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aikastales · 7 months ago

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i’m drunk, i love you (jk)

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: with only a day before graduation, you make a promise that you will not only graduate from university, but also from your feelings for your best friend of seven years, jeon jungkook.

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: film student!jungkook x med tech student!fem!oc (named sola)

𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾𝗌: heavy angst, unrequited love, jungkook as an isko agenda, set in the ph 🇵🇭

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: this story is fiction. it does not represent the members of bangtan or any of the idols here in real life. all resemblance to real life characters, institutions, associations, places, events, among others are either purely coincidence or depicted in a fictitious manner only. there’s really no warnings for this story other than it’s a self-indulgent fic to get me back to writing. the smut isn’t that severe. just kissing, nipple sucking, and grinding. this is based on the film, i’m drunk i love you, which i highly recommend you watch. i didn’t alter much of the plot & scenes bc i think they’re already great as it is, but i did tweak a bit here and there. i hope you enjoy! let me know what you think by reblogging/commenting. ♡

𝗍𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 5,784

You were never quite the believer in love at first sight, but what you felt that night was the closest thing to that feeling.

He was one of the freshmen performers during your orientation, singing Adam Levine’s Lost Stars. Like the entire audience, you were captivated by his heavenly vocals and charisma as he performed on stage with an acoustic guitar one of the seniors lent him. Not only that, Jeon Jungkook wasn’t bad looking either—quite the opposite, really.

However, after the orientation, you didn’t get to see much of the dark-haired handsome boy. You were studying at UP, the biggest state university in the country, and so your paths were bound not to cross. Until, your older cousin, who was a senior at that time, invited you to eat dinner with him and a couple of his buddies after seeing you strolling around campus alone. When you arrived at the eatery, you not only saw your cousin Yoongi’s friends—Yijeong and Woosung—you also spotted the boy who hadn’t left your mind since you saw him over four months ago at that time.

You sat across from him and you tried your best not to freak out as Yoongi introduced the both of you. Apparently, he had already known Jungkook because he was the younger stepbrother of his other friend, Namjoon. During the course of your dinner, you and Jungkook didn’t really talk much. But you would muster up the courage to ask him some basic questions such as his program, why he went to UP, if he joined any orgs yet, etcetera. Jungkook was polite enough to answer your inquiries.

He was a Film major. He went to UP because everyone in his family went to UP so it was the most obvious choice for him and he was a member of the Film society. In return, Jungkook asked the same set of questions. You were a pre-med student, Medical Technology, to be exact, and you went to UP because it was your dream school. You were also a member of the College of Arts and Sciences’ student council.

After your meal was finished, Yoongi entrusted your care to Jungkook as they were going to meet up with some of their friends and you were both living at campus dormitories anyway. So, you hopped into his old army green Toyota Rav4 and needless to say, the ride back to UP was awkward. So, to get rid of the awkward silence, you asked if you could play some music. He said sure and handed you the aux cord already connected to his stereo. Once you had the other end connected to your phone, you played one of your favorite songs—Waltz of Four Left Feet by Shirebound and Busking.

To your surprise, Jungkook also knew the song and just like that, the awkward silence was gone and you became inseparable ever since.

Music became the bridge that connected you and Jungkook. Whenever you would hangout, it was always your topic—your favorite artists, songs, original scores in films, best albums, underrated artists, overrated artists, the current state of music, everything. He also became your gig buddy—seeking out mainstream and indie artists you both liked and going to their live performances downtown bars, jam packed arenas and stadiums.

But your favorite would always be watching him perform. After his performance at the orientation, he naturally became one of the popular students at UP. He wasn’t popular like a celebrity or an influencer, but heads would turn whenever he walked around campus. Also, he still had the luxury of privacy on his side, but if you looked at the right places, you would find small accounts on social media dedicated to him. He didn’t care for the attention, though, and just went about his day as normally as possible.

His performance did land him some gigs here and there. You found it cute whenever he’d turn to you to ask if he should accept the invitation or not, and you would always tell him to do whatever he wanted. Most of the time, he accepted, especially if it was at Route 96, a historic venue for aspiring musicians.

It was here that he performed the first song he wrote by himself called Still With You. It was also during this performance that you began to see him in a different light—quite literally. He was performing with the bar lights off, only the lights on stage and the spotlight illuminated the entire establishment. When the spotlight on him turned purple, you felt a whole new admiration for your best friend. It wasn’t the “Oh god I’m so proud of my best friend” kind, rather it was the “Oh fuck I’m in love with my best friend” realization.

But like every other story where someone falls in love with their best friend, you kept your feelings hidden, hoping someday it would go away. However, you soon realized, once you fell in love with Jeon Jungkook, there was no going back. It was a rabbit hole.

The more you spent time with him, the more you fell in love with him and all of him—from the way he smiles to the sound of his laugh, how he would always annoy the shit out of you when you were supposed to be studying to how he would remember small things about you like your favorite snack at the vending machine, how you’d be the first to know his test results to how you’d be his first audience for the short film they needed to produce for that semester, how he would lend you his jacket when you ate bingsu because he knew you’d get cold easily to how he’d send you random memes he found funny out of the blue.

It was so easy to fall in love with Jeon Jungkook. Thus, everyone else did too. For seven years, you watched on the sidelines as he dated several girls and loved them how you wished he’d love you.

“In one day, you can finally lay your hands on Jungkook,” your best friend, Mingyu, teased as he took a sip from his beer.

You let out a sarcastic laugh, head resting on your palm, elbow propped on the wooden table in front of you, a bottle of beer in the other hand. You were bordering on getting tipsy now as you had been drinking since you arrived at La Union with Mingyu and Jungkook in the afternoon. You didn’t even know why you agreed to your best friend’s idea of going to the province for a music festival when you had your graduation—the very graduation that was seven years in the making—on Sunday.

“Fuck you, Kim Mingyu,” you told the honey-skinned man across from you with a chuckle.

“What? Let this be your final test before finally graduating. Are you ready?” a lopsided grin appeared on his handsome face.

Under the orange light, Kim Mingyu was easily one of the most handsome men you ever laid your eyes on. He was also tall, well-mannered, smart, capable, had a stable job while being a med student, and the textbook definition of a walking green flag. In another life, you could imagine yourself falling for him instead of Jungkook. But in the current universe you were in, he was one of your trusted friends who had known about your crush on Jungkook since first year.

The waiter arrived to bring you your order of another bucket of Red Horse beer. Mingyu took a bottle from the silver bucket and opened it. “Happy horse for the happy whore,” he told you as he handed you the fresh bottle of beer. You gave him a middle finger. He laughed. “What? Am I not right?”

“You’re the whore,” you replied. “I saw you with that cute chinito by the beach earlier. What happened to Mino?”

He rolled his eyes at the mention of his ex—or you believed was his ex. You never really know with Mingyu and relationships. He was the complete opposite of you. While you were a hopeless romantic at heart, he didn’t believe in love—or so he says.

“Seven years,” Mingyu mused, glancing towards the beach. “You didn’t stop falling in love with your best friend. Now, it looks like you don’t even plan to stop.”

You sucked your teeth, tracing the water around the bottle due to the ice with your fingers. “Do I just throw it away?” You weren’t sure if you were asking Mingyu or yourself. “We make a good pair.” You laughed to yourself.

“Except?” Mingyu pointed out the harsh reality.

“Except,” you took in a shaky breath. “He doesn’t love me back. Maybe.”

Mingyu sighed deeply, looking at his watch. “Time check: you still have your hopes up.”

“It’s still early,” you argued. “I still have two days. Just give me time.”

“Give me time?” Mingyu repeated, taking a sip from his beer. “What the fuck are you talking about, Sola? The universe has given you all the time. But you did nothing.”

You groaned, throwing your head back as a realization hit you. “Fuck, Gyu, I just—I just realized. Is it right that we’re here? Was it the right decision to come here? My mom’s gonna be so mad once she finds out I’m in La Union.”

“It’s all you. You’re a raging masochist,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Anyway. Let’s just play a game. Let’s enumerate all the things you did with Jungkook. Those are seven years worth of memories, Sola. Game?”

“Game.”

“What year did you first meet Jungkook?”

A smile immediately creeped up on your face. “2017.”

Mingyu waved his hand at you. “Wow! You can do math! But I just thought of something—instead of just general memories. Let’s make them specific. Let’s list down all the stupid things you did for Jungkook for seven years.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” you let out a scoff, drinking your beer.

“What? Now you can’t remember?” he challenged.

You clicked your tongue. “Fine, you stupid bitch. Ask away.”

Mingyu grinned. “2018.”

You hummed before saying, “Jungkook was heartbroken that year. I was back at home and he was at UP. But I rushed into the city to be there for him. I remember because I was supposed to attend this baptism with my parents but I snuck out and got an earful from my mother the next day. I was completely hungover too because Jungkook and I went bar hopping the entire night.”

“Jesus Christ, Sola.”

“Don’t judge me. It was my decision, okay?”

Mingyu rolled his eyes. “Okay. 2019.”

You stared at Mingyu, laughing as you recalled the memory. “2019. Me and Jungkook walked from UP to Aurora Boulevard just to tell me how Song Areum became his girlfriend.”

He shook his head. “2020.”

“2020—he was sick. I had an exam that day, but I quickly answered it so I could buy him his favorite, Tapsilog from Tapsi ni Vivian, before it ran out ‘cos it runs out quickly, right?” Mingyu nodded. You licked your lower lip then let out a small laugh. “But when I got to his dorm room, his roommate already told me Areum brought him to the university hospital. And I failed my exam ‘cos I didn’t answer the back part.”

“2021, go!”

“I loved him for four years now and counting. Is that good enough?”

“Okay. I’ll accept it. 2022?”

“2022—I’ve been in love with him for five fucking years already, fucking shit!” you exclaimed, feeling the alcohol in you boosting your confidence.

“Okay. We’re in the last year, girl. What about in 2023? What was the stupid thing you did for Jungkook last year?”

You gulped. “I’m two years delayed.”

Mingyu exhaled deeply. A moment of silence settled between the two of you. Then, she asked, “Sola, it all boils down to this: when will you end this?”

You sat up straight, taking a deep breath. “You mean when will I stop with my foolishness?” Mingyu nodded. You purse your lips. “Maybe when I’m done with UP. When I’m done with UP, I’ll graduate from everything—including him. Especially him.”

When you got back to your shared room with Jungkook and Mingyu, you were already tipsy. You almost fell face flat on the floor when you opened the door, feeling lightheaded, but luckily, your best friend was there to catch you.

“You’re drunk, Sola,” Jungkook chuckled deeply. You could smell his expensive cologne—the one you bought for him for his birthday last year and it brought a huge grin on your face, knowing he wore it. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m fine, Guk. I’m not that drunk. But I do need to sit down,” you said followed by a set of giggles as you let Jungkook walk you to the bed you shared with Mingyu, and then you threw yourself on it, back against the mattress, arms spread like an eagle.

Jungkook sat down beside you. “Are you still mad at me?”

The question seemed to sober you up instantly. The truth was—you could never stay mad at him. For anything. Sometimes, you’d think he could do the most painful and hurtful thing to you, deliberately, and you would still forgive him even if he wouldn’t apologize.

“I wasn’t mad. I was just… I just wished you would’ve told me the real reason why you wanted to come here,” you replied softly, biting your lower lip.

“Would you have come? If I told you I wanted to go here because my ex wanted to reconnect—would you have come?” Jungkook matched your tone, looking over his shoulder to look at you.

Instinctively, your eyes also darted towards his. The lights in the room were dim, only the lamp, the light coming beneath the bathroom door, and the moonlight outside illuminated the room. Jungkook looked especially beautiful in the dim light—long black wavy hair all messy from his habit of running his fingers through it, hooded eyes staring at you like he was memorizing every inch of you, the gentleness of his features made him look like an angel in this light.

But then you’d see his dozens of piercings in his ears, eyebrow, and lower lip; his tattooed arm and hand, and the way he looked sexy as hell with his thin white long sleeved, sleeves rolled up to his elbow, and his white beach shorts that hugged his strong muscular thighs, and you’d realize he was more of a Greek god than an angel.

“I’ll go wherever you go,” you told him, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You know that.”

Jungkook lied down beside you and you felt your heartbeat racing. His tattooed arm was brushing against yours. His head was tilted, close to yours.

“Will you go with me to the moon?” he asked.

A small smile ghosted on your lips. “I will, Guk.”

“How about Saturn?”

“I’ll be with you there, too.”

“Law school?”

You turned your head to him. He was already looking at you. “Law school? Why?”

He brushed the hair on your face aside with his fingers, making you tense. But you kept your composure. “I passed UP LAE.”

“But,” you began. “What about film? I thought you didn’t wanna become a lawyer like your parents.”

Jungkook looked at the ceiling. “It’s not that bad. Being a lawyer. Besides, I like studying.”

“You’ve always wanted to become a director, though.”

“I’m not good enough for it,” Jungkook scoffed. “All my batchmates are already directing their films and showing them at festivals here and abroad—yet here I am. Still here.”

You turned on your side, propping your elbow to support your head as you looked at your best friend. It was rare for Jungkook to open up. Even to you. He was always someone who kept all his innermost thoughts and feelings to himself. In the seven years you’d known him, it still felt like there was a wall around him that you never managed to climb on or punch through. For seven years, it felt like you simultaneously knew everything and nothing about your best friend.

“It’s not the end of the road, Jungkook. So what if they’re showing their films at festivals? You can do it too. At your own pace, in your own time,” you said. You wanted to reach for his face, to make him look at you, but you were scared. “You’re a great filmmaker, Guk. The best direk ever.”

He looked at you once again. “You’re drunk, Yu Sola. Go to sleep.”

He sat up, carrying your legs over the bed. You let out a groan. “I’m not drunk, Jeon Jungkook. Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?” he asked, chuckling.

“You always cut the conversation when you’re beginning to open up. You always clamp up, Guk. I wish you didn’t do that. I’m your—,” you bit the inside of your lower lip. What right did I have to demand him to open up to me? “I’m your best friend.”

“I don’t clamp up. I just have nothing else to say,” your best friend replied with a shrug, fixing his hair as he looked in the mirror across from your bed. “Go to sleep. You’ll get a massive headache tomorrow. I’m just going to meet with Areum and her friends.”

Then, you blurted it out. It just happened. You didn’t even know how. You always had this grand idea in your mind to do it after the graduation ceremony, that way, you could immediately leave. That way, you didn’t have to see him all the time. You would have enough time to move on and move forward in your life.

But nothing in life truly went according to plan.

“I love you, Jungkook,” you confessed. Your heart felt heavy and you sat up, head hanging low as you picked on your nails. Tears were beginning to form in your eyes. “I’ve loved you for seven years now.”

And you sobbed, burying your face in your hands. Then, moments later, you felt your hands being taken away from your face. You lifted your head and saw Jungkook kneeling in front of you, holding your hands. He let one go to wipe away the tears on your face, to tuck your hair behind your ear.

And then, ever so slowly, Jungkook leaned in and kissed you softly. A tear rolled down your cheek. His lips were soft while yours were chapped and wet from your tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. You were still in shock. This was not the response you expected. Not even in your wildest dreams but it was happening.

Jungkook held your face, tilting his head as he continued to kiss you more—only this time with more need and passion. Your body reacted. You began to reciprocate his kisses, hands wrapping around his wrists. He tasted of toothpaste and mouthwash.

He pushed you onto the bed, one hand remaining on your face while the other held your waist. Your fingers curled the ends of his hair. You could feel his growing member on your stomach and feeling it was enough to make your cunt wet. His lips then traveled on your jaw, down to your neck. You were breathing heavily as he nibbled on your sensitive skin, making a soft moan escape your lips.

His hand made its way under your shirt and your breath hitched, causing Jungkook to lift his head from your neck, and look you in the eyes.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” he smiled, making your heart skip a beat. “Is it okay if I take this off now?”

“I—,” you were at a loss for words. Was this really happening? It seemed too good to be true. But it was happening and you wanted it more than anything else. “Okay. Yes, you can.”

Jungkook peeled your shirt off, exposing your naked chest. You didn’t wear bras; found it too much of a hassle and you always hated the feeling. Instead, you wore nipple tapes.

“What are these, Sola?” Jungkook asked with a chuckle, making your cheeks heat up.

“They’re nipple tapes, you dumb ass,” you replied, smacking his arm lightly.

“Okay. Do I just take them off, like, tape?”

He was adorably cute. “Yes, you just take them off like tape.”

And so he did just that. The coolness of the room and your arousal instantly perked your nipples. Jungkook took your breasts in his hands, massaging and squeezing them, making you arch your back ever so slightly. Then, he dipped his head, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth while remaining to massage the other.

The sensation was simply divine. You didn’t know if it was the alcohol in your system, your feelings for your best friend, or just Jungkook in general that made you feel so good at that moment. Your hands traced the outline of his toned biceps through his thin polo.

You were so wet and when Jungkook began to grind his hard cock against your clothed cunt, you felt another wave of wetness. You wanted him—all of him—and so you began to rock your hips against him, making him release a moan.

He lifted his head, staring at you with those doe eyes you have loved for seven years. “Are you sure?”

Those three words held so much. Once you crossed the line, there was no going back, and both of you knew that.

“I’m sure. I want this, Guk. I want you.”

That was all he needed to hear to make love to you the whole night. Once both of you came, Jungkook laid beside you, chest heaving. For a while, the both of you lay in silence.

“Will you be here in the morning?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow to face him.

He did the same. “I will,” he promised. “Go to sleep now, Sola.”

But he wasn’t.

When you woke up the next day, the other side of the bed was empty. You sat up, burying your face in your hands. What the hell have I done? What the hell have we done?

You left the bed, entering the bathroom, and proceeding to take a shower. In there, you cried, because nothing was going to be the same after last night. You couldn’t blame it all on Jungkook either. You also made it happen. You desperately wished it was just a dream—another wet dream you had of your best friend—but the traces of his cum were still on your inner thigh.

It happened. There was no going back. Everything was going to be different now and most of all, you didn’t know if you still had your best friend.

When you finished showering and getting dressed, you made your way down to the beach. You had texted Mingyu while getting dressed and he told you he was there with the chinito you saw him with, Wonwoo. Arriving at the beach, you pulled your phone out of your back pocket, about to text the honey-skinned med student when you saw Jungkook with Areum in the water, his strong arms that held you throughout the night, now wrapped around her waist. Fits of giggles escaped her lips as Jungkook wrestled with her in the water, a huge grin on his handsome face.

Your heart shattered.

You quickly looked away, a fresh set of tears forming in your eyes. As you were about to turn away, you heard Mingyu’s familiar voice which caused you to stop on your tracks.

“Sola, hey, there you—what’s wrong?” The concern in his voice was palpable. You felt his arm around your shoulder as he pulled you closer to him.

“I—I finally told him, Gyu,” you said, taking in a sharp shaky breath. “I finally told him.”

Mingyu didn’t ask for more details. He knew. He led you back to your room, promising Wonwoo to text him later. Once you were back, you just cried on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything and neither did you. He just let you be until the tears finally stopped.

“I’m sorry I pulled you away from Wonwoo. He seems like a nice guy,” you said after a while, voice raspy from all the crying.

“It’s fine. We’ll be seeing each other often anyway,” Mingyu shared.

You looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

Your friend nodded, laughing to himself. “You know, all those times I teased you about your being a hopeless romantic and believing in love—I think it’s backfiring on me now with Wonwoo.”

“You love him?” you asked.

“I don’t know, Sola. But I know what I feel for him is different,” he answered. “It’s terrifying. How quickly someone can change your perspective on something.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

“What’s your plan now?” Mingyu asked.

You sighed deeply. “I think I’m going to head back. My graduation is tomorrow anyway. Do you mind booking the bus ride home?”

“I’m staying here, Sola. I—I want to be with Wonwoo more,” Mingyu confessed, smiling at you apologetically.

“Gyu…”

“Please be a friend to me now, Sola.”

You pressed your lips tightly. Then, you nodded. You wanted your friend to be happy.

“I’m gonna pack now,” you announced.

“Okay. Just text me if you need anything,” Mingyu gave you a hug and kiss on top of your head. “I want you to know I’m proud of you, Sola.”

Once Mingyu left, you began to pack. You didn’t bring a lot of clothes, but you were still biding your time. A part of you didn’t want to leave. You wanted to stay here and never graduate. But that illusion was quickly broken when you saw your mom’s contact flashing on your phone screen.

You sucked your teeth before answering, “Hi mom.”

“Sola? Where the hell are you? Why haven’t you been answering my texts? Your graduation is tomorrow. Everyone is looking forward to it!” she exclaimed frantically.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m in La Union with Jungkook and—,”

“What the hell are you doing in La Union?! You better get back instantly, Sola. I’m not kidding. If you don’t graduate now, I really don’t know what I’m gonna do. It’s been seven years! Please let me graduate too.”

“I’m already packing and I’ll catch the bus home soon. I just—Mom, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it in time for the ceremony ‘cos—,”

Your phone was suddenly snatched from your grip. You looked up and saw Jungkook standing beside you.

“Hey tita, it’s Jungkook. Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll take her home. She’ll make it in time. Yes. We’ll be home before the ceremony, tita. Okay. Bye.”

He ended the call and sat down on the bed across from you, handing you your phone back. You grabbed it from him. “You don’t have to take me home.”

“I already promised tita I will,” he answered.

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, folding your shirt.

Silence. Jungkook was just staring at you the entire time as you folded your clothes and packed them inside your bag. Then, he said those two words.

“I’m sorry.”

You bit the inside of your lower lip. What was he exactly for? For having sex with you? For spending the night with you? For not feeling the same way as you? All of the above?

As if reading your thoughts, he added, “For everything.”

You nodded. “You don’t have to apologize for anything,” you told him. “It’s not your fault you don’t love me the same way.” But why did you kiss me? Why did you make love to me?

Jungkook lowered his head. You zipped your bag. “Let’s go. I still have a graduation to chase.”

“What’s this?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed when you saw Areum standing beside Jungkook’s car with her luggage and bag.

“I’ll drop Areum on the way,” Jungkook announced, grabbing her luggage and putting it at the back of his car.

You pressed your lips in a line. “Fine.” You stepped into the back passenger seat, quickly grabbing your phone and earphones from your bag, and plugging it in.

Lowering yourself on the seat, you rested your head against the window as Areum stepped into the passenger seat while Jungkook sat on the driver’s seat. You caught him glancing at you from the corner of your eyes, but you didn’t look back. Instead, you turned the volume up. Moments later, he began to drive.

You decided to sleep the entire ride. However, when you woke up, you immediately realized Jungkook wasn’t driving in your hometown. “Where are we?” you asked, taking one of your earphones off.

“I’m dropping Areum first,” Jungkook replied.

You frowned. “I’m the one chasing a graduation, remember?”

“Shh, just go back to sleep. Here,” he threw something at you—your favorite candy, Butterball, landing on your lap.

You grabbed it, tempted to eat it, but you threw it back at him and went back to sleep. By the time you woke up again, you were at Areum’s house. She turned to look at you, smiling.

She was really beautiful and kind. You began to feel guilty for hating her so much the entire time. “Congrats on your graduation, Sola. I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Thanks Areum.”

After Jungkook walked her to her door, he came back to the car. “What are you doing there? Come here,” he said, patting the passenger seat.

“I’m fine here,” you replied.

“Sola, come on. Please? I drive better with you beside me.”

For the rest of the ride to your home, you sat beside Jungkook. Unlike before, where your car rides were filled with music and random conversations, tonight it was silent. You didn’t plug your phone into his stereo and you kept your eyes closed the whole time, listening to your music. Once in a while, Jungkook would try to make small talk, but you would only give him short replies, then went back to sleeping.

When you arrived at your family house, you stayed with Jungkook outside for a bit, both leaning against his car.

“It’s your graduation in four hours.”

“Are you not going to come to yours?”

“I don’t see the point,” Jungkook replied.

You nodded and pushed yourself off his car. “I’ll head inside. Thanks for the ride, Jungkook.”

He grabbed your arm before you entered the gate. You stared into his eyes. You couldn’t quite place what held them right now. Maybe you never really knew Jeon Jungkook after all this time.

“I’m sorry, Sola.”

“Why do you keep saying sorry? I told you—it’s not your fault and I’m fine. I’m over it now. See you around, Jungkook.”

You head back inside. Graduation was in four hours.

You wore a traditional Filipiniana dress, a pair of white heels that were already scraping the skin at the back of your feet, your mother’s pearls, and your sablay when your name was called. You came up on the stage with your excited mother, shook hands with your Dean, and finally grabbed your diploma. You always imagined graduation to be something so spectacular, but the moment you received the piece of paper that confirmed you had, indeed, graduated—you just felt the same.

After the ceremony, you went back to your house where almost all your relatives from your mother’s side were waiting for you. A tarpaulin with your graduation picture and the words, “Congratulations Yu Sola!” printed on it and hung outside your gate. You greeted everyone on your way, telling them thanks, before retreating in your room to change out of your dress and into more comfortable clothes.

While you were slipping on your shirt, your phone buzzed on your nightstand. When you grabbed it, you saw Jungkook’s message on the lockscreen.

Let’s go, it said.

You knew it meant one thing: a beer and butterball at Route 96. There was still a part of you that wanted to go because you always went when you received a message like that from Jungkook. It was always a yes when it came to him. But now that you confessed, something shifted, whether he admitted to it himself or not.

So, you put your phone in your pocket, and went down. But as you do so, you felt your phone vibrate again. You pulled it out of your pocket and Jungkook texted you another message.

Please? One for the road. I’m outside.

You bit your lower lip. Then, you made your way out. There, you saw Jungkook wearing his barong and sablay, leaning against his car like hours ago. He smiled as soon as he saw you come out.

“You still have it,” he pointed to your shirt.

You looked down on it and realized you had picked his shirt of all things. It wasn’t anything special; just something he bought at a boutique. But it meant a lot to you because he gave it to you after you spilled beer on your shirt years ago.

“You attended your ceremony?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. He nodded. “I thought you didn’t see the point.”

“I changed my mind.”

You wished you were just as quick in having a change of heart.

“One for the road?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

You took a deep breath and nodded. “One for the road.”

“Shit, I forgot it’s Sunday. It’s closed,” Jungkook sighed, seeing the steel gate at Route 96.

“It’s fine. Let’s just go,” you told him, grabbing the beer he bought beforehand and making your way up to the bar. Jungkook followed behind.

You both leaned in the railing before you, beer in hands. Another silence.

You couldn’t believe this was the culmination of the seven years you spent loving Jeon Jungkook. You thought, after confessing, you would never speak again. He’d distance himself from you but here you were—having a beer with him at your favorite place in the world. You wished you knew what was going on in his mind right now. You wished you could dissect his mind and learn every thought he had ever since you confessed.

Because you never really knew Jeon Jungkook. You were just so in love with him and idealized who he was over the last seven years. Suddenly, all the stupid memories you shared with Mingyu flashed in your mind and made you laugh.

“What’s funny?” Jungkook asked, chuckling.

You shook your head, drinking your beer. “Nothing.”

He nudged your side. “Come on, share it.”

You took a deep breath and for the first time, you looked at Jeon Jungkook and saw him for who he was; not the man you have loved for the past seven years.

“I graduated, finally.”

��˚ author’s note: if you want to donate to me via kofi or gcash <33 i would appreciate it a lot. thank you & see you in more fics later on.

↪˚ permanent taglist: @whoa-jo @kookieandjoonberries

#jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fics #bts x reader #bts x oc #bts fanfic #bts fics #jungkook filo au #bts filo au #jungkook smut

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yoonia · 11 months ago

Text

© Yoonia, 2016-2024. All rights reserved. — Unauthorized use and/or duplication of these works, including reposting, translating and modification in any form, is strictly prohibited | if you are under 18, please refrain from entering the restricted sections

key: angst ✵ | fluff ✿ | smut ♡ series: ongoing ✎ | hiatus ☽ | completed ✓

⇝— updated: Nov 2nd, 2024 ⇝— fic archive 2016-2019 .｡.✰ ⇝— work in progress & writing schedule .｡.✰

𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ✩·.¸

About Time (Time Leap!au, Soulmate!au) | Jungkook x reader x Jimin (feat. ot7) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✎ ➛ Summary | Be careful of what you wish for, because you may never know how to deal with them once it comes true. ↪ Chapter masterlist

The Bedroom Hymns (a Bluebeard tale's twist; fairytale retelling au, fairy prince!yoongi, princess!reader, soulmate!au) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✎ ➛ Summary | Haunted by the questions about your father’s past and the dark tales that seem to follow him, the thousand mysterious doors and the secrets waiting for you to reveal, and the mysterious Prince that has been following your shadows between realms, you are off to a new adventure in the Land Far Far Away. ↪ Chapter masterlist

Blood Moon Rising (Supernatural!au, Vampire!au, Werewolves!au) | Jimin x reader (feat. ot7) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✎ ➛ Summary | What happens when the only people you have put your trust in only repay you with betrayal? ↪ The Shifters Series masterpost

Carousel (Arranged Marriage!au, CEO!au, Heirs!au) | Min Yoongi x reader (feat. ot7) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ ➛ Summary | He is the successor of his family’s business empire, and you are the female heir of yours. After the trouble his older brother had created in the past, he now must face certain requirements needed for the sake of the family's future and to save his rights of inheritance, and you become his only way out. ↪ Chapter masterlist

In Motion (Masturbation Club!au) | Jungkook x reader | ✿ ♡ ✓ ➛ Summary | The rule is simple; you can look but you can’t touch. ↪ Chapter masterlist

𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢-𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ✩·.¸

Flux (Min Yoongi x reader x Jeon Jungkook) | Polyamorous!au | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✎ ➛ Premise | A collection of short stories about the journey of finding and learning about love, life, and trust. ↪ Chapters masterlist

Red Series (Min Yoongi) | Secrets of Pleasure | ✿ ♡ ✎ ➛ Premise | A collection of short stories between Yoongi and his lover (reader insert) which will tell a tale of their sexual adventures together. ↪ Chapters masterlist

𝐨𝐭𝟕 & 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 ☽.·✩·.¸

Slow Dancing (M) - Jungkook x reader; Namjoon x reader | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ mini-series; soulmate!au, second chances!au ⇢ When fate has some tricks hidden in its sleeve ↪ Chapter List

28 Days (M) - Taehyung x reader; Jungkook x reader | ✵ ✿ ♡ ☽ mini-series; slice of life!au; unrequited love!au; first love!au ⇢ When you let yourself get entangled in your own little lies ↪ chapters: (under construction)

Ravished By Two (M) - Seokjin x reader x Namjoon | ✿ ♡ one-shot; werewolves!au; polyamorous!au | 5k words ⇢ Mated to your Alphas mean that you have to submit to their every need

Threads (M) - Yoongi x reader; Namjoon x reader | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; slice of life!au; one-sided love!au; arranged relationship!au; 7k words ⇢ When life throws you a curve ball, leaving you with dark secrets to bury

The Agile Fox (M) - Yoongi x original character x Jungkook | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; supernatural!au, werewolf!jungkook, werefox!yoongi, werefox!oc | 52k words; part of Shifter Series⇢ Sometimes the Fates can play tricks on you

Bed & Boyfriend(s) (M) - Taehyung x reader x Yoongi x Jungkook | ✿ ♡ one-shot; pwp; Polyamorous!au; 16k words ⇢ A long weekend filled with wanton pleasure with the help of his best friends

Sweet Temptations (M) - Taehyung x reader x Jungkook | ♡ one-shot; brothel!au; male escort!au; 20k words ⇢ Welcome to House Of Lust, where your escorts will be there to provide you with every need

Ever a Never After - Jungkook x female reader; Seokjin x female reader | ✿ ♡ adaptation from Enchanted movie; strangers to lovers!au; fairy tale retelling!au, Smut ⇢ Stuck between two different realms, two different lives, and a chance to write your own happily ever after, would you take it?

𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐣𝐢𝐧 ☽.·✩·.¸

Cinnamon Bliss (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ mini-series; single father!Jin, cafe owner!reader, unrequited love!au ⇢ When you share the journey of finding the path to healing and re-finding love again ↪ Chapter List

Of Bears And Bonds (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ trilogy/mini-series; supernatural!au, werebear!Jin, witch!reader | part of Shifter Series ⇢ When you find your past, present, and future are all linked together with your fated ↪ chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 (end) ↪ bonus: the journey begins

Blurred Lines (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ trilogy/mini-series; teacher!Jin, teacher!reader, biker!Jin ⇢ People do say that the quiet ones always keep the biggest secret ↪ chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 (end)

Mistakes and Retakes (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; christmas rom-com; enemy to lovers!au; Part of the Stranded for Christmas Collab; 18,5k words ⇢ When your archenemy becomes your saviour

𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢 ☽.·✩·.¸

Clair De Lune (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; pianist!yoongi, escort!reader; 23k words ⇢ You were ready to leave a part of your life to move on to the next, and he is willing to give you a chance to end it glamorously

Pour Some Sugar On Me (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; enemies to lovers!au; baker!au; baker!yoongi; baker!reader; 14k words ⇢ When he shows you how baking and taste testing can be delightfully messy

Little Do You Know (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; artist/music producer!yoongi; established relationship!au; 22k words ⇢ With love, comes challenge. But what do you have to do to hold on?

Bad Things (M) | ✵ ♡ one-shot; brothel!au; street fighter!yoongi; sex worker/escort!reader; past lovers!au; 14k words ⇢ He always comes to you when he needs you to douse his flame, not knowing that he is keeping yours alight with his touch

Come Undone (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; established relationship!au, BDSM; 14k words ⇢ When your little surprise to please him backfires and he turns the tide against you instead

Two Steps Behind (or Ahead?) (M) | ✵ ♡ one-shot; friends with benefit!au, modern royal!au, modern fantasy!au; The Bedroom Hymns: alternate version; 2k words ⇢ He refuse to give up showing you what being soulmates really mean

𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 ☽.·✩·.¸

✎ 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗱𝘂𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 01. Intertwine (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; slice of life!au; past lovers!au, office!au; infidelity; 12k words 02. Tidal Waves (M)| ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; slice of life!au; past lovers!au, office!au; infidelity

✎ 𝗦𝗽𝗼𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 01. Spotless Minds (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; past lovers!au; new beginning; inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Minds; 36k words 02. Eternal Sunshine (M) | ✷ ✿ ♡ one-shot; past lovers!au; new beginning; epilogue for Spotless Minds; 39k words 03. Sunset Glow (coming soon)

𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧 ☽.·✩·.¸

The Stand-In (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot & drabble series; friends to lovers!au, post divorce/failed marriage!au; expecting parents!au; 13k words ⇢ He is ready to help with your situation in more ways than one ↪ Fic Index

Once Upon An Us (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; past lovers!au, exes to lovers!au, christmas rom-com; 47k words ⇢ When the fairy tale ending that you had been searching for had always been there the entire time

Lust Royale (M) | ✵ ♡ one-shot; royal guard!namjoon, princess!reader, unrequited love!au; 8k words ⇢ When you cannot resist falling into his temptation

The (im)Perfect Ending (M) | ✵ ♡ one-shot; past relationship!au, infidelity; 43k words ⇢ When you are given a second chance to rewrite your own happy ending ↪ bonus: Our Imperfections

Blooming Wallflowers (M) | ✵ ♡ one-shot; strangers to lovers!au, firefighter!namjoon, older female leader, MILF!au; 20k words ⇢ When the one who spends his entire life taming fire ends up becoming the one to light up the fire in you ↪ bonus: Dinner with Mista Joonie (M)

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧 ☽.·✩·.¸

Strip! (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ trilogy/mini-series; stripper!jimin, bartender!reader; single parent!au; spin-off for Bad For You⇢ Sometimes a little bit of fun brings colours to your hard life, but what if he is here to stay? ↪ chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 (End)

All Fervent Manner (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; established Relationship!au; 19k words ⇢ When you share the same secret, and neither of you could let the other know what you need the most

✎ 𝗙𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 01. Never Falling (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; enemies to lovers!au; singer!jimin; non-idol!au; assistant!reader; 21k words 02. Forever Falling (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; established relationship!au; singer!Jimin; non-idol!au; 30k words 03. Free Falling (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; established relationship!au; singer!Jimin; non-idol!au; 22k words

𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠 ☽.·✩·.¸

White Lies (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ mini-series; childhood friends to lovers!au, first love!au, painter!taehyung ⇢ When his secrets came in your way to bare threats in the future you were building together ↪ Chapter List

The Half-Lycan (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot & drabble series; supernatural!au; werewolf!taehyung, human!reader; 42k words; part of Shifter Series ⇢ The long journey of how the fated mates finally found each other ↪ drabbles: Fever // Rapture

The Forsaken (M) | ✵ ♡ one-shot; supernatural!au; siren!taehyung; mystery; horror; 22k words ⇢ When his seducing voice lures you into falling in his embrace

The Dark Room (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; sex club!au; gentlemen club!au; 19k words; Side Story for In Motion ⇢ Welcome to Club La Rouge, where your sexual fantasies come to life

A Christmas Fix (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ two-shot; Secret Baby!au, Second Chance!au, Strangers to Lovers!au; 55k words; Part of the Jingle All the Way collaboration ⇢ The one-night stand that changed the course of your fate, along with your stepsister's ↪ chapters: 01 | 02 (final)

Risque Business (M) | ♡ one-shot; Boss!reader; Employee!Taehyung; Situationship!au; older female reader; 7k words ⇢ You knew he was trouble, and you still fell into his charms

The Forsaken II: Tears of the Sea (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; supernatural!au; siren!taehyung; smut; mystery; horror; 6k words ⇢ He comes to you at night, serenading his lonely tune filled with hope

𝐣𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤 ☽.·✩·.¸

Bad For You (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; stripper!jungkook; bachelorette!au; infidelity; 11k words ⇢ His whole presence emits sin and danger ↪ Fic Index ↪ drabbles: ⇢ #1 // #2

Undressed (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; stripper!jungkook; bachelorette!au, infidelity; 20k words; Epilogue for Bad For You ⇢ He was the epitome of sin, yet he pulled you in that you just had to come back for more

Pay By Play (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; cam boy!au; Voyeurism; part of the Made With Love Project; 3k words ⇢ It is your first try to do something like this and he is making it all worth it

We Are All Dreamers [M] | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; enemies to lovers!au; soulmate!au; 16k words ⇢ When he tries to rebel against the soulmate system

Boyfriend Jungkook drabble #01 | ✿mini drabble; boyfriend!Jungkook ⇢ When he wants a taste of your ice cream

Slow & Steady [M] | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; painter!jungkook; 7k words ⇢ Can you resist temptation?

Show Me Something [M] | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; road trip!au, friends to enemies to lovers!au; first love!au; 51k words ⇢ When the extra passenger opens the pathway to your broken past

A Touch Of Fate (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ one-shot; enemies to lovers!au; soulmate!au; 9k words; Epilogue for We Are All Dreamers ⇢ When he shows you just how good you are together

Under The Blankets (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; established relationship!au, pwp smut, tattooed!Jungkook x tattooed!reader; 6k words ⇢ When neither of you can resist temptation

Mirrors: what becomes of us (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; friends with benefits to lovers!au, pwp smut; 8,5k words ⇢ Is it worth it to fall for someone who has never revealed the true content of his heart?

𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐮 ☽.·✩·.¸

Chance Encounter (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✎ series; college!au; teacher’s aid!au ⇢ What a simple DM mishap could lead to happen ↪ Chapter List

Maps (M) | ✵ ✿ ♡ ✓ mini-series; friends to lovers!au ⇢ Naps, Christian Yu, your bed – would you ask for anything more? ↪ Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 (final)

Take Care Of You (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; pwp smut; established relationship; 2k words ⇢ Helping your boyfriend to relax after long nights of working

Unravel (M) | ✿ ♡ drabble; pwp smut; established relationship ⇢ He loves how easy it is to have you unravelling under his touch

𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐛𝐢𝐧 ☽.·✩·.¸

Sweet Spot (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; established relationship; 6k words ⇢ When his jealousy makes him more daring than he is used to

Press Play (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; established relationship; 3k words ⇢ When he has an odd request for you to fulfil

What You Wanted (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; established relationship; 10k words ⇢ When he makes sure that your first time would be an amazing experience to share

Overdrive (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; musician/artist!B.I, manager!reader, smut; 13k words ⇢ When your carnal favours lead to something else

𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 ☽.·✩·.¸

✎ 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 (𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐤) ● Howlin’ (M) | ✵ ♡ one-shot; werewolf!au; fated mates!au; 6k words ⇢ When your responsibility to the Pack life comes between your Fated

✎ 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐜 ● Simon Says (M) | ✿ ♡ one-shot; pwp smut; established relationship; 4k words ⇢ Simon wants to play

✎ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐞𝐨𝐥 ● A Night With You | ✿ ♡ (implied) mini drabble; boyfriend!Chanyeol ⇢ A glimpse of the nights you spend with him

#misc: masterlist #writings by yoonia #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #bts x reader #khh fanfic #khh scenario #khh smut #khh angst #khh fluff #khh x reader

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frenchkisstheabyss · 6 months ago

Text

♡ Sympathy for the Devil ♡

♡ Pairings: mobster!boyfriend!jimin x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: mafia au/angst/smut

♡ Summary: After an arguement with your boyfriend, you set out to get back at him by bringing a date to the restaurant he frequents on a night you know he'll be there. It's a dangerous game, toying with another human life to get your way, but you do love danger, don't you? You wouldn't be looking to make a killer jealous if you didn't.

♡ Word Count: 3.2k

♡ Warnings: appearance of other members (non romantic), dom Jimin w/ switch vibes sprinkled in, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, rough sex, clit teasing, marking (hickeys), pet names (baby), you're feral for each other, fingering (f receiving), spanking, you give him a lil slap, choking, bathroom sex, possessiveness, jealousy, you're both kinda psychotic, implied murder, & that's it for the list of wholesome things in this fic.

♡ A/N: I'm such a sucker for mafia movies so I have the biggest soft spot for mafia fics. I want to thank @anyamaris for reading this first and encouraging me along the way when I was struggling with writer's block. Idk what I'd do without my #1 cheerleader for my dom Jimin agenda ❤️

Some of the prettiest animals in nature are simultaneously the deadliest. Park Jimin is no exception...

It’s impossible not to be enchanted by him. His face is a heavenly mixture of handsomeness and beauty. The cadence of his voice is like a song you can’t quite get out of your head and just when you think you have it’s back again. It’s all enough to make a girl blind to the blood on his hands.

Falling in love with him made the rest of the world all fuzzy. It blurred out everything. Not just the money laundering or the drug trafficking. To love him, to be loved by him, makes everything else feel like background noise. You've never touched a hard drug in your life but, the way he makes you feel, he must qualify as one.

That’s why you’re here doing the dumbest shit you’ve ever done in your life.

Arguments are inevitable in relationships. But arguments when you’re dating a mob guy? They’re different beasts entirely and it’s a bitch to tame them. Your last argument with Jimin led to you packing a bag and running off to your best friend’s place. In the beginning you never had to question if you came before everything else. You were special to him—at least you thought you were—and he’d stop anything to be with you.

But lately that hasn’t been the case. He’s been replacing his presence in your life with gifts, thinking he can make up for missed dates and lonely nights with designer bags. Maybe the other girlfriends are content with cuddling up to some ugly mink coat in place of their man but you aren’t one of them.

He just can’t seem to get that through his thick skull so you’ve set out to make him. If the death stare he’s giving you across this bustling restaurant is any indication of how your plan’s going, it’s working like a charm. You spent hours styling your hair just the way he likes it. Elegant and sleek, marrying beautifully with the softness of your face.

Your manicured nails are painted a translucent blue that deepens the slightest bit when the light hits it a certain way. The dress you’re wearing accentuates your curves in all the places he loves which, let’s be honest, is everywhere. And your heels, the heels, somehow makes your ass look more perfect than it already is. All of this and you’re sitting at a table having dinner with another man.

You spot Namjoon throwing an arm around Jimin’s shoulder, no doubt leaning in to give him one of his infamous pep talks. "Don’t worry about her” he’s surely saying, “It’s not worth it, man. See, sometimes love is just…” Joon goes on, doing his best to keep his younger brother from doing something stupid but Jimin’s hardly listening. How can he when his blood’s boiling hot enough to eat its way through his flesh?

Every Sunday night the brothers and their girlfriends come here for dinner. The owners, a sweet elderly couple, love them as if they were their own and give them the biggest table no matter how packed it is. This is the one night they get to pretend they’re a normal family. It’s tradition and you don’t fuck with tradition. Everyone knows that. You know that.

“The thing a lot of women don’t understand is that men by nature aren’t monogamous” your date rambles between messy bites of dinner. The man’s not ugly by any means but god is he a pig, in more ways than one. Not that you’re complaining. It’s why you had your best friend set you up with him. Whoever you bought here was no doubt being led to slaughter. Who better than a pig?

A chill runs through you at the ruthlessness of your own thoughts, wiping the smile from your face. Looking up, Jimin captures you in his gaze, the death glare replaced with a look of childlike amusement. It’s as if the smile had fled from your face to find its new home on his, taunting you from afar. What’s he smiling for? You’re not foolish enough to think it’s for anything good.

“I was thinking, it’s kinda loud in here. Wanna go to my place?” your date asks, his poor attempt at getting laid tonight falling on deaf ears.

Jimin stands up, slipping out of his suit jacket as he does so. Rolling up the sleeves of his pressed dress shirt, he leans to whisper something in Yoongi’s ear. Yoongi pours him a shot and he knocks it back like it’s nothing. The rest of the table watches on, concerned but doing their best to carry on dinner as usual. Their collective heart rate increases but none more than yours.

Maybe you hadn’t really thought this one out. Noticing the color drain from your face, your date reaches out to touch your hand. “Don’t!” you snap, jumping up from your seat. “I’m sorry. I just need a second.” Jimin’s halfway across the dining room when you flee toward the bathroom, nearly knocking into some poor innocent waiter in the process.

Navigating your way through the halls, you scramble to find a way out. You’ll tell the guy you’re sick. That’s it. Say you’re not feeling too well, must be the food or something, and send him on his way. Pretend this never happened.

“Beautiful dress, darling” an older woman smiles as she leaves the bathroom. You dash in before the door closes behind her, peeking your head back out to avoid being rude. “Thank you!” you shout after her, quickly shutting the door and hurrying to the sink to splash some water on your face.

“Snap out of it” you whisper, flicking specks of icy water at the makeup you worked tirelessly to apply. “Maybe…maybe he won’t do anything, right? We’re in public. He wouldn’t—” You force a weak, pained smile at the girl staring back at you in the mirror. “Who are you kidding?” you groan, burying your face in your hands, “He’s gonna kill him.”

“But you knew that already, didn’t you?” sighs a voice that is distinctively not yours. Your hands drop from your face and there Jimin is, standing in the doorway with that same smile on. The one he’d so brutally ripped from your face. And here you are, shivering like a child too afraid of the monster under the bed to make a run for it.

In all your panic you could’ve sworn you locked the door when, in fact, you’d done no such thing. If he’d knocked you would’ve had to open it anyway—you’ve never been great at saying no to him—but at least you would’ve given yourself a fighting chance. Nothing to stress your pretty little head about. Jimin steps in, easing the door closed, and you hear a sharp click. It’s locked now.

The heels of his black Louboutin shoes tap against the polished tile as he approaches the sink. Your heart jumps with each tap, the sound growing unbearably louder the closer he gets. Jimin brings his arms around your waist, holding you as only lovers do, “You want me to hurt him, don’t you? Want me to break every bone in his body to show you how much I love you?” His full lips brush against your neck, soft tongue running along the surface of your skin like the head of a match ready to light up with dazzling flames.

Your eyes are glued to the mirror, watching helplessly as his hands skate up and down your body, fingertips ghosting your most sensitive areas. His touch is a truth serum, forcing you to betray yourself and lay your motives bare. “You protect the things you love, Jimin. I only wanted to know if I was still one of them. Even if that meant…” you shudder at the thought. “We get what we want by any means. That’s what you taught me, isn’t it?”

Jimin grins, locking eyes with your reflection as he inches your dress up to reveal your pillowy thighs. “Aah but you already have me. I let you throw your little tantrum but I’ll never let you go. You know that.” His fingers dip between the warmth of your thighs, teasing your clit through your panties.

“So why?” he whispers, his other hand coming up to lovingly stroke your neck, “Why would you try to embarrass me?”

You part your lips to speak but your words are forced back down by the sudden pressure applied to your windpipe by his hand. All that escapes are broken words and hushed gasps for air. The light abandons his eyes, that boyish charm he so effortlessly wields burning to ash as you squirm in his grip. You kick your legs to get free but it only serves to give him the room he needs to tear your panties to the side, the pads of his fingertips dripping with your arousal as they glide through your folds.

He loosens his grip on your neck and you manage to rasp out “Mmm…sorry…didn’t mean” before you’re plunged back into silence. Curling his fingers against your entrance, he sinks one into your core. A single digit pumping into needy walls that are already clenching in anticipation of the next one. Snatching your head back, he kisses you like he hates you. Hates you so much that he loves you. Loves you so much that he hates you. A cycle, endless and all consuming, that neither of you can break from.

“Prove it to me” he demands between your lips, plunging another finger into you, “Bend over and show me how sorry you are.” Your back arches, bringing your soft ass flush against his bulge. You press back into him, feeling his cock twitch against your ass each time his fingers slam into your core. Jimin sneaks a glimpse at the mirror to watch the way your body jiggles from the motion. Thighs trembling, tits rocking in sync with the harsh movements of his wrist.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty, baby.” Jimin slips his hand away from your neck, drenched fingers abandoning your pussy to apply sharp, wet slaps to your ass.

Spinning around to face him, you land an equally sharp slap across his face, “Choke me like that again and I’ll rip your head off.”

If the burning of your palm is any indication, you know you hit him hard but he’s unphased. He's actually smiling, licking his lips at you like you’re the most delicious thing in this restaurant. He sweeps you off of your feet, setting you down on the sink, “So. Fucking. Pretty.”

The marble’s even colder against your bottom than it was your hands but you don’t give a shit. Jimin’s tongue’s down your throat as he pushes your dress up, ripping away what was left of your panties. That’s the only thing you give a shit about.

“Jimin!” you giggle, tugging at the zipper on his pants, “You’re gonna make me fall.”

Hooking his arms behind your knees, he spreads your legs, pushing them to your chest. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t let you fall.”

“Promise?” you pout, fingertips tracing the veins along his length.

They pulse and twitch as he raises his hips, dragging the underside of his cock between your folds. “I promise. I won’t—aah, shit, baby” he moans, his cock glazed in your arousal without having even been inside of you yet. “I didn’t know you missed me that much.”

You grab onto his shirt, the cotton knotted in your fists as you bask in the feeling of the head brushing your clit. “I did. Missed you so much” you mewl, guiding him to your entrance. Jimin peppers your cheeks with kisses, pushing into you. Filling you. Claiming you. “I, mmphh, missed, fuck, missed you too” he confesses, each word emphasized by thrusts that have you wanting to climb every wall in this bathroom.

When it comes to women Jimin’s told more lies than he can remember but never with you. He misses you and he means it, misses you so much that it hurts. Not just because you take his cock so well, somehow managing to look majestic when you’re being fucked up against this mirror. But because he feels incomplete without you.

Before you all he knew was violence and greed, constantly chasing power that would never be enough. Always needing more. He often wondered how much money it would take, how many buried enemies, to fill the emptiness that’s haunted him for as long as he can remember. And then you came along—the girl whose eyes twinkle as she stares up at him, your entire body calling out his name—and he had his answer.

All he needed to cure that emptiness, rid him of the nagging feeling that something’s missing, was you. But men like him have an image to maintain. In this world people come to know you for things, fear you for them, and you can’t let them think you’re soft. Not for a second. Not if you want to get what you want. “We get what we want by any means”. That is what he told you but nothing’s worth having if it’s by way of losing you.

Dragging you to the edge of the sink, heart thumping out of his chest from how tightly you’re clenching, he whispers into your open mouth, “Come home. I’m in hell without you. Everything’s so…so empty. Just say you’ll come back to me. Say it.”

“I-I’ll come back home. Fuck, I’ll go the moon if you want me to” you pant, watery eyes sending mascara streaming down your cheeks. You tug harder at his shirt, sending a button or two clinking into the mirror. He’s in you so deep, hitting every spot like only he knows how, that you’re ready to explode. Implode? One or the other. Maybe both.

Jimin laughs, his tongue grazing yours, “You wanna go to the moon, baby? Hold onto me. I’ll take you.”

Knowing better than to doubt him, you throw your arms over his shoulders and hold on like your life depends on it. The sink creaks beneath you as he fucks harder into a pussy that just won’t stop leaking for him. You lose control of your body. All of it belongs to him, as it should. You make no attempts at denying yourself the ultimate satisfaction when it hits. Your lips crash together as you climax, your moans, bordering on screams, pouring onto his tongue.

He eagerly devours them, returning some of his own as your walls spasm wildly, milking the cum from his swollen tip. Your cunt wants every drop of it and he’s determined to give it to you. Fill you up until it’s dripping out of you, making your thighs warm and sticky with his seed. Your body gives out and he tucks an arm behind you, sticking to his promise not to let you fall.

Staring up at the ceiling, you’re sure you see space, stars twinkling before your eyes as you float there, completely weightless. Jimin’s lips meet your heaving chest, suckling at your silky skin to leave hickeys along your collarbone.

“Mine. All mine” he repeats, “Love you so much.”

You run your fingers through his hair as he marks you, letting yourself get lost in the moment. “I love you too.”

“Excuse me, sir. You’re holding up the bathroom” a comically high pitched voice says, tapping at the bathroom door. Jimin drags himself upright, knowing the voice too well. “You okay?” he asks, shuffling to make you both look presentable. He tries to fix your dress but there’s no use, he’s stretched it out more than he has you.

“Baby, it’s fine” you giggle, shooing him away, “I got it.”

Jimin unlocks the door, snatching it open to reveal precisely who you both expected. “Thank god!” Jungkook cheers, rushing into the bathroom and over to the toilet. “Whose idea was it to have one bathroom here, man? I’ve had to piss for like—” Reading the look on Jimin’s face, he follows his gaze over to the sink where you sit buzzed off of the afterglow with your tattered panties at your feet.

Jungkook grins, looking you both up and down, “Safe to say you two are having a good night, huh?”

Jimin hits Jungkook in the back of the head, walking over to help you down from the sink. He holds you close to him, kissing you as he steers you towards the door. “Is it done?” Jimin asks over his shoulder but you don’t hear Jungkook’s response. It’s drowned out by the symphony of sounds that assault you as you venture back out into the restaurant, Jimin’s arms still holding you tight. Scanning the restaurant you spot the table you were at with your date but now there’s another couple there.

“Long time no see!” Jin says, jumping up to hug you. His girlfriend follows behind, hugging you like she hasn’t seen you in years. “Come sit with me” she insists, noticing your disheveled appearance, “I’ll fix you right up. I have everything in my purse.” You settle into the chair beside her and she goes straight to work cleaning the mascara from your face.

Jimin sits beside you, an arm draped over the back of your chair, and watches attentively as you get your makeup done. “Nice to have you back” Taehyung smiles, pulling something from under the table and passing it to you. Jimin sets them down before you—your jacket and your purse. You’d forgotten them at the table when you fled to the bathroom.

“Uh, thanks, I—” you stutter, cut off by Hoseok’s sudden reappearance at the end of the table. You’d seen him earlier but hadn’t noticed his seat was empty when you returned. He tries to play it off, hide it behind a smile, but he’s out of breath, utterly exhausted from something. The men glance around the table at each other. It’s a silent conversation you know you shouldn’t be in on.

“Jimin” you whisper, when you’re sure you aren’t interrupting, “Where’s…”

Jimin casually pours you both a drink, presenting you with a glass of wine. “Where’s who?”

“The guy that I was…”

“The guy that you were what, baby?” he asks, brow crinkling as he feigns ignorance. “You’ve been here with me all night, haven’t you?” He turns to the rest of the table who all seem to share his collective memory loss. “Hasn’t she?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yeah.”

“Been here all night.”

“See? Now enjoy your drink and finish getting your makeup done” he coos, kissing you on the cheek.

Just like that, everyone resumes their conversations like it’s any other Sunday night dinner. You take a sip of your wine, the post-orgasm haze finally lifts from your brain, and all of the pieces come together in your mind. You shake the truth away, opting instead for the constructed reality necessary to pretend you just didn’t get a man killed.

What date? What guy? You’ve been here all night with Jimin. The man you came here with. The man you’ll leave here with. The man you love too much to ever run away from again. Unless, of course, you want to raise the homicide rate.

#bts x reader #bts x you #bts smut #bts angst #jimin x reader #jimin smut #jimin angst #jimin x you #bts au #bts au fanfic #bts mafia au #jimin au #chubby reader #plus size reader #bts x fem!reader #park jimin x reader

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littlemisshyperfixation · 7 months ago

Text

BTS Fic Recommendations

I'll go back and add more fics as I find them! <3

⊹₊⋆ Seokjin

⊹₊⋆ Yoongi ♡part 1 ♡part 2

⊹₊⋆ Hoseok

⊹₊⋆ Namjoon

⊹₊⋆ Jimin

⊹₊⋆ Taehyung

⊹₊⋆ Jungkook ♡ part 1 ♡ part 2

⊹₊⋆ BTS Favorites

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bonny-kookoo · 8 months ago

Text

OT7

The Twilight State | Freezing

What will your place be?

Tags/Warnings: Alien!Bangtan, OT7 x Reader, cold climate, a lot of physical affection/contact, angst, romance, fluff, more warnings TBA

Length: 4.4k words

There is no taglist for this fic.

-> Masterlist

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

When Jungkook was nothing more than a child barely able to walk, he had already been named Unjha- a word of the old language meaning ‘Cobweb Child’.

His mother passed when he was born, his father long gone as well, leaving him with nothing but the group she used to be a part of. And due to the fact that he was never nursed, he became sickly- always causing trouble with his health, soon just named a burden to any group to ever take him with them.

He was nine when they left him one night.

But he had survived long enough to be picked up by another group- who at least brought him to the nearest town to stay at and recover some of his strength. When the people there left, he left with them as well- his journey never consistent, always with someone else until he became fourteen- and met a young man by the name of Seokjin, who had a group of his own that he was travelling with.

That’s when he found something called home.

He thrived a few years after realizing that this group was now his family- becoming the exact opposite of who he was as a child. Now strong and healthy, he’s now there wherever help is needed, and takes over any task that needs taken care of. And he’s also known as one of the kindest person around- most likely due to his past.

“There’s a fire there.” Jimin notices, pointing towards a small, orange light in the distance. “They should start moving soon.” He worries, getting Jungkook’s attention as he leans over Taehyung’s shoulder, who’s holding the reigns of the Sarril they’ve been travelling forever with. “Maybe we should check of everything’s okay?”

“Yeah, let’s see if they might need something.” Namjoon mentions from the back of the carriage, closing his book. “Remember how the last group spoke about Vrax attacking again. They might be in trouble.” He mumbles, as Taehyung steers the large animal to pull their carriage towards the little fire.

But the closer they get, the odder the scene becomes.

There’s no sign of a group at all- though Ros becomes more and more hesitant to walk any closer to the spot, most likely due to the clear signs of a fight now visible in the snow, though no blood is to be seen. “It must’ve been an attack. She’s becoming uneasy.” Taehyung offers, noticing the behavior of the Sarril now standing still, uncomfortably lowering her head as she instead scratches on the snowy grounds until her claws hit the ice.

“It’s fine like this.” Jungkook says, jumping down. “We’ll be right back.” He says after running a hand over the neck of the beast, before he and Hoseok walk towards the fire to investigate.

Jungkook almost trips over your body.

“Oh..!” He gasps out, caught off guard as Hoseok walks closer as well. “Hey.. Where's your group?” He wonders towards you, a bit quiet and almost fearful as he squats lower to move your face, and check if you’re alive at all.

You are.

“She most likely doesn’t understand.” Hoseok observes. “Look at her neck.” He points out, the thick leather collar around your neck also having the metal plate with your ID on it- the group plate that should be hanging from the front gone, only a few silver rings remaining where the tag would’ve been.

Ripped off. You’ve been thrown out.

Jungkook offers help to at least somewhat turn you over and look for any injuries. “She’s human, Kook.” Hoseok reminds him. “She’s probably dying from the cold. I’ll go ask Namjoon what we’ll do.” he offers, before leaving to get back to the group and figure out the situation.

Jungkook doesn’t know what to do.

He’s never encountered a human so closely before, has no idea what he can do to help other than run back to the carriage to get some spare blankets and string. You’re cold- so maybe warming you up could save you? He could wrap you up for now and carry you back, have you warm up inside while they figure out what to do.

Yeah, that’s a good plan. Anything but leave you here.

“Her group-tag has been removed. There’s nothing on her but her clothes and her ID on her collar. They didn’t even leave her any food or water.” Hoseok sighs, explaining the situation to the rest of the group.

"She was used as bait, in that case." Yoongi dryly explains. "Gives an explanation as to how she survived an attack. Vrax don't eat humans- but other groups use them as distraction to avert attention anyways in case they encounter them along the way." He says.

"That's horrible.." jimin whines, watching how further away at the pitiful fire, Jungkook tries to help move you. "Well, at least she got away.."

"She most likely won't survive." Namjoon hums darkly, having seen you after all. "We don't know how long she's been out here, but her state is more than worrisome." He shakes his head.

"We should at least bring her to another town-" Taehyung wonders.

"For what? So that we'll be excluded from trading because we brought another mouth to feed instead of anything valuable?" Yoongi snaps. "We can't afford that. The long night is approaching, we shouldn't be stopping in the first place.." he argues.

"I doubt he'll give her up like that." Hoseok sighs. "He seems very attached already.."

"Then he'll have to detach himself quickly." Namjoon agrees with his other friend. "We can't afford to care for her." He shakes his head.

Jungkook, meanwhile, is busy fastening some rope around the blankets he'd rolled you up in, in no way thinking about just leaving you here all by yourself. He knows what it's like to be left alone and behind just because you're considered nothing but weight- he won't be letting you feel that. You deserve a place and group just as much as he did, back then.

Your eyes are barely open as you look at him, now all bundled up in multiple blankets. "You.. probably won't understand what I'm saying, but I'll bring you to the carriage now." He tells you. You want to answer, want to tell him that you do, somewhat, understand him- but you're just too tired. You can't really even think very well- as if your thoughts are about to freeze, everything slow as he turns around and moves you onto his back to be carried towards the large carriage.

"Jungkook- do not get your hopes up with her." Yoongi tries, but Jungkook shakes his head as he lays you down where he usually sleeps.

"I'm not. I'm aware of what might happen." He says, shutting the entrance. "But she deserves to have a chance." He worries. "And even if she's too far gone, no one should die alone." Jungkook shakes his head, sitting close to you, Jimin placing another blanket over you.

"…Let's go then, for now, so we don't fall behind any further." Namjoon sighs. "We'll need all the time we can gain to bury her appropriately later." He simply informs Yoongi, who moves to sit up front with Taehyung, to control the reigns and move the carriage again.

And Jungkook watches you with worry, hoping that you won't need a burial.

Hoping that you'll stay.

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

“Is that okay?” Jungkook worries, watching you sleep amongst all the blankets and pelts, rope undone by now since you don’t need to be carried anywhere anytime soon with the way they need to travel for now. Time isn’t on their side- in order to escape the long Dark a bit longer, they need to catch up a bit more distance. “She’s not eaten anything yet..”

“Humans don’t typically eat or drink when they’re severely sick.” Namjoon explains. “their metabolism slows down, as well as most bodily functions. It’s like.. they go into an emergency state, only letting the most crucial processes continue.” He mumbles while he makes sure the concoction he’s making is clear in the bottle. “She most likely won’t like the taste of this, but she’ll need to hydrate soon. But for now let her rest.” He tells the youngest of the group, who nods, while Namjoon moves to the side again to read.

He’s surprised you’ve not passed yet. If anything, you’re regaining a bit of color- your shaking having spooked most of the group pretty badly, thinking you maybe got possessed or infected with some disease- but Namjoon and Yoongi explained that it’s a normal reaction of the body to try and heat up quicker.

Now, you’re still. Only occasionally moving a little. And when your eyes open, it’s usually not for very long before you fall asleep again- so Jungkook has to wait for a chance to get some of that drink into you. It looks and smells like what he himself drinks whenever he’s not feeling well- meant to help the body in gaining enough energy to work properly.

The moment you open your eyes again for a second, he takes his chance, carefully helping you somewhat sit with all the blankets around you. “I know you’re tired but- ah, you don’t even know what I’m saying anyways..” He chuckles a bit faintly, before offering the glass bottle with the lukewarm drink Namjoon made. You accept it, though need a bit of help from his hand supporting yours as they hold the bottle to drink from it.

When Jimin enters the carriage, he smiles.

“Looks like someone’s up again.” He says, sitting down in his sleeping corner. “Namjoon’s apparently wrong. She looks a lot better already.” Jimin mentions, watching you from his spot.

“She’s still very tired, but I think she’s getting back.” Jungkook agrees. “What.. What do you think they’ll decide?” He wonders towards his friend, as you set down the bottle for now, stretching your legs for a second before you continue to drink some more. You don’t understand all of what’s said- but enough to somewhat connect the meaning of the sentences spoken.

“I’m not sure. We don’t have enough time to divert to another town- considering how far behind we already are.” He explains, before he moves to open a wooden chest he takes some clothes out of. “Yoongi told me she can wear some of his clothes for now, so she doesn’t have to stay under the blankets all the time.” Jimin says, putting them on your lap with a smile.

“So we won’t leave her again?” Jungkook wonders, when a low voice speaks up, entering the carriage as well.

“No.” Yoongi responds, boldly sitting next to you to move your face a bit to check up on you. “But she’s your responsibility.” He tells Jungkook, after leaving you alone again, making you look after him for a moment, before everyone else enters as well, ready to go to sleep most likely.

You’ve woken up already, occasionally, so you know how they all manage to sleep in here. They all kind of follow a behavior similar to penguins- sleeping closely together to share body heat. You’re always somewhat moved into the middle, currently the most vulnerable member of the group.

It shows that this group actually cares, even if they act like they don’t. Or.. Some do.

Jungkook doesn’t actually seem to mind at all that you’re now his ‘responsibility’, as he moves the blankets to help you slip into a thick sweater. “There. You look a lot more awake!” He smiles, and you nod, surprising him.

“Thank.” You say, not very fluent in his language- but he understands.

“So you do understand!” He says, and you shake your head, making a pinching motion with your fingers.

“Only bit.” You explain. “Listen- well. Speak- no.” You tell him, and Jimin chimes up at that, coming closer together with Hoseok, who’s interest got sparked as well. You know their names by now from listening in on conversations you couldn’t drown out.

“That’s amazing.” Hoseok nods. “That makes things a lot easier for us.”

“Did your past group not teach you proper language skills?” Namjoon questions, and you can hardly really make out what he means- so you shake your head after a while.

“She was a slave, not a member.” Taehyung shrugs as he takes out his blanket to get his own spot ready to sleep. “It’s not surprising.”

You tap at your collar at the mention of that, but Yoongi shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that, for now.” He simply says with very simple words so you can understand a bit better, probably aware of the fact that you want to know what your position in this group will be. “Just.. Heal. I guess.” He mumbles, before he gets his own spot ready, Jungkook smiling kindly before he helps you crawl into the middle with all your blankets, basically carrying you halfway instead when he notices your legs being still a bit shaky.

You’re not really used to sleeping in the middle of a group- but you’re starting to really enjoy it.

Especially when, despite everyone’s hesitance, Jungkook and Taehyung end up basically hugging you- even Yoongis legs touching yours beneath all the blankets.

Maybe this could become your final stay.

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

You’re not sure for how long you’ve slept- but it can’t have been long, considering that everyone else is still fast asleep, huddled together.

You’ve never really witnessed this whole scene- everyone still resting, cuddled together and only sometimes moving a little while they dream. It’s a serene moment, a sight you almost feel like you shouldn’t be able to see-

But there’s something off.

You sit up, slowly to not wake anyone, listening to your surroundings. The wind has picked up quite a bit, pushing against the wooden carriage every now and then, and you wonder if the group’s Sarril is holding up against the change in weather. You know they’re very resilient and can withstand much more than just some bad weather, but still, you worry. Maybe you should check?

You’re not sure why you feel such urgency.

You pick up someone’s sweater, thick fabric able to keep you warm enough for a short bit, as you pull the hood of it over your head, tying the strings to keep it from being blown off right away. And you’re surprisingly able to somehow sneak out of the cuddled up group as well without really waking anyone- they’ll most likely only notice once your spot becomes colder.

So you have to hurry to not alarm anyone.

Quickly opening the back door and tarp, you jump down and almost tumble to your knees- having underestimated the height of it all by quite a bit. Their kind is way taller than humans after all, so it shouldn’t be surprising- but you’re lucky down the line, not having hurt yourself in your little fall.

You walk towards the front where the Sarril is curled up but curiously lifting her head to look at you coming closer, in no distress. Snow is piling up against her big body, but her wooly sheep-like coat shields her from the freezing temperatures. You reach out to pet her-

When you notice it.

She must’ve accidentally pulled the reigns down and gotten her back pair of legs tangled- unable to move without shaking the entire carriage. It wasn’t the wind that was moving the thing- it was her, in an effort to get free. “Let’s see..” you mumble to yourself, before you carefully assess the situation, slowly untainted the leather reigns to not startle her.

A Kick from those thick, clawed hooves could be deadly after all, even if it’s not her intention.

“What are you doing?” a menacing voice asks you, one you’ve come to connect with Yoongi- bit you’re too close to freeing her to answer him right away, as you hear him get closer. He looks over your shoulder to observe your hands gently pulling the reigns away now, his own on your shoulder to pull you away if you were doing something bad-

But suddenly the Sarril is stretching her legs almost in satisfaction, flute-like sound emitting from her throat before she nods her head, happily turning towards you as if to offer her thanks. It’s clumsy, the fact that she doesn’t know that she’s much bigger and stronger than you almost ending in pushing you over, but you instead accept the gesture, while Yoongi watches.

“How did you know?” yoongi demands to know, watching you pet her, your hands already red from the cold.

“Uh..” you point at the carriage. “shake. Weird.” You mention, pointing to your stomach. “weird.. feel. Emotion.” You try and explain, searching for the right word. “Instinct?” You say, and he watches you, before he nods, understanding.

“hm. Thanks.” He mumbles, before he helps you up and pats off the snow from your clothes. “now come back. You caused worry.” He huffs, helping you back into the carriage where both Jungkook and a sleepy Jimin exhale in relief almost at seeing you again.

“where was she?” hoseok asks, yawning while Namjoon simply moves the blankets to welcome you back beneath, without any words.

“outside. Ros had somehow gotten her legs tangled in the reigns.” Yoongi explains while Jungkook helps you back next to him where he eagerly moves the blankets back over you to warm you up again. “She said she.. felt weird? That’s how she noticed.”

“Humans call it a gut feeling.” Namjoon yawns. “though.. it doesn’t have anything to do with their intestines..” he mumbles, laying back down while Taehyung looks at you.

“thank you.” He offers, and you nod. “I must’ve not put the reigns up properly..” he tells himself mostly, before he too lays back down to resume his rest.

And as you now find yourself back in the warmth of the group, knowing that the loyal animal outside is well too, you can finally find some sleep as well.

Dreaming of nothing but snow and winds.

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

You’re sitting next to Taehyung and Jungkook up front, dressed in clothes not your size, but somewhat adjusted with strings Jimin had helped tie in some places. Jungkook checks in with you often to make sure that you’re not too cold- but you don’t want to just be uselessly existing around.

The next small outpost is up ahead. They all seem oddly eager to get there- as if something’s or someone is waiting for them there.

Time is tough to calculate. You’re not sure why you can’t just exist like the rest of them with no feel for it- time doesn’t really matter to them as much as it does to you. But that’s because they all grew up without focusing on it too much- you didn’t. “we need to buy her some proper attire.” Yoongi mumbles walking next to the Sarril moving the carriage.

Jungkook smiles a bit impishly. He’s aware that the grumpy looking friend must’ve changed his mind about you.

“An outpost would be a bad place to leave her- you’re right.” Namjoon agrees from the other side, reminding him that not all share the same views however. Namjoon still clearly does not have you in mind as a permanent part of the group- and he can somewhat understand it. A bigger group is safer, after all- but it’s also harder to feed.

But that doesn’t mean he agrees with him.

The moment you arrive at the camp, you spot someone familiar- someone the group walks towards as well, before they hug him. “where did you find her?” he wants to know, disbelief clear in his face and voice as he looks at you standing amongst his group.

“She was left by a fireplace.” Yoongi informs his friend. “do you know her, Jin?”

“not personally, but fleetingly.” He offers, before he walks closer to you. “they said you got killed during an attack?” He questions you, but you shake your head.

“She was injured- but very mildly. She was mostly freezing.” Namjoon explains. “But she recovered, much to my surprise.” He adds, watching how his older friend kindly runs a hand over your head, a common gesture for older members of a group to greet the younger ones.

“I’m glad you made it then.” Seokjin tells you, and you smile, with Jungkook right behind you now. “I assume you must be happy to finally not be the youngest anymore? After all I can sense she’s not quite the same age as you.” He jokes, making Jungkook instantly look over to Namjoon.

“She’s not part of the group.” Namjoon states, though his tone is a lot softer than when he’d say that before. “We’re simply.. Trying to find a place for her to stay.”

“Oh, I see.” Seokjin nods. “Well, until we find that place, I will still treat her as part of the group.” He almost teasingly states, before taking your hand in his. “So, I shall find my groupmate something proper to eat.” He smiles charmingly, before he walks off with you towards the several fires and people making and selling food. “He will warm up. Don’t worry.” Jin tells you more quietly now that he’s with you alone, the rest of the group having held back Jungkook to instead help lift some heavy crates of food rations.

“It’s fine.” You reassure, slipping on the icy frozen puddles here and there- though Jin’s hand on your back always steadies you, while also being unable to not laugh at your clumsiness. “Why.. You, here?” You ask, and he nods to himself.

“I was visiting relatives.” He explains. “But I will return to You and the others from today on. Maybe I can help you soften up the tough shell of some of the groupmembers.” He jokes, and you smile, nodding.

You really want to stay with them- so hopefully, Seokjin can help you achieve that.

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

“She sure has an appetite.” Yoongi mumbles, as he sits down next to Jungkook who’s just dug into his own second serving of soup, while you still spoon yours into your mouth.

“Thats good, isn’t it?” Jungkook chirps happily. “shows she’s healthy.” He says, looking at you- who nods, before eating more slowly. Jungkook frowns a bit at that, though understands that you might’ve misunderstood what little you could translate for yourself. “you can eat well here! Since Jin’s family stays here, we eat in exchange for less money.” He tries to explain it in easier words, and you nod.

Still, you feel a bit odd about it. What if they don’t take you with them? You don’t want to just.. use their money just to end up not actually offering anything in return. There has to be something you can do for them as well.

“its getting cold.” Yoongis voice is heard, and you look up at that, noticing he means your food- and you nod obediently, returning to your meal. “I feel like she might need a task.” He says, and you look up at that, before you nod eagerly.

“Huh? No, she doesn’t-“ Jungkook wonders, before Yoongi shakes his head.

“She does. Everyone in a group has a task.” He says, and at that, Seokjin joins you at the table.

“How about she keeps the carriage organized and tidy?” He offers, sitting next to you. “She could help put away the blankets after we sleep, or keep track of all the things we carry around. It would certainly take some weight off of my shoulders, and Namjoon wouldn’t have to be scolded for his messy habits every time we forget or misplace something.” He chuckles, Jungkook laughing as well.

“I agree with that idea.” Yoongi nods. “do you?” He asks you, and you think for a second, before you realize what he’s asking. So you nod- of course you can take on that job!

“we shouldn’t give her a task just yet.” Namjoon intervenes, sitting down next to Yoongi while the other’s also join in at the table with their food. “That’s up to her future group, not us.”

Everyone’s silent at that- understanding, but there’s also a slight wave of disappointment going around, especially when looking at Jungkook- who suddenly boldly so, gets up as he notices you’ve finished eating. “come- you must be tired. I’ll show you how to make a proper sleeping place.” He offers, as he helps you off the bench. But surprisingly, Yoongi also gets up- making Namjoon look at him with question.

“Someone’s gotta stand watch over them.” He simply says as a poor excuse, following you and Jungkook back to the carriage.

You’re surprised to see Taehyung following as well, the tall alien not having interacted with you much- but his interest is certainly caught at the sight of the most quiet member of the group visibly growing attached to you. Jungkooks behaviour is understandable after all- his childhood having shaped him into someone who aims to help whomever he can. And he most likely sees a bit of himself in you.

But Yoongi? That’s certainly new.

Yoongi has always been easy to talk to, and he himself is someone who can talk anyone into anything it seems like- but he’s only ever been loyal to his own group, and never interested in anyone in such nature that he’s now clearly portraying. To anyone else, he might not have changed much- but Taehyung notices the difference in how he carefully helps you into the carriage, making sure Jungkook has a good hold on your hands before he lets go of your legs. Only once you’re in does he get in himself- and once they all find themselves in their ‘home’ again, he’s already ‘showing off’; making a proper sleeping spot for you, as an example to follow once you’ve memorized it.

It’s really not necessary, technically. You’re human, yes, but even humans know how to prepare a nest, somewhat.

But Taehyung watches, amused, how the both of them basically bury you beneath blankets before getting underneath them as well, ready to sleep even though they’re not tired. You definitely are- as a creature who usually needs at least eight hours of rest, you’re a lot less active than they are on average. They only need three or four, maybe a nap here and there- but it’ll be fine.

Because with the way you’re basically shielded from the outside world by Yoongi and Jungkook, Taehyung is sure you’re already part of the group.

And soon, Namjoon will realize that too.

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic

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lxvemaze · 7 days ago

Note

i haven’t requested a bts text au in a hOT MINUTE!!

how’s about a bff!namjoon with an insecure reader and he accidentally confesses whilst trying to make her feel better? yk bc he’s clumsy as fuck like that

lots of love

🦇🦇🦇

i gotchu! this is such a sweet idea. also, i am an absolute sucker for childhood friends to lovers, so i made them be besties since childhood :3

彡buttercup

pairing' childhood bff!namjoon x reader

genre' smau, friends to lovers

warnings' mentions of food/not eating/dieting, reader is insecure, namjoon is the loml

#bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts fic #bts headcanons #bts fluff #bts fake texts #bts smau #bts x reader #namjoon smau #namjoon x reader #namjoon fluff #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fic #namjoon fake texts #namjoon imagine #🦇 anon♡

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rispwr · 2 months ago

Text

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ masterlist ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

: ̗̀➛get to know me!

»»———-jungkook fics———-««

╰┈➤ if i were you i'd do me - ( 1 ), ( 2 ), ( 3 ), ( 4 ), ( 5 ), ( 6 )....on hold

Extras ( 1 ) ( 2 ) ( 3 ) ( 3.5 ), ( 4 )….on hold

Jungkook, the notorious campus heartbreaker and player, unexpectedly becomes your groupmate alongside Namjoon, the guy you’ve secretly admired for ages. However, it seems your feelings have started shifting from Namjoon to someone else entirely unexpected…

╰┈➤ still with you - masterlist

finished

after breaking up with your boyfriend for 14 years for cheating on you, choosing to still stay with him in his apartment wasn't quite the best idea. especially after seperating.

╰┈➤ linger - masterlists

unfinished

for 9 years of being in the same class with him since 3rd grade you have developed a small admiration towards him, till it had grown stronger the more you stay with him. will you be able to keep this secret from your bestfriend forever? does he know you like him? or do you both share the same feelings?

╰┈➤ stranded - here

one shot

You and your bestfriend reunites again after a long year of you two not talking decided to go on a trip, and he forgets to get gas, get's stranded on the road,due, failing to reach the gas station, Leaving unsaid words be spoken.

╰┈➤ heaven and back - here

one shot

you were on a late night clubbing with your friends jimin, namjoon, hoseok, mina, nayeon. Your bestfriend of 6 years, who is jimin puts a drug in your drink, basically drugging you. Jungkook the guy whom you meet helps you.

╰┈➤ she's not me - here

oneshot

He said he moved on, but why does your toothbrush still stand next to his, even when he has "someone new" already?

╰┈➤ my sweet addiction - soon

Keeping everything professional, despite what happens between you two...in your mind...or so?

╰┈➤ hate you - here

‘You were always told that hating someone is the only way it doesn’t hurt but what if you can’t hate him? No matter how hard you try your heart will always find it’s way to his’

»»———-ypongi fic———-««

╰┈➤ still with you - masterlist

finished

after breaking up with your boyfriend for 14 years for cheating on you, choosing to still stay with him in his apartment wasn't quite the best idea. especially after seperating.

╰┈➤ expect the unexpected - here meeting an idol at a bar as a bartender? Especially the fact that it was your favourite idol, was definitely was not in your expectations, knowing well the media is all around you both.

╰┈➤ sweet mint - here

#rispwr #bts ff #x reader #fic: if i were you i'd do me #fic: still with you #fic: sweet mint #fic: linger #bts smut #bts fluff

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ugh-yoongi · 2 years ago

Text

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. ♡

#btshoneyhive #btswritersclub #kvanity #bangtantheatrenet #bts smut #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts x you #bts fanfiction #bts angst #yoongi imagine #bts imagines #bangtan #yoongi

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