes of making a good first impression were squandered as soon as Hyerin zipped up your dress. 

Besides, it’s not as if Jeongguk picked you for your shining reputation. More like the opposite.

With a flash of lights and a cacophony of sound, Burn The Stage launches into their first song on the setlist. The crowd roars around you, but you’re not here as a fan, so you try to remember everything Jeongguk taught you in preparation for tonight.

If you weren’t already close, most everything there is to learn about Jeon Jeongguk himself could easily be found with a simple Naver search.

Not only is Jeongguk the lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist of Burn The Stage, but he’s also the de facto face of the band, and he couldn’t be better suited for the job. He’s beautiful. Like, seriously beautiful. Well-built and knows it, sings songs about love and sex and anger with the sweetest voice known to man, covered in tattoos and piercings that eommas everywhere pretend to disapprove of when they’re actually ogling just as much as their daughters. He’s a teenage girl’s wet dream, and with that comes hordes of them using the deductive skills of the NIS to figure out the last time he took a shit. Very little in his life is a secret, whether he likes it or not.

The rest of the band, in turn, gets the luxury of a little bit of mystery.

Park Jimin, the drummer, and Kim Taehyung, the bassist. Jeongguk’s best friends in the world. You’ve met them both in passing before, at industry events here and there, and they both seemed nice enough. 

Jimin has a bit of a reputation for being temperamental, angry, but the way Jeongguk describes him paints him as something gentle. Childhood friends who’ve known each other since scraped knees and runny noses. 

It’s public knowledge that Jimin wanted to be a dancer, before this—that when he was in college, he suffered an injury that ended his dancing career before it even started. One moment he was one of the most promising ballet students in Seoul, and the next he was retired at nineteen. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but every time the band is interviewed the question is inevitably asked. Do you have any regrets? You’ve watched the videos, seen the way he shakes with anger even as he answers with a saccharine smile. You have a feeling getting along with Jimin won’t pose any challenges for you. You know a thing or two about regrets.

Taehyung is a bit harder to figure out, but not in any way that sparks concern. He’s just an interesting guy that way. 

He was the last to join the band, the first to answer a ‘BASS PLAYER NEEDED’ ad posted around the city. Apparently, he was so good that they didn’t feel the need to call anyone else.

He lives in his own world, does his own thing. Posts very artistic photo dumps on his Instagram with concerningly cryptic captions. He’s quiet when he’s around people he doesn’t know, but when he’s put in a room with Jimin and Jeongguk he becomes the loudest person there. He’s kind, caring, always seems to know the right thing to say even if it’s delivered in the strangest manner possible.

Jimin and Taehyung won’t cause any problems for you. Jeongguk assured you that they’d be easy to win over, that as long as Jeongguk likes you, you’re in with them. 

The real wild card is the guitarist. Min Yoongi.

According to Jeongguk, Burn The Stage wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for Yoongi. When the band formed, they were just dumb kids with a shared dream, but Yoongi was the one to set it all in motion. 

When they didn’t have anywhere to practice, Yoongi convinced the ajumma he worked for to let him cram as much equipment as he could fit into a tiny noraebang room. When venues wouldn’t book them without the guarantee that they would draw a crowd, Yoongi burned hundreds of CDs and stood on the streets of Hongdae begging people to listen. When shady entertainment companies started offering them laughable contracts, Yoongi found Namjoon and somehow convinced him to manage them for dirt cheap. When they finally got an offer worth taking, Yoongi made them mull it over for as long as they possibly could. Weigh the pros and cons and decide if it was what they really wanted.

If Jeongguk is the face of the band, Yoongi is the heart. Unfortunately for you, this particular heart is very well-guarded.

Yoongi takes his privacy seriously. He refuses to answer interview questions he deems too personal, he doesn’t use social media. When asked why, his answer is always that he wants the music to speak for him. 

Because that’s another thing: every single song that Burn The Stage has ever released has been penned by Yoongi. To his credit, it’s kind of what they’re known for. His lyrics have a raw honesty to them that’s gotten the band into trouble more than once. 

You finally tune into the show that’s unfolded below you, the words spilling from Jeongguk’s lips loud and clear in your ears now that you’re paying attention.

​​Well, I ain't got no dollar signs in my eyes That might be a surprise but it's true Said, "I'm not like you and I don't want your advice Or your praise or to move in the ways you do and I never will" 'Cause all you people are vampires And all your stories are stale And though you pretend to stand by us I know you're certain we'll fail

It’s rock music. It’s polarizing, controversial, edgy. Biting the hand that feeds them—especially in the eyes of the executives lining the band’s pockets, you’re sure. And yet everyone eats it up. 

Still, Yoongi wouldn’t get away with half of it if he wasn’t attractive, you’re sure of it.

Because he is. Attractive. They all are, and he’s no exception. He checks all of the boxes annoyingly well. The long hair, the signature smirk, the little silver barbell on a tongue that he seems all too happy to flash at a moment’s notice. Too bad he seems like one of those pretentious, tortured artist types that take themselves way too seriously. That’s never done it for you.

Jeongguk is the one singing Yoongi’s words, and he might as well be Korea’s sweetheart—if it weren’t for all the tattoos. He conveys the message of Yoongi’s songs exactly as intended, but he doesn’t have to act like an egotistical gatekeeper to do it.

Maybe it’s a preference on your part. You’ve always had a thing for sweetness.

★ ★ ★

After the concert, you’re ushered off of the balcony by one of the band’s security guards. It’s the same guy who escorted you up when you arrived, and you note to yourself that he’s very polite. Eunwoo, according to his nametag.

It tracks, given Burn The Stage’s reputation for making sure the women at their concerts feel comfortable in the crowd. You’ve heard stories about them stopping mid-song to have handsy men kicked out, and it’s nice to know their commitment extends to the people they employ for themselves.

Eunwoo offers you his hand palm-up as you descend down the balcony stairs, and you take it with a grateful smile. You’re feeling wobbly in these shoes, and the drinks you’ve downed since your arrival aren’t helping matters. Even with the assistance, you still feel like a baby giraffe as you step down, but thanks to Eunwoo, you don’t eat shit.

Eunwoo dutifully guides you backstage, to a grimy, graffitied hallway housing the dressing rooms for Wasteland’s talent of the night. Jeongguk waits outside of one of them, guzzling down a bottle of water as a female staff member dabs sweat off of his forehead with a pristine white towel. She’s only there for a moment before slipping back through the dressing room door. Finally noticing your approach, Jeongguk turns his head and grins at you, and you feel your nerves ebb away instantly. He’s good at that.

As you get closer to Jeongguk, you turn to smile and nod at Eunwoo in thanks. He smiles back politely, wordlessly falling back to give you some privacy.

“Daaaamn, YN-ah,” Jeongguk says, whistling lowly as you reach him. “You’re going to cause a bloodbath in there.” He nods his head towards the dressing room door, and you roll your eyes despite the heat building in your cheeks.

“I know, I know,” you say, smoothing your hands over your dress. “It’s not exactly a meet-the-family outfit, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“Nah, it’s cool. You look hot,” he says, grabbing your hand and making you do a spin, forcing a surprised laugh out of you as you try not to trip over yourself. Jeongguk keeps you steady, though, with a hand on your shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say, although you’re sure your face gives away how terrified you are of what awaits you on the other side of the door. “Maybe you should’ve picked an actress for this, though.”

“I trust you,” he says softly, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s not too late to back out, though. I’ll understand…”

You believe him, of course. Those doe eyes don’t lie, and even so, he’s already told you over and over how bad he feels for asking this of you. But you don’t want to back out. Jeongguk has given you so much since you’ve met—it’s only right to try and repay him for it.

“I want to do this,” you assure him, reaching up to squeeze his hand on your shoulder. “I’m just worried I won’t be able to pull it off.”

“You will,” Jeongguk says, smiling down at you warmly. “Don’t sweat it too much, okay? We’ve got this. It’s not like I have to pretend to like you.”

Right. You wish Jeongguk’s words did what they were meant to and instilled some kind of confidence in you, but what they actually do is make your chest ache uncomfortably. Pull yourself together, you think. Now’s not the time.

You smile good-naturedly, hoping Jeongguk doesn’t notice the way it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Let’s get this over with,” you mumble.

“That’s the spirit!” he laughs, sliding the hand on your shoulder around to the other one so his arm is slung around you. You hate the way your heart flutters, despite the fact that you’d prepared for this. Dumb bitch.

Jeongguk cracks the dressing room door open just enough to ensure that all of the men inside are decent, and then he’s guiding you inside, your hands flying down to smooth your dress over again, just in case. 

The dressing room is bustling with more people than you expected, people you recognize from the balcony and staff alike. There’s a fast-paced rock song playing over a bluetooth speaker, almost loud enough to drown out the chatter. 

Everyone seems to be in celebration mode after the last show of the tour. There’s a large sheet cake on a cart in the middle of the room emblazoned with the band members’ faces in frosting, plastic champagne flutes littered around the room in varying states of fullness. Judging by the bottle in his hand and the way staff members wipe at his face fussily, it seems like Taehyung took the liberty of pouring champagne over his head to cool off.

You’re used to having lots of eyes on you—it comes with the job—but something about the way Jeongguk’s bandmates immediately stop what they’re doing and take notice of your presence startles you, puts you on edge.

“Jeonggukie! You missed the cake,” Jimin calls, standing up from where he sat on the couch. He holds out a slice of the sheet cake to Jeongguk, tilting his head at you as he approaches. “Where do I know you from?”

Jeongguk removes his arm from your shoulders to take the plate, snorting at the image of his decapitated cake-head staring up at him. “Hyungs,” he says, grabbing a plastic fork and digging into the slice. “This is YLN YN.”

“Oh, we’ve met before! The model, right?” Taehyung pipes up from where he’s still being wiped down, and you nod politely. “I saw your Innisfree campaign last month. I couldn’t remember whether your skin was really that nice in person.”

You watch as he extricates himself from the staff, ignoring their protests as he walks away from them.

Taehyung gets close to you, close enough to inspect your pores like he clearly intends to, and you fight the urge to instantly recoil. Jeongguk seems too busy stuffing his face with cake to interfere, and you want to make a good first impression. So much for your personal bubble.

“It is,” he says, nodding sagely to himself.

“Th-thank you?” you stammer. Beside you, Jeongguk finally tunes back in.

“Jeez, hyung,” he says around a mouthful of cake. He chews for a moment, swallowing thickly before continuing. “Let her breathe.”

“Sorry,” Taehyung says sheepishly, backing out of your personal space, and you let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaking your head.

“It’s fine,” you say, mustering a polite smile. 

You note that despite his initial (albeit subtle) acknowledgement of your existence when you walked in the door, Yoongi now seems entirely disinterested in interacting with you. He hasn’t moved from where he’s planted on the couch, focused intently on strumming his guitar. How he can even hear what he’s playing over the noise is beyond you. It’s not even plugged into an amp. 

You’d be a little annoyed that he hasn’t even bothered to greet you, but you reason that he must be pretty worn out from all of the fanfare surrounding the show tonight. Introvert recognizes introvert. You try not to take it personally.

“Do you know Jeongguk-ah well?” Jimin asks, drawing your attention back to him. His eyes bounce between you and his bandmate. He seems to be putting the pieces together, so you glance at Jeongguk, wordlessly passing the question his way.

Thankfully, Jeongguk seems to get the hint. He tosses his plate in the nearest trash can before sliding over to you again, his arm slipping around your waist easily, betraying nothing.

“Hyungs,” he starts, glancing at you and nodding once. Let the show begin. “YN-ah is actually, um… my girlfriend.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi sit up. That got his attention, it seems. 

A hush falls over the room, even the eyes of the staff members within earshot widening in response to Jeongguk’s announcement. Oh shit, you think. Please let this go well.

“Since when?” Taehyung asks, curiosity piqued. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t seem upset by the new information. At least, not as far as you can tell.

“Well, um,” Jeongguk starts, tonguing nervously at his lip ring. He pulls you closer so you’re practically curled against his chest now, and you silently pray that the way you’re looking at him reads as sweet and not like you’re about to jump out of your skin. “It’s actually been a few months now… Since right before the tour, actually.”

“Right before the tour?” Jimin asks, his brow furrowing in obvious confusion. “So you’ve been doing long distance?”

Jeongguk glances at you, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, it was bad timing on my part,” he says, his eyes fixed on yours. Damn. If he didn’t have such great pipes, you’d say he should’ve gone into acting. He’s male lead material. “I just couldn’t leave without telling her how I felt.”

You wish that you could do or say literally anything useful instead of just clinging to Jeongguk’s side like a barnacle. This is supposed to be a joint effort, but you feel frozen in place, unable to find your voice. It’s a good thing Jeongguk seems to be pulling it off all on his own.

“So cute,” Taehyung coos, bumping his shoulder against Jimin’s conspiratorially. “Our Jeonggukie’s all grown up and in love.”

“He’s always been a romantic,” Jimin joins in, miming at wiping fake tears as if he’s a proud parent. He reaches out and grabs your hands, startling you. “Please take care of him.”

“Hyuuuungs,” Jeongguk whines, tearing his arm away from you to whack Jimin and Taehyung on their heads simultaneously. “You’re going to scare her away!”

“Doubtful,” Yoongi says from where he’s still seated on the couch. Oh, so he does speak. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice all night. It’s low, raspier in person than in the videos you’ve seen online. His words are directed at Jeongguk, but when you turn your head to look at him you find that his gaze is fixed on you. Your pulse spikes at the discovery. “I don’t think anything could scare her away from you, Guk-ah.”

The words themselves are innocuous, even supportive, but something about the way he says them makes your gut twist. Nobody else seems put off by it, but you can tell something’s not right. You have to say something, to open your mouth and speak. You have to pull this off, for Jeongguk.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, forcing a smile. You manage to tear your gaze away from Yoongi, looking back at Jeongguk. He’s grinning down at you, and it’s real, even if the pretense of it isn’t. Your smile becomes a little less forced in return.

★ ★ ★

Jimin and Taehyung are insistent that you stick around and celebrate for a while, so you do. You end up enjoying yourself, despite the weird moment with Yoongi. 

Jimin and Taehyung are fun to be around, just like Jeongguk said they would be, although conversation between the three of them becomes a little hard for you to follow sometimes. They just talk so fast. 

They ask you questions about your job, your friends, your family. They also tease Jeongguk relentlessly in front of you and seem all too thrilled to find out that you’re their noona. You find it surprising how easily you open up to them, but it just… happens. Just like it did with Jeongguk when you first met.

You relax enough to convince yourself that your perceived pointed nature of Yoongi’s words earlier was all in your head. Surely, he couldn’t have a problem with you when he doesn’t even know you. Jeongguk told you himself that Yoongi’s a quiet guy. Maybe that was his own way of telling you he approves of you. He hasn’t said or done anything since to make you think otherwise. Granted, he hasn’t said or done anything, period.

Once he arrives, you meet Namjoon, Burn The Stage’s manager. Jeongguk told you a little bit about him, but it was mostly just thinly-veiled thirsting. Now you see why.

He clarifies right off the bat that he already knows who you are, which saves you the anxiety of having to go through the whole routine again, and then he apologizes for being late.

“I was talking to reporters. I wanted the guys to be able to celebrate without having to do any interviews,” he explains as he shakes your hand with a dimpled smile. Damn. Yeah, you don’t blame Jeongguk one bit.

After a while, the champagne catches up with you and you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

The staff member that was dabbing Jeongguk’s sweat earlier—Minji, you learn—directs you out of the dressing room and to the nearest women’s bathroom further down the hallway. 

You try to make it as quick as possible, much tipsier than you thought and all the more unstable in these shoes because of it. After one last check of your hair and makeup in the mirror, you make your exit, focusing down at your feet as you go.

Unfortunately, you run headfirst into someone’s chest in the process. Hands come up to grab your elbows, steadying you before you fall flat on your face. For a second, you think maybe Minji had been waiting to escort you back to the dressing room, but these are not a woman’s hands holding you up. Wait a second, you think. You definitely saw these ring-clad fingers displayed on a huge screen earlier. Strumming at a guitar, perhaps?

In a moment of amazing mental clarity on your part considering the state you’re in, you realize that these are Min Yoongi’s hands, and your head snaps up to look up at him.

“Yoongi-ssi! I’m so sorry!” You quickly right yourself to the best of your ability, pressing your hand to the wall next to you for support.

Once he’s sure you can hold yourself up without his help, Yoongi instantly retracts his hands, crossing his arms over his chest. “I should’ve been looking where I was going,” you add, doing your best to bow in apology without losing your balance again.

Yoongi tilts his head at you as if he’s assessing you, his gaze inscrutable. Man, for a lyricist this guy isn’t big on words. You’re just about to politely say goodbye and head back to the dressing room when he finally speaks.

“I’ve spent the past hour trying to figure out what your angle could possibly be, but I’m coming up short.”

Um. What?

“Huh?” you manage, blinking at Yoongi like he’s suddenly grown a second head.

“It’s not like your career’s in any trouble. Nobody thinks you're Korea’s angel or anything, but your shit reputation hasn’t stopped you from getting brand deals,” Yoongi continues, scoffing to himself. “Are you just bored? Is this what you do to amuse yourself?”

Uh oh. He knows. He knows for sure, and even worse, he thinks that you’re the mastermind.

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, forcing your voice to remain level. You don’t even try to defend your reputation. It’s not like he’s wrong. 

“Right,” Yoongi says, leaning in a little closer, like he’s about to tell you a secret. “Well, a word of advice. If you want people to buy that you’re really in love with Jeongguk, you could try to look less like you’re going to throw up when he touches you.”

FUCK. You thought you pulled it off. You thought you pulled it off, and now here’s Jeongguk’s goddamn hero telling you point-blank that you didn’t. You wrack your brain trying to think of anything you could possibly say to defend yourself, to get this guy off your ass, because this cannot be your fault. You’d never forgive yourself.

“I—”

“Or,” Yoongi starts, cutting you off. “You could just cut the bullshit and leave Jeongguk alone.” He pauses, rubbing his chin as if he’s pretending to think about it and then nodding once. “Yeah, let’s go with that one.”

Jesus Christ he’s a piece of work. You feel your fists clench at your sides, your nails digging painfully into your palms. You just got your nails done, and there’s a strong possibility you’ll draw blood, but it’s all you can do not to strangle this asshole right here and leave Burn The Stage without a guitarist.

“Yoongi-ssi,” you say, your words dripping with fake politeness. Fuck this guy, actually. “I don’t know what I’ve done to give you such a bad impression of me, but I assure you that Jeongguk and I are very much in love.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t buy it?” Yoongi asks, voice tinged with impatience. “You may have everyone else in that room fooled, but not me, and if you hurt Jeongguk I can guarantee it won’t end well for you.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you snap. “Again, I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done to make you think so poorly of me, but I meant what I said in there. I’m not going anywhere.”

You need to remove yourself from this interaction right now before you do something stupid like burst into tears. You take the opportunity to push past Yoongi before he gets a chance to say anything else, making sure to essentially shoulder check him in the process because again, fuck this guy.

You stalk down the hallway, feeling much more sober now. It’s as if all of the alcohol got forcibly drained from your system in the face of total fucking disaster, and you’re honestly thankful for it, because the last thing you need is this asshole seeing you actually fall.

For a moment, you’re fooled into thinking you’d successfully ended the conversation, but of course he needs the last word.

“I know more about you than you think, dollface.”

Dollface? The fuck?

You chance a glance behind you and you immediately regret it. Yoongi leans against the wall where you left him, an amused smirk spread over his face, and the sight immediately fills you with dread, a type of primal panic you haven’t felt in four years flooding your senses.

He doesn’t… He couldn’t know about that. There’s no possible way. Jeongguk doesn’t even know about that. Nobody does, because you’ve done everything in your meager power to keep it that way.

You whip your head back around to face front, your heels clacking on the crusty linoleum beneath them as you continue down the hallway. Don’t look back, you think. He doesn’t know. 

You’re thankful that you brought your bag with you to the bathroom, because you’re very much not in the mood for a party now. Once you’re safely outside, you call your car and send a text to Jeongguk explaining your sudden escape. You felt sick, you tell him. 

It’s not like it’s a lie. 

Yoongi loves being on stage.

Over the past few years, there’s been a noticeable change in his demeanor. He’s become passive, apathetic to the normal day-to-day that comes with being a celebrity. Nothing really wows him anymore.

He remembers the way he reacted to the accommodations the band received when they first got signed. He was way too scared to ask for things at first, but the label gave it all to him anyway.

For instance, Yoongi’s always been particular about his stationery. The first time he filled a notebook after getting signed, he didn’t even think to consider it a company expense. Why would he? He was fully capable of buying his own shit, even if he had to save up for it. Sure, every time he had to write a lyric down on the back of a receipt his eye would twitch, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before.

But the label guys noticed. Before he even had a chance to buy his next batch of notebooks and pens, he was sat down in a spacious meeting room and asked point-blank what he needed. When Yoongi gave them specifics—Leuchtturm 1917 unlined hardcover pocket journals and a fuckton of Uni-Ball Jetstream Premier pens—they didn’t even bat an eye. When he—rightfully—warned them that he might strangle someone if he’s handed a gel pen instead of a ballpoint, they just assured him that wouldn’t happen.

Ever since then, there’s been an endless supply of exactly what he needs, always within reach. He’s still grateful for that, of course, because he goes through those fuckers fast. But it’s just a fact of his life now. It’s not special to get his fucking Leuchtturms anymore, not when he could douse his entire supply with gasoline and burn it on a whim and still have a fresh one in his hand within mere minutes.

And it’s not just journals and pens.

Namjoon is the band’s representative. Yoongi picked him personally long before there was any contract, or even hope for one, and if everything were to go to shit tomorrow, Namjoon would still be there. But after the single from their second album charted on the Billboard Hot 100, a label-equivalent to Namjoon was hired, as if anybody could ever be equivalent to Namjoon. Park Hyunseok. Park Hyunseok, whose sole duty is to buzz around Yoongi and his bandmates like a pesky fly and “make sure they’re happy.” They quite literally want for nothing.

Yoongi remembers when his skin used to buzz with the emotions simmering just under the surface. He was fiery in his youth, pissed off and ready to prove a point. He felt everything strongly, fully.

Not so much these days. Anger is only marketable for so long, or so he’s been told.

For the past year, Yoongi’s felt numb to the world. And he’s dealt with it, of course. That’s what he does. The album did great, the tour sold out, the boys are happy. That’s really all that matters. He just doesn’t know how he’s going to write another fucking album if he’s got nothing to write about anymore.

Still, he loves being on stage. There’s nothing like it. It never gets old, never gets boring. He still hasn’t gotten used to the feeling of stepping onstage and feeling a crowd scream his name, scream his lyrics right back at him. Lyrics to songs that he wrote in his shoebox apartment when he was eighteen and it felt like nobody gave a fuck about him. Funny how things change.

Nobody can take that feeling away from him, even if they’ve taken all the other ones.

It’s been a good night. It feels good to be back in Seoul after being away for months, feels even better to be on this particular stage again. Yoongi always feels keyed up after a good show, itching to do something with all of the energy thrumming through his body, and tonight is no different. He’s almost giddy with the opportunity to celebrate this tour with his bandmates and Namjoon and then go home and crash. Home. Fuck, it’s a good night. He has a hot date with his king size bed.

But then you.

It’s been years since you’ve even been a thought in Yoongi’s brain, and he liked it that way. Unfortunately, it’s apparently true what they say: all good things must come to an end.

Yoongi sees right through you. He's met so many of your type in his life that even if he hadn’t met you before he would’ve been able to sniff you out the second you walked backstage. Users. Social climbers. The bored and braindead looking for their next toy. The exact kind of person he’s been trying to protect Jeongguk from this whole time, and now you’re on his arm. 

And whatever, a hookup is one thing. Yoongi frankly doesn’t give a fuck where Jeongguk decides to stick his dick. The less he knows the better on that front. But a relationship? No, it isn’t real. Yoongi knows that much. Maybe it is for Jeongguk, but not for you. He's never even heard Jeongguk, hopeless romantic extraordinaire, talk about you.

Jeongguk introduces you as his girlfriend, and suddenly it’s like Yoongi’s watching a car crash in slow motion. He prays that he’s not alone, that Jimin and Taehyung have caught on to your piss-poor acting skills—seriously, you look like you’re about to pass out—but it looks like Yoongi’s entirely alone on this one. You have them wrapped around your little finger with minimal effort. He has a feeling that comes as naturally to you as breathing.

Of course, Yoongi has the added displeasure of having met you before, way back when. When you had the chance to be somebody, before you pissed it away, to what? To pout in front of a camera for a living? He thought he’d run out of ways to be wrong about you four years ago, but clearly you just can’t help yourself.

And of course you don’t remember him. Why would you?

Yoongi knows Jeongguk better than anybody. He also knows that thing people say about teenagers is true. If you tell them not to do something, they’ll only want to do it more. Jeongguk may be a grown man now, but he’s stubborn as fuck, and he never grew out of that. If he goes to Jeongguk and flat-out tells him that his girlfriend is a piece of human garbage, Jeongguk will only date her harder.

He tries to control the infection at the source by confronting you directly, but it’s clear the fire that he thought you lacked is, in fact, there, if only to piss Yoongi off.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say.

Okay.

If that’s how you want to play, Yoongi can fucking play. He’s going to make you wish you’d left Jeongguk alone when he gave you the chance.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future fics!

✧ TAGLIST: @jajabro @pitchblack0309 @sugar-snap @ot72025 @ktownshizzle

@futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes @sugainmybowl @namjoonsbuspass @wobblewobble822

PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✧ MASTERLIST ✧ NEXT CHAPTER

[captain-joongz]

summer recap/favourite fics/fic recommendations for the first half of 2024

Professor Rapline by @joonsmagicshop

♡ professors! joon, hobi and yoongs x f!reader, professor x student relationship, the rapline takes turns on reader, namjoon centric, smut smut smut

backtrack by @mapofthesea

♡ producers!jimin and yoongs x assistant!reader, studio sex, situationship, reader gets absolutely railed and it's accidentally recorded

Masked miracles by @remedyx + Shadows we trust by remedyx + Boyfriend for hire by remedyx + Trouvaille by @spookyserenades

♡ these series' were already mentioned in my previous recommendations list, but i cannot stress this enough - go read them, they're absolutely amazing!! i will literally never shut up about these and i'll put them on every fic rec list i make until the end of time :D

Golden boy by @kpopfanfictrash

♡ pornstar!jin x f!reader, neighbours au, it's very sweet and funny, absolutely amazing smut

fast lane by @yminie

♡ racer!jin x pitcrew!reader, slowburn but so fucking worth it, kookie gets hurt but it's for character development, e2l/annoyances 2l, smut

midnight by @miniminimermaid

♡ yoongi struggling with burnout and reader helps relax him, soft sex, body worship

Sugar rush ride by @lo1k-diamonds

♡ producer! yoongs x producer!reader, coworkers au, reader is bratty and yoongi is a little shit, mutual pining, smut

A new rhythm by @sluttywoozi

♡ producers! yoongs and jihoon x yoongi's gf!reader, virgin!jihoon, soft sex, they help woozi lose his v-card, allusions to possible poly

three tangerines by @kithtaehyung

♡ brother's best friend!yoongs x f!reader, fuckboy!yoongi, reader asks him for help in the bedroom and gets everything and more, some angst

The early shift by @hobidreams

♡ barista!yoongs x barista!reader, coworkers au, e2l, angsty but gets sweet, yoongi is struggling and reader tries to help, smutty smut smut

love roulette by @whatifyoulivelikethat

♡ producer!yoongs x jin's bff!reader, a bet gone... right??, slowburn, humour and fluff, they help each other, smut, reader has a noona kink and nobody lets her breathe

noise complaints by @jkstompers

♡ producer!yoongs x bassist!reader, neighbours au, reader is in a rock band, smut

strike a chord by @snackhobi

♡ pianist!yoongs x f!reader, reader gets stood up and instead listens to bar musician yoongi, slowburn, smut

Illicit favours by @yoongiofmine

♡ producer!yoongi x writer!reader, bff2l, virgin reader needs help with writing sex scenes, shenanigans ensue, mutual pining, idiots in love

Tricks of the trade by @stutterfly

♡ shopkeeper!yoongs x f!reader, body swap au, jin is a deity of chaos, awkward flirting cause they don't know hot to talk to each other, misunderstandings, sexual tension and smut

Performance evaluation by @kookscrescent

♡ fuckboy!yoongs x f!reader, college au, one night stand?? au, reader asks yoongi to tell her whether she's bad in bed, yoongi is a little shit but what's new

Bad idea... right? by @joonsmagicshop

♡ college party au, e2l, sexual tension, tae is a little bit of a douche but hobi makes it all better, smut

a word from our sponsors by @ugh-yoongi

♡ podcast co-hosts joon and reader, they read smutty fanfic of themselves, sexual tension, f2l, humour, smut

porn director drabble by @badbtssmut

♡ director!tae x pornstar!reader, tae shows reader's co-star how it's done, public sex, dubcon in a way

Risk management by @chateautae

♡ investment banker!tae x f!reader, s2l, sexual tension (i mean, who could blame her it's tae), smut, window sex

petty by @hamsterclaw

♡ rich kid petty criminal!kookie x lawer babysitter!reader, reader is in charge of making sure kookie doesn't get in trouble, idiots in love, sexual tension but with feels, smut

Redamancy by @gimmethatagustd

♡ alpha!tae x omega!kookie, a/b/o, imprinting, scenting, older tae (*cough* daddy), s2l, love at first sight, smut

Like a river by gimmethatagustd

♡ alpha!tae x omega!yoongi x alpha!joon, a/b/o, unexpected heat, college professors coworkers au, semi-public sex

The love witch by gimmethatagustd

♡ demon!tae x romance blogger witch!yoongs, incubus tae, "how to summon a boyfriend" au, s2l, modern fantasy, smut

(actually you should go read everything jai has put out, she's incredibly talented and i love like every fic she's ever published)

My library | ATEEZ fic recs

[kingofbodyrolls]

I am almost speechless! 🥺

This is yet another exceptional masterpiece from you 🥺😍 and another roller-coaster of emotions 🥺 if is so beautifully written and the background story of reader is so good and deep and then way that it connects them on a deeper level, like 🥹 🤌🏾 

You know, there was time that I actually cried, because it was tough what reader was going through and when she was finally ready to talk to him, but then 😭 aish. You are so good writing the angsty feelings 👏🏾 

Thank you 💜

Now We Reign | myg

☆summary: when working on a collab together makes you and Min Yoongi seek comfort with the other, you discover there’s more to life than loneliness. Only, hurdles mark your path in Min Yoongi’s life, and it’s unclear what the outcome will be. Will you be destroyed by him and his world, or will you learn to reign over it, together with him?

☆pairing: Min Yoongi x singer female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI)

☆genre: work collaborators to lovers, idol!au, smut, angst, fluff

☆warnings: alcohol, cursing, OC has family problems similar to those Yoongi went through, financial insecurity, loneliness, cheating but not cheating because they are on a break, sexist interviewer, explicit content: grinding, dom!reader, switch!Yoongi, big dick!Yoongi, oral sex (male and female receiving), jerking off, face riding, tits/nipples play, hickey, fingering, protected sex, choking, clit play, denied orgasms (due to consensual drunk sex), fingering, mentions of anal sex, handcuffs, anal plug, anal fingering

☆word count: 34.9k

☆a/n: it’s so weird to post something other than The Forgotten Spaces :’) I hope you’ll still enjoy this! As per always, thank you to @moonleeai​ for her incredible work as my beta reader! You’re the best <3

☆Read the other installments in the Life Goes On series here!

Keep reading

[httpknjoon]

have you ever tried this one? | myg

plot | that time popstar!yn and bassist!yoongi had a very *intense* staring contest throughout the whole concert.

w.c | 1581

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | fluff (?), enemies to lovers

note | it's juno so.... 🥵

main masterlist

DAY 83 of Love Is... On Tour

Another day, another reason to fight over something.

Cute. For someone who looks tiny in their oversized sweatshirt, you sure do hold a lot of power over a lot of people, Yoongi thought. Just a lift of your finger while you were singing could mean something. Maybe you want to change the tempo or you want to improve something. He can see gears working in your head while you sing the lyrics of your songs. It's crazy how your mind and body coordinate well while focusing on different things. Your fingers rhythmically tap on your thigh, following the beats. Yoongi strummed on his guitar while watching you sing in front of the band, waiting for any signal.

"And I heard you're- Wait, wait, wait. Let's pause."

Just three songs left during the rehearsals, you raised your right hand, making the band stop from playing. Instantly when the music stopped, your eyes directly met Yoongi's.

"Can you please quit staring at me," you said, annoyed.

Yoongi looked around to make sure that you were talking to him. But he was met with his bandmates looking back at him, confirming that yes, you were talking to him.

His eyebrows raised, "Me?"

"Yes, you are literally throwing daggers on my way ever since I stood here." you confronted him.

"I am not." he denied. Was he looking at you? Yes. But is he throwing daggers? Definitely not.

You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. You swore you could feel his intense eyes on you in every movement you make. Every time your eyes land in his direction, you immediately find him looking back at your fingers, your thighs, or just you. Sometimes you would notice a small quirk in his lips while staring at you. But most times, he has this blank space on his face, making you want to shrink in your comfy sweatshirt.

"You do it every rehearsal! It's weird." you insisted.

The people around you— Art, Cal, the other band members, and a few of your dancers— simply looked at each other. It's been weeks of you two working together and bickering over things. Everyone knows you hate each other's guts. At this point, you are just kids with these "fights".

You see Yoongi chuckled, putting a hand on his hip, "I'm just paying attention, waiting for your hand cues. It's something musicians usually do when rehearsing with the band."

Okay, that's reasonable— But still! You felt blood rushing to your cheeks but your jaw clenched. Because of course, the sarcasm in Yoongi's defense didn't go over your head. You were about to refute when Art clapped his hands together, signaling a time-out.

"Okay, please stop with this. We only have a few songs left and everyone deserves to rest before the show." he reminded you and your bassist. "Yoongi, please avoid looking at YN. YN just be clear with your signals. Raise your hand or something. Are we cool with that? YN? Yoongi?"

Yoongi sighed but nodded his head. Before nodding your head, you still caught that smirk that formed on his lips. The rehearsals continued as planned. Yoongi barely looked at you anymore and looked down at his red guitar instead, giving all of his attention to it. You don't know if he's being sarcastic. But you kept on biting your cheeks when you found him in the same position every time you looked at him again. Fuck, he's really not looking, huh?

You continued singing for a few more minutes, sipping water in between. You never raised your hand again for any cues.

"Okay, please enjoy your break. Thank you, everyone." Art said before letting everyone go.

You were walking behind Cal, on the way to your dressing room, when you felt someone following behind you.

"I didn't know you were a diva like that," Yoongi whispered.

His warm breath fanned your ear in that quick sentence, making you ignore the shiver you felt by his warmth and surprise appearance. He didn't even wait for you to look back and reply. Instead, he walked passed you and caught up with his band members outside the arena.

Now, someone's throwing daggers.

Minutes before the show, in the crowded backstage, Yoongi can feel your eyes drilling holes at him while Paul fixes his shirt for him. You were already dressed up and someone is just fixing your in-ear for you. You stood six feet away from each other but managed to have a quiet, petty argument. He stared back at you, raising an eyebrow. You squinted your eyes before rolling it.

I hate you, you mouthed.

He mouthed back, Diva.

Although you find one of the people on stage annoying, you don't let it affect your performance for the night. But you're petty and so is your bassist. At every chance you two get, you look at Yoongi and you always find him staring back at you even while strumming his guitar.

Some fans noticed it and began posting about it online, noting the chemistry between your eyes. Even the crew members felt awkward with how you and Yoongi always caught each other's strong gaze.

"What the fuck is happening between you two?!" a voice in your in-ear asked while you were hurriedly changing your clothes for your next song.

You didn't have time to reply with that one and just continued the show with a new plan in your head.

"Don't have to tell your hot ass a thing. Oh yeah, you just get it..."

After arresting one of your cute audience members and tossing them their fuzzy pink handcuffs, you began singing one of your hit songs. You are now in your sparkling, red bodysuit that goes with a mini skirt at its ends. It used to have a longer skirt but it got shorter after the bit earlier. You also have your matching boots with you that make you taller than ever.

"Whole package, babe, I like the way you fit. God bless your dad's genetics..."

Your staring contest with your bassist is still going on. And if you stop to do one of your choreographed dances, your eyes occasionally focus on Yoongi.

"Wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs? Oh, I hear you knockin', baby..."

The fans cheered when the screen showed him, who was trying to stop himself from smiling while looking at you.

"I know you want my touch for life. If you love me right, then who knows? I might let you make me Juno..."

At the end of the chorus, you still manage to continue your starting battle with Yoongi since you are walking around the stage. The only time you looked away was when another voice spoke,

"YN, if you want to continue your staring competition with Yoongi, can you just stand next to him? It's hard for the camera to catch you when you keep turning your head in his direction." the voice said, obviously giving up on telling you to stop whatever you and Yoongi are doing.

"You make me wanna make you fall in love. Oh, late at night, I'm thinking 'bout you, ah, ah, ah..."

You followed what you were told and stood next to him as you two looked at each other's eyes. You were pointing your finger at him as if you were singing those words to him.

"Wanna try out some freaky positions?"

A line before the infamous part of the performance, you stood in front of your bassist. Your back is to the audience, who is already losing their mind on what they are witnessing. You kept eye contact with him as you felt excitement fluttering in your chest.

"Have you ever tried this one?"

A smirk forms on your lips before squatting down and bouncing up and down, like you were riding an imaginary dick. The fans are livid, the rest of the band is laughing, and Yoongi is lost for a second, unconsciously biting his lower lip while still exchanging intense eye contact with you. You winked coyly before getting up and turning around to resume.

"I know you want my touch for life. If you love me right, then who knows?..."

Although dumbfounded for what felt like a minute, Yoongi still played his bass guitar perfectly. As soon as the chorus was done, you reached for Yoongi's chin and made him look at you.

"Adore me, hold me, and explore me. Mark your territory. Tell me I'm the only, only, only, only one..."

With your angelic voice and pretty face in front of you, Yoongi just lost the game. He studied your eyes, then your nose, down to your lips that's saying those words to him. He is like under control by your angelic appearance. Suddenly, you don't mind him staring intensely and closely at you. Closer than the rehearsals earlier.

"Adore me, hold me, and explore me, I'm so fucking horny. Tell me I'm the only, only, only, only one..."

If you hadn't gently pinched his chin during that line, Yoongi would have just lost it and forgotten that you two are in front of 35,000 thousand people.

Just before the last chorus, you let go of him and ran back to the center stage and danced while he played the riff. He watched behind you, and stared for a few more seconds, before shaking his head, enjoying the music the same way you do.

"You make me wanna make you fall in love!"

note | haha petty people

PERMANENT TAGLIST

@dunixxd @cixrosie @jksjx @embrace-themagic @buttvi @starbtslove @missseoulite @vanntaesworld @kenqki @imajinthis @stopeatread @seolaquotes @greyrain23 @chimchimmarie @petalsofink @jayhope88 @moonchild1 @laylasbunbunny @nikkiordonez12 @misshale21

[xcziel]

i am not kidding BLESS those jeans

if someone is somehow reading my blog and sharing last night's critique of the baggy pants vs choreo precision issue i would just like to say you are doing the work of the gods thank you SO much

[chimcess]

Lady's Honor || ksj

Pairing: Seokjin x ReaderOther Tags: Lord!Seokjin, Lady!Reader, Lord!Jimin, Lord!Jimin, Lord!Yoongi Genre: Regency!AU, Strangers to Lovers, Angst, Fluff, HEA Word Count: 16.8k+ Summary: What unfolds when a gentleman's noble effort to help a lady in distress inadvertently tarnishes her reputation? He finds himself bound to protect her honor at any cost—even if it means risking his own life. Warnings: Attempted assault on reader, society at this time was very judgement, practically forced marriage, but they like one another so it's fine, everyone has a title that is different from their true names, because they're Earls and own land, Eisen is disgusting, Jin is a gentleman, mentions of sex, illusions to sex, light teasing, need for an heir, Jin has a 'My Lord' kink, kissing (scandalous at this time), pregnancy, child birth, minor character death, dueling, main character injured, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: I've been trying to write in new styles and dive into different themes outside of fantasy, and so I really stepped out of my comfort zone to write this one. Rereading some Jane Austen was also helpful. Hope you enjoy.

Perhaps it was the oppressive heat radiating from the hundreds of flickering candles scattered throughout the ballroom that made him uneasy. But more likely, it was the desperate air of the young woman he’d just finished dancing with. The Earl of Rushmore felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine, a warning he couldn’t quite dismiss.

“That was ever so splendid, my lord,” Miss Rose Tyrell tittered, bouncing on her toes like an eager puppy. Every exaggerated movement seemed calculated to draw his gaze to her décolletage. “You dance exquisitely.” She leaned in, flashing a smile that he could only interpret as desperate. It turned his stomach.

“It was my pleasure,” he replied, forcing his lips into a smile that barely masked his irritation. The corners of his eyes tightened as he nodded to Sir Gerald Tyrell, her father, standing awkwardly on the periphery. With that, he made to escape the stifling encounter.

Yet just as he turned to leave, the shrill voice of Lady Tyrell pierced the air, dragging him back into tedious conversation. “My lord, we are organizing an outing to Vauxhall Gardens next week, and one of our gentlemen has had to leave London for urgent family business, leaving us one short.” She fluttered her fan with all the grace of a chicken flapping its wings. “Would you do us the honor of joining our group?”

A familiar panic clawed at him, a suffocating sensation that had haunted him through countless soirées with the daughters of ambitious families. It was as if his sordid reputation—of womanizing, reckless drinking, and gambling—had become a beacon, attracting those looking to snag a title for their daughters. The very thought made him itch with the need to flee.

“I’ll have to check my availability,” he said, the words falling from his lips with the practiced ease of a politician. “I shall send word on the morrow. Good evening, ladies.” He bowed stiffly to Miss Tyrell and her mother before making a purposeful exit, each step a declaration of his freedom.

The musicians began to play the next set, and a wave of relief washed over him as he realized he was free from the obligation of dancing with any particular young lady. The evening had thus far been a parade of vapid chatter and trivial pursuits, save for one notable exception—Miss Y/L/N.

He had heard whispers of her modest debut the previous season but had only caught a glimpse of her tonight. There was something about her, an ethereal beauty that shone through the murk of societal expectations, and a vivacious yet modest personality that intrigued him. She shared his passion for stargazing, a rare treasure amidst the sea of watercolor painting and embroidery that most young ladies feigned expertise in.

He spotted his mother among a gaggle of women and approached, forcing a smile. “Mother, I’m going to take a stroll in the garden.”

“Oh, my dear, I had hoped to present you to Miss Webber,” she said, her tone a blend of disappointment and guilt.

Resigned to the endless parade of introductions and dances, he craved a brief escape. “I shall only be gone for one set,” he promised, his voice laced with indulgence.

“Ah yes, and then you’ll disappear into the card room, and it will be impossible to find you a suitable wife. Really, Rushmore, you are two-and-thirty. It’s time you settled down and set up your nursery.”

Her words pricked at him like thorns, and he fought the urge to unleash the torrent of frustration bubbling inside. He knew she meant well; her intentions were rooted in love, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in a gilded cage.

“Yes, Mother, I understand. If you will excuse me?” He nodded to acquaintances as he maneuvered through the ballroom. Stepping out onto the terrace, he finally felt the weight lift, if only slightly. The coolness of the evening enveloped him, a comforting embrace that allowed him to breathe freely.

Only the crunch of his gleaming Hessian boots broke the silence as he wandered along the gravel path that wove between hedgerows and blooms. He was weary, so utterly weary of the relentless pressure of the marriage mart. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, the sound mingling with the night air.

After a few minutes, he wandered beyond the glow of the paper lanterns dangling from the trees, halting to let his eyes adjust to the enveloping darkness. He tilted his head back, searching for constellations, but the encroaching clouds obscured his view.

In these precious moments of solitude, he could cast aside the weight of his title, the incessant pleas of his mother for an heir. Here, he could simply be Seokjin, not “Rushmore” or “my lord.” He wasn’t sure how long he’d been absent, but he knew it had been long enough for his mother to send a search party to drag him back to the ballroom for another tedious encounter.

The rebellious spirit that had defined his youth flared within him. He would be damned if he shackled himself to one of these vapid fortune hunters. When he married, it would be on his terms, in his time. In a final act of defiance, he chose a longer route back, hoping to prolong this rare moment of freedom.

As he strolled, he noticed a section of the path where the stones had been disturbed and the flowers trampled. He frowned, planning to speak with Lord Min; the gardener needed a firm reminder of his duties.

He had not taken but two steps past the ruined path when he heard a rustling from the rhododendron bushes to his left. He paused, hesitant to interrupt whatever clandestine meeting might be unfolding there. When silence fell once more, curiosity gnawed at him, urging him closer.

Peering through the foliage, he caught sight of an abandoned dancing slipper, its owner nowhere in sight. He almost dismissed it, the corners of his mouth lifting in a wry grin. It had been far too long since he had shared the company of a woman who intrigued him. 

But then the unmistakable sound of sobbing pierced the air, and his heart twisted in an unexpected pang of concern. The battle within him waged on, but as he took another step, he spotted a young woman crawling on the ground, frantically searching for that missing shoe. 

Instinct propelled him forward. He stepped off the path, making his presence known through the rustling bushes, startling her in the process. She scrambled backward, eyes wide with panic, as if he were a specter come to haunt her. Her skirts were stained with dirt, and her hair hung in disarray, obscuring her features.

“Miss? Are you hurt?” His voice broke the tension, filled with concern.

She whimpered softly, the sound twisting his gut. What had happened to her?

Looking around, he saw no one else nearby, no lurking assailants or companions to provide solace. Crouching down, he made no sudden movements toward her.

“Please, miss, I have no wish to harm you. Do you have a companion or chaperone you would like me to summon?” When silence stretched between them, he tried again, softer this time. “Let me help you back to the ball. We’ll find a discreet entrance—somewhere hidden.”

At last, she raised her head, and he sucked in a sharp breath. How had Y/N Y/L/N ended up in such a predicament? By all accounts, she was the embodiment of propriety, not one to engage in scandal.

As he took in her appearance, he noticed the tear in the bodice of her gown, the clutched remnants of a pair of drawers that were also damaged. Rage ignited within him, a hot ember that flared into a blaze. It was one thing for a man to indulge his desires with a mistress, but to force himself on an innocent like Miss Y/L/N? That was an outrage beyond measure.

"Who did this to you, Miss Y/L/N?" he demanded, his voice low, strained, as though the question had been pulled from the very depths of a dark pit within him.

She shook her head, her entire body trembling, a fragile thing caught in a tempest. "No one, my lord," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Her reticence ignited a fury in him, a volcanic rage simmering beneath the surface, but he clamped down on it. He wanted to shake her, to rattle loose the truth from her lips like a confession from a guilty soul. But he held back, aware that rage could consume him whole.

"So you mean to tell me that you've ruined your hair, shredded your dress, and torn your—" He faltered, words dying on his tongue as he caught sight of the cruel red welts marring her cheek, vivid streaks of pain that seemed to shout a silent accusation at the dark night. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scent of roses mingling with something more sinister—fear. 

"And you did this all to yourself?" he asked through gritted teeth, the effort to contain his fury almost painful. "Forgive me if I find that scenario a little hard to swallow. Tell me who has harmed you, and I will see the blackguard brought to account for his actions."

He stood up, a sudden restlessness seizing him, his hands clenching and unclenching as he flipped the tails of his dark blue superfine coat behind him. The air crackled with the unspoken promise of violence, a storm gathering within him as he paced, thoughts colliding like thunderheads in a darkening sky. Abruptly, he stopped and pointed at her drawers, still clutched tightly against her chest. "Did he manage to...?"

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. He couldn’t voice the horrific possibility that loomed over them, and for a fleeting moment, he marveled at the violent protectiveness rising up from the depths of his heart. It felt foreign, primal.

She shook her head, her gaze dropping to the ground, a broken bird struggling to mend its wings. A small whimper escaped her lips, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. She winced as she shifted her weight to her unshod foot, and his anger flared anew. Who had she been dancing with after him? The names flooded his mind, but one stood out—a dark specter of a man who lurked at the edges of polite society.

Jonathon, Lord Eisen.

In the grand tapestry of reputation, Seokjin would be the saint compared to the notorious Viscount Eisen, a man known for treating young ladies like pawns in his cruel game. Wealthy, yes, but at what cost? 

"Did Lord Eisen do this?" he pressed, the words a growl. "Did he lure you into the gardens?"

Her eyes widened, a silent acknowledgment that echoed like a bell tolling a grim fate. In the distance, a chorus of voices called her name, the urgency cutting through the night like a knife. They were looking for her, and the dread of discovery hung in the air, a heavy mist curling around them.

"Miss Y/L/N, please, let me help you back before we’re found in this position. There’s no reason to ruin your reputation by being seen with someone like me." 

She blushed, ducking her head, and for a moment, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of a smile. But then, she faltered, her fragile façade crumbling. "I cannot walk, my lord. I fear I have... s-sprained my ankle."

Reality crashed over him as he realized that the chill in the air had seeped into her bones, amplifying the shivering that gripped her. With a quick determination, he shrugged off his topcoat and draped it around her shoulders, enveloping her in warmth, an oasis in a desert of despair.

"Put your arm around my neck," he instructed gently, bending down to meet her eyes. When she complied, her drawers still clutched in the other hand, he lifted her as though she weighed nothing, an echo of the strength he didn’t know he possessed. As he carried her toward the house, the softness of her body against his ignited something deep within him, a rush of feelings he was unprepared to face.

"Why did he stop?" he asked, the question an uneasy tremor in the quiet of the night.

She inhaled sharply, her breath hitching, and laid her head against his shoulder. For a heartbeat, he thought she wouldn’t answer, but then, with a voice steeped in trembling fear, she whispered close to his ear, "I fought him. I kicked and scratched... That’s when he slapped me. I think he heard you coming."

The revelation stirred a darkness within him, igniting a fierce desire for vengeance. "He will pay for this," Seokjin vowed, his heart pounding with a dangerous intensity. The very air crackled with his determination to protect her honor. She had a brother, a man more than willing to seek revenge, and yet, here he was, feeling like a moth drawn to the flame of her vulnerability. 

As her head rested against his shoulder, a curious weight settled around his throat, tightening like a noose, a reminder that he had no business becoming entangled in her fate. But how could he turn away when the shadows had crept into her life, and he felt the unmistakable tug of something deeper than duty—something that felt like destiny.

What a coil! thought Y/N, a frenzied swirl of confusion and unease tightening in her chest. She had only intended to stroll with Lord Eisen along the terrace, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the manicured gardens. But when he asked about her interest in the stars, her passion ignited, and she began chattering like an eager canary, the words spilling forth in a rush, a desperate bid for connection. 

Lost in her own celestial musings, she hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in direction until it was too late. The secluded part of the garden loomed before her like a trap waiting to snap shut. In an instant, the air around her thickened with a sense of foreboding, the fragrant blooms suddenly oppressive. 

It was all she could do to keep her wits about her as he forced her against a tree, the bark digging into her back, bruising her lips with punishing kisses that felt like a betrayal of her very soul. She raked her fingernails down his cheek, a desperate act of defiance, but instead of pulling back, it only seemed to stoke the fire in his eyes, a dark hunger awakening within him.

She burrowed her face into Lord Rushmore's shoulder, desperately trying to will the shame of what Lord Eisen had done to her to dissipate like morning mist. Had she behaved wantonly? No, she had acted every bit the lady, hadn’t she? But the tightness in her throat mounted, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Cursing her overactive emotions, she knew she needed a moment to compose herself before returning to the ball, to that cruel world of social masks and whispered judgments.

As they entered the lit portion of the garden, her brother's voice bellowed her name, booming through the night like a thunderclap. Panic surged in her chest, and she cast about for a more private place, somewhere she could gather the scattered pieces of herself.

"Lord Rushmore's, might we sit at that bench for a moment while I attempt to put myself to rights?" she implored, her voice quivering.

When she looked up into his eyes, she felt that same fluttering sensation that had gripped her during their earlier waltz. His eyes, an unsettling shade of green, seemed to pierce through the façade she tried so hard to maintain. She couldn't help but notice the strength of his arms, how effortlessly he carried her, as if she were nothing more than a feather. And if she were being completely honest, the way his coat hugged his broad torso and how those buff-colored breeches molded to his powerful thighs made her heart race in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.

Heat flooded her cheeks as that thought twisted inside her like a serpent coiling tighter, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw something flicker in Lord Rushmore's gaze—a fleeting spark that vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only his mask of calm.

He nodded once, a movement fluid and deliberate, and made his way to a weathered stone bench nestled behind a grouping of lilacs. The flowers whispered secrets in the night breeze, and she felt both comforted and exposed in their presence. With utmost care, he deposited her onto the bench before turning to stand guard, his posture protective, a fortress against the horrors she had just endured.

Hastily, she donned the torn drawers, feeling the fabric scratch against her skin, but it was better than being seen carrying her undergarments. As she fussed with the bodice of her cream chiffon and lace gown, the reality of her disheveled state crashed over her, a wave of hopelessness that threatened to drown her. The earlier magic of the evening had been shattered, leaving only fragments of what could have been. 

But perhaps not completely. The thrill of being in the arms of such a handsome man still pulsed through her veins, even if he wasn’t the type a respectable girl should find appealing. The allure of a man with a dangerous reputation was like a moth drawn to flame, intoxicating yet perilous.

It was silly to think such thoughts, she chastised herself. He was merely doing his gentlemanly duty, ensuring her safe return. Any notion that he might entertain feelings for her was absurd. Besides, the gossip among the parlors of the ton painted him as a confirmed bachelor, much to his mother’s dismay.

She twisted one last piece of hair, pinning it into the mass of curls and braids atop her head. "Do I still look as though I’ve been tumbled in the bushes?" She rested her hands in her lap and looked at the Earl, who seemed lost in thought.

He took several deep breaths, and she wondered if he, too, felt the weight of the moment pressing down on them. His nostrils flared, lips pursed, as he studied her appearance, and the intensity of his gaze sent a fresh wave of heat rising in her cheeks. She cast her eyes down, biting her lower lip to keep from trembling under the weight of his scrutiny.

"Well, your color seems to have returned," he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, reminiscent of her brother's teasing ways.

"May I examine your ankle?" he asked, shifting to sit next to her on the bench.

Without waiting for her consent, he leaned down and lifted both of her feet, drawing them across his lap. A furious heat shot through her, screaming in indignation, How dare he? But as his warm hands slipped off her dancing shoe and began to probe her foot, any righteous fury fled her like a shadow at dawn.

His touch was gentle, exploring the instep, his fingers moving with a calm assurance that sent shivers racing up her spine. She hissed when he pressed on a particularly tender spot, and he nodded softly, his eyes focused and intent, then replaced her slipper without lowering her feet.

"It has begun to swell slightly, but I don’t believe it to be broken." His words were curt, almost clinical, yet they held a honeyed warmth that seeped into her bones, loosening the tension that had coiled tightly within her.

"And my hair— is it even remotely presentable?" She caught his gaze, feeling ensnared, unable to break free from the magnetic pull between them. The sweet scent of lilacs surrounded them like a fog, and even though she was wrapped snugly in the Earl’s topcoat, a chill raced through her.

For a long moment, the world around them fell away, leaving only the two of them in that secret garden, an electric energy drawing them closer together. 

"Far more than presentable," he murmured, inching closer, his breath warm against her skin.

His hand lifted, tentatively brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As his fingers lingered against her jaw, she felt the weight of his gaze, a tether pulling her into the depths of something she could neither understand nor resist. 

Her heart thundered in her chest, a wild drumbeat that seemed to echo the chaos of the night. In that fleeting moment, as the lilacs danced in the night breeze, the world faded away, leaving only the two of them standing on the precipice of something undeniably profound.

“Sis-...Kim! Unhand my sister at once!”

Like the fragile sheen of a child’s soap bubble, the magic enveloping them burst the moment Anthony’s voice cut through the night—a jagged shard of ice in a world of warmth. In what felt like a heartbeat, Anthony surged forward, seizing the Earl and slamming him against the rough bark of an ancient elm, his forearm digging into the Earl’s throat with a grim resolve.

Lord Rushmore's retreating form was replaced by her father, who seized her by the shoulders, his gaze sweeping over her with the intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey. "Her dress is torn," he shouted, as if those words could mend the fraying fabric of her dignity. The sheer horror in her father’s tone twisted the knife in her gut, causing Anthony’s grip on the Earl to tighten, his elbow pressing cruelly into the Earl’s neck.

“Anthony, stop! This isn’t what it seems…” Panic clawed at her throat as she saw the search party gather, shadows converging on their secluded haven. Her heart sank, heavy and leaden, as if it were chained to the ground. 

“What has that scoundrel done to you, my child?” Her father’s voice was a fierce whisper, laden with unspoken fears. 

To his credit, the  Earl of Rushmore merely grasped Anthony's arm, a desperate attempt to stave off asphyxiation, doing nothing to fight back against the encroaching storm.

In moments, the terrace teemed with onlookers, the whole ballroom spilling out into the moonlight, the murmurs and gasps igniting an electric buzz that thrummed in the air, each sound a reminder of their encroaching doom. 

“Anthony, summon the carriage and fetch your mother,” her father commanded, voice clipped and taut.

Anthony nodded, stepping back, the heat of anger still radiating from him. He straightened, eyes ablaze, locking onto the Earl with a fury that promised retribution. “This isn’t over, Kim. We’ll speak tomorrow at Parke’s.” With that, he turned and stormed off, leaving chaos in his wake, people scattering like leaves before a gale.

The music from the ballroom swelled, Lady Min's voice announcing the supper dances, a cruel mockery of their plight. In mere moments, the crowd thinned, but it was clear that The Honorable Y/N Y/L/N, daughter of Lord and Lady Y/L/N, and The  Earl of Rushmore would become the latest gossip—a scandal writ large against the night sky.

By dawn, Parke’s gentleman's club buzzed with wagers, bets slung like daggers as men debated Lord Rushmore's fate: Would he indeed find himself shackled in matrimony? How quickly would he wed Miss Y/L/N? And would her brother, Mr. Y/L/N, take the Earl’s life for this affront?

“Tough lot there, ol’ chap,” Lord Newton said as Seokjin strode past, his voice laced with mockery. “Too much trouble for a bit of muslin, wouldn’t you agree?”

Seokjin turned, ready to unleash fury, but two strong hands—one muscular, the other wiry—restrained him, anchoring him before he could lash out. 

“Save your fists, Kim. There’s nothing to be gained from boors like Newton,” Namjoon, Lord Halston, his cousin, interjected, grounding Seokjin with his steady presence. 

The fight ebbed from Seokjin’s body as Halston’s words sank in. Jimin, Lord Whitmore, gave his shoulder a reassuring pat before releasing him, the trio turning from the cowering Lord Bolton as they slipped into a more private parlor. 

Both Park and Halston had witnessed the disastrous ball, no explanation needed for the morning’s stirrings around the betting book. Seokjin had already divulged the details of the night’s chaos, though in truth, it mattered little. Reputation was a delicate thing, and in the eyes of the ton, he’d become the villain in Miss Y/L/N’s tale.

“Will you go make your addresses to her father?” Park asked, his tone serious.

“I fear I must,” Seokjin replied, frustration twisting in his gut. “Blast it, I never meant to land myself in this mess.”

“Come now, Kim. The chit seems biddable enough. She won’t put up a fuss if you want your freedoms, will she?” Halston suggested, shaking open the daily news with a flourish.

Seokjin groaned, raking his fingers through his hair, the weight of propriety and duty pressing down on him. “That’s not how the Kim men are bred. Blast!” He tapped his fingers against the table, cursing the moral fibers woven into his being.

A light touch on his forearm brought his attention back. Park’s finger pointed to the door, signaling an approaching visitor. Seokjin looked up to see Anthony Y/L/N enter, flanked by two unfamiliar young men. 

“Kim,” Anthony greeted, his tone frosty.

“Mr. Y/L/N,” Seokjin replied, offering a curt nod, the air thickening with tension.

“I’m here to settle the matter of my sister’s honor.” 

“I assumed as much. I assure you, I’ll speak to Lord Y/L/N and Miss Y/L/N tomorrow.”

“Did you compromise her on purpose? What was your design?” Anthony stepped forward, rage simmering just beneath the surface.

Seokjin sighed, rising from his chair, emboldened by the silent support of his friends. “I did no such thing. Did she explain what happened?”

“She did, but you should have known better than to be caught in such a position with her—especially with her appearance in such a state. You knew that tongues would wag, and wag they have.”

Seokjin could see Anthony’s fists clenching, breath coming in sharp bursts, his face a mask of barely-contained fury. He’d heard whispers of Anthony’s quick temper but had never imagined standing on the receiving end.

He took a step closer, his finger jabbing into Anthony’s chest. “See here, Y/L/N, I’m prepared to offer the protection of my name and title to your sister. What would you have had me do? Walk away and leave her vulnerable? If I hadn’t intervened, Lord Eisen would have ruined her reputation, violated her very person.”

The words struck a nerve, twisting Anthony’s expression into one of frustration and disbelief. 

“Her reputation will be salvaged,” Seokjin pressed on, “and in a few weeks, another scandal will eclipse this one. What more do you want? Will you have your pound of flesh, too?”

They stood nearly nose to nose now, the air between them electric with tension, fists ready to unleash fury. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I require,” Anthony spat, his voice low and dangerous. 

“And if you kill me, where does that leave your sister?” 

Seokjin should have known better than to expect any form of civility from the brutish Anthony. The man was a wall of muscle, a shadow looming over him like a thunderstorm ready to unleash its fury. Sure, Anthony had height and heft on his side, but Seokjin was no stranger to the dark art of combat, having spent countless hours in the ring at Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon. There, he had learned the subtleties of tactical fighting—the way a well-placed jab could shift the tide of a bout. Confidence flowed through him like the heavy liquor that coated the floor of the dimly lit establishment.

"Well, then, let us do this in grand fashion, shall we?" Seokjin said, a smirk dancing on his lips, concealing the tremor of anxiety curling in his gut like a serpent ready to strike.

"What did you have in mind?" Anthony grunted, his voice deep and gravelly, like rocks grinding underfoot.

"A match at Jackson's. Until one of us is rendered unconscious or yields." Seokjin’s heart raced at the thought, part anticipation, part dread.

Mr. Y/L/N paused, glancing between his companions as if he were deciphering a silent code in their expressions. After a moment’s consideration, he crossed his meaty arms over his chest, the muscles bulging like a tightly wound spring. "Agreed. When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. I shall call upon your father and sister in the morning." The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

"Very well," Anthony replied, the growl in his throat barely concealing his eagerness for confrontation.

As the brutish figure turned to leave, Seokjin felt a sudden surge of courage. "Mr. Y/L/N?" 

The response was a low, menacing growl. "What now?"

"I do have one small request." 

"And that is?"

"Try not to do too much damage to my face. I would hate to have two black eyes and a crooked nose on my wedding day." He forced a chuckle, but it echoed hollowly against the walls of the club.

"You'll be lucky if that's all I leave you with," Anthony grumbled, the threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. He turned and strode out of the club, his companions trailing like lost souls in his wake.

Once the tension subsided, Seokjin let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. 

"Park?" he asked, turning to his friend.

"Yes, Kim?"

"Do you still have a connection with a certain Bow Street informant?" His voice was a low murmur, as if the walls had ears.

"I do. Shall I put him on the lookout for Lord Eisen?" Park asked, his brow furrowing.

"If you would be so kind, but nothing official, mind." Seokjin felt the weight of impending doom settle over him like a shroud.

Jimin nodded in understanding, murmuring, "Of course." 

"And cousin, will you stand as my second on the morrow?" Seokjin's heart raced at the thought of what was to come.

Namjoon slapped a heavy hand on Seokjin's shoulder, the gesture grounding him. "You needn't ask, my friend. I should be honored to watch you knock some sense into the man." 

Y/N sat at her dressing table, her maid working diligently to pin up her hair. As she gazed at her reflection, the visage staring back was a stranger, a ghost of the girl she once was. Her eyes felt like sandpaper, dry and weary, the dark smudges beneath them growing more pronounced, shadows of a soul haunted by secrets. 

The day after the ball had stretched on in suffocating isolation, each hour dragging like a lead weight. She preferred the company of her book of prayers, each line a refuge from the storm brewing outside her door. It was far better than facing the ire of her father, who would surely unleash a torrent of censure and berating upon her head.

She had attempted to explain the events with Lord Eisen, how Lord Rushmore's was more the hero than the villain in this twisted tale, but her words had fallen on deaf ears. Ignoring her mother’s advice to stay on the terrace, she had strolled with Lord Eisen, allowing the specter of scandal to wrap its cold fingers around her throat.

Her mother had nearly succumbed to a fit of vapors upon hearing the details. The tips of her father’s waxed moustache twitched with barely suppressed rage, while Anthony, her brother, remained frighteningly silent. Once home, she had been ushered into her father’s study for a thorough dressing down, sent to her room like a recalcitrant child.

With a final pin, her maid bobbed a curtsy and exited Y/N’s bedchamber, leaving her in a silence thick enough to suffocate. Lady Y/L/N had dispatched her own maid with orders for Y/N to don her most modest day gown and report to the formal parlor. With trepidation, she slipped into a simple, light blue frock that covered her to her collarbones, devoid of any embellishments. Her hair twisted into a knot, soft waves framing her face, a fragile semblance of grace.

She took her time nibbling on toast, each bite a reminder of the world outside her door, where shadows danced with whispers of her impending fate. Checking her appearance once more, she steeled herself and made her way to the parlor. 

There, she found her mother waiting for her, worry etched into every line of her refined features. Lady Y/L/N had once been a beauty, but the years had wrought their toll, drawing tight the skin around her eyes and pursing her lips into a thin line.

"Good morning, Mother," Y/N said, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on her mother’s cheek, the contact feeling more like a farewell than a greeting.

"Your father is speaking to the Earl of Rushmore. I suggest you prepare yourself for his offer. You’ll be the luckiest girl of the season if he does what is proper and expected." 

Stunned, Y/N felt her heart drop into the abyss of despair. This was only her second season, and she was barely prepared for the storm brewing on the horizon. Marriage? To a man she hardly knew, with a reputation as murky as the depths of a shadowy lake?

"Mother, I cannot marry him. I do not even know him. I—"

"Do not entertain any notion of rebellion, Y/N. If he offers, you shall accept. It is the only way to salvage your reputation, which is, at this moment, in tatters after your comfortable coze in Lady Min’s garden." Her mother's voice was sharp, laced with urgency.

"But I... I had hoped to have some kind of affection for the man I married." Her voice trailed off, nearly swallowed by the silence, as tears threatened to spill over.

The rustle of her mother’s voluminous skirts approached, and she felt the settee dip as Lady Y/L/N sat beside her, a gentle finger lifting Y/N’s chin. Their eyes met, and in that moment, she saw the weight of her mother’s own sacrifices reflected back at her. 

"My child, I wish it were possible for us all to marry for love. But circumstances dictate otherwise. If you do not accept Lord Rushmore's, your prospects of a good match will vanish. And there are far worse fates than becoming a countess, don't you think?"

As if summoned by fate, the door swung open, and a footman announced Lord Rushmore's and Lord Y/L/N, their arrival heralded like the final note of a dissonant chord.

"My lady, if you will accompany me, there are a few matters we must attend to," her father said, glancing at her mother with a look that brooked no argument. "Y/N, the Earl has a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you." 

The footman closed the door, sealing her in a cage of expectation with Lord Rushmore's.

He was breathtakingly handsome, a figure draped in a dark brown topcoat, gold embroidery catching the dim light like whispers of wealth and power. Beneath it, a tan waistcoat clung to him, a gold watch fob glinting like a promise—or a threat. The crisp, white linen neckcloth, simply knotted, was elegant against his throat, while breeches hugged his thighs sinfully until they disappeared into polished boots, a facade of civility masking the predator within.

It seemed that Seokjin had made a valiant attempt to bring order to his hair, but it had either been ruffled by his own restless hands or simply refused to be tamed, a wild, untamed creature defying all attempts at restraint. If one were to judge solely by his disheveled appearance, one might assume he had just rolled out of bed, a thought that sent Y/N's mind spiraling into a frenzy of embarrassment and shame. What was she doing, allowing herself to entertain such visions of him in her most private moments?

As she cataloged his tousled locks and haphazard attire, she caught him doing the very same, his eyes roving over her like a thief scouting for hidden treasures. Suddenly, she felt exposed, vulnerable before this man whose presence filled the room with an unsettling energy. She ducked her head, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth, unable to find a single word to break the silence.

"Miss Y/L/N, I … How do you fare?" His voice was hesitant, laced with a nervous edge that made her heart race.

She glanced up just in time to see him pinch his eyes shut, as if steeling himself against a tempest of emotions. 

"I am as fine as can be expected," she replied, her words feeling hollow in the charged atmosphere.

"Yes, well. To the matter at hand, then." He cleared his throat, the sound echoing like a distant thunderclap, and positioned himself in front of her, a statue of formal propriety. "Your father and I have discussed the situation, and I am prepared to offer you the protection of my name. I should have exercised more discretion at the ball, and for that, I apologize."

His hands clasped behind his back, his tone dripping with cold formality, the chill of icicles punctuating his every syllable. This was not the vibrant man she had encountered amidst the chaos of the ball. No, this was a figure of duty, an automaton wrapped in layers of ice, and she hated him for it.

"The protection of your name?" she echoed, her voice trembling slightly. "And what exactly would that mean?" She widened her eyes, feigning innocence, though she was no naive girl fresh from the nursery. She understood that marriage in their society came with varying degrees of commitment, some more binding than others.

His forehead wrinkled as he coughed, the sound a harsh rasp, before he paced toward the fireplace. Leaning on the mantle, he turned his gaze toward her, and she stood frozen in place, her spine straightening, shoulders squared, meeting his eyes with an intensity that seemed to draw the very air from the room.

"You would be my wife," he said, words flowing from him like a river, cold and unyielding. "The Countess of Rushmore. You would receive a generous allowance to purchase whatever you desire, and any scandal that may have tongues wagging today would practically disappear once we are wed."

"Do you wish to marry me?" The question escaped her lips before she could cage it, catching him off guard, a momentary flicker of surprise crossing his handsome face.

"Of course I do. I feel immensely… protective of you. I care a great deal for you." His eyes bore into hers, but she sensed a wall between them, one built on duty rather than desire.

"And is there anyone else for whom you care a great deal?" The words trembled on her tongue, and she felt the atmosphere thicken, charged with unspoken truths.

"I beg your pardon, but I don’t follow," he replied, brow furrowing in confusion.

She twisted her fingers together, summoning every ounce of courage as she faced the specter of societal norms that haunted her thoughts. "Do you support a… a mistress?" The word slipped out in a whisper, the weight of it heavy as it filled the space between them. She glanced up and saw his eyes widen, then quickly cast her gaze down, words tumbling out in a rush. "Because I do not believe I could stand such an arrangement. I would rather be a ruined woman and marry a nobody and live in the country for the rest of my life than to share a husband with another woman." Her voice faded into nothing, grounded firmly in the floorboards beneath her.

"I do not have a mistress," he replied, the certainty in his voice like a lifeline. "Once we are wed, I will remain faithful to you and you alone. You have nothing to worry about on that score." 

Relief washed over her for a fleeting moment before the weight of his words sank in. If he had no mistress, then he would expect a marriage that was not just a façade but a binding of souls, in name and in deed. She swallowed thickly and nodded, her heart a tumultuous storm of fear and longing.

"Y/N," he began, then hesitated, as if the weight of her name held more gravity than he anticipated. "May I call you Y/N?"

"Yes, my lord." 

He had moved closer, now standing directly in front of her, the space between them charged with a palpable energy. "Will you call me Seokjin?" he asked, his voice dropping to a soothing tenor that wrapped around her insides like a warm embrace, calming the quivering nerves.

Tentatively, she peeked up from beneath her eyelashes, finding his gaze steady, a promise held within its depths. She nodded, a silent acceptance.

"Very well. Y/N, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" His words, heavy with intent, settled over her like a shroud.

"Yes, Seokjin. I will marry you." 

In that moment, as the promise hung in the air, she felt the world shift beneath her, a groundless fear mingling with an unexpected thrill. What lay ahead was shrouded in shadows, and yet, she found herself stepping forward into the unknown, hand in hand with a man who, in this moment, could be both her salvation and her doom.

It had been two days since the boxing match with Y/N, a brutal affair that had gone better than Seokjin had dared to hope. Anthony had landed only a single glancing blow to his jaw, leaving a faint bruise that shadowed his skin like a lingering ghost. But the rest of him was a veritable tapestry of pain—blues and purples smeared across his torso, greens and yellows blooming like grotesque flowers. He had given as good as he got, though, and after twelve grueling rounds, Gentleman Jackson had declared the contest a tie. Both men had stood, panting and bloodied, a testament to their resilience and foolishness.

As he climbed into the high-perch phaeton, wincing at the pressure on his bruised ribs, he took the reins from his tiger. Concealing his injuries from Y/N would be no easy feat. The drive to the Y/L/N home was filled with thoughts that gnawed at him like a persistent rat. He couldn’t shake the notion that he had unwittingly fallen into a parson’s mousetrap, the kind of snare that snapped shut when you least expected it.

It wasn’t exactly a shock that Y/N had accepted his proposal. Had she not, London would have turned into a bleak wasteland for her and her family, the whispers of scandal echoing like a funeral dirge. No, the real surprise was the absence of panic that usually clawed at him like a feral animal. He felt no urge to flee, no desire to escape as he had with every other prospective bride. Not even the promise of fidelity had made him balk. Instead, he felt an unsettling calm settle over him, a strange sort of acceptance.

But one thing did trouble him: the absence of Lord Eisen. The man who had wronged Y/N had become a phantom, slipping through the cracks of society’s brittle façade. Seokjin felt a duty to call the villain to account for his behavior, and if an apology was not forthcoming, a duel would have to suffice—a duel to defend her honor, the stakes set high against the backdrop of the London social season.

To his surprise, Y/N was ready only moments after he entered the foyer. His feet seemed to sprout roots, anchoring him to the spot as he watched her descend the staircase. She wore a fashionable lemon-colored dress that clung to her slim waist, the kind of style that screamed sophistication, while her straw bonnet was adorned with a delicate spray of white and yellow flowers. Yet, despite the beauty of the scene, her smile was an unsettling mask—forced, like a stage actor trying desperately to remember their lines.

Perhaps she was not as pleased with her lot as she ought to be. Wasn’t every young woman supposed to dream of snagging a peer for a husband? Seokjin didn’t think himself a hardship to look at, and he had promised her generosity. It left him genuinely perplexed at the cloudiness of her demeanor, like storm clouds brewing overhead. He would have to suss her out during their drive.

“Good afternoon, Miss Y/L/N. You are as lovely as a summer day,” he said, taking her gloved hand and pressing his lips to it, a gesture that felt both tender and fraught with unspoken tension.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, that delicious blush creeping into her cheeks, bright as the dawn.

“Have you driven in a phaeton before?” he inquired, trying to gauge her mood, the air thick with an undercurrent of something he couldn't quite name.

“No, I have not. Is it terribly high?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“The highest,” he grinned, tucking her hand through his arm, the warmth of her presence grounding him amidst his swirling thoughts.

They crept along Rotten Row, the most fashionable hour for seeing and being seen. Nods and exchanges flitted between them like whispers in a crowded theater, laughter and gossip hanging heavy in the air. Park and Halston stopped to chat, their words a playful torment that turned Seokjin’s ears to fire. To her credit, Y/N managed to handle his friends with a practiced expertise, her demure laughter a welcome balm.

But as they parted ways, an open barouche approached, filled with the resident dragons of the beau monde—women so high in the instep they would snub even their own kin if it threatened their standing. Seokjin braced himself, prepared for the cut direct that would slice through the pretense of civility. He turned on his most charming smile, tipping the brim of his hat to them, a mask of confidence. To his relief, they nodded at him and Y/N, their plumed hats bobbing like strange birds pecking for seeds, momentarily offering her the protection that came with his name.

He directed the phaeton down a less congested avenue, glancing at his fiancée. “I’ve acquired a special license to marry. I thought this Friday would give you enough time to have your maid pack your things and deliver them to my home. Is that enough time for you to prepare?”

Her gaze drifted, unfocused as she twirled her parasol in lazy circles, caught somewhere between anticipation and anxiety. “Yes. I believe that will be enough time. Mother has a modiste working ‘round the clock, but my gown should be ready by then.” A laugh erupted from her, bright but edged with a hint of disbelief. “The poor woman nearly fell over herself for the privilege of making the new Countess of Kim’s wedding dress.” Her voice trailed off, shyness washing over her as if she had stepped into a cold river. “We’ll be going to Bond Street tomorrow for my other bride clothes, so there is little else for me to assemble.”

He was disarmed by her effortless humility, the sincerity of her words only adding to her appeal, like a faint light in the darkness. 

“Do you have any opinion on the location? Somewhere small and private, perhaps?” 

Had this been a typical courtship, he would have expected them to reserve St. George’s in Hanover Square, the kind of place where fashionable ton weddings occurred. His mother would’ve insisted upon it, a parade of acquaintances, all eager to witness the spectacle. But this was no ordinary wedding; it was a necessity—a desperate plea for normalcy in a world that felt increasingly chaotic. A smaller chapel would better serve their needs, he thought, yet he couldn’t shake the sense that their union was more than just a formality.

“Whatever you think best,” she said, her voice flat, as if she were reading from a script that had long lost its meaning.

Seokjin snapped the reins, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence that enveloped them. He tried to ignore the unease pooling in his gut, still grappling with the enigma of Y/N’s enthusiasm—or lack thereof. Just then, the wheels on his side of the phaeton jolted over a substantial pothole, and Y/N slammed into him, the impact hard enough to make the breath hiss from his lungs. 

The sudden gasp nearly made him curse, but he swallowed it down, letting his hand drift to the bruised ribs that throbbed beneath his shirt. “I’m terribly sorry, my lo—Seokjin. I didn’t think I jarred you so.” 

“No, it’s not your fault. I… I’m just careless with the ribbons,” he replied, teeth clenched like a vice. 

Her brow furrowed in confusion, as if she were trying to decipher a foreign language. He waved away her concern, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Why do you seem so displeased with our arrangement?” 

She sighed, her mouth curving downward, eyes fixated on something far beyond the horizon. “It’s rather silly, really.” 

“Nothing important to you is silly,” he countered, slowing the horses until they came to a stop beneath a canopy of fragrant trees, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. He turned to face her fully, heart hammering like a ticking time bomb. 

“I suppose I just feel… very inexperienced.” 

“Shall we try and remedy that, my darling?” He took her hand, cradling it gently as if it were something fragile, something that might shatter at the slightest misstep. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Her voice dropped to a whisper that danced over him, sparking warmth in the chill air, stirring something deep within his chest. 

“May I try something?” 

She blinked, once, twice, the uncertainty in her gaze unraveling him. “Yes?” 

He leaned closer, slowly, carefully, as if drawing nearer to a wild creature, waiting for it to either flee or surrender. Patience enveloped them, thick and electric, rekindling that tension from the ball, drawing them together like moths to a flickering flame. 

When her eyes fluttered shut, he crossed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. It was a gentle exploration, soft and hesitant, the taste of sweetness enveloping him like a shroud. Her rigid posture melted against him, a warmth spreading through his veins. He relished the sound of her breath hitching, the quiet gasps of surprise that filled the air like a prayer. 

But reality loomed, a footman lurking at the back of the phaeton, the world of Hyde Park still swirling around them. He savored the way her hands clung to his biceps, the way she leaned into him, trusting and vulnerable. 

As their kiss lingered, he pulled back, heart racing, and squeezed her hands gently. “Despite what you may have heard of my reputation, I want you to be happy. It’s my foremost pursuit. You’ve come to mean the world to me, Y/N. Once we are wed, I hope you will let me court you properly.” 

She bit her lip, turning her face just enough to hide a smile beneath the brim of her bonnet. “That sounds lovely.” 

A week passed—an entire week!—since their wedding, and Seokjin had done nothing more than kiss her lightly before she retreated to her separate bedchamber. Days melted into one another in their Mayfair townhouse, filled with light conversation about likes and dislikes, books, and the shifting tides of politics. Each night, he would escort her to her door, kiss her as one might kiss a sibling, and disappear into the silence of his own room. 

Y/N had mentally prepared herself for the duty all wives were expected to perform, and the absence of that first night stung like a phantom limb. With each passing day, her fondness for Seokjin grew—perhaps even love—but every time he sent her to bed alone felt like a deeper wound, a rejection wrapped in tenderness. 

Staring at the heavy brocaded tapestries above her, she fumed, a tempest brewing in her chest. Enough was enough. She threw off the covers, slipped into her dressing gown, and marched through the hushed rooms until she found his. His valet must have retired, for the air was thick with stillness and the promise of secrets. 

Without so much as a knock, she flung open the door to his bedroom and halted. There he stood, just out of reach of the fire’s glow, a vision of raw masculinity with one hand resting on the counterpane of his bed. Her breath caught in her throat, captivated by the lean muscles of his back, the dimples above his shapely behind. But then she saw the shadows—fading bruises that painted his torso like a cruel map of his suffering. 

“Good Lord,” she gasped, horror mingling with concern. “What happened to you?” 

His shoulders slumped as he shrugged into his dressing gown, the fabric whispering secrets against his skin. He approached her, tying the sash, hands sliding into the pockets like a man trying to hide the evidence of his pain. 

“It’s nothing, my sweet. Please don’t concern yourself.” 

“Is this why you have not touched me since our wedding?” 

“I didn’t want you to see me in such a battered state. If I were to do more than kiss you, I wouldn’t be able to control myself.” 

“What happened?” 

“An overly enthusiastic sparring partner at Jackson’s boxing saloon.” 

Timidly, she spread open the top of his gown. Her heart raced as she traced her fingers over his bruised skin, circling the marks of violence like a moth drawn to a flame. “Who was your partner?” 

“I… can’t say as—” 

“Please be honest with me. I cannot abide liars.” 

He paused, gaze shifting from her eyes to the floor. “It was your brother,” he confessed, the weight of his words pressing down like an anvil. 

“And he is the one who gave you the bruise here, I suppose?” Her fingers brushed against the stubble on his jaw, memories of their earlier kiss flooding back, tainted now by the knowledge of violence. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“He felt the need to defend your honor. I was the only target available.” 

Her grip tightened on his lapels, a surge of anger coursing through her veins. “How positively stupid! You had already offered for me, and I had accepted. Why would you let him pummel you so?” 

His soothing voice gripped her, but she wanted no part of it. She stepped away, feeling sick, as if the world had spun off its axis. “And what good would that do? Will you beat him into unconsciousness?” 

He winced, a sheepish smile flickering across his face like the dying light of a sunset. “Will you challenge him to a duel?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. When he said nothing, her breath hitched, and she gasped, “You would leave me a widow less than a month after our wedding? A marriage we haven’t even consummated?”

His eyes flared like flames licking at dry wood, and he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in one swift motion. His hands gripped her arms, pulling her face to his, their noses almost touching. “Don’t for a second think, Y/N, that I don’t want to consummate our marriage. I’ve burned for you since the moment we crossed that threshold as husband and wife.”

Then, in a rush, his lips crashed against hers, an urgent storm of desire. His hands slipped from her arms, gliding over her shoulders, up her neck, cupping her face with a tenderness that belied the tempest brewing within him. He kissed her, nipping and sucking at the tender flesh along her neck, each brush of his mouth a brush against the very core of her being.

Dizzy, she felt their bodies meld together, pressed tightly from knees to chest, sensations swirling like a maelstrom. When his lips reached her ear, he whispered, “It’s a matter of honor,” and with that simple phrase, she snapped back to reality, the haze of desire dissipating like fog in the morning sun.

“Go then,” she said, her voice sharp as a knife, pushing away from him. “Seek your satisfaction, but do not come to me. I could not bear it if I gave you my entire self only to have you killed over something so trivial now. Y/N Y/L/N is no more; only Lady Y/N Kim, Countess of Rushmore, remains, a woman of standing, one of the most sought-after guests in London.”

With that, she turned and fled to her chamber, locking the doors behind her as if sealing away the chaos of her heart. She collapsed onto her bed, sobbing until her tears ran dry, feeling the weight of her world pressing down upon her.

Seokjin waited for over an hour, but she did not join him in the breakfast parlor. He could feel her vexation in the air, thick and heavy, like a summer storm hanging just before the downpour. If only she could understand how her honor intertwined with his own, how he could not simply walk away from the challenge that had been laid before him.

The prospect of a duel with Eisen loomed, but Seokjin preferred other avenues to address the scoundrel's transgressions. He was ready to confront the man, but only if words failed. Until then, he could only wait, his heart heavy with concern and unspoken words. 

He left the door to his study open, hoping to hear the sound of her footsteps. The empty fireplace crackled softly, but the only thing he could focus on was the gnawing worry about her silence. Just then, his butler knocked and announced Lord Whitmore’s arrival.

Seokjin rose to greet his friend, who brushed aside the butler’s offer to take his coat and hat. 

“I don’t believe I shall tarry long, Forbes, but thank you,” Lord Whitmore said, glancing at Seokjin with a look that could only be described as appraising.

“Morning, Park. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“You look terrible, Kim. Is the little wife not pleasing you?” 

“Speak another word on that subject, and you may find yourself missing a few teeth,” Seokjin growled, tension flooding his veins.

“Easy, friend. I have other news. Eisen’s been spotted.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Seokjin felt his entire body tense, a primal instinct surging through him, the urge to fight. He flexed his fingers, pacing the length of the room. “Where? Has he returned home?”

“No, he was seen last night at a gaming hell near Covent Garden.”

“Your Bow Street friend is tailing him, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“Then what are we doing standing around woolgathering?”

When they found Jonathon Bartlett, Viscount Eisen, he lay slumped over the gaming table, still dazed from the previous night's indulgences. The weary proprietor explained how he’d tried to send the viscount home, but Eisen had threatened violence if anyone laid a hand on him. It went without saying that the authorities weren’t called in, given the establishment’s questionable legality. But that didn’t deter Seokjin; he was resolute in seeking justice for his wife.

“Lord Eisen, I would like a word with you.”

The viscount lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and watering, about to lay it back down when comprehension finally broke through the fog of drink clouding his mind. “Rushmore? Is that you? Poor sot you are, shackled to a fish like her,” he began to laugh, but before he could rise, he slumped back down, surrendering to the inebriation that held him captive.

“You behaved in a most heinous way toward my wife, Eisen,” Seokjin said, his voice steady as granite, muscles taut like a bowstring. He stood with his arms braced on the table, the weight of his indignation anchoring him against the crude laughter of the man before him.

Eisen leaned back, his arrogance filling the space like stale smoke. “You see, Rushmore,” he continued, as if Seokjin’s words were mere whispers against the roar of his own hubris, “it’s not good form to take the chit astride you in plain view of her papa. One must be smarter about these things. At least I had the decency to carry her off to a nice, dark corner of the garden for some real fun.” 

“Eisen, I warn you—”

“Doesn’t she have the creamiest thighs you’ve ever seen? A right shame she had to ruin everything by carrying on like a hellcat. What I would give to sink into th—”

In the heartbeat it took for the air to thicken with tension, Lord Rushmore's fist connected with Eisen’s nose, a sickening crunch echoing through the room as the viscount crumpled to the floor, blood spilling like a crimson secret onto the polished wood.

Seokjin would have launched himself atop the man, would have rained down blows until his fury found satisfaction, had it not been for Jimin’s firm hands grasping his shoulders, holding him back like a rabid dog on a leash.

Jonathon, now upright but wobbling, wiped the blood from his face, confusion mingling with rage. “What the devil are you playing at, Rushmore?”

“You will apologize to Lady Rushmore.”

“She barely got what she deserved, the tease. Making eyes and overtures all night, then turning into a proper little prudish thing…”

Seokjin slowly removed his leather gloves, peeling them off with a deliberate precision that bespoke his simmering wrath. He straightened each finger, each gesture methodical, before slapping the gloves across Eisen’s face, satisfaction blooming within him as he noted the three pink scars Y/N had left on the viscount’s cheek.

Eisen let out a sick, hysterical bark of laughter. “You’re challenging me, then?”

Seokjin remained a statue, unyielding.

“What’s it to be? Another bout of fisticuffs at Jackson’s? I assure you, I won’t spare your pretty face like the Y/L/N lad did.”

“Pistols, tomorrow at dawn. Who is your second?”

Eisen narrowed his eyes, scanning the growing crowd in the club with a predator’s focus. “Lord Alec Winters,” he replied, a cold gleam dancing in his gaze.

“Lord Halston will be in contact with him to determine the field of honor. Good day.” 

As they mounted their horses, Lord Whitmore turned to Seokjin, his expression grave and weighted with concern. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“What’s done is done,” Seokjin replied, each word heavy with the inevitability of consequence. “I cannot recall the challenge without appearing a coward.”

“Very well, my lord. I shall stand at your side with Halston.”

Seokjin spent the rest of the day cloistered in his study, though hiding would be a more accurate term. Y/N was noticeably absent when he returned home after issuing his challenge. The butler had handed him a note stating that his wife was spending the day with her particular friends, Ladies Jeon and Jung, but it made no mention of when she would return.

He ate his meal alone, the silence in the room amplifying the thrum of his thoughts, before returning once more to the sanctuary of his study. After pouring himself a generous glass of port, he opened the case that held his dueling pistols. He examined the moving parts, ensuring everything was in proper working order, the metallic tang of the weapons grounding him amidst the swirling chaos in his mind.

It was well after dark when he heard her voice echo through the foyer. “Is Lord Rushmore's at home?” she asked, her tone light but edged with something he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Yes, my lady. He is in the study,” came the butler’s formal reply.

“Thank you, Forbes. That will be all.”

Before he could consider the implications of the pistols laid out on his desk, she appeared in the doorway, her presence a sharp contrast to the darkness of the room.

“Seokjin, I just wanted to…” Her voice faded as her gaze fell on the dueling pistols, an expressionless veneer sliding over her features like a heavy curtain. “I just wanted to let you know I was home.”

“Y/N…”

“Goodnight, Seokjin.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a finality that echoed like a gunshot in the night.

She couldn’t sleep a wink. The moment she’d spotted the gleaming pistols on Seokjin’s desk, nausea twisted in her stomach like a coiled snake. All night, she lay in the dark, listening for any sound from his bedchamber, but there was nothing. The silence stretched, oppressive and thick, until her unease multiplied, leaving her trembling, a leaf caught in an unforgiving wind.

In the pre-dawn darkness, she lit a single candle, its flickering flame casting long shadows as she made her way to the kitchen, seeking a biscuit or something to settle her roiling stomach. But as she crept into the dimly lit space, her heart plummeted when she overheard Forbes speaking to Mrs. Cope, the housekeeper.

“He’s goin’ through with that bloody duel?” Mrs. Cope’s voice dripped with concern, thick as treacle.

“It would seem so,” Forbes replied, his tone grave.

“The poor girl,” Mrs. Cope continued, her voice low, “she was so out of sorts yesterday, and just when I thought they were beginnin’ to warm up to each other…”

Madness. Absolute madness. How could she sit idly by, waiting for news that might shatter her world, wondering if her husband lay dead in a field of honor? Clearing her throat, she startled the two servants. “Forbes, please have a footman saddle my horse.”

His eyebrows raised slightly, but he schooled his features, nodding with a single, curt motion.

“And when you’re done with him, bring him here and I’ll box his ears,” Mrs. Cope added with a wink, a twinkle of mischief in her eye.

Y/N knew the housekeeper had cared for Seokjin since he was a lad of seventeen, just stepping into the world as an Earl after his father’s death. She’d watched Mrs. Cope fuss over him like a second mother, a bond forged in years of loyalty and affection.

“You can count on it, to be sure, Mrs. Cope,” Y/N promised, her resolve hardening.

She rushed back to her chamber, dressing in her riding habit without a moment’s thought for her maid. Tying her hair into a simple queue, she ignored the elaborate hats hanging in her dressing room, knowing they would do little to comfort her.

Forbes held the door open, and as she passed, he murmured, “Hyde Park, just north of the Serpentine.”

“Thank you, Forbes,” she replied, determination coursing through her veins.

The groom helped her into the side-saddle, and she urged her horse into a slow trot until she found her seat. Then she pressed the beast into a gallop, the wind whipping around her face as the world blurred by. The gray mist of foreboding cloaked the park, but she pressed on toward the bridge, morning light peeking over the horizon, the air crisp and biting.

As she crossed the bridge, her heart raced at the sight of a gathering of gentlemen, tension crackling in the air. Two men stood poised to fire, and she could faintly hear Lord Halston calling out, “Ready. Aim. Fire!”

Time slowed as she careened toward the group, her voice piercing the morning hush. “NO!” But it was too late; the shots rang out, echoing in her ears like the toll of a death knell. 

She leapt from her horse, barreling through the crowd of men, her heart pounding like a war drum. “Seokjin!” she called, desperation clawing at her throat as she broke through the front line. Lord Eisen stood to her left, his pistol still raised, confusion painted across his face. To her right, she saw Seokjin, his arm raised to the sky, expression a tempest of fury and concern.

“I am satisfied,” he declared, his voice steady despite the chaos, “Let it be known that Lord Eisen is a debaucher of innocence and a dishonorable blackguard.” He lowered his pistol, striding toward her with purpose.

But before he could reach her, another gunshot shattered the stillness, a sharp crack in the fragile morning. Horror twisted in her gut as Seokjin howled in pain, crumpling to the ground, blood blooming like dark petals through the fabric of his breeches. Disapproving murmurs erupted from the gathered crowd, a cacophony of gasps and curses directed at Lord Eisen.

Her focus narrowed to Seokjin, writhing on the ground as blood seeped from his wound. She fell to her knees, hands trembling as they fluttered over his injured leg.

“Stay back, Y/N, this is no place for you,” he gritted out, his voice strained with pain. “Park, take her back home.”

“No. I’m not leaving. I can help.”

“Dammit, woman, why will you not do as I say?”

“Because I love you!” she shouted, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. “And I won’t leave your side.” She cupped his sweat-dampened cheek, searching his eyes for any sign of hope. “Lord Whitmore, is there a physician present?” she asked, desperation lacing her voice, unwilling to tear her gaze from Seokjin.

“Here, my lady. I’ll just see to binding the wound,” a gray-haired gentleman replied, a black satchel slung over his shoulder.

Seokjin threw his head back on the grass, a roar of agony ripping from his throat. “Be quick about it. I’m not sure how much longer I can remain conscious!”

Once the physician bound his leg, Park and Halston helped Seokjin into the doctor’s carriage, then Park handed Y/N inside, her heart hammering with fear as they made their way home, Seokjin’s head resting on her lap, his warmth a fragile reminder of life.

When they arrived at Kim House, Halston administered copious amounts of brandy until Seokjin was thoroughly foxed, the alcohol dulling the edges of his pain.

The doctor worked efficiently, extracting the bullet with practiced hands, though he was the recipient of a lengthy string of vitriol from the Earl. “Curse you, Eisen!” Seokjin spat, his voice thick with indignation. The doctor promised to return the following day to check the dressing and promptly exited the room.

Y/N remained at Seokjin’s side, mopping his forehead with a cool cloth, his features a pale shadow of their usual vigor. He was insensible from both the liquor and the laudanum, yet he managed to crack his eyes open, a flicker of recognition igniting within.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, voice slurred yet filled with an urgency that made her heart leap.

“Why was your pistol raised when I arrived?” She couldn’t help but question, a mix of fear and frustration welling within her.

“I shot into the air,” he scowled, eyes narrowing. “The cur wasn’t worth even a single bullet.” He paused, searching her gaze with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “Did you mean what you said? That you love me?”

“Yes, you ridiculously honorable man. I love you,” she confessed, her heart swelling with the truth of her words.

“As I love you,” he replied, his voice softer, a gentle lullaby beneath the tumult of the day. “’Tis why I had to confront him the way I did.” His words were heavy with sleep, yet fervent as though each syllable was an anchor in the storm.

“Well, you’re going to have to come up with a different way of expressing it. I don’t think I could bear to see you… For a moment, I thought you were dead.” The weight of those words pressed down on her, a chill creeping through her veins.

“I shall never leave your side again, my love.” His voice softened, eyes fluttering closed, his breathing slowing like the ebb of the tide.

For a heartbeat, she thought he had finally succumbed to sleep, but then she felt the gentle pressure of his hand around hers, a tether that bound them even amidst the shadows, a promise whispered in the dark.

"I fear I shall be a useless husband for the next several weeks until the wound is well on its way to healing." Seokjin's gaze pierced through her, an intensity lurking behind his words that took her a moment to grasp. 

A rush of crimson crept up her neck, and she quickly averted her gaze. “Don’t be vulgar. It is far too early in the morning for such talk.”

"I will require a great deal of nursing and special care, you know." His voice was a teasing whisper, laced with something more primal that made her heart race.

"Yes, the doctor explained what would need to be done. I shall take extra special care of you, my lord," she replied, tracing a delicate finger over the smattering of hair on his chest, the softness of the moment shattered by the storm brewing beneath the surface.

"Vixen," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut, a smile playing on his lips. "These next weeks will be torture."

"I do hope so," she shot back, her tone teasing but edged with sincerity. "Perhaps next time you won’t be so quick to engage in something as foolish as this."

She leaned in, pressing her lips to his, the kiss igniting a warmth that spread through them both. Seokjin’s hand found the back of her neck, holding her gently in place as he feasted on her mouth, nibbling and sucking, each sigh from him a reminder of the thin line between pleasure and pain.

With a soft thud, his head dropped back onto the pillow, and he looked deeply into her eyes. “When my leg has healed, the first order of business will be to see to the matter of an heir for the Earldom.”

“Agreed,” she whispered, lying down next to him on the bed for the first time, a sense of gravity settling over them.

Meanwhile, Lord Rushmore stood with his hands casually clasped behind his back, watching a stable boy lead a striking pair of chestnut horses around the yard at Tattersalls. He had no real intention of acquiring any new horseflesh; he had simply agreed to meet Lords Park and Halston there, his mind elsewhere, adrift in thoughts of a summer retreat at Willow Hill, his country estate.

It had been an arduous month, the wound inflicted by Lord Eisen a constant reminder of his vulnerability. Kim hated being an invalid, but Y/N’s determined care was a salve to his wounded pride, particularly when she offered to help him bathe. Yet now, as he was finally cleared to bear weight on his injured leg, her shyness returned, casting a pall over the intimacy they had shared.

“Kim!” Namjoon’s voice cut through his reverie, yanking him back to the present.

“How goes it, Halston?” Seokjin asked, forcing a smile.

“Well, very well. And how does the livestock look?” Namjoon’s tone was light, masking the concern lurking just beneath.

Seokjin circled the courtyard, moving smoothly as Namjoon trailed slowly behind. 

“Still walking like you’ve got a dry stick in your boot instead of a leg, I see?” Lord Whitmore called from behind, his friendly jab punctuating the air.

Seokjin turned, a rueful grin tugging at his lips. He had long since stopped limping, yet the familiar teasing felt like a balm, a reminder of their shared camaraderie.

Jimin stepped up beside Seokjin, tilting his head slightly. “They’re preparing the gallows at Newgate,” he said, his voice low, the gravity of his words palpable.

“I see,” Seokjin replied, his brow furrowing. “And has your Bow Street source heard anything that would be of particular interest to me?”

Jimin shook his head, frustration evident. “He wasn’t able to get a look at the list of condemned.”

“After shooting you in the leg and then strangling his new bride to death, it would serve him right to dance upon nothing. I shudder when I think of the reports that were given as to her physical condition before death. The man is a monster.” Namjoon’s voice grew impassioned, his anger simmering just below the surface. He despised violence against women, a sentiment that burned hotter with each word. “If I had the chance, I’d dispatch Eisen with my bare hands.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Seokjin replied, the heat of righteous indignation flaring in his chest. “Though I must admit, it would take Herculean effort to prevent a towering rage from overcoming me if I were to find Y/N with another man—and in the very act, no less.”

Namjoon opened his mouth to protest, but Seokjin raised a hand. “No, friend, I understand. Her dalliance certainly did not merit her death. If Eisen is to be hanged, he has certainly earned his fate.”

The three stood in a tense silence as the auctioneer began the bidding on a black thoroughbred racehorse, the tension in the air palpable.

“Halston, are you bidding today?” Jimin asked, his voice light, yet curiosity tinged his tone.

Namjoon’s brows pinched together, shaking his head. “No, I haven’t seen anything that strikes my fancy.”

“Shall we be off to Park’s, then?” Jimin’s brow rose expectantly, glancing between Namjoon and Seokjin.

“Not for me, lads. I must see to a few last-minute preparations before we leave for Willow Hill.”

They strolled a short distance away from Tattersalls, where Seokjin’s coach awaited. 

“We shall join you in a week’s time,” Namjoon said, a promise hanging in the air.

“I look forward to a few weeks in the country,” Seokjin replied, a smile creeping onto his lips despite the heavy weight of recent events. “Though I daresay this house party will be quite different from those of past years, with Lady Rushmore now leading you about by the nose.” Jimin chuckled, nudging Namjoon with his elbow, their shared mirth a small reprieve from the shadows of their reality. They exchanged a pitying glance with Seokjin, who merely smiled, shaking his head, caught in the bittersweet nature of love, loss, and the unbearable weight of impending fate.

"I'll have you know that in addition to her Mama and Papa, Lady Rushmore has also invited the Jeons and the Jungs. I would not doubt she has matchmaking on the mind." The words tumbled from Seokjin’s mouth, heavy with implication, each syllable dripping with the kind of mischief that hangs thick in the air before a storm.

Jimin scoffed, shaking his head. "The day I fall into a parson's mousetrap, as you did, is the day I shall kick the bucket from under my own feet and take a short drop."

"Ah, my dear Park, there are a great many advantages to having a wife," Seokjin replied, climbing into the carriage, the sound of his voice echoing like a warning bell against the backdrop of laughter and banter.

"Does that mean you're no longer living the life of a monk?" Jimin called after him, his words laced with a teasing edge. As Seokjin gave two swift raps to the roof of the carriage, the laughter of his friends faded, oblivious to the rich tapestry of pleasure that a loving wife waiting at home could weave into a man's life.

The scene that greeted Seokjin upon his arrival home was chaos incarnate. Maids bustled about like frantic bees, arms laden with linens and other household goods, while footmen heaved large trunks and portmanteaus down the stairs, the very air vibrating with urgency. 

He nodded as he passed various servants, each one bobbing curtsies or bowing stiffly before resuming their frenetic tasks. But as he reached the top of the stairs, a familiar voice cut through the cacophony—Y/N, directing her maid with a calm authority that belied the frenzy around her.

"I'm afraid I'll need the basin with me inside the coach. Heaven help me if I should cast up my crumpets during the journey. Lord Rushmore's has yet to witness such a distasteful episode. I fear I shall die of mortification if he were to witness such unpleasantness." 

A flicker of irritation sparked within Seokjin at the thought of her hiding an illness from him, a dark cloud threatening to obscure his sunny disposition. He had every intention of chastising her for keeping silent about her health, but that resolve evaporated like morning mist when he rounded the corner into their bedroom. 

There she was, bent over a valise, sorting through her chemises and nightdresses, a vision of domesticity that stole the breath from his lungs. 

The maid was the first to notice him. He raised a finger to his lips and nodded toward the door, signaling his desire for privacy. She nodded once and slipped out, closing the door without so much as a whisper. 

Seokjin moved across the room, his footsteps muffled by the plush woven rug beneath him, until he stood directly behind his still-leaning wife. 

"Liza, have you already packed my tan kid glo—" He gripped her hips, pulling her backside against him, eliciting a shriek of surprise. When she spun around, he caught her in his arms, her wide eyes a mirror of astonishment. 

"Hello, my love."

"Seokjin! How you startled me." She swatted her hand against his chest, but the smile creeping across her lips melted the tension from her flushed features, leaving only warmth in its wake. 

"I am sorry for that, but I was loath to interrupt my view of your delightful figure." 

He stroked his finger along her cheekbone, which bloomed with a telltale blush. She studied him as he trailed the same finger down her throat and around the back of her neck, delighting in the shivers that coursed through her at his touch. Leaning down, he followed the path with the tip of his nose, stopping momentarily to graze the tender flesh behind her ear with his lips. 

"My lord," she whispered, and he felt the weight of that title hang between them like a breathless promise. 

"Yes, my lady?" 

He continued to kiss and nibble his way across her jaw and up to her lips, savoring the sweet aftertaste of honey that lingered from her tea. She responded with equal enthusiasm, suckling his lower lip and tilting her head for a better angle. After what felt like hours, she finally pulled away, gasping for breath. 

"Seokjin, there is too much to do." She leaned away from him, perhaps expecting him to release her, but he tightened his grip around her waist, kissing her again, lost in the moment. 

"We have a moment, do we not?" he murmured against her lips, the world outside fading into insignificance. 

Suddenly, she stiffened in his arms, and he instinctively relaxed his hold. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened with a dawning horror. He let her go as she rushed to the washstand, emptying the contents of her stomach into the basin. 

With purposeful strides, he crossed the room and laid a gentle hand on her back, offering comfort as she heaved, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. When she was finished, he extended his handkerchief and waited, heart pounding in his chest. 

She shuffled to the tea tray, returning to the basin with a cup full of lukewarm tea. Swishing mouthfuls and spitting them back into the basin, she did her best to maintain some semblance of delicacy, but her weariness was palpable. 

When she finally turned to face him, the rosy flush had drained from her cheeks, replaced by an ashen pallor that sent a chill through him. How long had she been hiding her illness? 

"Must you look at me with such pity?" she asked, setting the teacup down and twisting her hands together, a nervous habit that made his heart ache. 

"My sweet, how long have you felt ill? We can postpone our departure until you are well. Everyone coming to Willow Hill will understand." He reached out to caress her cheek, but she turned away from his touch, brushing past him like a ghost. 

He watched, concern knitting his brow, as she paced the room, muttering under her breath, a whirlwind of anxiety. Finally, she cast herself onto the bed, curling into a tight ball, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Seokjin was taken aback, concern spiraling into panic at the sudden shift in her demeanor. Every instinct screamed at him to rush to her side, but he remained frozen, captivated by the raw vulnerability laid bare before him. 

As if pulled by an unseen string, she sat up, wiping her eyes before their gazes connected, and he felt propelled into action. 

He hurriedly knelt in front of her, grasping her hands in his. "What is wrong, Y/N?"

"I did not… It was supposed to be… Oh botheration. I must look a fright." She dabbed the handkerchief at the corners of her eyes, a picture of fragility. 

"Should I summon the doctor?" he asked, dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of his wife being gravely ill. 

The lines of worry etched on her face began to soften, replaced by a look of adoration that made his heart race. 

"I have already seen the doctor." 

"And what is his diagnosis?" Seokjin’s heart plummeted, a darkness settling over him at the very thought of her suffering.

She wriggled one of her hands free from his grasp—he hadn’t realized he was squeezing her so tightly—and cupped the side of his face with a tenderness that caught him off guard. “I’m afraid you were quite successful in your quest for an heir,” she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.

His brow furrowed as the meaning of her words sunk in, slowly creeping through the fog of his mind like a dark shadow. “Do you mean… I say! Are you—” He sprang to his feet, a surge of exhilaration propelling him to nearly drag Y/N off the bed in his excitement.

“I am increasing, and it is all your fault, you insufferable man! I don’t feel the least bit well, and of course, there’s nothing to be done for it but nibble dry toast when the nausea strikes.” Her voice had a sharp edge to it, yet there was a sparkle in her eyes that ignited something primal within him.

Dropping to his knees, he surrounded her with his arms, resting his head gently against her still-flat abdomen. The thought “I am going to be a father” echoed in his mind, a mantra that swelled until it overwhelmed him like a tidal wave.

Y/N threaded her fingers through his hair, massaging soothing circles on his scalp, murmuring sweet nothings that drifted like whispers in the night until, finally, she grasped his chin and gently lifted him to his feet. “I wanted to tell you at Willow Hill. The doctor confirmed the pregnancy only this morning.”

“When will it be here?” he asked, his heart pounding like a drum echoing through an empty hall.

“He shall be born in early February.”

He smirked, a wild gleam igniting in his eyes as he led her back to the bed. With a tenderness that seemed to transcend reality, he cradled her in his arms. “You are sure, then, that I have produced an heir for the title of Lord Rushmore’s?” His voice danced with mischief.

“Of course. It is my greatest wish that the lineage for the earldom be secured, but…”

“But what, my darling?”

“What if it is a girl?” 

“It gives us all the more reason to practice the arduous task of producing a male heir.” He kissed her soundly as he laid her on the bed, hovering protectively over her, his body a fortress against the world. 

“There are still so many things to prepare, Seokjin.”

“Hush, my dear. Let the housekeeper do her job. The world will not fall apart if we steal a few moments of quiet together.” 

She pressed herself into his side, and in that fleeting moment, as if they had stolen a slice of eternity, he felt her body relax, her breaths evening into those of a slumbering angel, wrapped in the cocoon of their shared warmth.

The next morning unfolded like a symphony of chaos as the coaches were readied for the departure of the Earl of Rushmore’s household. When Forbes gave the word, Seokjin tucked Y/N’s hand in the crook of his elbow and led her to the carriage. Once she was settled, he followed her in, sitting close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. His gaze flicked nervously to the basin opposite them, stacked with lavender-scented handkerchiefs and towels. He hoped her sickness wouldn’t turn their journey into a nightmare.

The carriage lurched into motion, rattling off through the streets of London, bound for the quieter Hampshire countryside. The sun barely peeked over the rooftops, and the cool breeze whispered secrets through the open windows. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment of calm until Y/N spoke, shattering the fragile peace.

“Seokjin, why are we going in the wrong direction? This is not the road to Hampshire.”

He opened his eyes and sat up straighter, unease coiling in his stomach like a serpent. “I have a small matter of business I need to see to before we leave town.”

She frowned, her brow knitting together in concern. “I thought you took care of all your business yesterday.”

“Yes, well, one other matter came up.”

“I see.” 

She shifted away from him, her attention drawn outside. His heart sank as he realized where they were headed. The closer they came to Newgate prison, the more agitated he became, as if an unseen force was tightening around his throat.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, glancing at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Do you not have a book or some kind of embroidery with which to occupy yourself?”

“I fear I would grow ill if I tried to read, and heaven forbid I should attempt any kind of needlecraft. I would most likely end up sticking myself and bleed to death.” 

He sighed, defeated by her stubbornness. Minutes ticked by, and the rattling wheels on the cobblestone streets were replaced by the jeers of a growing mob gathering for the hangings.

“Seokjin, why is there such a crowd at this early hour?” Her voice was laced with dread, and he could feel her eyes boring into him, demanding answers he couldn’t provide.

He stood, head bent, shoulders rounded, and leaned over his legs to peer out his window. The prison loomed ahead, and the gallows stood like a grim sentinel against the morning sky.

As they approached, the carriage slowed, stopping some distance from the raised platform, yet they had a perfect view. When the gaoler stood and raised his arms, the crowd fell silent, anticipation crackling in the air like static before a storm.

As he read the names of the condemned and their crimes, a chill crept down Seokjin’s spine. One by one, the hooded figures were brought forth, the nooses cinched around their necks as the crowd hissed and jeered, throwing stones and objects at the prisoners.

“And last we have, Jonathon Bartlett, Viscount Eisen, condemned to hang by the neck until dead for the murder in cold blood of Louis Montford, Marquis of Calais.”

Y/N gasped, scrambling backward into her seat, her breath quickening as panic washed over her like a wave. She waved her hand in front of her face, but that same wide-eyed look of distress he had witnessed the day before seized her. She lunged forward, retching violently into the basin.

Once again, he handed her a clean square of toweling and waited, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. 

“I had heard of the scandal. Lady Min was quite thrilled to share the news with your mother. But… he is not condemned for the death of Lady Eisen?”

Seokjin shook his head, his heart pounding like a war drum. “No. Had he only killed her, he most likely would not be in this position. When he murdered the Marquis in front of his entire household, he sealed his fate.” 

Though he glossed over the details for her benefit, the gruesome images of Lord Montford’s lifeless body, throat slit from ear to ear, lingered in his mind like a dark specter. It was damning, to say the least.

Seokjin peered out of the carriage window, the air thick with a tension that prickled at the nape of his neck. It was nearly time.

“Please, Seokjin,” Y/N’s voice quivered, raw with dread. “I can’t bear this. Let’s go.”

He nodded once, the sound of his heart thumping painfully in his chest. With a sharp rap on the carriage's wooden panel, the horses whinnied in response, and the vehicle lurched forward, rattling down the cobbled streets. 

As they rounded the corner, the roar of the mob reached a crescendo, a grotesque symphony of triumph and bloodlust. It echoed in his ears, a haunting reminder of what awaited them. Y/N leaned heavily against him, her body trembling as she covered her face with shaking hands, bent double as if the weight of the world bore down on her fragile frame. For a moment, he feared she might be sick again.

After a silence that stretched like a taut wire, she slowly lifted her head, her eyes glistening. “I don’t understand why I’ve turned into a watering pot.”

“It’s the good and kind nature within you,” he murmured, though he felt the tremor in his own voice.

“It’s never good to revel in the death of one of God’s children, even if he was a very bad man.” She sniffled into her handkerchief, and gradually, the plush upholstery of the carriage seemed to embrace her weary form, pulling her back from the brink of despair.

“True. He was indeed a most depraved individual, but now we shall never have to worry about him again.”

“Do you think he really would have followed through on his threats against me?” She looked at him, eyes wide with fear.

“It’s hard to say for certain. But if his madness regarding his wife’s lover is any indication, I’m relieved to think you need not worry about his intentions any longer.” 

28 February 1816

11:54 pm

“I swear to God himself, if I am not allowed to see my wife this instant, I shall break down the door!” Seokjin's voice reverberated through the upper halls of Willow Hill as he pounded on the door to their shared bedchamber, desperation clawing at him.

Y/N had been laboring for nearly twenty hours. The doctor had even consented to allow the local midwife to assist, though his reluctant agreement came with warnings laced with disapproval. 

Just as Seokjin was about to start kicking the door, he heard the soft click of the lock. A frightened, doe-eyed maid opened the door, stepping aside just in time as he barreled past her into the room.

Y/N sat hunched over on a peculiar chair, sweat beading on her forehead and clinging to her hair. On either side of her stood their mothers, both wearing matching scowls, while Siobhan, the midwife, whispered instructions into Y/N’s ear, her voice thick and accented. 

When Siobhan glanced up, her eyes sparkled with an unsettling gleam. Her hair was a wild halo of gray curls, and her face bore the deep lines of age, looking like an apple left too long in the orchard—wrinkled, desiccated.

“The babby is almost here,” she crooned, “but she be waitin’ fer her own special day. This'un is sure to be full o’ spirit.” Her words slurred together, but the meaning hung in the air, heavy and ripe.

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Y/N grunted, a fresh wave of pain coursing through her. “Ooooh, another…”

“Bear down and push, lovey. ’Tis almost done. Are ye ready to catch, doctor?” 

“Hush, witch. I know how to bring a child into the world,” snapped the doctor, irritation coating his every word.

“Kim, come take my place,” Seokjin’s mother urged, but he hardly heard her over the pounding of his heart.

“We’ve only ever talked about names for a boy,” he murmured, glancing at the doctor’s bloodied hand reaching for a towel. 

“Och, there he goes,” Siobhan said, her voice laced with disapproval, and that was the last thing Seokjin remembered before the world around him faded to black.

Everything became muffled, foggy, like he was submerged in deep water. He tried to reach for Y/N’s voice, but his limbs felt like lead, unresponsive. 

Then, a sharp, acrid smell invaded his senses, burning his nostrils. His eyes shot open, heart racing as he scanned the room, confused and disoriented. He was on the floor of his chamber, the strange chair gone, the chaotic mess of moments before replaced by eerie calm. How long had he been unconscious?

A familiar wrinkled face appeared above him. “Ah, there ye be. ’Tis why we don’t let the papas in until after the wee ones are born.”

“Y/N!” he gasped, shaking off the haze. “Where is my wife?”

“I’m right here, my lord.”

He rose unsteadily, dread curling in his stomach, and turned slowly toward her voice. Y/N lay on the bed in a fresh, white nightdress, hair neatly plaited over one shoulder, and cradled in her arms was a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets, a serene infant nestled against her.

He stumbled forward, drawn by an unseen force, and perched next to her, awe washing over him. Siobhan’s departing words barely registered as he soaked in the sight of his wife and child. 

“Y/N, my beautiful Y/N. How do you fare?” he whispered, his heart swelling.

A knowing smile danced on her lips. “You fainted, my lord.”

He felt the warmth of laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He remained silent, mesmerized by the tiny rosebud lips of their child. “I hope everyone has sworn an oath to take the events of this room to the grave.”

“Oh dear, I do believe we forgot to summon a magistrate for such proceedings.”

“Then I will assume the entire township, nay the whole of Hampshire, will know of my weak constitution by midday.” He sighed, resting his head on her shoulder, feeling the weight of the world lift just slightly. After a contemplative silence, he asked, “Was she right? Siobhan, I mean.”

“Does it matter?”

“You are alive. The child is alive. Of course it matters.”

He watched as Y/N’s fingers traced the soft strands of reddish-brown hair that crowned their daughter’s head. “She was right. You have a daughter, my love.”

“A girl,” he breathed, the word heavy with meaning. “Was she indeed born on the twenty-ninth?”

“Yes, she waited until it was two minutes past midnight. Siobhan was right on both counts. She wanted to have her own special day.”

The thought struck him like a chill in the night air—he would never survive having a daughter. Anxiety twisted in his chest, coiling around his heart until it clenched painfully with every beat.

Y/N must have sensed his turmoil, her gaze steady and soothing. “Please don’t give yourself an apoplexy thinking of suitors and her coming out. We have many, many years before that becomes an issue.”

“You know me too well, my sweet. But it changes nothing. I would go to the ends of the earth to protect my ladies’ honor.”

He extended his arms, lifting the stirring infant into his embrace. “What shall we call her?”

Y/N tucked the blankets around her legs, her smile illuminating the dim room. “I was thinking perhaps, Lady Caroline Marie Kim, in honor of your late father.”

“Perfect. My mother will be deeply touched.” He marveled at the strength of the little fist that curled around his finger. “She will need a brother to protect her. When shall we start working on that endeavor?”

Y/N arched an eyebrow and shook her head. “You may address that subject with me in three or four years’ time. Until then, do I need to cloister myself in a separate bedchamber?”

Seokjin’s grin took on a mischievous edge as he shook his head. “I don’t think I can bear to sleep without you, my love. I promise I will behave.”

But beneath the surface of their laughter, a dark shadow lingered—a reminder that the world outside could be as dangerous as it was beautiful. And it wouldn’t be until the twenty-ninth of February 1820, that a boy, the next Earl of Rushmore, would arrive.

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[7ndipity]

Their Ideal Types

Ot7

Summary: What I believe the members ideal types would be.

Warnings: Swearing, not proofread

A/N: Thanks to the lovely anon who requested this! Please bear in mind tho that these are just my personal opinions, based on what I’ve observed from their personalities and with some references to their astrology charts(if you’re not into that, just ignore those points on each list)

Masterlist

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Jin:

His Capricorn venus means that he’s a little old fashioned in his style of romance, which I think reflects in his statements in the past about being a classic hopeless romantic. He wants someone who he can sweep off their feet and eventually settle down with.

I don’t think he has a huge preference on age, I feel like he’d kinda want either a little older/younger rather than the same age tho.

He’s said once that he wanted someone a little on the chubby side(granted, this was years ago, so I don’t know if that’s still true), he also strikes me as someone who would be drawn more to the classic ‘girly’ vibe(pastel colors, flowy layers, fluffy sweaters, etc) but I think the main vibe he’d look for in a partner is comfort. I don’t quite know how else to describe it other than ‘Ghibli vibes’ if that makes sense?

He would want someone with a classy/graceful air, who’s confident in themselves and not afraid to take the lead sometimes and stand up for themselves.

Someone mature, but not too serious, with a good sense of humor and who’s not afraid to be silly sometimes. Someone affectionate, but not overly clingy.

Someone patient and understanding, who makes it easy for him to open up and be vulnerable.

Yoongi:

Pisces are already very deep feeling signs, but coupled with his Venus in Aries, Yoongi can sometimes come off rather intense in regards to relationships. He’s very matter of fact about his feelings sometimes, and I think he wants someone who can match his frankness. He doesn’t have patience for mind games, if you’re into him, fucking say it.

He’s said before that he doesn’t really have a type, at least when it comes to physical appearances or styles. Imo tho, I feel like he would be into someone with a casual, more tomboyish style(oversized hoodies/sweaters, layered shirts, sneakers, shorter hair)

Doesn’t really have a preference on age either.

He’s said before that he wanted someone similar to himself, with a deep passion for music and creating. Obviously, that doesn’t mean you have to be a professional artist/musician(I actually think he would prefer someone outside the industry, or at least outside the Idol/Kpop sphere), but he definitely needs someone who’s a fellow creative type who can understand that side of him.

Someone patient and warm, with an infectious energy that can help bring his mood up(kinda like Hobi), with a sharp sense of humor like his own.

I think he would like someone who’s somewhat independent, who knows what they want and isn’t willing to take shit from anyone.

Hobi:

His Pisces Venus means he’s very go with the flow when it comes to relationships, so he would want something very relaxed, without any chase or mind games, or anything too rushed either. He wants someone he can just ‘be’ with.

I think he’d prefer someone slightly younger, not significantly tho, just a couple years or so.

I think he’d be into someone ‘cute’, though maybe not necessarily in fashion sense, moreso just their general energy. Style-wise, I think he’d like someone who similar taste as him, more streetwear type clothes.

Someone bright and easygoing, who’s equally happy with going out or staying at home and doing nothing. Someone energetic, who not afraid to be silly at times.

Someone very sweet, kind and gracious(lowkey think he would be into the “mom friend” personality)

He’s said before he wanted to feel cherished in a relationship, so I think he would want someone he can take care of, big fan of skinship(bordering on a little clingy). Someone who makes him feel needed/wanted, who dotes on him over little things.

Namjoon:

Namjoon is like a textbook Virgo, very grounded and practical. However, his Venus in Scorpio means he’s quite intense emotionally and sexually, so he would want a partner that can balance or match his intensity.

I think he would prefer someone his age or slightly younger.

I remember Jk saying once that Joon was into the ‘cute but sexy’ vibe, and I think that’s still true to an extent, he finds people with range very attractive. I don’t know that he really has a preferred style, maybe something more simplistic like his?

He would definitely like someone confident and independent, who can hold their own in a conversation or argument, but still polite and open minded. Someone that can challenge him and his own perceptions.

Someone intelligent, career/goal driven, and creatively minded, someone who he can go to museums/art exhibits with.

I think he would also really like someone who’s into fitness and working out like he is(lowkey loves the idea of gym dates), but it’s not a necessity for him.

Jimin:

He’s a classic Libra to his core(which I love abt him but it also drives me crazy). As much as he loves to tease, he doesn’t have the patience for too much chase or playing hard to get. He wants someone who’ll be honest about their feelings.

I think he would want someone close to his age, a little older/younger doesn’t make much difference to him.

He said before that he tends to prefer cuter appearance/vibes, but with his Venus in Scorpio, I think he would be drawn to someone with a bit of a darker, sensual contrast in their personality or looks, kinda like him.

He’s a hopeless romantic,(his favorite movies are the Notebook and Like Crazy, he’s a major softie) wants someone he can fall with and yeah, be a bit melodramatic with.

Someone warm, but slightly introverted, maybe even a little shy. Someone kind, open minded, and patient, but willing to stand up and speak their mind when they need to.

Someone who makes him feel needed(another Libra trait) Someone who can keep up with, or even match, his flirty nature.

Taehyung:

As an Aquarius Venus, he tends to be drawn towards people with unique, unconventional beauty/style. He wants someone who’s not afraid to go against the norm to be themselves(tho he would love it if you have similar love for vintage aesthetic like him)

Idk why, but he gives me “When Harry met Sally” vibes. Like, despite his fascination with romanticism as an aesthetic, I think he really prefers to go the friends to lovers route. He wants someone he feels comfortable with first and foremost. He falls slowly and then all at once.

I don’t think he has much preference on age, but he’d probably like someone his age or maybe slightly older.

I think he’d kinda be into the “mom friend” personality. I’ve said it before, he really likes being taken care of, even if it’s just in little ways like fixing his hair or buttoning his coat before he leaves in the morning.

Someone slightly more extroverted, who makes friends easily, likes kids and animals.

Someone sensitive and mature, but who he can still be goofy and random with, who’ll play along with his skits and tangents(like jimin does)

Jungkook:

Although he seems more drawn towards classic feminine style, I think he’d actually find someone with a similar style to his really attractive, even if it’s just in color palette. I don’t think he really has a type stylistically tho.

Despite Libra Venus’ tendency to look for partners that they have an immediate connection with, they actually prefer the ‘friends to lovers’ route, and I think that’s very accurate for him.

He’s kinda into the chase(literally the entire Seven video like👀), so he likes a partner that plays a little hard to get and teases/challenges him sometimes, but only sometimes.

I think he’d prefer someone his age, or maybe even a little older(He has a noona/hyung kink, I will die on this hill)

Like Joon, I think he’d really appreciate who’s into fitness/working out/boxing(lowkey, if you can hold your own wrestling with him, he’s got heart eyes)

Someone confident, independant, and artistic with a good sense of humor. Someone well mannered and patient(rudeness is an instant turnoff for him). Someone who can challenge him, but in a gentle, non-critical manner.

Taglist: @sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow @coffeedepressionsoup @main-bangtansmauyeondan @feminympho @a-gayish-unicorn @captainorangegoose @k4ngelz

[leclucklerc]

Roses and Peonies CL16 - Oneshot

Pairings: Charles Leclerc x kpop idol!reader

Summary: When it was announced that bts will do their military service soon, y/n was scared to be left alone. She's scared that the world that she had known before will change, leaving her drowning in her loneliness. That is until she met a man with warm green eyes and dimpled smile.

Words: 14.2k

Masterlist

It was a beautiful scene. More beautiful that anything that she had ever seen before. 

Of thousands of stars like lights flashing around them. Of the adoring cheers and devotions that’s being thrown towards their way.

Of the love, that they could fell reverberating all across the stadium.

Y/n thinks that she wants to live like this forever. To savor this moment and make sure that it will last until the end of time. Of these beautiful lights and firework. Of these adoring chants and confession of devotions. Of this very moment.

She doesn’t want to forget it.

She wants to make this last.

And then, everything stopped.

.

Honestly, when it was decided that the boys are going to do their mandatory military service, y/n found herself a bit at a loss.

Her family knows it. The members know it. Heck, even the company knows it.

It makes sense after all. She had dedicated more than ten years of her life for the band. All of her youth and early twenties had been solely focused on bts and bts only. To make sure that the band stays together. To make sure, that the band will keep becoming bigger and bigger. Reaching new heights together.

Y/n didn’t regret it. How could she?

After all, those ten years were the highlight of her life. All the bitter memories from her trainee days became something fond to look back to. All of the sweat and tears that she had shed during her days as bts became rows of achievements and beautiful memories. It was amazing, the most beautiful moments of her life.

It almost made her forget that everything in this world will come to an end. The laughs that they shared, the group hugs, as well as the cheers from their fans. A bittersweet feeling always swells up inside of her chest at the mere thought.

Life as a celebrity will only treat you good when you’re still young. That statement is even more true in the idol industry where youth and visuals reign supreme over anything. Even bts – with all of their achievements, all of the things that they had contributed to South Korea – will became the victim of this statement sooner or later. 

Yoongi-oppa had always said that he doesn’t want them to crash landed when they’re at the top. He wants them to land slowly but surely. A safe landing point that marks the end of their career as a musician in the future.

(It’s terrifying. Y/n is scared.)

She knows that there’s nothing forever in this world. And yet, when she realized that the members will be doing their military service soon – leaving y/n alone – she finds herself to be at lost.

“Maybe it’s time for you to find a boyfriend,” said Namjoon-oppa, leaning back on the sofa in front of her. There’s beers and other alcoholic drinks in front of them. She thinks they’re already drunk at this point, but trust Namjoon-oppa to still be able to give her advice despite his own state of drunkenness.

Y/n laughed. “You’re crazy,” she said, nestling his head on one of the many pillows located in the older’s studio. “Dating scandal is a death sentence.”

“We’re already in our 10th year,” shrugged the male. “It would be inhumane if we never experience the joys of love.”

The female fell silent at that. 

She knows that the other members had their own fair share of love story. Discreet ones that they had never dare to publicized. After all, a dating scandal is something major in the South Korean entertainment industry. You can end your career just for falling in love. Even bts, the biggest Asian act that had ever came out in the past decade, is not an exception to that fact. A harsh reality for them who is part of this toxic cycle.

To y/n, she had avoided it like it’s a plague. Her presence in bts had been controversial enough. She doesn’t want people to say that she’s fucking the members – people who are like her own siblings – behind the scenes. There are already enough talks about that. If she ever gets caught up in a dating scandal?

It will not only be the end of her career. But also, bts.

Though, listening Namjoon-oppa tonight, it really seems as if it’s a good idea. She’s already entering her 10th year as an idol. She had many accomplishments, making South Korea proud and breaking records with every release. 

Maybe, just maybe, falling in love with someone is not a death sentence.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for her to learn to live like a human and not the entertainment industry doll.

“Do you really think that that’s a good idea?” she asked after a moment of silence. “I don’t want to inconvenience you or the other members…”

Namjoon-oppa actually let out a laugh at that. “All of us had dated anyone before,” he said, taking a gulp from the alcohol on his glass. “Is that an inconvenience to you?”

“No,” she replied almost immediately, mind recalling all the people that had come and go over the years. Some are celebrities some are not. 

“See?” said the male. “The same thing will also be applied to us.”

Y/n nodded, nursing the glass that she’s holding. She’s still a bit hesitant. Finding love had never been her priority, considering how busy she was. And to make finding love a goal during the band hiatus? Doesn’t it seem to be a bit too shallow?

The other members are preparing their solo album while here she is contemplating if she should date someone or not.

She can already see the media headlines.

Namjoon-oppa seems to have sensed her hesitancy because he decided to speak up again. “I know how you get when you’re feeling lonely, I’m just scared that when all of us leave for military… you won’t have your support system anymore.”

Ouch. 

Though, isn’t that the truth?

Maybe it’s because for more than ten years, she had grown up with people around her. Her close siblings – even though they didn’t share a drop of blood – that had always been there for her. Her personal emotional babysitter. The people that she can always count on.

It seems a bit pathetic that her state of mental wellbeing is relying on 100% to these seven men. But these seven men are her best friends. The people that she’s closest to. Her soulmates.

Her soulmates, that’s going away for months.

“Maybe,” she finally said. “Maybe I will consider it.”

Namjoon-oppa let out a laugh at that. 

.

Y/n l/n debuted under Bighit entertainment when she was 15, going 16.

A wide-eyed half foreign girl in the midst of the glitz and glamor of the kpop industry. A wide eyed and naïve girl being thrusted straight into fake Versace and the harsh entertainment industry without much of a preparation.

To be fair though, y/n thinks that no one can prepare enough things before they debuted.

It was a controversial debut back then. Still is even compared to today’s standard. For a girl to debut in a co-ed group where the remaining members are boys her age. Some had called it inhumane; some had called it insane; some had called it feeding off the female or even the male fantasy.

Even now, critics would always say that bighit is the only company to be ballsy and desperate enough to do that kind of thing. The company that was going bankrupt in 2013 and bet everything that they had to a controversial co-ed group without a clear future.

There are many nasty things being thrown around here and there back then. Insults to degrading remarks. Things that can make any newly debuted group to regret to ever stepped into the entertainment industry. 

Bts initial concept too, didn’t help. Wannabe rappers, fake k-hiphop, weird band name, from the tamest insult to the most vicious ones, they had been called by it.

To y/n though, she would call it family.

After all, bts is the only thing that she could call as normalcy in her life. After her family moved from Italy to South Korea – the country where her mother comes from – she was immediately whisked into the grueling trainee life. She was never good at school to start with, making her job as a trainee her only focus.

It was then when she entered bighit entertainment, a small entertainment company. It was also then, that her life changed when she was being put into the debut lineup almost immediately.

Her life had always been consisted of bts and the members. The first thing that appeared inside of her mind when she starts her day is bts and the last thing that appeared inside of her mind before she went to sleep is bts. Always bts.

Many – even the members – had praised her dedication for the group. Saying that it’s good for her to consider the group as something so important that she puts it on top of her priority list. Y/n could agree on that. After all, she knows nothing but bts in her life. The group itself made her life to have a meaning. It made her to develop a sense of purpose in this world.

To make music.

To make music that can help people.

To make music, that people can lean on to during their hardest time. 

Well, who would’ve thought that bts would become the world biggest group?

Certainly not her.

When bts took off internationally, it had been an almost surreal experience to them. After all, all they want is to win in a fucking Music Bank. Who would've thought that just two years after their first win, they would perform in the VMAs. Who would've thought that they're going to win billboard awards left and right?

And that had only been the start.

Stadium tours, multiple number one albums, multiple number one songs, the most famous people in the world.

Maybe that's why love had never been her priority. Besides the dating scandal thing, she had been way too busy for the past few years. She could barely saw her family, let alone thinking to start a relationship.

It was to the point that y/n genuinely thought that maybe love is just not for her.

That love, is not something that she can attain in this lifetime.

.

The meeting room is almost empty. Way emptier than usual.

Y/n sat there, legs crossed on top of the chair as she stared at her PR manager and manager going through some papers. She could hear some of the interns on the background, murmuring about something with hushed breath.

“Despite the band hiatus,” started her manager. “We’re going to start a lot of solo activity, especially for you.”

She ignored the weird feeling that appeared inside of her chest when she imagined doing her job alone. She ignored the emptiness that spread inside of her as she realized that there will be no more boisterous laughter and weird antics happening on the background.

She ignored the fear that appeared inside of her at the mere thought of being alone.

She ignored all of that as she nodded her head. “Yes,” said the female. “I understand.”

.

At the start of December, she went to Paris.

It’s her first solo schedule. The company told her that she’s going there to shoot promotions and campaigns for Prada. It’s a big deal, as she was set to become their newest global ambassador. After the announcement of their hiatus, many brands had contacted her, offering her the position of global ambassador.

She guesses it was for the fact that she’s not tied exclusively with bts anymore. That in order to sign her, the brands don’t have to sign the band anymore. 

Bitter, she thought as she read the contract over and over. There’s an odd feeling that rose up inside of her chest as she stared at her name. Only her name and devoid of the other members.

Kim Namjoon

Kim Seokjin

Min Yoongi

Jung Hoseok

Park Jimin

Kim Taehyung

Y/n L/n

Jeon Jungkook

Only her name. 

She signed it, heart aching inside her chest.

There’s not much going on over the signing of the contract and the shoots itself. She was told on things that she must do and what not. The clothes that she should be wearing during her promotions, as well as the events that she must attend during her stay in Paris.

The event that she’s attending tonight is one of them.

It’s a charity ball meant for the wealthy and famous. The event itself was held to raise money to help the art and sport sector, a good goal if the money will actually be given to struggling artist and athletes, not those who comes from privilege.

But she can’t comment on that.

“A lot of executives will be there,” informed her manager as he draped a jacked over her bare shoulder when they exit their hotel. Flashes of camera immediately appeared as yells and screams could be heard all around them. “Directors, CEOs, star athletes.”

Y/n let out a hum at that, processing that information internally.

It didn’t take long for them to arrive at the five-star hotel where the event is being held. And as expected, there are so many rich and famous people in the venue. People that y/n had worked with the previous years, people that is working with her, to the people that wants to work with y/n in the future. 

“I saw your billboard near the Louvre, it was phenomenal!”

“I heard that your band is breaking up? If you’re interested my next movie-“

“The met gala is happening in May and-“

She was far too exhausted to plaster a genuine smile. The jet lag catching up to her and all the pent up stress that she had harbor for the past few weeks continue to pile inside of her. So many faces and so many names to remember, it made her dizzy for a bit.

Maybe that what guides her to the bar, desperately searching for a bit of an alone time during the hustle and bustle of the party. She didn’t even remember how many designers and actors had given her their personal contact. No doubt salivating at the thought of finally having y/n l/n work for them, not as a group. But individually.

Manicured nails tapped the bar softly as she watched the bartender made her order. From the corner of her eyes, she could see other people eyeing her, no doubt wanting to make conversation. 

She really should get going from here before-

“Rough night?” asked a voice besides her.

Ah, too late. 

Turning her head, her eyes met warm green ones. A man, maybe around her age, with dark hair and dimpled smile was staring at her. He’s wearing a suit, a clear indicator that he’s also part of the exclusive guest list.

Handsome, thought y/n idly, eyeing the man in front of her. He certainly fit the conventional standard of beauty for men from his large eyes to charming smile. But she’s standing in a room full of celebrities. Everyone is good looking here.

“You can say that” she said, smiling a bit to hide her uneasiness. “I was just a bit overwhelmed.”

The guy laughed at that. “I can certainly relate to that,” he said. She realized there’s a hint of accent on his English.

“Oh, you’re French?” asked the female after realizing.

“Monegasque actually.”

Y/n hummed. “I never met a Monegasque before.”

“Well, there’s not a lot of us around,” he answered cheekily. The bartender appeared, giving her, her drink. “So, what brings you here tonight?”

It was such a cliché line that she almost snorted. There’s no reason to ask what brings her here tonight because it’s the same reason why the guy is even here. It’s obvious that they were invited to this gala in order to make this charity event look more glamorous. To paint them in a better light as someone who likes to donate and gives back to the poor.

“The same reason as you?” said y/n, leaning forward towards the bar. “Trying to find someone who is alone at the bar and flirt with them?” It was supposed to be a sarcastic reason, a sign for the male that she’s not interested.

Though, instead of being offended, he took it as a good humor as another round of laugh erupted from him. “Am I? flirting with you?” he said, tilting his head.

The female stared at him, blinking. “Are you not?” she asked as if she was stating the obvious.

“Well, I am,” he said with a grin. She can’t help but notice the way his eyes crinkled at that, giving the warm green orbs a more welcoming look. “You have a nice set of eyes; do you know that? I can probably get lost in them.”

That flirting is way too corny and old school that she can’t help the loud laugh that she lets out. The uneasiness that had bubbled on her chest dissipated almost immediately. If her manager is around her, she will probably scold her for that ungraceful manner. “Seriously?” she asked. “Are we playing that kind of game right now?”

“Can’t we?” asked the guy. “It’s fun.”

“Mhm, whatever you say Mr. Casanova,” she said with a hum, heart light. “Don’t you think you should buy me another drink then?”

He shrugged, “I certainly can,” started the guy. “But I don’t want you to drink too much.”

“Why?”

“So that you can remember this conversation and tell your friends that you met an unforgettable guy during this event.”

The laugh that she lets out is more genuine than anything that she had done ever since her arrival at the charity gala. The guy seems to realize this as he too, joined on her laugh.

“I know, it’s bad,” he said. “I’m not the best at flirting.”

“Really?” said y/n. “I would’ve thought otherwise.”

He grinned before thrusting his hand towards her. “Should we start over?” said the male. “My name is Charles.”

She noted the lack of last name. Good. “Y/n,” said the female as she shook his hand. “Pleasure.”

It is a pleasure, because before she knew it, the both of them fell into a deep conversation about music.

Charles seems to be an artist himself, or maybe a huge music fan. He talked about the latest releases to the old ones. The male talked about his co-worker who had a deep love for the 90s rock to his own taste of classical music, even confessing that he had attended numerous concert about it.

Y/n too, talked about music. She talked about how high quality the latest release had been. How there seems to be some kind of trend in the music industry lately. How there seems to be a newer and more talented singer each passing day.

It surprised her a bit, that Charles is a good talker and listener. He seems genuinely interested at what she’s saying, As if she’s not talking about the nerdy side of the music industry. As if she’s not mostly rambling about herself.

The male asked intriguing questions, humming at the appropriate times, and even broaden the subject with his own knowledge.

She didn’t know how long they talked, maybe hours, because the moment she realized that they had been talking too long was the moment when her phone buzzed as a text from her manager appeared.

Ah, thought the female, glancing at the watch that Charles is wearing. I have to go back soon.

There’s a sense of disappointment that appeared inside of her chest when she realized that it was the end of their conversation.

Charles seems to realize her disappointment because he immediately raised his eyebrows, “Something wrong?” he asked, tone full of worry.

“No,” she replied, taking her handbag. “I just realized that I have to go back soon.”

The male probably thought it was weird considering that the gala is going on full swing without a sign of stopping, but well, she has a strict schedule. She has to go to an early photoshoot tomorrow. 

“Let me walk you out then,” said Charles as he straightened up, offering his hand.

Y/n stared at the offering hand, pondering about her decision for a bit before she curled her arm around it. “Okay then.”

The walk towards the exit took longer than expected because there are a lot of people that went to greet them. Designers, directors, fellow musicians. On Charles side, she too recognized a lot of people went to greet him. Though she doesn’t know any of them.

He probably doesn’t work in the entertainment industry then, thought the female.

“Should I drive you back to your hotel?” asked Charles as the both of them exited the ballroom where the charity gala was hosted. It was quiet, a far cry from the loud music and the chatters that had surrounded them previously.

Thinking about the offer, she shook her head, “No,” she replied. “My friend will pick me up.” It’s her manager.

At that, the male look disappointed.

It was at that moment, y/n made a choice that changed the course of her life. She doesn’t know what made her do it. Maybe it’s the pouty look that Charles is giving her or maybe it’s just her lonely self craving for love.

She doesn’t know the exact reason was but-

Inside of her purse, y/n rejected the call from her manager.

“You know what,” started the female. “I really enjoy talking to you.”

“Me too,” replied Charles.

“I heard there’s… a really good place to eat late night snacks around here,” she continues. “Do you want to go there?”

It’s blinding. Charles smile is blinding.

.

They ended up eating a late-night snack that night. It ruined her diet and Charles also confessed that this ruined his own diet too.

Though, the both of them doesn’t seems to care, too engrossed with each other.

Charles continues to give her bad flirting attempts and she too, replied with her own version of flirtation. It was fun. It made her felt a bit free. 

She could feel her phone continue to buzz throughout their late night escapades – certainly from her manager – and y/n decided to ignore it. If she had thought that Charles looks handsome under the dim lighting that the charity event provided, under a proper lighting he looks stunning.

Charles had denied being in the entertainment industry and y/n signed in shame. He could certainly make good money with a face like that.

When the night was ending, she lets Charles to drive her back to her hotel.

They arrived through the back door, a far more discreet entrance where no paparazzi and fans can enter. 

“Thank you for tonight,” she said as the male opened the car door for her. “I really enjoy it.”

“I should be the one saying that,” replied Charles with a large grin.

There’s a sudden silence between the two of them, as if they doesn’t know what to say. Should she say see you later? Or is this a one time thing?

It would be a shame if this is a one time thing. It’s been awhile since she enjoys her night like this. The silence was broken when the male decided to speak up.

“Tomorrow,” started the male, staring directly towards her. “Do you have any plan for dinner?”

Y/n immediately ransacked her brain for tomorrow’s schedule.

“No,” she said. “I’m free for dinner.”

And at that, he reached out for her hand. Y/n didn’t flinch, completely lowering her guard for this man before her. He brought it towards his lips, giving it a small kiss.

“Then,” said the male, smiling. “Have a dinner with me?”

Thump, her heart beats once. Twice.

Thumpthumpthumpthump-

“Yes,” she answered, large grin overtaking her face. “I would love to.”

.

They went on a dinner the next day, in a small quaint restaurant that’s overlooking the Eiffel tower. If y/n was not charmed by that gesture, she would’ve called it cliché, but fuck it. She was definitely charmed by the dinner that they had.

Maybe it’s because of the small gesture that Charles did – opening the car door, holding the door for her, asking what her favorites are. Maybe it’s because the food they’re eating was just good. Maybe it’s because she’s just weak for a candle lit dinner in Paris. 

She really doesn’t know what’s the reason. All she knows is that she didn’t stop smiling throughout the night.

It’s a bit weird but talking with Charles was unexpectedly easy. She found out that he can speaks Italian fluently, making them converse in Italian all night long. He said it was because of his job, making him need to stay in Italy for some part of the year. They talked about various topics. Like their hobbies where she found out that he can play the piano and from what he claimed, he can play it really well.

“You sure about that?” she had teased him. “I also can play the piano really well.”

Charles had laughed at that. “Should we have a piano battle then?”

They talked about their life,

“I was born and raised in Monaco,” said the male. “Though I have to travel a lot because of my job.”

“I was born in Italy,” said y/n. “My family moved to South Korea when I was in elementary school.”

Talked about their favorite food,

“Caprese salad,” he said as he nudged the salad in front of her. “It’s my favorite.”

“I never really liked cucumber,” said the female, grinning a bit stupidly. “Much prefer tomato over it.”

Talked about their favorite things,

"I like flowers, especially peonies," she had said, remembering the peonies that her dad would gave her mom almost weekly. "I will probably become a florist in my next life."

He hummed. "I will probably be a... mechanic?"

Talked about their family,

“I’m an only child,” said y/n. “Though I do have close friends that I thought of as my brothers.”

“Really?” asked Charles. “How long have you guys been friends?”

She pondered a bit. “More or less 10 years maybe? Or eleven and twelve?” 

He chuckled. “I also have friends that I know since primary school,” said the male. “The eight of us.”

“But do you have any siblings?”

“I do have an older and younger brother.”

They talked about everything and yet nothing.

Y/n soon realized that the both of them are avoiding certain topics. Like what their jobs are or topics that could probably disclose more of their identity. Oddly, she found herself really liking it.

She doesn’t even know Charles’s last name. She knows almost everything about him but his identity. She doesn’t know anything about the man that’s laughing and sharing dinner with her tonight.

And yet, she doesn’t seem to mind.

This sense of anonymity gave her a safe blanket. It seems a bit fucked up, but she finds the fact that they’re both not disclosing their identity to each other is a good thing. Maybe it’s the wariness, or how she already got used to not trust people easily.

All she knows is that she likes this. This easy conversation and banter that they share with each other.

If she had thought that the dinner was charming, the stroll that they did around Paris that night is more than charming. There’s just something a bit special to walking around the city of love late at night, laughing and talking with someone that you find attractive.

Charles is really playful, always trying to make her giggle throughout the walk. He would ask her to do a failed rendition of a ballroom dance under a streetlight, or he would tell her about the odd history or even his own funny experiences during his previous trips to Paris.

It’s been a while since she laughed that hard.

That one dinner turned into another and another. It’s been three days since they had dinner together every day.

Y/n found herself surprised at that. After all, she’s used to always not let anyone get too close to her. Too used to guarding her heart too tightly, not letting anyone in easily.

Charles though.

Charles with warm green eyes and dimpled smile.

Charles who had talked about his home in Monaco with a too wide smile and sparkling eyes.

Charles who had told her about his travels all around the world – regaling tales about the many cuisines and cultures that he had experienced.

Charles who had looked at her with so much warmth and made her laugh every night.

It made her want to belief. To believe that the warmth that Charles gave her is true. That all the kindness and loving words that he had directed towards her during these past few days is true. That all of this is not a ploy to just get into her pants or a ploy to leech off her fame.

Maybe it’s okay to open her heart up for a bit. To let this giddy like feeling to consume her as she forgets about all the repercussion this small rendezvous can impact her.

To let herself enjoy the wonders of love for the first time.

Please, she had thought as they once again stroll around Paris late at night. If this is a dream, don’t wake me up.

“Hey,” she called out, catching his attention. “I was wondering.”

“Hm?” hummed the male as he kissed their interlocked hands. “What is it, chérie?” 

Looking around, y/n turned towards the male. “I was wondering how you even knew so many streets with so few people?” she asked. “Like I’ve been wondering how we even avoided meeting so many people during our stroll?”

She had thought walking around in Paris a bit risky. There are far too many people that knew her and far too many paparazzi dying to know an inside scoop about her personal life. Though, oddly, these past few days, they hardly met any people during their walk. 

The female had been suspicious at first, glancing at Charles with doubts on her face. Though, the male acted as if there’s nothing wrong. It seems, the male knew the reason.

Charles fell silent at that. 

Y/n thought that she had hit a landmine. That her question is something a bit too personal to him. Immediately, she backtracked. “I mean-!” she started. “I mean if you don’t want to answer is okay! Like I’m pretty sure you’re not a serial killer or anything because you haven’t killed me these past few days- I’m not calling you a killer though!”

The male stared at her; amusement clear on his eyes as she continues to fumble around.

“What I want to say is,” she finally said, stressing out the word. “If you don’t want to answer it’s okay.”

Charles let out a laugh at that, almost making her stumble with how violent his shoulder shook. “Ah, I can’t believe the girl that I had flirted with – heavily I must add – for the past few days really thinks I’m a serial killer.”

“I’m not saying that!” hissed out y/n, pouting a bit. “Did you miss the bit when I said I’m pretty sure that you’re not a serial killer?”

“No, no, no, I heard that alright,” he said, grinning as one of his hands pulled her cheek a bit. “Mignonne.” Cute.

“Stop doing that!”

Charles didn’t stop and his grin merely getting wider. “I’m glad though,” he said as he untangled their hands so that now both of his hands are now pinching her cheeks. “That we established the fact that I’m not a killer.”

Y/n glared at him, hands flying up to hold the hands that’s on her cheek. “Whatever,” she said. “Forget that I even asked.”

The asshole let out a louder laugh at that. “Don’t pout,” he said as he tugged her lips upward. “It’s not a good look on your pretty face, chérie.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “I still look pretty,”

“True.”

“Okay! Don’t distract me with your flirting,” said y/n, huffing. “Are you going to answer my question or not? Because it’s perfectly fine if you don’t.”

“Well,” started the male, still cradling her face as his thumb brushed the apple of her cheek. “I have a… good answer to that.”

“Really?” asked y/n as she released the man’s hands from her cheek, holding it together with her hand as she looked up to him. “You want to tell me?”

He looks a bit hesitant at that. As if he’s debating something inside of his head. She didn’t know what kind of internal mental turmoil that he’s having with himself, though by the end of it, he looks more determined than before.

“I guess you can say it’s because of my job?” said Charles, tilting his head a bit. “I… tend to get recognized a lot.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow at that. “So… you’re famous?”

“In a certain circle, kind of?”

“Huh,” said the female, processing the information a bit. They got that in common then. She’s also famous in certain circles. “And are you comfortable enough to tell me what your job is?”

Charles bit his lips. “I’m… you know, Charles Leclerc.”

Y/n blinked.

“Charles Leclerc?” she repeated, and he nodded. “Leclerc? Is that your family name?”

The male stared at her. “You don’t know me?”

“… Should i?”

“No, no, obviously,” interjected Charles with a small laugh, hand waving around. “It’s just that you went into that charity ball and all, so I thought you will be familiar with my name.”

She tried to remember the event that they both had attended a few days ago. The charity ball that was meant for the art and sports industry.

Charles, obviously, is not from the entertainment industry. Or he could be? Like a producer or director maybe? Y/n is not that familiar with the acting side of the entertainment industry after all. 

Or he could be from the sports industry. Looking at his body- yeah. Athlete.

“Ah,” said the female. “You’re an athlete?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Some would say that I’m not, but I like to think that I am an athlète.”

Oh.

“That’s why I didn’t recognize you,” she said, wonder clear on her eyes. “I’m not really that familiar with athletes – sorry ��� except the ones that’s representing my country and stuff… or like the popular ones like Messi or Ronaldo-“

“Are you telling me I’m not popular?” teased the male. 

“That’s not the point,” she huffed out with a frown and Charles laughed at that. “And I know you must be a popular athlete, you said it yourself,” continue the female. “A bit narcistic but okay.”

“It’s good to have confidence in my line of work.”

Y/n pondered a bit. Should she? It felt a bit unfair to Charles if y/n didn’t say anything about her. He trusted her enough to tell her about his identity after all.

Does she trust Charles though?

She should be terrified how fast a ‘yes’ appeared inside of her mind.

Will he change? will the sweet Charles that she had known these past few days will be gone when he realized who she is. How famous she is. How beneficial it will be for him to continue this... relationship with her.

Again, she should be terrified how fast a 'no' appeared inside of her mind. As if she had trusted this man in front of her her whole life.

“Me too, I guess,” said the female after a while. 

“What?” he asked, humor evident on his tone. “Are you also famous?”

“In certain circles, kind of?” she said, repeating his words from before.

Charles let out a huff of laugh before he grabbed her hands and practically dragged her to one of the benches near them. From here, they’re overlooking the Seine River and she could even see the Eiffel tower in the distance. A bit cliché, but at the same time, y/n loves it a bit too much.

“Should I start?” asked the male, fiddling with her hand. “On confessing about our deepest and darkest secret.”

She giggled. “Sure Romeo, you can start.”

“I’m a driver, racing driver,” he said.

And oh, that’s not bad. Y/n was expecting something much worse. Like a sport that she’s not completely familiar with or know even exist. “In what? Nascar?”

“Formula One, I drive for Ferrari.”

Y/n may have never any interest in racing, but she knows Ferrari. Her father is a big fan of Ferrari when she was little and from what she knows, had followed it almost religiously. She also knows that Formula One is practically the biggest and the most famous racing category right now. To drive for Ferrari in Formula One-

“You’re not lying when you said you were famous,” she said instead.

“Glad that we established that,” he said, amused. “What about you?”

“I’m… a singer, you can say,” she started. “Or an Idol, if you want to use the proper term.”

Charles scrunched his eyebrows. “Idol?”

“You know Kpop?”

“Ah,”

There’s silence between the two of them after that. Charles still playing with her hand and y/n still leaning her weight on his shoulder.

“Does this change anything?” she asked.

“No,” replied Charles almost immediately. “No, it doesn’t.”

She let out a breath that she didn’t even knew she was holding. “Good,” she said. “I like this.”

Charles released her hand before he curled his hand around her shoulder. “Me too,” he said.

.

The predestined one, that’s what they’re calling Charles.

The one that will bring back the championship to Ferrari.

The one that was destined to bring back the glory to Ferrari. 

The sea of red and the Ferrari flags waving with the wind as he passed the checkered flag in Monza. The chants, of him bringing back the championship, that people screamed on top of their lungs every time the male appeared. 

It was fascinating to see the extent of Charles’s popularity. When the male said that he was famous in certain circles, he was really humbling himself down. Because she knows, she knows when someone gave you this kind of devotion, this kind of love, it means that their love for you is more than genuine.

She doesn’t know how many videos of Charles she had watched that night. From his amazing start in 2022 season until his final standings. From his recent races to some fan’s compilation about the male over the years. Hours must have passed because the next thing she knows it’s already bright out there.

Her manager seems to realize her lack of sleep because he had ordered the makeup artist to add an extra concealer for the spot under her eyes. Though, the older didn’t probed more regarding the reason.

Y/n thinks that her manager can already guess the reason. 

“Do you enjoy your late-night rendezvous?” asked the older man.

Looking up from her phone, she raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a problem, right?” asked y/n.

The older male shook his head. “It’s not, as long as you’re being discreet for the time being,” said the male. “We can talk again if you ever want to make your… relationship… public.”

A public relationship. What a terrifying thought.

“We’re still in the talking stage, nothing that serious,” said the female. 

“It is if your partner is Charles Leclerc,” replied her manager. She could see he’s staring at Charles’s Instagram page. “Formula One may not be that big in Korea, but it’s huge all around the world.”

She knows that. She knows how loved Charles is by the people. 

A sea of red. Of Ferrari’s flag waving with the wind. Of screams full of devotion and reverence.

She knows.

“I know,” said y/n, leaning back on her seat. “I’ll talk to you and the company later if our relationship became more… serious.”

“Good,” said the older with a nod. “Now should we review your schedule once again?”

.

Charles is holding a bouquet of roses when she met him that day.

“Ah,” she said, smiling. “For me?”

“Of course,” he grinned as he handed her the flowers. “I just realized I never gave you any flowers, decided to fix that.”

Y/n let out a giggle at that, holding the flowers close to her chest. “We met barely one week ago,” she said.

The male merely shrugged, “One week too late then?” he said. "I can't find any peonies, but I hope roses are a good replacement."

She’s not flustered. She’s not-

The heat radiating from her cheek tells otherwise.

They’re meeting during the day today. It felt a bit scandalous, considering all of their previous meeting had always been late at night.

Though, seeing Charles under the sun is a bit too tempting to missed out. 

The private room that they book had a balcony overlooking Champs-Élysées, a beautiful sight that took her breath away. Charles had told her that a friend of his had recommended this place to him, saying that it’s a good place to have a date as it served enough privacy for them.

Y/n’s heart beats a bit faster when the male casually mentioned that yes, this is a date.

“So, you’re going back tomorrow?” asked the male.

She nodded. “You too right?” asked y/n. “My flight is early in the morning, what about yours?”

“It’s at twelve,” he replied. “Do you want me to drive you to the airport?”

The female laughed at that. “I think I have too many luggage to fit in your Ferrari.”

“You can ask your manager to bring your luggage and I’ll drive you to the airport,” said Charles, as he reached out, intertwining their hands together. “I just thought… we don’t know when can we meet each other again.”

That’s true.

This situationship between the two of them, she doesn’t know if it will last after Paris. She doesn’t know if she can do a long distance… situationship… or if Charles even willing to do that. This date, could be the last date between the two of them.

She hates it.

She hates the mere thought of it.

“Hey,” started the female. “Do you want to continue this?”

Charles stared at her. “I do,” he answered. “What about you?”

“Me too.”

A smile bloomed on his face. “I’m glad,” he said. “I… was afraid that you doesn’t want to continue this… relationship.”

“I don’t know if this will work,” she started, holding his hand tighter. “I don’t even know how this will even work, honestly,” she said again. “We came from two different world, our job demands us to always travel around, and we don’t live in the same country but-“

She stopped.

She thinks, she will regret it forever if she left Charles here. 

She thinks, romance is not something for her if she doesn’t pursue this relationship.

“I would like to try,” finished the female. “I would love to try and see how this relationship will work.”

Y/n thinks a weight had been lifted from her shoulder as she said that. As if, an invisible baggage has been lifted.

The breathtaking smile that appeared on Charles face made her think that she had decided on the correct decision.

“Me too,” said the male. “Let’s do our best, okay?”

They laughed.

.

Charles did drive her to the airport the next day.

It was a blessing that she will be flying private, because the hug and the kiss that Charles gave to her forehead will surely be the headline of every tabloids if someone ever posted it.

.

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could remember everything so vividly.

Of days that was spent on the road. Of the hours spent on an airplane as they flew all across the world. Stadiums to stadiums. From one continent to another. Of thousands of fans cheering their name, repeating words full of love and devotions.

She could always remember it. The big plan that they had prepared as a thank you gift for the fans before the boys will do their military service. Of the countless of hours and so much love that they had devoted in those plans. Something that is full of promise. Things, that can close the first chapter of their career with a bang.

But of course, fate, had never been on their side.

When the pandemic hits and the world went into lockdown, it also means the end of all of their plans. 

Y/n always regrets it. The way they close the first chapter of their career. She just felt that they didn’t gave the fans enough closure of preparations. That they didn’t give them enough devotion to repay back all of their love.

While it’s true they held a free concert for their fans – albeit a bit of a controversial one – she felt that it’s just not enough. They should’ve done more. They should’ve given them more promise that they will be back soon. That bts will not be disbanding and soon they will reunite once again as a group.

But alas, time continue to pass and so it the inevitable.

.

In the middle of December, Jin-oppa went into the military.

It was a cold day. She knows that the training will be harsh and cold. Jin-oppa doesn’t like the cold. She doesn’t like Jin-oppa leaving her like this. Y/n did try to not cry, she really did. But alas, the dam broke, and she went full on sobbing as she clutched the older male tightly.

The oldest member merely laughed, teasing her like usual as he patted her hair. As if he’s not going to leave her. As if, they’re in the middle of their normal banter and not in the middle of a military base.

“Be a good girl okay, n/n?” laughed the oldest member of bts. “Don’t be a brat with Jungkook and listen to the other members well.”

She let out a wet hiccup at that.

“Aigoo,” laughed Hobi-oppa as he slung an arm around her. “Our little n/n is crying because her brothers are going to the military?”

“All of you are so mean,” she grumbled, and she can already imagine the reaction from the fans when today’s Bangtanbomb will be released. “Leaving me all alone here.”

Jin-oppa smiled cheekily at that, grabbing her cheeks. “Don’t be dramatic y/n-ah,” he said with a large grin on his face. “You have other friends besides us, and we’ll still talk on our groupchat.”

“But it’s different from seeing you.”

It’s different because there is no Jin-oppa arriving at her house late at night with a bag full of fried chicken. It’s different because there is no Jin-oppa who always laughed and teased her during dance practice. It’s different because there is no Jin-oppa who always bugs her during vocal lessons, joking with that dry humor of his.

It’s different, because Jin-oppa is only the start.

(All of them will leave her soon.)

They parted soon after that, the members leaving Jin-oppa to say goodbye to his family. All of them continue to linger there, watching the older line up amidst other new recruits. She has to admit he looked good and comfortable there. It seems all the preparation that he did beforehand became useful.

As the entrance ceremony came to an end, they said goodbye to Jin-oppa’s family.

“Wanna eat something?” said Jimin-oppa as all of them walked towards the parking lot. “There’s a new restaurant in Gangnam that’s famous for their Japanese food.”

Y/n made a noncommittal noise at that as the other members agreed on that suggestion. Her eyes trained towards her phone.

Her heart did beat a bit faster than normal.

“Who are you texting?”

“No one,” replied y/n almost immediately, shutting off her phone as she directed her attention towards the other member who are staring at her. They had arrived at the Japanese restaurant a short while ago, immediately being ushered towards one of the private rooms. “Seriously.”

Jungkook, the one who asked the first question, quirked an eyebrow at that. “Really?” he probed further. “Because you were smiling dumbly.”

She hit his shoulder. “Rude,” she hissed out.

“Y/n met a guy in Paris,” informed Namjoon-oppa in a true traitorous manner as he casually looked up from his phone. As if he didn’t just betray her absolute trust towards him. “She’s been texting him nonstop since then.”

“Oppa-!” she screeched out.

“Oh?” said Taehyung-oppa, slinging an arm around her shoulder as a teasing glint appeared on his eyes. “Our little sister finally enjoying the beautiful world of romance?”

“Jungkook is younger than me! Stop treating me as if I’m the youngest!”

“But I’m more mature than you though?” piped up Jungkook.

“No no, let’s go back to our main topic,” interjected Jimin-oppa with a knowing grin on his face. “So, y/n finally met a guy? In Paris no less?”

Hobi-oppa laughed at that. “Sounds romantic,” he said, amusement clear on his tone. “Someone we know of?”

“No,” she said with a pout. “He’s not in the entertainment industry.”

The other members raised an eyebrow at that. “How did you even met then?” asked Yoongi-oppa, leaning forward towards the table. “He’s not someone sketchy right? I know this will be your first relationship but don’t meet someone that’s not good-“

“He’s a good guy! Really!” said the female, face red from embarrassment. She can’t believe she’s having this conversation right now. After all, she had only met Charles last week, it’s not like they’re going to get married soon or anything! “I know he didn’t approach me just to… you know, leech off of my fame.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Namjoon-oppa. All of them went quiet when the door to the private room was opened as the waiter gave them their orders. The leader of the group only continues when the waiter left the room. “I know I’m the one that’s encouraging you to get a boyfriend, but I also want you to meet a good guy.”

“He- he doesn’t know me,” said y/n, remembering the look on Charles’s face when they both revealed each other jobs. “Really. I also didn’t even know of him, or even his last name back then.”

Yoongi-oppa raised an eyebrow at that. “So, he’s someone famous?”

“Well, kinda? In certain circles?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” interjected Hobi-oppa. “Didn’t Namjoon told us that you spent the week hanging out with him in Paris?”

“Yes?”

“And back then you didn’t even know his last name?”

“… Yes?”

“Wow,” marveled Hobi-oppa. “It’s a wonder that you didn’t get killed.”

Jimin-oppa actually hits Hobi-oppa’s shoulder at that.

.

When they arrived back at the company, a red-faced secretary appeared in front of them.

“Y/n-sshi?” called out the woman, catching her attention.

Perking up, she gave her a small smile. “Yeah?” she said as her manager beckoned closer. She could see the rest of the members raising their eyebrows, also stopping on their track as they watched one half of their youngest member being called up. “Do you need something?”

“There’s a delivery for you,” said the woman. “It’s um-“

“Is it a fan gift?” asked her manager. “You know we’re not accepting fan gifts anymore.”

“No, no, no,” denied the woman with a frantic wave of her hands. “It’s a bit big but the managerial office did approve it! They said that it was given by y/n-sshi’s friend!”

And that made her raised an eyebrow. Her friend? She could count her friends with her hands. And knowing them, all of them are not the type of people that would send gifts to her office, and not her directly.

Though that train of thoughts stopped when another man appeared, holding the so-called gift.

It’s a bouquet. A large bouquet of peonies was being held by someone from the managerial office. It’s so big that it’s clear the man is struggling to hold the flower as he walked towards them. Y/n was thankful that they’re already in Bighit floor because she’s sure that her surprised face looked incredibly stupid.

Immediately, one thing came inside her mind.

Charles.

The conversation that they had during their dinner appeared inside of her head. Of her blabbering about her favorite things, peonies being one of them.

“It’s not even in season,” she breathed out, though she’s sure that there’s a large smile appearing on her face as she went to received the flowers. There’s a note in the middle of with English words being written on it. It says-

“Keep smiling for me, from Char, love emoji and a smiling face” reads out Namjoon-oppa as he appeared next to her, startling her. There’s a teasing smile on his face as he turned his attention to her. “Huh, this is actually really romantic.”

“Oppa!” she whined out, trying to hide the note from his prying eyes. “It’s rude to read it like that!”

“But we’re dying to know!” said Hobi-oppa as he slung an arm around her shoulder and peered towards the bouquet of peonies she’s holding. “Oh, so this is from your mysterious man?”

Y/n wants to die. She’s so embarrassed that she’s sure her face is flushed like a boiled seafood at this point.

“Char? Who is that?” asked Yoongi-oppa as he too approached them, staring at the flowers with a narrowed eyes. “The guy you’re seeing?”

“Char sounds like a foreigner name,” piped up Taehyung-oppa.

“It could be Kim Char,” said Jungkook, chiming in. 

“Kim Char sounds stupid,” interjected Jimin-oppa with a frown.

She really wants to hide in a hole as the other members began teasing her and the so-called Char.

Though, she really can’t deny the warm feeling that appeared inside of her chest. He knows that she’s really close with the members. He knows how important the members are to her. He knows, that if one of them are leaving, she will be incredibly sad.

It’s the small things. The small gestures that always made her heart beats uncontrollably. 

Doesn’t this mean that he also thinks about her? As much as how she’s always thinking about him? Doesn’t this mean that Charles wants to take their relationship a step further?

Warm smile and green eyes.

Dinners and late-night stroll in Paris.

Bouquet of roses and flushed faces.

Hands, intertwining together, and a conversation full of confessions.

This should scare her. This feeling that slowly started to bubble inside of her. This feeling that should not be subjected to a man that she had just met a few weeks ago. A man that should’ve been a stranger to her.

But romance always work in a mysterious way. 

Ah, she thought. Incredibly giddy. I really really like him.

Nearing the end of December, Charles invited her for a ski trip with his friends.

She accepted, of course. Despite all of her nervousness, all of her overthinking, she still decided that it’s a great idea to be there. After all, Charles asked her to come. He had invited her to have a glimpse of his world. To introduce her to his friends and letting her in inside of his social circle.

It was nerve wrecking, especially after the realization of her feelings. 

When she realized that she likes Charles – too much, too overwhelming – y/n almost went into a denial phase. After all, she had never felt something like this before. She had never allowed anyone to reach her heart this closely before. To realize that there’s someone in her heart-

It’s scary.

She doesn’t know what to do.

Both her and Charles still haven’t talked about their relationship. She knows that she really likes the male, and she knows that Charles probably also likes her. But they never talked about… whatever this was between the two of them.

This easy relationship between them. Where they both openly flirt with each other. Where Charles sent her flowers almost every day since they day they separated in Paris. This relationship where she felt comfortable to talked about everything and yet nothing to the male.

This relationship, where she decided to open her heart to a male with warm green eyes and large dimpled smile.

Maybe that’s why this trip seems important to her. She doesn’t want to lose this relationship after all. She doesn’t want his friends to not like her because they seem important to Charles. She wants them to see that both her and Charles are meant to be. 

Despite the sunny smile and the hug that she received from Charles as she landed in Monaco, one glance towards his group of friends made her want to hide in a ditch somewhere. Charles had talked about them. The group of friends that he had been friends since forever. Almost like how bangtan is to her. All of them are guys, though some did bring their significant others, promising her girls company during the trip. 

During that trip she met his younger brother for the first time, Arthur Leclerc. He’s three years younger than them with brown hair – lighter than his brother – and a huge smile. Just like Charles, he’s also a racing driver who is competing in the lower category right now.

“It’s good to finally meet the girl that my brother talked about nonstop,” was the greeting that Arthur gave her when they first met.

Y/n pretended that it doesn’t make her flustered. 

As time went by, she must admit that the trip was fun. Y/n’s nervousness about giving them a good first impression seems unfounded as all of them welcomed her with an open arm. Some of the girls even giggled and whispered to her that they’re a fan, surprising her greatly. A lot of them seems fascinated by her job, saying things that it’s not every day that they’ll see a kpop artist hanging out with them.

The trip itself seems like a good idea. They had played boardgames together, enjoying the snow, and other activities. Y/n found herself enjoying every minute of it. Until today that is.

“No,” she said, hand shivering – not from the cold for once. “Charles, seriously, I can’t do this.”

Charles let out a laugh, hands gripped her own gloved ones. “Believe in me, chérie,” he said, standing beside her. “It’s not that scary, look at Arthur.”

And of course, Arthur is in front of them, gliding through the snow easily.

“I never went skiing before!” she yelped, flinching back at the mere thought of having to go down the steep mountain with these thin pieces of wood. “I’ll seriously die!”

“No, you’re not,” said Charles with a laugh. “You’re too pretty to die, and I’ll guide you.”

“Are you a professional at skiing?”

“Well, no-“

“Then you don’t have the qualification!”

If possible, he only laughed harder. Somehow finding amusement in her own state of panic. She wants to call him an asshole, but at the same time, Charles is the only thing that’s making sure that she will not tumble forward into the thick snow in front of them.

“Just follow me, three, two-“

“No!”

Charles, who had inched forward, was immediately yanked back by y/n who had surged backwards in pure instinct. The male didn’t expect it, making them tumbled backwards into the heaps of snow.

They landed in a bit of an awkward position. With y/n sprawled across the snow and Charles being practically on top of her, hand caging the female to prevent him to stumbled down towards her. It was an awkward and uncomfortable position, and yet, they didn't made any move to get out from that position.

Both of their eyes met as they stared at each other. Breath mingling with each other.

There was silence between them, as they processed what had just happened. Though, it was soon broken when they both let out a snort and began laughing with each other.

“Hi,” whispered Charles, face so so close. “You, okay?”

She wants to kiss him, she realized as she stared at him. The male looked breathtaking. There is snow on his darker locks, clinging and hanging for dear life. His eyes crinkled from how large his smile is.

Her hand grabbed the side of his face, almost unconsciously. Charles seems a bit surprised at that, though it didn’t take long for him to nuzzle on her gloved hand before giving her palm a kiss.

Thump, her heart beats once. Twice. 

Thumpthumpthump-

“Yeah,” she breathed out. “Doesn’t mean I’ll try skiing again though.”

It was also during that ski trip that she asked Charles what they are.

Maybe it was because what happened earlier. Maybe it’s just her inpatient self. Maybe it’s just her wanting some sense of validation. 

The both of them are sitting on the porch of their rented villa, hot chocolates on their hand. In the distant, she could hear the loud laughs and screams from their friends, no doubt enjoying the snow together. Both her and Charles had decided to retire early, far too worked up from the drama that y/n had made over skiing and how the male had basically force her to try it.

It didn’t work, leaving them sitting here as they watched the scenery together.

“Hey,” she called out, gaining his attention. “This thing between us… what are we?”

She could see the moment Charles wanting to answer something stupid like a ‘table’ considering there is a small table between the two of them right now. Though, her raised eyebrows seems to deter that intention.

“Well,” started the male, leaning back on his chair. “To start, I really like what’s going on between us.”

“Me too,” agreed the female as she curled her legs towards her chest. “I really like this.”

Charles chuckled at that, hand snaking towards the back of her chair before curling around her shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked. “I’ll follow whatever you want, I know your line of work doesn’t really accept dating but I…” trailed off the male, “I just want you to know that I never had these kinds of feelings with anyone before.”

It’s the same for me, she wants to say. I never felt something like this before.

(“I want you to experience the joy of love, even just once,” said Namjoon-oppa one night. “I think that’s one of the reasons that made us human. To be able love and being loved by others.”

Y/n had stared at him with eyes full of doubt. “Are you sure?” she had asked. “With our line of work, I think that love will only be an inconvenience.”

The male had laughed, patting the top of her head. “You have to experience it yourself to know it, n/n.”)

Maybe this is what Namjoon-oppa meant. 

The grip that she had around her chocolate burns, though she really doesn’t care.

Why should she care when Charles is staring at her as if she’s the answer to all of his problems? Why should she care when Charles is staring at her as if the world revolves around her? Why should she care when her heart beats almost erratically – far too fast than usual -?

Why should she care when she’s sure that she shares the same feeling as Charles?

“I…” she started, staring at those warm warm green eyes. “I want us to date,” said the female finally. “Make it official.”

“Yeah?” grinned Charles as he leaned closer. “I also really like that.”

She hummed, cheeks flushed and heart far too loud on her ears.

“Hey, chérie?”

“Hm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Her world stopped. 

Thump, her heart beats once. Twice.

Thumpthumpthumpthump-

E/c meet Charles’s warm green ones. Looking at him this closely, it was as if she could map out the constellation that’s peppering his face. How his long eyelashes perfectly framed his eyes and how his breath almost mingled with hers-

“Yes,” she whispered out.

The first kiss that they shared tasted like chocolate and peppermint.

The first of many.

.

Video calls had become a norm in their relationship.

Every day, without fail, they would call each other. Most of the time it was when Charles is finishing up his morning workout and she’s having her lunch. Sometimes it’s when Charles just went home – late at night – and y/n had just woken up from her sleep.

It’s nice, to be able to see his face and hear his voice every day.

When they’re not calling each other, the texts between them had become almost unstoppable. Y/n thinks the reason for that was because right now – during this point of time – the both of them are on their respective off season. Charles is having his winter break before the next season starts, and while y/n is preparing her solo debut, it’s not as actively as the other members who have a closer deadline compared to hers.

Despite only being limited to calls and texts, y/n finds herself really enjoying it. There’s just something about being woken up not by an alarm or her manager but by a call from Charles. Or there’s just something about seeing Charles after he had just finishing up his morning workout.

She will literally kill someone to be able to experience all those things directly.

“You’re still chatting with the guy?” 

Closing the messenger app, she turned her head towards Taehyung-oppa who’s sitting next to her. Feet stretched and hands curled around the pillow on her lap.

“Yeah,” she said with a hum. “And I told you already, we’re dating now.”

The older chuckled at that. “My bad,” he said with a grin. “It’s a bit weird to think that the girl that always follows me and Jimin around now dating someone,” at this, his tone turned a bit dramatic. “My baby really grew up~”

She snorted at that. “You’re saying the same exact thing to Jungkook.”

“The both of you are my babies though,” said the male. “Anyway, are you going to meet him soon?”

Nodding, she showed him something on her phone. It’s a plane ticket, one way trip to Italy. “We’re going to meet up in Italy in January, before pre-season testing starts.”

“Cool,” replied the older man. “You said he’s a racing driver?”

“F1 driver,” she corrected as she shifted her attention towards the tv that had become, more or less, a background noise for the both of them.

They’re sitting inside bts artist lounge in HYBE, a room dedicated solely for them. She had been eternally grateful when the company made this room. After all, despite everything, a lot of the younger celebrities can’t relax when they’re in the same room with them.

“Why the sudden questions?” she asked, cocking her eyebrow together.

“Well,” started Taehyung-oppa. “You know how I went filming that new variety show in Mexico?”

Y/n nodded. 

“My co-stars asked for your number,” he blurted out. “They’ve been asking for a while, to be honest. But they did become more persistent when it was announced that we’re having a group hiatus for a while.”

She fell silent at that.

Bts group hiatus had changed a lot of things, be it professionally or personally. More brands had approached her for their advertisements and campaigns, realizing that for the next few years, she wouldn’t be tied with bts as a group. Even collaborations, dramas, or even variety shows, had contacted HYBE for a chance of collaboration with her.

The female knows that the same thing also happened to the boys. More chance to do solo work, more chance to branch out of bts – the very thing that had become their life for the past years.

In a more personal manner, well-

Somehow, many had interpreted their hiatus as their disbandment. That this is the end of them as a group. That there is no way for them to reunite once again under bts. Which means many people had tried to get to know her more… personally.

She had enough discreet confessions and veiled flirtation during her time as an idol to last a lifetime. Somehow, those kinds of things increased dramatically now.

“You know my answer to that,” she chuckled weakly. “It’s like dating the best friends of your brother, weird,” continued the female.

“I know, I know,” waved of Taehyung-oppa. 

A lot of things are changing, and she never felt so scared before.

.

She greeted Charles with a hug as he descended from the private plane.

“Hey,” said y/n, releasing the hug. Though, she could still feel Charles’s hand still curling around her waist. “Welcome to Korea,”

The male let out a laugh. “Such a warm welcome,” he teased.

Y/n rolled her eyes at that, still grinning, before she grabbed her hand and immediately drag him to the privacy of her car.

When Charles said that he wants to visit Korea, y/n immediately had everything prepared. From places to visit to foods that they should try together. Before this, she never realized how fun arranging a trip is.

For obvious reason, they can’t go to the popular places like Everland or other amusement parks. Museums though, is still an option. Charles had shown interest in arts and things like that, so y/n had asked Namjoon-oppa recommendations about museums that they should visit.

Besides museums, she had also dragged him to all of her favorite restaurants. Restaurants that only local knows. From the authentic Korean foods to fusions with western influences. She’s glad that Charles is not afraid to try different kind of food, though the expression on his face when he saw a still moving octopus on his plate is a bit too funny to not be recorded. 

Despite its being a short trip, she had taken so many photos of Charles. There’s one from Jeju Island, there’s one with him holding a bts album, there’s also one when he fell asleep on her bed.

It warms her heart, to see her boyfriend inside her house.

It warms her heart so much that that photo became her lockscreen.

.

A team from Cartier had come to South Korea to shoot a campaign with her.

They had marveled and exclaimed, patting her skin with makeup as they talked in rapid French and English.

“Dearie,” said one of them, painted lips smiling widely. “You’re glowing, more so than when I saw you in Paris.”

She hummed at that.

Paris felt like a lifetime ago. So many things had happened that she almost lost track of time. “You think so?” she asked with an easy smile. “Do I look better?”

“Of course,” said another as she clasped a diamond necklace on her neck. “You look amazing, dear.”

Y/n laughed at that. “You give me too much praise.”

“No, no, no,” said the woman. “I’m telling you the truth here!”

“Of course, of course,” she answered easily. “So, what kind of glow do I emit?”

“You look like a woman in love.”

Her heart almost stopped at that.

Love.

Isn’t it far too soon?

Isn’t she falling in love far too easily?

“Really?” asked the female, trying to not show her wavering voice. “Do I really look like a woman in love?”

“Yes,” breathed out the woman. “A woman, who had fell in love deeply.”

Maybe I am.

.

She went to Italy late January.

The first thing that appeared inside her mind when she arrived to Maranello is, obviously, Ferrari. From her hotel room with bright red walls and a picture of a Ferrari Formula One car team hanging everywhere, to the prancing horse statues that she sees everywhere in the town.

It seems, the team is the pride and joy of the town, she thought as she watched the Ferrari flag hanging from the building as she made her way to the city center. Which is good, because this means that no one will recognize a random kpop idol in the middle of this formula one obsessed city.

Charles is the star here. Every time he appeared, every time he went into town, everyone would crowd around him. 

“Charles!” yelled one of them in Italian when both y/n and Charles is having lunch. “You did good last season!”

The male laughed, yelling a “Thank you!” towards the other.

It happened so many times that she almost lost count. It’s clear that he’s adored and loved. Though, to see how loved he is, is a bit surprising.

“You’re so famous,” she said as she entered their hotel room. “It’s amazing to see.”

He hugs her from behind, wrapping his arm around her torso tightly. “It’s a bit weird for you to say that” he said, a bit muffled on her neck. “You have like 50 million followers, chérie.”

“Followers doesn’t mean everything,” she laughed, as they moved towards the balcony on their room.

From here, they could see the city of Maranello almost at its entirety. Something that she surely will remember when she went back to Korea. 

Charles had released his hold over her, entering their room before appearing besides her with two glasses of wine. He handed one of them towards her without a word.

“My name is going to be here one day,” said Charles, hand circling around her shoulder. “In one of the streets.”

Y/n nuzzled further towards the crook of his neck. “Is that a Ferrari driver privilege?” she asked.

“No, it’s Ferrari’s world champion privilege,” said the male with a grin. “I’m going to win it.”

She let out a hum at that. The way Charles phrased that statement is not ‘if I win it’ but ‘I’m going to win it’. It’s so full of conviction and truth. He truly believes that one day, he will win the championship under Ferrari.

“You really love Ferrari,” she stated, looking up towards him. 

Charles looked down, one hand coming to her face to pinch her cheek softly. “It’s my dream team,” he said. “All my life- it’s always the red car for me. I remember watching the grand prix from my friend balcony and all I could see it the red car winning the races.”

His dedication to his team is inspiring. The way he talked about Ferrari, it was as if he’s talking about his family. There’s a certain shine on his eyes as he rambled about his races and how great the car that they had last season. 

It almost reminded her of her own team. 

Devotion. That’s what she could feel from Charles. He had devoted his life for Ferrari. He had made his mind – and she knows that the male is a really stubborn guy – that he will win with Ferrari. That he will prove his nickname as the predestined one to be true. To bring back, the championship to Ferrari.

After all, when you win with Ferrari, you became legend.

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “And when you win your first championship, I will be there, cheering for you.”

The smile that Charles gave her is almost blinding.

.

“Do you think making our relationship public a good idea?”

Y/n stared at him, unable to answer.

She doesn’t know.

.

Surprisingly, Hybe doesn’t object her decision to make her relationship public.

“You’re in your tenth year already,” said PD-nim as the older male ate his dinner in front of her. “And this kind of things… didn’t we promise all of you that we will give you full reign over it?”

She tightened the grip on her chopstick.

Because what the male said is the truth. In order to make sure that all of them can do their reunion in 2025, they had decided to renew the contract with HYBE. Full reign over their artistic directory and personal life is one of the clause.

Still, even though HYBE gave her their permission, y/n can’t help but second doubting that decision.

Dating scandal is a taboo. It could ruin her career. It could ruin bts’s career. The stigma of her sleeping around with her members would grow once again. People would talk. How she’s a slut. How she’s only dating rich men.

It could be the end of her.

“I don’t think you should worry much,” said Jimin-oppa as she asked him about his opinion. “You should belief in our fans, not random online trolls.”

And the thing is- yes. She believes on their fans.

She knows that ARMY wants her to be happy.

She knows that ARMY won’t turn their back on her over these kinds of things.

But still, it’s only normal for her to be a bit nervous at this kind of things. She’s going to share a huge part of her life after all. The first one to ever publicized her relationship in bts.

Scary.

So so scary.

“We’re going to put up the announcement tomorrow if you’re sure with this,” said her manager, showing the already written announcement. “There will be backlash, obviously, but I think this decision will be healthier for you.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I know.”

“This can also be the start of a movement, y/n,” said the male. “It’s about time for the Korean entertainment industry to get rid of the dating taboo. Idols are human. They’re not some machine and dolls that the public can control. They deserve to love and to be loved.”

Idols are not dolls.

It’s normal for them to crave a romantic relationship.

“You are the biggest celebrity in South Korea,” continue her manager. “With you publicly announcing your relationship, we can change the industry to have a better culture around idols.”

And,

And isn’t that what bts stands for?

They want to change the culture in the South Korean entertainment industry. They want to break all of the stigma that everyone has over idols. They want to make a better working environment for the idols in this industry.

Less abuse.

Less control.

More freedom.

They want idols to have more power over their company and the public. They want idols to have their own hold over their life. They want idols to be able to live like an actual human being. To know things and to be able to experience normal emotions that they never had felt before.

They, want to change this industry. 

With that, she steeled her nerve one last time. 

“Yes,” she finally said. “Let’s announce it to the world.”

Hello this is Bighit Music

This is an official statement regarding Y/n L/n, one of the artist under HYBE labels.

Recently, Y/n had entered a romantic relationship with a close friend of hers, Charles Leclerc. They are maintaining a serious relationship.

Please show lots of support so they can continue this beautiful relationship.

Thank you.

Truth to be told, when Charles first started a conversation with the pretty girl on the bar, he was not expecting anything besides a quick hookup or maybe a mere short conversation.

While it’s true that she’s beautiful – probably the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen – he doesn’t have any plan to pursue her. He was so sure that he’s not looking for any relationship. The sting of finishing second on the championship after completely dominating the first few races had still annoyed him greatly. Charles was determined that for the next season he will only focus on his racing career and the battle for the title of world champion.

That is, until the woman smiled at him.

He had never been a believer of love at first sight. He had always thought that love is something that you need to nurture. Something that you should put a lot of effort in. He had believed that love is not something spontaneous. It was not something that struck you all of the sudden in the middle of an overpriced celebrity exclusive charity gala.

Though, what does Charles know about love anyway?

When the woman let out that bright grin – eyes crinkling, and eyebrows raising a bit – he felt as if his world became a brighter. That all of the sudden the loud music around them became quiet and the only thing that he could focused on is her and only her. 

As if, there is no burden of the Ferrari legacy on his shoulder. As if, he haven't let down the tifosi these past few years. As if, the sting of coming second place in the driver championship had been nonexistent.

Throughout the night as they continue to converse, he can’t help but follow each of her movement. The way that she will twirl her hair around her finger when she got nervous, the way her long nails gripped the glass, the way her painted lips would stretch into the most beautiful smile he had ever seen as she laughed and converse with him.

They talked about everything and yet nothing. From his horrible attempt of flirting to her decision to drink alone in the middle of the event. He could see the glances that was being thrown around towards them, a blatant show of them being interested on their conversation.

When the night was over, he was half in love already. Giving her his name and number is a no brainer.

Honestly, he was not expecting her to response to his offer for dinner. They didn’t know anything about each other after all. Though another part of him is trying to convince himself that that’s what having a dinner for. To get to know each other.

He had stared at his phone for a long time, glancing at it every couple of minutes until his manager reprimanded him about being distracted. That is until she responded, saying that she would love to have a dinner with him.

The few days where they had dinner together is the highlight of his trip to Paris. Which is a bit funny because he doesn’t even want to come to Paris at first – citing about medias and promoting brands that he had never even used before. Though in the end, he had been grateful at his decision to come.

Meeting y/n, had changed his world.

It was as if, his previously monotone world is now being filled with color. As if, before he met this woman, he never truly knows what living means.

It’s crazy how much he enjoys being in her presence. How much he loves to make her laugh and to show him sides that she had never allowed anyone else to see. 

It’s crazy, how fast he’s falling in love with her.

“Are you serious with her?” asked Pierre when they met in Monaco. “Because dating her will bring a lot of media attention. This isn’t like your previous relationship, Char.”

He knows.

He knows that there’s a lot of risk from dating her. From dating such a high profile star like her. He knows all of that. If Charles is a smarter man, he would’ve ran. If Charles is a smarter man, he would stop all of his advances towards her. If Charles is a smarter man-

Y/n lets out a laugh.

It's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Well.

Charles had always been stupid, isn’t he?

Spending time with her is addicting. It was as if he wants to spend every second of her life with her. As if he’s ready to commit-

The skiing trip had been blissful. He had felt that him and y/n had grown closer and closer. The kiss that they shared during the trip also helps the giddy feeling that always erupted inside of his chest every time he thinks about her.

I’m in love with her, he thinks. I’m in love with her, he wants to scream so that the world knows his feelings.

It’s addicting. He thinks this feeling will never fade.

 He thought that there is no way he can love her more than now, though, as he saw her walking in the paddock, wind brushing her hair as she stood there inside the Ferrari garage-

Yes, he thought. I want to spend my life with her.

.

Going to a Formula One race is not something that she really had thought of before.

Her dad is a big fan though. When she was a kid and before her family moved to South Korea, her dad used to take their family to watch the Italian Grand Prix every year. Back then, she was not that interested – to the dismay of her father – and then as she grew up, she got way too busy to even think about the sport anymore.

At last, until today.

The loud sound of the engine reverberated throughout the track. 

Y/n could feel the tense atmosphere that engulfed the Ferrari garage. All of them watching the screen with nervousness clear on their face.

Charles is leading the race with a red bull hot on his tail.

She doesn’t know that she will be this invested on watching fast cars going in circles, but this is Charles. This is the love of her life riding the fast cars going in circles.

There are a lot of hushed whispers, people commenting and watching the race with a bated breath. The sky is dark, only making the bright light around the track a bit more intimidating.

“Do you think he’ll win?” she asked Fred, the team principal of Ferrari. He had welcomed y/n with an open arm earlier. It seems that he’s delighted by the attention that y/n had brought to the team. “I’m- I’m really nervous.”

“If he keep this pace,” started the older man. “I’m positive that he will take the win.”

("I'm going to be a world champion," said Charles, tone full of confidence. He's sure of that. He's sure, that someday, he will bring back the championship to Ferrari.

And y/n wants to believe.)

It’s really nerve wrecking to see the last few laps. After all, from what she knows, the Red Bull that’s chasing Charles is last year championship winner, Max Verstappen. Charles had also said that there’s an ongoing intense rivalry between him and Max. A rivalry that had spanned across their childhoods up until now. 

Their rivalry had been compared to the greats of Formula One. Niki Lauda and James Hunt. Senna and Prost.

Leclerc and Verstappen.

It meant a lot to Charles. He had confessed that he had been chasing Max's back for years. To desperately prove to everyone that Charles is too, a once in a generation talent. That he too, will be one of the greats in Formula One.

This time, it's Max chasing Charles.

She can only breathed out a chocked sob when Charles entering his last lap, still leading the race. 

“Oh my god,” she said as the Ferrari team ran out of the garage. “Oh my god!”

She watched as Charles takes the win.

It was a celebration that he had only ever watched through the screen. A sea of red. Ferrari flags waving from the wind. Words full of adoration and reverence.

Charles, who had climbed out of his car and standing on top of it, pointing towards the sky as he shouted out his happiness.

"YES!" he had screamed, joy clear on his face and on his voice. "YESS!"

Y/n chocked out a sob.

He really won the first race of the season. An amazing way to start the season. A season that meant so much to him.

She stood there, amongst the crowd of red as she stared at her boyfriend being hugged by his team. Soon, his attention drifted towards her, and an even larger grin appeared on his face.

“You did it,” she whispered out as she hugged him. He let out a a loud laugh at that. “That was amazing-“

The female didn’t finish her words as Charles cut it as he pressed their lips together. She could feel countless cameras and eyes directed towards them as whoops and hollers appeared all around them.

She will be scolded by her manager.

The company will call her after this.

Though, she seems to not care about all of that at this moment.

“I love you,” he breathed out as their lips parted.

Grin still wide and a bit teary eyed, she lets out. “I love you, too.”

It’s safe to say that their fans broke the internet shortly after.

End

[pascaloverx]

OUR SECRET — MYG

chapter one

Summary: You and Yoongi are having an affair. No, you are not being his lover. But the world is not ready to know that an idol is dating someone. So you two were doing your best to make sure no one found out. Until he breaks up with you. His mistake.

Author's note: This fanfic will contain inappropriate language and intimate moments between some characters. Be warned. I will let you know if anything becomes inappropriate. Please enjoy this Yoongi fanfic.

AO3LINK NEXT

"You're in denial, you could just say you didn't want me anymore. But you prefer to pretend that..." You throw his favorite book out the window like it means nothing. 'Cause now it doesn't mean.

"You can't blame me, our romance should have ended a long time ago. But you and I..." Yoongi seems almost too serious saying this. Do you mean nothing to him?

"You and me what?" You respond from the balcony of your apartment. Luckily your neighbors aren't too curious to know why you're yelling at your ex-lover.

"You know I can't shout that here, some fans might be here." Poor little thing, at that moment you wonder where the brave man is who asked you to embark on this relationship even though you knew your worlds would never be the same.

"I thought the whole point of paying a lot of money to live in an apartment far from the big city and known for its discretion would be being able to yell at you at two in the morning." You don't care if he thinks he's going to leave you without anything more or less, and that you're going to come out of this situation smiling, he should have found someone else to have sex with.

"If you would let me come up, we could talk like adults." He speaks subtly with an impressive poker face. If he stops being a musician, perhaps he could try a career as an actor or a gambler.

"Like adults? I'll be waiting for the other adult to arrive." You say throwing some clothes that are in your apartment that belong to him.

"Like you're being mature about all this. Damn!" One of his belongings ends up breaking near his feet. In fright he lets out several swear words, you luckily end up laughing.

"You break up with me over the phone and I have to be mature. I gave up part of my freedom to be yours. And look what I get in return." Anger took over you initially but now all you can do is try to keep from crying.

"Y/N. Let me in, so we can talk. I can see you almost crying from here." You smile lightly as you feel tears fall down your cheek. What a humiliation.

"If you cared about me you would have had the decency to say that you wanted to finish it the last time you were here." His cowardice can only be explained by his fear of having to do this in person.

"I couldn't. I didn't..." That was exactly what was left of the two of you. An awkward silence and resentment.

"Do you know how frustrating it is not being able to curse your name or tell someone you broke my heart?" You say that sobbing. What a tragedy it is that has made you sentimental now.

"Just because we don't work anymore doesn't mean I don't love you." You look at him and for a moment you feel more sorry for him than for yourself.

"If this is how you love someone. I'm sorry to inform you that you don't know love." Ironically it makes you smile. Maybe this is all his fault, not yours.

"Love..." It's very painful to see the man you've been involved with for the last year, call you that and not be able to respond.

"I'll send the rest of your things to the company. Don't worry, I won't expose you any more than I already have. Now get out of here, you and your fake love." Using one of his songs as the grand finale was a majestic act. Crying yourself to sleep, unfortunately, is not so majestic.

Two Months Later...

"You were the only person I thought would understand my situation. Try not to judge me but I need an opinion." You say looking Namjoon in the eyes. You got really close to him during your secret relationship with Yoongi.

"Is it too big a secret?" He asks entering his new home. A home where you swore you would start over.

"You tell me..." You say, opening your coat and revealing your stomach.

"Did you call me here because you gained weight after the breakup or do you have worms?" Namjoon asks and you smile nervously. Until you shake your head denying.

"Let's say the weight gain is due to something prior to the breakup..." You try not to say the word. Maybe the situation will go away if you don't name it.

"You are pregnant?" He named his current situation. Now it means it's really happening.

"Surprise!" You say trying to liven up the situation but you know you're fucked. Namjoon seems really surprised. As soon as he assimilates the information, he hugs you. You knew you could lean on the friendship you two have.

[kookslastbutton]

enamored ༓ myg (m) | one

✑ Summary: Min Yoongi is nothing like what you imagined him to be when you saw him preform at the local cafe in town. Yet little by little he surprises you with his true self, until somehow you find yourself completely enamored with him.

pairing: new independent artist!yoongi x veterinarian!reader

genre/AU: fluff, angst, eventual smut, strangers2acquaintance2lovers, mini-series

word count: 4,643

Warnings: Nothing too heavy but oc is around 25, mention of unhealthy past relationships, yoon is a struggling artist, talk about social insecurity, cats, the rest of the fluff stuff is for you to find out haha

now playing: cold/mess

a/n: Due to me and my fellow Yoon enthusiasts missing myg, I bring us this three-part mini-series. I'm not sure how this will go but hope you enjoy! 🥰 Lowkey has me thinking of Yoongi pre-debut days.

Tonight’s the first night the local coffeehouse you and your friend, Nara, visit for weekly rant sessions is showcasing musicians of all backgrounds, statuses, and genres. And you are very much looking forward to the absolute cutie pictured in a fluffy sky-blue cardigan, a big gummy smile on, and undeniably soft, chocolate eyes.

His arms casually rest atop his guitar followed by the words ‘Agustd’ in scripted font underneath. You’ve never heard of him before but you’re convinced that he’ll play something light and uplifting given the aesthetic of his image displayed on the TV screen.

“God it’s packed like a football stadium here,” Nara interrupts your gaze on the tv from across the table. She sits with her hands folded on the wooden surface, a giant diamond sparkling on her left hand.

“You’re telling me,” you tsk. “I already came close to bumping into a middle-aged man with two lattes in his hands and a couple of college girls attempting to film a TikTok on our way in.”

It’s no exaggeration to say the cafe itself is swarming with new faces who are eager for a night of leisure while overworked baristas rush to fulfill orders. You have the innate instinct to offer them your help, though they’d likely advise it’s better for you to remain seated.

“Have you ever been to a football stadium though?” You ask more condescendingly than intended, but you find her analogy amusing since she’s never been one to pay attention to sports.

Nara rolls her eyes at your light probing. “No, but I’ve seen pictures. You know how big of a fan my Yunjun is of football. He’s gone to the United States to watch the super bowl eight times now.”

She says it proudly, but the reality is that her lovey Yunjun has not once invited her to go with him. Instead, he takes three of his closest friends and disappears to the other side of the world for two weeks. Everyone knows the super bowl only lasts one day so why the hell is he there for that long? Likely to get drunk with his buddies, that’s why.

“You know I don’t like him,” you say bluntly. “Why are you marrying him again?” Nara’s confident smile turns into a defensive scowl as she proceeds to tell you, once again, all the ways that Yunjun “completes her”.

On and on she continues for ten minutes straight until her voice slowly drowns out to the clapping and cheering of the crowd behind her. A young woman named Yuri just finished performing a few of her original songs and is thanking the audience for listening. You lightly clap along in politeness.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Nara pipes up once the crowd falls silent again. “Yunjun is extremely thoughtful. Yesterday he messaged me to meet for lunch without me having to ask first.”

“Uh huh…” you drawl out, eyes shifting between her and the distracting movements of bodies behind her. The young woman who just performed steps off the stage while a young man steps forward to take her place.

You struggle to keep eye contact with Nara as said man lazily slumps himself on the wooden stool at the front of the room and balances his acoustic guitar on his knee. He looks like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago; hair tousled about, a big black sweatshirt covering half his body, and possibly the most somber facial expression on.

Is that the same guy from the promo image? Agust something?

You lean your head to the side and past Nara’s head to get a better view.

It is him but he looks so starkly different from his photo on the TV screen. His mood is much more melancholy than you imagined, like Grumpy Bear from Care Bears.

It makes you wild with curiosity.

You find yourself placing a hand under your chin, intent on listening to his every word. By now, Nara's noticed your interest in the musician so she's stopped talking and pays attention to him as well.

“Hi, I’m Agustd and I'm an independent artist,” he introduces himself in a low voice, lips pressed to the microphone. His focus is set on the audience in front of him at first but then, as if feeling your heavy stare, he flicks his eyes directly into yours. "I'm also known as Min Yoongi."

You feel your stomach flutter at the gesture which only seems to grow in intensity when he doesn't bother to remove his gaze from you.

He can't actually be looking at you, right?

"I'm starting off with a song I wrote a few years ago titled Seesaw," he continues. "I wrote it while going through, what I thought was at the time, a hopeless period of my life. Please enjoy." And with that he begins strumming on the chords of his guitar, eyes slowly closing to immerse himself in the beautiful music.

Everyone is on the edge of their seats as much as you when he leans further into the mic, lips gently parting.

"In the beginning, well, it was fun

Just going up and down itself

Before we knew, we both became sick of

meaningless waste of emotions

A repeated seesaw, seesaw game

Having come this far, I got sick of, got sick of it

A repeated seesaw, seesaw game

We’re both got tired and became sick of it..."

As Yoongi continues to preform with closed eyes and breathy voice, you take in the rawness of his lyrics. Seesaw tells about relationship that's grown draining; that the weight of staying in something so tiring should come to an end sooner rather than later.

It resonates with you deeply as you've experienced first-hand the challenges of staying in a bottomless relationship. You didn't want to acknowledge it at the time, but you put in all the effort when you and your ex were together. And though it was three years ago since your break up, the constant feeling of exhaustion and being less than haunts you every night.

The vibrations in Yoongi's voice echoing off the mic tells you he's been through similar pain. So much so that it thrums in your own chest and you realize how wrong you'd been to think he'd compose a lighthearted song.

"How crafty the heart of a person is

Though we know one will get hurt if the other is not there,

because we both don’t want to be the bad guy,

we continue to awkwardly pass the buck, umm umm

and end up becoming exhausted, ironically reaching the paralleled balance

Ay, this is not the kind of balance that I wanted..."

With every line, you notice Yoongi's delicate fingers struggling to hold down each chord. It's clear that he's thinking about whoever this song is about in this very moment. Nevertheless, he presses on with a fervent spirit until the end.

You and a handful of people are the only ones who clap when the last line of Seesaw is sung. The rest of the audience is oddly reluctant to applaud and your best guess is that they weren't expecting to hear something so profoundly reflective. The musicians before him had been far more upbeat so to speak.

"Thank you," Yoongi mutters with hesitance. He scans the mute crowd who seemingly cause the air to grow thicker by exchanging awkward glances with one another.

Without another word, Yoongi surprises everyone by standing up from his stool and walking over to the seat he was sitting in before coming on stage. He picks up a few loose papers, and his keys, and zips his guitar into its case before heading for the exit.

"Didn't he have more songs to play?" Nara turns to you with a frown on her face, puzzled at the turn of events.

"I thought so too," you reply, fingers restless as you watch him leave the cafe. "You know what...I'll be right back." You're unsure what prompts you to follow him out other than your unsettled conscience telling you that this isn't the first time he's gotten this type of response and that he deserves better.

"Excuse me, Agustd? Or Yoongi?" You're sure he can hear your voice call to him as he opens the rear door of his beater car. His head whips in your direction immediately.

"Yeah?" He answers simply yet when he sees the white of your eyes, he does a double take; stunned that the only person he cared to recognize the whole night followed him out.

Typically with small gigs like this Yoongj doesn't take much note of the crowd unless they're booing him off the stage. And even then he plays it off. But somehow, your relaxed gaze soothed him, so he remembers you—he remembers the way you made him feel.

"I just wanted to say you sounded good. Better than good actually," you correct yourself, words sputtering out a little too fast. "Seesaw is amazing and you're a genius to have written it."

Your hands get clammier as you approach him. You hope this doesn't sound dumb but something in you won't let him leave without giving him at least a shred of honest encouragement.

The corner of Yoongi's mouth barely quirks up before it quickly falls back down. He sets his guitar in the back seat of his car, then shuts the door and gives you a nod. "Thanks but you don't have to say that."

He moves to the driver's door and reaches to grip the handle but out of nowhere, you stop him by placing a hand over his wrist.

"I mean it," you assure him.

Yoongi doesn't move a muscle as he glances between your hand around his wrist and your seemingly oblivious face. For three seconds you stare at each other with intense eyes, wordless as you take in each other's micro-expressions.

Through the physical contact, you can both feel the rapid beating of each other's hearts but you're unsure if it's simply nerves from an embarrassing situation or something else entirely.

"Sorry." You finally come to your senses and retract your fingers. "I just wanted to tell you that I connected with the lyrics of your song. Not everyone does and that's okay but it really is amazing Yoongi. So don't pay attention to those rude people in there okay?"

At this, Yoongi's expressions soften and a timid smile forms on his plushy lips. He runs a hand through his messy hair, smoothing down some of the loose strands sticking up.

"I appreciate you coming out to tell me this...wait what's your name?"

"__."

"__. Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed my music but don't worry, I don't take it personally when people dislike my songs. It just means it wasn't for them." He shrugs carelessly but there's a hidden sorrow laced in his tone. He holds his chin high yes, but his heart is so deep in his chest.

"Hey," you start. "If I was a music manager I'd sign you on immediately. You don't happen to have that song recorded do you? Uploaded to music platforms or anything?"

"Yeah, I just put it on Spotify actually. I also have some CDs." Yoongi pauses and wets his lips. "If you're interested," he finishes with slightly averted eyes.

"Call me old fashioned but could I get one of those?"

"What?" He taken aback by your response.

"A cd. You said you have one?"

"Uh sure, yeah just a second." He walks to the trunk of his car, opens the lid, and rummages around until he pulls forward a small cardboard box. "I don't have great packaging yet but here's one." Yoongi holds out a plain white sleeve with a disk inside. "Hope you don't mind but I signed my name on it. Thought it would make it personal or something."

You take the disk from his hand and cheese at him. "Wow, I can't believe I'm getting an autographed version right off the bat. How much?"

Yoongi shakes his head. "You can have it."

"No, really how much?" Taking this man's cd without paying him a dime does not sit well with you. Regardless, Yoongi continues to insist.

"It's on me. Maybe when I get to the point where I can have concerts you'll come." He jokes but you remain serious, digging into your pocket for your wallet. You take 26000 won out ($20) and shove it in his hand. "Hey wait!" Yoongi calls after you when you quickly start backing away from him.

"No takebacks!" You holler. "I'm sorry to leave so suddenly but my friend's waiting for me inside. It was nice meeting you Yoongi and I look forward to when you become a raging success. Until then, I'll be streaming your songs on Spotify! Treat yourself to something nice alright?"

He steps forward, mouth falling open as if to say something but nothing comes out. Your face is already turned away from him as he watches you trot back to the cafe'. He rolls the cash in his hand and stuffs it in his back pocket, hoping that maybe he'll cross paths with you again.

A week passes and you've not forgotten your interaction with Min Yoongi. You wish you hadn't run away like you did but it's true that Nara was waiting for you inside. Any longer and she would have sent a search party for you–she's on the extreme end.

Plus, you didn't want him giving the money back to you. It was a noble gesture to hand it over to you for free but it wasn't necessary. Yoongi is an independent artist who's working to establish himself in the music industry and you were more than willing to pay for good music.

You're currently sitting in your car, replaying the affair in your head for the umpteenth time while you wait for your pizza to be ready. You were told you'd get a text notification though it's taking longer than usual, given how much louder the growling of your stomach has gotten.

Finding new ways to distract yourself gets more challenging with each passing minute. You open the glove department of your car and pull out Yoongi's cd, admiring the beautiful signature marked in black ink on the disk.

Seesaw - Agustd 2018

It's crazy of you but you kind of miss him. Yoongi wasn't like anything you expected him to be, so deep and grounded while at the same time warm-hearted. He was incredibly handsome too. And when you touched his arm, eyes piercing into his, it was like you were being magnetically pulled to him.

Is that possible though? Sharing a magnetic force with practically a stranger?

Your contemplation is interrupted when the sound of your phone notification rings off. Finally, your order's ready. You toss the cd back into the glove box and head inside the pizza shop.

"Hi, welcome to Little Slice of Heaven," the young lady at the counter greets you with a cheery smile. "How can I help you?"

"I have an order for __." You open your wallet and hand over your credit card. She takes it from you speedier than you like, ringing it up then returning it to you with a paper receipt.

"I'll go grab it for you." She swiftly turns around, nearly bumping into one of her coworkers. "Shit sorry!" The person gives a small grunt in response before mumbling an 'its fine, I got it'.

"Order for __."

You stash the receipt in your pocket, then look up to take the boxes of steaming hot pizza. "Yes, thank you so m–," You freeze at once at the familiar face in the iconic navy blue Little Slice of Heaven uniform.

"Yoongi?" He seems to be just as motionless as you when you say his name. "I didn't know..."

"I just started," he answers shortly. "It's uh, good to see you again. How have you been?"

"Oh you know, still alive. Pizza helps me." You chuckle to help break the ice. Yoongi doesn't laugh but you do catch his eyes softening the smallest bit. "What about you? How have you been?"

"Good. Music's good too." He runs a hand through his hair, a habit you're beginning to pick up from him. "I–sorry I must sound like an idiot. I didn't expect to see anyone I knew here tonight."

"You don't sound like an idiot. You said you just started working here right?"

He nods.

"Yoongi!" An older man with a navy blue visor on his head calls from one of the pizza ovens in the back. "I need you to deliver this to the lovely couple sitting at table 8. Times ticking!"

Yoongi looks at the man, then at you. He knows what he needs to do except the thought of letting you leave after getting the rare chance to see you again causes him to linger in place.

"It's okay," you try to ease him, despite also feeling conflicted to leave. "You're working. I come here often so I'll see you around." You're only able to take two steps before the same voice hollers to you.

"Wait, __. What are you doing tomorrow at 6?"

"It's Saturday so, probably watching re-runs of Friends. Why?"

For the first time, Yoongi lets out a hearty laugh and you're instantly reminded of his photo from the cafe last week; the one of him in the sky-blue cardigan with his guitar. His expression exudes the same joyful aura as if his two personas suddenly merge as one.

"I love Friends," he says. "The whole Ross and Rachel thing is driving me mad though, like why won't they–"

"Yoongi the food needs to go now!" His coworker yells at him again, wiping his sweat fro his brow. "Tell your girlfriend or whoever that is that you have work to do!"

"She's not my girlfriend!" Yoongi responds with rosy cheeks. "Sorry, I gotta get back to it. I know Friends is tough to compete with but do you think you'd have an hour to spare? We could–I could get a pizza for us to split. Already got your order down." He gives a lopsided grin as he jokes lightly.

"Okay." You break into a smile. "I wouldn't dream of passing up my comfort food." You sound calm but the back of your mind reels with uncertainty. Is he asking you out or is it the so-called "hang out", sometimes masked as a pre-date?

He reaches for the pad of paper on the counter next to him, scribbles something down, and tears it off to give it to you. "Here's my number. Feel free to text me if anything changes. No pressure though."

Once you take the paper from him, he disappears into the back of the kitchen before you can get another word out. Min Yoongi, you hum silently, timid yet takes initiative. Cute.

You decide it's better to see Yoongi's proposal as a hang out rather than a date. It's not like he came out and said, "do you want to go out" or anything. So at 6 pm on the dot, you agree to meet him at Little Slice of Heaven. As promised, he brings a pizza for you to share.

He's already changed out of his work clothes by the time you arrive; sporting a white t-shirt, jeans, and a thin chain necklace. The basic look works on him.

"So I didn't get to ask you yesterday," you start, turning to Yoongi who sits on the swivel stool next to you. "How do you like it here and what made you come?"

He shrugs and places a slice of pizza on his paper plate. "Pays the bills. I was working as a waiter down on main street a few months ago. I chose to leave that place due to poor management and...I lack social skills, evidently."

"Come on, you do not." You refuse to believe it. "Anytime we've talked it's been pleasant so any naysayers probably don't even know what side's up."

Yoongi snorts in amusement. "We've only had two conversations __." He says it flatly yet it doesn't keep your cheeks from feeling flushed, warmth blooming in the pit of your belly. Your name sounds different from his lips this time.

"You're right, and both times you've shown great social skills."

"I think you're stretching it a little. As I recall I was a bit more reserved with you than usual. Must have been awkward for you."

"Not in the slightest," you deny. "There's nothing awkward about being reserved. In fact, sometimes it's better and it typically means you're a better listener than most. And if you were so awful, you wouldn't be working here right? This is food service too."

"Thanks for saying that." He glances down at his hands in his lap, unsure of how much you're saying rings true, then looks back up at you. "I don't need to talk with people as much as I do a server though. It's more like I hand them their pizza and wish them a good life."

"Well, I guess you make a point there. But trust me Yoongi, you don't lack social skills. Can I ask you something though? Weirdly off-topic."

"Shoot."

"It's about your photo from the cafe last week. It showed you in a blue cardigan with a smile on your face except when you came in to play that day..."

An unexpected grin forms on his face as he finishes your sentence. "I looked like I hated my life or something right? Or like Grumpy Bear from that kiddy cartoon, Caring Bears.

"Care Bears."

"Right, Care Bears." He chuckles lightly. "The music I tend to write shows my raw feelings and experiences. A song like Seesaw, as you've heard, is no exception, but I don't think my overall theme has to be dark as well. The image you saw shows the current version of me, the one who's liberated from those past experiences."

"That's extremely meaningful, Yoongi."

"As far as why I showed up in a giant black sweatshirt, it's because I wanted to dress comfortably. I always get a little nervous performing in front of a live audience so it helps. Especially since I'm only a new artist without a label supporting me. I was also a little sleepy from mixing beats the night before too, I won't lie."

"That makes so much sense. How long have you been making music for?"

"Since a teenager. Like thirteen."

"Seriously?" You nearly fall off your chair. Yoongi is a born genius it seems.

"Yeah. I never pursued being an independent artist until now. Resources and connections were pretty grim for me. Since becoming an adult I've made some progress. Still working to get my name out there though."

"I understand." You nod along. "Being an independent artist, you must have to do a lot to gain exposure. Have you considered uploading videos of yourself playing your songs on social media?"

"I've done some and they've been good. I'm actually trying to send my songs to a few record labels but I haven't heard back from any yet. It's been a good six months so I don't know. There's still one that I'm holding out hope for. I only sent my music to them a week ago."

"That's a shame they didn't contact you. Just means they missed out on Agustd which they will, without a doubt, be regretting later. Do you have an estimate on when the newest label will reach out to you?"

"No clue. They say it takes anywhere from a week to three months. By the way," he pauses. "I have to ask. Do you really like my music? I don't mean that rudely or anything."

"Hell yeah, I like it! You're honestly insanely talented and love it actually."

"God," Yoongi fakes an eye roll. "Don't tell me you're my first groupie."

You both share a laugh that can only be described as natural.

"Enough about me." He speaks first after your laughter settles down. "What do you do? Have any crazy hobbies?"

"I'm afraid I don't have any crazy hobbies at the moment. I work as a vet downtown and I don't have much free time unless it's to binge-watch movies on the weekend. I love my job though."

"Ah," Yoongi narrows his eyes as if coming to a drastic realization. "It's all coming together."

"What is?"

"The reason why you're so kind and stable." He gathers several napkins and hands them over to you when some of the water from your glass accidentally spills on the table. "No you have a bright energy to you, but it's not hyper. It's like you really care in a hospitable way. You work with animals which requires a lot of heart. Do you have any pets at home?"

"Yeah, I actually have two cats. Both siamese. I want to get a dog but right now I wouldn't be around to take care of it well. Cats are a little more independent." You wipe up the water with the napkins and continue. "Thanks for saying all that Yoongi. I'm not sure stable is the best way to describe me."

"Well, for what it's worth you're the most stable person I've met. I think everyone needs someone like you in their life."

"I–what kind of people are you hanging around?" You feel flustered so you do the first thing that comes to mind, nudge his shoulder playfully which he laughs at. "I'm not all that. I have faults like anyone else."

"Name one." He taps the table with a finger to make a point. "Dare you."

"I don't know, I dislike vacuuming my rug."

"Oh my god." He covers his mouth to feign shock. "Scandalous. I don't think we should eat together again after that. Wow."

"Stop it, that was a dumb one. I have stuff I swear. If this were a first date I'd be a bit appalled that you're asking me to list my faults. It isn't usually the time you try to pick each other apart."

"Actually, it sort of is to an extent. You have to observe each other right? So those so-called red flags will come up sooner than later to keep you from unnecessary pain and heartache later."

You maul on his words. "Point made. Wish I knew that three years ago," you hum. Yoongi seems to agree with you from the way he quietly nods.

"Ex-boyfriend?" he asks.

"Yup, what about you? Ex-girlfriend?"

He nods again and it puts an end to any further talk about exes or past relationships.

"By the way," Yoongi folds his arms against his chest. "I have a cat too. I got him two years ago at a shelter. He's pretty much my best friend."

The excitement on your face is impossible to conceal. Min Yoongi has a cat? You need to know everything about said cat right now.

"What's his name? Is he a long hair? You give me long-haired cat dad vibes." You're hasty— so sue you, you're a vet. Animals are sort of your wheelhouse.

"His name's Kiwi and he's an overly fed Russian Blue. He's six years old." Yoongi laughs and leans towards you with mirthful eyes. "If you want, I can introduce you to him." He cocks a brow and your shoulders perk up.

"Honest? I would actually die to see your cat."

Yoongi slides off his chair and tosses the empty pizza box in the trash. "Let's go to my place then."

"What?" You crickle the napkin in your hand and toss it on your paper plate. "Now?"

"Yeah now's as good a time as ever." He takes his keys from his jeans pocket and gestures for the door. "Don't worry, I won't make you stay for long."

a/n: thanks for reading! lmk what you think 💞

Masterlist

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

[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. ♡

[hamsterclaw]

Fic Library: Yoongi (Pt 1)

My ult bias, it makes sense that there were too many to fit into one list. All of these authors capture the essence of my favourite tsundere king, check these stories out and show them some love.

Pause by @whatifyoulivelikethat. Music producer MYG x reader, domestic abuse. The first time I ever slid into an author's DMs was after I read this, to let them know how much I loved this story. It's unexpected, and profoundly beautiful, and re-reading it now takes me back to where I was when I first read it.

Like Butter by @bonvoyagenoona. Photographers MYG x reader, director KNJ x reader. Set in the setting of a magazine production team, and featuring a very sexy scene with our fave maknae and a scheming Park Jimin.

Countermelody by @bonvoyagenoona. Producer MYG x shopgirl/musician reader. A gorgeously rendered enemies to lovers story that's as much about life, love, new starts, self belief as it is about Min Yoongi and his beanie. IYKYK.

Moonlit throne by @hobidreams.Joseon king Yoongi x reader, historical AU. The seminal Joseon dynasty story told in a non-linear timeline with a perfectly characterised Yoongi and incredible attention to detail.

Three Tangerines by @kithtaehyung. Fuckboy Yoongi x f! reader, brother's best friend AU. 3tan makes it onto almost every fic rec list I've seen, and deservedly so - the dialogue slaps, the writing's sharp and this Yoongi's irresistible.

Bet on it by @minisugakoobies. Quizzers Yoongi x reader, featuring a super competitive reader and Yoongi with a blonde undercut. Hot, fun and hilarious.

Perpetual Datejust by @jiminrings. Model Yoongi x manager reader. A very sweet, romantic read, with a devoted reader and a healthy dose of angst.

Sodium Vapor by @miscelunaaa. Yoongi x f! reader. An atmospheric, wistful read about a chance meeting that also has Em's signature raw honesty.

Man of the year by @raplinesmoon. Single dad Yoongi x gn reader. A sweet, heartwarming read, and Yoongi's relationship with his daughter is adorable.

Look down on me like that by @here2bbtstrash. Co-workers Yoongi x reader, enemies to lovers. There's nothing better than Yoongi being an asshole, and he's written so perfectly here, as are reader and cute and endearing babystarcandy JK.

Teardrop by @hesperantha. Yoongi x reader, road trip AU. I read sometimes just for the pleasure of how a writer puts words to paper, and this is one of those stories - there are so many truths woven into the words, subtle and beautiful.

Moving day (Explicit) by @here2bbtstrash. Yoongi x reader, domestic AU. Sweet, sexy smut involving Yoongi tying up his hair. I repeat, Yoongi tying up his hair. The visual still gives me chills.

Proof by @illneverrecover. Yoongi x reader, strangers to lovers. A confident reader approaches an equally confident, sexy Yoongi with the added bonus of Joon and Jin as supportive besties.

Quiet Kitten by @thatlongspringnight. Professor Yoongi x college student reader - a smutty read with a fiercely sexy, stern Professor Min.

Straight Shooter MYG x reader, cyberpunk AU by @snackhobi. A perfectly characterised Yoongi, a dystopian futuristic setting and a subtle and gorgeous love story that I've read and re-read more times than I can say. The story that pulled me into BTS fanfic that I still have so much love for now.

Punch Drunk MYG x reader, boxer AU by @joonbird. From memory there's an open ending but that hasn't stopped me from re-reading. A troubled Yoongi's depicted so beautifully here.

Greedy MYG x reader, mafia AU by @xjoonchildx. Ana knows how much I love this - this Yoongi breaks my heart every time and I love how the relationship develops between him and reader.

Close Call by @xjoonchildx - a follow up to Greedy that's just as stunning as the OG story. I can't tell you how much I love this. Yoongi's a provider, and he takes care of his own, and there's nothing sexier.

All the wrong places by @mrworldwideshoulders. Yoongi x reader, strangers to lovers, in progress. An intriguingly irritable Yoongi covers the tab for reader at a bar.

Interlude: Sundown by @eoieopda. Part of the Darksided series, featuring Yoongi x reader in an established relationship. Hot, smutty, intimate goodness.

Angel by @sailoryooons. Mafia Yoongi x sex worker reader. I started reading this and couldn't stop - the writing's sharp and riveting and the pacing is perfect. A sexy, smutty, captivating read with a sexy, dangerous Yoongi.

Part 2