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mayhem24-7forever · 6 months ago

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Need You Tonight

Steve Harrington x Reader x Eddie Munson Fic

Author’s Note: IF YOU ARE NOT 18 OR OLDER, THIS IS NOT FOR YOU, DO NOT INTERACT! This is dedicated to and inspired by the lovely Shan/ @bvcksmurdock. Hope you like the title as a cheeky little inside joke. Special thanks to Arne @lovearne for finding me the floor plan of Eddie’s trailer and to Ashley @likedovesinthewnd and Nina @chaseadrian for helping me get the pipe smoking correct since I have only done edibles lmao. Also huge thank you’s to Vee @a-reader-and-a-writer , Leah @ohtobeleah and Shelby @rhettabbotts for beta reading/editing/giving advice when I was lost. I made the executive decision to set this in late 1987 specifically so I could include a reference to the song that gave me the title, which means it’s set like a year after season 4 so uhhhhhhhh fix it fic I guess. fic dividers from @firefly-graphics

Content Warnings: not canon oops, fix it fic kinda, SMUT, smoking weed/doing drugs, drinking/getting drunk, getting crossfaded (high and drunk at the same time), explicit consent despite mind-altering substances but I was still advised to say dubious consent because of this, blacking out/passing out (not any of the main three), dirty talk, swearing/language, dirty talk (like absolutely filthy, including the word “cunt” and “slut”), Dom!Eddie, Switch!Steve, Sub!Reader, M/M/F threesome, oral sex (female receiving), oral sex (male receiving), handjobs, fingering, penis in vagina sex, anal sex, double penetration (penis in vagina and penis in asshole), bondage (handcuffs and rope), gags (cloth/bandana gag), light spanking, BDSM elements, dom/sub elements, masturbation, brief love triangle that is ended by a threesome (as most love triangles should end), Steve and Eddie are consent kings, all three are unbelievably horny, spanking as flirting, orgasming so many times you pass out, Eddie is currently in charge of the singular steddie brain cell, aftercare, usage of a ridiculous amount of pet names (Reader calls them “Eds” and “Stevie”, Steve calls them “baby” and “lover boy” and Eddie calls them “princess” and “big boy”), Robin awkwardly walking in and seeing something she shouldn’t have.

“I swear to god, if you put Cyndi Lauper in my cassette player, I’m throwing the tape out the window.” Eddie warned.

“Oh, come on! I love this album!” Y/N replied incredulously. “It has all my favorite songs!”

Eddie was leaning back against the wall casually, beer bottle in hand as Y/N stood at the player, shoebox of cassette tapes in hand. Nancy and Jonathan sat behind them on the couch and even with just four people, Eddie’s trailer was already beginning to feel a little crowded. Jonathan was smoking a joint, his arm around Nancy as they talked quietly, making lovey eyes at each other. Nancy was sipping on a can of soda, having decided to be his designated driver. The whole group was having a party, although Steve, Robin, and her girlfriend Vickie hadn’t arrived yet.

“Sorry, princess. This is a Lauper-free trailer. It’s out of my hands.” Eddie said, putting his hands up in a mock surrender with a shit-eating grin.

“Fine.” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Then I’m putting in ABBA.”

“Fuck no, you’re not!” Eddie said, pushing off the wall to get closer to her.

“God, you’re so picky Eds!” she scoffed, mildly annoyed. “Why’d you tell me to bring the music for the party if you’re not gonna let me play any of it?”

“Just let me see what else you have.” he said, walking over to her, taking the shoe box and immediately making a face as if the collection personally offended him.

“Oh, come on! I know it’s not heavy metal and rock ‘n roll but my taste in music is just as good as yours!” she exclaimed defensively.

“Queen, Billy Idol and Oingo Boingo are good, you can play those. Tears for Fears and Duran Duran are a stretch that I’ll allow because you’re so cute, but the rest of this pop shit is staying in this box the whole night.” Eddie said and her jaw went slack with shock.

She knew that they were just playing, it was just something she and Eddie did, like how she and Steve were very touchy with one another. Everyone in the friend group, except for her, knew that Eddie and Steve both had crushes on her and were engaged in a (mostly) friendly competition to get her attention. And everyone in the group, except for Steve and Eddie, knew that she was head over heels for both of them but couldn’t pick between them. Unbeknownst to the three, Robin had even been taking bets from as to which one of them is finally going to do something and when. Even in his weed-induced haze, Jonathan knew that the bickering and flirting was only going to get worse the longer it went on and he decided to speak up.

“Oh, come on Eddie! Just let her play her music!” Jonathan interjected from the couch and Y/N shook her head in agreement.

“See, Jonathan is fine with my music!” she said with a pleased smile.

“Jonathan is high as a kite, I could put on whale sounds and he’d think it was the greatest thing ever made.” Eddie replied.

“Hey!” Jonathan protested before Nancy spoke up.

“Eddie, it’s her turn to pick the music for the party, you don’t get to control it just because we’re having it at your place.” Nancy said.

Eddie looked back to Y/N. She put her bottom lip out in the most pitiful pout she could manage, batting her eyelashes for good measure. He stared at her for a moment, trying not to think about what those big pleading eyes would look like under him, begging for release.

“Fine, I yield, my lady.” Eddie finally said, giving a little bow and a flourish towards the cassette player, using the same medieval-style voice he used in D&D. It was a flirting tactic he used often because the character she played in his campaigns was a princess, and Eddie was nothing if not thoroughly dramatic.

“Oh, thank you Eds!” She squealed in joy, grinning from ear to ear as she pounced into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and placing a grateful kiss on his cheek.

He returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her waist until he had to pull away so she wouldn’t feel a certain appendage of his that was rising to the occasion in his pants.

“I never can resist that lovely pouty face of yours.” he said with a charming smile and she blushed deeply before turning around to the cassette player.

She slipped a Hall & Oates tape in and hit play, the opening notes of “Maneater” booming from the speakers. She began to sway her hips to the beat, dancing as she smiled at Eddie, victorious. He shook his head, unable to stop himself from smiling. He took another swig of his beer as she danced, taking the opportunity to let his eyes rake over her body and thoroughly appreciate what he saw. She had taken off her heels almost as soon as she had arrived, preferring to traipse around the carpet of the trailer barefoot—not that Eddie minded in the slightest—as it allowed her to dance more freely. She was wearing a low cut blouse and a short skirt and as she moved around, her breasts bounced in her top, glimpses of her ass visible through the ruffles of her skirt. A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts of what she’d look like without all the clothes and he called out that it was unlocked, the door opened and Robin and Vickie coming in.

“We’re dancing already?” Robin exclaimed and pulled Vickie closer to the stereo, joining in as Y/N laughed.

“Thanks for the help Robin!” Steve said sarcastically as he stepped through the door, three pizza boxes with a few packs of beer on top in his arms, his sunglasses riding low on his nose.

“You’re welcome, Steve!” Robin responded with a laugh.

“Looking hot tonight, baby!” Steve said shifting the weight onto one arm so he could give Y/N’s ass a playful smack as her walked by her.

“Calm down, Stevie! You only just got here!” she giggled and Steve smirked as he entered the kitchen.

Eddie downed what was left of the almost empty bottle and put it down as he pushed off the wall to join Steve in the kitchen area. Steve put the pizza on the counter, took off his sunglasses, and was sticking the beers in the fridge when Eddie walked in.

“We need to talk, Harrington.” Eddie hissed lowly.

“Yes, her ass felt spectacular.” Steve replied with a smirk.

“No, Harrington. I’m serious.” Eddie shot back.

“Me too.” Steve said with a chuckle and Eddie grumbled, leaning in closer.

“Dude, I’m losing my fucking mind right now.” He said as Steve finished putting the beers in the fridge and stood up to look at Eddie properly. “If I watch her dance like that any longer, I’ll be cumming in my jeans. We have to do something.”

“Munson, we agreed that if anything with her is gonna happen for either of us, she’s gotta be the one to start it. We can flirt as much as we want, but no matter how sexy she is, or how much we want her, we can’t be the ones to make the first move. We agreed, man!” Steve replied, popping the top off of a beer bottle and taking a swig.

“Harrington, fucking look at her right now.” Eddie hissed, swiping the bottle from Steve’s hand and taking a large swig.

Steve sighed, grabbing another bottle and popping the top off before peeking his head around the kitchen cabinets to look into the living room.

He watched her dance for thirty seconds or so and then turned back to Eddie, adjusting the front of his pants awkwardly. “Yeah, we need to figure this out—and fast! I can’t look at her in that top all night and not ask her to fuck me. One of us needs to drop out.” The pair silently looked at one another, waiting for the other to just give up but neither of them said a word.

“Let’s just pull her aside together and tell her we both want her and see who she picks. It’s not the smoothest move but at least it’ll end this.” Steve finally suggested when it became abundantly clear that neither of them were ever going to volunteer to step out of the running. “She picks whoever she picks and the other one, probably you, just takes the loss like a man and moves on.”

“You seem very confident that she’ll pick either of us. We drop a bomb like this on her and ask her to make a choice and she’ll freak the fuck out.” Eddie said. “She’s never been able to make snap decisions, even for things she feels strongly about, so even if she’s already interested in one of us, she’s gonna get so overwhelmed that she’ll choose neither of us.”

“Well, what the fuck are we going to do then?” Steve asked. “Only one of us can have her… and that’s if she wants us after all.”

“Harrington, you just gave me an idea.” Eddie muttered, his face growing into a grin.

“Enlighten me then, Munson.” Steve huffed impatiently.

“We don’t ask her to choose.” Eddie said.

“I’m not following.” Steve replied.

“We tell her that we’re both interested in her and that we’d like to share a night with her. Together.” Eddie explained, Steve’s eyes widening in recognition.

“Are you suggesting a threesome?” Steve replied and let out a small laugh in disbelief as Eddie nodded.

“As long as we can get along and share, then she wouldn’t have to choose between us. If she says no, then at least she’ll know we’re both interested and she can act on that information later if she wants to.” he said.

“And if she says yes…” Steve trailed off as they grinned at one another. “Fuck, Munson, I could kiss you right now.”

“Save that energy for later, big boy.” Eddie joked with a wink, giving Steve a light slap on the ass as he walked out of the kitchen with a smirk.

Several hours and a pack of beer or two later, Nancy announced that she was going to take Jonathan home, the pair walking out the door to a chorus of ‘bye’ and ‘have fun fucking��. Less than thirty minutes later, Robin and Vickie had passed out, super drunk, cuddling on the couch together as Steve covered them with a blanket.

“And then there were three.” Y/N joked, lying on the floor with one of the couch pillows underneath her head.

“I’m gonna smoke, wanna join?” Eddie asked, his back leaning up against the wall as he sat on the floor.

“Drinking and smoking?” she asked, clutching a hand to her chest and pretending to be scandalized. “How positively devious of you!”

“Princess, I’m barely even tipsy.” Eddie replied.

“Fuck, me too. I could use some weed.” Steve said, sitting on the ground beside Eddie.

“That’s two. Princess, care to join us?” Eddie asked.

From their viewpoint, they could see the side profile of her body, her head turned towards them, one knee bent up in the air. They could see the swell of her breasts with every breath and part of her skirt had hiked up, providing a tantalizing tease of her panties. Every curve and dip of her body was on display like a statue of Aphrodite from a museum in the flesh. Her hair was fanned out on the ground and her eyelids just a touch hooded by alcohol, her wide pupils gazing at them through her lashes. Her lips were pursed slightly as she considered his proposition and the boys couldn’t help but imagine what they would look like wrapped around a cock. Eddie moved his beer bottle to cover the growing bulge in his pants and Steve tried to stifle a groan into a cough, both praying she wouldn’t notice.

“I want to Eds, but I’ve only done edibles.” she said with a shy smile. “I’ve never smoked, I don’t know how.”

“No time to learn like the present.” Eddie said and she glanced over at the sleeping girls.

“Won’t we bother them?” she asked.

“They’re out cold, nothing we do is gonna wake them up.” Steve assured her.

“Maybe we should move somewhere else, just in case. Eds, can we smoke in your bedroom?” she asked and the innocent tone in her voice made Steve stand straight up and pretend he was getting another slice of pizza, just so he could hide his boner from her as he tried to calm himself down.

“If that is what you desire, princess, then we shall make it so.” Eddie replied, getting up and moving to stand by her feet, trying to ignore the sexy way she looked laid out below him, like a spread from a porno mag come to life.

He lowered his hand to her and just as she took it, he hauled her up to her feet quickly and then over his shoulder in one swift motion. Steve took one look at her gorgeous ass on Eddie’s shoulder and bit his fist to stop from making noise, his eyes telegraphing to Eddie that if he kept this up, he wouldn’t last long. Eddie only smirked at him, very pleased with himself. When she realized what he’d done, she playfully slapped at his back, her legs kicking up a little in fake protest.

“Eds! I can walk to your room myself!” she laughed.

“But my lady, a princess requires a royal steed! Her royal feet must not touch the same ground as commoners such as us.” Eddie replied in his D&D voice and she giggled, rolling her eyes.

“Lead away then, stable boy.” she said.

“Stable boy?” Eddie said in mock offense. “I’m at least a coachman.”

“Are we going to smoke or just stand here arguing until the sun rises?” she said.

“Ooo, bossy tonight, huh?” Eddie replied, giving her ass a light pat before he started walking towards his room, her giggles filling the trailer as they went.

“Stevie, can you grab the boombox please?” she called as they passed through the doorway to Eddie’s room.

“Ye- uh yeah.” Steve croaked out, his voice cracking a little as he grabbed it and followed.

Eddie dropped her on to the bed and her body bounced once before coming to rest on the mattress, her breasts bouncing and her skirt flying up for a moment. With great difficulty, Eddie pulled himself away from staring at her jiggling tits so he could rummage through the drawers of his dresser for the metal tin he kept his weed in. The bed was in the corner of the messy room and Y/N sat up with her back on the wall, leaving room for Eddie and Steve on either side. Steve entered the room, setting the boombox on Eddie’s dresser before plopping down at the end of the bed against the wall next to her.

“Heads up Harrington!” Eddie called before he tossed the metal tin at Steve who caught it easily as Eddie headed over to pick a tape for the player.

Steve opened the tin up and began grabbing what he needed to roll some joints. Eddie put in an INXS tape he had just bought.

“Haven’t smoked to this album yet, it should be good.” he said as he turned around.

“What’s with all the handcuffs, Eds?” she asked with a smirk, gesturing at the hook on his wall where he kept a bunch of them.

“Oh, they can come in handy sometimes, no pun intended. The ladies seem to love them and I haven’t had any complaints from the guys either.” he said with a wink. It was an open secret within the group that both Eddie and Steve enjoyed men and women, although they were generally pretty quiet about it. “Why, princess? Are you curious?”

“Just asking.” she said casually.

“Well if you’d like to try them on to see how they feel, that can always be arranged.” he replied and she blushed.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you, lover boy?” Steve muttered, trying to keep his tone sarcastic and playful instead of revealing the jealousy he was feeling.

The boys made tense eye contact for a second but she didn’t notice because she was too busy reaching into the tin and pulling out a pipe to look at it curiously.

“How does this work?” she asked and Steve chuckled.

“Just like a regular tobacco pipe, but with weed.” he replied.

“Can I try it?” she asked, looking over at Eddie with a smile.

“Whatever you want, princess.” he replied before walking to the bed and sitting next to her but with his back against the headboard so he could talk with her easily. “Steve and I are probably gonna share a joint though so we don’t have to keep repacking the bowl all the time.”

“My Stevie and my Eds playing nice and sharing something together? Voluntarily? Without trying to kill each other? Is the world coming to an end?” she questioned, surprised but pleased with their sudden cooperation.

“I think you’ll find that ‘Eds’ and I have recently realized our interests are aligned. We can play nice and share all sorts of things, baby.” Steve said, finishing rolling the joint and lit it, taking in a few puffs before passing it to Eddie.

To reach Eddie, he needed to lean over her. His head was near her chest as he stretched and she stopped breathing for a moment, just taking in his scent. He smelled faintly of hairspray, a scent that had become oddly comforting to her, lingering even as he pulled back. Eddie took a few puffs and then handed it back to Steve, leaning in as well. She could feel a few locks of his hair just barely grazing the bare skin on her chest and suppressed a shiver. His usual scent of cigarettes had invaded her senses and together with Steve’s hairspray were making it hard to think.

Eddie sat back as Steve put some weed into the spoon-like end at the end of the pipe, explaining that it was called “packing the bowl” and she tried to rouse her thoughts back to the present. Steve leaned in to hold the pipe up for her and press a flame from his lighter under the bowl and Eddie gave her instructions on when to suck the air in, when to hold it, and when to let go, his voice low in her ear.

As she blew out the last of the smoke, she heard him coo “There’s a good girl, you did it perfectly on your first try.”

She tried to ignore the way those two little words, just a simple “good girl” made her stomach flip, fanning the spark from deeper below until the desire was burning within her. She wondered if that was what his bedroom voice sounded like. They talked her through another one and as she exhaled, she heard Steve whisper in her ear, so low it was almost a growl.

“Doing so good, baby.” he said and she squeaked, trying to play it off as a cough.

Steve and Eddie knew exactly what they were doing to her, it was the same thing she had been doing to them all night, what she was still doing to them as she drew the phallic-looking pipe to her luscious lips and sucked in. Steve took another few hits of the joint and she watched as a single strand of his hair fell in front of his face, resting on his forehead. He leaned over again and passed it to Eddie, who brought it to his lips for a hit. He was taking a long drag when she found herself admiring how his mouth curled around the end and when he leaned his head back and let out a long exhaled cloud of smoke, she was struck by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as his neck stretched ever so slightly. She was still staring when he finished the breath and his eyes caught hers upon him, a smirk growing on his face.

“Like what you see, princess?” he asked and her mind just stopped.

Suddenly, it was like someone had taken her brain and stuck it in a blender, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to explain why she had been watching him like that. She couldn’t exactly tell him that she had been staring at him because being this close to him and Steve was making her unbelievably horny.

“I…umm, I just… I was just…I-” she stammered out and Eddie smiled.

“It’s alright princess, I don’t mind your pretty eyes watching me.” he told her, moving closer until his lips were only inches from her face. “Steve and I have been watching you all night.”

“You… you have?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“Baby, Eddie and I have been trying to get your attention for a while.” Steve whispered into her ear, now hovering just over her neck and she shivered.

“We were in a bit of a competition, both of us wanted you but neither of us seemed to be getting anywhere.” Eddie said, his fingers reaching under her chin to turn her head back towards him. “It’s been so frustrating, wanting you so bad, hoping we could make you want us before the other could. Tonight we decided to put our differences aside and come clean with you.”

“You want me?” she breathed out and Steve’s hot breath was back on her ear as her body instinctually leaned towards him.

“We do.” he said. “And we’re willing to share, if it’s what you want.”

Oh god, did she want it. Her mind was screaming at her to say something, to tell them just how long she had been waiting for one of them to make a move, how never in her wildest dreams had she imagined they’d both want her and especially not that they’d want her together. She wanted to tell them how many times she had collapsed into her pillows with her hand between her legs thinking of them. But her mind felt like jello and all she could do was suck in a breath. Steve’s fingers inched along the skin of her thigh, Eddie’s dancing lightly on her arm, only further scrambling her thoughts with the finger-light touches. She closed her eyes, unable to do anything but feel and want and burn.

“Come on princess, I know I’ve been thinking about it all night.” Eddie said, still so close that she could almost feel the tip of his nose on hers. “The tentpole in Steve’s jeans assures you he’s thinking the same thing. And the way you’re squeezing your legs together so hard they might turn red makes me pretty damn sure you’re thinking about it too.”

“If you don’t want this, we can leave and pretend it never even happened. Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to.” Steve said, lips ghosting over the skin of her neck. “But if you say the word, you can have us, baby. Whenever you want. Wherever you want. However you want. One at a time… at the same time…”

She gasped and her eyes shot open. She found herself staring straight into Eddie’s gorgeous brown eyes, darker than usual with lust.

“Oh, you like that idea, don’t you?” he asked, smirking. “Want one of us buried deep in that tight, wet cunt of yours while the other fucks your pretty little mouth?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, I do, I do…” she whispered and was rewarded with Steve’s lips on her neck, his hand finally finding hold on her thigh and she struggled to continue speaking as Steve attacked her neck with his skilled mouth. “Haven’t… done this… before. Not with… more than… one person.”

“That’s alright, princess.” Eddie assured her, his hand light on her cheek, his rings cool on her hot skin. “We can go slow. We’ll take real good care of you.”

Eddie’s lips crashed into hers just as Steve found the most sensitive spot on her neck and she gasped into Eddie’s mouth, quickly turning into a moan. She could feel Steve’s smile on her skin before he resumed to leaving a trail of hickeys on her neck and shoulder. One of his hands was gripping her thigh, the pressure keeping her grounded as the other hand splayed right in the middle of her back, pushing her closer to them. Eddie didn’t give up his assault on her lips, kissing her as if he needed it to breathe. One hand remained on her cheek, his thumb rubbing her cheekbone lovingly, a harsh juxtaposition of his mouth’s ferocity, his other hand resting on her chest, right on top of her heart.

“Wait.” She breathed out into Eddie’s mouth and suddenly their hands and lips disappeared from her skin, her body whining at their absence.

“If you don’t want to do this we can stop.” Steve said, his hazel eyes screaming his earnestness to her. “I told you we can pretend it never even happened if that’s what you want.”

“No! No, I really want to do this… but I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know how to do it.” she said, breathing hard as she watched them both pant, devouring her with hungry eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good.”

“Oh princess, you’re already good at it.” Eddie said with a smirk and she blushed, her self doubts and anxiety beginning to melt away.

“We want you to be sure this is what you want. That it’s your decision, even with the weed and alcohol in play.” Steve told her and neither of the boys were expecting the firm reply she gave.

“I had one beer a few hours ago, I’m not even buzzed. And as for the weed, I’m pretty damn sure I’m in my right mind.” she said and the boys smiled. “So how do we start?”

“Maybe Steve and I should show you what to expect.” Eddie said, turning to look at Steve.

“That sounds like a great idea.” Steve said. “Let’s get her a front row seat.”

Eddie smirked and got off the bed as Steve led her by the hand to sit in the chair that Eddie pulled up next to the bed.

“Don’t be afraid to ask questions.” Eddie said as he and Steve sat back on the bed, facing one another. “It’s an interactive presentation.”

The boys smiled at one another and leaned in, their lips meeting softly at first, then slowly building in intensity. Steve had one hand on Eddie’s cheek, the other on his waist as one of Eddie’s hands came up to cradle the side of Steve’s neck, the other surging downwards. Steve groaned into Eddie’s mouth as his hand found the bulge in his pants, pressing against it firmly. His hand continued to palm Steve’s junk as he began to suck on Steve’s neck with the same ferocity Steve had for hers. Steve’s head fell backwards and he moaned, his eyes closing in pleasure as Eddie left what would probably be a very large hickey on his neck.

It was the hottest thing she’d ever seen. Better than the dirty magazines she had found hidden under her mom’s bed, better than any scene in a porno, better than anything she had ever imagined about them. Her hands flew in between her legs, as if the pressure or the friction of rubbing up against her arms could relieve the fire in her loins. It only made it worse. Her eyes flicked to the handcuffs on the wall, considering all the delicious possibilities and when her eyes returned back to the boys, they met Steve’s eyes, smirking at her as Eddie continued his movements on his neck.

“She’s looking at the handcuffs, lover boy.” Steve informed him quietly with a smirk, his gaze never once leaving hers. “Maybe we should show her how they work.”

Eddie pulled back with a wicked smile and a glint in his eye as he looked to her. “A fantastic idea. Take your shirt off and sit against the headboard, big boy.” he ordered, and Steve obeyed.

Before he went to grab handcuffs, Eddie stopped to press a brief but hard kiss onto her lips. “Because you’re being such a good girl watching us. Don’t worry princess, it’s almost your turn.” he said as his hand cupped her cheek lightly, his thumb tracing her mouth teasingly before he returned to the bed.

“Got a safe-word, stud?” Eddie asked.

“Red.” Steve replied before Eddie advanced.

She could see only Eddie’s back for a moment, hearing the distinct clicks of the handcuffs locking but then he sat back on his haunches and she took in the delicious sight before her. Steve had a hand cuffed to both of the far posts of the headboard, stretching out his arms and putting his well-defined muscles on display. Steve looked at her and although he was the one handcuffed, she was the one who felt tied down by his intense gaze. He smiled at her and she felt her stomach flip once more.

“For my next trick, I’m going to need an audience volunteer.” Eddie announced dramatically before setting his eyes upon her. “How about you princess?”

She nodded and he smiled, reaching over and pulling her chair up against the bed in a swift motion. She was now close enough to touch them and she eyed the pair with anticipation, waiting for Eddie’s next order.

“Doesn’t he look so pretty? All spread out like this and just itching for us to touch him…” Eddie spoke lowly and she kept her gaze on Steve’s restrained torso. “Go ahead and touch him, princess.”

Hesitantly at first, she reached out towards the top of his chest, near his collarbones and when just the very tip of one finger had grazed his skin, Steve bucked against his chains, holding on to them so hard his knuckles were turning white. His reaction spurned her on, her touches growing more bold by the second as she explored his body.

Her fingers trailed down Steve’s toned chest and through the patch of dark hair she had seen before when they had gone to the pool together. His breath hitched when she slid a fingernail against his nipple, catching it between her fingers and she repeated the movement on both sides a few more times. When he put his head back and groaned, she gave him reprieve, continuing on with a small but pleased smile. She stopped at each of the scars on his chest from previous adventures gone wrong and took an extra moment to skate the tips of her fingertips over the raised skin.

“So beautiful…” she muttered, not even realizing she had said it aloud until she heard Eddie in her ear.

“I agree. You’re doing such a good job playing with him but it’s time we stop teasing him and get to the main event, don’t you think?” he said and she nodded. “Unbuckle his pants and get his cock out for me, princess.”

Her hands continued on their journey and finally made it all the way down to the waistband of his jeans. Steve’s breath hitched, his hips bucking slightly when her fingers stopped on the button. She carefully undid it and unzipped his fly, biting her lip as she reached to pull down the waistband of his boxers, letting him spring free.

She had often wondered what Steve’s dick would look like and she certainly wasn’t disappointed. She hadn’t seen too many dicks in person, mostly just in dirty magazines or the kinds of movies that were hidden behind a curtain in the rental store, but she knew enough to know Steve’s was larger than average, even only at half-mast. Steve had a smug and proud smile on his face and she looked to Eddie to find he was surprised but pleased by Steve’s cock.

“Not bad at all, big boy.” he complimented before leaning into her ear and whispering. “Get him hard for me, princess.”

She leaned over and pressed her lips to the head of his half-erect cock. Steve groaned, instinctively surging forwards before the cuffs pulled him back. She opened her mouth and let drool dribble down to coat his dick in a layer of slick spit. The tip of her tongue darted out and licked a bead of pre-cum off the tip of his cock.

“Oh, fuck!” Steve moaned and she smiled, continuing to rile him up by teasing just the head of his cock as his cock got harder and harder.

When he was fully erect, she carefully slid her hand down his length, moving so slowly and holding him so lightly that it was like torture, not allowing him the pleasure of release yet.

“Good girl.” Eddie whispered into her ear, his hand reaching out to guide her own in a few more slow and teasing movements. Steve bucked his hips desperately but Eddie simply pulled his hand and hers away completely. “Looks like he’s ready for me. Sit back and enjoy the show, princess.”

She followed his instructions and moved back to her chair although now she sat on the literal edge, as close to the bed as she could be. Eddie flashed a wicked smile before leaning down and pressing a feather light kiss to the tip of Steve’s cock.

“Fuck, please-” Steve choked out, rattling his chains, desperate for the torture to end. “Please, Eds I-” His plea was answered and cut off as Eddie began to take his length into his mouth.

She couldn’t see specifically what Eddie was doing with his mouth but from the lewd noises Steve was making, it apparently felt very good. Eddie raised his head up and Steve whined at the loss of his warm, wet mouth on his cock.

“Tell her how it feels, Steve.” Eddie ordered, in almost a growl. “Tell her what my mouth on your cock feels like. Tell her how it feels to have your hands cuffed to the bed and to be unable to do anything about it.”

“Fuck, it feels so good.” Steve whimpered, his words getting caught in his throat briefly when Eddie returned to his ministrations, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity like a dagger. “Oh baby, it feels so fucking good. I don’t have to be in control, I just have to trust Eds will take care of me. I love it, fuck, I love it.”

Steve was getting close, it wasn’t hard to tell. His hips bucked as much as Eddie’s hands would allow, the sounds of him pulling on the chains getting louder and more frantic as his cries grew louder too. He was begging Eddie over and over again, chanting “please let me cum, please, please, please Eds.”

“Cum for me, big boy.” Eddie moaned around around his cock and only seconds later Steve was screaming in pleasure as he came.

Eddie kept him there in his mouth, working him through the waves of ecstasy, milking his cock and swallowing every last drop. Steve was panting like he had run a marathon as Eddie pulled himself off of Steve with a wet pop. Steve leaned back against the head board, letting his body relax.

“Good boy.” Eddie purred as he reached up and unlocked the handcuffs, Steve’s arms falling to his side as he looked at her through hooded eyelids.

Eddie crooked a finger to her, beckoning her to join them on the bed. In one swift movement, he removed his shirt, throwing it onto the floor in a ball as her eyes raked over his body. He wasn’t as toned as Steve, he was more lean, and the only hair he had on his chest was a light treasure trail leading down into his pants. She knew that he and Steve had matching scars on their chests but seeing them at the same time only made it more clear just how identical they were. She also knew he had a lot of tattoos, she’d seen the ones on his hands and arms many times but this was the first time she got to see the ones on his chest more than just small bits peeking out of his shirt collar. He was beautiful and the colorful art dotting his skin only made him more attractive. He grinned when he saw her looking at him and let her hand trace the lines of ink for a minute.

“Alright princess…” he said lowly as he pulled her hand from his chest, his firm grip on her wrist. “It’s time to show Stevie how much you liked our little show. Go on and let him find out what it’s like to kiss and touch you. Put on a show for me now.”

She crawled up Steve’s body, his back still leaned against the headboard as she tentatively straddled his hips, hovering over his lap nervously. His hands instantly went to her waist and he pulled her down onto his lap, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. She had made out with people before but never with someone so hungry and deliciously rough. His hands moved her waist to roll a little, grinding his bare cock against her pantied pussy as her skirt rode up once more. The feel of his cock against her core, separated only by the thin fabric layer of her panties caused her to gasp against his lips, a moan quickly being smothered and swallowed by his mouth. Her hands hooked around his neck and into his hair, tugging lightly to earn a few pleased hums.

“Get that shirt off of her.” Eddie ordered calmly, and she could hear his belt being undone and his jeans being unzipped.

Steve obliged immediately, yanking her blouse above her head and throwing it across the room, so quickly and expertly that his lips barely left hers. Eddie spit into his hand before beginning to stroke himself, a groan slipping out as he moved his fist up and down his length. Steve continued to grind up into her, one hand snaking up her back to undo the clasp of her bra as the other found hold on the back of her head, tangling into her hair.

“I didn’t say to take off the bra, Steve.” Eddie warned and Steve’s hand disappeared from the clasp, making her whine into his mouth as it found purchase on her hip. “Patience, princess.”

Steve’s length dragged against her clit and she felt like she was on fire. She took a hand from around his neck and slipped it behind her, needing to free her aching nipples from their torturous confines. Just as her finger grazed the clasp, Steve’s hand on her hip shot up and grabbed her wrist. His large hand encircled her wrist tightly and held her arm against her back.

“Eddie told you to be patient…” Steve warned, pulling away from her to meet her eyes, a smirk when he saw the desperation in her features. “Don’t be a bad girl. You owe him an apology.”

“I- I’m sorry Eds!” she said quickly, glancing over her shoulder to gaze at him as his hand increased in speed in jerking himself off.

“For?” Steve prompted, applying an infinitesimal amount of pressure on both her wrist and the back of her neck.

“I’m sorry for being a bad girl and not listening!” she cried out, shivering when Eddie laughed darkly.

“It’s alright princess, it’s a learning experience. Just don’t do it again.” he warned, holding her gaze intensely before flickering to meet Steve’s gaze. “How wet is she?”

Steve’s hand released her wrist but stayed on her back, a silent warning not to try unclasping the bra again. Her hand returned to snake around his neck, once more finding and hold on his hair. Steve removed his hand from the back of her neck, dragging it down the valley between her breasts before slipping under her skirt and pushing aside her panties. As his fingers ran against her slick folds, she leaned forwards, burying her head in his neck with a pathetic whine.

“She’s fucking dripping.” Steve said before nipping teasingly at her ear, her face still nestled in the crook of his neck. “Aren’t you, baby?”

She nodded but this wasn’t good enough for Steve, his hand roughly cupping her pussy, his thumb tantalizingly close to her clit but not close enough to give her the release she sought.

“I said… aren’t you, baby?” he growled as she cried out in surprise.

“Yes! Yes! Oh god please, I need it so bad. Something, anything, please!” she pleaded and was surprised to feel a spurt of warm ropes on her back, Eddie groaning as he came onto her.

“Reward her with a finger, big boy.” Eddie ordered, panting as he came down from his high and within seconds one of Steve’s fingers slipped into her cunt.

Her walls clenched around it, desperate for more as he languidly pushed it in and out, curling it slightly to hit a spot that made her see stars. She vaguely registered Eddie wiping his cum off of her back with a piece of cloth, probably one of his many bandanas. She cried out and arched backwards, thrusting her tits into Steve’s face when suddenly she felt Eddie press his chest against her back. His breath was hot on her ear and she whimpered.

“Good girl.” he cooed and she keened into his touch as much as she could. “It’s my turn to play too now.”

She couldn’t see it but Eddie held up two fingers with a smirk and Steve grinned wickedly. A second finger penetrated her and she panted as he continued his torturously slow ministrations in and out. Eddie’s hands went to unclasp her bra, finally, and he tossed the offending garment to the side. Cool air teased her heated breasts for only a moment before Eddie’s hands clasped around them firmly. A lewd moan fell from her mouth as his fingers rolled and squeezed, kneading the flesh and teasing her nipples. His hands continued their assault on her breasts as his mouth began on on her neck, deftly finding the spot that made her cry out.

The sensations were all too much and yet not enough. Steve’s hands in her pussy, Eddie’s on her breasts, their mouths on her lips and neck, but no relief was given to her aching little bud, taunt with need. Steve was purposefully ignoring her clit, succeeding in making her more desperate for him to touch her there with every passing moment. Slowly, she slipped a hand down and was inches away from her fingers brushing against her clit when Eddie’s hands left her breasts and grabbed her wrists, wrenching them behind her back and away from where she wanted them. She whined and could feel Eddie’s smirk against her skin, shifting to whisper into her ear.

“Bad girl. Steve didn’t tell you that you could do that, did he?” Eddie asked lowly and when she didn’t respond, too overcome by the feeling of Steve’s fingers curling inside her, he moved her wrists to one hand, the other snaking around to the front of her neck and applying just a little pleasure, growling “I said, did he, princess?”

“No.” she moaned and his hand disappeared from her neck, moving somewhere behind her. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, she felt something cool against her wrist and a loud clicking noise. She gasped as she realized that Eddie had just cuffed one of her wrists with the handcuffs.

“This alright, princess?” Eddie asked, voice firm in his dominance yet with just the edge of softness as he checked in with her.

“God yes!” she moaned out and Eddie clicked the other cuff onto her other wrist.

“Oh, you like them that much, huh?” Steve asked, feeling her clench around his fingers at the sound of them locking.

“Yes, fuck, I love it.” she cried out, testing her bonds as Eddie let go of her wrists but they held fast.

With her hands trapped uselessly between her back and Eddie’s chest, she had to just feel them playing with her, their hands and mouths all over her body, bringing her closer to the edge but never all the way.

“What a dirty girl… a dirty girl who likes having her hands bound together like some kind of slut.” Eddie taunted and his words touched something deep inside of her.

“Fuck, Eds. She liked when you called her a slut, she squeezed my fucking fingers like a vice.” Steve groaned and Eddie chuckled.

“Give our slut another finger as a reward.” he ordered and Steve obeyed, smirking when she gasped at the stretch of another finger added to her wet, hot cunt.

“God, she feels so good Eds, I can’t even imagine what she would feel like on a cock.” Steve said through grunts as he continued thrusting up into her with his fingers.

“We won’t have to imagine pretty soon, big boy.” Eddie said. “If you’re a good girl and you ride Stevie’s fingers like a cock, Steve will play with that pretty little clit of yours and we’ll let you cum.”

She moaned at the challenge before bucking her hips, intent on riding Steve’s hand like a cowgirl on a bull at a rodeo. She put every bit of effort she could into moving her hips and she was rewarded when Steve placed his thumb on her clit. A few small swirls and she was on the edge, begging the boys to let her cum. Eddie gave her permission and suddenly she was coming, her walls clenching down on Steve’s fingers as she threw her head back onto Eddie’s shoulder and cried out in ecstasy. She continued riding him through the shockwaves of pleasure and felt a little disappointed when it ended. He removed his fingers from her cunt, bringing them to his mouth to taste her cum as she panted.

“She tastes delicious.” Steve said with a smirk that made her shiver before holding out his fingers to Eddie. “Want a taste?”

“Oh I do, but I think I’m gonna get it straight from the source.” Eddie replied, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What are we gonna do with her now, lover boy?” Steve asked him as he brought his fingers to her mouth and slipped them inside for her to taste herself. “All tied up with no where to go, isn’t that right baby?”

She moaned a yes as best as she could with his fingers in her mouth, the taste of her own arousal only heightening the pleasure. The muffled sound went straight to their cocks and Eddie’s face lit up with an idea.

“What would you say to a gag, princess?” Eddie asked and Steve removed his fingers from her mouth. “Be honest if it’s not something you want.”

“What kind of gag?” she asked in anticipation.

“I have a ball gag around here somewhere but if thats too much for your first time we can just do a cloth gag. I have plenty of bandanas.” Eddie answered.

“Can we try the cloth gag?” she asked, her innocent yet intrigued tone making him smile (and making his cock twitch).

“Of course, princess. Steve, can you get her hair out of the way?” Eddie said as he pulled his favorite bandana from his back pocket and although it was phrased as a question, Steve knew it was an order.

“Yes, sir.” Steve said, gently brushing her hair from her neck and pulling it all up with one hand. “Open up, baby.”

She opened her mouth obediently and watched as Eddie slowly placed the bandana between her teeth and pulled the ends together at the back of her neck.

“Is that too tight?” Eddie asked and when she shook her head, he tied the ends off and Steve released her hair, covering it.

“You’re always beautiful but you look even more lovely like this.” Steve told her and she felt butterflies in her stomach.

“Alright Harrington, we need to huddle up and make a game plan.” Eddie said and she whined as he began to move away. “It’s just for a moment, princess.”

Once Eddie was clear, Steve carefully lifted her off of his lap and laid her down on the bed on her back. His weight disappeared from beside her and she turned her head to the side to see the two of them moving to the far end of the room, Steve tucking himself away. When they reached the far wall, they stopped and leaned into one another, whispering too low for her to hear, especially with the music still playing quietly and them so far from her. She watched them, both shirtless with only their jeans still on, a sight that made her press her legs together in need, despite having just orgasmed.

After what felt like an eternity of planning, they returned to the side of the bed, smirking down at her with her hands tied underneath her in only her skirt and panties and a bandana gagging her. Steve reached down and stroked the side of her face, chuckling when she leaned into his touch.

“Are you ready for the next part of the show?” he asked and she nodded vigorously. “Good girl.”

Eddie pulled her upper half off of the bed and held her up as Steve took his place sitting against the headboard again, taking his pants off so that he was only in his boxers. Steve pulled her from Eddie’s arms and nestled her to sit between his legs, leaning back on his chest. The way they handled her so nonchalantly yet still careful, like she was a precious doll, reignited the fire in her core. Eddie took off his pants to reveal his briefs before kneeling on the bed in front of her. He reached around and un-cuffed one of her wrists before pulling them both up over her head, re-cuffing them so her hands were bound behind his neck, stretching her out.

“Don’t pull on these too hard or you’ll hurt Stevie, alright princess?” Eddie asked and she nodded.

Steve lifted her hips up as Eddie pulled off the skirt and panties, leaving her completely naked, all of her bare for their hungry eyes. Eddie spread her legs and groaned at the sight of her pussy laid bare before him. Putting her head down in embarrassment as her cheeks heated, she tried to close her legs but was stopped by Eddie’s hands keeping her thighs spread.

“Are you shy, princess?” Eddie cooed and she nodded.

“Do you want us to stop?” Steve asked and she shook her head. “Can you knock on the wall behind us?” She answered with a few knocks on the wall. “If you want us to stop, knock on the wall in groups of three, alright?” She nodded.

“You’re so beautiful.” Eddie told her, fingers stroking her wet folds delicately.

She shifted against Steve’s chest and whined, trying once more to close her legs. Eddie gave a light smack to her inner thigh.

“Bad girl! Am I going to have to tie your ankles to my bedposts to get you to stay put?” he scolded and she looked away in embarrassment. “Oh that’s it, isn’t it? That’s what you want. Usually I wouldn’t reward bad behavior but this is a special circumstance.”

Eddie leaned over to a dresser drawer and pulled out two lengths of black rope. Carefully, he lifted one of her feet and tied the silky rope around her ankle. He pressed a light kiss to her calf before pulling her leg down to lay straight on the bed sheets between Steve’s spread legs. As Eddie secured the rope to the bed post and moved to repeat his actions with her other leg, Steve began to lazily drag his fingers across her breasts. He let his nails lightly rake on her nipples, teasing her in the same way she had teased him. She gasped through the gag and squirmed in his arms as he continued his ministrations. His lips moved to her ears and she shivered when she felt his hot breath against her skin.

“What, baby? You don’t like it when you get a taste of your own medicine?” He murmured in a low growl and she could practically hear his smirk. “Guess you can dish it out but can’t take it.”

Eddie finished her other leg and sat back on his haunches to admire his work, Steve stopping his teasing so she would be still for him. Her glistening cunt was laid bare before him and his eyes shone with excitement. Her cheeks heated under his attentive gaze and she averted her eyes away in embarrassment. She felt completely exposed with her legs spread wide open and the silky rope that wouldn’t relent to her tugging, she couldn’t close her legs to staunch the self-doubts that began to pop up. Eddie and Steve were far more experienced than her and had probably seen far prettier girls’ bodies. Every imperfection of her physique suddenly felt mortifyingly unattractive and for a moment she considered tapping out so she could throw on her clothes and run away in shame. She could feel the tears gathering in her eyes as she imagined how hideous she must look to them, every curve, line, and mark mocking her in her head. Suddenly she felt Eddie’s hand on her cheek, gently pulling her attention back to him.

“What’s wrong? Do you want to stop? There’s no shame in that, princess.” He said softly and her heart flipped at his earnestness.

She shook her head.

“Are you feeling self-conscious?” He asked, Steve’s fingers trailing comforting circles on her sides.

She nodded, eyes shimmering with vulnerability.

“Oh princess, you have nothing to be self-conscious about. You’re fucking stunning. I’ve never seen anyone who looks so beautiful naked as you, except for perhaps Steve.” Eddie assured her and she smiled, tears of comfort and joy pooling in her eyes as Steve chuckled behind her.

“I’ve been wondering what you would look like without clothes forever and never in my wildest dreams did I even come close to how gorgeous you are right now.” Steve said in her ear and she craned her neck up to look at him, admiration shining in his eyes. “So just lay back and let us worship you the way you deserve.”

As soon as he finished speaking, her attention was drawn back to Eddie gently stroking her folds with skilled fingers covered in those god-damned rings of his. He teased her for a minute or two, simply admiring her pussy as he hummed some rock song, paying no attention to her squirming or mewling. Her handcuffed hands right at the back of Steve’s neck grasped onto his hair and tugged on it in pure anticipation, needing to feel grounded to him as Eddie inspected her. When Eddie felt he had admired her cunt properly, he dove in and began to eat her out. She gasped out through the gag in relief and felt Steve’s chest rumble with a chuckle behind her, his hands roaming her skin until they found purchase teasing her breasts deliciously.

“Thought I wouldn’t get you back for that, did you?” He whispered in her ear and she keened, lost in the sensations caused by both boys. “Think you can tug my hair and play with my nipples and I won’t take advantage when I get the chance? Eddie may be in charge of the both of us tonight but right now, I’m in charge of you, baby.”

It didn’t take long for her to reach her second orgasm, not with Eddie’s lips on hers and his tongue coaxing her to the edge as Steve played with her tits like a violin and whispered dirty things into her ear. She came hard as Eddie looked up at her, grinning like a mischievous devil from between her thighs.

“Good girl.” Steve cooed in her ear as she rode out her pleasure, breathing hard through the gag until Steve removed it, tilted her chin up towards him and captured her mouth in a breathless kiss.

“Ready for the finale?” Eddie asked, pressing soft kisses to the inside of the thighs.

“So ready!” She replied with a wide smile.

A blur of movement later and her restraints were removed, Steve helping her stretch out her limbs as Eddie grabbed condoms and lube.

“Get on your knees.” Eddie ordered and she complied as the boys removed their underwear and she saw that they both had long cocks almost the same size except that Eddie’s was a smidge girthier.

“How do you wanna do this, baby?” Steve asked her, stroking his gorgeous cock. “Where do you want us?”

“I don’t think I’m ready to do anal, at least not yet, but I don’t have a preference for who goes where.” She replied, gazing hungrily at them.

“Dealer’s choice, then.” Eddie said with a smirk. “Steve, you’ve been such a good boy tonight following my instructions, I think you deserve to pick.”

“I want her pussy.” Steve said, smiling when she blushed and shivered under his intense gaze.

“Are you still sure you want this?” Eddie asked her as he passed a condom to Steve, who began to put it on.

“I’m sure, damn it! Just fuck me before I lose my mind!” She said before realizing herself an adding as an afterthought “…please.”

“Mouthy girl, such a brat.” Steve commented and Eddie chuckled as he stepped towards her, gently gripping her chin to look up at him

“Normally, I’d punish an attitude like that but you’ve been so good for us tonight and it’s a special occasion so I’m going to overlook it… for now.” He said, a dark and sexy look in his eyes as she nodded. “Hands and knees for the big finish, princess.”

She got into position as Eddie moved in front of her and Steve behind her, groaning when she wiggled her ass a little.

“Spank her if she does that again.” Eddie said, tapping her lips with his cock until she opened them and he slipped in.

She was so distracted by Eddie’s cock in her mouth that she almost forgot Steve was lining himself up until he slid into her wet cunt. Eddie chuckled when she moaned around his cock. It only took a few moments until they began to move, quickly setting a deliciously brutal pace. The boys were seemingly naturals at it and for a moment she wondered if they had ever actually shared a partner before with how practiced they seemed to be at anticipating one anothers moves. She-d never been fucked so fast and rough, bouncing between their cocks in a rhythm that made her feel better then she ever had before.

“Fuck, princess, suck just like that!” Eddie exclaimed, his fist wound around some of her hair just enough to be felt but not hard enough to hurt.

“You feel so good, baby.” Steve moaned, throwing his head back as his hands gripped her hips tighter allowing him to thrust into her even deeper. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

“You don’t come until she does so if you want it, you’d better help her along.” Eddie commanded and Steve moved one hand off of her hips and snaked it between her legs.

His fingertips quickly found her clit and it wasn’t long before she was clenching onto his cock with a loud moan as she came.

Steve and Eddie’s hands were the only things keeping her up, her body feeling like jelly as her orgasm hit. Eddie unraveled next, shooting his load into her throat and coaxing her through swallowing it.

“Good girl.” He panted and she felt her pussy clench around Steve’s cock, those two little words inadvertently causing her to help bring Steve to orgasm.

“Fuck, baby!” Steve groaned, his hips stilling against hers as he rode out his high, her pussy clenching around his as if to help milk every last drop.

They all stayed there for a moment, the boys catching their breath. Eddie was the first to pull out, wiping droplets of cum from around her mouth as she slumped forwards and he led her down to lay on the bed. She groaned as Steve carefully removed himself, disposing of the condom before helping her place her head on the pillow.

Very sated from orgasming three times in one night, she reached out and latched onto Steve, needing physical contact. She heard Eddie murmur something to Steve about caring for her but she couldn’t comprehend his words with how euphoric she felt. Steve laid down with her and held her, stroking her hair and whispering about how well she did while Eddie helped clean her up. Even in her haze, she felt something was missing.

“Stevie, I want Eds too…” She whined into Steve’s chest.

“You heard her, get over here.” Steve said, pulling both himself and her towards the edge of the bed to make room for him.

“What the princess wants, the princess gets.” Eddie replied, settling in on the other side of her.

“My boys…” She sighed contentedly, drifting off to sleep from her post-orgasmic haze nestled snugly between Steve and Eddie’s bodies.

She awoke the next morning with her head on Eddie’s chest and Steve spooning her, his arm draped around her waist and his hand on Eddie. She smiled, feeling truly happy there with her boys.

“Morning princess.” Eddie said, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Morning Eds.” She said, unable to contain her smile.

“I take it you had a good time last night.” He commented with a smirk.

“I did.” She said simply, gathering the courage to ask the question on her mind. “Eds… do you think you and Stevie would be alright with doing it again sometime? I don’t want you to think I’m indecisive or selfish, I just really like both of you. A lot.”

“Steve and I were talking about it last night after you passed out and we came to the conclusion that we’re both so head over heels for you that we’re willing to share if that’s what you want.” Eddie said and she felt like a weight was lifted off her chest. “Besides, Steve and I may have something deeper than just competition going on, we’ve just been too distracted to see it for what it was.”

“So, the three of us against the world?” She asked.

“Always, princess.” Eddie replied, pulling the comforter up to cover the three of them more fully and placing a kiss on the top of her forehead.

They were almost back asleep when the door swung open, revealing a very sleepy and apparently hungover Robin who looked very surprised to see them. Her eyes went wide with realization and shock at Eddie and Y/N, not even noticing Steve as he was covered by the comforter.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I thought this was the bathroom door!” Robin exclaimed, shielding her eyes before adding with a huge grin “...but also this is fantastic, Dustin owes me so much money!”

With impeccable timing, Steve raised his head from behind Y/N’s body and sleepily said “I don’t think you’ll be making any money today.”

“I just learned way more about your love life than I ever needed or wanted too and now none of us are winning the bet.” Robin replied, a mix of shock and disappointment on her face as she turned to leave. “I’m going to go bleach my eyes… and my brain.”

She slammed the door behind her and all three inhabitants of the bed began to laugh. They sunk into a comfortable silence, content with each other’s quiet company.

“Robin was wrong.” Y/N said assuredly.

“Hmm?” Steve hummed in confusion.

“She said no one won the bet. But she’s wrong, the three of us won it.” She replied and Steve laughed.

“I agree, princess.” Eddie added with a fond smile, holding his two lovers close to him.

#jo's fics #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #steddie #steddie x reader #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x reader x eddie munson #stranger things 4 #stranger things

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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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him, if you were a betting man.

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

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

You already know which one Yoongi is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

“Can you expand on that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s rich.”

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

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

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

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

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

“Can we talk about it now?”

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

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

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

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

Is that why… “The song?”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Can you now?”

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

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

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

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

“But you are.”

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

“Relationship euthanasia.”

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

“What would that even look like?”

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

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

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

“Yoongi...”

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

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

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

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

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

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

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

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

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

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

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

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

“The one in Oakhurst?”

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

“How long?”

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mouth.”

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

He’s not so gentle after that.

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

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

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

“Fuck, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

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

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

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

“I’m sorry—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’d gone like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

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

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

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

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

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

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

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

“Are you all packed?”

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

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

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

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

“With what?”

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

“How much are you bringing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?”

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

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

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

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

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

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

—

Oakhurst is small.

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

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

A place that makes you smile.

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

Yoongi laughs anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

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

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

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

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

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

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what you think?”

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

“Leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

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

You think thirty will look good on him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I went to the grocery store.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

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

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

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

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

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

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

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

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

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

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

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just sends you A Look.

—

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

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

“SURPRISE!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you—”

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

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

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

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

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

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

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

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

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

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

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

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

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

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

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

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

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

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

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

“Real answer, please.”

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

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

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

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

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Everything reads like an attack.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Something that’s true.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[interlude: monday morning]

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

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

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

“Should we go home soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just seventy-five percent?”

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

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

“Not this shit again—”

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You listen.

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

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

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

It’s the thirtieth of December.

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

Good riddance.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Like each other.)

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

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

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

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

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

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

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

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

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

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

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

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

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

You are, and you do.

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

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

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

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 1 month ago

Note

Ur writing is so easy to dive into I desperately need more!!! Is there more???? What happens to this awful wet cat of a woman next?????????????

uuuh. this.

in reference to this, for anyone who finds this just incomprehensible.

It turned out that she wasn't going to be left alone to rot in peace.

On Jessie’s disgustingly cheerful, rainbow-spangled doormat (an impulse purchase from a previous June that currently pissed her off every time she looked at it) a cupcake, a birthday card, and a note torn from a yellow legal pad were waiting for her.

The cupcake was chocolate topped with a mountain of blue buttercream frosting and edible glitter, and if Jessie's day kept going this badly it was probably going to end up being her dinner.

The card, also coated in glitter, wished her a happy birthday and was signed with a flourish from Uncle Ray. Ray wasn’t related to her in any biological sense of the word, but he’d been a friend of Jessie’s father since before Jessie was born, and that had to count for something. It was like her brother always said: family wasn’t about who you were related to, it was about who was there for you.

Uncle Ray was also, unfortunately, the owner of the building Jessie currently lived in and therefore her landlord, which was currently counting for way too much.

On the note he’d left her a hurried, shaky-handed explanation: he was sorry to miss her, hoped she was having fun on her birthday, and as a gift he’d be waiving May’s rent, which they both knew perfectly well was extremely overdue. However, he warned, he expected the money for June right on time at the start of the month, and if she failed to deliver they were going to need to have a very serious talk about Jessie’s status as a tenant moving forward.

And then, because Uncle Ray was Uncle Ray, he’d given her a little wiggle room: a PS, informing her that Mrs. Hoang said her dishwasher was acting up again, and that he’d happily credit the repair towards Jessie’s account if it meant he didn’t have to call in his idiotic repairman. Jessie didn’t understand for the life of her the psychological warfare that was going on between the two of them, or why Ray didn’t just fire the poor dunce if he hated him so much, but she wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to get paid for hanging out with Mrs. Hoang. Jessie loved old people, and Mrs. Hoang was a hoot.

She pretended not to see the second maintenance job he offered her, fixing up a dryer and a washer in the basement that had both started spitting people’s quarters back out at them when they were done running. It had taken Jessie a long time to figure out how to make them do that, and she wasn’t one to foul up her own handiwork.

Alright. Alright. This wasn't good, exactly, but she had somewhere to start, something to keep her occupied instead of completely falling apart. If she didn't give herself a little task right this second she would probably do what she had been doing for days at a time ever since Jonas left: wallowing in her own misery, eating weed gummies and jacking off, listening to true crime podcasts and shopping online until it was time to microwave something for dinner. If the morons in the Brig could see her like that they would cream their standard issue sweatpants. She decided to implement a new rule of personal conduct: whenever she found herself doing something that would make Whirligig feel like she was winning their friend breakup, Jessie had to cut that shit out immediately.

With that in mind, Jessie dragged herself to the bathroom to shower off the morning’s disgrace and wash her hair for the first time in, arguably, too many days. When the hot water ran out, something that she would be holding her uncle accountable for, she toweled off and crawled into a ratty tank top and snowflake-patterned pajama pants. A laundry day outfit for sure, but a.) it actually was laundry day, thank you very much, and b.) she deserved some time in soft clothing after spending the night packed into her catsuit like a can of spam. Then came the first of several trips up and down too many flights of stairs, because despite the criminal lack of an elevator Jessie was determined to throw all of her heaps of laundry into the wash at once. It was sort of a dick move, monopolizing all the washers like that, but she couldn’t wait around all day and her neighbors would forgive her when they realized that all of the machines would spit their change back out now. What, like Jessie had enough quarters for that many loads of laundry? In this economy?

Then she shuffled to the second floor to see Mrs. Hoang, who didn’t care that she was in pajamas and insisted that Jessie stay to have some soup before she started fiddling with the dishwasher. It was a damn good soup, extra spicy bún bò that filled her up so well that she was glad she’d neglected to eat her cupcake. Jessie ate it without saying much, offering a sympathetic ear and supportive scoffs while Mrs. Hoang talked about the convoluted feuds she kept up with various shopkeepers and other elderly women in the neighborhood.

As usual Mrs. Hoang left the TV on while she talked, the news turned down to almost nothing. She hardly seemed to notice it was on, but Jessie’s eye was caught when the puff pieces dissolved into a scene from downtown earlier that day. Nothing too shocking, by Rustbelt’s standards: Ricochet, red and self-righteous, duking it out with some new nobody on the scene, disrupting downtown traffic earlier that afternoon. Jessie ran the numbers, and figured this must have taken place not long at all after she was ingloriously dispatched from N.E.X.T. Had Ric already known? Was that why she was in such a hurry to send Jessie packing? It was nice to imagine there was a reason rather than her archenemy being an asshole, but she knew it was more likely the latter.

In any case, the new kid hardly seemed like he was worth it. Sure, he was putting on a show. Whatever his trick was, he managed to shatter every pane of glass out of the sparkling facade of the Van Houten Charitable Foundation, a window virtually made of buildings, and send the shards surging across Central Square straight at Ricochet. She was fine, of course, boinging away to safety like the world’s bitchiest little frog, but the cars and businesses around her were definitely going to need some TLC. Hopefully they had powers insurance; you’d have to be a fool to live in Rustbelt without it. And this was a crystal clear claim, in Jessie’s inexpert opinion, caught on camera from multiple angles and everything.

But the actual so-called villain? Pathetic. Amateur hour. Nobody knew his name, for one, because he hadn’t bothered to announce himself, so the chyron at the bottom of the screen could only refer to him as “mystery criminal.” Hardly inspiring stuff; nobody was going to be shelling out for merch of Mystery Criminal. And he hadn’t even bothered to get a decent outfit together, instead showing up in ratty black skinny jeans and a green hoodie like he was fresh off a shift at Hot Topic. He was wearing a backpack, for fucks sake! The only points Jessie would give him were for the fact that he’d at least had the presence of mind to keep the hood up, which was concealing his face to an impressive degree. None of the security cameras or cell phone footage seemed to have gotten a clear look at his face, so at least that was something.

Still, she wasn’t impressed.

“I can’t stand it when these wannabes come crawling out of the woodwork with no direction, no goals, no panache, no nothing,” she said to Mrs. Hoang. “Like, you’re not a villain just because you have powers. If you’re not going to put any artistry into it, you might as well just put your hand in your pocket to pretend you have a gun and go rob a 7/11.”

“Well, not everyone can be as professional as you. You’ve got the passion for it, more than anybody I’ve ever met in my life.” Mrs. Hoang said from beside the kitchen window, where she was on her second cigarette and blowing smoke rings. She was a pack a day kind of broad with a voice to match, and Jessie admired the old-school panache even if she shuddered to imagine the state of Mrs. Hoang’s lungs.

The compliment made her blush. “Thank you. You really mean that?”

Mrs. Hoang shrugged. “I’ve met every type of criminal they make, right? And nobody’s having more fun than you. There are kingpins living in palaces on their own tropical islands who don’t like what they do as much as you do. I think you’re made for this.”

“God, thank you. I’ve been kind of, like, second-guessing myself lately.”

“What? Since when?”

“I don’t know. Like, this morning?”

Jessie gave Mrs. Hoang the abridged version, leaving out details here and there that made her seem extra pathetic—namely, the thing about Ricochet’s secret identity. Jessie didn’t mind painting herself as a victim of N.E.X.T.’s bullying, but she didn’t want to implicate Jonas in anything. The two of them had to present a united front always; that was one of their rules. Still, she was pretty sure she got across exactly how fucked she was, which was why it surprised her when Mrs. Hoang simply shrugged her bony shoulders again.

“You’ll figure it out,” she proclaimed.

“Yeah but, like, how?”

“Well, that part’s not my job. What, you think I’m going to train you? You think I’m trying to be your fucking Mr. Miyagi?” Mrs. Hoang cackled so hard at her own joke that she made herself cough, pounding her chest until she got it back together. “Look, you’re a great girl. I’d let you marry one of my grandsons.”

“You said you’d disown them if they married white people!”

“Eh, I’m getting desperate with this one. He’s a good boy, smart, but he’s got no direction. No ambition. All he does after work is go home to play his video games. I think girls scare him.” She looked at Jessie meaningfully. “He’d be an easy husband, is all I’m saying. He works in tech, makes lots of money that you could spend however you want. And a tough girl like you could really sort him out.”

“I really appreciate it, but I’m not marrying your cringefail loser grandson. That feels wrong, somehow. Like, extremely wrong. I feel like you’re trying to sell him to me.”

“See? You’re a good girl,” Mrs. Hoang said. “But you’re also an eel. That’s the point I was getting to. You’re slippery. You’ll wiggle around and bite whoever you need to so you can survive, because you have to. What else would you do? What is there for you, if not being a villain?”

That wasn’t a rhetorical question; she had a hard look to her face like she actually expected answers. So Jessie scrambled, trying to come up with anything else she might feasibly do to pay the bills.

“I mean, sales? I used to do that.”

“Where’s the last place you were a salesgirl?”

“This snooty-ass jewelry place in the mall. Mostly selling engagement rings and stuff. I kind of hated it, and they ended up firing me for, you know. Stealing an engagement ring with a big honkin’ diamond in it.”

“You can’t work sales, girl. You love to steal.”

“Okay! But what about, like, waitressing?”

“You’ve done that before?”

“No, but I know how restaurants work. I can hold things. I’m good with people. How hard can it be?”

Mrs. Hoang waved her cigarette scoldingly in Jessie’s direction. “First of all, you apologize to waitresses. That’s skilled work. You can hold things, but what are you going to do when some tight-ass starts yelling at you for not bringing her shitty kid enough chicken strips? And your feet hurt, and half your dipshit coworkers didn't show up for shift, the head cook is on meth, and nobody's tipping worth shit?”

Jessie tried and failed a few times to come up with what was probably the right answer, and ultimately landed on something a lot closer to the truth. “I don’t know, call in a bomb threat and go home early? Jesus Christ, that sounds like a nightmare.”

“Apologize to waitresses!”

“Sorry, waitresses.” She rolled something around in her mouth, unsure if she should say it at all, then figured it couldn’t hurt to dig herself in a little deeper. “There’s this other place that’s, like, super shady and hires girls who don’t even have to serve the wings, they just walk around in costumes. So like models, basically. It’s superhero themed, and they just have all these girls there to hang out dressed up as the slutty Halloween costume version of heroes and villains and stuff. I figure they might hire me on the spot if they realize who I am, because having the real Frostbite is kind of a get, right? And then I get paid to just, like, hang out with other cute girls and take pictures with people like a character at Disneyland.” Not that Jessie had ever been to Disneyland, but she gets the idea.

“Okay, so what’s stopping you from doing that? Go apply right now.”

Jessie groaned. “But, like, I know that the first time some guy gets too grabby I’m going to break his fingers and get turbo fired. And also there’s a chance that they’ll tell me I’m too fat to play Frostbite, which is, like, you know. Obviously I’ll just have to burn the entire restaurant down, which is probably illegal.”

Mrs. Hoang nodded like this was all going about as well as she’d expected. “Anything else?”

“Well, like, I have the crafting thing, right? Like, I take some commissions and stuff. I could pivot to do that full time?”

“No. Never try to make a hobby your whole life. You’ll end up hating it.” Mrs. Hoang nodded to the soup simmering on the stove, making a face. “I like to cook. You know what happened when I tried to start a restaurant?”

“You ended up having to burn it down, change your name, and leave San Jose forever.”

“And kill my second husband.”

“You killed your… I don’t know if you’ve ever told me that part before.”

Mrs. Hoang shrugged, as if to say that sometimes second husbands had to die and there was nothing that could be done about it. “He was more of a business partner than a husband, really. Not a lot of love. Sometimes it’s the partner that’s the problem, you know what I mean?”

“I’m not killing my brother,” Jessie said flatly.

“No, no. But you don’t need him, either. You’re smart, tough, quick-thinker. Go find someone else to do crime with you. You want to hang around with pretty girls in costumes so much, go find some yourself. Every big villain I see on TV, he’s got some lay sidekick in a sparkly little outfit. Why not you?”

“I mean, those girls are all union. I can’t afford moll rates.”

“So don’t hire a professional, dumbass. Get a friend,” Mrs. Hoang said. She flicked a little ash off her cigarette derisively. “You remember how to do that?”

“Yeah,” said Jessie, who wasn’t actually sure of that at all. When was the last time she’d made a friend? There was Whirligig, which had obviously been an ass-shattering disaster. Even before it broke really bad, there had never really been a lot of love between them. Then there was Xochitl, who Jessie actually liked and had still managed to completely blow her chances with. That one was still so raw that she couldn’t even joke about it. God, why couldn’t Xo have just yelled at her like a normal person? It would be so much easier if they could just hate each other now. And she’d made a hell of an effort with Night Noir when they did that little crossover job in the fall, but all that had gotten her was the worst ghosting of her life.

Maybe she didn’t actually know how to make a friend. Maybe she could start by finding a henchperson and figure it out from there. She didn’t really need a friend friend, right? A partner would suffice. Anyone to fill the Jonas-shaped void while Jessie figured out how to go it alone. Sure, she and her brother had been a team. But anyone could watch her back, right? That was hardly skilled labor.

“You really think I can do it? Run my own shit?”

It was a question for herself as much as for Mrs. Hoang, one of the biggest things that had been pinning her into inaction for the past few months even as it became increasingly clear that she needed to do literally anything. The solution was obvious, really; there was no other path Jessie could take. But the prospect of figuring out how to do it all alone, of having to stand without Jonas’ support for the first time in her life, was scaring her shitless.

Mrs. Hoang sighed. “What do you like about it? Being a villain?”

Jessie hadn’t expected another question, but this time she was immediately ready with an answer.

“It’s fun. I mean, it’s hard and stressful and it's kind of scary, but it’s never boring. Every job is a different challenge, and I really like that. And things actually happen. At most jobs you do the same thing over and over again every day to try and keep everything the same forever, right? If you do everything right, nothing really changes. Best case scenario, some months you sell more stuff than last month. But if I do my job right I get to go home with a diamond the size of my ass cheek, because I was smart enough and tough enough and ballsy enough to take it when nobody else was. And there’s no CEO or boss or board of directors who get to take a cut or give me a bad performance review or anything. Nobody can fire me. Nobody can tell me what to do. I’m free to do whatever I want.”

She stumbled a little on the last part, because it wasn’t exactly true anymore. Ricochet very much had told her what to do, had even taken away her freeze ray to really rub it in, and Jessie had no fucking idea what she was supposed to do about that. She had spent years thinking of Ricochet like a yappy little dog, irksome but easy enough to kick away when she got too annoying. And now it turned out she wasn’t scared of Jessie and never had been, and Jessie’s head was still spinning.

Mrs. Hoang cleared her throat, snatching Jessie’s attention back. “You know how you look, when you talk about it?”

“What?”

“You talk about being a villain like you’re in love. You get this look on your face like my third husband used to get, back when we were falling in love.”

“The one in Rikers?”

“God bless him.” Mrs. Hoang crossed herself in the wrong order, cigarette trailing a smoky crucifix across her chest. “Listen to me: you look happier talking about crime than most people do talking about their own children. We all have to work until we die on this bitch of an earth, so if you can make money doing something you don’t hate, why would you let that go? Because your brother’s not around? Your brother’s a bastard. You don’t need him.”

“Hey.”

“I know you love him, but you’re a smart girl. You can love someone and know they’re a bastard. That’s my third husband, too. You’re tough. You’re a survivor. And you never take no for an answer. So why the hell are you waiting for an old woman to tell you that you can do it?”

“You’re right. Oh my god, you’re so right.” Jessie stood up, awkwardly smoothing out her pajama pants. Suddenly she was feeling hideously underdressed, embarrassed to have even gone outside of her apartment like this. She had a reputation to maintain. “Thank you so much for this. What time is it? I need to get moving. I have to get my life together.”

“Eh eh, hold on.” Mrs. Hoang snapped her fingers impatiently. “You need to fix my dishwasher first. It’s making that noise again. I can’t stand that shit.”

“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Hang on.” Jessie immediately redirected that energy back into the kitchen, yanking open the dishwasher and dropping straight to the floor. “Seriously, thank you so much. I really appreciate it when you let me pick your brain like this. You don’t happen to have a cringe pushover granddaughter, do you? I’d marry her in a heartbeat.”

“Nice try. All of my granddaughters are brilliant and mean.”

“God, that’s hot.”

“I’m very proud. I’ll pack up some leftovers for you, okay? I know you’ve been sad without your bastard brother around. It’s hard to eat when you’re sad. You should have come to see me sooner, so I could feed you.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jessie told her, and meant it. “I’ve been in kind of a funk, you know? But I’m trying to shake it off now. I promise.”

That was an understatement. What remained of the afternoon passed in a blur, with Jessie cramming in as much as she could to make up for lost time. She actually put away all of her clean clothes when they were done drying instead of leaving them to rot in the laundry basket, got dressed in a proper functioning outside outfit, and styled her hair and slapped on a little eyeliner and lip gloss for good measure. Then she went to see Isaac, the sweet Zimbabwean grad student across the hall. She’d been letting him use her Wi-Fi since he moved in and had knitted him a scarf to get him through the winter, and he’d always sworn he owed her a big favor for it while Jessie swore that he didn’t owe her anything at all.

Well, the times were a-changing, and Jessie was coming to collect.

He was surprised to see her but didn’t refuse when she asked to go to the grocery store, or ask questions when she insisted on going to the fancy one that was well outside of their neighborhood. Jessie recommended, as delicately as possible, that he stay in the car while she shopped, and if he suspected that she’d stolen every single item in her overstuffed cart then he was polite enough not to say anything about it. It was a risky move, for sure, but if Jessie had learned anything as a child it was that even the worst circumstances seemed a little better when you at least had a full pantry, and she needed to save the last of her dwindling cash for bigger and better things.

One-Eyed Polly’s was cash-only, after all, and somehow it always came back to One-Eyed Polly’s.

According to family legend, everything had actually started there for Jessie, specifically in the middle stall of the women’s bathroom where her mother’s water broke. Yes, her mother really was the kind of bitch who was still hanging out at the local bad guy bar shooting the shit and hustling people at pool while she was nine months pregnant. Explains some things, doesn’t it?

Anyway, Jesie spent her childhood obsessed with the idea of the place. It was a mythical location in her little kid brain, like the White House or the North Pole. God only knew what actually went on in there, but her imagination was filling in the gaps in the most lurid way possible. Polly’s was where Dad went to find work when every other lead dried up and the family was getting desperate, their saving grace. Dad would slink off to Polly’s when the power was about to get turned off, and he’d come back flush with confidence and enough money that the family wouldn’t have to worry for a few more months.

He never told Jessie much about Polly’s when she pressed, or anything else about his work. From Jonas she had gathered that their dad, gentle and bumbling as he was, had been an enforcer once, what Jonas scathingly called dumb muscle. It made sense, physically; Jonas and Dad were built exactly alike, tall and broad and sort of looming huge no matter what they did to seem smaller. But Dad didn’t do that anymore, not in years. These days he kept his head low, mostly serving as a driver, but he still wasn’t sharing any details.

In young Jessie’s mind Polly’s was a nightclub like the ones on cop shows, dark rooms with throbbing music where sexily-dressed people writhed through smoke and neon lights. The villains would lean up against the walls, watching the crowd with a sharp gaze until they found just what they were looking for, and then they’d smile and beckon the lucky hench who’d caught their eye. You. And the crowds would part to let the chosen one through, everyone envious of whatever trait had been enough to deem them worthy.

Admittedly it was hard to picture her deeply uncool dad in such a setting, but it must have worked out somehow.

She didn’t actually get to see what Polly’s was like until she was thirteen, and that was still too early as far as Jonas was concerned. Before they went in he’d given her a whole lecture in the car, his knuckles white on the steering wheel even though they were parked.

“I’m going to walk you up to the bar and have you sit with Maudie, alright? She’ll take care of you.”

“Will she make me a drink?” Jessie asked. She was avoiding looking at her brother because she didn’t want him to see how excited she was, or that she’d been experimenting with eyeliner and mascara. He wouldn’t care that she was wearing makeup, but he would want to know where she got it and he’d probably guess that she’d also been experimenting with shoplifting. Best to annoy him on purpose so he had something else to be grouchy about.

It worked perfectly, and he made a sound of deep distress like he thought she was being serious. “You can’t drink. She’ll find you a chocolate milk or something, and then you’ll hang out with her until I’m done with my meeting. Don’t talk to anybody else, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Stranger danger, Jess, come on. People are freaks in here.”

“You’re here.”

“Because I have to be, alright? I don’t like it.” Jonas rubbed his eyes, looking tired. He’d looked tired since he moved out of their parents’ house, so much that Jessie worried about his health. She swore he was starting to get gray hairs, even though he’d only just turned twenty-one.

“What am I allowed to do?”

“Have a nice conversation with Maud. Tell her about how good you’re doing in school.”

“I’m not doing good in school.”

“Then you better come up with something nice to talk about, because you’re not doing anything else. Don’t even look at anybody too much, people get twitchy if you start doing that in case you’re a snitch.”

“Am I allowed to piss?”

He looked strained, the way he always did when she swore for no reason. “Have Maudie go with you.”

“Seriously? I’m not a baby, I can go to the bathroom by myself.” Jessie couldn’t even imagine what kind of trouble he thought she would get into there. In health class they’d said that people hung out in strange bathrooms to offer kids drugs, but that seemed stupid to Jessie. She would probably take a drug if it was free, just to see what it was like, but someone giving something away for no money seemed like a stupid idea to her even though she’d gotten detention for saying it.

Anyway, Maudie wouldn’t let something like that happen in her bar.

“I know you can wipe yourself, doofus, but you’re also gonna meet someone and start talking their ear off,” Jonas was saying. “Don’t do that.”

“Gaaaaawd. Why don’t you just leave me in the car if you’re so worried about it?”

“Because that’s child abuse. Any more questions?”

She could have asked questions forever, if he’d let her, but she was getting antsy and didn’t want to make him late, so she zipped her lips and shook her head.

Jonas steered her inside with a big hand on her shoulder, his skin a little chilly even through his stupid little driving gloves. When they stepped through the door Jessie’s hopes momentarily soared, then immediately crashed and hit the ground like a dead seagull. Where was the pounding synth and the sex appeal? This was just a boring room with worn-out furniture and a pool table and completely normal lighting shining down on a scratch-up wooden floor. The most notable features were a jukebox blasting old people rock that made Jessie think of her dad and an ashtray smell that made her think of her mom.

Her brother steered her straight back to the bar, where a graying butch was waiting with a dusty can of grape soda that had clearly been dug up from somewhere deep in the bowels of the basement.

“Heya, tyke,” Maudie said, unsmiling.

“Heya, dyke,” Jessie said, with a shit-eating grin. She swung herself up onto one of the barstools, kicking her legs eagerly. “How’s it hanging?”

“Same old.” Maud turned to Jonas, somber. “Recluse is already waiting for you in the corner.”

Jessie swiveled all the way around her stool to have a look, and was delighted to see a menacing figure occupying the big booth jammed into a corner at the back of the room. She was wearing a lengthy trench coat that was bulging in the back, with long, bristling black spider limbs poking out at angles that didn’t seem like they should work.

“Holy shit,” Jessie said, right before her brother spun her forcibly back around to look at Maud.

“Do not,” he said. “Please. I’ll be right back.”

He patted the top of her head and left, hunching his shoulders the way he did when he wanted to look even bigger and wider. Maudie sighed, long and slow.

“How’s school, kid?”

“Stupid. I wish it was summer.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do when school’s out?”

“I don’t know. Watch TV. Who’s Recluse?”

“Trouble. Mind your own business.”

“Why’s Jonas talking to her?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Does she owe him money?”

“How about I put this pop in a margarita glass, huh? Would that be fun for you?”

“Can I have a little paper umbrella?”

“We don’t do those here. You get the fancy glass, take it or leave it.”

“Take it.”

The grape soda tasted musty, the carbonated fizz warm on her tongue, but Jessie sipped it anyway to be polite, swirling it the way she saw women do with wine glasses on TV. Her eyes were swiveling over the glass, trying to get a look at anyone else inside without being obvious about it. There was mostly nothing to see except a lot of sad, slouchy men who looked like her dad, but over at the dartboard there was a woman that Jessie wanted to look at forever.

There were some men with her, too, but she was clearly the center of the situation. Tall and leggy (in the normal way, not like Recluse), pale and dark-haired, face filled with all kinds of exciting piercings that Jessie hadn’t previously realized were even possible. Her outfit was all black, shiny black boots and a black cropped t-shirt and tight black pants that rode low enough to show off a skeletal stomach and jutting hips. God, even her belly button was pierced. Her whole body was like a knife, nothing but sharp edges and bits of metal. As Jessie watched, the pointy woman flipped a dart backwards over her own shoulder and hit a perfect bullseye, never even glancing at the board.

“Stop,” Maud said sharply.

“Stop what?”

“Looking. Thinking. Whatever you’re doing.”

Jessie leaned across the bar, conspiratorial. “Who is she?”

“Too old for you.”

“Maudie! That’s not what I meant!” Jessie said, blushing in a way that strongly suggested otherwise.

“Like hell it’s not.” Maud rolled her eyes, cut a glance over at the sharp woman, and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “She calls herself Flechette, like machete. You’re not supposed to pronounce it like that, it’s French, but she’s mangling it on purpose. Dumbass. She’s been hustling those saps for the last fifteen minutes, taking them to the cleaners, and if I was dumb enough to gamble I'd say they’re about to start catching on.”

“Hey,” said one of the saps, right on time. “How the hell are you doing that?”

“She’s a freak!” one of his friends declared, which was followed pretty immediately by sounds of terrible pain.

Jessie didn’t turn around fast enough; hardly anyone could have. By the time she could see what was happening Flechette was already twirling a pool cue like a weapon and pulling off a series of improbably high kicks and sharp elbow jabs. The guys she’d been soundly beating were hardly amateurs—they all had the look of professional enforcers, dumb muscle to the bone—but their lumbering punches never had a chance to land.

Maud whistled, loud and sharp enough to split right through the fracas “That’s enough. You know there’s none of that bullshit in here.”

Flechette froze at once, except to deal one more swift kick to a man trying to drag himself up from the floor. She dropped the pool cue and held her hands up, wide open to show that she was done being a threat. It was a choice though, Jessie thought; this woman was entirely in charge of how and when she was dangerous. Maudie had always seemed unshakeable to Jessie, stubborn and stern as a stone statue, but what could she have actually done if Flechette didn’t want to leave? The baseball bat beneath the bar wouldn’t be much use against someone like that.

It didn’t matter. Flechette flashed a smile like a shark and made for the door, pausing to throw a wink back at the bar. Maybe that was meant for Maud, a final little taunt to remember her by, but Jessie liked to imagine that it was meant for her. She was watching with her jaw dangling to the floor, not trying to make any secret of it. When Jessie told the story later she would always editorialize, hinting that Flechette must have sensed a kindred soul in her that day, spotted another villain’s star rising.

In any case, nobody ever saw Flechette around Rustbelt again. From there on out she started climbing the ranks as a mercenary and assassin for hire, eventually working for A-list baddies all over the world. She upgraded from darts to razor-thin daggers that could find their mark from nearly any distance, thanks to her superhuman aim, and her services were sufficiently in demand that no prison could keep her contained for long. Somebody more powerful was always eager to break her out and have her killing in their name.

In the meantime, the door of One-Eyed Polly’s slammed shut at the exact moment a giant hand gripped Jessie’s shoulder and made her jump.

“It’s time to go,” Jonas said, low and urgent. “Come on, Jess. Say thanks to Maudie.”

“I didn’t even finish my drink,” she said, knowing immediately that it was a stupid thing to say.

“Maybe next time.” Maud’s face was tight, and she was already whisking the margarita glass away. “Take care, kids.”

Jonas steered Jessie straight to his awful van, completely silent until he was back in the driver’s seat and gripping the steering wheel. He hadn’t taken off his gloves, but Jessie could imagine his knuckles turning white. That was a bad sign, considering the van wasn’t even running.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said quietly.

Which confused Jessie for a moment, because she had assumed that she was in trouble. An apology was unexpected.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “It was cool. She’s badass.”

“She’s not a role model. Nobody in there is.”

“What about Recluse?”

Jonas groaned, lowering his head to the steering wheel as well. “You shouldn’t even know her name. No, she’s not a role model. She’s a psychopath.”

“What about Maudie?”

“She’s on thin ice,” he said, which would normally make Jessie chuckle and point out haha, ice, but he clearly wasn’t in the mood. And she wasn’t either, because Jonas was treating her like a baby and that ticked her off, so she did something rude.

“Well, what about you?”

That made him raise his head, at least, and she immediately regretted pushing him, because Jonas looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him in their entire life. He was getting dark hollows under his eyes, and he seemed skinnier and more raw beneath his baggy clothes every time she hugged him, and that hair that was going gray.

“I don’t want to be there either, Jess. Don’t think for a second that I do, alright? This is pragmatism.”

“What does that mean? Come on, I’m failing English. I don’t know words.”

He reached into his jacket and withdrew a fat wad of bills clipped together, slapping them down on the center console. It wasn’t forceful, not enough to make Jessie cringe or scare her in any way—he was always careful about that, conscientious to be gentle with her since he had always been so much older and bigger. But she could tell he wanted to make a point about it.

“It means that I’m being smart and doing the thing that will make me the most possible money, even though it sucks.”

“Why, though?” Jessie pressed. “You don’t have to do it if you hate it so much.”

“Jess, come on. I’m trying to take care of you, okay? Dropping off groceries every week is expensive, and driving you around is expensive, and I’m…” He paused, rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. I didn’t want to bring it up too soon, in case it didn’t pan out, but what if you came to stay with me instead of Mom and Dad?”

Her heart skipped, and she immediately clamped down on that feeling before she could get too excited. She had to play it cool. “But you said I’m never allowed to visit your place.”

“Well, I’d have to get a new place. With no housemates, so I’d have to pay the rent and security deposit and everything by myself because it would be just me and you. But I think I could do it.”

Jessie swallowed hard. “Do Mom and Dad know?”

“No. But I think I could make them understand, if it was what you really wanted. And that’s another thing I’m saving up for, getting a lawyer if they try to fight about it. So that I could legally adopt you or something, if I have to. If you want me to.”

“Adopt me?” Jessie repeated. It sounded silly, thinking of Jonas as her parent instead of her brother. He was too young to be her dad. But it made sense, didn’t it? Mom made sure she had food and clothes and all that, but Jessie had never felt like her mom loved or even her. Dad loved her plenty, but he was responsible for losing all their money and getting the lights shut off at least as often as he was responsible for fixing it. Jonas was the only one who had ever managed to love her and take care of her.

“If you want,” he said again. She’d never seen him so nervous. “You don’t have to. But I know Mom and Dad have been getting worse, and I don’t want you to have to stay there if you don’t want to. You should feel safe at home. And I’ve never forgotten what you said that night at the park. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

She knew exactly what he meant; there was only one night at the park for them. The night they’d been eating ice cream sandwiches and watching fireflies when the sky opened up, when time slowed to almost nothing and snapped back to a different world, a world where her brother was a walking blizzard.

“It’s okay,” Jessie told him, even though it sort of wasn’t. She’d gotten used to it. “But I would. I’d live with you. It’d be cool.”

Jonas didn’t smile often or easily, but right then he looked happier and more relieved then she’d ever seen. Maybe even excited, like he had been worried she would say no and pick their parents over him. “Okay. Yeah. We’ll make it happen, Jess. I’ve been saving up as much as I can, and I think I’m close. We won’t be anywhere very nice, but I’ll find us somewhere. We’ll make it happen, okay?”

Jessie’s heart was racing, all the excitement of One-Eyed Polly’s already forgotten in light of this new development. She had to make sure this was for real, had to make this as close to legally binding as she could. “You promise?”

He extended a little finger and she grinned, tied their pinkies together to seal the promise like they had since she was little.

“I promise,” he said. “You and me against the world.”

#jessie lies wetly

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