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wongyuseokie · 8 days

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All Too Well | c.s.c

Summary: You thought you met the man of your dreams. He was everything you ever wanted, but what happens when that dream falls apart and when that man is no longer the one you recognise? You want to love him against all odds because you believe things can be better.

☆ 18+ minors dni |☀︎fluff | ☁︎ angst | ♕smut | ♥ completed works

Word Count: 21,190 words

Pairings: Professor! Seungcheol x Female Reader Genre/Trope(s)/AU(s): Established Relationship, break up au! Slightly (quite) toxic relationship, HEAVY ANGST, fluff, smut.

Content Warnings: There is an age gap between the reader and Seungcheol, but it’s not massive. He’s 30, and she’s 25, but it’s enough to cause problems. Seungcheol is a condescending little shit in this. Yelling, swearing, crying, arguments, toxic couple behaviours, mentions of an injury. Hospitalisation it’s nothing serious—mentions of blood. Smut Warnings: smut, unprotected sex (don’t do this). Fingering, oral (male and female receiving) shower sex, multiple orgasms, squirting and using sex as an apology. Authors Note 1: This fic will hurt quite a bit, but I like pain and write many of my experiences with my ex. It’s a form of free therapy, and it feels cathartic. Also, this story is fiction. Cheol is a fucking dick in this. This is a story that is not reflective of him or my impression of him. It is pure fiction, nothing else. Authors Note 2: Thank you so so much to my lovely @multi-kpop-fanfics for reading over this, my lovely @wooahaeproductions and @gyuwoncheol for beta'ing this fic for me 🩷 Authors Note 3: This is a Seventeen rewrite of an old Joon fic of mine, so if it looks familiar, that’s why hehe.

Taglist: @dkluvrsclub @wooahaeproductions @stayinhellevator @aaniag @seungkwansphd @tomodachiii @gyuminusone @bitchlessdino @zezedoesshit @ohmygodwhyareallusernamestaken @noiceoofed @joonsytip @miniseokminnies @wonwoos-wineparty @persnyako @deobienthusiast @the-boy-meets-evil @gyuswhore @gyuwoncheol @shuadotcom @multi-kpop-fanfics @ourdawnishotterthanourday @thegirlwhoimagined @starlight-night0 @dreamsbloomout @aaasia111 @wongyuuu @ana-marais98 @gaslysainz @cherrylita @highvern Part of the Broken Illusions Stories

“Mia, I’m not going to go on Tinder to end a dry spell, nor am I going to sleep with any of the men here. They are all old and most likely married. I’m not keen,” you groaned to your best friend.

Mia had dragged you out tonight because she said that you had a dry spell that needed to be broken, but you were not going to submit to your hormones, and you surely were not going to submit to some random guy on Tinder with the worst possible pick-up lines.

“Look, I can take care of myself. Men are useless and self-obsessed,” you claimed before sipping your martini.

“Surely not all men?” A voice spoke, making you choke on your drink.

You wiped your face wiped it of what? quickly and turned around in your seat to face the voice’s owner. Your eyes widened like saucers upon seeing the man standing before you. You were speechless, and as your eyes scanned, trailed from his deep-set eyes, his impeccable build, and his thighs, thighs that you wanted to straddle and ride until you screamed his name over and over.

“Nope, all men,” you quipped, making the handsome stranger smile at you, revealing his deep dimples.

“Y/N’s been burned by useless men, men who’ve claimed to be all that and then fell short, so she’s quite cynical about most men,” Mia chimed. “Ow!” Mia yelped when you kicked her shin for oversharing.

“Well, how about I get you another drink?” The man suggested, and Mia grinned before hopping off her barstool.

“Great, you do that! I have an early shift tomorrow. Stay safe, Y/N,” Mia said, winking as she headed out of the bar, and you glared at her, knowing that her ‘stay safe’ comment also meant to use a condom.

“I’m Seungcheol.” The stranger introduced himself, and you nodded, turning around to face the bar as he sat down next to you.

“Well, you already know my name. My best friend did kind of yell it,” you deadpanned. You didn’t care how ridiculously handsome Seungcheol was. He could just be another man who could talk a big game and be useless.

“What would you like to drink?” Seungcheol asked, and you shrugged. “Surprise me,” you said. You made a mental note that if he got you some fruity shit, you’d leave him the second the words left his mouth.

“How about a Yuzu fizz gin and tonic?” Seungcheol offered, and you smiled at him, nodding.

“I can guess that if I ordered something you didn’t approve of, you would have left the bar by now?” Seungcheol joked.

“Well, now you’ll never know, will you?” You joked, making Seungcheol smile again.

“So why are you here? Trying to find Prince Charming?” Seungcheol asked with a chuckle.

“Oh, come on, be honest. I’m not one to judge,” Seungcheol encouraged, and a sly grin formed on your face.

“If you insist, then okay,” you started to say, inching closer to him, swallowing a gulp as you took in the scent of his cologne. It was musky, spicy, and woody all at once.

“I’ve been stuck in a painfully long dry spell, and my hand is exhausted. I just need to find someone to fuck me hard,” you answered nonchalantly, and you swore you saw Seungcheol gulp slightly.

“You’re telling me a woman as beautiful as you has not found a man?” Seungcheol asked as he moved away to hand you your drink. You took a sip out of the glass, smiling at the taste.

“Good?” Seungcheol asked, and you nodded.

“Would you like to try?” You asked, and Seungcheol shook his head.

“Maybe later?” Seungcheol replied, and you nodded.

“But to answer your question, it’s not about looks. For instance, a guy might be doing well, then he’ll say something obnoxious, and I’ll no longer be interested,” you explained.

“Fair enough, I apologise on behalf of my species. We often get too excited when we see a beautiful woman and act up,” Seungcheol clarified, making you grin. Seungcheol was incredibly handsome and sweet, but you didn’t feel anything. Nothing clicked. There was no instant chemistry; suddenly, you felt tired and bored and just wanted to be wrapped up in your blanket.

“Well, this was nice. Thank you for the drink, but I think I will call it a night,” you said, and Seungcheol simply smiled at you. You were relieved at how he wasn’t pushy or objecting to the fact that you wanted to leave so early. Most of the men you had met would get defensive or be less than understanding if you wanted to go before they got to cop a feel.

“Wait, how are you getting home?” Seungcheol asked.

“Walking home, it’s a twenty-minute walk,” you replied.

“Y/N, you can punch me if I step out of line, but no, you’re not walking home alone.” You sighed, but you didn’t mind entirely, plus you could kick him in the crotch if he acted up. You were cognizant enough to do so.

“Well then, Seungcheol, since it’s a bit of a walk, shall we play a game?” You asked as you both stepped out of the bar and started to walk.

“Seriously?” Seungcheol asked, grinning.

“Humour me, Seungcheol .”

“Fine then.”

“Great, let’s play twenty questions,” and you proceeded to ask. “How old are you?”

“30,” he replied.

“If it’s not too rude to ask you, the same?” Seungcheol asked, and you smiled before replying, “25.”

“I have another question if it’s not too crude?” Seungcheol asked, and you nodded at him to ask it. “When you said you wanted to be fucked hard, how hard?” You gulped; you swore his voice had gotten deeper and huskier since he left the bar. You chalked up your reaction to the cold air, playing tricks on your mind.

“If let’s say, hypothetically, it was me, how hard would you want me to fuck you?” Seungcheol continued , making you stop and turn to face him. His eyes were piercing and burned through any façade you had on tonight.

“Hard enough to make me forget my name,” you whispered, earning a nod from Seungcheol.

The rest of the walk was filled with silence, aside from a few questions from Seungcheol, but you couldn’t get the vision of him standing over you and asking you how hard you’d like to be fucked out of your head.

“Well,” you breathed out when your eyes landed on your front door.

“This is me,” you said, standing with your back against your front door.

“Wait, I have one thing I want to try but don’t worry, you still have permission to knee me in the balls,” Seungcheol teased, making you chuckle, only for a second, before his soft lips landed on yours. The kiss was so light it almost felt like nothing happened, but you knew it did because you felt your heartbeat out of your chest the minute his lips grazed yours.

“I always wanted to know what the Yuzu gin and tonic tasted like,” Seungcheol said smugly before moving away from you.

“Well, it was lovely meeting you,” Seungcheol said, leaving you speechless and breathless as he turned around and walked away from your front door.

“Seungcheol! Wait!” He turned around, smiling at you.

“Would you like to come in for a nightcap? We still have several questions left,” you suggested, hoping he’d say yes. Seungcheol grinned as he nodded, following you into your apartment.

Fifteen questions in, Seungcheol and you were on your living room sofa. You were cuddling into his side, your legs on his lap. Around five questions ago, Seungcheol’s hand started trailing your exposed thighs , and you had let out a few soft moans at his touch.

“Question sixteen for you, Y/N,” Seungcheol said, and you laughed at him.

“You kept count?” You asked, and Seungcheol nodded.

“I’m very detail-oriented,” Seungcheol replied, and you rolled your eyes.. Seungcheol’s hand stopped trailing your thighs; instead, he gently squeezed them.

“Tell me, how hard did you want to be fucked?” He asked again, and you quirked your brows at him.

“You already asked,” you replied breathlessly, and Seungcheol shrugged.

“Would it hurt to get details?” Seungcheol pressed staring right into your eyes. You would be lying if you said you didn’t start getting wet five questions ago, but now your core ached at his words.

“So hard that I can’t walk, so that I’m a mumbling and whimpering mess.” You said as you moved so that you were straddling Seungcheol. You gently moved your hips against his, and you felt his length hardening.

“Question seventeen for you. Why did you ask me for a drink tonight?” you asked as Seungcheol groaned and held your waist, stopping your movements.

“When I saw you in this dress, I couldn’t help but think about how I wanted to do nothing more than rip it off your body,” Seungcheol spoke, and you moaned at his words. His grip on your waist got tighter, and you were sure you would be bruised tomorrow, but you didn’t care.

“Question eighteen, Y/N, are you wet right now?” Seungcheol asked, and you smirked and proceeded to reply with another question.

“Question nineteen, Seungcheol, do you want to find out?” You asked, and Seungcheol’s eyes darkened with lust as he nodded,lifting the pushed-up hem of your dress so that it was at the waistband of your panties.

Seungcheol looked at you for consent, and you nodded, giving it to him. He pulled your panties to the side and brushed his fingers through your folds. Seungcheol moaned at your wetness, then moved his fingers to his mouth, and relished your taste.

“Final question, baby. What’s your safe word?” He asked.

“Peaches,” you replied.

“Peaches it is,” Seungcheol responded, content with your answer, he carried you to your bedroom to a night filled with absolute pleasure.

You woke up the following day to soft snores; you smiled softly at Seungcheol sleeping. Seungcheol looked incredibly handsome, even with his hair ruffled and mouth open as he snored lightly. You hated how you were romanticising this one moment, especially considering that it was the result of several drinks and very sexual questions that led him to your bedroom. Still, at this moment, you wished that this would be the view you could wake up to every day.

He was perfect. He was so sweet, loving, gentle, and kind all night long. You wouldn’t be opposed to having that type of care and affection regularly.

You decided to get out of bed and grab your oversized nightshirt as you headed to the kitchen, leaving your bedroom quietly not to wake him up andruin the little daydream you were happily living in.

You took a detour, making sure to head to the bathroom first, freshen up, and then head to the kitchen, where you made a cup of green tea for yourself and a cup of hot coffee for Seungcheol. In your hazy recollection of last night, you remembered Seungcheol ordering a couple of espresso martinis, so you assumed coffee would be a good idea.

You held the mugs in your hand as you headed back to your bedroom, smiling when you saw Seungcheol sitting up, stretching, and smiling sleepily at you when he turned his head to face you.

“Damn, and here I thought you left me,” Seungcheol joked. His deep morning voice made you feel warm, like the tea that warmed your throat with every sip.

“It’s my house,” you replied, smiling at him and handing him a mug of coffee.

“So, what do you do, Y/N?” Seungcheol asked. “Aside from rock my world,” he added, joking, making you roll your eyes at him.

“I’m a freelance web designer, but I just took a break to travel with my friends for a bit, and so I’m just getting back into it.I need to go out and hustle to get clients again,” you said, and you noticed an emotion you couldn’t decipher flash across Seungcheol’s features.

You assumed he was squinting at the morning sunlight streaming into your bedroom, but it was gloomy. Still, it was early, and maybe he was just tired.

“What do you do?” You asked, not wanting to dwell on your thoughts for too long.

“I’m an English Literature professor at Seoul National University,” Seungcheol said, and you couldn’t help but notice the hint of smugness that laced his tone. Still, then again, if you were a professor at the most prestigious universities in the country, maybe you, too, would behave that way.

“So, you’re like a nerd?” You joked and knew it fell flat, noticing how Seungcheol gave you no reaction.

“Is it still a thing to call people nerds? Youngsters these days,” Seungcheol mused, and you couldn’t help but again detect an undercurrent of an unpleasant tone that made you feel uncomfortable. You let it slide because you knew nothing about this man.

“I enjoyed last night,” you said softly, joining him on your bed, hoping to change the topic.

“I did, too. I didn’t think heading out for a drink after work would help me find you,” Seungcheol agreed.

“I, uh,” you fumbled. You wanted to ask if he would be willing to see you again, and Seungcheol got the hint.

“I want to see you again, and not just to repeat last night, but because I want to get to know you more,” Seungcheol said, and you beamed at him.

“Shit, I need to get home and shower and get to the university, but can I have your number? I’ll text you after my lecture today, and yes, I’ll text today itself because I don’t believe in the whole bullshit of waiting for a day after to tell someone you enjoyed their company. I guess that’s something I learned with age,” Seungcheol stated.

Then, you wondered if you felt Seungcheol’s age would be a motif you could never get rid of.

“Wait, so the buff hot guy, you ended up going home with him and fucking him?” Mia exclaimed obnoxiously loud in the supermarket, making you glare at her as you got a few disapproving stares from fellow shoppers.

“Oh, you need to work on your indoor voice. You will end up spilling my life story to the world,” you said, elbowing Mia, who shrugged.

“So well, was he the kind of dick you want inside you again, or what?” Mia asked as you grabbed some pasta and put it in your shopping cart.

“He asked me out,” you replied.“Well, sort of. He said he doesn’t believe in waiting a while to text, so he said he’d text me today because he enjoyed my company,” you clarified, and you saw Mia’s grin widen.

“What does he do?” Mia asked. “He’s a professor of literature and SNU,” you responded.

“Damn, I need your luck to get that kind of dick on a night out, a qualified dick, if you will,” Mia joked, making you laugh.

“I don’t know, he still hasn’t texted, and it’s nearly 7, and if he texts any later than that, it’ll just be for a hookup, and I don’t want to be a booty call,” you explained, and Mia nodded.

“Well, he’s a professor at one of the most prestigious universities. Maybe he got busy, and if he enjoyed your company, I’m sure he doesn’t only want sex,” Mia explained. You shrugged unsurely, and your phone buzzed in your pocket as if on cue.

Unknown Number: Hey, it’s Seungcheol. Sorry for not texting earlier like I said. Students had a lot of concerns, and it’s been a long day. I finally wrapped up, and if you haven’t made plans already, I’d like to take you out for a late-night dessert.

You smiled at your phone for what must have been too long, considering Mia decided to nudge you. “Fucking reply, you dork, and have him for dessert because that man must be sweet,” Mia teased, wiggling her brows at you, making you roll your eyes at her as you typed a reply.

You: Hey Seungcheol, that’s okay. Dessert? Colour me intrigued, where should I meet you?

Not even a minute afteryou sent the message, you saw the words “Seungcheol is typing,” flash across your screen, making you smile and feel giddy like a teenager having a crush.

Seungcheol: Send me your location, and I’ll pick you up.

You: Sure!

You: Location sent

Seungcheol: Perfect, see you in a few!

You grinned at your phone as Mia headed towards the check-out aisle. “Wow, he’s offering to pick you up, too. He’s already a keeper,” Mia stated, and you shrugged.

“How?” You asked, curious to understand your best friend’s logic.

“He’s going out of his way to meet you and pick you up; he wants to spend more time with you before the date. He isn’t simply telling you to meet him at a place. He is making the time and effort to take you out on a date after a busy day. That’s a good sign,” Mia explained, making you smile.

You and Mia had paid for your groceries and now were waiting outside. You were conversing with Mia when a sleek black Mercedes caught your eye. It was a sexy car, and your eyes widened when Seungcheol stepped out of the car and smiled at you.

“Sorry, I hope I didn’t keep you in the cold too long?” Seungcheol said, and you shook your head at him.

“Not at all,” you said shyly, earning a particularly hard nudge at your side from Mia, who noticed your shyness.

“I’m Mia, you must be Seungcheol,” she greeted, making Seungcheol laugh.

“I remember you, you’re trouble; you were the one who was kind enough to inundate me with Y/N’s sex life that night,” Seungcheol recalled, flustering Mia and you.

“Well, it worked out, didn’t it?” Mia countered, making Seungcheol smile, allowing his deep dimples to appear, making you smile too.

“Can’t deny that”, Seungcheol agreed, winking at you, making you smile even more, so much so that you thought your cheeks would break.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Mia said as she started to walk away.

“Wait, Mia, why don’t I drive you home before we both head out on our date? It’s cold and late,” Seungcheol offered, and for some reason, that stung. You don’t know why. She was your best friend; she’d never betray you, and Seungcheol, well, he was nothing to you right now.

Mia looked at you nervously, and you shrugged before nodding. “Yeah, come on, girl, it’s cold out. Besides, it’s not a long drive,” you rambled nervously, and Mia nodded as she approached the car.

Seungcheol was nothing but a gentleman, holding the door open for youfirst, letting you in the front seat next to him, and then moving to help Mia into the back seat, and you couldn’t help the ugly feeling of jealousy that stirred in the pit of your stomach.

Why would he help her after me? You thought and shook your head to rid yourself of those thoughts. You needed to compose yourself before Seungcheol joined you in the driver’s seat.

“Alright, Mia, why don’t you tell me your address?” Seungcheol asked, flashing her a smile. You forced another smile at your best friend, annoyed at how your emotions clouded your ability to be rational, but Mia was right. Seungcheol was a catch, and you didn’t fancy losing him to your best friend.

The entire drive to Mia’s apartment was filled with awkward silence, aside from a couple of jokes from Seungcheol and a few nervous giggles from Mia. You kept your gaze on the road ahead, refusing to engage in the conversation. You hated how your insecurities got the better of you and ruined a good time.

“Thank you, Seungcheol,” Mia said softly, and for a second, you wanted to roll your eyes at her when you heard how sickly sweet her voice sounded, but then you realised that’s what she always sounded like and that your insecurity nearly caused you to ignore your best friend. You could tell Mia had noticed too as she too kept stealing worried glances at you.

“Hey, I’d never, and I’m sorry I imposed tonight,” Mia said as she exited the car and stood by your window. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding and nodded.

“I know, I’m just sorry. I got insecure,” you admitted quietly, and Mia nodded before hugging you awkwardly.

“Have fun tonight. Remember, he wants to spend time with you. You’re not a second option,” Mia reassured, and you smiled at her, mentally noting to send her a long and apologetic text after tonight.

Seungcheol, ever the gentleman, walked Mia to her door and waited for her to go inside before hereturned to the car, sat in the driver’s seat, and smiled at you, which you half-heartedly returned.

“Okay, did you and Mia argue before I showed up?” Seungcheol asked, and you shook your head. “Then why did you act as if I overstepped by dropping her home?” Seungcheol questioned, and you sighed.

“Can I blame it on insecurities, and you can drop this?” You asked, and Seungcheol’s face softened.

“I want to spend my night with you, not her. How about I make it up to you over the best cake ever?” Seungcheol suggested, and you nodded, smiling at him.

The drive was filled with the music in Seungcheol’s car and lo-fi remixes, and halfway along the drive, Seungcheol broke the silence.

“So, this place is far, but I promise you it’s the best dessert place in the world. I know the owners, and I’ve known them since I was a kid, so they’re like family, so the food is legit,” Seungcheol rambled, making you smile.

“So busy day, huh?” You asked, and Seungcheol nodded as he moved one hand off the steering wheel to lace it with yours.

“Yeah, but seeing you made it all better,” Seungcheol replied, making you smile at him.

“Cute,” you replied, making him grin as he drove.

“What about you? How was your day?” Seungcheol asked, now properly holding your hand as he kept his free hand on the steering wheel and continued to drive.

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t particularly productive. I asked a few clients if they had any upcoming projects I could assist with,” you explained

“Well, you can’t be passive about it. If you want something, you need to chase after it,” Seungcheol explained and then winced slightly. “Fuck sorry, I’ve been with students all day, repeating this shit to them, and I automatically clicked into professor mode; sorry,” Seungcheol apologised, reaching gently to take your hand and bring it to his lips.

“You’re not exactly wrong, but maybe just keep the life coach’s advice for the kids?” You joked, and Seungcheol’s eyes lit up as he pulled into the familiar driveway of the bakery.

“We’re here!” Seungcheol exclaimed excitedly as he parked the car, getting out first and heading to help you.

“Oh,” you said, pointing to your grocery bag.

“Leave it here; it’s cool,” Seungcheol replied.

“Shall we?” Seungcheol asked as he closed the car door behind you and held out his hand for you; you took it, smiling as his large hand engulfed yours, making you feel safe.

“Is that who I think it is?” A voice called out from the bakery’s back, and Seungcheol grinned, hearing the voice as he replied.

“Halmeoni, it is. Cheol is hungry,” Seungcheol said playfully as he guided you into the bakery and a more petite older woman approached Seungcheol.

“Oh, you are getting buffer by the day, and I see it’s paying off. Who is this beautiful woman?” The lady asked, making you smile shyly.

“Y/N, she and I are here on a date, halmeoni,” Seungcheol explained, making you grin even more.

“Well, I’m glad to see you are dating again. After Yoona, I thought I lost you for good,” the lady added, and you felt Seungcheol’s grip on your hand tighten at the mention of Yoona. Lost him how?

“Halmeoni, not now, please,” Seungcheol warned.

“My dear, Y/N, how rude of me. I’m Minji Kim, but you can address me as Halmeoni. Why don’t you two sit? I’ll get you the specials?” Ms. Kim offered.Seungcheol nodded as he guided you inside to find a more secluded booth to sit in.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Seungcheol said softly as you sat down. You were about to counter, saying you weren’t planning to ask him, but you decided against it. It wasn’t your place. Not tonight, at least, not on a first date.

“This is our best-selling product and Cheol’s favourite,” Ms. Kim interrupted a couple of minutes later, as she placed a molten cake on the middle of the table and placed down two forks as well.

“Enjoy, kids,” Ms. Kim said before she disappeared.

“I know it looks simple,” Seungcheol started to say, “But this is the best thing ever. Open,” Seungcheol said as he picked up a forkful of the molten cake and moved the fork to your lips. You accepted the cake, letting out a hum of approval as the chocolatey taste filled your mouth.

“Fuck, that’s amazing,” you praised, and Seungcheol smirked as he took a bite for himself.

“Halmeoni says the love she pours into the cake makes it so delicious. She’ll never tell me her recipe, even if I beg,” Seungcheol complained, and you laughed at him.

“Isn’t that better? Some things are better left unsaid. It might ruin the magic,” you said, and Seungcheol smiled slightly.

“Ah, the childlike wonder, cute,” Seungcheol said, earning a funny look from you.

“Is that a problem?” You asked, moving your hand away from him. Seungcheol shook his head.

“No, I guess I have a very black-and-white view of the world, and sometimes I fail to account that other people don’t. I like that you see the world with all its beauty and colours,” Seungcheol explained.

“Well, stick around me long enough, and maybe you’ll see the world with a bit more colour?” you suggested, and Seungcheol shrugged.

“We’ll see,” Seungcheol said, and you gathered from his tone that he didn’t fancy discussing this issue further.

“Hey, you’ve got cake on your face,” Seungcheol said, leaning forward, and you assumed he’d wipe the cake off your lips. Instead, you were met with his soft lips. You melted against his lips as they moved against yours, only for him to pull away for a second and then find your lips again. You pulled away this time with a light smile.

“Halmeoni will have the worst impression of me if all I do is make out with you here,” you joked, and Seungcheol smirked.

“I agree. How about we finish this cake, and maybe I can show you how much I wanted to spend my day with you instead of lecturing my students?” Seungcheol suggested, and you couldn’t help how your expression changed.Seungcheol caught onto it as well.

“I didn’t ask you out only to have sex with you, I promise. I want your company, but I also want to be able to hold your hand and maybe steal a few kisses here and there. I’d rather do that in a comfortable setting and not traumatise poor halmeoni,” Seungcheol clarified as he placed another kiss on your lips, and you hummed into the kiss.

“Shall we?” Seungcheol asked, and you nodded.You stood up with him, placing your hand in his, and following him to the counter as he paid for the cake, much to your and halemoni’s protests. Seungcheol smiled as he walked out the bakery door, ensuring to wave to Ms. Kim. You felt yourself becoming more enamoured by his actions.

You concluded that Seungcheol could have a hard exterior, but soft inside, much like the lava cake. He could seem slightly unapproachable with his curt and short replies, but if you dug deep enough, you knew he was filled with nothing but love and warmth, and you were determined to get to know that Seungcheol.

You were determined that you could be that one for him, the one he’d let in.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Seungcheol asked as his voice took you out of your daydream of becoming the future Mrs Choi.

“I enjoyed tonight; well, everything tonight has been so incredible,” you admitted, and Seungcheol turned to smile at you, nearly running through the red light, making you laugh and gasp.

“Fuck, do you think being distracted by you is a valid reason for running a red light?” Seungcheol joked, and you shook your head at him.

“Nope, but I think it’s cute,” you said as you placed your hand on his knee.

“That impatient? We’re almost back at mine,” Seungcheol teased, and you rolled your eyes at him,pinching his knee a bit which made him laugh.

The drive back to Seungcheol’s place was filled with jokes and flirty remarks.Once Seungcheol reached his apartment, he couldn’t park the car soon enough and hurriedly helped you out,practically running to his apartment with your hand in his.

The minute you were inside his apartment, you took a second to take off your red scarf. You placed it on the coat hanger by the door and squealed in surprise when Seungcheol turned you around in his embrace, bending down to lift you into his arms and carry you over to his sofa.

You stared at him, confused. What did he want? Was it just sex? You wondered, and Seungcheol spoke, ending your worries within seconds.

“I just want to hold you like this, in my arms, look,” Seungcheol started to say as he adjusted his position so that you were lying between his body, your chin on his toned chest. “Maybe I’m moving too quickly, but I told you I don’t believe in all that bull shit of following rules. You’re the first person I’ve felt this comfortable with for so long, so forgive me if all this is too much because I can reign it in,” Seungcheol admitted as he stroked your cheek, making you smile.

You sat up for a second tokick off your boots, taking your position back, and laying on his chest. “I don’t need you to reign any of this in,” you reassured. Seungcheol was special; he was older, wiser, and something you had never had. You weren’t about to lose him for the sake of some social constructs relating to dating.

You always felt like people made up or exaggerated when it came to how love made them feel. You had friends, like Mia, who would act like they were on cloud nine or something when they were in love, and you never understood it. It wasn’t because you were traumatised as a child or anything, far from it.

You were a happy kid, but your parents weren’t in love. You knew that your parents stayed married for your sake, and while you would always commend them for that because you knew you could never do that, you never understood the point of pretending. All that to say, you never grew up with a perfect example of what love looked like, and after shitty hookups and your fair share of fuck boys and heartbreak, you gave up on the concept.

You didn’t hate love; you just assumed it was something inconceivable that others got, the lucky ones, and you, you didn’t think you’d ever get it. You had convinced yourself that for so long, until you met Seungcheol, until that first kiss with him.

Now, four months later, you watched your boyfriend working.

That was your man, your safe space, your home. Even though there were petty fights and arguments, you two would make it work because that’s what people do when they’re in love.

They fight for each other.

“Okay, I guess I’m decent-looking enough, but you’ve been staring at my face for the past ten minutes, with a smile on yours,” Seungcheol chuckled as he looked at you.

“Wait, I’ve been staring for that long?” You asked, feeling slightly flustered. Seungcheol nodded as he pulled you closer into his chest.

“What’s on your mind?” Seungcheol asked as his hand traced patterns lazily on your lower back.

“I just-,” you started to say.“Are you real?” You asked Seungcheol, who furrowed his brows at you.

“What?” Seungcheol asked

“I don’t know, I fuck. I never believed that I could have something like this,” you said shyly, and Seungcheol smiled fondly at you.

“Like what?” Seungcheol encouraged, and you took a deep breath to sit up and adjusted until you sat crossed-legged next to Seungcheol on the bed. He soon followed, sitting up, and leaning against his headboard.

“Like, I always thought love was a beautiful concept, but it was a concept that others would get, not me. I never thought I would find someone who would love me, how you do, how you make me feel when you kiss me, and how I feel when I hold your hand. Seungcheol, I feel safe with you, and that’s something I never associated with love. Love was always so unrealistic to me,” you rambled and paused to look at Seungcheol, who smiled fondly at you.

“That’s why I asked if you were real, or something I made up because I was so desperate to feel loved and to be loved,” you admitted.

Seungcheol placed his hand over yours. “You feel safe with me?” He asked.

“The safest. I feel like I’m floating. When I’m with you, I feel like you’ve taken me to a place so high, where there is nothing but love and safety,” you babbled, letting your feelings pour out and making Seungcheol smile widely at you.

“Fuck, then, this is not a good time to say this is it?” Seungcheol said, and for a second, you felt like you had come down from the proverbial cloud you were floating on.

“Uh, say, what?” You fumbled, and Seungcheol grinned at you before leaning over to kiss your lips softly.

“To say that I love you,” Seungcheol admitted, making your eyes widen.

“To be honest, I’ve been meaning to say it for a while now.I just didn’t know if it was the right time or too soon, and I didn’t want to scare you off or anything, but hearing what you said made me realise that I too have nothing to fear when I’m with you,” Seungcheol confessed, making you? at his words as you moved to crawl into his lap.

“You love me?” You asked.

“I love you,” Seungcheol repeated, and you beamed at him.

“I love you more.”

Four Months Later: The First Crack in the Glass

“How was work?” You asked Seungcheol one evening, and he groaned as he flopped into your bed, wrapped his arms around your waist, and cuddled you, making you smile. Your boyfriend might have been a big shot and a fancy literature professor, but he was a giant teddy bear behind closed doors, and in moments like this, you were reminded of it.

“You want to know?” Seungcheol asked as he sat up and stood up to take off his shirt and pull off his work clothes to change into a more comfortable pair of sweats.

“I was teaching the kids about Sylvia Plath,” Seungcheol said slowly.

“Oh, shit, I’ve heard of her,” you said absentmindedly, and Seungcheol let out a soft hum.

“She’s one of the greatest writers, and you’ve only heard of her?” Seungcheol asked. There was a hint of condescension in his voice, and you couldn’t help but feel like there was a hint of judgment from him.

“Cheol, tell me about her work,” you said, trying to push down the funny feeling his words left you with.

“I mean, what can I say? You smiled, watching him, listening intently as he fell into a soliloquy about Sylvia Plath’s writing. “The woman was troubled. Like any great artist, she used her pain to create beauty. She turned her darkest thoughts into the most beautiful words,” Seungcheol explains.

“Who’s your favourite poet?” Seungcheol asked suddenly, and you shrugged.

“I don’t know if I have one. Literature was something I liked, and I enjoyed everything I read. I don’t think I cared enough to love one author exclusively,” you replied, earning a grunt from Seungcheol.

“You couldn’t have liked it enough if you can’t even tell me a favourite author. What about a poem or novel?” Seungcheol pressed, and you glared at him.

“You sound like an arrogant prick,” you mumbled, and Seungcheol laughed and held up his hands in defeat.

“Okay, I apologise,” Seungcheol said, but the smile on his face made you realise that he didn’t mean it.

“I loved the play A Doll’s House,” you said, and Seungcheol’s eyes widened.

“You’re familiar with Ibsen?” He asked, unable to mask the surprise in his voice.

“Just because I’m not some fancy fucking professor doesn’t make me stupid,” you said, inching away from him, and Seungcheol let out a soft sigh.

“What did you love the most about the play?” Seungcheol asked.

“I guess, like Nora, I too feel like I always need to be a certain way and that people have an expectation of what and how I should be,” you admitted, looking down at your blanket, and you felt Seungcheol pull you into his arms.

“I hope that’s not because of my thoughtless remarks?” Seungcheol asked, cupping your face with his large hands, and you shook your head.

“No, but I guess just life. I just see so many people my age settling down, with a family and kids, and everything, and they have a steady job, and just everything,” you mumbled, and Seungcheol nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“So? That’s their journey, not yours, my love. You will have all those things when it’s right. You don’t need to rush it,” Seungcheol said, and you smiled at him.

“That’s one of my biggest insecurities, and I don’t think I’ve ever voiced it, not even to Mia,” you confessed.

“I appreciate that you trust me with it and know that it’s a feeling that I’ll keep safe with me,” Seungcheol promised his words making you melt.

“You’re my safety net?” You asked, and Seungcheol nodded.

“Yep,” Seungcheol responded.

“Oh, babe, my friends wanted to meet you, so I asked them over to dinner at mine, join me? I want to introduce them to the woman, who, I quote, ‘makes me less of a miserable bastard’,” Seungcheol explained.

“I’d love to,” you replied.“Wait, miserable bastard?” You asked, unable to fight the slight grin on your face.

“When Yoona and I ended things, I was a miserable bastard,” Seungcheol explained.

“Um, not to rehash shitty memories…” you started to say, and Seungcheol’s soft smile turned into a harsh glare as he spoke.

“Then don’t. I’m not interested in talking about her, and it’s none of your business,” Seungcheol snapped, and you nodded, feeling embarrassed for even bringing it up or attempting to.

“There are some things in life we keep to ourselves, right? For all our lives, a secret we take to our grave, Yoona, is that for me,” Seungcheol explained, and you sighed in acceptance, wondering how awful that relationship could have been for him to be still so resentful.

“I get it. You’ll never hear her name from me again,” you vowed.

“Thank you,” Seungcheol breathed out.

“Fuck, does this dress look okay?” You asked, waltzing out of Seungcheol’s bathroom in a black cocktail dress. Seungcheol barely looked up as he placed the wine glasses on the dinner table.

“Cheol,” you huffed, and he looked up at you.

“My friends will like you; they don’t care about what you wear,” Seungcheol said, and you walked over to the dining table with a sigh

“I get that, but still,” you trailed off, and Seungcheol shrugged.

You were about to respond when the doorbell rang. “Cool, they’re here. Just be yourself. They’ll like you,” Seungcheol affirmed, and you sighed, nodding, as you watched him open the door for his guests.

“Jeonghan, Chan, Mingyu, and Joshua, this my love, Y/N,” Seungcheol introduced you proudly, waving towards you as the four men walked into the house.You smiled and waved at them awkwardly.

“Why don’t we get a few drinks, and then we can all get acquainted?” Seungcheol offered, and the rest agreed with nods and hums.

“So, what do you do?” Jeonghan asked.

“Well, I’m a web designer, so I do a lot of freelance work,” you explained, and Jeonghan nodded, smiling. “That’s incredibly impressive,” Jeonghan complimented.

“What do you do?” You asked, and Jeonghan took a sip of his wine before answering.

“I also work with your boyfriend, except I teach law,” Jeonghan replied, and you nodded.

You were about to reply when you were suddenly interrupted by Seungcheol. “Oh, Jeonghan, don’t bore her; she’s not into the academia,” Seungcheol said. You knew he meant no harm by it, but it made you feel like an idiot.

Did your boyfriend think you weren’t smart enough to converse with someone other than him?

“Well, everyone likes criminal law, murders, and stuff,” Jeonghan joked, attempting to ease the tension, as he noticed how your face fell with Seungcheol’s comment.

“I know, I love watching crime documentaries,” you added. “Same. What would you say are your favourites? Forensic files?” Jeonghan asked.

“Y/N, you know that watching a documentary on crime, especially an extremely overproduced TV show, does not mean you understand the details of the law. You watch crime shows because you find it cool, but Jeonghan teaches the law. He respects and appreciates it immensely,” Seungcheol added, and you baulked at his words.

“Ignore him, Y/N, this pompous literature professor thinks that if you don’t like Sylvia Plath, you’re a disgrace as a reader. Seungcheol can’t understand that while her work is untouchable, it’s too much, and that’s not a mark of one’s intelligence. Rather what they like,” Jeonghan said. His last words were directed to Seungcheol and were emphasised with a particularly intense glare at him.

“Cheol, why don’t you look after the kids? Yeah, I think Joshua said something about replacing all your vintage books with decoys,” Jeonghan offered, and you were thankful for his comment as Seungcheol stalked off to the kitchen.

Jeonghan looked at you sympathetically before motioning for another man to join you in the conversation. He looked younger, and he had a bright smile.

“This is Chan. He’s the baby of the group,” Jeonghan said, and you couldn’t help but think that his words were a dig at you, but you saw no malice in his voice. He just wanted you to meet another face.

You started a conversation with Jeonghan and Chan; this time, it was just about lighthearted topics. Thankfully, Seungcheol didn’t interrupt with a patronising comment.

“Dinner’s set!” Seungcheol announced, and you sighed. You finally felt better about what happened between you two earlier, but you decided to swallow your pride and join him at the dining table.

“No way you did all this, Cheol,” A man you vaguely remember called Mingyu mumbled, and Seungcheol laughed.

“True, my love here..” Seungcheol said as he moved closer to you and wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you in to kiss your cheek softly.

“She helped. I would have burnt the bloody house down,” Seungcheol said.You took a deep breath before nodding in agreement.

You decided you’d chalk up Seungcheol’s initial crappy behaviour to him just being nervous, and maybe he just wanted to save you from a boring conversation but just had a terrible way of executing his plan.

You’d let it go and try to enjoy the rest of the night.

Except, that didn’t go to plan. Several minutes into the conversation, Seungcheol’s grip on your hand loosened, and by the time dessert was placed, Seungcheol had his chair tilted so that his back was facing you and no longer looking at you or engaging you in the conversation.

You felt awkward. Everyone in the room knew each other except you. You were the odd one out, and your boyfriend seemed completely fine ignoring you, too. You didn’t want him to coddle you, but you didn’t expect him to turn his back on you.

You placed your hand on Seungcheol’s back once to get his attention, but he merely shrugged it off, and you felt tears threatening to spill, so you politely and wordlessly excused yourself, not that anyone noticed.

You excused yourself to Seungcheol’s study, where you found yourself a bottle of wine, and decided to sip that and stayed all night and didn’t emerge until after dinner and his friends left.

“Hey, I thought I’d find you here. Why didn’t you join us for dinner? I told them you came down with a headache, but I got to say you didn’t make me look good, doing that,” Seungcheol explained as he walked into his study, and you rolled your eyes at him as you took another sip of your wine.

“I just wanted to introduce you to my friends, and you just decided you couldn’t be bothered?” Seungcheol scolds, and you scoff.

“Why are you so pissed off?” Seungcheol asked as he sat across you, and you stood up and walked over to the window.

“I’m not pissed off. Who said I was pissed off?” You said sarcastically, and Seungcheol sighed.

“You’re acting pissed off,” Seungcheol added. You sighed before speaking.

“You acted like I was a fucking dumbass; what the hell was the comment you gave to Jeonghan? That I’m not into academia, or that I can't understand the law because I watch a Netflix show about crime? You made me look like a fucking moron,” you spat.

“Look, whenever I try to show you anything about my work, you get bored, and you either fall asleep or can’t keep up. I was trying to save you that with Jeonghan,” Seungcheol replied, and you stared at him in shock.

“I don’t fall asleep because I’m not interested. I fall asleep because you talk to me like a student. You lecture me; if you spoke to me about your work the way you do with your friends, with that same enthusiasm, then maybe I’d pay more attention, but you fucking don’t!” You shot back, making Seungcheol sigh.

“So, what was I meant to do? Let you try and have a conversation with Jeonghan about the law, something you know nothing about?” Seungcheol asked, and you nearly slapped the smug look off his face.

“Fuck you. You don’t need to have a master’s degree or prior knowledge about a subject to be interested in it and for fucks sake. I just wanted to get to know your friends, but whenever I tried, you intercepted the conversation with a comment that just made me sound like a fucking child,” you yelled at him, and Seungcheol groaned.

“This was meant to be a good night, and you’re making it all about you,” Seungcheol mumbled.

“Me? How? You barely acknowledged me, you turned your fucking chair around and didn’t look at me during dinner. You barely tried to include me. Your friends, they’re all older than me, and you made no fucking effort to include me,” you yelled at Seungcheol.

“You have a mouth. You could speak up. No one would stop you,” Seungcheol offered, earning a glare from you.

“Why would I fucking do that? Whenever I contribute anything, you show up to either call me an idiot, or when I do try to get your attention actively, you fucking shrug me off. Do you know how that feels?” You asked, your voice trembling.

“Fuck don’t cry. That’s not fucking fair. I don’t even remember the fact I shrugged you off. You can’t attack me for something I don’t even know about,” Seungcheol retaliated.

“Fuck can you just acknowledge that you fucked up a little bit? You’re making me feel so fucking stupid,” you choked out, and Seungcheol shrugged.

“I don’t think I’m making you feel that way. I think you’re making yourself feel that way,” Seungcheol offered, and you glared at him.

“Fine, then, if I’m so fucking stupid. Then, I should just let you be. I’m going home. I don’t want you to feel even more stupid with me around,” you snarled, slamming your wine glass down hard enough to startle Seungcheol but not hard enough to break the glass.

You stormed out of the room as Seungcheol helplessly followed after you. “Wait, Y/N, fucking wait. It’s late, please just stay until the morning, and I’ll drop you off; I can’t drive you home yet, I’ve had too much to drink for it to be safe,” Seungcheol argued, and you scowled at him.

“I don’t fucking need this. I can take a cab,” you said, grabbing your phone, and Seungcheol shook his head at you.

“Not a fucking chance, not so late, please; just let me sober up, and I’ll drive you back?” Seungcheol pleaded, and you gave in.

“I’m going to clean up,” you said, shoving past him and heading into the kitchen as you started to clean up the mess.

“Let me help,” Seungcheol offered, and you ignored him. “Babe, please, I’m fucking sorry, just let me help you?” Seungcheol asked again, and you failed to notice how close he was standing next to you. You bumped into him, managing to drench yourself in red wine.

“Fuck,” you hissed out as the tears threatened to spill over.

“Go, take a shower, I’ll clean up,” Seungcheol said, taking the glasses out of your hands, and you nodded as you silently walked back to the bedroom and stripped, putting your black dress in the laundry hamper and stepping into the shower.

You felt the tears stream down your face. As you washed up, you started to rationalise the fight in your mind. Maybe you had overreacted, or maybe Seungcheol just got caught up in the moment, hell you’ve been guilty of that yourself when you meet your friends, so why should you hold him to a different standard?

You stepped out of the shower, wrapped yourself in one of Seungcheol’s fluffy white towels, and headed out of the bathroom to find Seungcheol sitting looking forlorn on the edge of the bed.

“I’m fucking sorry,” Seungcheol mumbled, and you sighed as you leant against the wall.

“I may have overreacted a bit. I just wanted to feel loved, but I get it, time and place,” you said.

“I do love you, and tonight I acted like a fucking ass. I just wanted to impress my friends, and I did it at your expense. Can you forgive me?” Seungcheol asked.

“I can,” you said, holding out your hand to him, which he took and walked over until he was towering over you.

“How can I make it up to you?” Seungcheol asked as he placed a soft kiss on your lips, which you gladly reciprocated.

“Well,” you started to say as you undid the towel, letting it drop to the floor, and Seungcheol smiled at you.

“You want to make it up to me, Cheol?” Seungcheol nodded furiously. You reached down and placed your hand gently on the top of his head and moved his head so his face was at your cunt.

“Show me how sorry you are,” you said, guiding his head into your pussy. Seungcheol gently pushed your back into the wall. He lifted your leg and wrapped it around his shoulder. He started by placing soft kisses, gently kissing your cunt. He ran his tongue over your folds, moaning as he tasted your arousal.

“So sweet,” Seungcheol praised and dove back in with more desperation. He moved his tongue to your clit, and flicked his tongue against it. You moaned in approval, and he continued his movements.

He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your core, lifted you, and walked over to your bed. He laid you down gently, and his mouth found your cunt again. Seungcheol positioned himself on his knees at the edge of the bed, his tongue now reaching your entrance. He pushed his tongue inside you, and you mewled at the feeling. He shoved his tongue further into your cunt, and his hand reached your clit.

He rubbed at the swollen nub, and you soon found yourself cumming on his tongue. Your hips bucked against his face as you rode out your orgasm. As soon as you got down from your high, Seungcheol shoved two fingers into your pussy making you squeal at the oversensitivity.

He pushed his fingers deep inside of you until he reached a rough patch of skin, and you squealed. He smirked, and he started moving his wrist up and down, making his fingers repeatedly hit the spot inside you. It had you seeing stars.

Your second orgasm hit you harder as you felt yourself squirt for him. You were clawing at the bedsheet for support; the way he made your body feel was incredible. He latched his full lips around your swollen clit as he furiously pumped his fingers inside you, and a few short licks and you fell apart again.

You whimpered into the bedsheet, which was now soaking wet, and you reached your hands out for him. He smirked, and he pushed you back further onto the bed as he stripped himself. Seungcheol then climbed over and on top of you. He grabbed your legs and wrapped them around his waist. His hard cock was resting against your aching cunt. Just seeing his length made you delirious.

He was so thick the first time you had sex with him, you couldn’t even comprehend his thickness. He made you feel so full and had indeed ruined you for other men. His length was perfect, it was able to go deep inside you, and the thickness another word allowed you to feel so good. He filled you up. You bucked your hips against him, rubbing your wet folds against his cock, and he hissed at that. He pushed himself into you, and you moaned at the stretch.

His hands moved to unwrap your legs and positioned them around his neck. The new position allowed him to go deeper, and he pushed deep into your cunt. His thrusts were paced perfectly. Slow enough to make you feel every inch of his cock, and fast enough to make you moan.

“Harder, Cheol,” you whimpered, and Seungcheol smirked. He pulled out of you and flipped you over onto your hands and knees. He realigned himself and pushed into you.

You and Seungcheol always played rough and pushed each other beyond your limits. Your pussy was making obscene noises as you had cummed so hard. He picked up his pace, knowing he would not last much longer, and his grip went to your throat. You somehow found the ability to tap his hand, letting him know to choke you harder. You liked it, and so did he.

His grip around you tightened. He pushed into you, and you fell apart again. This time, you screamed into the pillow, and Seungcheol released not too long after you. He flipped you back over, laying you down on your back. He moved down again to your pussy, and licked and sucked. He moaned, tasting your release and his.

He always did this; he wanted to lick your pussy after cumming inside you. You didn’t complain. A few more licks and one final suck to your entrance, and you came once again. He placed the last kiss on your cunt and pulled you into his arms.

“I’m still so fucking sorry,” Seungcheol apologised, and you rolled over to place your head on his chest.

“It’s okay, just don’t do it again?” You said, and Seungcheol nodded, pulling you into a soft kiss as he held you until you fell asleep in his arms. The feeling of safety was still there, but why did it feel like there was a slight tear in the safety net that was your love?

You shook it off, thinking it was expected. Couples fought.

You two would be fine.

“Morning gorgeous,” Seungcheol mumbled the following day as he wrapped his arms around your waist while you made tea.

“Hi,” you replied, turning around to face him as he pulled you into a soft kiss.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Seungcheol said, and you looked at him nervously.

“Chill, it’s not a bad thing. Well it is, but it doesn’t affect us,” Seungcheol explained as he guided you into the living room and onto the sofa.

“Yoona, she was my first love, my first everything. Well, not everything, but she sure felt like it. I thought she and I would be together for the rest of our lives. I proposed, and she said yes, and somewhere along the road, everything went wrong. I found out she cheated several times while we were engaged,” Seungcheol explained as you held your breath.

“So, whenever she is mentioned, I get agitated because she ruined me and made me cynical until I met you. You make me happy, happier than I’ve been in a very long time,” Seungcheol explained, and you sighed, feeling terrible for him.

“I want to continue making you happy for a long time, Seungcheol. I won’t ever hurt you like her,” you promised, making him smile at you.

“I love you, and I’m sorry for last night. Look, there’s a cocktail party at the university next Friday evening. I’d like you there and want to show you off to everyone. I want to show off my girl,” Seungcheol said proudly.

“I’d like that,” you said, placing your lips on his plush ones.

You, too, would be fine. It was a slip-up, not a crack in the safety net—just a slip.

“Good god, I was starting to think that Seungcheol had kidnapped you or something,” Mia joked, making you laugh nervously as she entered your apartment and hugged you tightly.

“Why would you think that?” You asked, genuinely concerned about why your best friend had such a vivid imagination.

“Well, you’ve only spoken to me a few times within the four months that you and Seungcheol have been dating, and I say this with as much honesty as I can. Don’t become one of those girls that ditches all her friends once she finds a guy,” Mia joked, but you knew there was some weight to her words.

“Mia, that was in university, and it happened once. I’m not the same person anymore,” you defended, and Mia nodded.

“So why did you want me to come over, girls’ night, or trouble in paradise?” Mia asked, and how you chewed your bottom lip nervously was enough of a tell for Mia to sigh and understand.

“Why don’t you sit? I’ll grab the wine, and I’ll explain everything,” you explained another word, and Mia nodded as she kicked off her shoes and got comfortable on your couch.

You handed her a glass of cabernet and held another glass for yourself as you sat down on the sofa and started telling her about every detail for the last four months. It was going well until you finished recalling the details of last night’s fight.

“Wait, he did fucking what, and you fucking forgave him? Why because he made you cum?” Mia accused, and you cringed. You had just finished recounting the entire story of the dinner with Seungcheol.

“He made a mistake,” you mumbled, and Mia scoffed. “A mistake is forgetting to order dessert, not ignoring your girlfriend, or treating her like she’s a bumbling idiot!” Mia fired back, making you sink into your seat.

“Sorry, you need to talk to him about this. Sex is not an apology, and why did you forgive him? Did he just gaslight you into forgiving him? Is that what happened? Did he say that you’re being crazy or shit like that?” Mia interrogated, and you kept shrinking in your seat.

“Mia, shut up. Stop using such extreme words for him,” you whimpered. You didn’t like how loud her voice had gotten, and she sighed.

“He used sex as an apology. Y/N, do you not know how big of a red flag that is? And the fact that you gave in makes it even worse because you’ve now set the precedent that he can pull this sort of shit with you, and you’ll forgive him if he makes you cum hard enough!” Mia rattled off, and you wanted to smack her if it meant shutting her up. Instead of being rational, you decided to defend your boyfriend, even if it meant doing it at the expense of hurting your best friend.

“Mia fuck you. You were in a relationship with, what was that guy’s name, you remember, the one who cheated on you for four months straight, and you kept taking him back. You’re going to lecture me about being spineless in my relationship when you let a guy walk all over you for four months straight because you were so fucking desperate!” You snarled and regretted the minute the words left your lips because you saw how hurt overtook Mia’s face and how her lower lips trembled.

“I haven’t seen this side of you in a while. You were like this in university, where once you fell for a guy, you became blind to his every flaw and then lashed out at anyone who tried to tell you otherwise. You know what, Y/N, you know where I live. Find me when you decide to take off your rose-coloured glasses. I can’t bear the sight of you right now,” Mia said, placing the wine glass down on your coffee table and storming out of your house.

You felt awful, but Mia was wrong to assume that Seungcheol would use sex as an apology instead of actually apologising instead. You shook your head and sighed, finishing your glass of wine. You would reach out to Mia eventually.

“Fucking hell, you look beautiful, my love. I might just be the luckiest man alive,” Seungcheol praised as you stepped out of your bedroom.

You wore a red evening gown that exposed enough of your chest to be enticing but also respectable for a formal event at a university. You topped off your look with makeup that brought out your best features and slipped on red strappy heels.

“Shall we?” Seungcheol asked.You looked up at him. He was wearing a black suit, and you honestly wanted to skip the university party and have him take you right here. Now, as if he could read your thoughts, Seungcheol laughed.

“Don’t worry, you can rip this suit off me after tonight,” Seungcheol said, making you laugh too as you took his hand and headed to the party.

“Y/N! So lovely to see you again,” Jeonghan greeted when you and Seungcheol entered the venue.

“What about me?” Seungcheol joked childishly, making Jeonghan roll his eyes.

“Needy, isn’t he?” Jeonghan teased, and you laughed.

“But you love me,” Seungcheol said, and you smiled

“I do,” you said, making him smile backbefore he looked up, and he suddenly froze as his eyes fixated on a figure across the room.

“Cheol?” You asked, noticing how Jeonghan also looked tense as both men intently stared at the figure, now making her way across the room to greet them.

“Jeonghan, my favourite law professor, you know my students miss you dearly!” The lady joked.

“Yoona,” Jeonghan acknowledged, and you, like Seungcheol, felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

This was Yoona?

This was the woman that broke Seungcheol’s heart? This woman, who Seungcheol failed to explain, worked alongside him. She was a colleague of his. He saw her every day at work, and nowhere during the four months did he think to mention that he still worked alongside his ex-fiancé.

You also felt Seungcheol let go of your hand, and you could have sworn he inched away from you.

“Seungcheol, it’s so lovely to see you, and who might this be?” Yoona asked as her gaze turned to you, making you gulp and then pale in horror as Seungcheol could not answer for a second.

“She’s a friend,” Seungcheol mumbled, and you saw Jeonghan shake his head slightly, and you sighed at him, holding your hand to out to Yoona

“Pleasure to meet you. How do you know Seungcheol?” You asked, feigning innocence, and you heard Seungcheol fail to bite back a hiss.

“I’m a colleague of his, and oh, I guess we have some history, actually pun intended on that.I teach art history here. Are you a prospective student?” Yoona asked, and you stared at her and looked back to see Seungcheol ’s poker face staring back at you.

“No, I’m not a student. I’m amazed that you’d think that,” you replied, unable to keep the slight bite use a different word your tone had to it.

“Well, what do you?” Yoona asked, and you were about to answer when Yoona beat you to the punch.

“Well, you must be a fellow academic. Our Cheol here has a type,” Yoona said as she shot you a wink and waltzed away from the conversation, leaving you a mess and Seungcheol angry.

“Okay, I’m going to leave you two to it,” Jeonghan said as he rushed off too. You started to feel the room close in on you and you just wanted to leave.

“Would you excuse me? I need to make a phone call,” you said hastily as you ripped your arm out of Seungcheol’s hold and nearly ran out of the ballroom and outside to a quieter area of the venue until you found a secluded bench to sit on as you gathered your thoughts.

“I thought I’d find you here,” you turned around to see Seungcheol standing, staring at you withhis hands in his pockets and looking at you with an emotion you couldn’t decipher. Was it guilt or annoyance?

“That’s Yoona?” You asked, and Seungcheol simply stared at you.

“The Yoona?” You repeated, and Seungcheol sighed, nodding as he walked over to stand across from you. You could not look at him.

“What?” Seungcheol asked, and you let out a dry laugh at his ability to be so damn obtuse.

“This is the woman who broke your fucking heart. You work alongside her, and you never once thought to, oh, I don’t know, mention that she is not only your ex but your fucking colleague?” You snarled another word, and Seungcheol sighed.

“Grow up, adultshave to- what?” Seungcheol paused mid-speech when he saw you glaring at him.

“Do not fucking patronise me. This is not an age issue. Your ex,who at the mention of her name, you become a frigid bastard.You failed to mention that you work with her!” You repeated, raising your voice.

“What do you fucking expect me to do to? Run away? We met here, fuck, I’m a grown man. I can’t run from my problems!” Seungcheol shouted back, and you sighed.

“You don’t get it do you?” You choked out.

“No, because you’re acting like a fucking child, and I am not one. I need to deal with every situation, no matter how unpleasant it is!” Seungcheol spat.

“Fuck, shut the fuck up about being more mature because you’re not, not even for a fucking second. How the fuck do you expect to have a future with me when your past is there in front of your eyes every fucking day, and the worst part is that you never told me. You act as if I gave you this new lease on love, but now I don’t know if that’s something you can sustain because the woman who broke your heart is your colleague. What if one day she wants to try again? How do I know that I know that you won’t go running?” You rambled, letting a tear slide down your face.

“You’re being selfish and so fucking unfair,” Seungcheol retorted.“Do you not think so?” Seungcheol asked rhetorically

.“Fucking hell, I told you she cheated on me while I was fucking engaged. Do you think I have no dignity or some shit that I’d go back running to the woman who ruined me?” Seungcheol yelled, and you shrank into yourself.

“Can you just do what I do, and fucking grow up and realise that in life you need to put up with people who you may not what anything to do with, but that’s what being an adult is like?” Seungcheol continued to yell, each word piercing your heart.

“Oh, then again, what would you fucking know about being an adult? You are a 25-year-old with no fucking direction in life. You have no stable job or anything stable. In contrast, all your friends are either settling down, and you fuck, you sit at home with no motivation to go out and find yourself some work,” Seungcheol yelled, using your biggest insecurity against you.

“You have no fucking stability, and you act like a fucking child, so don’t you dare lecture me on how to behave,” Seungcheol spat and then sighed deeply when he realised what he said.

“Y/N-,” Seungcheol started to say, and you held your hand up to him.

“No, fuck don’t, Cheol, don’t you fucking dare. You used my biggest insecurity against me. Who the fuck does that, huh?” You asked, and Seungcheol sighed, looking down.

“As for stability, you’re right. I don’t have a ton, but if there was something that I thought gave me some semblance of stability, I thought it’d be you.I thought that at least it would you, but you aren’t my safety net anymore, are you?” You yelled, and Seungcheol looked down in shame.

“I’m sorry. I told you seeing her makes me turn into something else!” Seungcheol weakly defended, and you glared at him.

“No. Fuck you, you don’t get to do this. What about being an adult, huh? Being an adult means not getting set off by every situation that doesn’t favour you. Instead, it’s about finding ways to cope. It’s about setting boundaries, so your past doesn’t hurt you and hurt the people in your present,” you choked out the last word as Seungcheol took a step forward towards you.

“Y/N,” Seungcheol started to say, and you ignored him.

“Just fucking go back to your party. I’m going home. I’ll text you, but please leave me alone for tonight,” you said, pushing past Seungcheol.

“Please let me know when you get home,” Seungcheol said weakly, and you rolled your eyes at him.

“I said I would, didn’t I? Now, fucking move,” you spat, storming out of the garden and out of the venue as you waited for your Uber to arrive.

You had barely gotten home that night when you heard someone pounding on your front door. You groaned, knowing it was Seungcheol. You glared at the front door, hoping that if you ignored the incessant pounding, then he’d get the hint and he’d just leave, but Seungcheol was relentless. You knew that.

You sighed, walking to the front door and opening it to reveal your teary-eyed boyfriend.

“Baby, can I please explain?” Seungcheol asked, and you ignored him as you let him into your house, and he closed the front door behind him.

You started walking back into the house, Seungcheol trailing behind you. Once you were inside, you turned to him, and before you could say anything. Seungcheol dropped to his knees, hugging your waist, begging for forgiveness. You ran your hands through his hair.

“Cheol, it’s okay.”

Seungcheol carried you to the shower, where he helped you shower and clean. He helped you dry up and pulled you into his arms once you were both curled up on the bed.

Seungcheol ’s fingers were gently ghosting your cunt. You felt him turn you to face him; he captured your lips in his full ones. His hand finding your core, rubbing your clit, he did this till you fell apart. He repeated that almost four times until he pushed himself inside you till he came.

You couldn’t sleep that night. Only one question plagued your mind.

Since when did sex make up for an apology?

You woke up the following day sore and worn out. Not just from the fight last night that left you out and alone in the cold but also from Seungcheol fucking you into the mattress. You heard faint snores from him, and you took it as an opportunity to get some alone time. You wondered, did he think sex would make up for what had happened?

After showering and cleaning yourself up, you headed to the kitchen to make breakfast, subconsciously making breakfast for two. You were stirring the noodles waiting for the water to boil, when you felt two strong arms wrap around your waist. You felt Seungcheol place kisses along your neck, and you melted into his embrace for a second until the events of last night came back to you.

“Cheol, can you set the table up? I’ll get breakfast ready.” You said and you felt Seungcheol press a kiss to your cheek before running off to set the dining table. Once you made your way over with the contents of breakfast, you sat down and started to eat.

“Baby?” Seungcheol’s voice broke the silence, and you looked up to see him staring at you. His eyes were red, brimming with tears. You felt your heart clench.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry about last night,” Seungcheol started to apologise again; his voice was breaking as he tried to contain himself.

“Which part, Seungcheol? The part where you failed to introduce me as your girlfriend, or the part where you threw my insecurities against me, or the part where you told me to grow the fuck up?” You fumed.

“All of it, all of it,” Seungcheol said, standing up to kneel in front of you. “I fucked up so much, but,” Seungcheol started to say, and you interrupted him.

“If you think that fucking me last night made it better, it didn’t because now I’m wondering if you think sex is the solution to all our problems,” you said.

“Never, I just, I’m shit with words at times, and I knew that at least my actions could prove my love to you. It’s a shit thing to do, but I didn’t do it to distract you from last night,” Seungcheol replied.

“I want to talk about everything, but I want a breakdown of everything. First, why did you pull away from me when you saw Yoona? Were you embarrassed?” you asked, your voice breaking, and Seungcheol shook his head.

“Of course not,” Seungcheol replied swiftly, and you glared at him.

“Because all I do wonder if when you call what we have love, you never call it what it is,” you admitted, and Seungcheol sighed as he stood up.

“Come on, let’s talk on the couch,” Seungcheol offered, and you stood up, taking Seungcheol ’s hand as you walked over to your couch.

“I tell you, I love you,” Seungcheol said, and you nodded.

“You do tell me that you love me, but the way you do it is like it’s a secret,” you mumbled, feeling a tear roll down your cheek.

“I get that I’m younger, and I’m not some fancy professor with a huge savings account, but the way you act at times, you act like you are ashamed of me. Fuck, for Yoona to say that you deviated from your type to date me. What does that mean? Am I some charity case, where you’ll date a non-academic girl, and then later I’ll be a notch in your belt, a funny story to tell over Christmas, with your real wife, and everything?” You babbled as you broke into a sob, and you felt Seungcheol pull you into his arm as he hugged you tightly.

“You think about a future with me?” Seungcheol asked, and you scoffed.

“Is that all you took from everything I just said?” You asked.

“No, but it gave me hope. Look, Yoona brings out the worst in me, and you were right last night to tell me that as adults, we can let that jar us or act out because that’s life, right? Meeting people and getting to know people you may not like is life, but Yoona, at one point, was my life. She was my future until she ruined it. Every time I see her, I lash out because I’m brought back to the headspace that I was in when she cheated,” Seungcheol explained, pausing to take a breath.

“She reminds me of every insecurity I had, she takes me back to a very dark headspace, and instead of working my way out of that, I lash out because fuck, I’m scared that it’ll happen again,” Seungcheol admitted looking down.

“You think I’d cheat on you?” You asked.

“No, but you’re young, gorgeous, and still have so much ahead of you. I woudn’t blame you if you found someone your age,” Seungcheol mumbled, making you scoff again.

“I’m with you, aren’t I? Unless this is your plan? Pushing me so far that I no longer want to be with you? Is that what you’re trying to do?” You asked, and Seungcheol shook his head immediately.

“Then why the fuck is this constantly an issue?” You snapped, and Seungcheol winced slightly at your tone.

“I guess when I first started dating you, you were so different and, in a good way, a fresh breath of air, but everyone around me started joking that maybe you know it was just a fling because we are so opposite at times. However, as the months with you progressed, I know that’s not it.I know I love you, and I’m so fucking sorry that for so long I made you feel otherwise,”

Seungcheol paused to take a breath. “I love you, and I am serious about this. I want to make this work, I do,” Seungcheol admitted another word.

“Then stop lashing out at me and talk to me. Stop running away from me, run to me instead,” you said softly, and Seungcheol smiled at you.

“I didn’t mean what I said about you having no stability. It was so fucking shitty of me to use your insecurity against you. I just, fuck, there’s no excuse, I’m just fucking sorry,” Seungcheol apologised, his head hanging low.

“Yeah, that stung. Look, how about we take a week, cool off, and I guess catch up in a week?” You offered, and Seungcheol agreed.

“How’s this, I’ll plan a getaway for us, and I’ll cook us food too!” Seungcheol suggested, and you laughed.

“I’ll follow a recipe to a tee and have Mingyu monitor me?” Seungcheol proposed making you grin at him.

“Fine, but if I get sick from your food,” you started to say, and Seungcheol laughed.

“Then I’ll kiss it all better for you,” Seungcheol said lamely.

“I’ll see you in a week, my love, and remind you why you fell in love with me,” Seungcheol promised as he placed a soft kiss on your lips, and you smiled as you watched him walk away.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise that you were holding when he walked away. You nodded to yourself. You and Seungcheol would be fine, this was a slight tear in the safety net, but you two would be fine, you convinced yourself, for it was only a tiny tear.

“Hey,” you mumbled, embarrassed, as Mia opened her front door the following evening.

“What, have you come here to tell me I deserve no love or something?” Mia spat, and you felt like you had been slapped, and looked down in shame. You deserved that much.

“Mia, I fucked up. Can we talk, though?” You asked, holding the box of doughnuts in your hand, and she sighed, nodding as she let you in.

“So, what, I’m assuming the Mr. Perfectly Wrong fucked up again?” Mia mocked, and you sighed as you kicked off your shoes and sat on her couch.

“He was engaged in the past, and she was like his dream girl,” you said, unable to stop the way your voice trembled at recalling Yoona and realising how she was the opposite of you. She was dignified, elegant, older, wiser, or whatever other negative thought you tortured yourself with.

“She still works with him. They both teach at the university; he never told me, Mia. I had to find out because I met her at a university event,” you mumbled, unable to stop the tear that slid down your face.

Mia sighed as she sat down next to you, and you took it as a positive sign to launch into the story of the fight.

“Oh, that mother fucker!” Mia swore, and you flinched at her expression.

“Mia, he was hurt,” you mumbled, and she scoffed.

“How many excuses do you want to give this piece of shit? I get that love is blind. I fucking do. You cruelly pointed it out to me, but let me tell you something, my love, he’s blinded you. He’s no good for you. He’s condescending, judgmental, rude, and worst of all you keep forgiving him when he gives you half-assed apologies!” Mia ranted, making you look down in shame.

“Is that who you want to fucking be with?” Mia asked. “A man who keeps you like a secret, aman who acts like you’re a kid, a man who talks down to you?” You sighed.

“Maybe it’s just a bad spell. He’s not like this, ever,” you defended, and Mia groaned, rubbing her forehead.

“This man, I don’t care how good the sex is or how amazing the good moments are. The good moments aren’t enough to mask that he is inherently flawed and has a complex. A complex that he will project onto you, and you will struggle to try to meet the ideal woman in his head. Still, you’ll try all your life because that woman doesn’t exist, and not to be unkind, but it’s because that woman will never exist for him. He doesn’t know what he wants,” Mia explained, calming down as she sat down next to you.

“He said he loved me,” you mumbled weakly, and Mia nodded.

“I’m not denying that he cares for you, but his ego comes before you, Y/N. You will bend over backward for this man, and you have, but see if he even bothers to put in an ounce of that same effort that you put into this relationship,” Mia continued , and you glared at her.

“You know what? I didn’t come here to be yelled at. I get enough of that from him!” You seethed, and Mia frowned at you.

“There, right there, if you can’t even figure out what’s so fucked up about that sentence, then I don’t know what even to tell you,” Mia said.

“We’ve hit a rough spot, but we’ll be fine,” you shouted, almost as if you were convincing yourself more than Mia.

“You know what, I’ll be here when this illusion is broken,” Mia mumbled, standing up, and you took that as your cue to leave.

You stormed out of Mia’s house and drove straight to Seungcheol’s.

“Baby?” Seungcheol asked when he opened the door and saw your downcast expression.

“What’s wrong?” Seungcheol asked, and you shook your head at him.

“Can I stay here? I know we’re meant to meet at the end of the week, but I just need you,” you asked.

“Of course, my love, you know where everything is. I just have to grade one more paper. Then I’ll join you?” Seungcheol asked.

You were so worn out from the week's dramatics that you quickly showered, changed into one of Seungcheol ’s shirts, and headed to bed. You curled up in Seungcheol ’s bed. You smiled when you felt him join you later that night, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

Protecting you, never letting you go, he was your safe space.

You woke up the following morning to something stroking your thighs, and you opened your eyes to see Seungcheol ’s head placed between your legs. He was kissing your inner thighs, slowly making his way to your cunt.

You moaned as you spread your legs, placing them onto his shoulders. Seungcheol ’s luscious lips wrapped around your clit.

As he sucked, his pressure was perfect. He pushed in two fingers and thrust them in your cunt, as he sucked on your clit. He licked and fingered until you came around his fingers. Occasionally, he would run his tongue up and down your wet folds but always go back to your cunt.

“Morning, princess,” Seungcheol greeted as he hovered over your body and captured your lips in a sweet kiss. It felt like the first time you slept with him.

Passionate yet soft, you felt loved, and that was not something you felt in his embrace for a while.

“Morning, handsome,” you mumbled sleepily as Seungcheol pulled you on top of him. You felt his cock hard and waiting. You moved and sat up and slowly sank on his length.

“Fuck!” You let out a groan of pleasure. He felt so good inside you. You lifted your legs and started moving your hips, riding him. You felt his grip tighten on your thighs as he helped you ride him.

You wanted to see him fall apart underneath you. You trailed your hands to his fingers, and your nails grazed his nipples, making him buck into you. You moaned as his hips pushed his cock deeper inside you. You kept riding him until you felt him still and released inside you. You sighed, feeling his warmth fill up your cunt. You hadn’t cum yet, and Seungcheol knew that.

“Princess, over here,” Seungcheol motioned to your mouth, and you moved, legs shaking as you sat on his waiting tongue. Seungcheol, as always, licked you clean of his cum.

You both were still in bed in the afternoon, simply embracing and kissing each other, when Seungcheol spoke, breaking the silence.

“So, do you want to make the trip a little earlier?” Seungcheol asked, and you looked at him, smiling.

“Can you take leave on such short notice?” You asked.

“Baby, it’s reading week for the students, so yes, I don’t need to worry about them for now. I want to focus on us.”

~~A Trip Upstate~~

“Got everything?” You asked Seungcheol for the fifth time. You had to stop yourself from laughing as your boyfriend kept going back and forth between his apartment and his car, forgetting something with each trip.

“Wait, oh, for the fucking love of god. I forgot the car keys,” Seungcheol groaned as he ran back into the house, and you laughed at him some more. You were still laughing when he came back.

“Hi,” Seungcheol said sweetly as he wrapped his arms around your waist, capturing you in a warm hug.

“I like seeing you like this, happy and laughing,” Seungcheol said, making you smile at him.

“Well, you make me laugh and happy,” you admitted, placing your chin on his chest and looking up at him.

“I’ve been fucking that up a lot, but I promise you, this time I won’t fuck up. I love you, and I need to get back to showing you that it’s not an empty promise,” Seungcheol spoke, and you reached up to pull him into a soft kiss.

“I love you, and thank you,” you mumbled against his lips.

“Shall we, my love? There’s a nice cabin I want to take you to upstate, and it has our names written on it,” Seungcheol said , and you nodded as he helped you into the car.

The drive up to the cabin was filled with jokes, laughter, and a few kisses here and there. It felt normal. Like you finally got your Seungcheol back, like all the fights could be forgotten because he was back to normal here. However, that hope ended the second you and Seungcheol started fighting over how to cook a dish.

“Why are you so mean about this? I’m helping you; you don’t even know how to peel a fucking onion!” You snapped at Seungcheol, who was crushing the microwavable rice packet.

“I might not know how to peel a fucking onion, but at least I’m not a 25-something that has no fucking direction in life!” Seungcheol spat back, making you exhale deeply.

“Y/N,” Seungcheol started to say, and you glared at him.

“No, Cheol, what the fuck, what the actual fuck? You’ve been using my insecurity against me twice now, and what-do you think each time you apologise, I’ll come back crawling? Or something? I’m tired of this, and I’m,” you took a deep breath to collect yourself.

You would not let Seungcheol see you fall apart, not when he was the reason behind the tears.

“We’re done,” You stated calmly, glaring at Seungcheol, who didn’t dare follow you as you walked away,.You grabbed your overnight bag and called an Uber, heading out of the cabin.

You weren’t sure if you had properly ended the relationship between the two of you, but you were tired of constantly giving him the benefit of the doubt, and for him to only shatter it the second he felt remotely attacked.

1 Month Later: The Breaking Point

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you mumbled to Mia, who had picked you up from the floor of your house last night. You had called her on your way back home, and thankfully she didn’t ask many questions, and just tried to help you.

Since you left Seungcheol, you didn’t know where you two stood. He made no effort to contact you, so you just assumed that since you yelled. “We are done,” at him, that you were.

Seungcheol took the hint and left you, but what pained you the most was that he could never run after you.

You craved his touch, his voice. You wanted him, but his lack of effort made you think he wanted nothing to do with you. Were you just a waste of time for him?

You thought that what you two had was a masterpiece, or what was that before he tore it all apart? Or was it you? Were you the one who tore it all to pieces?

All that to say, you had held yourself together, well, or at least you could put on a happy face. You just plastered on a fake smile and went on about your day. You put your efforts into your job out of spite.

You wanted to prove to Seungcheol that you weren’t some bumbling idiot, but instead, you were a 25-year-old with things going for her. You wanted him to see you wanted him to be proud of you, but he wasn’t here to see it. Maybe he never cared.

Your breaking point was this afternoon. You had just secured a huge contract, and just as you had signed on the dotted line, you wanted to share it with Seungcheol. You froze mid-text when you realised that he wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t care if you had done something remarkable because you two were done, so why should he care?

So, you started bawling at home and shakily dialed Mia’s number, and that’s when she came to your rescue. She came to find you when you were at your lowest, and you felt guilt engulf you. You had defended Seungcheol to her, insulting her viciously, but she never batted an eyelid.

“You know most people say thank you,” Mia joked, and you sighed.

“I am thankful, trust me, more than you know. I know you want to say I told you so, so go for it,” you snapped, and Mia shook her head as she helped you sit on the couch.

“He lost the one real thing he had. That’s not on you. He never fought enough for you,” Mia explained as she pulled you into a gentle hug, which made you blubber and, thus, make you cry more.

“Nothing, nothing from him, for a fucking month, Mia! Nothing. I thought he loved me and saw a future with me and all that bullshit, but he did not fucking bother, not once, to even be like, are you okay? Nothing, he just, fuck, wait, I think my phone is ringing in the bag. Can you help me grab it?” You asked, and Mia nodded, scrunching her nose at the private number.

“I swear if it’s that fucker calling through a random ass number to get to you, he’s going to get the living lights smacked out of him,” Mia threatened as she handed your phone to you.

“Hello?” You answered.

“Hello, Miss Y/N. We have been given your number as an emergency contact. Do you know Mr. Choi Seungcheol ?”

“I’m sorry. Who are you?” You asked, your voice trembling. What happened to Seungcheol?

“Sorry, I’m Nurse Lee. I’m calling from the Seoul National Hospital. We have been given your number as an emergency, so we are calling to ask if you could come down and sign a few things for us?” You sighed in relief, but only slightly.

You got into your car, not caring if you got a fine for speeding. You reached the hospital and parked, running in your heels to the main lobby. You frantically explained that you got a call and were quickly ushered upstairs to the wards.

You heard laughing and opened the door to see your ex-boyfriend laughing with the doctor. His eyes widened as he saw, and just like that, his laughter faded. The doctor noticed your presence, and he waved you in.

“You must be Y/N. Thank you for coming here. We just need to discharge him, and we need you to sign a few forms for him.” You nodded, still confused, “I’ll be back in around thirty minutes. I’ll let you two catch up.” The doctor left the room and left you both alone.

“Cheol?” You said softly.

Seungcheol wasn’t looking at you. You walked to his bedside when you saw there was enough space. You sat down slowly and held his face in your hands. He reluctantly looked at you.

“What happened?” you asked. You let go of his face so he could talk.

“It’s not a big deal,” He said. You rolled your eyes.

“It is, especially if you’re in the hospital.” You countered.

“Don’t laugh.” He said, warning you. You nodded. “So, long story short, I may have dropped a knife on my foot.” You looked at him, perplexed.

“How?” “I was cooking, and it was going well. Then the knife slid off the counter and onto my foot. I didn’t lose a toe, just a lot of blood. So yeah, by the time I got here, I passed out from blood loss, and I guess that’s why they called you.” He blurted in one go, and you tried to stifle a laugh.

“Seriously?” He said, but you could hear the smile in his voice. His heart warmed at the sight of you smiling. It had been so long since he was the reason for your smile.

“I’m so sorry, but why were you trying to cook?” You asked.

Seungcheol ’s laugh faded, and he paused. “I noticed a lot about me that I’m not good at. Cooking is at the top. I felt as if I could attempt to conquer that maybe I can do more in life,” Seungcheol looked down at his hands covered in wires. You touched his thigh, making him look at you.

“You are good at so much,” you countered, and Seungcheol shook his head.

“Professionally, maybe, but my personality? No. Nothing great there,” Seungcheol said, resignation lacing his tone. You opened your mouth to say something, and Seungcheol spoke first. “I’m not saying this to guilt-trip you into taking me back. After you broke up with me, I started seeing someone,” your hand jerked away from his thigh, which confused Seungcheol until he saw the heartbreak on your face.

“No, Y/N. I meant seeing a professional,” Seungcheol said, laughing.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, unsure what you were apologising for.

“If you think I’m even close to being able to move on from you, you’re insane.”

“Come on, let me drive you home?” You said, Seungcheol nodded.

“I appreciate it, thank you.”

While driving, something occurred to you, and you had to ask. “Cheol, um, how come I was your emergency number? Last I remembered, you said it was Jeonghan?” Seungcheol blushed and scratched his neck.

“Uh, well, it’s embarrassing now, but I changed it three months into us dating,” his confession, making you almost drive through a red light.

“Why?”

“Ugh, I sound so stupid because we’re not together, but I guess I wanted you to know I trust you. I know my actions during our relationship were deeply contradictory to that. I also knew that you would be the one for me.”

“The one? In three months?” You asked.

Seungcheol smiled fondly at you. “Can you pull over?”

Seungcheol fished out his wallet, looked for something, and pulled out a small silver ring.

“Seungcheol, what the fuck?”

“Trust me; it’s not a proposal. I don’t think I’ll be that lucky. I just thought it was something I should get after three months. I wanted to give this to you, but then I hurt you so many times after, and each time, we tried to make it work, and I kept on fucking it up for us. It was a promise ring that I’d never hurt you again, and I guess I failed.” Seungcheol admitted, and you noticed a tear fall down his face.

“Why do you still have the promise ring?” You asked.

“Wishful thinking, I guess?” Seungcheol replied.

“I miss you,” you mumbled, and Seungcheol heard you.

“We can try again,” you offered weakly.

“No, not yet. Let me learn. Let me be a better man for you. If I can’t, then know you deserve so much more,” Seungcheol spoke, and you smiled softly at him.

You resumed driving. Upon reaching Seungcheol ’s house, you pulled up and helped him out of the car and into his apartment. You laughed when you saw the floor covered in blood. It was not a normal reaction, but the backstory was quite amusing.

“Hey, Cheol, why don’t you lie down? I’ll clean this up for you?” You said.

“No, I can manage,”

You glared at him. “Trust me,it’s safer that I do this,” You laughed as you watched him hobble to his bedroom. Thank goodness he didn’t live in a multi-story house.

After cleaning up, you found Seungcheol sitting in his bed, playing music and softly humming. You knocked on his door. Seungcheol smiled and waved you in.

“Hi.”

“Blood’s gone,” you said, and he patted the space next to you, and you sat down on the bed next to him.

“Thank you. Somehow, you’re always cleaning after my mess.”

“Seungcheol, don’t,” your voice firm.

“I cannot even begin to tell you how sorry I am. Fuck, come here,” he patted the space in front of him. You carefully moved and sat between his legs so as not to hurt his bandaged foot. Seungcheol pulled your hair to the side, kissing softly on the nape of your neck.

“Just please, don’t break me apart again because I don’t think I’ll recover anymore if you do,” you pleaded, and Seungcheol turned you around in his embrace so that you faced him.

“Never again, I promise,” Seungcheol promised. bullshit

“Okay, so where is your boyfriend?” Mia asked, venom dripping off every word, and you rolled your eyes at her.

“He probably got caught up with work. Can you fucking let it go?” You asked, and Mia shrugged.

“I’m just saying, for a man walking on thin fucking ice, he better at least bother with his girlfriend’s birthday party,” Mia stated before walking out of the room to place balloons in another part of your apartment.

You sighed, knowing she was right, but Seungcheol was busy. Maybe he’d be late, but he’d show up. You kept telling yourself this until midnight when he never showed up, but you were several drinks in and had enough liquid courage to storm over to his place, which is precisely what you did.

You hailed a cab and made the drunken journey to his.

Your conscience was warning you. You paid no attention.

Yousure as hell ignored it for long enough. You could continue to do so.

You knocked on the door, and the door opened to reveal a shirtless Seungcheol in a pair of black sweats. You had lost all sense of rationality, and at this point, you didn’t know what was right or wrong.

“Y/N?” Seungcheol asked, confused, as would anyone. He couldn’t help but take in your appearance, how your cleavage left little to the imagination, but he knew the reality was better, how your heels made your ass seem even rounder. Your face was beautiful as always, but your mascara had run slightly, and your nose was red.

“Can I come in?” You asked. He nodded quickly, letting you in and closing the door behind him.

Seungcheol slowly guided you to the sofa, and he sat down, waiting for you to sit beside him. Instead, you straddled him, your legs on either side of his hips.

“My birthday. I got a crappy, “happy birthday” text from you, and you don’t show up to my party. What the fuck is wrong with you? This is not the attitude from someone who wants another chance,” you fumed, and Seungcheol stared at you sighing. He had no excuse, none whatsoever.

“Y/N, I—” You shut Seungcheol up with a kiss. You rolled your hips against his crotch, and you could feel that underneath his sweats, he was naked. No boxers. You could partially feel his cock against your lace-covered cunt.

“Y/N, I, what’s going on, fuck,” Seungcheol stopped speaking as you started sucking his neck, gently grazing your teeth against his neck andmaking him whimper for you. You felt his cock harden fully underneath you. You pulled away from his neck for a moment.

“Cheol, at this moment, I need to forget that I’m mad at you,” you admitted, and Seungcheol sighed before nodding as his grip on your thighs tightened.

“I’m not saying no; you don’t need to apologise, and you don’t need to leave, but we need to talk when we’re done,” Seungcheol added.

“I will.”

“Good.” Cheol stood up from his position and carried you into the bedroom. And he noticed your makeup had smudged and brought you to the bathroom. He placed you on the counter, his lips immediately finding yours. Kissing you, his lips pulled and sucked on yours. You moaned, allowing him to slip his tongue inside your mouth.

Seungcheol deepened the kiss. His hands found the straps of your dress; he pushed them down. You hissed as your breasts met the cold air of the room. Seungcheol helped you out of the dress, leaving you in your soaked underwear. He groaned at the sight. His hands went to your legs, pushing the heels off your feet, his lips never leaving yours. He moved his hands to your underwear and pulled it off. He groaned when he saw how wet you were.

He pushed his sweats down and undressed; he stood erect and naked in front of you, and you took a moment to drink in his appearance. Seungcheol guided you into the shower, and you let out a moan, when you felt the warm water hit your skin. Soothing you, you felt Seungcheol turn you around and push your back against the wall. He placed kisses down your neck, his lips finding your breasts. He sucked and nibbled your nipple as his other hand massaged and squeezed and tugged the other breast. Cheol moved his body down yours as his lips found your cunt.

Seungcheol placed a soft kiss. He gently lifted a leg and wrapped it around his broad shoulders. He pushed two fingers inside of you, groaning at how wet you were, where he could practically taste your arousal. He angled his fingers inside you and started to finger you, and his lips found your core, as he ran his tongue against your folds.

He pulled your clit between his teeth, gently grazing the swollen bud. You whimpered. He replaced his teeth with his plush lips. Wrapping them around your clit and sucking as his fingers pounded into you. He kept his movements up until you came. You tightened against his fingers, and your clit throbbed in his mouth as he helped you ride out your orgasm.

Seungcheol gently unhooked your leg from his, and you sank to your knees. You pushed against his toned abs, and his back hit the shower wall. You wrapped your lips around his cock; he was thick. While your hands wrapped around the remainder of his length, you took him and started to suck him. He let out a low growl and a strangled whimper as you continued to suck him. You grazed your nails along his thighs and whimpered, bucking his length into your throat, making you gag slightly. You kept sucking until you felt him still and releasein your mouth.

You smirked as Seungcheol was panting. He pulled you two on your feet and into a sweet kiss. He cleaned the both of you up, his hands finding your face and washing the smudged mascara off your face. He guided you out of the shower and to his bed. You moaned as you felt the soft sheets against your naked body.

Seungcheol couldn’t get enough of you. His eyes drank you in. His mouth was desperate to taste you again. He approached you, lifted your legs, and placed them on his shoulder. His mouth found your cunt again. He started by placing soft kisses against your cunt, knowing where to lick you.

He wasted no time. He dove straight in, his thick tongue flicking against your swollen clit. Your hands made their way into his hair. He pushed in three fingers this time. He lapped at your arousal while you whimpered in oversensitivity. It didn’t take much after that for you to cum on his tongue.

Seungcheol rubbed his cock against your wet folds several times and then pushed in. You hissed as the stretch was quite intense after two orgasms, but he felt so good. You tugged on his hair, making him look up at you. You brushed your thigh against his hardened length, and he wasted no time.

“Move”, you whispered, and that’s all it took for Seungcheol to lift your legs and place them on his shoulders, allowing him to hit deeper inside you. His thrusts were rough, and each time, he would withdraw only to push back harder and deeper.

He leaned down and captured your lips in his. You melted into the kiss while he pounded into your cunt. You were a mumbling and moaning mess underneath him. You felt yourself clench around this length, making him groan into the kiss. He pushed a few more times until you fell apart on his cock.

He pulled out of you gently and laid down beside you.

You woke up a few hours later, not realising you had fallen asleep.

You woke up to at least thirty texts and missed calls from Mia, and you sighed, stepping out of Seungcheol’s bedroom to call her. You quickly told her what happened last night, and Mia could only relay her disappointment.

“Do you not see how far gone you are, Y/N; you’re making excuses for him. People like him don’t do this just once.”

“He was busy and couldn’t make it,” you explained, and Mia scoffed.

“Y/N, I’m telling you as someone who has been through something like this. He will leave you broken.” You scoffed, and your following words were nothing but pure venom.

“Mia, you had a relatively hot boyfriend, and he dumped your ass. So I guess you’re not too different to me since the only thing you’re good for is looking the way you do. You couldn’t keep him either..” You kept your voice stern and firm.

Mia groaned. “I won’t ever say I told you so, but when the inevitable happens, you know where to find me. I’ll listen because I know you won’t.” With that, Mia hung up.

You sank to the floor.

How did a loving relationship with your boyfriend leave you so drained and lashing out at others to defend him? What went wrong?

“Hey, did I interrupt something?” Seungcheol asked, startling you, and you stood up, shaking your head. You didn’t want to get into it with him right now.

“Here,” Seungcheol said, handing you a coffee mug, and you nodded, taking it.

“You’re right. My actions last night weren’t of a boyfriend trying hard to prove that he’s worthy of being with you,” Seungcheol explained, and you rolled your eyes.

“I’m tired of hearing you apologise. I need you to show me that you’re fucking sorry,” you said .

“What about a date tomorrow? There’s a gala at my university. Don’t worry, it won’t be like last time, I promise,” Seungcheol begged, and you sighed, nodding.

You weren’t exactly sure what made you want to give him a second chance, but maybe because you loved him or the idea of him, you weren’t entirely sure which one. You just knew that regardless of what the situation was with you two. With him, it still felt like home somehow.

DIVDER:

You and Seungcheol walked hand in hand to his gala; this time, he wasn’t distant, curt, or moody. He was jovial, greeted everyone, and introduced you until Yoona entered the picture.

Seungcheol wasn’t flirting, but he sure as hell didn’t bother to hide how happy and excited he was to see his ex, considering he spent nearly 45 minutes talking to her. You stormed out of the venue and waited by his car until he noticed.. oblivious to your anger.

“Waiting long?” Seungcheol asked, and you scoffed.

“I’m amazed you remembered I existed. You seemed to be taken by Yoona. I thought I was a distant memory,” you mocked, earning a glare from Seungcheol.

“Let’s just go home, yeah?” Seungcheol asked, and you nodded, following him into his car.This time, he didn’t help you in.“When the fuck did I give you a reason to think I’d cheat? How many times do I need to fucking tell you that Yoona and I are done?” Seungcheol bellowed suddenly, and you sighed.

“That’s not the fucking point!” You yelled back, and Seungcheol sighed, loosening his tie.

“The point is that you always gloss over our problems, you always act like I’m a child or something, and you never tell me the truth. When I get mad, you act like I’m insane even to be upset. Do you know how that fucking feels?” You yelled, and Seungcheol glared at you.

“Not my fucking problem thatyou don’t understand how the fuck relationships work, or maybe you’re too fucking immature to make one work,” Seungcheol hissed as his grip on the steering wheel only got tighter.

“This is so fucking rich coming from you considering the fucking fact your ex dumped you, and yet you’re so obsessed with her that you didn’t care that she cheated on you. Instead of spending the night with me, someone who loves you, you cosied up to someone who walked all over you!” You yelled.

“Y/N, get out of the car before I make you!” Seungcheol yelled, making you whimper at his tone and words.

“Seungcheol, please, I’m so sorry,” you were begging, but Seungcheol ignored you. He leaned over and opened the car door. You looked at him; his eyes were trained on the road ahead.

“Seungcheol, please don’t do this,” you begged. You knew you couldn’t change his mind, but you were scared. He didn’t seem to care. You reluctantly exited the car, gently closing the door behind you. Seungcheol wasted no time, and he sped away, drove off, and left you alone in the dark.

You were freezing, and your outfit did nothing to counter the cold. You let out a sob, your feet in absolute agony from the heels, and your mind an emotional mess. You pulled your phone out of your purse to call someone. You called Seungcheol, no response. You sighed more. Seeing as he would ignore you the entire night, you called the last person you could think of.

“Y/N? What? It’s two in the morning. What do you want?” Mia’s voice was hoarse and laced with sleep. You tried to reply but couldn’t help the whimper that escaped your throat.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Mia asked, her voice now concerned.

“I don’t know where I am, and it’s dark and cold. I’m so sorry for disturbing you. I shouldn’t have—”

“Y/N, stop, pin me your location. I’m coming to get you,” You sobbed out a thank you and sent her your location.

Around twenty minutes later, you saw a car enter the empty street, and it screeched to a halt suddenly. Mia stepped out with a coat and ran towards you. She wrapped the coat around your body. She didn’t ask questions; she just guided you to heris car.

“Let’s get you home,” Mia said. She was fuming, but she was scared that if she yelled at you now—which she surely would, she’d break you into two.

“Do you want me to come in?” Mia asked as she pulled up outside your apartment, and you shook your head.

“I just need time alone, but thank you, Mia,” you said, who nodded as she watched you leave the car before waving to you and driving off.

“Baby! You’re safe!” You turned around to see Seungcheol running after you, and you sighed as you walked into your apartment. Seungcheol followed you, and this scene was one you knew all too well.

“You threw me out of the car!” You yelled the minute you were inside the apartment.

“I was scaredI’d say something worse if you stayed. I was trying to mitigate further damage.”

You rolled your eyes at him.“You’re a fucking moron.”

“I am, but I came back, I—” you interrupted him.

“For what? To apologise?” You asked, and you hated that hope still coated your words.

“No, because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t, you’re acting so fucking immature, but we’re not good for each other. I need someone who gets me. I can’t coddle you every five seconds because you got your fucking feelings hurt,” Seungcheol said, finality lacing his words.

“So, if we were closer in age, we would have worked?” You asked, and Seungcheol sighed, nodding.

“I’ll send someone for my things, and I’ll mail your things back to you by the end of the week,” Seungcheol mumbled as he walked out of your apartment.

He left as quickly as he came into your life. You’d experienced heartbreak before, but nothing like this. You wanted to die. You tried to stop feeling because the pain manifested into physical pain as you felt your entire body go numb and limp. You couldn’t handle it, and you felt all too much all at once.

The Reeling

It had been two weeks since Seungcheol broke up with you and after he returned your things to youin a box with no goodbye letter and nothing to give you any semblance of closure, you impulsively booked a train ticket to see your folks

If Seungcheol didn’t want to coddle you, you tried to find comfort in the two people you knew would.

“Y/N?” She was confused by how upset you were. Your mother practically yelled when she saw you at the front door, and you burst into tears the minute she saw you and hugged her.

“I missed you,” you cried into her arms while she was happy to see you.

“Come in. Why don’t you go to your room freshen up?” You nodded.

“Hi, stranger.” You said, scaring your father, who was too engrossed in a crossword puzzle.

“Y/N!” He yelled, standing up to hug you.

“Oh, who’s ass do I need to kick for you crying?” You shook your head.

“No one, I just missed you guys,” you lied, and your parents nodded knowingly.

“Freshen up, honey. We’ll be right here with food and a drink?” You nodded at your mother and headed to shower

“Seungcheol,” You answered your phone that was ringing. You had just gotten out of the shower and were drying your hair.

“Uh, hi. Sorry, I wanted to pick up my hoodie. I left it at yours, but you weren’t there, and I just wanted to check when you’d be back so I could get it?” Seungcheol asked, so casually, so casually cruel.

At least he was honest. You knew nothing was left there anymore,

“I’m visiting my folks; I’ll send it to yours when I’m back,” you said, keeping your tone neutral and devoid of emotions.

“Cool. Thanks,” Seungcheol said, hanging up before you could get a word out.

You broke down again. He called you, only to break you all over again.

“So, it’s a boy problem? It’s got to be,” your father mused after dinner. You two and your mother were in the living room, sipping wine and catching up.

“I was a fucking idiot. I gave him a chance after chance,he walked all over me, and I let him because I loved him,” you whined to your parents, who smiled sympathetically at you.

“I would rather you didn’t call yourself that. I didn’t raise one.” You smiled at your dad’s attempt to be funny.

“Well, I was,” You sighed, sipping the wine. You decided you’d tell your parents everything aside from the ridiculous amounts of sex that led you up to this moment.

“Why did you want to try so hard to keep him?” Your mother asked, and you shrugged.

“Because I loved him, or so I thought I did, but love shouldn’t hurt this much,” you mumbled. “You know what? I was right when I believed that love is this huge thing that doesn’t exist, and aside from you two, I don’t see it anywhere.” You said, and your parents smiled softly,

“Honey, love isn’t easy. It takes so much effort and time to get it right, and even then, you can screw it up.”

“Then what, I screwed up?” You accused, and your mother shook her head.

“No, you tried and broke yourself into two to become someone he wanted. That is the furthest thing from love. It’ll hurt, but one day, when your paths cross again, you’ll be able to smile at him with no malice and thank him for putting you through hell because you’ll know what you never want again,” your mother explained, pulling you into a tight hug as you sobbed.

“He couldn’t even be bothered to attend my birthday,” you mumbled, sniffling pathetically, and your father nodded.

“That’s not a good sign, if I’m being honest, isn’t it meant to be fun, a birthday party?” Your father asked, and you could only shrug.

“Get your hair done or something,” your mum suggested the following week.

“Why?” You asked, and your mother smiled at you.

“Well, isn’t that what everyone does after a breakup? Get their hair done, and you’ve been moping for a week. Go outside, go and see the colourful world out there,” your mother said, kissing your forehead.

You laughed but decided to take up your mother’s advice, and soon enough, you found yourself in a hair salon.

“So, how do you want your hair done?” The stylist asked as he started to towel dry your hair.

“I’m not entirely sure, but something that screams I’m doing good and happy.” The stylist smiled.

“A few highlights and waves?” He suggested, and you grinned. You relaxed into the chair as the stylist worked on your hair.

You smiled at your appearance in the mirror. You felt fresh. You still felt pain, but the new hair did do wonders. You’d never understand the logic, but it helped, only for a second, until a voice stopped you in the shopping mall.

“Y/N?” Your blood ran cold, and you’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Yoona,” you muttered, turning around as you faced her.

“Did you change your hair? I like it. It looks lovely!” Yoona smiled.

“Can I help you, Yoona?” You asked, not having the energy to pretend to care.

“I heard you and Cheol broke up?” Yoona said, and you cringed at her use of his nickname.

“Why, are you waiting to dig your claws into him?” You snapped, and Yoona shook her head.

“Look, I have no defense for what I did to him, but I’ll say this: There is an idea that Seungcheol has in his mind. Even if I didn’t fit that mould, should I have cheated? No, but it wouldn’t have mattered because I would never be enough for him, and neither were you. He has a version of a woman in his mind, which doesn’t exist. You dodged a bullet, my Y/N,” Yoona narrated as she walked off, leaving you speechless.

It was on your walk that all the puzzle pieces fit together. Yoona wasn’t wrong—granted, an unreliable source—but her words weren’t exactly wrong. You bent over backward to appease Seungcheol, but nothing was enough, and if Yoona, his “ideal girl,” failed to meet his idea, then what was his ideal?

A never-needy, ever-lovely jewel whose shine reflected on him? Was that all he ever needed: someone to make him look better?

You smiled, turning back to see Yoona walk into another shop. Maybe she was right; it’d take a while to reconcile and face the trauma of dating Choi Seungcheol, but you knew it wasn’t you anymore. You could have been carved by the gods themselves, but unless that god were Seungcheol, you would never be enough for him, and somehow you were okay with that.

You just needed now to heal, mend old relationships, and find yourself again, but you were a soldier who came back from war half her weight. You needed to regain strength from this, heal, and become someone who had learned from this.

You could do it. You’d get older and wiser, while his lovers would be the same, wide-eyed and keen until he tore them to shreds when he realised they weren’t the one.

You could move on. You’d be fine.

The Healing: 2 Years Later

You were fussing over your speech for the fifth time that day.

“Girl, it’s fine, you’ve worked your ass off for this app. I can’t believe you got SNU to sponsor this. You’ve grown up!” Mia said dramatically, making you laugh.

You two were okay again; it took a lot of healing, but you two were okay because you didn’t hurt anymore.

You were at the launch of your newest app, a website for students and teachers to connect quickly.You wanted to pitch it to SNU, and they agreed.

You had finally finished your presentation when your eyes locked with his.

You flashed him a smile, and he returned one.It was like nothing you imagined at that moment. Nothing hurt anymore; he was a painful memory, but he was your past.

You would sometimes wonder if the love affair between the two of you maimed him the way it maimed you, but you also figured that you could live without getting that answer from him.

You’d be okay. You weren’t okay then, but you are okay now.

You were okay before you met him, and you’d be okay after him.

#seventeen fic #seungcheol fic #seventeen angst #seventeen smut #svthub #kvanity #all too well: c.s.c

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hopelesslyromanticshark · 2 months

Note

hi can i get a percy x daughter of persephone fic where they have been best friend since before camp and are in love with each other and finally confess. p.s. love ur writing

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Lotuses, Water Lilies, And All These Lovely Things

content: percy jackson x daughter of persephone! reader fic warning: none???? i don't believe???? author's note: you wanna know what's crazy???? i was fighting for my life to write this and then i put on hozier and it just...wrote itself??? wtf???? what is that man doing to me???? it was actually kinda scary wtf???

look, percy didn't want to a be a half blood. but, he especially didn't want drag his best friend down with him. she was the only one person, other than his mom, who managed to stick around for so long. she bounced schools with him, mostly because she got grouped in with whatever problems percy managed to cause. he felt so much guilt about it, but she'd just wave him off, saying she would have followed him either way.

he couldn't remember when y/n came into his life, it just felt like she'd always been there. they had things they could bond over; she was raised by a single dad and percy was just raised by his mom. she struggled in school, almost nearly as bad as he did. oh, and they both had godly parents.

percy and y/n had been avid summer campers at camp half blood for nearly three years at this point and not much had changed between them. sure, percy had discovered he could control tons and tons of water and y/n's green thumb increased immensely but they were still just each other's best friend.

just best friends. that's it. that's all they're ever be.

at least, that's what you told yourself, late at night, inside your lonely cabin. persephone didn't have many children, as she had grown fond of hades over the years and they'd been attending godly couple's therapy for a few millennia to sort out their issues. you'd purely been an accident between your mother and your father, a florist with an affliction for using fruit in his arragnments. persephone had a fling with him, producing you. strangely enough, hades had no ill will towards you, he even offered for you to stay in the Underworld with your mother during the winter and fall seasons. you'd told him you'd think about it, and to your surprise, you actually had been thinking about it.

while it sucks finding out you were never intended to be born (loose term here, seeing as you kinda just plopped out of a flower), but its better than the alternative, being born for a purpose...like percy. you'd always felt bad for the boy, forced to live under constant expectations of being something great or nothing at all. you didn't know how he did it.

which is why, at every opportunity, you'd bring percy away from the hassle of camp and towards the woods, bobbing and weaving through the trees until you stumbled upon your favorite spot in all of camp. far in the reaches of the forest, a pond sat. it overflowed with life, the monsters purposefully put in camp basically avoiding it. water lilies and lotuses grew in abundance, nearly covering the whole lake. clearly someone had discovered it before the two demigods, a shabby dock put there (clearly not the work of a child of hephaestus). you and percy would just hang out, listening to the sound of the babbling creek and the chirping of the birds. no words needed to be shared, which is why you were certain you loved percy. he made just being...easiler. there was no pressure with the son of the sea god.

"is a hotdog a sandwhich?" percy questioned, breaking the silence, causing you to giggle, basically rolling around in the soft grass. percy looked over with a cheeky smile, his eyes catching on how the grass seemed to chase after you and brush your skin. he never thought he'd be jealous of grass, yet here he was. he wanted it to be his skin that brushed against you, not some flimsy, photosynthesizing, piece of shi-

"hmmm. techinally, yes but my heart says no. pineapple on pizzas? yay or nah?" you shot back and percy shakes his head, trying not to get lost in thoughts of your skin, your skin on his skin with nothing much between them-

"the answer if obviously yes."

"that better be a joke, jackson."

"if you think pineapple doesn't deserve to be on pizza, you are not the person i thought you were," percy mocked back, squinting a glare at the girl, who was struggling to fight her smile down.

"Looks like we can't be best friends anymore," you dramatically reply, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead and pretending to fall back into the grass, which greedily reached up to catch up and gently lay you down on itself.

"shame," percy muttered back, pushing up with one of his elbows and looking over at her, his smile slowly slipping off and being replaced by a more serious look. you raised a questioning brow at him, but your smile was slowly slipping as well.

"what's going on in your head, sailor?"

"we can't be friends anymore," percy replied, instantly, and partnered with his serious face, didn't land the way he thought it would. you were instantly reeling, pulling away from the boy with a hurt look. the green grass turned from a vibrant shade to a depressive green and the water lilies began to drown, dragged down by there own roots.

"wait, wait, that came out wrong-"

"how the hades else should that have come out?" you bit out, glaring over at the boy and tucking in on yourself.

"no, no, y/n, i just- i meant- ugh, this is going terribly," percy groaned, shoving his head into his hands as the grass swiped out at his ankles, trying to give him paper cuts. it all stopped though as you set a hand against percy's wrist, pulling it away from his face and forcing his eyes to glance up at your patient face.

"try again," you offer, nodding your head gently as you rub your fingers over his calmingly

"you sure?"

"i promise you, it can't get any worse than that."

"rude," percy huffed, laughing with the girl for a moment before taking a calming breath.

"i mean it, y/n, we can't just be friends anymore."

"man, you love to prove me wrong, don't you?"

"hear me out. friends shouldn't look at each other the way i look at you. friends shouldn't think about each other as much as i think about you. friends really shouldn't be willing to put their whole lives on hold because one of them wanted to get lost in the woods. we can't be friends anymore because i can't go another moment longer just being your friend when i know i want more," percy ranted, getting lost in his thoughts, his hands moving about nervously and his eyes refusing to meet yours, no matter how hard you tried.

"percy-"

"and i know i'm putting all these years in danger-"

"percy-"

"but if i went another second without telling you, i think-"

"percy!" you all but shout, giggles following as percy physically jolted as though you hit him. he turned to you with wide eyes and a tilted head.

"yes?"

"just shut up and kiss me."

"wha-"

before percy could continue to yap, you jolted forwards, cupping his face and bring his lips to yours. it took percy less than a millisecond to comprehend what was happening and for him to response. he pulled your body closer to his, desperate to use all of his senses during this kiss, in hopes to lock it in even the deepest parts of his ADHD riddled mind.

not that either of you noticed, but the water lilies returned from under the water, bobbing as though they had been held down there against their will. then they began to multiply, the water lilies and lotuses nearly bursting out of the pond with how many of them there were. the pond, which never had waves, was swishing as swirling like a hurricane was wrecking havoc on it and it alone. a foam was building against the bank and riptides could just be seen swirling under the surface.

and then you two parted and the pond settled once more, like nothing had happened. you two shared a soft smile, one of secrecy and exuberance. then, like nothing had happened, you both cuddled back up with the grass, eyes darting up to the sky and silence settling back over the pair.

though, this time, their hands were firmly locked together and the grass was softly licking at both of their hands, intertwining itself to mimic their fingers and hearts.

#postcards from covey ౨ৎ #pjo #pjo fandom #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #percy jackson x reader

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biteofcherry · 3 months

Text

Echo that thunders

Bucky Barnes x female reader

summary: The life you and Bucky built has crumbled. Or so you think. But maybe some ruins can be reconstructed, if true love is given a chance?

warnings: angst; lots of feels; hurt/comfort; divorced couple; mention of past infidelity; marital problems; both Reader and Bucky are self-blaming and self-punishing idiots; and obviously are still deeply in love; they need therapy and I encourage that; reconciling intimacy (yes, I mean sex with feelings and tears); Alpine is almost squeezed to death with love (truly affectionately);

word count: 6k

Author's Note: This is my entry for Eight Types of Love challenge from @the-slumberparty. I took a twist on pragma: exes with feelings.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Every week the hollow in your chest would ache and you’d try to cram it with sweetness of fleeting moments: catching the pure joy and love on your little boy’s face, mulling your sorrow with pastries that you’d eat alone, then quiet your longing with laughter and shouts of your friends.

You made it look like it was easy, like you didn’t die a little every damn Friday when you drove your son to his father’s place.

Maybe you’d feel better if it was the mother missing her baby boy for the weekend, but the wounds opened not for the few days of empty nest, but because seeing Bucky ripped you to pieces.

You wouldn’t avoid it, though. He loved your son so much, was so happy to spend every possible day with him and you would never take that away from either of them.

Even if it hurt.

Truth be told, you wouldn’t let anyone take that away from you, either. Because the pain of seeing Bucky was also sprinkled with that fluttering, bittersweet feeling. Love that you still harbored.

You didn’t think it was possible to ever stop loving Bucky.

As you proved, it was possible to divorce him, but it didn’t sever the hold he had on your heart and soul.

So you welcomed the ache in your chest as an invisible iron fist clenched its cold claws around your heart, when Bucky smiled and waved at you from the sidewalk in front of his building. You knew he waved at your little boy, who was already bouncing in his seat, but you couldn’t help the smile spreading on your lips in return.

“Hi, rascals!” Bucky greeted you, the same way he’s been greeting the both of you ever since your son was born.

He waited for you to round the car after you parked it, loosely wrapping an arm around your middle and giving you that awkward half-hug.

You assumed it was as awkward for him as it was for you, though for different reasons.

Bucky was simply nice, trying his hardest to maintain a good rapport with you for the sake of your son, while he had to be repulsed by you inwardly. For you, the hug was difficult, because you always craved to bury yourself within his arms and feel that protective, loving hold.

“Hi,” you smiled and ducked under his arm, before he noticed that pathetic longing shining in your eyes.

You went to retrieve a small bag and backpack with Stevie’s clothes and belongings, while Bucky unbuckled your son from the car seat and scooped the boy up in his arms. Joyous squeal “Daddy!” melted you all over again, reminding you how ecstatic the boy was every time Bucky returned home - no matter if he’s been gone a few days on a mission, or just an hour running errands.

When you turned to them, the sight of them grinning at each other froze you on the spot. You were aware that Stevie shared some of Bucky’s mimics, but it was that moment when your boy pressed his cheek to Bucky’s and they both looked your way with lopsided grins that shattered your heart into pieces.

You squashed the flare of sorrow inside, saving it for later when you’re alone with a pint of ice cream.

Bucky had suggested a couple of times that he could come pick Stevie up from your place, but you were too scared of seeing Bucky back in the apartment where you all used to live together. Where the love and happiness were supposed to be forever.

You were scared he’d come inside and see that you still had a few photographs of him on the shelves.

You reasoned that it was for the sake of your son, so that he felt his dad’s presence at all times, but you couldn’t fully let go of Bucky yourself.

“Hey,” Bucky took the bag from your hands, but left you holding Stevie’s backpack. “Can you come upstairs for a second? I wanted to talk something over.”

He always invited you under the pretext of talking over some details regarding Stevie, but ended up dealing with it in two sentences and then coaxing you into a neutral small talk that left you all the more missing him.

Yet you couldn’t force yourself to say no.

“Sure.” You nodded, squeezing the strap of the small, red backpack in your trembling fingers.

Bucky’s apartment, which he got after you filed for divorce, was small, but clean and spacious enough for a four year old and a cat.

Alpine stuck her head from behind a wall when you entered. She made a tiny meowing sound and walked forward, but the second Bucky put your son on his feet the cat bolted away. Stevie of course followed, running after the furball with glee.

“So I know there’s still plenty of time to plan summer vacation-” Bucky started, leading you toward the counter separating the kitchen from the living room- “but Sam invited us to Louisiana, to spend a few weeks at his sister’s place.”

“Oh.” It was instinctive, that very first thought about your baby boy being away for weeks. In a different state, nonetheless.

However, you promised yourself to not be an overprotective, controlling mother. And you trusted Bucky with your son at all times.

“That sounds fun.” You relaxed your shoulders and smiled. “I’m sure Stevie will love it. Especially if you take him on a boat.”

He was in a marine fascination phase. At least once every few weeks you had to go to the aquarium and turn on Discovery channel instead of morning cartoons.

“Maybe I’ll manage to re-do his bedroom, while he’s away with you,” cogs in your brain started turning. “It’d be a fun surprise when he gets back.”

“Won’t you need help with that?” Bucky asked, perking up. “We could do that on the weekend when he’s with your parents? You know I’d be happy to help. We can rope Sam into it, too.”

He sounded so eager. For a fleeting moment you enjoyed the warmth at the thought of the two of you doing something for your son together, but you quickly reminded yourself that Bucky would do absolutely anything for Stevie, including dealing with your presence.

“Umm, sure,” you swallowed nervously, “if you’re not on a mission.”

You regretted saying it, seeing a flash of guilt on Bucky’s face.

It was a sore subject and bringing it up hurt you both.

You always admired Bucky for what he did, how much he risked to save others. It didn’t change the fact, however, that saving the world meant neglecting you at times. He tried his best, you knew he did. Still, it hurt when you spent some nights and celebrations alone.

“We’ve made some changes on the rooster.” Bucky didn’t look at you as he talked, instead focusing on taking out ingredients from the fridge. “It’s doable to book some dates as non-active.”

“That’s good!” You tried to sound genuinely happy for him, while inside you felt a wave of rage that the accommodation wasn’t made when you needed it in the past. “All of you deserve rest and to, you know, live your private lives, too.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s shoulders drove up in tension even as he nodded.

You stayed quiet for a long moment, the sound of your son’s giggles coming from the bedroom where he chased Alpine filled the space, but didn’t ease the sudden heaviness.

“I better-” you started at the same time that Bucky began:

“Do you want to-”

Both of you paused, but before either motioned at the other to finish, you were interrupted by a pitiful meow and soft paddle of your four year old’s feet.

You both turned and watched your son wobble as he carried Alpine. Though carried was a bit of a stretch to describe two tiny arms tightly wrapped around the upper half of the cat’s body, with its head barely sticking out and two front legs sticking upwards while the rest of the furry body dangled down.

You quickly covered your mouth to stifle the burst of laughter, but Bucky behind you couldn’t help the snort.

“Buddy.” He moved around the counter and crouched in front of Stevie. “Alpine knows you love her lots and want to play with her, but this is a bit uncomfortable for her.”

You thought the cat is an actual saint for not having yet scratched Stevie for all the love she was getting from him.

“Hey!” You chimed in, reaching for the small backpack. “You forgot about the present you have for Alpine.”

“Mousey!” Stevie dropped the cat almost instantly and ran towards you.

“A present, huh?” Bucky placated Alpine, scratching her behind the ear while she rubbed against his leg.

“Made it with mommy!” Your son beamed proudly after you fished out the small toy from his backpack. “For artses-” which was his version of saying art classes. “But mommy said it’s perfect for Apine.”

It was a bright blue, slightly askew, crocheted mouse. With a very, very long tail. You thought it would be perfect for Stevie to hold the end of the tail and slide the mouse across the floor, so Alpine could chase it.

“It really is,” Bucky nodded, noticing that the soft toy had caught Alpine’s attention. “Why don’t you run around with it, play nicely with Alpine, while I make us spaghetti?”

Stevie didn’t have to be told twice. Alpine seemed eager for this kind of play, as well. Chasing a new toy surely was more preferable than being squeezed to death.

Bucky straightened. His tall, broad figure filled your vision. He was much closer now, with no counter separating you. He looked after your son fondly, then his soft gaze switched to you. Not for a second did the affection fade in his eyes as he looked at you.

“Thank you,” he almost whispered, touching your shoulder gently.

You wanted to blurt out that there was nothing to thank for, but you understood what he meant. The same way you were grateful for his concern whenever you had a cold and he took Stevie so you could rest (bringing you some chicken broth on his way), or that he picked you up when your car died. The small gestures each of you displayed, that betrayed care neither of you seemed to be able to lose.

Bucky’s hand slowly slid down your arm and because you were so lost in the blue of his eyes and the tenderness of the moment, you forgot to brace yourself for the small sting that his touch brought when he passed your forearm.

You winced.

Unfortunately, Bucky noticed.

Instantly, he stilled. His hand remained on your forearm, but his touch eased. His gaze flicked from your face to the spot covered by your sleeve and up to your face again.

“What is it?” Worry pinched his features. “Are you injured?”

He moved even closer, angling his head so he could maintain eye contact with you, even though he towered over you. He gently took your wrist into his metal hand and carefully rolled your sleeve up.

“It’s nothing. It’s-”

Words died on your tongue when Bucky’s gaze hardened, a muscle in his jaw twitching, as his gaze landed on the injured spot.

There were no visible bruises. Not to you, anyway. You mostly felt the tenderness of that area than saw any marks. But Bucky’s senses were enhanced and he definitely could see the difference in the smallest changes of your skin, the barest hint of different pigmentation.

And, much to your dismay, you could never lie to him.

“Who did that?” Bucky kept calm, but you sensed the concern bursting into protective rage inside of him.

“Someone, who is no longer in the picture.” You replied, tilting your chin up. “I may have not expected it happening, but once it did, I wouldn’t chance it repeating.”

The whole attempt at dating was so uncomfortable for you, but seeing some pap pictures of Bucky with an unknown female had made you impulsively agree to the fifth invite from a guy from accountants.

It was irrational and irresponsible - as some of your past mistakes. There was nothing that suggested Bucky and that woman were connected in any way beside the work area. They weren’t even alone in that place. It’s just that he had his hand on her back and she was giving him a flirtatious smile.

Well, your jealous brain told you it’s flirtatious. The same brain that forgot to remind you that it was no longer your business if and whom Bucky was dating.

So you went on the stupid date yourself, feeling all kinds of wrong during it. Then got a glimpse of what shit you almost got yourself into, when you wanted to end your date short and the guy called you a tease. His hold on your forearm when you tried to leave was forceful enough to leave a painful reminder.

“I’d still like to know the name.” Bucky’s gaze shone a dark glint; plates in his metal arm moved in a reflection of muscles tensing.

“No need.” Placing your free hand on his chest to soothe him was a habit, you didn’t even realize you were doing it. “I promise you, he won’t ever find himself near Stevie.”

Bucky frowned at that. Suddenly, he was letting go of your arm and cupping the side of your face instead.

“Baby,” it slipped out of his mouth as mindlessly and naturally as you touched him.

“I know you’d never let anyone hurt our son. But no harm should come your way, either. The guy deserves having his fingers dislocated.”

Bucky wasn’t a violent person. His past, which was beyond his control, painted a certain picture that some people still believed in. But you knew how soft-hearted and kind he really was. He used force and combat in missions, but his teammates knew he would be the first one to show mercy and pull back his punches.

However, he was protective. And when he entered that mode, he could be very scary.

Your fingers on his chest clenched slightly, gripping the fabric of his soft, blue henley; as if you were trying to stop him from marching away and finding whoever posed as a threat.

You felt the steady thud of Bucky’s heartbeat beneath your palm, the rhythm of his breath. You sensed the moment his muscles slightly relaxed.

“How about-” hands cupping your face slowly slid down and away, but Bucky didn’t put any distance between you- “you stay for dinner and we’ll talk more about it later?”

There was nothing to talk about, really. Or maybe there was, but it shouldn’t be Bucky giving you the talk. His concern only messed with your head and your heart, leaving you with incomparable longing and aching solitude when you went back home.

You opened your mouth to refuse his proposal, but your son suddenly found himself nearby and torpedoed your resilience.

“You gonna stay mommy?” He looked up at you with big, hopeful eyes.

Bucky and you made sure to be together for important events like Stevie’s birthday, or kindergarten recitals, or even for the 4th of July. But day to day everything happened separately. You didn’t share meals, or walks, or trips the way you used to when you were married.

You were aware of the impact it had on your son, but one can’t be divorced and still spend every day with each other.

However, you couldn’t find the strength at the moment to crush your son’s unexpected spark of joy at the prospect of something so simple like spending the afternoon with both of his parents.

You couldn’t deny your deep, wallowing desire to spend some more time in Bucky’s presence, either. As self-harming as it could be.

“Um-” you swallowed nervously as you looked down at your little boy. “Yeah- yes, I’ll stay. You know I always liked your daddy’s cooking.”

Your heart nearly burst when Stevie launched himself forward, wrapping his small arms around yours and Bucky’s legs. Then he was running away, with even more bounce to his skip than before.

To your relief, Bucky easily switched the topic to casual conversation as you joined him in the kitchen to help prepare dinner. He told you a few latest, funny stories; gushed about a new book series he started reading; asked about your dad’s knee surgery.

Falling into this comfortable pattern of domesticity with him was too easy. Like you haven’t been living separately for the past year, nursing deeply hidden resentment (which you expected from Bucky) and heartbreak. You knew it would hit you harder when you got back home, step into that silent, empty bedroom, which once upon a time was your nest of safety, laughter and love.

All of which you blew up.

You didn’t protest too strongly when Bucky fed your son an extra portion of ice cream after dinner, you were too distracted with your own ache that was spreading its nasty vines over you.

You played with the melting scoops in your own bowl as Bucky picked up a half-asleep Stevie and carried him to the bedroom. Alpine trotter right after them. From the occasional pictures that Bucky sent you when Stevie was staying at his place, you knew that the cat would jump onto the bed next to your boy and fall asleep with him.

When Bucky returned and sat beside you on the couch, his presence almost toppled you into a sobbing fit.

Once upon a time, you’d cuddle on the sofa in your living room and talk for hours, or watch shows, or make out. Even sitting in silence, while Bucky read a book and you browsed social media, was comforting and easy.

There was nothing easy about it now. Because that desperate need to crawl into his arms and have him chase the sorrows away couldn’t be sated.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” Bucky’s quiet voice surprised you.

You blinked as you looked at him, slightly confused with what he was talking about.

“I know you’re responsible and very strong. You’re more than capable of looking after yourself and don’t need my meddling in your intimate life.” He said, staring down at some spot and not meeting your eyes.

The words intimate life sounded as if he almost choked on them.

“I know it’s too late to mend what I fucked up.” He sighed, bowing his head even lower.

Your heart ached, seeing him so resigned.

“James Buchanan Barnes, what the hell are you talking about?!” Instinct to rush to his aid kicked you from your stupor.

The anger at yourself heightened as once again you saw first hand how much you hurt him. Bucky wasn’t flawless, but he didn’t deserve what you’ve put him through. To know that your actions added to his tendency to self-blame, only made you hate yourself more.

“It was me who fucked everything up.” You countered, setting the bowl on the coffee table with a loud thud. You shifted on the couch, turning your body so that you could face Bucky directly.

“I broke what we had. I- I broke your heart and you never deserved such awful treatment!”

Neither of you deserved all that pain, but it was on you to take the responsibility for it.

“I’m not gonna lie, the divorce hurt more than falling off that damn train…” Bucky’s voice quivered with emotion; his fingers shook slightly as he wiped his palms on his thighs.

“Divorce?” You paused, slightly stunned. “I mean, I know it was hard. For both of us. But I knew I needed to set you free after what I’ve done.”

It was Bucky’s turn to frown, his muscles pinching in a quizzical look as if he didn't understand what you were aiming at, at all.

“Bucky, I cheated on you!” You hissed loudly, but minding your voice enough to not wake your son.

There it was. The heaviest of truths which triggered the whole domino effect and which both of you avoided naming directly.

But Bucky deserved it - you admitting your faults. There was enough on his shoulders and you couldn’t stand the thought of him taking this burden onto him as well, when it was yours to pay for.

Bucky’s face cleared of confusion, however his frown deepened.

“What I know is that you were hurt, alone and inebriated. A state some douchebag took advantage of.” There was an undertone of anger in his tone, but not directed at you.

You shook your head in exasperation.

Leave it to Bucky Barnes to be an understanding, chivalrous knight. It was a wonderful trait, but shouldn’t apply on all occasions, to all people. It definitely should be directed at you. As much as you’d love to follow that reasoning, you had enough self-awareness and responsibility to not go easy on yourself.

“Being drunk doesn’t excuse what I did.” You stated.

“It wouldn’t, if that was your aim.” Bucky argued. “But tell me, did you go to that bar because you were looking for a hookup? To get back at me?” He rushed with his counter arguments.

When you tried to turn your head slightly to avoid his gaze, he squeezed your chin between his fingers and gently guided you to look back at him.

It was hard. To face him when the memories of that awful evening replayed in your head, bringing back a wave of shame and regret. You vomited three days in a row after that night; and only the first half of the first day was due to the alcohol. All the rest was stress and guilt.

“No, you didn’t.” Bucky continued when you remained silent.

“You went there, because it was our anniversary and I wasn’t home. I was on a mission. Again,” he sighed regretfully, aware of how his absence weighed down on you. “You went to the bar which we often went to on our dates, before we got married. Probably cursing my ass for absence on another important day and drinking the pain away.”

That was true. Your parents took Stevie for the whole weekend, starting Friday. It was supposed to be a carefree, romantic time for you and Bucky. Even if he would need to just be lazy in bed for an entire day, to recharge after a mission, you still would be together.

While Bucky returned from one mission, he jumped onto another one right away. He called you to say that he’d be later than he first anticipated, but in the craze of it forgot what date exactly was it.

You were understanding. Or, well, you tried to be. There was a whole monologue you gave yourself as you paced the floor of your apartment, convincing yourself that your husband was saving someone. So that someone else could return to their family.

But you still felt bitter and angry that your husband didn’t return to you for something that was supposed to be important to the both of you.

When you went out to that bar, which wasn’t that far from your place, your plan was to have a drink or two and wallow in self-pity. Perhaps to be passive-aggressive, take a picture of yourself all dolled up and send it to Bucky with happy anniversary wishes.

That was it.

Then that man joined you. For a conversation, at first. Two drinks turned into four. Then five. To be honest, at some point his face got a little blurry. He had dark hair, like Bucky. Had his arm wrapped around your middle the way Bucky often did.

At some point your drunk brain was certain it was Bucky fucking you, not some stranger you just met at the bar.

“I could’ve chosen to stay at home.” You argued, clenching your fingers into fists so hard that your fingernails needled your skin.

“I could have drunk a bottle or two of wine alone in the safety of our home and sent you angry, slurred messages. Or wait for your return and throw something heavy at your head.” There were so many choices to be made that night.

“Instead, I made a mess of our lives…” the words fell out of your lips in a broken whisper, your eyes filling with tears.

“And I forgave you.” Bucky said softly as he released your chin.

“Hell, I don’t even think I was angry with you.” He huffed, running a hand through his hair in a nervous manner. “Oh, I was pissed and hurt!” He gave you a pointed look when you opened your mouth to protest. “I even tracked that man and… well, let’s not talk about things that thankfully didn’t happen once I saw him.”

“Most of all, I was angry with myself,” Bucky suddenly deflated.

“Why?” You frowned, barely stopping yourself from reaching out to caress his cheek.

“Because I let it happen.” Bucky sighed and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs. “It was my constant absence that started those clouds over our heads. I was so focused on redeeming myself that I took on more missions than I should.”

A part of you wanted to contradict him, to convince him that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. But there was also a part of you that was still resenting him for doing that, for constantly choosing others over you.

“I think I also wanted to feel needed, which is why I joined teams even though they could’ve handled things without my presence.” He shifted again, sitting across the couch with one leg bent, so he could face you fully.

He was more hesitant as he reached out for you again. Though you didn’t flinch away, he still dropped his hand as he revealed his own guilt:

“I forgot that you needed me, too.”

You still did. But you wouldn’t dare to tell him that.

“What you do is important. You save lives.” You said quietly, but there wasn’t as much heat to it as you’d like to present.

“I didn’t save us.” Bucky’s words opened the gate to the feelings you tried to stifle for many months.

You almost lifted your fist to angrily rub away the tears threatening to spill, but Bucky reached for you faster. His warm palms rested on your fists; he squeezed them gently.

“Baby, I remember when you mentioned therapy.” He admitted, wincing at the memory of signals which he ignored. “You tried to say it so casually, I know you were afraid of telling me directly that you needed me to save our marriage. I dismissed it.”

“You hate therapy. I didn’t want to force you into it.” There wouldn’t be any point in attending any sessions, if Bucky would stay guarded.

You understood his hesitance, too. The mandatory therapy he went to a few years back was hard for him, not only because of the topics he had to deal with, but he didn’t feel emotionally safe or comfortable with the appointed professional.

“I disliked my assigned therapist.” Bucky pointed out, with a slight eye roll. “There are hundreds of therapists in this city. I’m sure there’s at least one that I could connect with.” Suddenly, he shook his head. “Or hell with how much I like a therapist, it should be about me connecting with you!”

He let go of your hands and cupped your face instead.

“I wonder-” he leaned forward, closing the distance between you. “I’ve been wondering, if I didn’t fuck up by signing those divorce papers so easily.”

He did it without much questioning. Which only strengthened your notion that he was repulsed by you and couldn’t wait to be as far from you as possible. You didn’t blame him.

“I understood that. After what I’ve done.” You whispered.

A single tear rolled down your cheek, stopping on Bucky’s thumb.

“I couldn’t look you in the eye, because I was so ashamed. I wanted to give you a chance to find someone worthy of you.” More tears flowed.

Bucky tenderly wiped them away.

“I don’t think I’m worth a single hair on your pretty head.” He said, resting his forehead against yours. “I signed those papers, because I thought you were going to find happiness with someone else. That you wanted to build a life with someone else.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” You would shake your head, if Bucky wasn’t holding you in place.

If his hold didn’t feel so overwhelmingly wonderful.

“Why not?” Bucky asked, incredulously. “You’re the most amazing, kind, smart, beautiful-”

“Because I’m in love with you.” You blurted out.

Your eyes widened when you realized what you said. Scorching shame mixed with a sudden wave of cold fear as Bucky slowly pulled away and stared at you in shock.

He was still cupping your face, though.

“Say that again, baby?” Bucky’s tone was a whisper, like he was afraid he’d burst some magical bubble if he moved or spoke louder. “Please,” he squeezed your cheeks slightly.

Maybe the best choice would be to take those words back. Or to start listing all the arguments to why it didn’t matter. But you couldn’t lie to Bucky. You never could. Especially not when he was looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes, filled with hope.

“I love you, Bucky,” you confessed. “I never stopped loving you.”

Tears streaming down your face were warm, but they felt much colder when compared to the warmth of Bucky’s lips on yours.

He kissed you with reverence and despair, like the first gulp of breath after drowning in murky waters for much too long. There was nothing but his closeness, beckoning you like a flare in the darkness. You followed the coaxing of his lips, the unspoken vows he sealed with his mouth.

You weren’t even fully aware of your body moving, yielding to Bucky’s smooth maneuvers. Until the full weight of him rested on top of you.

He provided both that shield of safety and heavy temptation that had your legs spreading to accommodate him.

“I never stopped, either.” Bucky croaked out as he broke the kiss; his lips still brushed against yours as he spoke.

“I love you so much. So much, baby.” It crushed your heart to see his own cheeks glistening with tears. “Please, can we try again? Let me mend it. Please.” He begged.

Bucky sounded so helpless and so hopeful at the same time. If your heart was set in cold stone, it would still shatter for him like a fragile glass.

“I should be the one mending it,” you pressed your fingertips to his cheek.

“Us. We’re going to do this together,” he briefly closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.

“Always together,” you agreed and tipped your lips upwards, tempting Bucky into another kiss.

Months of distance surely added fuel to the fire of need, but Bucky’s touch always had the power to ignite your desire. Him being on top of you, the kiss deepening, his hand traveling down your side - your body responded instantly.

You wrapped your arms around him; one hand combing through his hair, the other mapping his broad back. Your legs were already spread to accommodate his hips between yours, but as Bucky continued to kiss and touch you, your knees drew up higher and your hips rolled against him.

Bucky’s responding grinding was most welcome, but he suddenly froze.

“Baby,” he groaned, almost in pain. “I don’t want to ruin the moment, but if you keep doing that I’m going to lose it.”

“Need you,” you whined.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and slipped your other hand beneath his blue henley. You bit your bottom lip as you looked at him and rocked your hips into his once again.

“Need to feel you!”

For months you were deprived of any intimate touch, somehow not in the mood to even give yourself a release with your pitiful toys. To even think of anyone beside Bucky ever touching you like that made you nauseous. And you missed it so much!

Missed the way Bucky played your body. The way he felt inside of you.

“Bucky, please!” There was urgency in your tone that made Bucky snap to attention.

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, as if assessing that you were as sure as you sounded. A glint brightened his steel blue eyes and he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip in the most sensual way. That had your clit pulsing wildly.

“You always beg so prettily,” he murmured against your skin as began chaining kisses along your jawline. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Bucky braced his weight on his metal arm as he used his other hand to pull up the layers of your tulle skirt. You shivered, nipples pebbling, as his touch shifted to the inside of your thigh and wandered upwards.

He pressed the pads of his fingers against your throbbing clit, finding your panties already damp. It wasn’t a novelty how quickly your body responded to Bucky’s ministrations, but it seemed that longing for him sped up the process.

Bucky swallowed your moan in a messy kiss as he pressed harder on your nub. While you loved the way he sometimes drew this pleasure out, how long he could spend just fingering and licking you, it wasn’t what you needed at the moment.

You dropped both of your hands to his hips then slid them between your bodies to fumble with Bucky’s zipper.

“Fuck!” He cursed, dropping more of his weight onto you when you freed his cock out and wrapped your fingers around him.

“I’m afraid I won’t last long this time,” he groaned, tugging the fabric of your panties aside. “I’ll make it up to you, baby, I promise. But, fuck, it’s been so long since I felt you-”

“Uh-huh,” you nodded fervently, not really listening to him.

All your focus was on that throbbing need that spiked even higher as you guided the tip of Bucky’s cock inside you.

It was everything - the stretch of his girth spearing through your neglected pussy, his scent and warmth, his mouth sucking on your neck, his moan at the feel of your tight walls gripping him - that had your body seizing in the most rushed climax. Already, while he was barely halfway in.

You dug your fingernails into Bucky’s hips as your legs shook; your upper half curling up, face buried in the crook of Bucky’s neck to muffle your cries of pleasure. Your walls clenched so hard it was almost painful, then fluttered in a crescendo of aftershocks.

“Sorry, sorry,” you babbled, falling onto your back and squirming as the orgasm continued to tingle in every part of your body.

“Sorry?” Bucky choked on breath. “My girl cumming for me so fast is an ego boost beyond any other,” he chuckled.

He always had the ability to make you fall apart rather quickly, but that was a new record. Provided by suppressed sexual tension and emotional connection you were deprived of for so long.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Bucky cooed as he continued to slide into your fluttering cunt, “I’ll give you more.”

He shifted his hand, so that his thumb brushed over your swollen clit. He moved with no rush, but each of his thrusts was deep, nearly painfully so. As if Bucky sought more of that connection; needed it as fiercely as you.

As promised, he made you cum again. Then shuddered within your embrace as he followed you over the edge. And though your heart was thundering in your chest from the exertion, it was the first time you felt complete and at peace since a very long time.

You welcomed Bucky’s full weight as you laid spent, your hands drawing soothing patterns on his back. His cock was still nestled inside of you; neither of you wanted to lose that intimate connection too soon. You rested, listening to each other’s breathing and soaking in the comfort of being together.

When Bucky fucked you again a while later, it was more languid and sensual. He made breathless vows of love, curling his metal fingers around your throat and squeezing just enough to spill more of your warm tears. He confessed his need for you in his life as he increased his pace, tilting your ass with his other hand, so he could spill deeper inside of you.

In the morning, as he woke up early with the intention of going to the bakery and getting fresh treats for your family breakfast, there was so much brightness in Bucky’s eyes. So much love and happiness, like on the day your son was born.

As you looked at your own reflection in the mirror in his bathroom, you saw the same spark in your own eyes.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #eight types of love challenge #the-slumberparty #navy and roo's slumber party #echo that thunders #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine

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aryxchse · 1 month

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hii! could you do f! reader dating percy headcannons? i loved you jason grace one <33, thanks!! but also no worries if you can’t do it

ocean eyes. | percy jackson x fem!reader

a / n : i 💃🏻 am 💃🏻 on 💃🏻 to 💃🏻 see 💃🏻 my 💃🏻 husband 💃🏻

warnings : percy jackson's hot self, cursing

- alright mr obsessed af

- dating with him is like dating with a mama's boy who never leaves his mama's side

- you are the mama btw

- constantly hugging you, or has an hand on you, follows you around like a puppy etc

- overprotective, possesive, jealous, would kill someone for you, obsessed

- those are his red flags

- i won't write green flags because it doesn't end

- the only main problem is his fame

- at least five people falls in love with him the moment he enters somewhere

- but, he's only looking at you ofc

- 'everybody's watching him, but he's looking at you-u-u-uu'

- he does have girl friends but you know them all

- you know when he's shitting at this point

- the type of guy who does something and it looks unintentionally hot

- but he doesn't get why you're drooling all of a sudden

- hearts from water in the lake

- matching outfits

- sleepovers in his cabin, because cabin 3 has a calming aura

- being the mom and dad of the camp and leading the activities

- do i have to mention that sally knows you before he even introduced her to you??

- swimming in a bubble, exploring the sea

- wearing his silly shirts

- you constantly break the dressing code just to wear his sea creature shirts

- sword practicing together

- exploring the camp's forests

- sneaking out from the camp just to see a movie or visit an aquarium

- long talks under the cozy blankets

- matching shark plushies that are married

- your shark is pink

- "jewel told me that blue made her upset."

- "no worries, i already beat the shit out of him."

- dirty words whispered in your ear out of nowhere

- like, now-i-have-a-pool-between-my-legs kinda dirty

- he loves playing sports, he doesn't only swims, so you can often cheer for him on his multiple games

- like that one night he organised a football game night with the gang, and as girlfriends you cheered the boys

- wearing his jumpers that has your lucky number behind it

- kissing you after winning the match

- serious talks that turns into a therapy session

- carrying eachothers ugly childhood pictures in your wallet

- shopping together to buy camp's needs

- surfing together

- hanging out in the nyc on his skateboard

- constantly going on an adventure

- loving the shitty quests like 'finding hecate a special gemstone' or 'stealing aphrodite's hair clip from the museum'

- being in love with either or both of you is the camp's rite of passage at this point

- inside jokes

- babysitting estelle

- dancing in the kitchen

- you may think it's romantic like any other couples do but you guys dance to disney songs while both of you pant from jumping

- going to greek mythology musicals like hadestown

- dating with percy is like dating with that one boy best friend of yours that you loved all of your life and realised he was the one this entire time

#my american boy fr #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the heroes of olympus #percy jackson series #pjo hoo toa #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson headcanon #pjo show #pjo tv show #percy x you #percy jackson x reader

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saylorsaysstop · 3 months

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How They Kiss | Bat Boys

The hottest question on the radar right now is how do these men kiss?

↪ Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome! ⭐️

↪ My Masterlist

BRUCE WAYNE 🖤

The kisses that the crime-fighting playboy billionaire may potentially deliver are all based on his mood. If he's getting home late from saving Gotham, they're quick pecks on the mouth because typically you're in bed asleep. He'll glide his lips across your forehead, breathe in your scent that somehow is melatonin in human form, and he'll start getting ready for bed.

If he's out at events for Wayne Enterprises, such as the annual charity gala hosted in his late parent's name, he kisses you with passion. Deep strokes of his tongue when nobody is looking, a hand pressed to your waist. He kisses you like you're his most prized possession and he can't get enough of his lips on yours.

When sex is involved? Bruce is carnal. His tongue lavishes yours. Worships your mouth with his. Loves to tease your bottom lip and kiss you so deeply, that you can feel him on your mouth even when the night is over. Bruce is thorough with his kissing just like he is with everything else in his life.

DICK GRAYSON 💙

Dick loves a good smooch. He kisses gently in the mornings when you first wake up. He'll show up randomly at your work with flowers in hand and steal a couple of kisses, maybe even end up in the supply closet where the heat really cranks up.

Before he leaves for patrol, Dick doesn't believe in a goodbye kiss. He likes to call them 'see you later' kisses and those linger for longer than either of you anticipated. He strokes your cheek as his lips mold to yours. He tastes every inch of your mouth and licks away the hunger inch by inch as his tongue explores your mouth. You palm his perfect butt (that he's so eager for you to touch. He knows he's got a great set of glutes) and he caresses your hips.

Dick kisses deeply when he gets home from patrol. Albeit tired, his nerves skyrocket with serotonin when he arrives home and finds you waiting up for him. Once he's stripped of his suit and he's colliding with you in between the sheets, he bruises your mouth from how hard he kisses, his teeth teasing your bottom lip while he explores your body with his hands.

JASON TODD ❤️

Jason loves deep, languid strokes of his tongue across yours. When he has a light stubble on his chin, he loves the way you scratch his cheeks with your nails as you two kiss. His favorite kissing position is hands down you straddling his lap.

He kisses with precision. It's like every inch of your mouth that he touches, he sparks something new inside of you. Jason loves to battle for dominance with his tongue, where ultimately he wins. Says if your kiss was alcohol, he'd get drunk off you every single night.

Jason can't go to sleep without kissing you. He wants his hands on your body while his lips mold to every shape of you. Starts at your ankles, kisses up your calves, he'll kiss your belly and chest. Travels up your throat, light pecks to your face. He'll end with his mouth on yours where his entire weight will sink down on top of you and he's left making out with you until both of you are undressed and panting.

TIM DRAKE ☕️

He is the softest kisser of them all. Tim Drake never leaves without some form of lip balm in his pocket. Loves to have them soft and ready for when he can get a kiss from you. Tim loves to hold your face in his hands while he kisses you, stroking your tongue slowly with his. Needs you as close as humanly possible when his lips are on yours.

Tim needs to be kissed by you before every patrol. He can't function without some form of lip lock whether it's a peck or a full-on makeout session. It gives him a boost that even the strongest caffeine can't provide him with. You're his form of therapy and a drug he likes to say.

Kissing you involves a lot of hands-on movement. Tim loves to grip your hips in his hands and pull you flush to his chest. Loves to slant his mouth over yours and really gets off on feeling your breath on his lips just before you two seal your mouths together.

#dick grayson fluff #dick grayson #nightwing #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #tim drake fluff #red robin fluff #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne

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kometqh · 5 months

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𝐒𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐎𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (fem reader)

𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐨; @hashcakes , 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 <𝟑 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 (𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞) 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐲.

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

Pink waves grasped at the sand, their back and forth swishing easing your nerves.

You were at the beach, with your love, your husband, Finnick Odair.

It had been a couple of months at this point, after the Capitol was overthrown and President Snow was no longer. Though the Capitol was gone and all citizens of Panem had seemingly integrated into one, equal society, the scars and marks that you had been left with did not go away as easily.

When you had arrived at District 13, you could barely utter a word, barely look up from your wounded palms. It had taken Finnick just over a month to get you to look at him, to let him hold you, and even more to get you to speak. But when you did, he cried of joy. He had asked you carefully if he could embrace you, and kiss you.

The Capitol did not only take away your voice, but they took much more than that. Your love for the seas.

You remember it vividly; eyes covered by a mask until you only saw darkness, the electrified currents rushing through your muscles, tightening the tissue like a rope. All the while all that your ears could register were your pleading, muffled screams, along with the sound of waves crashing agains the shoreline.

It was all that haunted your nightmares for the next year or so, coming back with dripping fingers, taking you deep down into the void.

When you were rescued, you had to be sedated in fear of becoming a danger to everyone else.

Quickly after waking up, you had been informed that Peeta had brutally attacked Katniss, strangling her to near death. You understood his actions and what drove him to them, and you wished that the young boy would recover quickly, although now you were well aware that these kinds of scars will never truly heal, never fully disappear.

Lost deep in thought, you failed to notice how Finnick's muscular arms wrapped tightly around you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he nuzzled his nose into your neck.

His deep, hushed voice whispered, "What are you thinking, my love?" It never failed to send a pleasurable chill down your spine. Melting into his embrace, your eyes fluttered shut, your head leaning to his.

"Just... About the water," You paused, releasing a soft sigh, "It looks so calm, so safe, and yet I'm still so, so afraid."

You felt Finnick's fingers feeling the soft material of your sundress, rubbing it between the pads of his fingers.

His voice was soothing, dripping with sweetness as he spoke, "We can go back, love. You don't have to do this."

You shook your head. "I need to do this."

He nodded his head, slightly lifting his head to place a kiss on your cheek, his hands caressing your waist. He then slowly let go, one of his hands travelling to your shoulder, then down your arm until his fingers interlocked with yours, fitting perfectly like a key in a lock.

"Let's get this over and done with then."

You smiled softly, though it didn't quite reach your eyes.

You stood a good couple of feet away from where the water met the sand, and yet your heart was still rattling like a wild bird in a small cage.

Finnick was trying something called 'Exposure Therapy' on you, as suggested by a doctor from 13. It involved you and the water. It took you a long while to be okay with showers, however the bathtub was not an option. That was something you couldn't overcome in your short time in the hospital.

Though now, as Finnick encouraged you to face your deepest nightmares, you felt grateful to at least be able enough to listen to and to watch the waves.

It used to be your most favourite thing to do in the world, and Snow took it away with just a lift of his finger.

Eyes heavily trained on the water, your mind had gone blank. Your lips slowly opened, stuttering over complete silence. You heard Finnick chuckle, and felt his body shake. He turned wholly to you, placing his free hand on your cheek, gazing into your eyes lovingly.

"I'm here, love. We're in District 4, standing on our favourite beach, watching the sea." Finnick said slowly, voice hushed as his eyes searched yours. "As long as I'm around you'll always be protected, always be safe." He continued, placing a tender kiss to your lips, and you leaned in, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

As the two of you parted, you nodded your head lightly, gaze never leaving his.

A soft smile stretched across his face, his teeth gently peering through the gap between his lips. His dimples were also peering through, and you felt the urge to touch his face, to feel his skin on yours.

"Now, we'll go into the water, is that okay?" He asked, but you didn't respond. You didn't nod or shake your head, you didn't utter a single word. All you could do was swallow down your fear, and shakily grip his hand.

Finnick's free hand came to hold the side of your face again, his own face coming closer and closer, until your foreheads touched and your eyes were closed, listening intently to the sound of the waves, the sound of his voice.

"I've got you darling. You're safe." He continued, and pressed another kiss to your lips. Your grip on his hand tightened, and your free hand travelled up to his hair, gliding through the golden locks, down to his cheek.

Your hand caressed his sun-kissed skin. You didn't open your eyes, and instead squinted them shut as you felt the fear creeping up your bones.

"Look at me honey, I need you to show me that you know you're safe." He says, nudging your nose with his. "I'm gonna be with you every step of the way darling. With me around you ain't got nothing to be afraid of." He whispered softly, his hand squeezing yours back as he took two steps back, pulling on your hand.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you could feel your breath beginning to hitch as you moved two steps forward.

You could feel your heart stop for a moment, before it began to hammer again. With a deep breath, you nod your head.

"You'll keep me safe, Finn."

At that, the corners of his lips curled upwards, his dimples coming back. You trailed closely to him, leaving an arm's length between your bodies.

The sand beneath your feet was soft, still dry as you trudged forward, coming closer and closer to the foamy, pink waves. You slowly looked up, and with laboured breaths, you noticed how pretty the cloudy sky was.

The rising sun casted a candy cotton colour to the skies. The rays gently grasped at the horizon, and you stumbled for a moment, your breathing calming as a light breeze took a hold of your hair, pulling it as it went past you.

A soft smile appeared on your lips, and you felt a snap of confidence rush through your veins. In the corner of your eye, you saw Finnick turning back to look at you, his small footsteps coming to a stop as he allowed you to absorb the beauty of the morning sky, his eyes softening at the sight.

You looked to him, grinning a toothy smile as you gave his hand a tight squeeze. With a nod of your head, Finnick began moving again, tugging you towards the water, his warm hand embracing yours.

At first, you only felt the tame licks of coolness against your feet. The confidence you felt quickly evaporated.

You felt terrified, heart pounding against your chest with a long-known fervor, but you also felt the smallest bit of comfort.

It reminded you of how you and Finnick would run into the water, swim into the unknown depths without a single bit of fear. Back when you were kids, back when you were safe from the ghastly tentacles of the Hunger Games.

Now, as you stood there, your mind was at war. More water began lapping at your feet, dragging soggy sand over your skin lazily.

"Is this okay?" Finnick's soft voice ripped through the air, and you looked up, seeing how he was standing over you protectively, hands ready to lift you effortlessly and get away from the sea. His golden locks bounced in the sea breeze, the sun shone behind him, highlighting his honeyed skin.

"Y-yes, it feels... Strange. But I can stand it." Your voice was merely a whisper, and it tugged heavily at Finnick's heartstrings. He looked you over, noting how gorgeous you were in your white sundress, miniature sunflower patterns decorating the entirty of the fabric. Your feet had dug deep into the sand beneath, your legs frozen still, unmoving.

"Can you go any further?" His voice was sweet, steady and full of love. You nodded your head, but struggled to move. Finnick took note of this, and his arm easily wrapped around your waist, guiding you forward. "We can stop at any point, just give me a sign."

The more steps you took, the more numb your limbs became. The water was cold, freezing cold. The sand mostly smooth, though a couple round stones and seashells dug into the soft skin of your feet, lessening as you walked further into the sea, the water rising gradually.

It's when the two of you reached far enough for the water to lap at the hem of your dress that you singalled for Finnick to stop. The waves were much larger, swaying your bodies upwards, but they were also much gentler at this distance. A blanket of darkness enveloped you, and you felt a trickle of sweat falling down the side of your forehead, numerous shivers going down your spine.

Your breath stuttered, and your eyes focused on the water, your muscles cramping.

Finnick stood behind you, placing his warm hands on your hips. He placed soothing kisses to your neck, his fluffy hair tickling your cheek. If it wasn't for him, you'd already be crying hysterically.

His embrace was warm and secure, comforting and mellow. His kisses softly ghosted over your skin, and his hands secured you into place, ready to whisk you away at any moment.

The two of you stood like this for a long while, enjoying each others warmth, feeling the gentle sway of the waves, and your heart eventually calmed, slowly but surely. The waves remained steady, passing by you as though you were nothing but a phantom.

Slowly, your feet began to move, until you were waist deep in the water, eyes closed in concentration, Finnick holding you tightly. Your mouth was dried up, and your eyebrows furrowed in worry, stress cursing through your veins, pulsing like your heartbeat.

"You're doing great, love," Finnick softly muttered, grazing his skin against your own, arms wrapped around your torso to keep you warm, his fluffy hair tickling your face. "You're doing so good, keep going." His voice eased your nerves, and slowly but surely, your shoulders relaxed, and you released a shaky breath.

"Thank you Finn, thank you." You whispered, and you fought hard to open your eyes, but the wet sensation of tears had stopped you. You began to sniffle softly, and soon you felt the tears escaping your closed eyes, sliding down your cheek.

Finnick's thumb quickly wiped the first stray tear away, but more poured out. Your quiet sniffles turned into hiccups, body shaking with every breath you took, with every movement of the waves. Finnick gently lifted you up, carrying you away from the water, until you were safely seated in the soft sand, far out of the waters reach.

"I'm sorry..- I- I couldn't do it, Finnick." You sobbed out, tightly gripping his white T-shirt in your fist, crumpling the soft material.

Your meek, silky tears were cushioned by his shirt, his hand caressing your back with delicate strokes.

"It's okay honey, you did so well today..." Finnick softly muttered into your ear, his voice helping to ease your guilt. You knew how desperate he was to go swimming with you again, to be able to explore the kelp forests and spend day and night relaxing in the waters.

"I'm so so so s-sorry.." You continued, and laid in his arms for a while, until the tears dried up and you were left laying in his lap, watching as the sun made its way higher up into the sky, the sea gently swishing back and forth.

You had been there for hours, silently watching.

You could feel Finnick's stomach begin to rumble, and you shifted in his lap, leaning your head back to look at him.

His eyes were boring into the sea, watching with furrowed brows as he was lost in thought.

"Finn... Finnick," You whispered, your fingers gently tracing his jawline, "I think it's time to go, I can hear that you're hungry."

He blinked a few times, inhaling deeply as he looked down at you.

"Are you sure?" He asked, unsure and unwilling to leave the comfortable spot.

You nodded your head, lightly sitting up but his arms stopped you.

"I think Johanna might be bored of looking after the baby." You spoke with a smile, and Finnick reciprocated with a toothy grin of his, shaking his head lightly.

"Oh she loves our boy, she's always calling asking to come see us." He said sweetly, his grin having turned into a soft smile.

"Fine.. We need to stop by the market anyway, we've barely got any food." You said, leaning back on your hands, sitting between Finnick's spread legs.

"I can go catch something, you know. Maybe some abalone or something, like we used to." Finnick said, trying to convince you.

You didn't need much convincing though, as you knew how much he wanted to go back into the water. Maybe someday you'd be able to join him again.

"Off you go then, but don't be too long, and- and be careful. Okay?" You asked, eyebrows furrowing in worry, lifting your hand to caress his cheek.

Finnick leaned into your touch, the soft smile remaining on his face as he nodded.

"I won't be long, I promise."

With that, the two of you stood up, and you embraced each other. Your arms wrapped around his neck, Finnick's hands finding their rightful place on your waist.

The two of you shared a deep kiss, lips moving together in sync as you smiled, feeling your heartbeat speed up.

The wind tugged at your hair, invisible fingers stroking through it as it flowed by.

Finnick's hold on you tightened, and you felt him inhale deeply, his feet shifting in place. You smiled into the kiss, and felt his tongue dart out slightly, ghosting over your bottom lip.

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging smoothly at the roots, eliciting a groan from him.

You parted from him, hands leaving his hair, coming down to his shoulders.

His lips chased yours for a second, eyes shut as he nudged your nose with his.

You allowed him one last peck, and then moved your face further away, forcing Finnick to open his eyes.

"Go on, I'll be here, waiting." You spoke softly, the smile on your lips finally reaching your eyes.

Finnick nodded with heavy lidded eyes, his lashes casting pale shadows over his cheeks.

"Fine, but you owe me one more kiss." He stated quietly, his hand flying up to the back of your head, keeping it in place as he stole a passionate kiss from your lips.

He then let go, saying a soft, 'I'll be back in a bit', before he stripped his shirt, handing it to you as he flexed his muscles.

You laughed out loud, head hanging back. He truly never failed to make you laugh.

With one last hug, Finnick proceeded to jog off towards the water, his body disappearing further beneath the waves until you saw him dipping under, for a long while.

You sat in the sand, eyes trained on the water.

He would make a reappearance from time to time for some air, before he'd dip back in.

It took him a long while, but eventually he returned, swimming up to the shore with pocketfuls, one hand grasping a whole bunch of abalone.

You raised your eyebrows in bewilderment, extending the corners of his shirt to create a makeshift basket.

Finnick dumped all of the creatures into it, and you tied the ends together, a gleeful smile on your face. "You sure got a lot." You said, shaking your head at him.

Finnick grinned at you, and you looked him over, from his dripping hair to his toned chest, to his shorts.

There was one more, rather large, shell poking at his pocket.

"I think you forgot some there." You pointed out, and Finnick shook his head with a smile.

"This one isn't for eating," he stated with a laugh, his hand reaching into his pocket to retrieve a snail shell, "It's for you." He said softly, handing you the object.

You looked over it, your fingers tracing the intricate, dark red patterns embroidered into the shell. The overall colour was a faint rosé pink, one of your favourite colours. It felt hard in your clutch, but sturdy and strong.

You brought the shell, or rather conch, up to your ear and listened.

After a short moment, you heard the distant sound of wind echoing through the conch. It sounded much different to the breeze present at the beach, but it was calming, comforting.

You looked up to Finnick, unable to hide your smile.

"It's beautiful... H-How did you find it?" You asked, surprise lacing your voice.

"I looked far and wide for it, I wanted to give you something to remember today," Finnick muttered, his voice gravelly and deep as he tried to catch your gaze, "You did so well today, and I want you to know that I'm so proud of you darling."

He spoke softly, and reached a hand up to your chin, lifting it so that you'd look at him.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head with a smile. Reaching on your tiptoes, you placed a tender kiss to his lips, feeling how his hand embraced your cheek.

"Thank you Finnick. It's beautiful," You whispered after the two of you parted, feeling the shell in your palm, "I love you so much."

His toothy grin stretched across his cheeks, and Finnick shook his head, gazing at you lovingly, his fingers stroking mellow circles into your waist, "I love you more darling."

#finnick odair x you #finnick odair x reader #fluff #finnick odair #angst #finnick oneshot #the hunger games #thg #thg fanfiction #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #katniss and peeta #district 4 #district 13 #finnick x y/n #finnick x you #finnick imagine #thg finnick

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its-time-to-write · 8 months

Note

Hi, first off I want to say that I love your writing. It always makes me smile 🙃🙃.

As for my request, I was wondering if you could please write about Jamie soft launching your relationship on Insta and starting to bring it up in the press. You haven’t met the boys and they are trying to figure out who it is based on his comments and Insta posts. (I may have a Pinterest board with soft launch ideas so…use the screen shots on my page as u wish).

If you don’t have time to write this then no worries. Have a nice day!!!!!!!!!

🫲😇🫱

I listened to “Not All Those Who Wander,” by Miss Lana the whole time I wrote this. 10/10 recommend

it’s just wanderlust

“You’re gonna want to hold off on touching me,” you say as you haul your bags into the house. “Kid fuckin’ spit all over me today and I didn’t even have time to change.”

Jamie wrinkles his nose and takes a step back. “Ew. Fucking gross, that. Is that why you were late coming home?”

You nod, shucking your shoes by the stairs. “Uh huh. Had to talk to the parents post-session. Do a little debrief thing. Thing is, they swore their little angel would never do something like that and next time I should just give him what he wants. Only problem,” you continue as you wash your hands in the kitchen sink, “is that my entire job is not giving him what he wants when he’s displaying inappropriate behaviors. I love that kid, I really do, but his parents are complete twats.”

Jamie nods agreeably. “Was it like projectile or spray?”

You grimace. “Both. Kid’s got mean aim, but decided to switch it up to cover more surface area.”

You look over at the table, which is set neatly. “I know dinner’s ready and I’m already late, but I really need a shower. I can feel like three inches of grime on my skin.”

“Don’t worry about it babe,” Jamie says. “Takeaway reheats easy.” He hesitates for a moment. “Did you want to shower alone, or..?”

You laugh. Cheeky fucker.

“Give me three minutes to scrub really well, and then you’re welcome in. You sure you’re good eating late?”

Jamie grins. “Babe, I-”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, finger pointed at him. “Don’t say it. I know where you’re going, and you don’t need to finish that sentence.”

Jamie opens his mouth again but you’re interrupting before he can get his next sentence out. “And if you’re about to make a pun with the word ‘finish,’ I can guarantee it’s nothing you haven’t said before.”

Jamie looks dejected, but his ego obviously isn’t bruised too much because he’s still is on your heels the whole way up the stairs.

—

You’re showered and back downstairs, the both of you eating dinner in pajamas like proper adults, if proper adults decided that they were allowed to sit on the counter in Jamie’s kitchen. You’re not saying much, just swapping stories about each other’s day. It’s never a dull moment between his time at Nelson Road and your time at the behavioral clinic.

“Who do you think sees the grossest shit?” you had asked one time.

“Oh fuck love, it’s gotta be you,” came Jamie’s response.

“You sure? Because you have like, gross men and stuff. Half of them don’t even know how to do their own laundry.”

Jamie had laughed. “I’m fucking sure. Yeah they smell nasty and shit but like, they’re traumatized by some of the shit you have to deal with.”

He’s got a point.

Neither of you have a whole bunch to say though, and anyway it’s nice to be in a house that’s quiet.

Jamie’s the one to break the silence. “What if we started telling people about us?”

You give him a look so he hurries on. “I know you said you weren’t ready, especially with all the press and everything, but what if we just like soft-launched it? Y’know, take a couple photos without seeing your face.”

You chew your dinner thoughtfully. Is this a good time to start carefully introducing your relationship to the world? You’re indispensable to your company, although they may decide to place a higher value on their anonymity than what you bring to the table. It’s not easy providing behavioral therapy to clients who prefer their children to remain unknown. But at the same time, you can’t keep quiet forever. It’s not fair to Jamie. It’s like you’re saying this is only temporary. I’m keeping it a secret because it won’t last so it’s not worth sharing. It’s not true. Jamie is worth sharing, and you have the tiniest spark of hope that this thing you’ve kept going for the past six months is going to last.

Well, maybe not so much a spark of hope as a sneaking suspicion. The kind you feel as a kid when your parents swear they didn’t get you want you wanted for Christmas, but you have the vaguest sense that they’re lying. You don’t want to hope, because what if you’re wrong, but then again, there’s a part of you that can just feel it.

You’ve been silent for far too long because Jamie says, “Babe? If you don’t want to, it’s ok,” except you can see in his face it isn’t entirely ok.

“I was just thinking,” you reply. “I think- I think I’m good with it. You know, letting people know you’re off the market. Plus it’ll be fun to take more pictures together, My mum keeps bugging me for more.”

Jamie grins. “Mint. The lads are gonna be so fucking psyched.”

—

Ah yes. The lads. Or as they’re better known, the AFC Richmond team. It hasn’t been easy sneaking around them, especially because Ted seemed to Know. Jamie came home one day all spooked because he swore Ted knew he was dating someone.

“Stared straight into me soul, he did,” he said. “Fuckin’ told me he’s surprised I haven’t found a girl yet.”

“That doesn’t sound suspicious, Jaim,” you reply, to which Jamie shakes his head vehemently.

“You weren’t there, that’s what he said, but he meant somethin’ else. He fucking knows.”

You’d laughed and told him it was fine, even if Ted did know, you didn’t mind.

After that encounter, there had been vague rumblings that maybe Jamie did have a girl somewhere, or possibly several girls at one time, which prompted a very serious conversation with Isaac and Sam.

“Jamie, you have said that you have changed. You are acting like a better teammate. And yet, dating more than one girl at a time is just wrong,” Sam told him.

“That shit’s sleazy, bruv,” Isaac said. “You can’t be playing around like that.”

So they had gotten Jamie to admit that no, there weren’t multiple girls, just one girl who he had met at a café of all places because he was cheating on his meal plan and she was trying to finish some assessments for work.

You wanted privacy and of course you knew exactly who he was the moment he walked up to your table and said, “hey,” so yeah, it was never going to be easy.

But the way you had wavered ever so slightly when he asked you to dinner was enough to make him realize that this was going to be something different. Something real. Because if the allure of dating national football star Jamie Tartt wasn’t enough for an automatic yes, you must be looking for something deeper.

Jamie wasn’t sure he was looking for that, but hell he’d give it a go if it meant he got to kiss those soft lips even one time.

So fuck him, he’d fallen for a pretty face in a café on a fucking Sunday and now he has to go home and tell you that people know you exist. That a little bit of your privacy bubble has burst.

You didn’t really care though. You’d been pondering the ethics of a secret relationship for a good long while, so maybe it was good that his teammates knew you existed.

That was a month before Jamie broached the subject of the soft-launch, so you think maybe you can ease into this. It’ll be fine.

—

The first picture is relatively easy. Just a regular mirror pic, cropped of course, with Jamie’s arms wrapped around you from behind. It’s easy to tell it’s him because his tattoo sleeve is in full view. The caption reads, “soft launch,” with a heart emoji.

The like count is through the roof.

You like it too, because what notice will your account garner in a sea of Jamie Tartt fans?

The Greyhounds lose their minds a little bit, commenting fire emojis and heart eyes and trying to figure out who could possibly be there with Jamie. He comes home after training that day to tell you that there’s a rather convincing conspiracy that he’s dating this famous model they’re all obsessed with.

You’re flattered they think you look like her. Even if they can only see your arms and torso.

“This is gonna be fun, babe,” you say, standing on tiptoes for a kiss. Jamie grins. Anything to torture his team.

—

The second picture is posted two days later, with the caption, “date night.”

You’re sitting at his dining room table, candles and wine glasses strewn about, and Jamie’s kissing you at an angle where you can really only see your hair.

For fun, you comment, “omg, I wish that were me.” Richard Montlaur responds to it, “omg same,” so you show Jamie. He rolls his eyes.

“Lad thinks he’s funny, don’t he?” he asks.

You grin. “You’d never leave me for Richard, would you?”

Jamie shrugs. “Dunno babe, he is kind of fit.”

You smack his arm playfully and say, “Fuck off, I’m better looking.”

—

You’re almost caught before the big reveal. You’re on a coffee date in a small town, miles from Richmond or Manchester or anywhere Jamie could be easily recognized. It’s a sleepy town, mostly old people, which is why you both decided it’d be safe.

You’re sitting at a table with your coffee while Jamie’s up to grab his, when you see someone go up to him and tap his shoulder.

“Jamie? What are you doing here?” Sam asks.

Jamie jumps a little and places to where you’re sitting before he can stop himself.

“Oh, um, just getting coffee. You know.”

Sam gives him a quizzical look. “Do you know someone here? This isn’t close to home at all. Are you meeting someone?”

Sam glances around the room and Jamie’s grateful that his gaze does not linger extra long on you.

Jamie decides the best way to answer is to deflect. “Oi, what’re you doing here? It’s not like this place is fucking famous or some shit.”

Sam shrugs. “I like to try a different coffee shop every weekend. Sometimes I bring Dani, but after last time, I think I’ll have to find someone else.”

Jamie risks a glance at you. You’re hiding behind your latte, suppressing a grin. He’s positive you can hear every word they’re saying.

Sam’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Would you like to sit with me? It looks like there’s only one table left. Unless your mystery girlfriend is here.”

He laughs and Jamie joins in, just a little too loudly, but he can’t think of an excuse to join you at the table so he follows Sam and tries to send you a subtle I’m sorry with his eyes.

You pull out your phone and send him two laughing emojis, then reach into your bag for your book. Might as well get some reading done.

You let Jamie sit for a good half hour before you decide to do something. You put your things back into your bag and walk over to where they’re sitting.

“Hi, um, I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Sam Obisanya? I’m a huge Richmond fan.”

Sam grins at being recognized, while Jamie lets out a small, “Oi!”

“Oh yes, wonderful to meet a fan! I’m just here with my friend.”

You smile and say, “I just wanted to let you know that you played so well last game. I think you’re the best player on the whole team.”

Jamie snorts and Sam says, “Would you like to take a picture? My friend here would be happy to take it for you.”

Score. “That would be awesome!” you reply. “Then I’ll get out of your way. Don’t want to interrupt your coffee.”

—

“Can’t believe you just did that,” Jamie says, shaking his head mournfully another half hour later. “Fucking acting like you didn’t know who I was. Any self-respecting Richmond fan knows who I am.”

You knock into his shoulder lightly as you walk to the car. “Lucky for your ego, I was just acting. And anyway, I’m hilarious. That’s like, my number one quality.”

“Number two,” Jamie interjects, “It’s your number two quality.”

You ask, “Number two? What’s number one??”

Jamie zips his lips. “I ain’t tellin’, babe. Not good for your ego.”

You giggle as he grabs your waist so he can press a kiss to your neck.

—

Posts three and four go off without a hitch. There’s one of his hand on your knee and a timer picture of you twirling under a streetlamp. You both decide that as far as social media goes, this is as much as they’re going to get. But as far as AFC Richmond goes…

“Babe, you left your phone in the car,” you say as you stroll into the locker room casually as ever.

Jamie takes it from your hand and kisses you before he says, “Thanks babe.”

The locker room is silent, frozen. Colin’s body spray slips from his hand and clatters to the floor, and Beard’s just standing and pointing with his mouth open.

Roy breaks the silence as he growls, “What the fuck?”

“Oh my god,” Sam follows. “You’re the girl from the coffee shop.”

You grin and say, “Guilty.”

Jamie wraps his arm around your waist. “Lads, this is my girl. Babe, these are the lads.”

There’s silence for a moment longer before the room explodes into a flurry of questions. Neither you nor Jamie can get a word in until Beard yells, “QUIET! Don’t be fuckin’ weird!”

They all mumble, “Sorry coach,” while Jamie whispers, “You can go if you want. I know you’ve got work and shit. I’ll handle them.”

You squeeze his arm gratefully and slip out the door. You know he’ll take care of things.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #ted lasso #jamie tartt #jamie tartt x you

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theroundbartable · 4 months

Text

Arthur: hmm... Hey Gwen. If I died, who would miss me more. You or Merlin?

Gwen: *no hesitation* Merlin

Arthur: eh ... Wow, thank you?

Gwen: I had a life before you. He didn't. If you die, he'll probably lose his will to live.

Arthur: that's... Gwen, wtf.

Gwen: *puts books down* I love you, Arthur, and of course I would be devastated too, but Merlin is my best friend and I know him well. He'd do anything to be by your side. His job, his apprenticeship with Gaius, his life... Everything he has, he has thanks to you, and is risking to keep you safe. I'm your wife and I love you. But don't forget that I can go back to be blacksmith or a servant if I must. As Queen, I can continue like this even without you, which is kind of the purpose of you marrying me and the reason why people were so against us. I have a purpose outside of being your wife. Merlin is your best friend first, your servant second, your physician third. If he loses you, he'll lose everything he is. It will destroy him.

Arthur: I-

Gwen: what I'm saying is, don't die. If not for my sake, and let's be honest, if you die, you'll probably leave everything to me so you can rest in peace, and you will use that as an excuse not to fight on, then keep fighting for HIS sake.

Arthur: ...

...........

Merlin: yeah. That sounds about right.

Arthur: Gwen is my WIFE. Even if it's true, she shouldn't say that, right? I mean, she makes it sound like ... Like I should have married you!

Merlin: ... No, I don't think that's what she's saying. To be married means to be equal to one another. You and Gwen have more in common than your love for each other. You both have a vision for Camelot and that's something that ties you together. I'm your servant. I was never anything else. And quite frankly, despite everything the dragon said, I don't care for anything else.

Arthur: ... you love me.

Merlin: yeah, so?

Arthur: ... That doesn't sound very healthy

Merlin: *snorts* Stop trying to die for me, and then we'll talk.

Arthur: I still love Gwen

Merlin: I never said you don't and I'd never expect that to change. She's much better for the kingdom too. I'm happy to be where I am, especially since you know about my magic and accepted that. I like how things are and I wouldn't change a thing.

Arthur: don't you want... More?

Merlin: more? More what? More assassination attempts so a have to save you again? No thanks.

Arthur: no, I mean. Relationship wise

Merlin: I think our friendship is intense enough as it is.

Arthur: gosh, Merlin! I'm asking you if you want it to be romantic!!!!

Merlin: .... You're relationship with Gwen is romantic and that's not more than what we have. As I said, I don't need us to change. I don't need anything to change. Except, please do not think about my life without you in it, because if we start that, I might go feral and destroy half the kingdom.

Arthur: ... I think you might need therapy.

Merlin: can I pay that off of taxes?

Bonus:

Gaius: so, you're here for therapy

Merlin: yes

Gaius: with, eh... The king

Arthur: yes

Gaius: what about Gwen?

Arthur: Gwen told me to wish you luck.

Gaius: ... Oh boi.

Gaius: ... Alright then. So... Why do you both, er... King and servant, need couple therapy exactly?

Arthur/Merlin: he keeps trying to DIE for me!!!!

#bbc merlin #concept #Arthur #merlin #gwen #arwen #arwen with Merthur in it #relationship study #merlin needs therapy

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ugh-yoongi · 1 year

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him, if you were a betting man.

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

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

You already know which one Yoongi is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

“Can you expand on that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s rich.”

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

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

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

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

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

“Can we talk about it now?”

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

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

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

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

Is that why… “The song?”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Can you now?”

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

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

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

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

“But you are.”

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

“Relationship euthanasia.”

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

“What would that even look like?”

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

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

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

“Yoongi...”

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

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

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

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

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

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

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

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

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

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

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

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

“The one in Oakhurst?”

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

“How long?”

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mouth.”

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

He’s not so gentle after that.

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

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

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

“Fuck, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

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

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

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

“I’m sorry—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’d gone like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

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

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

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

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

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

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

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

“Are you all packed?”

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

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

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

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

“With what?”

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

“How much are you bringing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?”

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

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

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

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

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

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

—

Oakhurst is small.

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

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

A place that makes you smile.

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

Yoongi laughs anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

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

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

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

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

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

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what you think?”

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

“Leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

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

You think thirty will look good on him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I went to the grocery store.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

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

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

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

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

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

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

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

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

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

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

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just sends you A Look.

—

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

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

“SURPRISE!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you—”

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

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

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

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

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

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

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

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

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

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

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

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

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

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

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

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

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

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

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

“Real answer, please.”

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

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

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

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

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Everything reads like an attack.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Something that’s true.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[interlude: monday morning]

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

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

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

“Should we go home soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just seventy-five percent?”

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

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

“Not this shit again—”

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You listen.

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

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

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

It’s the thirtieth of December.

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

Good riddance.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Like each other.)

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

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

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

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

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

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

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

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

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

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

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

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

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

You are, and you do.

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

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

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

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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