#they keep it down mostly bc there's No need to let it out but sometimes something tips them over and they go wild
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mymegrokosmos · 1 day ago
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a little soft bf minghao brainrot bc i felt like it. super era shoulder injury hao.
you set your bags down on the counter, dropping your keys by the front door and going to put your things away. by the time you've shrugged out of your jacket, hung it up in the front closet and put your purse in its usual spot on the credenza table in the hallway you're ready to melt into the sofa but there's still more to do before you can relax.
when you get to the kitchen, halfway through tying your hair up out of your face, you find yourself smiling. the familiar sight of your boyfriend's back, clad in his usual leisure attire of grey sleeveless top that leaves just a hint of his shoulders visible, peeks out of the fridge. he's already started putting the groceries away before anything gets too warm. just when you think your fondness for him can’t melt your heart any more than it already has he leans back to look at you from around the door and his soft smile has your heart in shambles.
if it’s possible to become one with the floor you're doing it. you've become a puddle. his shaggy mullet is in disarray, fluffy from where he's run his hands through it, and his face is bare. his usually sharp eyes are framed by big round glasses, softening his gaze as he closes the fridge in favour of coming over to press a kiss to your forehead.
"hi darling, welcome home. how was your day?"
you'd think after all this time you'd be used to how tall he was but it was still always a bit of a surprise just how much he towered over you up close. you sighed, letting him pull you into a hug and sliding your arms around his slim waist.
"hi. it was okay, very long."
he chuckles and you close your eyes, head resting against his chest. you're careful to lay it against the side of his good shoulder, nuzzling against the soft cotton of his shirt as his hand comes up to rest against the back of your head.
"i'm glad to finally be home. what did you get up to today handsome?"
the hand on your waist squeezes lightly and he holds you close for a minute before stepping back with another kiss to the top of your head.
"physio this morning again and then practice, even though I can't do a lot of the choreo yet they still need me for blocking when I can make it. mingyu came by earlier and dropped off some hotpot. why don't you go get into something more comfortable and we can talk about it over dinner?"
sometimes there was nothing better than coming home to everything already being taken care of. you know he misses being at work but being home more means minghao needs things to do. his physiotherapist also says that getting some movement in is good for his progress, so he's been taking care of household chores and spending a lot more time meditating lately to keep himself busy.
the members have been helping when they can. mingyu comes by or gets your boyfriend out of the house at least three times a week now. jun's often over in his free time to run lines with hao or catch up on the latest cdrama you're watching together. you think joshua has even dragged him out to a pottery class or two in their spare time. it's been good for him and the rest is doing him good, even if it makes him a little bit restless sometimes.
you nod. "i'll be right back. do you need me to help with anything?"
"no, just relax and leave the day at the office jagiya."
easier said than done but minghao always made you feel less guilty about sticking by work life balance and keeping them mostly separate. it's also been fun spending more time cooking together, he's good in the kitchen just a little impatient and you're enjoying getting to try out some of his mother's recipes. she's often on video call when you get home, minghao pouting about something while she scolds him playfully or they catch up on their weeks with each other. it's sweet and you love that their relationship only seems to get stronger as time goes on.
"you're still coming to the company dinner next week with me, right?"
another soft smile as he nods. "I'll be there darling. I didn't pick us out matching outfits just to not show up. now stop worrying and go change. you're hovering again."
you are, just a little bit. it's a habit you're still trying to work your way out of. you were a little traumatized when you got the call that hao was in the hospital at first and, though you both know he's fine and capable now, the instinct to make sure he's okay still lingers a little bit.
you sigh and make a face at him. "okay, okay. I'm going."
he just chuckles as you head towards your shared bedroom. makeup and weight of the day finally removed it's time to slip into one of hao's oversized tshirts and the matching cotton pyjama pants he bought for you last christmas. it feels like a cozy day so you take the time to find your slippers too before shuffling back towards the kitchen.
you find minghao stirring a pot of what seems to be mingyu's latest attempt at comfort food and slip your arms around his waist from behind, face pressed lightly against his warm back.
"smells good."
he hums in agreement, hand patting yours where it rests on his stomach. "I think he made enough to feed about seven more people than we currently have in the apartment."
you laugh and lean around him to peek at the food over his arm. "gyu probably plans to use it as an excuse to come over for lunch tomorrow or something. oh no guess you need someone else to help you eat it all."
that makes your boyfriend scoff. "why would he do that when he can just say he wants to come over? he knows where we live."
you kiss his bicep and move to get down some bowls for you both. "because he's kim mingyu and you're you myungho."
your boyfriend stops to look at you, blinking as he pauses his stirring. "I'm still not seeing your point love."
"you know how you don't like when people get too presumptuous about you?" you smile softly. "I wouldn't say he's intimidated because gyu knows you love him but... sometimes he's a little insecure and sometimes you can be a little cold."
he considers this. "he's never let that stop him before."
you smile and let him guide you, one hand on your hip as you slide between him and the pot on the stove to fill your bowls.
"and he won't, I don't think, because at the end of the day he knows that it isn't that you don't like his affection you just don't always know what to do with it and it needs time to process. but I think, and maybe this is just my take, he sometimes worries a little about intruding too much. especially now that you have a relationship outside of just your family and the members and your other friends."
it's quiet for a minute as he takes that in. you dish up hot pot for both of you and take the bowls over to your small dining table. minghao slowly follows behind, face impassive. you'd worry that you upset him but you know that expression. it's not anger or annoyance, he's just lost in thought. you take his hand, press a kiss to the back of it, and watch as he blinks back into the present.
"think about it all you need but let's eat first. like I said, maybe I'm just reading too much into it. maybe he has other reasons. we can finish that new drama and call him later if you want."
your boyfriend nods and joins you at the table, filling you in on his day. you can tell he's only half present but that's okay. by the time you finish and wash up he seems to have come to a decision.
"love?"
"yes myungho?"
he scrunches his nose. "try again please darling."
you laugh but the arms he crosses over his chest tell you he's serious. you smile softly, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek.
"yes, seo myungho great love of my life and most wondrous of boyfriends?"
he snorts. "closer but still not correct."
"baobei?"
he blinks. "close enough."
you laugh and brush a hand over his cheek, melting a little when he leans into the touch and takes your hand in his.
"you know I'm only teasing you, right?"
he nods. "I do."
you lace your fingers and press a kiss to the back of his hand. "what did you want to say honey?"
"do you mind if mingyu comes over tomorrow? I know it's your day off."
"babe, this is your apartment too."
minghao sighs. you know that look. the exasperated 'are you being serious right now?' stare. you smile.
"no, I don't mind if gyu comes over. just maybe warn me beforehand so I can make sure I have pants and a bra on this time."
that makes him smile, just a little, even as he rolls his eyes at you.
"come help me with my skincare?"
"only if you let me use the good stuff."
"mm we can even wear those matching headbands you like."
"lead the way love."
sometimes all you need after a long day is xu minghao ready with a hot meal, a long hug and a silly fuzzy frog headband keeping the bangs out of his face as he applies 6 layers of different creams to your face.
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zhongrin · 5 months ago
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it's hackathon week next week and there are so many things i need to do (passport renewal, accommodation stuff, dental appointments, packing for flight, chores, etc), so i apologize if i'm kind of inactive or off in this blog or discord!!
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the-acid-pear · 5 months ago
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Need to finish my Dave design so I can draw him with Mori
#luly talks#as in Lucis. Mori is like calling me myself my second deadname which I'll reveal bc who gives a fuck its Luz#luluco literally is bc each is an initial of my names#but like i dont Have much to draw w L.L. and Dave like they're just dating.#LUCIS on the other hand has some weird familiar platonic love hate relationship w the guy#bc a Huge trait of them is that if they dislike you you won't find out. bc they're very polite.#bc they're shy y'know? and just honestly a dgaf-er. like they dont like you but that's ok they wont be rude there's bigger worries#that is unless they like. pick trust. in which case they lose the shyness.#and while L.L. is sopping wet i need y'all to understand Lucis killed himself on a suspicion of danger.#like they're volatile as FUCK#they keep it down mostly bc there's No need to let it out but sometimes something tips them over and they go wild#and they love Dave but they'll also hold him hostage for a while if they have to. doubt he'd mind THAT much#this is a joke bc of me using him for emotional stability btw#Lucis digging their nails into his shoulders like YOU'LL HELP ME. and he's just like ugh fine -_-#i like to think of Dave seeing them in a paternal light. i mean lucis is a young cryptid without parents too so he sees some of himself in#them. lucis doesn't always Pick on this tho so they get a bit uncomfortable like fuck does this guy want.#lucis does appreciate having a fellow cryptid tho. even if they're way different dave is some lizard mori is a little demon#but hey. he has a tail.#it's also an excuse to have this be like. a happy au. bc it means less reasons for Dave to kill kids he's busy being the dad he never had to#this weird freak. and! jack is helping him :)#jack is technically related to lucis too. brothers in law 🙏#lucis still can't stand Dave bc he's obnoxious and also mean but likes him bc he's silly and nice and sticks with them#wags hand around tis but thr nature of them. ask lucis about the mermaid.
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angelbarelywrites · 8 months ago
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♡ slashers scenarios | let’s get kinky
♡ fandoms; Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre (original + 2006), House of Wax, The Boy, Dead by Daylight, slashers (general)
♡ characters; Micheal Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Bubba Sawyer, Vincent Sinclair, Brahms Heelshire
♡ reader; gender neutral
♡cw; graphic sexual content, kink content
♡notes; pretty much just kink lists babey
oh boy i hope this doesn’t reveal anything about me
also happy easter lol
•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•
Micheal Myers
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> Knifeplay and breathplay are a given with this one
> He likes to be in complete control
> And a hand around the throat or a blade ghosting the skin definitely help him achieve that
> He also loves both tying you up and being tied up, surprisingly
> Letting you ride him while he’s tied to the bed is just about the only way you’ll get the man to relinquish any of that control
> And even then he makes sure you know he’s still the boss- if you’re too much of a brat he’s slipping the restraints and fucking you so hard you walk funny after
> He loves marking you up, mostly through biting
> And he likes to keep the mask on- even if he’s at a point where he rarely wears it around you
> He’ll quietly degrade you if you’re into that- you have to earn praise though
> But if you praise him you may actually be able to fluster him for once
Thomas Hewitt
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> Breeding kink breeding kink breeding kink you can’t convince me otherwise
> He loves pinning you down into a mating press and watching your face as he fills you
> He’s so rough and overwhelming
> He likes to lick away your tears when it’s just too much
>And sometimes he’ll keep you pinned there well after, keeping himself inside.
> He’d let you call him daddy- and god does he get into it, but he’d be too shy to suggest anything like that himself
> He loves praise and he loves letting you know how good you feel
> Not usually verbally, but he’ll growl and moan and purr shamelessly
> He’s the king of oral, he’s like a man starved and you’ll end up overstimulated 9 out of 10 times
> And he loves when you reciprocate, especially if you don’t mind him fucking your mouth
Bubba Sawyer
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> He’s a bit vanilla, not having much experience or knowledge beyond sex for procreation.
> Insert Drayton’s “sex or the saw” quote here lol
> But he’ll try anything for you at least once, he’s so eager to please.
> Most notably he makes a wonderful little submissive
> Whether you want him to bottom or just power bottom yourself, he loves being used to make you feel good
> He enjoys any and all praise
> He’s rather insecure, so he loves compliments on his appearance especially
> If you call him a pretty boy he melts
> 100 percent would love if you called yourself mommy/daddy/any other dom titles
> He loves when you sit on his face more than anything else
Vincent Sinclair
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> The softest dom. He wants to take care of you around the clock, but especially in bed
> He’s a service top- it’s all for you. So much more concerned with you getting off than even being touched.
> He’s into wax play (Because it’s funny but also bc it’s underrated)
> And he likes to restrain you so he can worship you completely uninterrupted
> He’s not afraid of using toys, especially when you’re all tied up and at his mercy
> He loves taking pictures of you as well
> At first he claims it’s for reference but you know better, baby has a documentation kink
> He loves just watching too
> Trying to keep control while you touch yourself and moan his name is his favorite pastime
Brahms Heelshire
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> Huge brat in need of taming
> Only a switch in the technical sense- he’ll top if you beg/bribe/pester him enough. He’s just lazy tbh
> Love love loves being both degraded and praised
> “filthy little boy” “pretty little slut” etc
> Prefers calling you mommy/daddy but can work with master
> And he’ll be your puppy if you want him to be
> He wears a cute collar and leash and lets you yank on it while you make him fuck you
> He loves when you edge him too
> Until he’s nearly in tears and whining and begging you to let him cum
> If you have boobs he’s obsessed with them
> And even if you don’t he’ll give the area lots of attention
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noellefan101 · 5 months ago
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Quiet Love
Characters: Xiao, Heizou, Cyno, Wanderer, Albedo x mute!reader
Summary: You're mute, and cant talk? not a problem for your partner, they can find other ways to communicate, and honestly wouldn't have it any other way.
Warnings: mute reader, kissing, most of them dont know sign language bc i said so and it makes this more interesting, idk man
Note: i feel like i accidentally made both the char and reader mute in some of them, I've tried to fix it though, so im sorry for that (and i also messed up some other shit im just missing brain cells n´ down bad) -love you
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Xiao
Whom talks with you in touches and small notes.
He had seen no problem in your absence of speaking, he likes the quiet nights that you shared with him. The sounds of nature taking over your ears, it was nice, just standing beside you and looking out to the views of Liyue. he reaches out to hold your hand, though still not accustomed to the feeling, he does it anyway. and as his hand lightly squeezes yours, he feels your own squeezing his back, as if saying 'I love you'. your quiet conversations are sweet and only for you two to know about.
He leaves notes scattered around, as you do too. ones with little messages of your schedule and plans. ones written with more love than any other person could comprehend. notes shared between you and him. notes saying 'i loved that dish, could we make it again' and a reply under, 'of course, i'll do anything for you'. it seems simple and dumb, but a nice way to talk to each other anyway.
Heizou
Who likes when you just listen to him, and let him do anything he kind of wants to since you can't talk back, but he also loves when you just draw your thoughts on paper.
He loves to talk, but mostly loves when he gets to talk to you since you always listen to him so closely. he loves when he can just drag you to to places, but of course he's nice about it (kind of) and ask you if you wanna go to that new ramen shop that opened in the outskirts of Inazuma City, which he kind of answers for you because of course you do! in which you smile at (smile at him or else...)
He likes your little drawings, and especially when its a little puzzle he has to solve so he can understand what you're saying and loves to guess wrong purpose so he can get a reaction out of you. and even has a special sketchbook, that he keeps on him at all times. he also sometimes goes trough it and just smiles at all your little drawings. remembering the time that you drew it, and all the cute little faces you made when he teased you for how bad it looked.
Cyno
Who helps you talk with small drawings in the sand and learned sign language so he could communicate with you properly.
He's often out in the desert, and from time to time takes you with him. which makes it easy to express yourself when all you need is a stick, sometimes his spear if he lets you, and sand which is already in front of you at all times. the little drawings that symbol your love, so many hearts all over the sand it would be hard to count how many times you drew them. he gave you his cape at night when you were extra cold? you drew a heart around his feet as a 'thank u, i love you', in which he cutely (your words) responded with, "i love you too" right after.
Whom learned sign language just because he felt like you were left out a little, but also learned the wrong one at first so you had to help him and learn him some signs as well. but the first thing you learned him was how to say "i love you", but didn't tell him what it meant so you could do it without him noticing just for a little while longer.
Wanderer
Who hates being touched, but makes you touch his shoulder when you need something and gifts you a book so you can write to him when needed
He, despite hating when people touch him, he cant think of many other ways you could get his attention, so he wants you to touch him when you need him. it doesn't matter if he had an extra bad day, its the best way to get his attention, so touch him all you want. it is you after all, the love of his life, he would let you do whatever you wanted to do, just tap his shoulder and give him a few signs or point at something, anything you want you'll get.
Others would say that he would be annoyed at you for pushing a book up to his face every hour or so, but he surprisingly he doesn't get annoyed at all and "tolerates" you pretty well. in fact he loves when you just stand there and write in your little book, he thinks its adorable when you glare at him as a sign to wait for you to finish.
Albedo
Who is normally very quiet but when he's with you he loves to talk, but of course, he loves the times when it's just you and him sitting together in silence
He could be seen as quite shy if you didnt know him well, but when around you he was the complete opposite, talking about everything he did that day, was currently doing, what plans he had ext. he loves when you just listen to him, but if you ever tried pointing at smt to ask like yk 'whats this?' he would be overjoyed and you wouldn't be able to make him shut up for hours about that one thing.
He looked at you when you had put your hand in front of his sketchbook, you looked at him sweetly before kissing his cheek, catching him by surprise. he put down his sketchbook and kissed you back on your forehead. it was just a quiet moment between you two and you wouldn't have it any other way.
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thx for reading i hope your day went/goes well, luv ya-Masterlist
You are welcome to reblog and like any of my posts, but you CAN NOT translate, copy or hate on anybody for liking my posts
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bbokicidal · 23 days ago
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Hello! The dick analysis was so 🤤🤤🤤 and you’ve become my virgin!skz dealer now! 😍😍😍
Speaking of which, what kind of subs would skz be? Could you write some hcs pls?
(Ps: I hope the headache you had has gone away! 🫶)
Have a wonderful day (or night depending on when you’re reading this)! ❤️❤️❤️
I'm about to do some bombass 5-STAR themed makeup but I'll write up some quick head canons, sure!! (Also my migraine has mostly gone away lol, ty for well wishes !!)
Chris :
Softest bottom ever, so compliant and eager to please.
Power... bottom? Maybe? Mm, not the right word. More of; He'll do anything you ask and he miiiight fuck you on his own a little if you're edging him and he knows he can't take it anymore.
So obedient. So so obedient, so sweetheart coded. Just there to make you feel good 'n gets soooo flustered with his ears and neck all red in embarrassment from having all your attention on him. <3
Minho :
Brat !! Brat I say !!!
So bratty, so mean. Cannot keep his mouth shut because he's always whining or biting back about how you're moving too slow or you're not going hard enough with him.
Be mean !! Spit in his mouth to assert dominance. That'll shut his ass up. <3
Changbin :
Pillow Princess Bin <3
The sweetest angel in bed. Less of an eager pleaser than Chris and more just - happy to be there, enjoying the moment, basking in the worship and adoration you shower him in.
Sit on his face and suffocate him. Man likes to eat, 'n that includes your holes. ;)
Hyunjin :
SO loud. So so loud, so whiny. Constantly moaning. Literally produces the PRETTIEST sounds you'll ever hear when he's subbing !!
The type to enjoy nipple clamps and wearing lacy lingerie for you because he knows just how much you like how lean he is <3333 (im tweaking out im just inserting my own fantasies in here now)
Looooves to be edged. Wants you holding a vib to the tip of his pretty pink cock until he's actually spraying cum and shaking so much he can't breathe. Also likes to have his ass ate, I don't make the rules. (I do.)
Jisung :
Bottom. BITCH.
Aka not a sub very often but when he does???? Mmm Mm MMMMM. So so so submissive, enters subspace so fucking fast when he's feeling a bit down. Also a very good communicator about what he wants/needs for the evening!!!
Honestly? I think his favorite thing to do while being submissive is dressing up. He likes wearing the big hoodies, the frilly socks, having his hair pinned back and sitting w his cute lil anime girl legs.
Felix :
Alright I'm gonna say on one hand, I can see him in cute pink clothing with garter belts and stockings and sleeves covering his hands, etc etc etc. Whimpering, hair in bows and pigtails, all cute 'n shit.
Another part of me says he's just so vanilla when hey subs and it's bc he doesn't prefer subbing. He really only subs when you either A) ask him to so you can experiment, or B) he needs you to blow him. :)
Definitely a moaner tho. <3
Seungmin :
An actual dog, bro.
Growls, bites, even spits at you sometimes. A brat, fr! Buuuuut if you put him in his place then he's sooooo compliant and whimpering like the good puppy he is.~
The type to hump your leg if you deny him his needs, biting at your thighs and even eating you out with long licks to get your attention until you flip him over 'n suffocate him by sitting on his face. <3
Jeongin :
I really don't see him as submissive,,,, ever. So I'm gonna say he's really only submissive when he's by himself.
Has definitely used toys before on himself, has taken it up the ass. Did enjoy it but won't admit it aloud bc he's too shy. <3 But !!!
He did let you in on his secret a lil later on, and now if you ask reaaaaaally nicely and have it all planned out, he might let you peg him until he cries. <3 (Face down ass up Innie?? MMMMM)
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justficsiguess · 1 year ago
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thinking about... yandere!batfam...
Imagine you're living your normal life and *boom*, one day suddenly a portal opens right in front of you, you fall through it, it closes right behind you. You can only make out a few vague shapes making their way towards you before you pass out.
When you wake up you're... in a bed. Surrounded by a bunch of people who introduce themselves as the Wayne family. You're in Gotham. There was some kind of portal accident with a villain and you fell here from a different dimension and you're stuck until they can figure out how to fix the portal machine, because it was broken during the fight.
Villain? Portals? Gotham? And what was this family doing there during a fight?? They explain that they're vigilantes, Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, etc etc. They decided to tell you this because you'll have to work with them to figure out your home dimension and they didn't trust anyone else to take you in, plus this is just more efficient [and more comfortable than living in the batcave]. I haven't decided yet if you're from a dimension where they exist in comics or don't exist at all, but either way, you're really confused bc this is just not something that happens in your universe.
Anyways. You live with them now, get closer to all of them, work with them sometimes (even though you can't do much, mostly you just watch them work but they insist it's important you're there), decorate your temporary room in the manor a bit, learn some stuff about this dimension (some people have superpowers?? cool!!). You can't go outside though, they say that would be dangerous, as you're not from this dimension and not supposed to be here at all. You want to go back home, but the repairing of the portal machine seems to be very complicated, everyone keeps telling you they just can't figure it out...
One day, during a rare (very rare) moment alone, you decide to look around the manor. You still haven't seen everything in here, it's so big! After some exploration, you stumble across an interesting room that's kind of hidden away. It looks almost exactly like your new room in the manor, but dusty, with some items you remember the Batfamily proudly showing you as you were decorating your room, and becoming unreasonably disappointed when you didn't like them. But the most concerning thing is that there are pictures of you. Not new ones they took since you've been here, but older ones, where you're younger. But, no, it doesn't seem like they're pictures of you exactly, there are photos of a pre-teen you on Bruce's shoulders, that can't be you, you just met them! There are also pictures of a vigilante you've never seen before, which you figure must be this other-you as well. What happened to them? And why would everyone hide this from you?
Turns out you didn't come here from an accident with a villain at all. The Batfamily lost the other version of you somehow and decided they wanted you back. But not a strong, smart vigilante like the version of you from this universe. No, they could get hurt again, or figure out what's going on sooner and escape. They chose you, hoping they could slowly get you accustomed to the idea of staying and then one day lie to you and say they can't fix the portal machine, they can't send you back. It still hurts them to know you're not exactly like the you they lost, you were raised in a completely different way, of course you're not the same, but they'd never let you go, either. They love you.
They were hoping you wouldn't find everything out so soon... but, well, they can fight over whose fault it is that you were able to find this room later, first they need to find a way to calm you down and stop you from leaving them.
If you find yourself drugged and/or tied to your bed, don't be mad at them! You gave them no time to explain before you started panicking and trying to get away, they couldn't just let that happen!
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fbfh · 1 year ago
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tristin dugray relationship and intimacy hcs pt 2
wc: 1.1k
pairing: tristin x (implied fem) reader
genre: straight up smut with some mild feelings
warnings: brief mention of exhibitionism, debriefing with madison and louise, aftercare, cuddles, car sex, sex in a variety of places, cockwarming, nudes, brief mention of oral (m recieving)
song rec: mary - alex g (bc this is literally tristin's song. it's so fucking tristin coded.)
a/n: so good news I think my adhd medication is finally working lol
tags @yesv01 @magcon7280
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As with all nsfw works all characters are aged up to 18+
WITHOUT FURTHER ADIEU MORE TRISTIN SMUT BC I’M FOAMING AT THE FUCKING MOUTH
What’s fun about Tristin
Among many other things
Is his fixation with your hips
Seriously it was one of the first things this horny motherfucker noticed about you
Whenever you wear anything mildly form fitting he can’t take his goddamn eyes off your hips
Once you’re together it’s basically impossible for him to resist touching them
Sometimes it’s a playful squeeze
Or an affectionate rub
Other times it’s full on groping while he shoves his tongue into your mouth and makes you grind against his thigh
He could live like that for days and not get tired
Speaking of
Tristin has fucking stamina for DAYS
“Men can’t have multiple orgasms” tell that to him!!!!!!!!
He just… has a fixation with all of you honestly
Like there’s no part of you that he’s not going to eye the fuck up 
You know the looks he’s always giving Rory???? 
That’s just the tip of the iceberg babe
Or should I say tip of the penis lol
Anyway 
Tristin is vocal as FUCK
Like mans can’t shut up
Even when we’ve reached the previously mentioned dumbfucking point, he’s still going to be whining and grunting and panting nonstop
His moans have you gushing like niagara falls tbh 
There is a zero percent chance he’s not going to give you the most affectionate aftercare every time too
So much praise and kisses and cuddles
Like he’ll genuinely get upset if you try to just bounce afterwards
Or worse
If he wakes up the next morning and you’re not there
Maybe he could handle casual hookups with other girls
But not with you
He will absolutely pull you back into bed and demand kisses and cuddles
I’m not gonna lie
He does have a little bit of an exhibitionist streak
Just a tiny itty bitty one
Mostly just from the urge to prove that you’re his when other guys keep flirting with you
If the circumstances were right and you were down, he would be happy to put on a show for them, show them how good he treats you
If you’re still friends with madison and louise/go to the same college as them they will BEG you for details and live vicariously through you
The line where they saw Tristin and Summer making out in front of Rory’s locker and one of them (I forget which one) was like “if you’re dating Tristin you have the right to make out anywhere and everywhere”
Yeah
They will literally grill details out of you
Whatever they can get
And the way they look at him after
The little sighs and head tilts and staring off into space thinking about what you told them, letting their imaginations go wild
It would make you jealous
If you didn’t know how much he likes you
But yeah there’s no one that can take you away from Tristin 
He loves you
And he loves keeping things fresh and spicy and exciting
He absolutley fucks you in his car a lot
Like a lot lot 
There’s at least a few pairs of your panties that you’ve lost somewhere in the fancy leather seats
He’ll also happily fuck you in your car
And every room and surface of your apartment
And your apartment hallway
And in an elevator once 
And public bathrooms
And your bathroom
And pretty much anywhere he thinks yall can get away with
Seriously this boy is such a slut but he’s only a slut for you
You light him on fucking fire and he can’t cope
He needs you biblically,, like in a way that’s concerning to feminism.
You can tell how he feels just from the way he looks at you 
And it’s obvious as shit to everyone else too
Like literally everyone
He eye fucks you a lot lot lot
GOD this boy can seduce you so fast
He moans so loud for you too
Tristin will really give you a good show
He wants to impress you
Wants you to need him
(cough cough praise kink)
He wants to breathe the same air as you
He wants to wrap you up so tight in his arms that it feels like you’re merging into one person
Tristin is the “cuddling isn’t enough I need to climb inside your skin” kinda clingy
Solution is cockwarming
Which you both love a lot
Once he realizes cockwarming is an option????? 
It slowly increases in frequency
There’s a good chance you won’t be able to sleep without it at some point
Seriously he will hold you tight and rub your back and touch your soft skin and tell you all the lovey dovey things he feels about you
Most of it is lovey dovey
But don’t let that fool you 
He is the CEO of both his family company AND dirty thoughts about you
Seriously he’s set off so easily by you
9 times out of 10 he’s probably fantasizing about you
Remembering your touch
How you feel around him
God he can’t wait to get his hands on you again
Let me tell you
Tristin is a motherfucking MENACE when it comes to sexting
He will have you blushing over the phone in ways you didn’t know you could blush
He’s so shameless about it too
If you send him nudes??????
He will literally die
And he’ll happily, happily return the favor
Once he realizes how you react when he sends you nudes?????
He never wants to stop
He literally loves getting you all feral and worked up over him
Don’t let Madison and Louise find out Tristin sends you nudes or else they will steal your phone and make a copy of your fingerprint with sticky tape and face powder just to access them /hj
Speaking of going feral
Tristin’s happy trail?????????
Are we gonna talk about it??????
Are we gonna talk about how you want to fucking bite him and deep throat him until you memorize every vein whenever you see his lil happy trail????
Because you will
You’ll definitely want to
Okay putting myself down now lol
I need his cock immediately
Constantly covered in hickeys and unable to walk and he loves it so much
He loves when you need him and he loves fucking you so good that you’re out of commission the next day
It’s what you deserve
You think he’s a menace now???
God help you when he gets baby fever
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inchidentally · 6 months ago
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(anon charmingly asked for a "ramble" from me about this video and like I even need the excuse tbh)
literally one of my favorite qualities of their dynamic is Lando mercilessly nagging Oscar and bossing him around and Oscar dutifully obeying and finding Lando constantly fun and charming no matter what. it's a trait that Lando only brings out around very select people and tbh I can only come up with Max F atm tho I'm sure there are others. but normally with his friends Lando is the little brother who's just happy to be included and he might be annoying or stubborn sometimes but mostly just to wind them up. but The Nagging? is reserved only for people who can handle it. and Oscar handles it far, far too well.
I love that Oscar has clearly been told to lead these videos more by the McLaren social media team and given guidance about things like using his hands and being more animated … only for Lando to interrupt and huff out "do you want to start or do you want me to start?" bc CLEARLY Oscar isn't doing it the way Lando wants !!
Oscar's fumbling little "ahh ahh I-I can start?" literally "yes dear sorry dear"
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OKAY SO THE FUNNIEST PART !! is Lando's absolute OUTRAGE when he spots the hangers and immediately accuses Oscar of stealing them even though ! the hangers are empty and clearly Oscar isn't lying when he says had no idea they were there - oh and Lando steals them all for himself anyway
BUT OSCAR LAUGHS AND GOES ALONG WITH IT "apparently I stole his hangers" meanwhile Lando is literally still grumbling "goddd!" behind the camera bc he is SO MAD
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Lando picking around Oscar's sink before he gets caught out and
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interrupts Oscar again bc TIME FOR LANDO
"it's a bit cleaner!" oh the satisfaction we all felt when Oscar pointed out that Lando hadn't actually unpacked yet
oh my god !!! the way they pick up on these little domestic bits "my morning latte" "2 in the afternoon" "AHEM afternoon" like this is clearly what's going on when they do the thing of looking at each other and giggling and no one else knows why
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Lando's pride in his new bed and Oscar narrating along to how it's set up
OSCAR GOING "DONK" WHEN LANDO DESCRIBES HITTING HIS HEAD THAT'S SO CUTE and absolutely going in my Oscar Narrating Lando's Life list
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the synchronized "two other driver rooms" oh my god they're so scary sometimes they even looked at each other like wtfff
Oscar is boring about wood trim and Lando looking at the camera like wowww interesting huh? - oh my god let your boy be dull it's just how he is !!
Oscar's sleeping space being deemed "cute" by Lando ;__; just like his BK order
the way Oscar keeps providing along words for Lando in Lando's room and yep sure enough, Lando needs him for 'hammock'!!
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no seriously Oscar having learned to track Lando's meandering thought patterns so closely bc ha as if Lando will be doing that and not losing track completely
Oscar literally did not need to laugh like that at Lando pretending he had a console and PC set up for gaming but well Zendaya laugh down bad etc
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Lando having fully taken over starts the full outro and Oscar returns to his beloved spot watching Lando and saying "yes" over and over like literally McLaren just follow them around with a camera you don't need to prompt them with challenges they do all this on their own
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redrum-alice · 7 months ago
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ABA x Paracelsus HCs that live in my mind rent-free, even though I haven't played the game--
Some of these HCs include other characters involved in their arcade mode.
ABA is no stranger to stalking people. So when she came across a lookout point, she saw many couples, mostly teenagers, making out and going on romantic dates. She wonders what it would feel like to be young and in love, rather than just declaring someone whom she met first glance as a "husband"
ABA's collection of keys were hidden somewhere in the pocket dimension. She sometimes uses them as accessories to adorn herself, despite the like of knowledge in fashion (the girl wears pants as a top--)
There are many shades of blue that ABA can pick from. Since Paracelsus turned himself blue, the shiny surface reflected more colors than just blue, inspiring her to try and appreciate other colors near the blue gradient.
Added to the color stuff, she eventually tries variation of outfits with other colors, but with blue as the base.
Paracelsus knows when she's feeling fatigued. When she's at her limit, he opens the pocket dimension and lets her rest there until she wakes up. ABA sees this as his love language, but unintentional on his part
Both ABA and Paracelsus have no clue on how homonculi biology works, and Paracelsus hates to admit he feels bad that ABA may be at risk of getting herself hurt without him knowing what to do
Paracelsus wishes he knows more about human anatomy because its the closest one to ABA's physiology.
Since ABA is clairvoyant, she often hears the spirits of their victims which she tries to ignore, and probably because she doesnt know the correct response to a wailing dead person wanting justice. When its too much, she asks Paracelsus if what theyre doing was justified and that she begins to regret her rage filled jealousy directed at those that dont even bother them.
Paracelsus keeps telling ABA that she needn't to worry because it was a necessity for the both of them-- something he deeply regrets to say because he knows she has strong principles that she live by despite not being a human
Paracelsus, deep down, is ashamed of himself for tainting ABA for the purpose of tending to his bloodlust. He saw how genuine and pure hearted she is, but it turned into malice because of his demonic origin. He begins to wonder what ABA would be like if she found someone else years ago.
Just like ABA, Paracelsus has an unspoken fear of abandonment, but since he lacks capacity to feel other emotions, he doesnt notice this.
Ever since Elphelt and Testament approached her with good intentions, ABA wanted to make more friends like them, but is scared that others have ill intentions toward her and Paracelsus.
ABA's favorite book would be Alice in Wonderland when she was still in Frasco, specifically the part where Alice was trapped in a room or multiple doors with the smallest door being the exit. ABA admires this because of the concept of escaping, especially that there's a key involved. (Im biased bc my name's Alice and i like this story--)
Besides door keys, she also collects windup key and smaller keys for chests and compartments. She sees this as a symbol for discovering new things, especially music when she came across a music box that needed a key
Speaking of music boxes, she associates this object with Elphelt bc of her musical talent (and that she may as well look like the ballerina spinning on the music box)
Other than doors, music boxes, and compartments, she also came across a small doll that needed a key. After she winds it up, it began walking and talking towards her and freaks her out. But when it said "mama" in a robotic voice, ABA contemplates and wonders if she was ready to become a parent somewhere in the near future when Paracelsus has a body. An impossible thought, but one could never be sure, and it scares her.
Butterfly Pea tea with brown sugar, or sparkling butterfly pea lemonade with honey would probably her favorite drink because of its color. She shares this with her hubby 🥰😋
There comes a time that her bandanges would get uncomfortable and smell bad from blood stains and wounds, so Paracelsus tells her she needs to change them before she gets an infection. He does stop her midway because he realizes she isnt wearing any undergarments and proceeds to take her in the pocket dimension.
Elphelt offers ABA to shop with her to pick clothes suited for her. The first thing she sees at the boutique display was a wedding dress and begins to day dream a wedding with Paracelsus. Without her looking, Elphelt happily buys the wedding dress with matching tuxedo and gives it to ABA, despite Paracelsus' protests (the fact that he hears them chatting about setting up the wedding next day had him ded on the spot :P)
ABA watches home video tapes left in houses unoccupied by their owners (abandoned or they went on vacation; ABA is a home intruder lol). She finds a tape labeled "Happy Day" and it plays a recording of a newly wed couple dancing at their reception. The way the couple moved gracefully tickled an idea in her brain and insisted she and Paracelsus should dance. But since the large key doesnt have any legs, her attempts in waltzing with him went nowhere 😅 (and this gave more reason for ABA to find a body for Paracelsus)
At late nights when ABA is asleep, Paracelsus wonders that if he had a body, would ABA still be shorter or they would be in the same height? Either way, he was impressed that she can keep herself up with that low weight despite her tall stature, more so on how she was able to carry him around without much muscle mass.
When he sleeps beside her, her hair unwittingly falls on his bow and feels how soft it is. A very pleasant feeling he won't admit.
Everyday, Paracelsus keeps reminding ABA that she needed to eat to gather strength. ABA often forgets to eat because its not hard wired in hr system, nor that it was even natural for her to eat in the first place.
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apricotgojo · 3 months ago
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a gentleman ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ k.n
lil nanami drabble bcs i miss him :(
𐙚 MDNI ! - fem!reader - corporate boss!nanami
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𐙚
ever since Nanami moved up the corporate ladder he's been taking a liking to rather simpler things in life.
He started putting creamer in his coffee because he enjoys taste of coffee being more of a sweet treat, he enjoyed the way his face tingled at the cool breeze early in the morning and he found a new sense of appreciation for the smell of vanilla and coconut being brought into his office every time you stepped in the room, Loved seeing the dark lipstick stains kissing the rim of the coffee mug you used whenever he saw it on your desk, and he absolutely loved the way your thighs looked while they were being hugged by the material of those sinful little skirts you wore.
He noticed it within the first week you started working as an intern for him - the way his pants got tighter every time he saw you.
The first day you walked into the office you were wearing a tight black skirt with matching knee high socks.
You looked so shy, handing him the coffee with a sheepish smile on your face,
"Mr.Nanami - I didn't know if you liked creamer with your coffee so i got it for you on the side."
You put down the coffee on his desk and extended a hand out, introducing yourself to him.
He was practically hypnotized by your voice, it was music to his ears. and he genuinely wondered how he got you as his intern in the first place. Maybe it was the incredible amount of potential he saw in your application at first, Maybe it was the way your ass looked, all nice and perky for him when you bent down to pick up your pen that fell on the floor during the interview. You had no business being that hot without even wanting to be but as your boss, Nanami needed to keep himself professional.
He's a gentleman - through and through, but somehow you managed to provoke lewd thoughts to constantly pop into this poor mans mind every time you were in his vicinity. He's never had anyone turn him on like this before -by simply existing. and it made him think and sometimes even act in ways that were out of character.
Like that one time you came into his office with a hickey on your neck.
You tried so hard to hide it - nervously playing with your loose hair and draping it over your neck, trying your best to hide the mark you received from the night before. Something bubbled in him at the sight of it, something strange in his stomach.
He was jealous.
Mostly at the fact that someone had you - the fact that you let someone mark you. It made him mad - your voice literally fading away as his eyes fixed on that nasty little mark on your neck. It should've been him. He should be the one to mark you up, to claim you as his.
And then he imagined what you'd look like all splayed out for him - marked up in more ways than one; Your inner thighs peppered with harsh bites and marks, his red hand-print on your ass, bruises coating the outside of your thighs - caused by the grip on his fingers. He imagined the look on your face as you looked up at him with red, bitten lips and tears stained on your cheeks. He wanted to ruin you. and- fuck- Now he was equally mad and turned on.
"Mr.Nanami?" Your voice snapped him out of a trance and his gaze flew back to your face. "Are you okay? you look like you're heating up."
He was not okay. He wasn't okay because he knew someone else touched you last night, someone marked you as theirs. He clenched his jaw,
"Actually, I'm not feeling very well." He clears his throat and gets up, "If you'll excuse me." He mumbles and makes his way out of his office, to the nearest bathroom.
Nanami was a gentleman - past tense. A gentleman wouldn't be leaning against the door of the bathroom, furiously pumping his heavy, leaking cock in his hand while he had his tie in his mouth to stifle the guttural groans that he cant help but let out. A gentleman wouldn't have his hair disheveled, strands sticking to his forehead, his glasses hanging lowly on the tip of his nose, his eyes shut as he thinks about how good your little pussy would feel wrapped around his cock.
“Are you going to cum, Mr. Nanami?”
A gentleman wouldn't whimper into his tie as he imagines coating your thighs with his cum - causing his body to spasm as he throws his head back, gasping out your name, sticky white covering the door and his hand. You had him wrapped around your finger and you didn't even know it - but you did now. Your body in total shock, your face flushed as you listened to the sinful sound of your name leaving his lips followed by heavy breaths and groans from the other side of the door. At first you followed after him because you were worried about your boss, seeing him in such a flushed state like that - you thought he was going to be sick.
Freezing in place, your hand ready to knock before you heard stifled moans and little "fuckfuckfuck" 's followed by your name. You raised a hand to your mouth, covering it so you wouldn’t gasp out loud. but you couldn't help the feeling pooling between your legs, your thighs squeezing at the lewd noises escaping from your boss's lips. Was this wrong? Maybe? He was practically whimpering your name. The same man who tells you to make sure that your files are in order. The same man who you bring coffee to each and every single morning before he tells you that he's 'too busy to make idle chit-chat' He was touching himself to the thought of you.
huh- maybe working as an intern here wasn't so bad. Especially when your hot boss has a little crush on you ;)
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
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ugh-yoongi · 2 years ago
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by the time i've figured out what it's worth | myg
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(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.
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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.
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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?”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.)
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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.)
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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.)
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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.
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[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.)
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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.
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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.)
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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. ♡
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strawberrygyuuuu · 6 months ago
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𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐘!𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐱 𝐅!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 —> 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 —> 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 —> 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐲!𝐂. 𝐘𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐧 𝐱 𝐂. 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐂. 𝐁𝐞𝐨𝐦𝐠𝐲𝐮
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 —> 𝐣𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐩𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝 & 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 —> 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞. ➽───────────────❥ ⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
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This is such chaos
Especially if you match their energy; specifically Beomgyu's
You, gyu and Jun are so loud and chaotic together I just know Soobin sometimes gets a headache
But it's funny cause he's also the one fondly and lovingly staring at y'all even if he complains
"aigo, so noisy.." as if Soobin is actually annoyed 🙄
Just kiss him n he's all smiles and shy
He'd never change it for the world tho; having y'all being loud and laughing together is weirdly not only entertaining
But also a sense of comfort: home.
He'd never wish for it to be different even if it does cause him headaches lol
Boy is just whipped as hell dudes 🤷🏻‍♀️
They are ALWAYS bickering; bg n yj
Yj will full on palm on bg's head and push hard bc why TF does he keep pulling his beanie down, covering yjs eyes?
Then bg wants to complain to one of yous
"soobinnie!!!! Yeonjunie hit me!! Put him in time out!!!>:(" and that cute little pout
Like...what do you want us to do about that?
"babyyyy!!! Junnie-hyung said he wanted to break up with me!!!>:( finish him!!!!" with a cute little pout and you're like ????? No?? wha????
He just told bg to stop tugging on his hair ??? Hello??😭
Yeonjun def remembers everyone's likes, dislikes, especially in food, snacks n drinks
He remembers y'all's favorite meals, drink orders and snacks
He KNOWS what to put on all of your guys plate and never gets it wrong, he js cares enough to know hey! let's not put mushrooms on y/ns and bgs plate !
So hopelessly in love idk dudes
Tom & Jerry: yk & bg
Bg sulks and pouts and gets grumpy when y'all eat without him
This boy just really wants to spend time with his lovers and eating together, having fun and talking or watching sum
Quality time is def Beomgyu's main love language
Gift giving & acts of service for Yeonjun
Quality time & acts of service (physical affection maybe?) for Sooby boobie
The princess treatment in this relationship is real dude
Like....Bro's will tie your shoes for you, buy you n e/o stuff all the time too
"hey, you like these, right, y/n?"
Ex; yj getting bg gummies he always eats without hesitation and then suggested to get every flavor
"I got you three something, go look in your bags, loves."
And it's matching onsies
My melody for bg, pompompurin for yj, pochacco for Soobin and you're prob hello kitty or kuromi
And yj's ears are bright red he's so bashful but is glad you guys liked it
Y'all wear them every night for bed now
Yj is the one spending the most money in this relationship tho, the running joke is he's your guy's little personal sugar daddy lol
It's cause he wants to spoil you guys tho
All of you's do more than enough for him already so there's no need to stress (that's what he says anyways.)
Beomgyu loves testing y'all's patience but dw he'll make it up with smothering wet kisses !!!
He's giggling while you're fuming cause he's so annoying 😭
But it's worth it, loving him, I mean
He prefers to be more private with physical affection so not a lot of pda for yall
Js wants the moments to be between you two four only n for no one else to see or try n judge
Soobinnie loves doing this thing where he sneaks his cold hands underneath your shirt and keep them there while giggling and nuzzling his nose in your neck/shoulder
While you're fighting for your life against his cold hands, mind you 🧍🏻‍♀️
Soobin and yeonjun cook mostly, together usually too
If you get hurt they are soooo concerned and worried but caring and gentle and so loving
Bitches will squeeze and smother the sadness and hurt out of ya
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microtyalm13 · 8 months ago
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How would your ocs react to a partner whos very vocal and loud in bed, like every moment they can't go without spouting some type of praise. . . ask, totally not based on a chat im having - 🐠🎩
mmmhehehhe... < З I LIKE THIS QUESTION DEAR FISH ANON. okaaaayyy lessgooo.... also feel free to send me more questions like this one, it was fun to write for everyone <3 deity, naga, monster under the bed, kikimora, fallen god, mothman x reader. derzena x fem!reader, the rest is gender-neutral. there could be mistakes and im npt s orrty
gavriil. — the louder you are the better, honestly. gavriil here is a provider, he cares about your pleasure more than his own, so there's nothing more rewarding than to hear your voice break so deliciously. sex with him is a praising galore... loves receiving it too! he's very talkative and mostly breathes heavily or hums in amusement/delight. if you don't want to make noise on principle, that's a whole different story. will take it as a challenge. will fuck the noises out of you. breaking your indifferent facade until you're nothing but a drooling, whining mess always makes him so smug and proud.
xiaolong. — prefers it if you're at least somewhat vocal because he want to hear how good he makes you feel, so you being so unashamed is perfect for him. loves cutting off your never-ending stream of sweet words and whimpers by kissing you. will remind you to keep it down sometimes though, because "you don't want the whole inn to hear your pretty moans now, do you? they're reserved for my ears only, isn't that right, dear? mmhm, that's it". can't get enough of how lovely your voice sounds when you call out his name. will probably tease you about that later...
taisya\tasechka. — when he's balls deep inside of you, he would absolutely not care. he won't even hear you probably, driven blindly by his instincts and desires. that's why when you want him to stop or give you a second for whatever reason, you need to show it with your body language. give him a pat, a punch (he won't mind), a squeeze. he pays much more attention to how your body moves and shudders underneath him, how your breathing patterns change. values your physical participation more than anything else. this guy is also pretty loud himself, though his noises are not very... pleasant on the ears and sometimes his voice morphs in funny ways, giving that uncanny edge to his low whines and growls.
derzena. — she will be... a bit surprised. she didn't have many lovers, and most of them were pretty quiet and/or shy in her presence (no wonder, bc she has a very... intimidating stare). at first she will think she did something wrong, or, heavens forbid, hurt you. derzena is a very careful woman, mainly because she's very aware of her sizes and strength. but once you reassure her and tell her that you're just very vocal in bed, she'll except it and will move on. she'll learn to love it very quickly, silently relishing in your gasps and loud pleas. she might lose herself for a good while between your legs, eating you out for hours and pushing her thick, smooth tongue deeper into your pussy to see if she can make you even louder.
veniamin. — oh he is so mean. likes it when you're loud just because he gets to shut you up. a hand clasped tightly over your mouth or pushing your face into the pillow, he doesn't care as long as you're keeping up the volume and writhing under him. when he's feeling gracious enough he'll let you ride him and babble all you want. until then, he'll keep calling you a desperate little thing, mocking the noises you make <З despite that, he also loves it when you talk back or insult him in return. it's the "missionary, so we can keep arguing" for him. smug fucker wants nothing more than to rile you up and then make you whine in disappointment by ruining your orgasm... for the fourth time in a row.
livy. — he hasn't had much experience with humans before, so he thinks it's perfectly normal for you to express yourself the way that you do. livy thinks it's very pretty actually, and won't stop you, because no one will hear you in the middle of the forest, where his cave resides. except for him, of course <з lets out happy chirps and clicks in return, or hisses sweetly when your little hole squeezes him so tightly. will ask how you feel very frequently, seeking your approval. might get too excited and get a bit rough, fucking you into the ground, trying to stuff you full of his cock despite you being so much smaller in comparison to him.
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love-toxin · 3 months ago
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i have seen deadpool and wolverine 7 times in theaters. i need to kiss both of those men and i need them to kiss each other. we all need to hold hands and hug and kiss and skip in a circle together. and then have hot graphic sex together.
i need to be sandwiched in between them with no way to escape while they’re pissed at each other so they feel bad when they calm down. need them to start fucking all gentle out of guilt, like my brain didn’t melt out of my ears cuz they were so damn rough. need them to accidentally overstimulate me because they didn’t know they made me cum more than once during their bickering. need them to start fucking each other with me still between them cuz im outta commission but they still want to be as close to me as physically possible. need the friction of their bodies to accidentally cause a final orgasm so deep and slow it knocks me out, only to wake up hours later still between them. (goddamn healing factors)
ANON I WANNA LIVE IN UR BRAIN SO BAD!!!!
uuuuuugghhhnnnnm i just know the sex would be CRAZY. Logan and Wade both having regeneration and violent tendencies and having to have some kinda restraint to not literally kill you while you're sandwiched between them 😵‍💫 fighting over who gets ur ass first 😩😩 woof. thinkin of them having a tally on a notepad (mostly Wade, lets be fr) keeping score of how many times each of them get lucky with you and getting scary competitive over it. looking at the tallies an seeing one of them is lower than the other this week and realizing you're gonna get your bones jumped hardcore just for one of them to make up the score. sometimes they're bickering so much even a kiss makes them jealous--you peck Logan on the chin and Wade's whining about it being unfair until you lean over and give him one too. but as soon as he starts stealing another and another Logan grabs your neck and shoves his own tongue down your throat and whoops, the boys are duking it out again!
also.......the pull out game being weak as hell. each of them just end up pushing you deeper on to the other and it's no wonder they can't abort the mission on time--some days you get treated so nice and gentle and like a little noble on your throne, and some days you end the night with your lap just soaked and have to accept your fate when they both fall asleep still buried inside. but bc ur their pookie they're so sweet afterwards <33 you're not like them, you need a bath and treats and cuddles to recover when they rough you up! the babying from them would be sooooooo tasty and it just compliments the insane ball-busting hole-resizing craziness that happens whenever they're riled up and get so much as arm's reach from you. ugh!!!!
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Is it worth it, this love? (Is it fair to you, this life?)
comfort came against my will - series masterlist here
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pairing: dick grayson x reader (gender neutral)
length: 1.4k
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort
warnings: reader is physically unwell but there's no real details, it's about long-lasting illness though, nothing much besides comfort
a/n: a/n: ok everyone gets a sick fic bc I'm unwell. I'm sorry bc this does kinda suck and I do not thinks it's anywhere close to my normal standard but,,,,, such is the life sometimes
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"What are you doing?" Dick's voice makes you freeze, your fingers lifting from the keyboard of your laptop as you stare at him over the screen.
"I'm resting," you say slowly as your fingers begin typing again, the clicking sounds filling the air as you keep your eyes trained on him. Dick crosses his arms, the knit sweater he's wearing stretching across his shoulders as he frowns.
"You're not," he says pointedly. "You're working."
"From bed," you defend as he moves towards you swiftly and reaches for your laptop. "I'm in bed at midmorning on a weekday. This is resting."
"This is not resting," he says quietly, standing next to you and tapping his foot a bit impatiently as you type away, polite enough to let you finish whatever it is that you needed to be working on. "This is working."
"It's not working if I'm doing it from bed," you argue stubbornly, letting him pluck the laptop from your hands gently and press a slow, soft kiss to your forehead. 
"It's work no matter where you do it, babe." You grumble at his words, watching as Dick closes your laptop and places it far enough away that you can't reach it from bed, throwing a loving, long-suffering glance over his shoulder at your antics. 
"I don't feel that bad," you push. "I can do a bit of work." 
"But you shouldn't," he bites back gently, moving back to you to push you gently into the pillows, pulling the blankets up around you and tucking them in painstakingly. "You need to rest, babe, or you're not going to get better."
"I've been worse and rested less," you quip back, but you let him bury you under blankets nonetheless, shielded under the weight of comfort. "I'm ok, baby."
"You will be," Dick says stubbornly, shooting you a hard look. "And I'll make sure of it. Why do you think I took the day off, huh?"
"I thought you just did that because you love me," you sniff indignantly, and you're rewarded with a gentle kiss to the crown of your head and the feeling of Dick's laugh against you. 
"I do love you," he points out easily. "That's why I'm doing this." He leans back then, rocking onto his heels as he assesses his handiwork and deems it acceptable. You watch him as he does, a stubborn pout forming on your lips at his steadfast determination. But then he smiles in that charming, lovely way of his and smooths a hand over your hair.
"I want you to rest now," he says quietly. "Sleep a little if you can."
"It's the middle of the day."
"I'll close the curtains." You huff at his words yet again, rolling over so that your back is to him and watching as your bedroom is blanketed in darkness, the curtains behind you drawn shut. It muffles everything, you find - just a little bit. Makes the world outside feel a little slower, a little further away.
"Do one more thing for me?" You mumble, your face mostly buried in a pillow.
"Anything," is Dick's quick response, and he moves around the bed swiftly to crouch down next to you, his brows drawn together and jaw taut. You reach forward to smooth a palm over his cheek, thumbing at the spot between his eyebrows gently until the tension subsides.
"Stay with me?" You ask quietly, your voice small in a way that has him reaching for you, smoothing a hand over your shoulder and cupping the back of your neck. "Just for a while."
That's all it really takes, of course, to have Dick clambering into bed with you, pulling back the covers just enough to slide into the warmth next to you and tuck you against him. You curl around him, letting your face press against his chest as he wraps his arms firmly around you, keeping you locked to his side as he drops kisses against the crown of your head, over and over and over again.
"I'll stay with you all day, angel," he says softly, his voice muffled against your hair. "That's not something you even have to ask for."
"I don't… like this," you say haltingly, pressing your face further into his sweater, listening to the steady beat of his heart and letting the warmth from his skin bleed into you. 
"I know," he offers.
"I don't like being… stuck like this."
"I know, baby," Dick sighs as he says it, a sympathetic sort of thing as he holds you closer, tightening his arms around you and smoothing a hand over the back of your neck, keeping you firmly pressed against him - as if you'd ever want to be anywhere else. 
"And I'm sorry for giving you such a hard time," you continue slowly, your voice catching ever so slightly. "I know it's… I know you're just trying to take care of me. I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be sorry for that, babe," and Dick says it so easily - like loving you is easy, like caring for you is simple. "I'd take care of you every day, you know… now until forever."
"But you shouldn't have to," you push. "I shouldn't - I shouldn't need it." Dick smooths his thumb over your skin where his hand stays firmly on the back of your neck and hums lowly at your words.
"We all need it sometimes," he says slowly, like there's a trap that he knows he's walking into but he can't avoid.
"I'll remember that the next time you don't let me help you," you quip back, sure enough - and he feels it like a snare around his ankle tightening. He finds, in a slow, soothing sort of way, though, that it feels a lot less like being trapped and a lot more like being loved. Dick finds, as he holds you to him and lets you poke his ribs chastisingly, that he doesn't mind being caught here so much. 
"I don't know what you're talking about, babe," he laughs against you, feigning ignorance with wide, innocent eyes. You reach up to flick him on the forehead, though, and he repays you by grabbing your hand and pressing kisses to the pads of your fingers. The sounds of the city rage on outside, muffled by the closed window and the drawn curtains, and the world seems to tip and slow and settle for just a moment around you - seems to offer some sort of peace, just for a second.
"I wish you didn't have to, is all," you say quietly. Dick just smiles, beaming down at you in that lovesick sort of way that he's mastered.
"I don't," he says easily. "I mean, I love you healthy, of course, but that's because I love you happy. Baby, I mean it when I say I'd do this forever. I'd help you keep yourself whole every day for the rest of our lives if that's what you need."
"What if I never get better?" You ask it haltingly, small and slow as you pick at the threads in his sweater and feel him smooth a hand up and down your back.
"Then we'll have a lot of days like this. Not so bad, right?"
"Just like that, huh?" You huff out, but your lips twitch up into an almost smile and he catches it, returning the effort with a shining smile of his own.
"Just like that," he confirms easily, and a sliver of light shines through the curtains into your bedroom, a stripe of white cutting across Dick's face as he looks down at you. It lights him up, you think slowly, like some kind of angel. Like something holy here on earth. 
"Well, for what it's worth," you quip quietly, and his shoulders relax a bit at the mirth that's begun to seep back into your voice. "I hope we don't have to spend the rest of our lives like this."
"Whatever you want, babe," Dick shrugs easily, leaning down to kiss your forehead ever so gently. "Whatever you need."
And as the light passes through the crack in the curtains, as it shines across his face and trickles down onto yours, you think that you probably have everything you need right here in this moment, shut away from the rest of the world and the way that it spins on and on and on. You probably could, if you wanted - if you needed. You probably could spend the rest of your life just like this. 
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