#I will pay for all of your therapy I swear

[f14fun]

lay all your love on me - op81 (C2)

synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance

prose (6.1K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

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02: Love, Sweat, and Secondhand Embarrassment

"Clemmy I swear I wanted to die that entire time. Whoever I offended in an alternate universe I am so so sorry, I truly believe karma is real now," I lamented, voice weak.

Burying my head in my pillow, I could finally appreciate the cool blast of AC (well, it was a little bit of air conditioning but a little is better than nothing) I scratched my right leg that was hoisted up onto the blue duvet cover. If not for the horrible comedic timing of everything, in that moment, I might have said that I was enjoying myself.

On the other line of the phone, thousands of miles away, it was a completely different story.

"What the fuck," Clementine could barely muster out because she was laughing so hard.

"I still don't think any part of this story is funny, Clem," I roll my eyes and trail off.

"But it is! You genuinely should consider a career in stand-up comedy. If you recounted all of this in front of a paying live audience, I'm just saying it could make you a millionaire overnight," Clementine wheezed.

"Oh, shut up, bitch," I retorted, trying to suppress a smile despite my mortification.

"You know it's true though!" Her girlish giggles rang through my room. I could see her face through the screen and it looked like visible tears were streaming down her face from how funny she found this to be.

"I am completely and utterly humiliated. There is no way I can go downstairs and face everyone right now," I whined. It was true, as twenty minutes ago, mid-Facetime with Clementine, I heard the door to the foyer open and heard a lot of new noises.

New people. The neighbors. The rest of the Australians.

Crikey, mate.

There was no way I could face them. And since Oscar was probably their son (he looked way too young to be a father) he had probably already told them about the wretched and humiliating mishap.

"Seriously, Clemmy, you don’t get it," I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice but failing miserably. "This is not just some embarrassing story. This is my life, and I have to face these people now."

Clementine’s laughter finally started to subside, and she took a deep breath. "Okay, okay, I get it. But you have to admit, this is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of disaster. You can’t just ignore it. It’s like the universe is telling you to embrace the chaos."

I sighed, feeling a bit more grounded with her calming tone. "Yeah, well, I’m not exactly feeling the universe’s love right now. I feel like I’ve been dropped into some kind of sitcom. And what if they think I’m a total klutz? I can’t even begin to imagine how Oscar must’ve described me."

"It'll be fine. You are a pro at handling horrible situations. I mean, I can really only think that you have had more bad experiences with guys than good ones!" Clem tried to reassure me.

"Wow, thanks," I deadpanned. "Way to make a girl feel special."

Clementine's voice was full of playful sympathy. "Hey, I’m just saying, you’ve survived everything life’s thrown at you so far. Besides, look at it this way: if they’re judging you based on this one incident, they’re missing out on getting to know the amazing person you are."

"Yeah, because nothing says 'amazing' like face-planting into a pile of shampoo and knocking over a bunch of cleaning supplies," I said, sarcasm dripping from my tone.

Clementine laughed. "Exactly! And let’s be honest, if they do judge you for this, they’re definitely not worth your time. Besides, Oscar might even think you’re charming in a clumsy, endearing kind of way. You never know."

"You should really consider a career in therapy. If I lay here and close my eyes for a bit and sleep for three hours surely your advice will work," I retorted.

"Oh be so serious with me now,"

"I am! Now I can add a new skill to my LinkedIn profile," I said, trying to stifle a giggle. "How about 'Expert in Catastrophic Bathroom Mishaps: Master of Turning Shower Encounters into Slapstick Comedy'?"

Clementine burst into laughter. “That’s quite a title! It’s like you’ve got a whole new niche market for yourself.”

“Right? I’m just waiting for the endorsement from ‘The Association of Embarrassing Bathroom Incidents,’” I said, imagining a badge with that exact title. What a big, fat, fucking joke.

“Or maybe you'll become the keynote speaker for the 'International Conference on Unexpected Water-Based Accidents,’” Clementine added, her voice full of amusement.

“I’ll make sure to include a workshop on ‘How to Survive a Bathroom Collision with Dignity and Humor,’” I said with a chuckle. “And don’t forget the seminar on ‘Turning Slip-and-Fall Disasters into Networking Opportunities.’”

“A career to consider!” Clementine laughed. “And you know what? I’ll be your first fan. Just remember to keep me updated on how your new ‘disastrous bathroom mishap’ career is going.”

“I’ll make sure to do that,” I promised with a smile. “Thanks for the laugh. It’s nice to know that even in the middle of a fiasco, I can count on you to turn it into a comedy show.”

"What can I say, I will never turn down listening to a free shit show," Clementine winked at me through the camera.

"Clem! What the hell!" I waved my manicured pointed nail at her.

"Bye! Don't die from embarrassment before you come back!" She quipped, then promptly hung up.

I lay sprawled on my bed, dreading the thought of going downstairs and facing the group of new neighbors. The whole idea made me cringe. I was just about to mentally prepare myself for the awkward introductions when a sudden knock on my door jolted me upright. My heart raced as I called out lazily, “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Oscar standing there. His eyebrow was raised, and he wore a cheeky grin that did nothing to ease my nerves.

"Well, well, well," he said with an amused smirk. "Looks like you’ve been having quite the chat with 'dearest Clemmy,' haven’t you?"

My face flushed beet red, and I stuttered, struggling to find my words. “W-What are you doing here?”

Oscar leaned casually against the doorframe, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Oh, you know, just overheard you and Clemmy talking about our little mishap. I believe you mentioned something about me being ‘a charming yet infuriating Aussie who managed to turn your bathroom break into a comedy skit.’”

I blinked, stunned into silence. My mouth opened and closed, but no coherent words came out. The sheer embarrassment was overwhelming. Oscar’s casual demeanor and his cheeky grin only made things worse.

“What can I say, my name was called,” Oscar continued with a mischievous glint in his eye. “If someone keeps calling you hot, I mean, wouldn’t you be too curious to listen?”

His smirk only made my breath hitch and my fingers tremble a little more. I could feel my cheeks burning, and I struggled to come up with a response. The playful glint in his eye and his casual attitude did nothing to alleviate my embarrassment. Instead, they only made me feel more flustered.

I took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “W-Well, I guess I didn’t think anyone would be actually listening.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow playfully, his smirk widening. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t. But it was too good to pass up. Especially the part where you called me a ‘human wrecking ball.’”

My face flushed a deeper shade of crimson. “Great. Just great,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m sure I’ve made a fantastic first impression.”

Oscar chuckled, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Look, it’s all good. I’ve seen worse first impressions. Trust me. At least you didn’t accidentally set off the fire alarm or flood the place.”

I managed a weak smile, still feeling the sting of embarrassment. “Yeah, well, I’ll try to keep any future disasters to a minimum.”

Look at me, constantly embarrassing myself in front of hot guys. This was the exact reason why I was still bitchless and socially awkward at the ripe age of twenty-one. I could navigate a spreadsheet like a pro, ace exams, and even master the perfect contour, but put me in a room with a cute guy, and I turned into a walking calamity.

I sighed internally, already dreading the inevitable teasing I’d get from Clemmy once she found out I had, yet again, failed to keep my cool around a guy. Maybe I should’ve just stayed in the bathroom and let the ground swallow me whole.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, studying me with a curious look. “You know, you seem like a completely different person right now. Way quieter, more shy… less daring.”

My face flushed with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. “That’s not true,” I snapped, crossing my arms defensively. “I’m exactly the same as I was before.”

Oscar’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the effect his words had on me. “Sure, if you say so. But the girl who almost took me down like a rugby player in the bathroom seemed a lot more fearless.”

My nose flared as I shot him a glare, feeling the fire of indignation rise within me. Who did he think he was, making assumptions about me? I’ll show him just how brave I can be, I thought, my fists clenching. If he wanted to see daring, then I’d make sure he regretted ever doubting me. The nerve of this guy! He might have been hot, but that didn’t give him the right to push my buttons like this.

Oscar gave me a lopsided grin, clearly pleased with himself. "Anyway, everyone’s heading downstairs to meet each other. Figured I’d let you know, since, you know, it’s probably not the best idea to hide out up here forever."

My stomach twisted with nerves at the thought of facing everyone after that humiliating encounter. The idea of meeting new people while still reeling from my disastrous introduction to Oscar was daunting. But there was no way I was going to let him see how nervous I actually was. I took a deep breath, nodding stiffly. "Fine, let’s get this over with."

As we walked out of the room and toward the stairs, I could feel Oscar’s presence behind me—large, imposing, and annoyingly close. My face heated up, and I silently cursed myself for blushing yet again. Why did this guy have to make everything so difficult?

It was like shooting a sitting duck. A little small talk, a smile, and baby, I was stuck. I was a grown woman, for god’s sake, not some teenager swooning over a crush. But there I was, getting flustered over a guy I barely knew. Get a grip, I told myself, trying to shake off the absurdity of the situation. This wasn’t supposed to happen—I wasn’t supposed to be this easily charmed.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I hesitated, gripping the railing a little longer than usual. I could feel Oscar’s gaze on me, and it only made my nerves worse. Just as I was about to take the first step down, his hand brushed against mine. The contact was brief but enough to send a jolt of awareness through me. His hand was rough with calluses, moderately enveloping mine in a way that felt both comforting and disarming.

What was it about this guy that made me feel so uncharacteristically off-balance? As I tried to steady my racing thoughts, I reminded myself that I had to keep it together. After all, I wasn’t about to let some smooth-talking Aussie turn me into a lovesick fool—no matter how much my traitorous heart seemed to enjoy the challenge.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, my eyes were drawn to two adults who were deep in conversation with my mom. Their warm, friendly demeanor and unmistakable Australian accents told me they were Oscar’s parents. They seemed just as lively and outgoing as he was, which only added to the strangeness of this entire situation.

Then, I spotted Oscar’s siblings—a trio of sisters who looked like carbon copies of him, yet each had her own distinct vibe, like different fonts of the same typeface. They were laughing and joking with each other, their bond evident in the way they effortlessly engaged in light-hearted banter. I felt a pang of envy, wishing I had siblings to share that kind of closeness with.

My daydream was abruptly shattered when Oscar’s large, warm hand clasped onto my shoulder, his fingers pressing gently but firmly against my skin. The unexpected touch sent a jolt through me, making me jump slightly as a flush of heat rushed to my cheeks. His chuckle, deep and amused, rumbled behind me, the sound wrapping around me like a teasing caress. He was standing on the step just above me, close enough that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. His presence was unmistakably felt—broad, solid, and way too close for comfort, yet somehow not close enough.

His fingers lingered on my shoulder, almost as if he was testing my reaction, and I could feel the warmth radiating from his touch, seeping into my skin. The space between us seemed to shrink with every passing second, and I could barely concentrate on anything but the weight of his hand and the steady beat of my heart hammering in my chest.

Oscar leaned in slightly, his voice low and smooth as honey. “Jumpier than I thought,” he drawled, his tone dripping with playful mischief. “Didn’t take you for the shy type. Especially not after our little bathroom tango.” His grin widened, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that was both infuriating and ridiculously charming.

My pulse quickened at the way he was looking at me—those eyes sparkling with amusement, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. I swallowed hard, my mind racing to come up with a retort, but all I could focus on was how his hand, still resting on my shoulder, felt both protective and possessive. The air between us crackled with a tension that was impossible to ignore, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

I could quite literally cut the sexual tension with the dullest fucking butterknife in the world.

I tried to muster a sharp retort, something that would wipe that smug grin off his face, but my brain was too busy short-circuiting to cooperate. All I could manage was a stuttered, “I-I’m not shy! You just—caught me off guard, that’s all.” The words tumbled out, weak and unconvincing, and I mentally cringed at how feeble they sounded.

Oscar’s grin only grew, clearly enjoying my flustered state. He leaned in a little closer, his gaze locked on mine with a playful intensity that made my heart skip a beat. “Off guard, huh?” he murmured, his voice dipping lower. “So, you’re saying if I hadn’t surprised you, you’d be able to keep up?”

I opened my mouth to respond, determined to regain some semblance of dignity, but nothing clever came out. Instead, I just stood there, caught between wanting to pull away from his teasing and feeling inexplicably drawn to his warmth. His hand slid from my shoulder, and the absence of his touch left a surprising chill in its wake.

Realizing that my window for a comeback was closing, I finally managed to sputter, “Y-Yeah, exactly.” I immediately cursed myself for sounding so pathetic. Not exactly the sharp comeback I was hoping for. His smirk deepened, and I could tell he wasn’t buying it for a second.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Oscar replied, his tone still dripping with amusement. He straightened up, giving me a quick wink before stepping down to the next stair. The playful glint in his eyes told me he knew exactly how much he was getting under my skin, and he was loving every second of it.

As he moved past me, I finally found my voice—too little, too late—and muttered under my breath, “Cocky bastard.” But it was quiet enough that I hoped he didn’t hear it. To my dismay, Oscar paused, turning back with a raised eyebrow and an even wider grin.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Care to repeat it?”

My cheeks flamed as I quickly shook my head. “Nope, nothing. Let’s just… go meet everyone.”

Oscar’s grin didn’t falter as he took a step closer, still looming above me. “You know,” he began, his voice casual but with that familiar teasing edge, “I’ve already met everyone else. Your mom, too. And I’ve gotta say, you two seem like complete opposites.”

I blinked up at him, caught off guard again. “Opposites?”

He nodded, leaning against the wall with that effortless ease he seemed to have perfected. “Yep. Your mom’s all smiles and warm welcomes. You, on the other hand… well, you’ve got this whole ‘ready to throw punches’ vibe going on.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to gauge whether he was being serious or just messing with me again. “I do not have a ‘ready to throw punches’ vibe.”

Oscar’s lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh. “Oh, you totally do. But don’t worry,” he added with a playful smirk, “it’s kind of endearing. Keeps things interesting.”

I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Glad to know I’m so entertaining for you.”

He shrugged, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying, opposites attract, right? Besides, your mom already likes me. You could take a few notes.”

His comment sent a fresh wave of warmth to my cheeks, both from irritation and something I couldn’t quite place. “I don’t need notes from you,” I shot back, though my voice lacked its usual bite.

Oscar just chuckled, giving me one last teasing wink before turning to head down the stairs. “Whatever you say, mate. Just try not to tackle anyone else while you’re at it.”

"Well well well, what do we have here?" A girl with short hair and a devious grin matching Oscar's grinned at me as well entered the kitchen. Shimmering her hands like "jazz hands", she rolled her eyes and rested her chin in the palm of her hand.

I turned to face the new arrival, immediately recognizing her as one of Oscar’s sisters—one of the three siblings who seemed to share his penchant for mischief. Her cropped hair and sharp, playful eyes made her look like she’d just stepped out of a rom-com where she was the resident troublemaker, always stirring the pot and having a laugh at everyone else’s expense.

“Hey, party people,” she said, her voice dripping with a teasing lilt. She shot me a grin that was almost a mirror image of Oscar’s, mischievous and knowing, like she was in on some inside joke I hadn’t been let in on yet. I could feel the same heat from before creeping up my neck. Why did it feel like these siblings were reading me like an open book?

“Looks like someone’s already made a grand entrance,” she continued, flicking her eyes between me and Oscar with an amused smirk. “Oscar’s been talking about you nonstop since we got here. Said something about a ‘bathroom fiasco’ that deserves an award?”

I shot a glare at Oscar, who was leaning casually against the counter, looking far too pleased with himself. “Did he now?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the mortification clawing at me.

The girl laughed, light and musical, but with an edge that told me she was fully enjoying every bit of this. “Oh yeah, he’s been filling us in. But don’t worry, we’re used to his tall tales. I’m Hattie, by the way,” she added, extending a hand with exaggerated enthusiasm as if we were meeting on the set of a game show rather than in my kitchen.

I hesitated for a beat before shaking her hand, trying to muster a smile that didn’t look too forced. “Nice to meet you, Hattie. I’m—”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she interrupted, her grin widening. “You’re the girl who almost took out my brother. Honestly, I’m impressed. No one’s ever managed to knock him off his game quite like that.”

I glanced at Oscar, who was watching the exchange with an infuriatingly smug look on his face. Maisie’s comment hung in the air, both a compliment and a lighthearted jab. I couldn’t help but feel like I was once again the butt of some inside joke between the siblings.

“Yeah, well, it’s a special talent of mine,” I said, trying to sound casual but feeling like every word was being scrutinized. “Guess I just have that effect.”

Hattie laughed, the sound bright and unapologetically amused. “Oh, I like you already. But hey, if you’re gonna hang out with us, you better be ready for a little friendly chaos. And maybe a few more unexpected collisions.”

Oscar gave a soft snort of laughter, and I could feel his eyes still on me, assessing, teasing, and—annoyingly—almost impressed. I tried to ignore the butterflies that seemed to be staging a full-on rebellion in my stomach. Clearly, this family thrived on playful torment, and I had somehow found myself right in the middle of it.

“Don’t worry,” I said, straightening up and forcing a confident smile. “I think I can handle whatever you guys throw at me.”

Hattie's eyes sparkled with mischief, and she gave me a mock salute. “That’s the spirit. Welcome to the chaos, mate.”

Oscar chuckled again, giving me that damn wink before pushing off from the counter. “Oh, she’s ready for it. Trust me, she’s already made quite the impression.”

The other two girls strolled in, each with their own distinct energy that filled the room. One had a fierce, confident look, dark hair tied up in a messy bun, and a leather jacket that screamed ‘cooler-than-you’ vibes. The youngest, a curly-haired, bright-eyed whirlwind, practically bounced into the kitchen, her infectious smile lighting up the space.

“So,” I said, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sudden influx of new faces. “I’ve met Oscar, obviously, and… Hattie, right?” I glanced at the girl who had first greeted me, who nodded with a playful smile. “But I’m afraid I haven’t gotten your names yet,” I continued, pointing between the other two sisters.

The girl with the leather jacket gave me a wry grin, leaning casually against the counter. “I’m Edie,” she said, her voice dripping with casual confidence. “The cooler, smarter middle child.”

Mae, the youngest, immediately chimed in, rolling her eyes at her sister. “And I’m Mae, the fun one,” she said with a giggle, her curls bouncing as she hopped up onto a stool. “Edie’s just mad she wasn’t born with my charm.”

Edie snorted, pretending to be offended. “Please, you’re like a tiny tornado of chaos. But yeah, I guess she’s not wrong,” she added, shooting me a smirk. “Mae’s got a way of making everything a little… livelier.”

I couldn’t help but smile at their playful back-and-forth. “Nice to officially meet you all. And thanks for the heads-up on your brother’s antics,” I said, glancing at Oscar, who was watching the exchange with an amused glint in his eye.

“Oh, trust me,” Hattie added, her grin widening as she nudged Oscar with her elbow. “We’ve got years of experience keeping this one in line. You’re welcome to join the effort.”

Oscar threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Wow, ganging up on me already? This is why I never bring girls home,” he joked, though there was a hint of genuine warmth in his voice, like he was more than used to—and secretly enjoyed—their teasing.

Mae leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Just wait till we start telling you all the embarrassing stories. Oscar’s got quite a few, and we’ve got no problem spilling the tea.”

Oscar smirked, shifting his weight just enough to close the distance between us, his presence suddenly feeling a lot closer, a lot warmer. He leaned in with a casual ease, his movements smooth and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to make me squirm. His voice dropped into a playful, low tone, rich and velvety, each word dripping with deliberate charm. “Oh, don’t worry about them,” he murmured, his gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat. “I’d much rather hear your stories. You’re far more interesting than anything they could say about me.”

The way he looked at me was like I was the only person in the room, his eyes lingering on mine with a bold, flirtatious glint that sent a shiver down my spine. His grin was maddeningly confident, a little crooked, and devastatingly irresistible—the kind of smile that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. It was teasing, suggestive, and far too charming for its own good, like he was daring me to blush, daring me to react.

I felt the heat creeping up my neck, a slow burn that spread across my cheeks, making my skin prickle with the sudden awareness of how close he was. My mind scrambled for something clever to say, but his flirtatious tone, the way his eyes roved over my face as if he was reading every reaction, left me tongue-tied. It was like he was peeling back layers with just a look, searching for the part of me that he could fluster with a few well-placed words and that infuriating smile.

I tried to steady my breath, but his proximity was overwhelming. I could catch the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, with a hint of something spicy—and the subtle shift of his body as he leaned closer sent my senses into overdrive. Every nerve seemed to hum in response to his nearness, and I could feel my face burning hotter, betraying me with every second that I failed to look away.

Edie made a gagging noise, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Ew, Oscar, seriously? Can you not flirt for like five seconds? It’s embarrassing.”

Mae giggled, giving Oscar a playful shove. “Yeah, gross. No one wants to see that. Save it for when we’re not around, Romeo.”

Hattie snorted, shaking her head as she watched Oscar with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “He’s always like this. Thinks he’s Mr. Smooth. Don’t let him get to you.”

But Oscar only chuckled, clearly unfazed by his sisters’ teasing. He turned back to me, his grin widening as he caught sight of my flushed cheeks. “Aww, look at that,” he said, his voice soft and teasing. “Did I make you blush? How cute.”

I quickly tried to hide my face, mortification bubbling up as I realized there was no escaping the heat radiating from my cheeks. “N-No, you didn’t,” I stammered, though the pink tint on my face said otherwise.

Oscar’s smirk deepened, and he leaned in just a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not very good at hiding it, you know. It’s kind of endearing.”

I could practically feel my cheeks getting even more red, if that was even possible. His sisters snickered behind us, enjoying the show as much as they enjoyed tormenting him.

Mae nudged Hattie, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear, “He’s really laying it on thick, huh? Someone needs to put a leash on this one.”

Hattie snickered and turned to me, giving me an exaggeratedly sympathetic look. “Don’t worry, he does this to everyone. It’s part of his ‘charm offensive.’ Just don’t let him get away with it too easily.”

“Yeah, make him work for it,” Edie added with a laugh. “And don’t let that blush fool you. He’s got enough of an ego without you feeding it.”

Oscar just shrugged, clearly unbothered by his sisters’ ribbing. He kept his eyes on me, his smile softening just slightly. “They’re just jealous because they know I’m right. You really are something else.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to fight the smile that was creeping onto my face despite my best efforts. “You’re impossible,” I muttered, crossing my arms in an attempt to compose myself.

Oscar leaned back, finally giving me a bit of space but not without one last wink. “Impossible’s my specialty,” he said, the playful challenge hanging in the air.

Hattie clapped her hands together, breaking the charged silence that had wrapped around us. “Alright, lovebirds, let’s change the scene before this kitchen gets any steamier,” she said with a sly grin, glancing between Oscar and me. “What do you say we all head out to the pool? It’s hot as hell today, and I could use a swim.”

Mae’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, and she bounced on her toes with excitement. “Yes, please! I’ve been dying to jump in all morning. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Edie shrugged, pushing off the counter. “Sounds like a plan. Beats sitting around here watching Oscar make a fool of himself,” she said, shooting her brother a pointed look that he brushed off with a careless smirk.

I hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden change in plans. The thought of the pool—cool water, bright sun, and lounging with these new, vibrant personalities—was tempting, but my mind immediately jumped to what that would mean: changing into a bikini, being under the sun's scrutiny, and, worse, the idea of Oscar’s eyes on me again, but this time with even less to hide behind.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound casual, though my heart was starting to race for an entirely different reason now. “Just give me a minute to get changed.”

As I slipped back into my room, I rummaged through my suitcase, finding the bright bikini I had packed on a whim but hadn’t quite planned on wearing in front of a whole audience of strangers. It was a pretty number—a little more revealing than I was used to—but suddenly, the idea of wearing it around Oscar felt daunting. My insecurities bubbled up: the nagging thoughts of whether my stomach was flat enough, if my thighs looked alright, or if the faint stretch marks I tried so hard to ignore would be too noticeable under the bright afternoon sun.

I took a deep breath, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I tugged at the fabric, trying to adjust it in a way that made me feel more comfortable, but the nerves wouldn’t settle. I could already imagine Oscar’s eyes lingering on me, his playful smirk turning into something more appraising, and the thought sent a rush of heat to my cheeks. God, why was I letting this get to me? It was just a pool. Just a bikini. Just Oscar. But the more I tried to rationalize, the more those little fears crept in, whispering doubts that made my stomach churn.

I was so lost in my own thoughts, adjusting and readjusting the strings and trying to silence the negative self-talk, that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a sudden knock rattled my door. My heart leaped into my throat, and I spun around, my breath catching as I called out, “W-Who is it?”

“It’s me,” came Oscar’s familiar voice, muffled but still clear enough to send a jolt of nerves through me. “Just checking to see if you’re alright in there. You’ve been quiet, and, well, didn’t want you chickening out on us.”

His tone was light, but there was something softer in it, something that caught me off guard. It wasn’t the usual teasing or the cocky one-liners I’d grown accustomed to in the short time I’d known him. This felt… genuine. A flicker of concern threaded through his words, almost like he actually cared if I was okay. My cheeks flushed anew, this time from the unexpected warmth of his attention rather than embarrassment.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my cover-up as I tried to piece together my swirling thoughts. Was this the same Oscar who had been smirking at me in the kitchen, flirting shamelessly in front of his sisters? The same Oscar who seemed to relish every moment he made me blush or stumble over my words? It was strange, almost disarming, to hear him like this—concerned, attentive, with none of his usual bravado.

My heart fluttered at the thought. What if there was more to him than just the cheeky guy who lived for teasing? I couldn’t help but feel a small, unexpected tug in my chest, an urge to believe that this side of him was real and not just some act. But then, just as quickly, my rational side kicked in, reminding me that I’d known Oscar for all of three hours, most of which had been spent flustered and caught up in his whirlwind of charm.

Was I reading too much into this? Was I letting my own insecurities and wishful thinking color my perception of him? It was hard not to, especially when he swung so easily between flirty and sincere, keeping me constantly off-balance. I barely knew this guy, yet here I was, letting my mind wander into dangerous territory, imagining depth and sincerity that might not even be there.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady my thoughts. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions—didn’t want to let a few kind words make me think I’d seen some hidden side of him. But it was hard not to feel flustered when his voice had softened like that, when he’d taken the time to check on me instead of just joking about how long I was taking.

The knock on my door, the concern in his tone—it all felt so different from the playful Oscar who’d swaggered into my life just a few hours ago. Maybe it was nothing, just a moment of decency, a brief glimpse of something real behind the jokes and teasing. Or maybe I was just overthinking, desperate to see something more in him because he’d managed to get under my skin in a way I wasn’t quite prepared for.

I sighed, feeling my cheeks heat up once more as the realization hit me—I was blushing again, and not just from embarrassment this time. There was something about Oscar, something that made me want to believe he was more than the carefree charmer he projected. But whether that was true or just wishful thinking, I couldn’t be sure. Not yet.

“I-I’m fine!” I called back, trying to steady my voice, but it came out shaky, betraying the mix of anxiety and embarrassment that had settled in my chest. “Just… getting ready.”

There was a pause on the other side of the door, long enough that I thought he might have walked away. But then, Oscar’s voice cut through again, softer this time, and with a teasing edge. “You sure? I promise no one’s gonna judge you out there. Least of all me.”

The reassurance felt sincere, but I couldn’t help the way my mind raced with all the what-ifs. What if he did look? What if I didn’t look good enough? What if this stupid bikini made me feel more exposed than I could handle? I glanced at myself one last time in the mirror, trying to summon the confidence that I usually wore so easily, but right now felt like it was hiding somewhere I couldn’t reach.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I finally managed, forcing a smile I hoped he couldn’t hear through the door. “Just... give me a sec. I’ll be right out.”

“Take your time,” Oscar said, his voice fading as he finally moved away from the door. “But don’t take too long. You don’t wanna miss the fun.”

As his footsteps retreated, I let out a shaky breath, trying to collect myself. I ran a hand through my hair, giving myself one last pep talk before heading out. It was just a pool day, I reminded myself. Just a stupid pool day with some new people and a guy who was way too good at making me blush. And maybe, just maybe, it would be fun—if I could get out of my own head long enough to let it be.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

taglist! @mingyusbigrighttoe @theblueblub @demandealalune @linnygirl09

[malarkgirlypop]

MEDIC! Part 15 (Donald Malarkey x Fem!OC)

It's all I can see and I'm crying! A song for them.

Based on the HBO show and the actors who portray the characters, no hate to anyone involved.

Again I am so sorry.

Tag list: @next-autopsy

I am floating outside of my body. I help the men with their injuries like I am on autopilot. People talk to me but I don’t hear them, I don’t even try to pretend I am listening. I walk, I help, I sit. 

I stare out into the town of Foy, the image of Skip and Penkala’s last moments replaying in my head like I am living in a nightmare. Like a sick magic trick, you see them and then you don’t. I stand and watch as the men scour their hole trying to find remnants of them. I physically hurt watching them. I watch Lip hand Malarkey, one of the boys' rosaries. We haven’t spoken, I think we have both shut down. I can’t be near him, it hurts too much all I can think about is them when I see him. I’m sure he feels the same way. Tears well in my eyes watching Lip and Malarkey by their foxhole, I turn away so no one sees them fall. I have adopted the stare that I have seen countless times before. I know why they do it now too, it feels good not to be present, to not have to come to terms with what you have seen. The weight of reality hasn’t yet crushed down on me. After losing Toye and Bill, then Buck and now Skip and Penkala. I loved those boys like my brothers. I walk away from the line. Away, I need to be away from here. I bump into someone as I hurry along, not looking to see who it is I carry on with my escape. Their grip holds me in place. I look up. Bull’s face appears in my vision. “You alright Darling?” Bull asks me in a kind voice. 

“I’m fine.” I say firmly, pulling from his grip. He lets me go. I side step him, but he moves in front of me.

“What did you see?” He asks, not letting me pass. I look at him angry, I don’t want to have to say what I saw out loud, that would make it real. 

“I didn’t see anything.” I snap. 

“Don’t lie to me.” He says in a firm voice. 

“I’m not lying!” I answer with frustration laced in my tone. 

“I know you, Em! Don’t lie to me.” Bull says again. 

“What?” I yell, “What do you want me to say that I saw it happen?” Throwing my arms out. 

“I saw those men that I care for die right in front of me.” My voice is loud as it echoes through the trees. 

“That I was so close to getting into their hole. You know they were calling for me.” My voice wobbles as I yell. 

“I SAW THEM!” tears threatening to escape my eyes. “I saw them die!” Bull steps forward to hug me but I push him away. “NO! I don’t want this.” 

“Why wasn’t it me? Why was it them?” I sob still yelling, other people have gathered around wondering why I am shouting. 

“Why wasn’t I in that hole? I don’t belong here! They were good people and I had to watch them die!” I scream and sob at the same time.  

“It won’t stop!” I cry harder, closing my eyes. I cover my face, willing the memory to escape my mind. I crack and it crushes me. My body shakes from my sobs as Bull pins me to his chest. He shushes me and he strokes my hair. I wrangle out of his grasp, he looks at me with pain etched onto his face. Then I run, no one stops me, no one yells my name. They watch me run. 

After trampling through the woods for a while a stick catches on my foot tripping me sending me to the ground. I lie there and sob. Curling up into a ball and wishing to die. To not feel. My heart feels like it has been ripped from my body. My bones ache from missing them. They had families, lives, people to go back too, people waiting for them. I don't have anyone, I am nobody here. There is no Emily Lane that exists, the only place I am known is here. I can’t be sent home, I don’t have a home here. I sit up wiping my face. I can’t be sent home, so I won’t. I will act, I will do anything to get through this. My purpose, my family, is here. I will play myself well, I will not break. I can’t let this break me. The thought of being separated from these men scares me more than death. I would rather die than leave them. I stand my legs shaking from the cold. I slowly make my way back to camp, arriving by dusk. The men look shocked when I sit myself down beside them. 

“Em? You’re ok?” Lieb asks me from across the foxhole we sit in. I slide my mask into place, giving my best smile. 

“I’m fine, I just needed a minute.” I reply, my voice hoarse from crying. 

“A minute? Emily you were gone for hours, we sent search parties out for you.” He says anxiously.  

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you guys, I guess I lost track of time.” I apologise. The men are quiet not knowing what to say. Uncomfortable in the silence I stand, the men watch my every move. I go over to where they are serving dinner to grab some hot food. Bull sees me and comes over. 

“Darlin’ you ok?” He asks as his cigar hangs from his lips. 

“Yeah I’m fine. Hey I’m sorry for earlier, I was just a bit overwhelmed.” My lips tighten upward. 

“A bit?” Bull doesn’t seem convinced. 

“Ok, a lot. But I’m fine now. I had some time to think and I’m back, better than ever, even.” I lie. 

“Emily you can go home, if this is all too much.” Bull says empathetically. 

“No!” I say quickly, “No I don’t want to go home.”

“Em…”

“No Bull I’m fine, I can handle it. It was just a moment of weakness. I want to be here.” I protest. 

“You have to take care of yourself.” Bull says as his brows furrow together. 

“No, I want to see this through. I need to be here. Please Bull! I will take care of myself, I swear but I can do that here!” I plead with Bull, he shakes his head thinking.

“I don’t know Em?” I need to persuade him. 

“What do I have to do, to show you I’m fine?” I hold eye contact with him. He sighs.

“Darlin’ I want you here, I do. I guess if you're set on not leaving, I can’t make you.” I smile, patting him on the arm. I move past to get myself some food.

I sit in a foxhole by myself. I stare off at nothing. I dissociate from my surroundings. The only thing I can feel is the chill in my bones. It helps stop the aching everywhere else. I can barely eat. My stomach churns constantly. The insides of my cheeks are torn to shreds. I find myself crying without even noticing. The tears grow cold on my cheeks from the biting wind. I just want to curl up into a little ball and disappear. I want to scream and shout but I can’t, that would send me back. I have to keep up the facade. Sure I am allowed to be sad but I can’t let it consume me, which it desperately wants to do. I’m sure it will be fine, pushing it all to the back, pretending it’s not there. Never hurt me before. I get out of my hole, wandering around finding people to talk to. To show I’m fine. The conversations are superficial, pleasantries. My tolerance is shorter than normal, the conversation gets overwhelming after a while. I make excuses to leave. I am more blunt, less playful. The men notice, but don’t say anything. I try my best to be myself, but it’s tiring. 

The Battle of Foy happened not long after. I watched in dread as Dike fucked the whole operation. I watched through my hands as he stopped the men in the middle of the operation calling for them to fall back. When he got direct orders from Winters that the only thing they had to do was move forward. Winters almost ran out into action himself before Colonel Sink had ordered him back. The situation was finally controlled when Winters commanded Speir to take over the attack. He had done just that, it was actually impressive watching the man. He sprinted through the middle of town right past the German soldiers, who were so baffled by his brassiness, they didn’t even shoot him. He got the job done. Unfortunately there were still casualties, among those was CO Norman Dike, who had died. It was good to have a distraction, I busied myself in the help. Cleaning up wounds, suturing, and dressing. That’s all that I was thinking about, nothing else. We had finally taken Foy, I was relieved. 

The grief still hung heavy over me, but by now I wasn’t sad, I had moved on from that stage. I was angry. Every time I thought of Skip and Alex my blood boiled. My mind swirled. Those men did not deserve to die. How dare their lives be taken so soon. The men noticed quickly. I would snap, my temper short. I didn’t have time for jokes or banter. I would sit and fester in hatred. I was tense and on edge. The men of easy company pulled back from me. Too scared I would lash out with nasty words, “Better to leave her alone with her thoughts than go talk to her.” I heard Bull tell Frank. They avoided me more than they avoided the replacements. I didn’t blame them, hell I was happy to be left alone, consumed in my own thoughts. I couldn’t sleep half the time either, my dreams now nightmares haunted me. I would be stuck in a loop of lying in the snow in front of their foxhole. I would scream at them to run, to get out, but they didn’t listen, staying put in their shelter. I would have to watch them die, over and over. It made me sick. I would wake up in a cold sweat, panting. After a while I stopped sleeping. It was more tiring to try and sleep than it was to stay awake. But being alone with my thoughts 24/7 was slowly driving me to the point of madness. The bags under my eyes were black, it looked like I had broken my nose. I was being clumsy, dropping things, making stupid mistakes which just made me angrier. It was getting out of hand, but I didn’t know what to do. I was not going to ask for help, that would be cause enough to send me packing. But at this stage I couldn’t help myself, it was a vicious cycle.  

I trudge behind the platoon as we move from Foy to the town of Noville. I was told to hang back in case we came across the enemy. I walk silently by myself, once again in my head thinking far too much to do me any good. The distance is obvious now between the men and I. None of them come to talk to me, scared I will growl at them. A resting bitch face is now my permanent feature. My rage quietly boiling in my blood. I have a hold on her now but I’m scared that she will come free from my grasp and rear her ugly head. My bottom lip is raw from my teeth finding satisfaction in feeling the sting and the metal taste in my mouth. The sound of gunfire pierces the air sending men scattering to find cover, some don’t make it falling to ground unmoving. I move quickly hurrying behind one of the small houses to the side of the road. I crouch behind the wall listening to the screams of the men and the constant cracking of the guns. I place my hand on the pistol on my hip, my eyes scanning the area. They fall upon a dead German soldier, his semi-automatic lying across his body. I flick my eyes back to where the assault takes place listening for any sounds of movement. I hear running footsteps coming towards me from the side of the house, my hand gripping my weapon. One of our own soldiers rounds the corner, my hand relaxes, as an ease returns to my chest. The man smiles at me knowing we are on the same side, he opens his mouth to talk. Before he can speak a crack sounds as the bullet travels through the man's helmet into his head and out the other side. His blood splattering over my face and chest as he drops to the ground. I close my eyes drawing in a shaky breath, opening them to find his staring back at me unblinking. My eyes dart back over to the German soldier lying on the ground. She’s got herself loose.

-------------------------------

Chapter 16

[yourfaveiskenough]

bob velseb, spooky month

Bob Velseb from Spooky Month is Kenough!

[urfavlarry]

HI loved the tyler/aiden headcannons btw!

Wanted to ask if you could write something about the reader being apart of the group (after they finally escaped the realm and are free..and traumatized, but happy)

AND LIKE A LITTLE ROMANCE HAPPENING BETWEEN AIDEN AND THE READER!! Like after everything had calmed down, (3 weeks after they escaped) the group goes to a skating rink to have fun. Like normal teens 😞

Would love a oneshot of it!! :D

Aiden Clark x gn!reader

warnings: swearing, bad grammar

genre: fluff! :3

A/N: AHH I love this!! I skate myself so this is just 🛐

hope you like it <33

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You and the group have been planning a trip for quite a while. You were trying to celebrate the fact you finally escaped the damn realm and that lab they kept you guys in. Everyone was a bit shaken up, most of you couldn’t really sleep and you had sleepovers most of the time to try and sleep better. It usually worked, well at least for most of the group. You would wake up in the middle of the night, cold wind hitting your soaked figure. You often had nightmares and you couldn’t really go to therapy because you would be considered ‘crazy’, so you just had to pull through without any help. You know the group would be happy to help, but you don’t want to bother them when they had it worse. Back to the present time! You were currently in the graveyard, sitting in a circle near the campfire, you yourself sitting on your kind of beat up skateboard. Everyone suggested their ideas, Logan suggesting a museum, Ashlyn a restaurant, The twins suggested a waterpark and then Aiden and Ben said they didn’t really care where they would go.

An idea popped in your head and you smiled; “How about a skating rink? That could be fun? I know a pretty good one and theres also like a trampoline part connected to it so that’s pretty cool.” Everyone talks about the idea, Aiden agreeing instantly along with the twins. “Well is there a buffet there? Maybe we could later eat there and just celebrate?” Ashlyn suggests and everyone agrees looking at you for your response. You nod and everyone cheers, excited for the trip.

The day of the trip arrives, you all agreed to meet up at the train station at 8am and you were there early, already waiting there at 7. You watched the sunrise and you smile taking a picture and put your phone away and try out some tricks. You first tried an ollie, the key trick you need to know to learn most of the other ones. You record some of the tries and relax for a bit, watching the clips when suddenly your eyes get covered by a pair of soft hands. “Aiden..” You say and smile at the blonde boy, who had his usual relaxed demeanor. “Hey, you’re here early aren’t you?” He says and sits down next to you, resting his feet on his skateboard, rocking his legs from side to side. “Yeah I wanted to be here just in case anyone needed help with anything.” You say and yawn slightly, not really shaking off the sleepiness just yet. He nods and starts to yap like he usually does and you just listen, letting him yap your ear off. You didn’t mind, you weren’t much of a talker, so you usually just listened.

The others finally arrived just in time for when the train arrived. Everyone boarded and you found your seats, all of you sitting together. Ashlyn decided to catch up on sleep, along with Ben. The twins and Logan were playing some card game and You just listened to music, sharing headphones with Aiden. You lay your head on the window and drift off, feeling a hand on yours.

You get shaken awake, and you groan but gather your things and skateboard and get off the train, leading the way. You jump onto your skateboard and you guys skate/walk for about 15 minutes when you finally get there. “Here we are!” You say and pay for your entry, putting away your things and grab your phone along with your skateboard and run to the rink, doing a quick board slide. The others cheer you along as you drop in and do a rock to fakie.

Aiden watches you with a smile and Tyler and Taylor do their own thing as Ty teaches his sister the basics. Logan and Ben were off somewhere probably in the trampoline park and Ashlyn watched everyone, taking videos. “I’ll need to ask her to send me that later.” You think to yourself and manual.

You mind your own buiseness, riding up to a ramp when a kid suddenly jumps in your away, making you manual a bit too quickly so you fell on your elbow. “Fucking hell.. watch it kid!” You yell and hiss in pain as you look at the now bleeding elbow. Aiden noticed the fall and ran over to you and inspected the wound; “Hey are you okay? That was a nasty fall.” He says and you laugh; “Come on i’ve had it so much worse before, and plus people break bones doing this shit so i’m fine.” You say and stand up and walk over to the sitting area and take out some bandages you brought along in this type of situation. Aiden snatches them from you and looks at you with a kind smile; “Let me do it.” He doesn’t even give you time to reply and is already carefully wrapping the wound. Your face feels hot and you look anywhere but at Aiden, looking for the others yet they were nowhere to be found.

“There, that should be better, and by the way, when did you start skating? Your pretty good, almost better then me!” He teases and wraps and arm around your shoulder. You chuckle and smirk, teasing right back; “Oh yeah? How about a game of skate?” You challenge him and wait for his response, already knowing the answer. “Hell yeah! I’ll win for sure!” He runs to get his skate and you do the same, and that was the start of a very long game of skate. You guys got bored after a while, agreeing on a tie and sit down, breathing heavily as if you ran a marathon. The others came back and everyone agreed on going to the restaurant that was across the street from the skating rink. You walk with your skates and decide to hide them somewhere at the back of the building and head inside the restaurant, ordering food and refreshing drinks immediately.

You sit down in the booth and Aiden slides in next to you along with Ben and Logan, the others sitting on the opposite side. Everyone chatted and joked around and your elbow was killing you along with your legs as well. Your eyes droop a bit but you take a sip of your drink that shakes you awake slightly. Aiden taps you on the knee and you look up at him, raising a brow. He leans in and whispers into your ear with a low tone; “You okay? You look kinda off.” He says and you smile reassuringly and give him a thumbs up under the table. He hums and smiles as the waiter brings the food everyone has been craving for the past 5 hours. You eat your food in silence, some chatting here and there but mostly you guys Te in peace. After everyone was full you decided to go to the bathroom to clear your mind, of course not letting them know the reason. You walk into the bathroom and sigh, they were empty, unlike many other restaurants and you shrug, walking over to the mirror and fix your hair up a bit when you notice Aiden in the mirror. “Hey, I know I asked already but you really don’t seem fine. Is it the elbow?” He jokes and you shrug, giving him a slight smile; “I’m fine don’t worry okay? My body is killing me though.” You say and stretch your body, some satisfying cracks echoing throughout the bathroom. You go to leave when you get embraced in a warm hug, a hand running up and down your back. “Relax for a bit, they won’t notice we’re gone.” He whispers and you guys stay like that for a few minutes when you finally let go. He looks at you lovingly and your face feels hot as you avert your gaze away from him.

He lifts your face to look at him and leans in, your lips brushing against each other and your eyes meet, Aiden looking at you as if asking for consent. You inch closer and he takes that as a yes, soft lips meeting yours. Your lips move in sync with each other and his hands wander down to your waist. You pull away and you hide your flushed face in the crook of his neck. He chuckles lowly and hugs you close. “You know i’ve liked you ever since that day we went out to get the jeep.” He says and you look at him with a confused look; “But I thought you liked Ash—” You get cut off by a finger on your lips and he smile; “Remember I had my eyes on you the whole time, I may have been comforting Ash but I had my eyes on you. I didn’t know how to approach you, ya know?” He says and leaves kisses all over your face. “Now I’ve got you all to myself~” He says and holds your hand, dragging you out to the others who stared at you and whistled, Ben looking at Aiden with a proud smile.

Later that day when everyone finally got home, Aiden messaged you and soon after you heard a knock on your bedroom window. You playfully roll your eyes and mumble “Idiot.” quickly opening the window. Aiden hops in and tackles you in a hug, you falling back on the bed. “Hey! What are you doing?” You chuckle and play with his hair. You hear a mumbled “I missed you.” And you giggle, making him look up at you. “We haven’t seen each other for like 45 minutes?” “Too long.” He shrugs and peppers your face with kisses, moving down to your neck and collar bone. Your eyes droop and you start to fall asleep, finally in his embrace.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[cakelitter]

Eternally Loved

Yandere/Corrupt! Leon x Fem! Reader

warnings: dead dove do not eat, daddy kink, oral (f receive), p in v

summary: He needs to protect you, to keep you his. You’re too brittle for anyone else, they wouldn’t know what to do with you. Only he deserves you, he is the only one that knows how to handle you. Yes, yes, only him.

words: 3.3k

a/n: this idea has been in my head for a while now and I had to get it out of my system. Enjoy!! <33

Leon never thought he’d end up like this… actually he did. Orphan since the ripe age of seven, spent the rest of his upbringing in the shitty foster care system, started police academy which surprisingly wasn’t that bad compared to some situations he was in. And just when he thought things are starting to look up for him after he graduated, he finds himself in the virus outbreak in Raccoon City.

Out of the many cities and towns he could’ve chosen to work in, he chose Raccoon city. Not even assigned or forced; for once in his life, he had the privilege of choosing what to do, and look what that got him.

After barely making it out alive, he goes back to what’s familiar. Getting forced to do shit he never signed up for. Working as an agent for the government, the right hand of the president of the United States of America, what a fucking honor.

It’s like he’s allergic to happiness, sentenced to a life of misery since the day he was dragged into this world. He’s in his late thirties now, living alone, eating alone, drinking alone, sleeping, crying, smiling, fighting, all alone.

Sherry visits from time to time, and that’s the only occasion where he feels like he’s not fighting the urge to jump off a cliff. It’s a once-a-year sort of occasion though, but that’s good enough for him. Christmas for Leon is the day that Sherry visits, the only thing he looks forwards to each year.

Claire visits too, but mostly to make sure he isn’t dead, taking his medication and going to therapy. He swears he does, even though he doesn’t. All the therapists he tried always look at him, overwhelmed on what to tackle first. Taking him apart and dissecting his brain like he’s some sort of lab rat.

He knew that not getting help was going to catch up to him someday. Although he expected it to backfire on him, like a bullet to the head or giving up on fighting whatever bioweapon he’s facing, letting it end his suffering before he does it himself. Instead, you’re now passed out in the backseat of his car.

He was having a bad day, well, every day is a bad day when you’re Leon Kennedy. Driving slowly back to his place, and you just so happened to be walking out of your college campus. Backpack on your back, your eyes glued to your phone, you’re not even paying attention to your surroundings.

How irresponsible.

You’re a sweet thing, really. So young and full of life, enough to brighten up his dark and dingy days, he can sense it. You look loved, pampered and cared for, something he lacked. He’s sure that you have enough love inside of you to share it with him, life hasn’t robbed you of your youthful smile and bright eyes. How funny would it be if he just… took you.

Apparently to him it was fucking hilarious cause, next thing you know he parked his car and is making his way to you. Kidnapping you was fairly easy; you were already walking on an empty street when he made up his mind to borrow you for a bit. You fought back, trying to free yourself from is hold. A for effort, but it wasn’t enough for him to let you go.

A few empty threats while putting you in the back of his car were enough to shut you up, so fucking gullible. Cried your heart out as he drove, honestly you were kind of an ugly crier, plus you were making him feel bad so it’s starting to get on his nerves.

Eventually though, you pass out from hyperventilating. Very dramatic, like he could’ve done worse. He has a pistol attached to his hip at all time and didn’t even pull it out once to scare you. Fine he was kidnapping you, but gently, so can’t you be grateful for that?

That was five months ago, and since then you’ve gotten better. At first, you’d repulse every time he came closer to you, tears rapidly brimming in your eyes, pleading whispers asking him not to hurt you. He wasn’t going to in the first place, he wanted someone to soothe the aching loneliness in his heart, that’s why you’re here.

There is a difference between a pathetic unloved loser, and a psychopath. He never hurt you, not even once, ever since that fateful day when he laid his eyes on you.

He did have to scare you a few times though, but again all empty threats; like he’s going to hurt your family if you think about screaming or even considering escaping. Shit he sees in movies.

Again, first time kidnapping someone, he’s a little nervous. Funnily enough, he didn’t even know your name back then, let alone your parents’ name. But it got the job done of keeping you in line.

Now he does know your name, it’s pretty just like you, it suits you. But he doesn’t use it, calling you pet names is better, helps him live the fucked-up fantasy of the two of you being in love. His sweet baby, always waiting for him back home.

Truthfully, he treats you fairly well for someone who kidnapped you. Asking what you want to eat, making effort to learn your interests and hobbies, even buying you small gifts that you might like from time to time.

And after a few weeks, you started accepting him. Asking him questions about himself, snuggling up next to him while watching a movie, and begging him not to leave for work. As much as he appreciates the fact that you actually care for him now, he’s aware that this is all a trauma response. Stockholm syndrome is a blessing in this particular situation; as long as a part of you has accepted him and loved him, is all he’s asking for.  

You’re a curious little thing, questioning him about his past, present and future, what’s his job and why he sometimes disappears for days. He should get pissed, and put you in your place, but you’re too cute to cry so he answers vaguely. Besides, it’s nice to have someone be interested in learning about you, feels like ages since he experienced that.

All you know about him is his name, just his first name, that he saves the world in order to protect you, and that he would never hurt you; and that’s exactly all he wants you to know. You feel like a chance for him to start from scratch, a breath of fresh air, totally and utterly clueless on what kind of shit he sees and has seen outside the walls of his apartment.

He has noticed however, how you seem to get dumber and dumber by the day. Well, no shit you’ve been spending majority of the past five months alone staring at the different walls facing you. Your past life becoming noting more than just a distant memory, fading away with each second.

Now all of your focus and knowledge is about Leon, Leon, Leon, Leon. The man you once feared becoming the axis of your world, he can even consider himself your hero with the way you’re treating him.

The name Leon however is a name you’re not allowed to say out loud, just like he uses pet names to address you, you are expected to do the same. Leon is dead now, Leon is the man that kidnapped you. Daddy however, keeps you safe from this scary world.

You’re not allowed to go outside because people will try to hurt you, so you should always be with daddy. You’re not allowed to have your family come over, because they will try to take you away from daddy. You’re not allowed to dwell on the life you once lived, because that makes daddy upset, you would never want to make daddy upset right?

Daddy always knows best, so you should always listen to him. Is the foundation he used to build his castle, no, empire in that pretty head of yours.

Truth be told, Leon has been obsessing over you as well. Kidnapping you at first was just to fill the gaping hole in his heart. But now if you get even a tiny papercut, he goes crazy.

Managed to slither into his tattered heart and grew your ivy all over it. His life has been better since you were yanked into it.

“Thank you, daddy.”

“Please daddy.”

“Love you, Daddy.”

Fuck, he can hear your voice when you’re not even there.

The eerie quietness of his apartment is now gone, replaced with the sound of the TV in the living room, with you sitting on the couch in his shirt. His bed is no longer cold and empty, your body is there to warm it up, your scent making it feel more comforting.

He needs to protect you, to keep you his. You’re too brittle for anyone else, they wouldn’t know what to do with you. Only he deserves you, he is the only one that knows how to handle you. Yes, yes, only him.

You begged him to let you out just once, promising you’d never try to run away. He honestly forgot that was something he needed to worry about. You’d never run away, even if you wanted to. Fucked you up so bad, your entire sense of self, morality, and survival instincts in shambles.

Was going to say no, and remind you of the rules. But you asked so politely and have been such a good girl lately. Surely you deserve a reward other than his cock.

And so, he takes you to the park, your eyes looking around like you have never seen trees before. Everything is going fine, you’re behaving, and he’s relaxing. Deciding to buy the two of you ice cream, he leaves you for not more than two minutes to buy it at the nearby stand.

That’s when a guy that seems about your age, starts talking to you. Discomfort and fear are written all over your face.

“Rule number 17, no talking to anyone besides daddy.”  Is what he can assume you mind keeps repeating, your lips are sealed, biting on them, not letting a word leave your mouth and praying that he leaves you alone.

As soon as you spot Leon looking over at you, he can see you start to tremble in fear.

That person is trying to take you away from him, everyone tries to take things he loves away from him. No no, not you, anything but you. He’s definitely going to hurt you, what if he has a knife? What if he recognizes you from the missing person’s report your family posted all over town.  

Such an idiotic move by the way, if anyone did find you, they would never give you up.

The day didn’t end the way he hoped, he dragged you back home after shooing away the guy that was talking to you, his fists clenched so hard, they’re almost cramping. Blinded by rage, he threw a whole fit once you made it back home. Throwing items across the room, yelling and screaming at you; he couldn’t even recognize himself at this point.

It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t break any of the rules, and he knows that. This is simply his paranoia acting up, it’s his issues acting up.

You start having a panic attack, hyperventilating and crying. Seeing you like this causes a switch to flip in his head. And so, he approaches you slowly, wrapping you in his arms, one of his hands rubbing your back gently and planting soft kisses on the crown of your head.

“I’m sorry, baby. Daddy’s here, daddy would never hurt you.”  Whispering into your hair. “You know I love you right? My sweet angel, always such a good girl f’me”

Breathing starts to become more regular, and you stop sobbing, hugging him back and seeking comfort from the same person that you should hate with a burning passion. Taking in a deep breath, he holds you, patting your hair and humming a tune.

“Did I scare you, baby?” he asks after a little while. “Yeah…”

He’s disappointed in himself; thought he left that behavior back in the past, when he didn’t know how to deal with you. “You know I didn’t mean that right? I just care for you, that guy could’ve been dangerous, sweetheart.”

 Your head nods against his chest, your arms tightening around him. “How about you let daddy take care of you baby? How does that sound?” you nod again, causing his lips to curl up into a smile.

Pulling away, he grabs your chin and tilts it up. Your watery eyes lock with his, some tears still wetting your cheeks. “My pretty girl.”

Bending down, he kisses one of your wet cheeks, caressing it with his thumb. Chapped lips then drop down to yours, kissing them gingerly. It starts off as sweet, then he amps up the fierceness of it. You moan into his mouth, hand grabbing his shirt in your fist, holding him in place.

Flattered by your eagerness, he continues. Cornering you against the dining table, hands making their ways to your hips, easily lifting you up and setting you back down. His lips wrap around your bottom lip, kissing and tugging on it with a delicate bite.

He grabs your arms that are desperately clinging onto his chest, and holds them in a firm grip as his lips move to your neck. Littering your neck with hickeys and love bites, one of his favorite activities.

It’s a shame that they go away though, but that’s just another excuse to give you more. Purple flowers blossoming on your neck when his lips detach from the skin. He can smell the scent of his shampoo in your hair, drives him crazy all the time.

Your eyes close, breathy moans escaping those doll lips of yours. If kissing you to death could kill you, you’d be long gone by now. Lips dripping with maple, and sweet like honey; only a matter of time before he gets cavities.

One of his hands pushes you lightly to lie down on the surface beneath you, hands travelling up your plush thighs. He spreads you out, hiking your pink dress up, exposing your soaked panties. The sight making blood rush to his cock.

Dropping down to his knees, he marvels at the sight in front of him, urging him to lick his lips as his mouth feels dry. Hooking his finger into the gusset of your panties, he swiftly pulls them off, watching as your wet cunt glistens with need.

He blows some air onto your core, causing your knees to quiver and your breath to hitch. Looking down at him, your brows furrow in irritation as he sits and does nothing.

“Daddy, please…” God, that whining, how he loves it.

“Let daddy enjoy the view for a bit, sweetheart.” Knowing you can’t argue back, you rest your head back on the table. He notices that you’re obeying, and rewards you with his thumb running up your slit before circling your clit.

Slick begins to drip even more from your aching cunt, while your hips squirm trying to get as much friction as possible. Removing his finger, he leans closer and flattens his tongue against your pussy savoring your taste.

Rough hands wrap under your thighs then rest on your hip, pulling you to the edge of the surface. He presses his face fully against your wet heat, feverishly sucking and licking your sensitive bundle of nerves, before pushing his tongue into your hole, nose bumping against your clit.

Groaning at the taste, he eats you like a man starved. You on the other hand, in pure bliss. Eyes closed, mouth open, letting those adorable sighs and moans slip through your lips. Chanting daddy over and over like he isn’t between your thighs.

Your hands claw at anything and everything you can reach, settling on your breast, giving it a light squeeze making Leon’s heart ache with jealousy. Pulling his mouth away, he gathers spit in his mouth before letting it drip down onto your cunt.

Thighs begin to squirm at the feeling of the warm fluid dripping from your clit and down to your entrance. “Fuck, so fucking sexy.”

Dropping back down, he connects his mouth back between the apex of your thighs. Eating you out with determination, passion, and like his life depends on it. Pulling the hood of the clit back and sucking, making your hips jolt in pleasure.

“Prettiest girl, got the prettiest dolly pussy. Can’t wait to fuck this tight hole full of my cum.” You’re so into this, it’s adorable, he’s practically drowning down here.

Only a few seconds later, you come undone on his tongue. Legs shaking, eyes rolling to the back of your head. He moves back, stubble completely drenched and swollen pink lips. His dick throbs with need, as he roughly palms it through his jeans.

Standing back up, he begins to unbuckle his belt, the sound of the jingling snapping your out of wherever that orgasm sent you off to. Pulling out his thick cock, he gives it a few strokes, watching as precum gathers on the head of the tip.

He sucks in a breath of air, and looks back over at you. Eyes on his dick like it’s the first time seeing it, like he doesn’t dick you down every night till your fast asleep.

“Can daddy fuck this pretty little pussy baby?” he says, slapping the sticky tip against your mound, watching the invisible strings connect the two surfaces with lust and desire. You nod, biting your lip and gawking at what he’s doing.

“Of course he can, this slutty cunt can never say no to dick now can she?” he chuckles lowly. “Always so fucking needy and wet.”

Wasting no time, he slots himself between your folds and thrusts all the way in. You let out a yelp while he moans at the stretch. All of your thinking skills being replaced by thoughts of his dick, and it’s very evident on your face.

He grins, watching you through hooded eyes. “Pull that dress down a bit sweetheart, let me see those tits.”

You comply, pulling the material covering your breasts down, leaving you top naked in the absence of your bra. His calloused fingers twinge the stiff peaks as his hips begin to move.

He’s so deep in you, you can feel his dick in your throat, not like that’s an unfamiliar feeling anyways. He starts off relatively slow, to compensate for the way he plunged into you. But that tenderness quickly vaporizes as he begins to slam into you, the sound of skin slapping and the smell of sex filling the room.

The way your tits bounce with each thrust, the way you keep licking those lips, and the way you keep sucking him in are not doing you any favors of making him give up the idea of pouncing on you like a dog.

Holding back his moans is getting nearly impossible with your velvety walls squeezing his cock; each time his skin grazes your swollen clit. In attempts of shutting the two of you up, he crashes his lips against yours in a messy kiss.

His hand sneaking into the space between the two of you and stimulating your abused clit. And in return, you wrap your legs around his torso.

All it takes is a few rough circles on your pudgy bundle of nerves and a few strokes on the sweet spot inside your walls for you to be cuming yet again. This time however dragging him along with you. He lets out a broken moan as your walls milk every drop of cum out his balls, making him see stars.

Thrusting into you a few more times. He notices the sight of the familiar white ring surrounding the base of his cock before pulling out with a nasty slick sound.

He moves towards your sprawled out body, and wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace. Kissing your jaw, and rubbing the small beads of sweat on your forehead.

“Daddy’s Girl.”

divider by: @/cisneroto

[starshipsofstarlord]

Modern!Nat Being Your Dealer

summary - natasha romanoff is your dealer, and you go to collect your order, however you seem to have forgotten something important… though there is another way that you can pay for your addiction (2.1k)

warnings - 18+ minors dni, smut, oral (female receiving), fingering, drug dealing, sex in place of payment, swearing

natasha romanoff works other mcu works masterlist

Everyone struggled in life, and once in a while they needed a little help. There were many ways people went about that, some people went to therapy, others enjoyed a good book, others listened to waves that had been recorded for that specific purpose. But none of those spectacles of aid made you feel any better.

And thus you had turned to substances instead of white noise, specifically one that was more common and less harmful - weed. A large majority of the population did it, and it was nothing to be ashamed about, it just made you unwind from the trauma that skulked in the darkest parts of your mind and coaxed you into a resting state of sleep.

Unbuckling your seat belt, you climbed out of your beat convertible, locking the vehicle behind yourself as you strode towards the locked hinges of your e of dealer's door. It felt suspenseful every time that you came here, knowing that it could be your last if your supplier was overturned by the forces for her illegal actions actions, and you wouldn't exactly be ignored pu so for purchasing from her.

But everything looked crisp and normal, just the way you liked it. Quickly as to not avert any attention you shot Natalia, the Russian importer a text letting her know that you had arrived to the destination where she handled business. It felt like a lifetime as you awaited for her to open the door and usher you inside, and once she unlocked the barricade of privacy you felt like you were hit by a brick.

It didn't matter how many times that you had seen the astoundingly attractive redhead, you always felt as though you were experiencing whiplash from being greeted with her appearance. It was an unruly kind of magnetism that she styled herself with, her lipstick was blurred subtly past the lines of her actual lips, her short bob was twisted with curls that she had no doubt patiently toyed with as she sat there, looming behind the frosted windows for her buyers.

And you were no more than another one of them, you had to remind yourself, even as slithered past her, both of your breasts briefly brushing as she allowed you entry before she followed your footsteps to the main room after bolting the door shut to as it had been. As usual you took a seat in the dusty and quaint living area as usual, her taking place opposite you as she disgustedly brushed specks off the fabric arm of the chair.

"I don't live here if that's what you're wondering." She smirked, making it undoubtedly clear that her tastes were too clean to permanently reside in a place like this. "So I'll take it you're picking up the usual?" It was the safe assumption on her part, there was no kindness in coaxing you to spend more on the grams of freedom that she rationed out for a price. Not to mention, with spare product there would no doubt be another soul that was prepared to take it off her hands.

"Yeah, please." A curt nod had the woman lounging her body to stretch so that she could pick up the complimentary medicine that she had self prescribed you for. The normal amount was visible through the small and clear baggy that carried the goods, and you immediately rushed to find the notes that would allow you to proceed in your pockets. But they were gone. Shit. This was the last thing that you needed after the day that you had endured with the whispers of thought that clouded your brain.

Panic settled over you, and thus with a dry mouth it was with wise decision that you chose to speak up. There was no point beating around the bush, after all this was your first slip up when it came to this, and you prayed to every ethereal being that it would be the last. "I seemed to have forgotten to put the cash in this jacket, would it be okay if i were to come by later to collect again?" It was embarrassing really, there was nothing that screamed being newer to the scene of all this mutual transaction than forgetting the payment.

"Trial and error one would say." Nat slouched back, dropping the bag mockingly in her lap so that you could see. "The problem is I'm not available for business later." So stupid, you thought to yourself, insulting yourself because she wouldn't for your blatant and misconducted dumb foolery. It certainly may have ben a mistake, but you were no doubt paying for it because you could not pay for what you had really wanted. With a gulp of apologetic waver of disregard, you stood on your two feet, eyeing the door as your escape.

You were just about to begin walking when the red headed conductor silenced all movement your body was ready to perform. "Uh, uh, uh." The noise of scolding that she proclaimed towards you made your heart beat a little faster, afraid that she was going to refuse future service to you altogether. However much you dreaded what she was going to say, you politely listened, intending to remain on her good side. "If you have time to spare, I don't mind being paid in other ways..."

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand what you mean." Maybe it was plain obliviousness to Nat's ultimatum of a suggestion, or perhaps you didn't quite believe your body's instinct to the prowess in her eyes that made your spine coil in a retrograde of quivering arousal, but you avertedly decided to play it dumb. She stood, and strode towards you like a vixen, her wide eyes scorning every inch of your vessel, humming contentedly to herself.

"Don't be so naive little y/n," her tongue peeked out from her mouth, swiping languidly across her plump bottom lip. "You'll still be a respectable woman, you'll just have to respect me too... in an intimate way." Thinking to yourself, the hunger that ran through your veins which yearned for the intoxicating compulsion of the confident redhead was strivingly eager, and the addictive stock that sold, was endless.

"W-what did you have in m-mind?" You wanted some clarification before you drowned yourself in an action that could exempt you from her clientele, even if she had been explicit, only leaving the details of prolific actions out from her spoken equation. The thumping of your heart beat within your ears, running through your bloodstream that was declining from a subsidised high, as you ogled curiously at the the woman with priceless leverage.

"We all have things we want y/n," she admitted vaguely before going into detail, "and I, in exchange want you to give me an orgasm." Her hands rubbed soothingly up your arms, her skin surprisingly cold upon your flesh. She could sense your nervousness, it was openly apparent as you shivered for both her touch and the calming rush that would absorb itself into your form.

"Okay." You spoke meekly, withholding how eager you were to persevere provocatively towards the mysterious woman. A coy smile weaved its route upon her defining features, causing your walls to flutter obscenely below where they were dressed. You'd always thought that you would be above soliciting yourself in exchange for anything, but it proved to show that you could never be certain on an agenda until you came to the crossroads of it.

Your tongue poked outside of your mouth, nervously grooming the indents and crevices at the corner of your lips, preparing yourself for what Natasha was expecting. It made you realise how little you truly knew about the woman before you, the name that she had given you to address her by may have all been a hoax, to conceal her identity from any enforcers whom bought the stronger stuff from ratting her out to the feds.

But in the predicament that you had stumbled obliviously into, you needed to be nothing more than acquainted, it wasn't love, it was just business derived from the figments of pleasure, and whilst you were allured by the pros and cons that weighed argumentatively in your mind, you couldn't help but give this instance a block from your overthinking mindset. "I'm glad to hear," she conveyed, causing a deep laughter within her chest to be released as she noticed how tense that you had become.

She liked to see you squirm, she had decided. And perhaps next time you would forget payment again, of course she wouldn't mind if your skills were up to her standards of course, and if they weren't, she would unshackle the bedroom nerves that you were enduring with her own set of amorous control. The air hung thick between the both of you as she strolled casually back towards the seat that she had already claimed prior to your arrival, sitting down and spreading her clothed legs wide.

"Come here, and make me cum." Her instructions were far too persuasive, and you couldn't refrain from doing as you were told, willingly you fell to your denim clad jeans, watching intently as Nat unbuttoned her own trousers. "I don't even need to tell you what to do." She verbally observed, pushing down the layers covering her bottom half, including her lace designed panties. Her actions served you with the view of her core, and the sight made you salivate.

A part of you felt dirty, but you procured it in an encouraging way, as this was exactly how she wanted to see you. The position that you were in made warmth flush between your legs, even more so when her drug dealing hand swept into your hair, pulling your face closer to her cunt with the harsh grip that she had. You glanced up to watch her lust drowning eyes, before you entangled your lips with her lower ones, tasting her juices on your tongue.

You ran your tongue up her slit a few times, testing the waters before you suctioned your lips around your clit, sucking on the nerve filled bud, her body being devoured by heavenly sensations. "Fuck me." Her breath cast the words out as her emerald irises became obliterated by the bleakness of her pupils, and in a way you were, and to fuck her further into the pleasure that was flooding her veins, you raised your dominant hand, tracing your fingers around her slick entrance.

With integral driven lust, you pushed one of your digits inside of her, her hand weaving tighter within your locks, and forcing your face further into her cunt. You were amidst in an overwhelming sense of reality, as you hollowed your cheeks so that you could put more pressure around her clit. Her mouth gaped open as she leant sporadically in her seat, her hips bucking into your jawline as her legs wrapped around the back of your head.

Pumping your fingers at a quicker pace, you could feel her walls contracting around you tighter, and her moans evoking to a higher pitch. Her sounds echoed around the room that was in need of more furniture, and you knew that she was getting close, and so you continued on with your actions, daring to enter another finger inside of her, which made her reach her breaking point. Her lips floundered in a silent scream, as she came around the fingers that you had stuffed inside of her.

You continued slowly with drawing out her orgasm, before you pulled back and allowed breath to be inhaled through your mouth, removing your fingers so that you had the opportunity to lick them clean. After a few minutes passed, she unravelled her legs from how they had been pressed around your skull, deciding to sit up straighter, as she glowered at you, returning to her formal confirmation.

Silently she slid her underwear and bottoms back up her legs, leaving her fly open as she watched you stand before her, almost desperately. She was almost convinced to return the favour, but that wasn't what it was, instead it was payment, and she had the professionalism to an extent to make that clear. "Pleasure doing business with you again. Here's what you wanted." She threw the baggy at you, and surprisingly to yourself, you had caught the clear packaging that was filled with your goods.

In all honesty you had forgotten all about the weed, you had fallen into a spiral of delightful passion, and you could still taste her on your lips. Now it felt awkward, she was awaiting for your departure without a doubt as she expectedly nodded towards the door. "Uh, thanks." You fumbled with the bag, finding yourself to forget your money again, with purpose, the next time that you visited her to collect.

[miryum]

"The Stakeout"

Summary: Detective!Jason Todd x detective!Reader based on Jake and Amy's relationship

Series Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of violence (but nothing descriptive), guns and other police stuff

Series Masterlist

“Did you leave the precinct last night?” Jason set a mug of coffee next to Y/n’s desk. 

“The internet’s out at my apartment. The neighbour I’m leeching off turned it off for a couple days to teach their kids a lesson and this is the only place I can watch Bluey.”

“The kids show?” Jason raised a brow. 

Tim gasped and raced to Y/n’s computer. “I love Bluey!”

“Of course,” Jason rolled his eyes.

“Don’t you dare scoff at the majesty that is Bluey!” Y/n pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “Clearly, you haven’t seen its brilliance. Sit down, baby Jay. You’re gonna love this.”

Both Tim and Jason crowded around the screen. Y/n pressed the keyboard and the iconic intro music played. Tim hummed along and Jason stared longingly at his book.

He hardly registered when the unicorn came on screen. “Children,” Tim and Y/n murmured with the unicorn.

The unicorn was spoiling a book about a princess and shoes. Jason wasn’t really paying attention. He could be reviewing files or reading books or bothering Damian. All valuable uses of his time.

“Wait, did you quote John Mulaney?” Jason realised. 

“Baby Jay? Yeah.” Y/n shushed him, “now watch this cinematic masterpiece.” 

“It’s a goddamn kid show. Any adult that watches this voluntarily needs therapy.”

“Yeah, I thought that was obvious,” Tim peered at him. “You’ve known us for more than four years. You hadn’t deduced that already?” 

“Touche.” 

“She calls herself The Queen of Crime,” Dick announced to the briefing room. “Or more well-known as Harley Quinn. She and her wife have broken into, set fire, exploded, and murdered more people and places than I can count.”

Y/n gasped. “Oh my gosh, gay crime queens? Do you think they would adopt me?”

“L/n, you would be an accomplice.” Tim frowned at his friend. 

“I would go to jail for my criminal moms.” 

“Anyway,” Dick rolled his eyes, a smile creeping at his mouth. “L/n and Todd will be staking out a place we’ve seen Quinn and Isley frequent. Cain will be their contact. Drake and Brown, I have another assignment for you that involves a murder.” 

“A murder?” Y/n whined. “No fair! How come I’m stuck with Todd and Steph gets a murder?” 

“I’m just better than you,” Stephanie shrugged. Y/n glowered at her. 

“I’m sure you’ll make the stakeout incredibly frustrating and boring,” Jason patted Y/n’s arm from his seat next to her. 

“Frustrating and boring: Title of your sex tape,” Y/n muttered, crossing her arms. “Dickie, you can’t expect me to live with Todd for three days! He won’t even do anything! He’ll just read and… I don’t know, what other nerdy things do you do?”

“Nerdy?” Jason shot back, “Says the person who references every TV show known to man!”

“Just so everyone knows,” Y/n raised a finger up. “The obsession this week is the Barbie movie.”

“Amen,” Steph clapped Y/n’s hand in a high-five. 

Cass fistbumped her. “Margot Robbie is a goddess amongst men.”

“Speaking of goddesses: Julie Andrews.” Y/n said. Steph hummed in agreement. “Princess Diaries marathon this weekend?”

“Y/n,” Dick interrupted. “You’ll be on a stakeout with Jason.”

“You think that will stop me?”

“No,” Dick admitted. “But... we‘re done. Everybody just go back to work.”

“You remind me of the Hulk.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jason looked away from the camera that was perched in the windowsill.

“You remind me of the Hulk,” Y/n repeated from her seat on a beanbag chair. She grabbed some goldfish and popped them in her mouth. The apartment where the stakeout was taking place was small and decrepit. When Y/n had first seen it, she’d said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t wanna get tetanus.” Jason had locked the door before she could escape. (“If you wanted me alone, Jay, you could’ve just asked.”)

“How so?” Jason fought the urge to roll his eyes before turning back to stare out the grime-covered window.

“Well, first off, you’re fricking huge, but also a nerd.”

“Yeah, but I’m not a destructive green monster.” 

“I don’t know what you do outside of work.” Y/n shrugged. “But seriously, my dude. You need to stop working out. You’re making the rest of us look bad.” She reached over and poked Jason in the bicep.

“Are you flirting with me?” Jason smirked.

Y/n huffed and said, “you wish, Todd.” Thankfully, the walkie talkie crackled to life. “Talk to me, Goose,” Y/n snickered into the walkie talkie. 

Cass replied, “Maverick, we’re getting intel that Quinn and Isley are headed your way.”

“Thanks, man. Iceman’s keeping a watchout.”

“Iceman?!” Jason scoffed. “What makes me Iceman?!”

“Because you’re all stoic and impassive and eventually, you fall in love with me,” Y/n explained.

“I don’t remember Iceman and Maverick’s romance,” Cass’s voice was staticy and Jason was surprised she was still listening. 

“Come on,” Y/n’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “We could all feel the tension.” Cass hummed in acquiescence.

“L/n,” Jason shushed. “They’re here.” Y/n immediately quieted and turned off the walkie talkie. She went to sit next to Jason, making sure the camera was effectively hidden behind a screen. Outside, the pair could see a large truck pull up to the warehouse across the street. Out jumped Harley Quinn, her pigtails bouncing as she whistled. She skipped around the semi-truck and opened the door for her wife, Pamela Isley. Isley gave Quinn a kiss on the cheek and Y/n let out an ‘aw!’ Jason rolled his eyes and said, “just because they’re lesbians doesn’t mean they’re cute. They’ve committed many crimes.” 

“Being lesbians automatically makes them adorable and exempts them from all their crimes.”

Jason shushed her again and started taking pictures, the camera softly clicking away. Quinn opened the back of the semi and Isley pulled open the doors of the warehouse. Cheerfully, Quinn stacked boxes for Isley to roll away on a dolly. 

“What’s in the boxes?” Y/n wondered. 

“Do you think we’d be here if I knew?” Y/n glared at Jason’s response. 

Minutes passed, silent only for the snaps of the camera. Quinn and Isley continued to unload the truck and by the way they were piling them in the front of the warehouse, Y/n guessed that they were either moving the boxes soon or the warehouse was already filled. It wasn’t long before Isley slammed the truck door shut and blew a kiss to her wife. Quinn waved dramatically as Isley started the truck, leaving Quinn behind to man the warehouse. 

“Are we good?” Y/n asked. “Did we get all the pictures? Can we return to civilization and its cleaning supplies?”

“The apartment isn't that bad,” Jason said. “And no, we have to wait to see what Quinn’s doing.” Y/n groaned loudly and flopped over on her beanbag. “I figured this would happen,” Jason began to dig around his bag. “So I came prepared.” He pulled out some paper and pens and threw them at Y/n. “Draw me a picture or write me a story.” 

Y/n frowned at him. “What do you think I am? Five?” Jason shot her a knowing look and she muttered, “yeah, okay. That’s a pretty good idea.” Y/n sat down on the ground, mumbling about blastomycosis and mold poisoning. Jason silently wondered how she knew so much about diseases. Sitting back on her beanbag, Y/n uncapped a pen and started drawing. Or writing. Jason wasn’t really sure. He was more preoccupied with the case. 

After fifteen minutes, (Jason had hoped it would distract her for longer,) Y/n proudly showed Jason her drawing. “I even wrote a story to go with it!” She presented another piece of paper, filled with her scribbly handwriting. 

“What’s it about?” Jason asked, eyes slowly turning away from the camera and towards Y/n. 

“It’s a tragic love story between a marshmallow and a cup of hot chocolate who can never be together because the hot chocolate would melt the marshmallow, but the marshmallow stayed with the hot chocolate, even though it was slowly dying, because it loved the hot chocolate.” Y/n taped her picture and story up on the wall.

“Shakespeare would be put to shame,” Jason said after a moment of processing. Y/n nodded along. “Romeo and Juliet, who?” 

Y/n gasped softly. “Oh my gosh, I think I love you.”

“I thought that was already established,” Cass’s voice came through the walkie talkie. 

Y/n quickly pressed the button. “You’re still there?” 

“L/n, this is an open police line.” Cass was rubbing her temples. “We need to be in constant contact with you.”

Jason snagged the walkie talkie away from Y/n and updated Cass. “Quinn’s still at the warehouse. L/n and I request to prolong our stay to keep tabs on her.” 

“Wait, we could still leave?!” 

“I’ll ask Wayne,” Cass said. “Stay sharp.” The line crackled and went silent. 

“Todd, why are we staying later than needed?” Y/n whined. “We could be back at the precinct right now.”

“Because this would be a big bust for us. If we shut down the Crime Queen’s operation, and maybe even catch one, that’d be a major operation off of the street.” He looked back at the detective. “Come on, Y/n. Think about it.” 

Y/n grumbled, but relented. “Fine.” She went back to scribbling on the paper, angrily huffing out profanities every now and then and asking Jason how to spell certain words. (“How the hell do you not know how to spell equipment?” “It’s a hard word!”)

“Cass, I’m transferring some pictures to you,” Jason spoke into the walkie talkie, sometime around ten fifteen at night. “I’m not seeing any activity right now, but I’ll keep you updated.”

“We’ll keep you updated,” Y/n corrected. “We’re a team, remember, Todd?” 

“You’re right,” Jason looked back at her. “I’m sorry. We’ll keep you updated.” He flipped off the walkie talkie and said, “if we’re a team, then do you want to take a turn at the camera?”

Y/n scrunched her nose. “Nah. I’ll just wait until you pass out from exhaustion to take my shift.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Really helpful.” 

“I know.”

It was late the next morning and Y/n was sitting dutifully by the window, letting Jason snore on the beanbag. She had the movie Deadpool on in the background, occasionally quoting things alongside Wade Wilson. “A fourth wall break inside a fourth wall break! That’s like… sixteen walls,” she mumbled, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket she had stolen off of Jason. A loud honking lifted her from the edges of sleep and Y/n bolted upright, cursing. A sleek, black limo pulled in front of the warehouse and Y/n immediately radioed in to Cass. “Hey, Goose, we have a situation.” 

“What is it, Maverick?” Cass yawned, still following along with Y/n references.

“A black limo, licence plate…” Y/n took dozens of pictures. “PNGIN, just pulled into the lot. Sending evidence now.” She opened the precinct laptop Jason had packed and uploaded the photos. “I might need backup if an exchange is going down.” 

“Copy that,” Cass said. 

From the limo stepped a pudgy man in a three-piece suit with a large tophat. Y/n had to refrain herself from commenting on his appearance. “Jay, get up! Get up!” She kicked the beanbag chair and Jason awoke with a start, mumbling things about interrupting his sleep. “Oh my god, is that…” Y/n squinted through the camera lens, pressing the ‘talk’ button on the walkie talkie. “Cass! It’s Cobblepot! Cobblepot’s meeting up with Quinn!”

“-at?” It sounded like Cass said ‘what?’ but only clicked her button during the last half, surprise evident in her voice. “Lemme get Dick. And Wayne.” She added the Captain as if on second thought. 

After a tense minute where Y/n had to kick Jason again, Dick came on the radio. “L/n, report,” he commanded.

“Cobblepot’s meeting up with Quinn. I’ve sent the photos. I’m requesting a soft backup. Let me see what’s going on, but I want officers on hand. We could stop something big here, Sarge.”

“Copy that. You’ll get your officers. Where do you want them?”

“A half a block away,” she said. “And Dick? I need ‘em now. I don’t know what’s going on, but Quinn’s coming out to meet Cobblepot.”

Cass’s voice returned. “Y/n, Dick’s going to lead the officers himself. His ETA should be about ten minutes. Sit tight.”

“Will do, as soon as Todd WAKES UP!” Y/n kicked Jason in the shin, earning a loud “ow!”

“I’m up!” Jason shot up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What?”

“Fucking Cobblepot! You’re about to sleep through our bust! Bitch,” she clicked her tongue, ”wake up!”

“Cobblepot?” Jason said blearily. He raced the window, squinting down at the scene below. “Holy…”

“I know!” Y/n punched Jason on the shoulder excitedly. He flinched away from her, acting as if it had hurt. 

Y/n snapped pictures as Jason took over the computer, typing a report. Finally, after what seemed like ages, Cass said, “Backup’s here, just in case.”

“Thanks, Cain,” Jason said, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“Quinn’s taking Cobblepot into the warehouse,” Y/n reported. “But I can’t see… do we have any footage of the interior?” 

“Would we be here if we had access inside?” Jason groaned. 

“Now I see why people avoid you in the morning,” Y/n grumbled back, shooting Jason a warning glare. She shoved a cereal box towards the man and Jason angrily shoved some food into his mouth. “Now you won’t be so fucking cranky,” she muttered.

“Stop fighting!” Cass demanded, “what do you see?”

“Nothing! Other than Cobblepot’s men standing ominously by his limo.” Y/n asked, “how come we don’t have limos? That would be so much cooler.”

Cobblepot stepped out of the warehouse, Quinn trailing behind him. He gestured to his men and a couple of them started loading boxes into the trunk of the limo. “We’ve got movement!” Y/n shouted into the walkie talkie. “If we’re going to arrest them, it’s gotta be now! We won’t get Isley, and she’ll probably break Quinn out of prison, but at least we’ll get Cobblepot.” 

“You’re just soft for your crime moms,” Jason exhaled sharply. 

Dick’s voice was hardly understandable through the radio, but Y/n and Jason watched from the window as Dick and his team surrounded Quinn and Cobblepot and his men. “I feel like we should help,” Jason mumbled.

“Do you have a zipline?” Y/n asked out of the blue.

“No… why?” Jason seemed hesitant to answer, concerned about the answer. 

“Dang it,” Y/n shook her head. “It would’ve been easy for us to join the fight if we could just zipline down there. It’d look so cool, too!” She mimed shooting down a zipline and fighting all the bad guys off. Jason chuckled. 

Dick eventually managed to apprehend Cobblepot and Quinn, the latter who threw a wink right to the window where Y/n and Jason sat. Y/n gasped and threw open the window, sticking her head out. “Hi!” she shouted down to the apprehended criminals. “Oh my gosh, you’re Harley Quinn! I’m a huge fan!”

“Hey!” Harley Quinn waved back before Dick handcuffed her. “Aren’t you just a sweetie pie?! Were you the one spying on us since Tuesday?” Her thick Brooklyn accent shouted up to the detectives.

“Yeah! That was me!” Y/n grinned. “I love you and your wife! Can you adopt me?”

“Oh, honey, we would love to!” Harley called. “But unfortunately, I may be going to jail.” She pouted sadly and then grinned hopefully. “Think you can do anything about that, sugar?”

Y/n frowned and said, “unfortunately, no I can’t, adopted mom. But, I can promise to turn the other cheek when my other adopted mom breaks you out.”

“Deal!” Harley winked again and said, “send me the adoption papers and I’ll sign anything.”

“I love you!” Y/n shouted as Dick shoved Quinn into the back of his police car, rolling his eyes. 

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Jason joined Y/n leaning on the windowsill, gazing over at her. 

“Nope.”

[ugh-yoongi]

by the time i've figured out what it's worth | myg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him, if you were a betting man.

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

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

You already know which one Yoongi is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

“Can you expand on that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s rich.”

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

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

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

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

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

“Can we talk about it now?”

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

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

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

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

Is that why… “The song?”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Can you now?”

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

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

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

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

“But you are.”

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

“Relationship euthanasia.”

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

“What would that even look like?”

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

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

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

“Yoongi...”

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

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

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

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

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

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

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

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

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

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

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

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

“The one in Oakhurst?”

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

“How long?”

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mouth.”

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

He’s not so gentle after that.

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

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

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

“Fuck, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

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

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

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

“I’m sorry—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’d gone like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

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

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

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

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

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

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

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

“Are you all packed?”

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

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

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

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

“With what?”

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

“How much are you bringing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?”

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

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

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

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

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

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

—

Oakhurst is small.

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

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

A place that makes you smile.

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

Yoongi laughs anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

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

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

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

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

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

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what you think?”

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

“Leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

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

You think thirty will look good on him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I went to the grocery store.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

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

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

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

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

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

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

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

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

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

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

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just sends you A Look.

—

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

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

“SURPRISE!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you—”

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

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

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

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

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

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

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

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

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

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

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

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

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

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

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

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

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

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

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

“Real answer, please.”

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

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

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

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

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Everything reads like an attack.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Something that’s true.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[interlude: monday morning]

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

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

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

“Should we go home soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just seventy-five percent?”

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

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

“Not this shit again—”

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You listen.

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

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

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

It’s the thirtieth of December.

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

Good riddance.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Like each other.)

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

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

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

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

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

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

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

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

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

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

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

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

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

You are, and you do.

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

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

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

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mrsshabana]

Patient!Gyutaro x Nurse!Reader - CHAPTER 2

Chapter 1

✦ CW: 18+ MDNI, female reader. Dead dove: do not eat. Non-con, smut, violence, manipulation, mentions of mental illness. ✦ AN: This chapter has disturbing scenes with graphic violence and non-consensual sex. Please read all of the content warnings before continuing.

✦ WC: 1,808

“Good morning Mr.Shabana,” you chime, smiling brightly, bringing a tray with his breakfast into the room.

He stares at you as if he’s seen a ghost, eyes wide, skin pale, breathing at a halt.

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling alright?” you ask as you set his food down on the table.

“I-It’s nothin’...” 

“Well, I’ll see you in a few hours Mr.Shabana, feel free to call for me if you need anything in the meantime,” shooting him another kind smile before you exit the room.

His stare drills holes into your back as he watches you leave. He hasn’t felt this annoyed by a new nurse in years. Could it be that you are mocking him?

Pushing his food to the side, he clenches his teeth in frustration. He thought he got rid of you for good. You’re the first nurse that has stayed after he pulled that antic. It always works. But why didn’t it work on you? 

He’ll have to come up with another way to get rid of you.

After the first day with Gyutaro, you vowed to do everything in your power to help him heal his physical and mental wounds. Making sure to be kind, considerate, and paying close attention to his needs. The next few days have been surprisingly pleasant. No outbursts or insults coming from him like they once had before. He still doesn’t talk to you, hell he barely even acknowledges you. But it’s better than being assaulted every time you enter his room. 

Though you still get that gut feeling that you're in danger every time you are around him. Your hair stands on end and your hands get sweaty. But for the sake of doing your job, you ignore the warnings from your body. 

And it seems your persistence is paying off. As your keen eye quickly picked up on some of Gyutaro’s behavior. He only eats pre-packaged food. Why? You have no idea. Might be from some past trauma… maybe you’ll look back into his therapy notes later. 

But it’s quite odd. Every time you bring him his meals, he only eats the pre-packaged foods included in his meal. Usually things like cookies and muffins. He can’t be getting more than 500 calories a day. 

So, you start going out of your way to buy healthier pre-packaged foods for him. Things like canned tuna, beans, and sometimes potato chips from the vending machine. He’ll only eat it if you give it to him unopened. You want to ask him why he eats like this, but you figure he most likely won’t answer. Plus you don’t want to risk setting him off again. 

Your kindness really pisses him off. But he doesn’t hate when you bring him things he’s actually willing to eat. Surprisingly, he doesn’t think much of it. He’s not impressed that you figured out a way to get him to eat, because to him there was no trick. He wasn’t trying to be difficult. It’s just how he is. He won’t eat certain things and he has specific reasons for doing so. However, he isn’t grateful either. He could care less if he starved to death. But it is nice having a full stomach for once. He’s finally starting to feel a bit better, as his strength begins to return. Though, you may soon regret it.

.・゜゜・　♰　・゜゜・．

“Mr. Shabana, are you ready?” You knock on his door and peek inside to see him sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Mm hm,” he nods and stands. His lanky frame towering above you as he follows you out of the room. 

Today is Gyutaro’s hydrotherapy session, recommended to be given once every two weeks by his doctor. 

And since Gyutaro has been deemed to be a danger to himself, he must be supervised during the session.

You can feel him staring at you as he follows you to the sauna room. You swear his gaze is so spiteful that it causes you physical pain. Every part of your body is screaming at you as you unlock the door and open it for him. But surely you’re just overreacting right? It’s been over a week now with no incident at all. You finally feel as though you are making progress with him, and you aren’t willing to let go of that progress just because of a gut instinct. 

“Alright, remove your clothes and I’ll start the bath,” you say as you walk over to the hydrotherapy tub.

He doesn’t respond, but you hear shuffling behind you. Assuming that he’s getting himself ready, you get on your knees and adjust the temperature of the bath. Watching as the water slowly rises and steam fills the room. 

Dipping a finger into the water to check the temperature, it feels pleasantly hot. 

“There we go,” you smile, “Your bath is ready Mr.Sha-” You begin to turn around but in the blink of an eye your face is engulfed in heat. It all happens so fast, you don’t register what’s going on.

All you know is you can’t breathe, and it’s too hot. 

Holding on to the edge of the tub, you try to push yourself up and out of the water. But a strong grip on your neck is preventing you from doing so. 

You finally begin to realize the gravity of the situation when you feel Gyutaro’s body pressed up against you. He keeps his hand firmly grasped around the back of your neck, holding your head under the water. And with his other hand he roughly lifts up your skirt and pulls down your panties.

“Stop strugglin’ or else I’ll break your fuckin’ neck,” Gyutaro growls under his breath. 

Not only does he hate you because he finds your kindness incredibly annoying, but he also hates you because of how horny you make him. Seeing you in that short skirt every damn day. He gets hard every time you enter his room, and his throbbing cock becomes so persistent that he has to jerk himself off or else he’ll be in a bad mood the entire day.

How dare you tease him like this. Well he’ll show you. 

He’ll get to kill two birds with one stone. Satisfying the aching in his pants, and getting rid of you for good. There’s no way you’ll stay after this.

Cackling, he pumps his cock a few times, readying himself at your entrance.

“This is what you get for always teasin’ me…” he grunts as he forcefully shoves his cock inside of you. It takes a few thrusts to bully himself fully inside, as you aren’t wet at all. 

You feel like you’re being ripped in half, it stings and burns as he forces his thick cock into your tight hole. 

Water fills your mouth as you scream under the water. You panic, and use all of the strength you have left flailing your arms behind you, trying to push him away. But he’s too strong, and he’s between your legs so you can't kick him either. 

“Stop it, slut” he shouts, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. 

After a few thrusts, you start to get a little wet. Not enough to make this comfortable for you, but enough that he’s able to plunge easier into you. 

Having been in an Asylum for so long, he’s never had the pleasure of sex before. And even though it’s something he’s fantasized about many times, he never could have imagined how good it’d feel. The way your pussy tightly clenches around him, he feels like he’s already getting close. 

Your face begins to lose color, and you stop struggling. The abuse on your pussy is dulled by the pounding in your skull. 

Gyutaro notices you’re beginning to lose consciousness. He really doesn’t care about you but if you died now, he’d never be able to fuck you again. And he’s already getting addicted to the feeling of being inside of you… it’d be such a shame if this was the only time he’d be able to use you.

He reluctantly pulls out of you, grabbing you by the hair and pulling your head out of the water. 

Instantly you cough up a bunch of water and gasp for air. A devilish grin spreads across his face as he watches you struggle to breathe. 

Water and saliva drips down your chin as you open your watery eyes. Your vision is blurry but you can make out his erect cock throbbing in front of you. No wonder it hurt so much, not only is he long but quite girthy as well. Decorated with black spots and large veins, there’s a ring of blood at its base.

He grabs your chin and forces you to look up at him, “Well since you so kindly opened your mouth for me…” he grabs the base of his cock and forces you to take him into your mouth, “Might as well put it to good use.”

You cough and choke as he thrusts into your mouth, his leaking tip ramming against the back of your throat. Digging your nails into his thighs, trying to push him away to no avail. 

You hate to admit it, but you much rather have him abusing your throat than your pussy. But it doesn’t help that you’re still struggling to gasp for oxygen. Your lungs burn but you try your best to calm down and breath through your nose while you endure the torture. 

It doesn’t take long before you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts get sloppy. Just wanting this to be over as quickly as possible, you suck as fervently as you can. Twirling your tongue around his tip, taking him as deep as you can. 

“F-fuck…” he moans, cock twitching as he coats your throat in hot sticky cum. He tightly grips your hair as he rides out his high. 

Tears roll down your cheeks as you swallow his cum, not daring to look up at him. It tastes foul, salty, and bitter. It’s thick as it slowly slides down your throat.

He hisses as he pulls out of your mouth. A long string of saliva connecting from your swollen lips to the tip of his cock. 

He stands up and looks down at you. Grinning as a deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. You can’t help but cry under his gaze, feeling completely humiliated and ruined. So disgusted with your own body that you don’t even feel like yourself anymore. 

“Pathetic whore,” he spits, his saliva landing on your cheek. Grinning in satisfaction as he pulls up his pants and puts his shirt back on. 

Without another word he walks out of the room, the heavy metal doors slamming behind him. Leaving you gasping for air on the floor, sore and bleeding from his abuse. 

Taglist: @gyusimp @sterzin @sassysaxsolo @gh0stedddd @cry-baby-stuff @hutchilli [If you asked to be added to the taglist and weren't, it may be because your tag didn't work when I searched for it. Or because you don't have your age listed on your blog]

[neiptune]

on the outside of the greatest inside joke

cw: 3k wc, female reader, reader goes to therapy, enemies to potential lovers, swearing, pining, you simply can't believe the same tsukki your best friend has told you about ends up being the biggest asshole you've ever met. thank you @tetsuskei for helping me with this one!!!

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Kenma’s pace is slow as he walks next to you, hands buried in the pockets of what is probably a very expensive jacket. He doesn’t seem fazed but you know he’s secretly pleased about the guy who stopped him right after getting off the subway, so pleased you had to gently pull him by the sleeve to remind him that it was getting late. The pout was there: no doubt, he would’ve loved to stay and spend the evening discussing fortnite strategies with a complete stranger who swore didn’t miss a single one of his streams.

“Why are you coming anyway?” he shoots you a glance from the corner of his eye “you could’ve spared yourself this torture”

“Tetsu insisted. I’m actually curious, I only ever met a few of your high school friends” you lightly nudge his shoulder with yours. He pulls a face.

“You’d like Shoyo but he couldn’t make it. The amplified version of him will be there, though”

“The amplified version?” you chuckle.

“Yeah. You’ll see”

“Stop pretending to be grumpy, I know you’re happy to see them again”

His golden eyes find your fond smile and he scoffs. “Tetsu insisted” 

“Whatever you say, Kenny”

“Don’t call me that ever again”

You stick your tongue out and Kenma rolls his eyes, turns his head the other way to hide a small smile. You’re actually happy you managed to form some sort of bond with him, somehow climb over the wall of paralizing shyness that has followed him like a shadow to his current quite popular, very successful days. Tetsu loves him dearly and so do you. Whether he sees you as a friend or as a presence that doesn’t necessarily bug him, isn’t really important. Kenma likes you enough to call to ask if you’d be down to head to the apartment together and gently take the bag containing the bottle of wine you insisted on bringing from your hand. That’s more than enough.

Tetsu’s apartment is in a fancy enough condominium, at walking distance from the Omotosando station. Aoto, the concierge, knows both you and Kenma by now and you bow to each other as soon as you walk through the carriage porch to enter the complex. Sometimes you still can’t believe the little kid with perpetually scraped knees who used to collect his ball from your backyard, toothy grin so big it took over his entire face, now has a house with heated floors and a freaking mist sauna.

A foreign, boisterous laugh echoes through the empty hallway the second you step out of the elevator and Kenma meets your astonished glance with a shrug. “Told you. Amplified”

The door swings open before you have the chance to knock, your handsome, disheveled friend grinning so hard his dimples are showing. “Finally! Took you long enough!” Tetsuro pulls you in a hug to tight you groan and a laugh rumbles in his chest at your playful attempts at pushing him back.

“Are you drunk already?” Kenma gets inside with outstanding nonchalance, skilfully escaping the hand that threatens to ruffle his perfectly styled hair. 

“Of course not, we were waiting for you to get the party started” you finally manage to escape his ironclad embrace but Kuroo simply refuses to let go and barely gives you the time to kick your shoes off before throwing an arm around your shoulders and quite literally pulling you inside.

There’s a small group of people crammed around the horigotatsu table in the living room. Despite his appetite for fanciness and expensive taste, Tetsu always preserved a sense of tradition that, to this day, brings him comfort. You remember the evenings spent at his grandparents’, all the dinners shared around that very same table.

“Everyone, please pay your respects to my second best friend in the entire world!” he pushes your head down in a forced bow with a grin and you swat his hand away with a chuckle.

“Oh my god, it’s you! Finally!” round, golden colored eyes that glimmer with sincere delight are suddenly in your line of vision, along with spiky grey hair and a muscular build that just screams pro-athlete.

“Hello!” you smile “I’m—”

“I know! Call me Kotaro!” he grabs your hand to energetically shake it but you can tell he’s barely containing the urge to suffocate you in a hug. Oh. You chuckle as realization suddenly washes over you. Of course you know who he is, too.

“Hi, Kotaro. You’re the first celebrity I get to meet”

He dramatically clutches his chest, astonished stare finding a very skeptical Kuroo who is looking at you with a frown.

“A celebrity. Oh, she’s wonderful. Where were you keeping her, Tetsuro? A celebrity. Keiji, did you hear that? She called me a celebrity! Can’t wait to tell Atsumu, he’s gonna hate it” Bokuto grins so wide you can’t help but mirror his genuine joy “come sit! Move over Tsukki, she’s sitting next to me” he locks his arm with yours and you slip out of your best friend’s hold with ease and a giggle. That is until Kotaro frees your sightline and you freeze on the spot as soon as your eyes find those of the last person you’d expect to find there, casually snacking on a bowl of senbei. His hand stills mid air when your gaze meets his stoic one.

“What the hell” he mutters, voice every bit as annoying as you recall. Somewhere on your forehead, a vein throbs.

“What the hell indeed” you turn to look at Kuroo with an outraged grimace distorting your features “you know him? As in he’s your friend?”

“Who, Tsukki?” Tetsuro cocks his head “yeah, of course? I’m sure I mentioned him more than once”

“That one’s Tsukki? The fun, talented, kind kohai from high school?!” it’s clear that skepticism is oozing from every syllabe and Kuroo is taken aback, mouth opening and closing like a koi fish. 

“I was never his kohai” the absolutely indifferent pitch makes your blood boil.

“I wasn’t asking you”

“Hmm” the hint of a smile teases his lips “you’re being kinda rude. Again”

“Okay, I’m honestly lost here” Kuroo clears his throat but Bokuto lets out an amused laugh at complete odds with your suddenly sour mood.

“Let’s sit, so you can tell us all about the fascinating sparks that are flying here” the wink he offers is met with a grimace.

“There are no sparks—”

“You haven’t met Keiji yet! Here, give me your coat, Tetsuro will take care of it” you’re quite literally dragged to the table and then down on the floor, before you can protest or beg Kenma to sit next to you. For some foreign reason, Bokuto has you uncomfortably squeezing between him and the last person you’d want to sit next to who, for the record, is doing absolutely nothing to make room for you. Which, unfortunately, means that your leg is flush against his and your arm is dangerously close to be grazing the sleeve of his black shirt.

“This is Akaashi” Kenma, sitting across from you, politely comes to the rescue and nods toward the one stranger you haven’t been introduced to yet.

“I’m sorry” you duck your head with an apologetic smile “nice to meet you. I promise I’m usually pleasant to be around”

The little smile he tosses back supports you immensely in the grim task of ignoring the snort that comes from your left. “You wouldn’t be able to endure Tetsuro if you weren’t”

“Yes, yes, that’s enough small talk” Kuroo, hands free from your coat, arms occupied with more snacks and the wine you brought, flops down next to Kenma and narrows his eyes “tell the story”

“What story?”

Tsukishima sighs, patience already running thin. “He’s asking about us. Not really the sharpest tool in the shed, are you?”

“I see, so you’re just as much of a pain in the ass in your everyday life too. As expected” you don’t even look at him as you accept the bowl of chips a frowning Tetsuro is offering. If Bokuto’s eyebrows could shoot higher, they’d be hanging on the ceiling by now.

“What happened?” Kuroo is one snarky comeback away from imploding.

“She’s the reason why I couldn’t get my coffee this morning” Tsukishima’s bored inflection is what prompts you to finally look at him. For a second, just a split second, you’re startled. By what, exactly? You’re not sure. He’s drinking from a can of beer so the pink on his cheeks was to be expected. What wasn’t expected is the speed at which his eyes dart to you in turn. Those glasses do an awful job at hiding just how big and brown they are. Are those golden specks? You’d have to get closer to find out but that would mean breathing in more of that masculine, woody cologne. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of how hot and sturdy his thigh feels against yours.

“Well, that’s an awfully long pause” Bokuto snickers from your right and you flinch, pulling back so abruptly your back hits his chest.

Tsukishima offers another one of his enigmatic smirks.

“He’s the reason we’ve been kicked out of the coffee shop” you grumble. The skin of your face feels on fire when you meet Kenma’s skeptical stare. You know him well enough to grasp that he’s clearly assuming something entirely different than what’s to assume.

“And that’s happened how?” Akaashi’s gentle voice serves as an anchor you find yourself grabbing onto for dear life.

“I’ll tell you exactly how that happened”

The place is busy and it’s your first time trying it out. The advice came directly from your therapist: trying something new opens up the possibility to find joy in something new. And that’s precisely why you’ve been staring at the list of hot beverages, cold beverages, drinks, cocktails, mocktails, teas, iced teas and desserts hung right behind the cashier.

“Have you decided?” the woman is smiling but you can tell her eye is one second away from starting to twitch.

“Uh, not yet? I’m sorry, just a second” your eyes keep frantically scanning the options over and over again but it’s like your brain is failing to register them, palms sweaty, self-awareness gnawing at your alarmed mind.

“Can you hurry up? Some of us can’t spend the day waiting in line” the sharp, annoyed voice makes you jump and you turn around to apologize, tears practically teasing the corners of your eyes already, but you find a young man looking back at you with such an infuriating scowl that the apology dies on your tongue.

“Menu is the other way” he points an annoyingly long finger toward the wall behind you “just get a cinnamon vanilla latte with soy milk and caramel drizzle or something and let’s get going”

The condescending, bordering mocking suggestion is what infuriates you the most and suddenly all the humiliation you were feeling leaves room for nothing but rage.

“Why don’t you learn to act as a civilized being instead of a primitive asshole?”

“You have ten people who’ve been waiting for you to make up your mind for the past hour and I’m the asshole?”

“I would be done by now if you hadn’t rudely interrupted me!”

“Hey…” the cashier attempts to chime in but your anxiety and frustration are getting the better of you and this stranger is just being so unnecessarily mean.

“And, for the record, that is so not my usual order!”

His eyebrows furrow and a tiny crease appears between them, right above the bridge of his infuriatingly petite nose.

“I’m sorry if I came off the wrong way” he balances the words carefully, with a seemingly sweet inflection “truth is, I couldn’t care less about your usual order. Just order anything before we all grow collectively old here”

You let out a scoff with an incredulous smile. “You really are the biggest prick I’ve ever met”

“I’m sorry, I’m gonna have to ask you both to leave” the cashier interrupts the ridiculous quarrel and the humiliation is back in all its glory, the annoyed stares of all those standing in line suddenly burning through your body.

“I hope you’re not insinuating that any of this is even remotely my fault” the stranger is visibly experiencing utter disbelief but really, you’re done. A quick bow to the cashier and a barely uttered apology to the strangers still waiting for their turn is all you manage to put together before heading out. Oh, the entire thing is going to become such a fun conversation to have with your therapist.

“Hope you’re happy, I only arrived in Tokyo half an hour ago and I’m already out of the best coffee in Ueno” the voice, the literal stuff nightmares are made of, follows you outside and once again you are denied a very much needed crying sesh. Jesus, fuck this guy. Seriously, fuck him. So what if you took a little too long? Hasn’t he ever heard of distress? Fatigue? Just how familiar is he with the human emotional spectrum exactly?

“You may as well choke on your next coffee for all I care” you direct him a saccharine smile and the way his jaw tenses can finally count as a small win.

“How civilized of you”

“Hope you have a horrible day!” you wave and turn around to march back to your neighborhood, to your favorite cafe, to the coffee order that hasn’t let you down once in the past ten years. Phone in hand, you’re already calling Tetsuro to tell him all about your horrible, horrible morning. Only to curse under your breath when, against all odds because who the hell could he even be talking to this early, you’re met with a busy tone.

“Wait, she’s the crazy coffee shop girl you were telling me about?” Kuroo stares at his friend in complete shock and Tsukishima’s lips twitch.

“Obviously”

Bokuto lets out a low whistle. “Wow. What a heated first encounter”

“I feel like I couldn’t properly convey just how presumptuous he was” you hope you have found an accomplice at least in Akaashi, who seems the only genuinely sane person in the room and yes, that’s including you firsthand.

“There’s no need, we’ve known him since high school” he succeeds in drawing a smile and you’re grateful. You wish you were sitting next to him instead of the annoyingly-tall-even-when-seated dude who scoffs once more.

“I feel so welcome, thank god I accepted to take part in this reunion” Tsukishima finishes his beer with a single, long sip.

“Of course you’re welcome, Kei!” Bokuto leans over from behind your back to squeeze his friend’s shoulder “you just need to hone your social skills some more!”

“She gets nervous” Kenma’s calm voice cuts through the conversation and, as it usually happens, all eyes turn to him in quiet surprise “in unfamiliar situations, when she’s doing something different. She gets nervous” he doesn’t look at you, he isn’t looking at anyone really. The dorayaki tray seems to be the only one deserving his undivided attention.

There’s a pause. Tetsuro’s stare softens when he locks eyes with you.

“Yeah, that’s true. Insecurity can be easily played off as aggressiveness, did you know?” his signature smirk is back when his eyes shift to Tsukishima. The leg still pressing against yours gets suddenly stiff.

“Enough talking about me” your chuckle sounds forced and Kenma looks up from the tray “I want to know all about high school and volleyball” you avoid his gaze and refuse to meet Tetsuro’s, the giant smile tense at the corners directed at Bokuto and Akaashi only.

They indulge you. In fact, they all do, and soon enough your little dispute is forgotten and the atmosphere gets less tense. You decide to be the bigger person and, instead of pretending Tsukishima isn’t even there, you politely look at him when he talks and laugh if any playful banter rises between him and Kuroo. You don’t notice that Tsukki looks and listens too, when you’re deep in conversation with someone else or reply to Bokuto’s dumb never have I ever statements. He finds it odd that you two end up drinking almost the same amount, a list of seemingly stupid shared experiences that grows longer the more the game continues around the circle.

Tsukishima Kei doesn’t feel guilty, he’s just good at admitting to himself when he’s wrong. Not that anyone else needs to know, of course. The habit of being too quick to judge others has followed him ever since high school and it annoys him that, as an adult, he still doesn’t know better. Does he want to make this right because he’s not sure he’ll have the chance to do so again? Is the beer clouding his mind, making his body move on autopilot when he gets up shortly after you disappear into Kuroo’s kitchen? Either way, he’s there when you turn around with a tray of fresh mini sandwiches and you’re not immediately bolting by him and he thinks this would be a wonderful time for his big brain to put a few judicious words together.

But then you awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the other and clear your throat. “I’m sorry about this morning. And for insinuating that you’re a caveman” you shrink in yourself a little, head hanging lower.

“And for hoping I choke on my next coffee?”

You snort out what almost sounds like a laugh. “Yeah, definitely. That was mean. But, honestly, you—”

“I was an asshole” he calmly interrupts, the actual apology clawing at his throat to come out to no avail “happens a lot, or so I’m told”

When you finally look up from what you’re holding in your hands and your lips curl into a smile so sincere, Tsukishima almost smiles back. What the hell.

“Let’s chalk it up to us both having a bad morning. Deal?”

He stares for a second too long, then gently offers “deal” and you leave the kitchen with a friendly nod, fully missing out on the opportunity to catch an amused twitch of the lips, honeyed gaze turning inexplicably soft.

[k2ntoss]

WISH YOU WERE HERE – PT. 2

tw ⭒ swearing, angst, couple argument, break up, stalking (NOT IN A CREEPY BAD KINDA WAY, OKAY??? DON'T DO THAT SHIT, IT'S WEIRD AND WRONG), mention of blood and injuries (reader gets into trouble but hey, it's okay), jason todd x fem!reader and okayyyyyy that's everything heh and just because i won't pay for your therapy there's fluff at the end (i'm crying so ugly i can't stand thinking about sad baby ): )

prompt from @unboundprompts "I know I'm not perfect, but we can work this out." !!!

a/n ⭒ once again song based fic, part two for dirty little secret with a bit more angst because i'm craving it. wish you were here by neck deep.

this one is for @millyhelp who requested part two :3

no word count, i'm lazy so deal with it. :3

one year thrown to waste or at leats, that's how it felt, because even if you tried to push one more month with jason it didn't worked out. you knew he tried hard to trust things could be fine but it simply didn't happened so one day you decided to show up on his place holding a box of the things he gave you.

a few books poking out of the box and also some of his clothes, the ones you used to wear to sleep because it allowed you to feel he was with you instead of wherever he was because you never knew it, your relationship was filled with secrets that didn't allowed the love you felt to breath until it suffocated.

"i can't do this anymore, jason" your words hit him as soon as jason opens the door of his place, eyes darting between your face and the box you hold on your arms and he knew that this day would come, sooner or later you'll end up getting tired of the things he couldn't give you.

but knowledge doesn't mean it is easier to accept your resolve, it burned inside of his chest because there was no way he would just let you go.

that he could have allowed to himself if things were easier, but this wasn't a fairytail in which after all the bad stuff you got to experience that pretty and fluffy happy ending so there wasn't another option for him or for you.

"just like that? just throwing everything to waste?" he asks as his hands take the box from your arms, eyes running over the objects on it and he notices the only framed picture of you both.

"are you sure i am the one throwing all to waste?" you ask him, and this time the table turns because he's the one that feels you stabbing him with each word because he knows that his fear is the only thing pulling you away from him.

there's a voice inside his head that screams at him to not let you go, he is totally capable of taking care of you and to keep you safe from all the bad shit that life throws at him but then there's the other voice, the one that whispers to him about his worst fears, the one that makes him have nightmares.

because in some of his dreams he lets you in to his life, without secrets and you accept him, you love him as he is but then he's naive enough to think that you can be into his arms safe. he dreams about you being in danger, about holding you into his arms but you're not here anymore and it's because he wasn't able to protect you. he never made it on time.

"i'm not gonna keep waiting, jason, i can't go arlund telling myself that you love me when i barely know you" jason wants to throw the box to hug you, to tell you everything about him and just cry against your chest because all his hell is making him be left alone once again. but he remains silent, standing with his eyes fixed on yours and he does a good job preventing the tears to pool at his lashline.

"people does not live of love" he says, blunt and harsh and it's true but how do you keep a relationship alive when it's burried deep into so many secrets?

"they don't but you can't expect people to be happy with someone that does not know how to love them" if you pay a little more attention you can hear his breath catching at his throat and beneath that, his heart shattering "i don't deserve this" it's the last thing he hears from you.

it's been two years, two damn year of being left alone all again. jason has lost count of how many times he has been about to call, just to hear your voice or to tell you he needs you.

two years of him moving out of that apartment to one of his safe houses, never being able to spend more than two nights complete there because he always ends up on the rooftop of the old building where he asked you to be his girlfriend.

there's days when he stands on the living room, in silence while he holds a cup of coffee and turns around to look at that photo; the only one he has with you because he told you he didn't liked photos but he wished he had a wall full of silly photographs of you kissing him and holding his hand but there's just that one. you lying over his chest and smiling widely while he pressed his chin to the top of your head.

he misses you so bad, because he deep inside knows that he had been unfair with you, he never knew how to love you and you deserved better and he wasn't enough, that's what jason tells to his reflex when he looks at it on the mirror and he's cried at it, he crumbles completely when he remembers how sad your eyes looked the last months with him.

he never fixed it. he never tried enough to make you happy. it was all his fault because no matter what, the people he loved the most always left him.

he remembers everyday how it has been two years and he hasn't been there next to you to celebrate your achieved goals, he hasn't been there to hold you and calm you when you needed it.

because maybe he wasn't really there but he is always taking care of you. it's been two years but jason takes time to, once or twice a week, go around your block to see if you're doing fine and the first year was hard because for a few months after your breakup you barely left your place.

he made sure to sneak into the building to leave food, without notes attached or anything that could tell you it was him and it never really crossed your mind because he cutted every knot with you, almost as if he vanished from your life. nothing else but a dream you had.

it took you time, probably haldf a year to shake yourself well enough to try and return to your daily routine, work and college with maybe a small join with your close friends and jason always made sure to know you would be alright. even if he wasn't by your side.

what he didn't knew was about the nights you spent crying on your room, curtains closed shut and lights off as you called him just to be met with nothing. he never changed his number, you asked his classmates and they told you it was the same but it was weird because why an stranger would wanna know that? so you stopped asking about him, it was for the better.

the second year was harder, trying to forget jason was hard but slowly you managed to stop thinking about him. after breaking up he dropped out of college, none of his friends knew about him, he just disappeared from everywhere so it was easier to erase him from your mind and heart. if only it was possible.

because there would be days where after graduating you drive past the campus just to remember how he used to wait for you at the gates so you could spend a few hours to act the fool on his place or yours. some other days you would be on a store, looking for something you need when one of the songs he used to hum when he cooked started to play all around the place.

you were over him but it didn't took away the sharp pain on your chest, the small tears falling from your eyes just to be met by a "is anything wrong, princess?" and oh, how much you wished he was here, that it was him worrying about you.

it wasn't jason. you know how they say that a nail takes out another? you never thought it could work but it was worth the trying, right? a nice guy to hold your heart so tenderly that you felt safe. that you felt loved.

jason knows it, that's the only reason he's now going less around your block. seeing you with someone else hurts, it makes him so fucking sad he can't stand it and he has been about to knock at your door because he feels so determined to let you in to his world sometimes but he doesn't, he knows he'll be too selfish to try to go back to you after making you suffer so much.

he drives around your block once every two weeks now, he tries to make it part of his patrol so there's sometimes when you're on your couch cuddled by your new boyfriend, too lost to pay attention to any movie he picked up but looking into the window just to be met by a red spot that makes you feel somehow safe but as it comes it goes, maybe the light of the police sirens.

alike jason, there's days when you find yourself on the rooftop of the building where he used to live, sitting on the floor and looking at the sky. the tears stream down your cheeks until one night you hear the heavy stomp of boots and when you turn around the red hood is looking at you.

there's a strange tension on the air, he stands there frozen like a deer in front of a truck and you just look at him about to say something but it's too slow. he's running away, jumping from a rooftop to another like he was beeing chased and maybe it's common. you're not the first gotham citizen that has had an encounter with the vigilantes of the city.

but the way the white sockets of his helmet lingered on yours made you feel calm, the kind of calm jason's presence gave you two years ago and you remember why your face is damp. he knows, jason knows damn well you go sometimes to his old building but he never expected to find you there, crying.

back at his place he stares at the picture again, you used to look so happy... why did he had to ruin it all? it was everything he had from you, that picture to tell him you were never going to come back to him. suddenly being home felt like drowning so it was better to go out, some more patrol and kicking some criminals would make him better.

call it destiny or whatever you want but jason thanks the heavens to his gut feeling. he ends up around his old block, he sees you're leaving the place and it's almost midnight, you carry your bag and walk through the dark alleys to go back to your apartment.

it's weird how things work because you turn to an alley you usually avoid and trouble finds you, there's a group of three men.

"seems like luck has found us, guys" one of them talks, there's a laugh-like rumble on his voice that tells you this is in no way a good thing. they walk in your way, the fear makes you hold onto your bag as if it was the most important thing in life.

"maybe it's our time to have some fun, isn't it?" this time another one speaks, circling around you until your arm is held behind your back. the third of them snatches your bag out of your grip or at least he tries because your hand is clenched around it.

"c'mon, let go of it or you'll get hurt" he warns, his eyes fixed on yours with a glint of anger on them as his hand reaches for something on his back pocket but there you go, playing brave.

"let go off me, i'm gonna fucking scream" your voice sounds firm but there was a slight tremble to it, but the threat just makes them all laugh like a lame joke.

"the little bitch has some guts on her, huh?" the man that was holding your arm snarls, holding you thighter "what if my friend cuts you open so we can see them?" it makes your blood freeze, because at this point your bag is completely snatched from your hold and there's an stinging pain on your stomach.

almost as he was punching you, the man that has your bag presses his fist against your body in a harsh push when he stabs you. the pain is too much it makes you foggy, not being able to fully register what's going on around you miss the sound of bullets and the heavy steps of the combat boots.

there are three thuds across the alley as your attackers fall and all of the sudden there's someone holding you thightly. blurry eyes seeing a faint red speck in front of you and from afar you hear a modulated voice.

"c'mon... don't do this to me" jason mumbles, he's still wearing his helmet and he refuses to take it off. he's not brave enough to look directly at you because on his head this is all his fault "can't do this to me, princess... look at me, please"

maybe it's the shock of your injuries but there's something familiar in the way the red hood calls you princess and it makes your chest ache, your whines turning into crying loudly between his arms because now it's not only the wound that hurts.

"no, no... you have to resist, don't cry like that, baby" he coos, on the edge of losing it all because he feels like dying when you cry desperately holding onto his jacket "you gotta be strong, pretty, you can't leave me"

"why? why did you had to give up just like that?" it comes out of your mouth without even thinking and it makes jason shake because it was almost as if you were talking to him instead to a vigilante that's trying to take care of you.

"calm down, sweetheart, please" he leans in, his hand pressed against the wound once he takes off one of his gloves "you'll hurt yourself more, you just have to let me take you to a hospital" he says, picking you up with so much care, too much tenderness for a guy that once was a crime lord, that has made so much wrong.

he's quick, he supresses his shivering hands because he has to be sure you make it to the hospital in time even if he drives you around in his motorcycle and misses all the red lights, he couldn't care less about it.

later that night, when you are resting into a hospital room he's being scolded by batman but he's too busy pacing around the rooftop, he took off his helmet and his hands are all over his hair and face. jason is trying to gather himself up to see you.

was this all his fault? of course it was. the person he loved the most, the one that brought so many good things to his life was now lying on a hospital bed injured because he had been so stupid and weak.

without thinking twice about it jason sneaks back into the hospital, still on his red hood gear he goes to your room and locks the door before he seats next to the bed. the helmet rests at your feet while his hand holds yours, not feeling able to look at you he cries himself to sleep, his forehead pressed to your knuckles until it's 4 am.

"jason?" your voice is all gruffy, throat dry but you have to speak because jason was right there and you'll be damned if you didn't recognized the jet black hair and that pretty white streak, it felt so soft brushing against your skin before your fingers brushed into the silky strands "jason..."

he wakes up, scared when he feels his hair being ruffled but he settles as soon as he remembers your touch, it soothes him but when your hand stops scratching he looks up.

it hits you like a train, his clothes and the damn red helmet resting at your feet on the bed.

"it's a lot to explain..." jason starts, he knows it's too much because there are things that cannot be talked just like that about him. your fingers are squeezing his and it makes him break down again.

"is this... is this why you didn't wanted me around?" the question itself is enough to make him nod in silence, the tears are starting to flow down again and jason doesn't fight it.

"it sounds so fucking stupid when you say it like that... i feel so fucking stupid" his voice breaks and it's the first time you see him so vulnerable, it makes you want to hug him because even with everything that happened you loved him. how could you not love jason? he had always made you feel safe and understood, because maybe you didn't knew him so well he knew you and he always made sure to let you know he loved you with your every flaw.

"it is so hard to think about it because i feel like you don't deserve to deal with even more shit" he says, looking away "do you... do you know how it feels when i imagine how much danger you'll face around me? i can't stop thinking that you're here because of me, it's everything my fault, y/n."

it's heartbreaking, because you know he is seeing himself as someone who wasn't worth it and ad the red hood it was even worse because everyone knew about what he has done but there's so much more about him than just that.

"it's not your fault... it shouldn't have had happened but i turned into the wrong alley" your voice is low and a soft grunt escapes your lips when you sit yourself up to reach his chin, making jason look at you "and there's no reason why being around you should be easy, who said it had to be everything safe when we live in gotham?"

the small smile that makes it up to your lips makes his heart break, after all his shit, all the hurtful things he said before you were trying to make him laugh.

"i'm so sorry, y/n" he holds your hand again, hiding his face on the mattress of the bed as he cried "i know i'm not perfect, but we can work this out..."

"i know you're not perfect, not as jason todd nor as the red hood" you say, thumb caressing his knuckles as you look into his bloodied hands and notice is the same hand he held pressed against your stomach "but right along all your flaws there's a lot more and with all the shit we've been through... i still love you, just like that"

[ashdreams2023]

hello i love your blog, this may be random but can I please request avengers x reader who is an empath? also could u pls include Loki as her s/o?? 🙃🙃

Lol ok

Avengers x empath reader

you have a kind heart, they swear they know and promise it’s not a big deal how you act

Natasha is the one that always feels amused when you get all emotional over something random

Loki once saw you cry over a pigeon nest because the wind blowed it away

"Darling it will make another one later" "but it worked so hard for it! And they don’t know better…"

Everyone comes to you to rent, Tony jokes is that they should start paying you for therapy sessions

Loki doesn’t like when people don’t take you in consideration just because you’re nice and patient

Too patient at times "Dove you don’t have to put up with this just because they have a bad day!"

"It’s ok, it was just a slip, I can tell they are just frustrated with themselves, give them time to get back into their senses"

Thor thinks you’re the sweetest soul for seeing the good in Loki before anyone else could

"My brother is very…misunderstood and I am grateful he found someone as compassionate as you are"

The second you say you don’t feel right about someone new, they immediately become on the watch list

You’re one of the few people that can calm halk

"Y/N what are you doing?" "Oh I’m just booking for a rage room" "should I ask why?" "No."

Loki likes to take you out on nice dates where it’s only you two in nature, it feels more comfortable than being in crowded areas where people either step all over you or you might get distracted by someone who’s energy is not that good to be around

"Why did you give me a chance?" "Because I can tell, you’re not really a bad person"

Bruce and you go on his off day to buy ice cream and talk about his temper

Sometimes Tony would take you into interrogation rooms just to see if you tell who’s being genuine or not

Clint is very protective of you as well, he stands behind when look is not around and gives deadly glares at anyone who think they can just be nasty to you

Although you are a kind hearted person Loki likes to tease you until you get frustrated with him and show some of your anger, it’s not much but thinks it’s healthy

"Loki! Stop being annoying!" "You’re so sexy when you’re angry"

[emlovessid]

@into-the-jeggyverse for the bingo prompt beard scruff, 662 words bingo masterpost

Regulus wakes to an arm heavy over his waist, breath fanning across the back of his neck.

There’s a moment where he wonders whether Barty drunkenly ended up in his bed instead of his own last night, and is ready to untangle their legs and kick him in the shin when maybe-Barty adjusts in his sleep, tightening the arm around Regulus’ waist and pulling him closer. He feels lips press lightly against his bare shoulder, unable to help the shiver that runs through him at the brush of beard scruff across his skin; Barty has never been able to grow anything remotely close to a beard.

Eyes flying open, he realises he’s not in his room at all. And that’s when it all comes rushing back to him.

Laughing over slices of pizza about the garlic bread James had burnt to a crisp; I swear to god I set a timer, I don’t know what happened.

James’ reluctance and eventual surrender when Regulus suggested watching a scary movie; you’re paying for my therapy after this, just FYI.

The space between them on the couch that became smaller and smaller with each jumpscare and blood-curdling scream from the speakers, until they were pressed against each other from their shoulders down to their knees. The way James’ hand darted out to grip his the next time he flinched, Regulus only hesitating a moment before stretching out his fingers to thread them with James’ and giving them a comforting squeeze.

The next part is a bit blurry for Regulus, all he remembers is that one minute they were both watching the movie and the next they were only a breath apart, eyes meeting for a moment before their lips brush, tentative at first until something snapped and they crashed together. 

He remembers the warmth of James’ hand as it slipped underneath Regulus’ jumper and met his bare skin, the taste of James’ lips as they parted at the touch of Regulus’ tongue, the sound of James’ moans as Regulus runs his fingers through his hair, the feel of James’ stubble against his chin, his neck, the inside of his thighs.

This time when he feels James – not Barty – adjust behind him, he rolls over to face him. He looks so peaceful in sleep, eyelashes resting atop his cheeks, mouth parted slightly. He tries not to be embarrassed by how long he lies there watching James sleep, before Regulus eventually slips out from underneath him to head to the bathroom down the hall, heart tugging at the small whine half-conscious James lets out.

He’s just closed James’ bedroom door behind him when he comes face to face with his brother, a cup of tea in each hand on the way back to his own bedroom.

“Morning,” Sirius says casually, though the smirk at the corner of his lips makes Regulus nervous.

“Morning...”

“You slept with James, didn’t you?”

“What?” Regulus chokes.

With a wave of his hand, Sirius clarifies, “Well, at the very least you made out with him.”

“How did you—” he splutters, realising too late he’s just confessed, not that Sirius hadn’t somehow figured him out already with only one look at him.

“James and I have been friends for a long time. Over the years, I’ve been witness to a number of James’ hook ups leaving the flat the next morning. Unsurprisingly, all of their chins looked a whole lot like yours does right now.”

Regulus’ hand flies up to his face, wincing when his fingers press against the tender skin of his chin that James’ beard scruff has apparently torn to shreds. When he looks at Sirius again, he’s grinning triumphantly into his cup of tea.

“I hate you,” Regulus groans.

With a mock gasp, Sirius says, “I think you should be thanking me, actually. After all, it’s because of me that you even know James.”

He has a point, but Regulus isn’t willing to concede. Not today. “I still hate you.”

[liaarxse]

Get off damn it!

Headcanons

TR characters cuddling with you after a fight

Characters: The Kawata twins (separately), Matsuno Chifuyu, Manjiro Sano

Warnings: None, crack

A/n: This freeky AI bot is giving me way too many ideas.

Souya Kawata

Let's get straight to the point, you know it, he knows it, y'all cuddling after a fight ASAP

Not even a fight, even if it was just a meeting

Y'all cuddling ok? Ok.

He's usually pretty riled up after a fight and has more energy

Tells you all the drama bitch

Literally get out your notepad now

Maybe he let a tear fall here and there, but that's about it

But oh

Ohhh

OHOHOHOHOOOO

God forbid he straight up cries like in that one manga chapter (I can't remember which one it was)

Pray

Even if you don't pray, pray

Even if you are a Satanist, pray

Even if you're a God or a Devil, pray

You and Nahoya both know the shit that's about to go lose

Just stay put and wait for him

He comes to your place as if in a matter of seconds, changing and throwing himself onto you, breaking down

Well, shit.

He's cursing them out, saying how he beat their ass and would do it again, while crying

How?

Idk

Don't ask me they ain't real

But show this boy some love. He deserves it. Caress his scalp, play with his hair, place tender kisses on his face, and just hold him for a bit longer

He'll return the favor as soon as possible.

Nahoya Kawata

Ah, fuck, not again

He gets into a fight every single day

And always comes to your place so you can fix him up

"Hey baby."

"Nahoya your face is literally deformed what the fuck."

Just fix him

Not because he deserves it but because he's annoying as shit and won't leave you alone

Once, he broke your window and crawed into your room at 4 in the morning to tend his wounds

He paid for your therapy sessions dw

Since he's 24/7 injured, he always smells like blood

Like, ew?

Once he came by after a nasty fight all injured and blooded up

You gagged

LMAOOOOO

"Fuck you."

"Sure."

🤡

He always throws his bloody ass on your new sheets, and you go BERSERK

You once hit him in the head cough Deja Vu cough with a broom because he ruined your sheets

He smirked at that comment

You kicked him outside

He crawled back in and trapped you in a hug

That lasted all night

"Nahoya let go I need to pee."

"Bitch hold it in."

He loves you, i swear

Matsuno Chifuyu

Blooded your sheets on accident

Don't be mad please

Here, pet Peke J

You mad?

You don't get to pet Peke J

Loser\j

In all honesty, he's reckless.

Every. Fucking. Time. He comes by the next day you're restocking on aid supplies.

Stg he better start paying up

Once called you in the middle of a fight with his nose bleeding and a few bruises on his face

"I'm coming over later, babe!"

"MATSUNO HOLY SHI—"

He hung up

Your ass went CRAZY before he came knocking on your door

He was injured

A lot

Really

Is he half dead?

Will he make it through the night?

Will—

Hey he brought Peke J!

Everything Is fine

He cleaned up before cuddling with you but still managed to dirty your sheets

"You're lucky my son is here."

"That's my son, pussy."

Y'all love Peke J more than your relationship/j

He changed your sheets and went back to cuddling you

If needed he'll buy new ones

Baby boy, baby 🫶

Manjiro Sano

Bfr, you woke up, and your boyfriend was sleeping right next to you, beaten up

You screamed

He screamed

You threw a book at him

He got a concussion

Great, more blood

"Damn it Manjiro I just bought these sheets!"

"Are you insane?"

Maybe lol

After leaving the room you still felt the smell of blood.

Looking down you saw your favourite pj smeared with droplets of blood from none other than MIKEY

He had cuddled you while you slept personally in blooded clothes

You chased him with a pan

Seven AM the usual morning line-up

Start on the chores and sweep till the floor's all cleEeeeeEN

Imagine Mikey as Rapunzel though

Them dark impulses gon kick in hard up inside that tower

Give him love too, please, #helptakemichiwiththesemessedupbastards

[xoxochb]

okay okay okay!! first i just stumbled on your account and it's so lovely and all your work is incredible!!! secondly, i have a fic request for you (based on a taylor song/lyric)

i was thinking daughter of athena and luke castellan with the lyric from peter (aka the bridge) but specifically "but the woman who sits by the window has turned out the light." like an angsty fic where he promised her to go back and get her (since he loved her) but came too late!!

idk if that makes sense but hopefully it does.

all my love, amanda <3

⋆·˚ ༘ * promises, oceans deep, but never to keep

warnings: depressing, I’ll pay for everyone’s therapy

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of athena

“I’ll come back for you, I promise”

“don’t break it”

“I won’t, I swear it on the river styx”

what. a. lie.

countless nights spent crying your eyes out, skipping meals, cutting off all your friends and siblings, staying in bed the whole day, and for what? for some guy that couldn’t even bother to keep a promise, that’s who

“get up” you hear a voice say above you, and although your face has basically been best friends with your pillow, you know exactly who it is

“go away annabeth” you mumbled

“no, I’m not. this isn’t healthy, I miss him too but you don’t see me crying in bed everyday”

you sit up quickly upon hearing those words

“that’s different, he said he would be back for me” you fumed

“face facts, he’s not coming back, it’s been 6 months” she took a seat at the end of your bed

“get out” you shoot her a harsh glare

“this is my cabin to you know?” she responded

“then get off my bed and leave me alone”

- 🎞️ -

from all the time you spent in bed you’d think sleep would have come to you easier, but you spent every night and day lying awake, thinking about your last words together

where was he? why wouldn’t he come back?

those words repeated in your head constantly, and you couldn’t stand it. wasn’t healing supposed to be easier?

it isn’t. it wasn’t easy

for the first 7 months, all you could do was cry

but then you accepted the fact that he wouldn’t be coming back for you, so you started a new life- a better life. you mended things with your friends, got up from bed and even ate full meals

it was almost perfect

you were happy, for the first time in a while

but that was until you heard a knock on your window, disturbing your peace. you stand up from your bed and walk over to the window, opening it quickly so the knocking doesn’t wake up any of your sleeping siblings

oh my gods, this cannot be happening

“hey”

“no- you can’t- no, absolutely not” you stutter, scanning your brain for the right words, “you can’t be here, luke”

“I told you I would come back, I promised it you know” he grinned

seriously? he left you for months, broken and depressed and he smiles? you would be lying if you said you didn’t miss it though

“no-wait, hold on” you cover his mouth with your hand before climbing out of your window. you take his hand and drag him away from your cabin

“I’m not going with you, you’re too late” you state, crossing your arms over your chest

“what do you mean too late?” he asks

“It’s been seven months, luke, you left me here, I grieved, and then I accepted the fact that you were never coming back.”

“and I came back didn’t I? I love you, I would never break my promise” he tries to grab your hands but you don’t allow him, pulling them away quickly

“no, it doesn’t matter if the promise was broken or not, you left me, and I got over you”

“I’m sorry, I really am, I didn’t mean to take so long- I had a lot of things to take care of, I didn’t mean to upset you I mean, I’ve been sad to you know, I missed you a lot and-”

“stop. you don’t get to tell me about sad” you scowl and begin to walk away but he grabs your hand swiftly

“please- just let me explain” he begs, and something in you wants to stay and listen but you know it’s for the better

“I can’t do this, you need to go” you feel tears start making their ways to your eyes

he grabs both of your hands, cupping them in his, “please” he cried, eyes filled with desperation

you let a tear shed down your cheek, “I’m sorry” you whisper, and release your hands from his grasp, making your way back to your cabin

and as you were leaving, it felt like breathing

[ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult]

Unpredictable, Part 2-Limoreau x black!fem!reader fic

A/N: Thanks for all the love on the first part! I decided to use feminine and masculine pronouns to refer to Jordan when they are in those respective forms but they/them when referring to them as a person (it'll make sense when you read it). Also, I accidentally made it a slow burn.

Warnings: Drug and alcohol use, swearing, and sensuality.

Word count: 6.6k

Series Masterlist

Getting ready to go out could be stressful but it was meditative for me. The extra care in the shower, paying more attention to how I applied lotion and other skincare to my skin, and taking my time with my makeup was like a mini therapy session. Twice’s “Moonlight Sunrise” filled my room as I carefully sprayed braid spray on sections of my scalp. When I was halfway done with my edges, my phone started buzzing.

E: Are u busy?

I quickly typed back, Kind of but what’s up?

E: Can you come by my dorm ASAP? M needs help getting ready 2 go out.

I nearly messed up my edges over her words despite my previous premonition. While the premonition did not have to come true or mean anything, the buzzing underneath my skin would not stop. Though I tried seven times, I could not get anything else about what would happen tonight.

If only you were stronger, a voice hissed in the back of my head.

It was irritating not being able to see what I wanted when I wanted but, that was a large reason I applied to Godolkin in the first place. This was the place where supes perfected their abilities, whether they got into the Seven or not.  So, with years of practice under my belt, I shoved all the thoughts deep down into my subconscious and texted Emma that I would be there in about twenty minutes.

As I was heading downstairs, Alina, and Sasha, the third and fourth most important sorority members, were laughing and talking in the foyer. They both wore white crop tops and dark jeans with wedges.

Alina spotted me first and smiled. “Y/N, looking as amazing as usual.” Her dark brown hair was flat-ironed to frame her sculpted face.

“Oh my gosh, is that a Blumarine dress?” Sasha gushed, green eyes boring into the pink ruffle halter dress I wore.

“Yes, I’m so glad that I found it when I did,” I replied.

When I finally got to face them, I somehow felt as though they were looking down on me even though I was a couple of inches taller than all of them. Their bright veneers could fool anyone and did so on a regular basis.

“Where are you off to? A date?” Alina asked.

 It was always easier to lie to them.

 “Yes, he’s taking me to that sushi place off campus I’ve been dying to try,” I affirmed.

 “Is it Andre? That would make so much sense, you’d be such a cute couple!” Alina cheered.

 Sasha stepped towards me and placed her French-manicured hand on my shoulder. “Remember, Y/N, it’s important to have fun but you are a representative of Si Chi and you must uphold everything that means no matter the setting.”

Despite the smile and warmth in her eyes, I knew that there was a viper ready to strike at any second.  

I smiled. “I would not dream of doing anything else.”

“Great. Besides, you have to use your connections wisely.” She turned and waltzed back towards her friends, the scent of her Juicy perfume fresh in my nose.

“Do you two have plans tonight?” I asked.

Alina nodded. “We’re going to meet a few of the Phi Beta Pi girls and go to a kegger at Alpha Tau.”

Sounds horrible.

“Be safe and don’t forget that you’re representatives of the house,” I called over my shoulder as I made my way out of the house.

Seconds after Emma opened the door, her face fell.

“Of course, you’re also going out with the Top Five,” she joked while letting me in.

“I can text Cate and see if it’s cool if you come,” I offered.

Emma shook her head. “No, I’ll be okay.”

I narrowed my eyes at her too-wide smile and overeager eyes. As good as she was at comedic acting, she was a horrible liar. It would have been nice if she could have come along too.

“Next time, okay?”

“Sure, if I’m not busy.” Emma flipped her blonde bob and I laughed.

Then, I turned to Marie, who was standing on the other side of the room, looking at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a pair of flared blue pants with platform boots and a gold jacket. It was something I was positive Emma wore to one of the many graduation parties she insisted on attending.

“You look good,” I complimented.

Marie jumped and turned to me, raising her eyebrows at me. “Thanks, and you look…wow, um, really good.”

My stomach flipped at her words, and I mentally shook my head as I accepted her compliment. “You look ready to me so why did you summon me, Emma?”

“Because I’m bad at makeup,” Emma deadpanned as she flopped onto her desk chair. “But, you’re good at the whole looks-like-skincare-but-glam thing.”

I turned to Marie. “You don’t need makeup, though.”

“Neither do you but, I thought I would put in a little effort,” she admitted.

“Ooh, are you trying to impress someone? Luke’s ass really is that spectacular,” Emma sang while wiggling her eyebrows.

“Shut up!” Marie yelped, eyes widening.

 I laughed at her response and she glanced at me, looking sheepish. “If you insist, come lie down.” I gestured to her bed.

Marie followed my lead and I forced myself to exhale as normal as possible as I straddled her waist. I set my makeup bag within a reachable distance and started rifling for products.

“Do you have anything on your face now?” I asked.

“Uh, soap and lotion?” Marie replied.

I almost dropped my Fenty highlighter and stared at her. “You don’t have a skincare routine?”

Marie shook her head. “Is that bad?”

“Kind of, and it’s unfair since your skin is good.” I slowly set the items I wanted on the bed and turned back to her. “What kind of look are you going for?”

“Can you make her look like Rihanna?” Emma asked.

 “I can only do so much with makeup,” I called back.

“Something like what you have would be okay. Nothing too much,” Marie requested.

“Fine, just know I can’t do the exact same thing since we have different undertones and coloring. Just relax.”

Marie nodded and closed her eyes. I zoned out a bit as I carefully applied primer and concealer to her face and dusted highlighter on her cheeks.

“So, who invited you out?” I asked as I applied a light layer of gold eyeshadow to Marie’s eyelids.

“Oh, Andre. I ran into him earlier tonight and we kind of stopped a crazy guy together,” she recounted.

“Wait, what?” I sat up and Marie opened her eyes.

“Yeah, there was this guy running around talking about not going back to the woods,” Marie explained.

“Someone was off their meds, I mean that as sensitively as possible,” Emma commented.

 “And Andre and I stopped him from hurting himself or anyone else,” Marie concluded.

 Knowing Andre, he was definitely going to brag about it for most of the night. We got along fine but his pride got the better of him sometimes.

“Well, it looks like you’re already proving you should be in crim with me,” I asserted.

 Marie smiled slowly and I urged her to lay back down so that I could finish her makeup. She nearly head-butted me when I started spraying the setting spray, but my reflexes were too quick.

 “Chill, it’s setting spray,” Emma joked.

 “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that,” Marie muttered.

 “I’ll warn you next time. But you are officially ready to go.” I slipped off her bed and pulled my strappy heels back on. “I’ll pick up my makeup bag later.”

 “Sounds good.” Emma jumped out of her chair and grabbed Marie’s hands. “Please remember to have fun because you’re not just doing this for you.”

  Marie laughed. “Okay, I’ll remember that.”

  I pulled their door open with one hand and grabbed Marie’s hand with the other. “And I’ll remember to make sure that you don’t do everything Emma would do.”

 Emma quirked a brow. “So, there’s a chance?”

 I rolled my eyes at my friend and tugged Marie into the hallway. As we walked, we passed some rooms with loud bass heavy music, and some making noises that I did not think were humanly possible. One made it hard for me to contain my laughter and I let out a snort.

 “Wow,” Marie commented.

  I apologized quickly.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for; I just didn’t think you were capable of making a noise like that.”

  As I moved to playfully nudge her, I realized that our hands were still clasped together. How long had it been, twenty or thirty seconds? That was longer than I held hands with anybody. I carefully let go of her hand.

  “My bad,” I apologized.

  “No, it’s fine,” she insisted.

   Nights like these were nice since the campus was mostly empty, save for the handful of students boldly wandering around campus inebriated. There was the occasional excited scream or cheer during our walk to the parking lot. At one point, Marie and I had to high-five some drunk guys as they rushed past.

   “Do you ever get used to it?” Marie asked.

  “The drunk kids? It’s kind of required,” I answered.

  “I mean all this stuff.” Marie gestured to the campus. “Keeping up with everything must be exhausting.”

 “I guess you’re forced to if you want to be successful here.”

  A cool breeze whipped past us, and a chill ran from the base of my spine to the rest of my body. I folded my arms over my chest in a feeble attempt to keep warm.

“You sure you don’t want to go back for a jacket?” Marie asked.

“I’ll be fine, it’s what liquor jackets are for anyway,” I replied.

 “So, what should I expect for tonight?”

“Have you ever seen a Pitbull music video?”

 “Maybe once.”

 “So that mixed with molly, coke, and whatever they have on hand.” I turned to her and noticed the frown between her eyebrows. “Hey, you’ll be great tonight, everyone’s gonna love you.”

 “Not if Jordan’s a part of it,” Marie scoffed.

 Of course, Andre did not tell her about who was coming on this night out.

 “Try not to worry about them. This could be a chance for you two to get to know each other better,” I tried.

  Marie stopped and looked at me. “They’re coming tonight?”

 “Yeah, they are number two.”

  Marie groaned. “They better not ruin my night.”

 “It’s okay, Andre already likes you, Cate and Luke will like you too, and you have me,” I said, extending an arm.

  Marie glanced at it for a moment before looping her arm through mine and we continued our walk. It was a nice, peaceful silence between us and I did not know whether I wanted to break it or relish it. At home, there was no such thing as peaceful silence; just the calm before all the cursing.

  “Hey, Y/N,” Marie started.

   I hummed in response.

  “What’s your deal with Jordan?”

  “We’re…friends, I think. Last year, I didn’t want to go near them for the longest time, but Cate invited me to train with all of them once. After that, they were nicer to me.”

   Marie nodded. “You seemed really comfortable with them.”

   “It’s really fun to mess with them.”

   Marie looked at me as if I was crazy and I grinned in response. Jordan was always wound up and they could not always rely on drugs to decompress. I could not pinpoint when I started being more playful with them since it sort of started out of nowhere. At least they were receptive.

   “Your heartbeat’s picking up,” Marie shared.

   I exhaled, “I always get anxious before social stuff, even if I know everyone who will be there.”

  “That sucks. How do you deal with it?”

   “Alcohol, when it’s available, and dancing. My mom thought dance lessons would help me build more confidence than therapy. Plus, it’s basically guaranteed to be acceptable in any setting.”

   After a few more minutes, we finally reached the parking lot and I ignored the chill on my back as we approached Luke, Cate, Andre, and Jordan. They were all standing around Luke’s car, but Jordan and Cate were passing a joint while Luke and Andre were laughing. Andre was the first to notice us and grinned.

  “Hey, you made it,” Andre greeted.

  “Yeah, Y/N is a great guide,” Marie complimented.

  Cate smiled and handed the joint back to Jordan before walking over and hugging me. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you. You look all grown up now.”

 “It’s been three months, Cate,” I laughed as I slowly pulled away from her. “I love the corset.”

 “Thanks, nice earrings,” she replied.

  “Y/N, are you trying to steal my girlfriend?” Luke teased as he approached us.

  I shook my head and couldn’t help the stupid grin that worked its way on my face. “I would never think about it.”

  His hug was a lot stronger than Cate’s, which made sense considering his ability. Despite his status, Luke was always nice to everyone, including Cate’s little mentee.

  Andre made quick work of introducing Marie to everyone and I stiffened when he got to Jordan. “Have you met Jordan?”

  Jordan narrowed his eyes at Marie. “Yeah, we’ve met.”

  “Are you going to reject me from this outing too?” she shot back.

  “Love too.”

  I wandered over to Jordan and put my hand on his shoulder. “Please play nice.”

 “I can’t promise anything,” he muttered.

 “Well, I like both of you and hope you can get along for a couple of hours.” I turned to Marie, mustering the best puppy eyes I could, and she smiled softly.

  “Fine with me.”

  Jordan rolled his eyes, agreed, and took another hit from the joint. He smirked as he extended it towards me. “What do you say, freshie?”

  “I am a year younger than you!” I griped.

  “And you’ll always be my little freshman,” he teased.

   “Anyway, a Si Chi girl would never be caught smoking or vaping.”

 “And you’re a good little Si Chi girl.”

 “I’m the secretary!”

 “As much as I hate to interrupt this,” Andre interjected, “I’d like to get the night started.”

 “How are we all gonna fit?” Marie asked as we made our way to the car.

 “We’ll make it work,” Luke replied as he slid into the front seat.

  Obviously, Cate took the front passenger seat, leaving Jordan, Andre, Marie, and me in the back. Jordan climbed in first, I followed him, Marie followed me, and Andre squeezed in last. I glanced at Marie and began pushing myself to sit on her lap when a strong arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me in the other direction. Seconds later, I glanced down at Jordan who eyed me expectantly.

 “Why do you look so surprised?” he teased.

 “I just thought it’d be easier if Marie and I were together,” I stated as Luke pulled out of the parking lot.

  Jordan took his time rolling down the window. Then, he took a hit and exhaled the smoke out of it. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

 Another shiver ran up my spine and I turned away from Jordan in time for Cate to hand me her phone, which was connected to the aux cord. As soon as I saw “Get Ur Freak On”, I hit play and handed the phone back to her.

 “Nice choice,” Andre complimented before taking a swig from his flask and handing it to me.

 I accepted the flask. “Thank you.”

 The familiar burn down my throat was almost comforting but that also could have been due to the top-shelf whiskey in the flask. When I sat up, I noticed Marie eyeing the flask in my hand curiously.

  “Want some?” I asked.

  “No, thank you,” Marie kindly rejected.

  “Did you just fail to corrupt a freshman?” Jordan rasped in my ear.  

  Reflexively, I swatted Jordan’s shoulder and assured Marie she did not have to do anything she didn’t want to. Fortunately, Andre’s whiskey helped dissolve the tension between the two, or maybe it was just my perception.

   Before I knew it, Cate wiped the host at an exclusive club downtown to give us a booth and as much champagne as we wanted. The place was as crowded as it was in my mind, filled with people, the strobe lights catching the occasional sequin or shiny suit. The music was so loud that it was hard to recognize the songs but I felt like my brain was swimming either way. When we got to our booth, Cate, Andre, and Luke sat on one side while I sat in between Marie and Jordan on the other.

   Seconds after we sat, a hostess in a tiny bandage dress set bottles of champagne and crystal flutes on our table.

  “I love your eyeliner,” I complimented as she began to walk away.

  She thanked me before disappearing into the crowd and Luke laughed.

  “How are you already drunk?” Luke asked.

  “I’m not, I’m just nice.” My argument probably would have been better if I didn’t trip over the “c”.

  “You did drink half of my flask, Y/N,” Andre pointed out.

  I opened my mouth in shock. “Well, it’s not my fault that these two,” I gestured to Cate and Jordan, “didn’t contribute.”

 Luke and Andre busted out laughing while Cate slowly rolled her eyes.

 “Leave her alone, Y/N needs to let loose,” Cate interrupted.

 “Thank you.”

  Luke must have gotten over his earlier comment since he poured three flutes of champagne and handed me one. Immediately I started sipping and giggled as the bubbles burst in my mouth. There must have been something in the air but I felt so light, like I would float away at any second.

   “Is that coke?” Marie’s voice dragged me back to the group.

   In that second, I noticed Cate hand a baggie of powder to Jordan and saw her eyes were slightly red.

    Jordan shook his head. “We did all the coke. This is molly.”

   Marie’s eyes widened and she glanced at me.

  “I can’t do uppers, messes with my powers,” I explained.

  “And we do not want a repeat of New Year’s,” Cate added.

  I bristled at the foggy memory.

  Luke leaned towards Marie. “I don’t really do hard drugs but I microdose shrooms.” He flicked the baggie for emphasis.

   Marie shook her head and smiled. “No, thanks.”

  “Aw, she’s so polite,” Jordan mocked.

  I finished my drink and pushed the flute towards Luke. “Leave her alone, she doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to.”

  The last thing I wanted was for Marie to feel pressured into doing anything with them and me by extension. However, she was comfortable enough to drink and even showed off her powers a little bit. We were all in awe when Marie made a droplet of blood from a pinprick on her finger float into a tiny ball before disappearing back into her finger.

  “That’s badass,” Andre declared with a nod as he sipped some champagne.

  “Not bad, Moreau,” Luke added.

   Cate nodded her approval before doing some more molly while Jordan stared at Marie.

   “Come on, you can say it,” I fake encouraged.

   “Fine, she’s decent,” Jordan admitted.

   I leaned my head towards him. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

   Jordan gently swatted me away and I laughed as I finished off my glass of champagne. Things were already going better than I expected. The night got even better when “American Boy” blared through the speakers.

   Immediately, I yelped as I jumped to my feet, Cate quickly joining with a mischievous smile on her face.  

   “We’ll be out there,” Cate said, gesturing to the dance floor.

    Luke quickly pecked her lips. “Have fun.”

   As I passed Marie, I grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  She looked a little apprehensive but grinned as she followed me onto the dancefloor. It was warm and there were so many people to push past but it didn’t matter. The beat was infectious as I began to spin, arms above my head. My braids flowed around me as I tossed my head from side to side. In the middle of a spin, I felt a gloved hand grab one of my arms and pull me towards someone.

  When I opened my eyes, Cate’s big blue ones were staring back at me. Red rimmed her irises and her hands moved to my hips. We moved in time together and I couldn’t stop laughing as we did.

  “You’re welcome for saving you from that creep dancing behind you,” she yelled over the music.

  “You will always be my hero,” I gushed.

  She spun me and I giggled as I faced Marie. Marie was swaying to the music, eyes closed, but she looked blissful. My hands found hers and I pulled her to dance with me. She was not a bad dancer at all but I took the lead, swiveling my hips and bobbing my head. At one point, I wrapped my arms around her neck and hugged her.  Slowly, her arms wrapped around my waist, and I hummed at the warmth.

  Cate leaned over me. “Sorry, she’s an affectionate drunk.”

  I gasped but did not move. “I am not drunk!”

  “It’s okay,” Marie laughed.

  “Seriously, I’m not even tipsy,” I added. “I can move if you want, though.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  The pit of my stomach suddenly felt warm and fuzzy as I danced with my two friends. I closed my eyes and giggled as the champagne bubbles carried my thoughts away. Was this what it was like not to think all the time?

  “Jordan can’t take his eyes off you.” Cate’s whisper jolted me out of my reverie and I pulled away from Marie.

  “What?” I uttered.

  Cate gave me a weird look and nodded her head towards the table. My eyes wandered in that direction and Jordan was staring back at me. Andre was the only one besides him at the table and he was busy flirting with the hostess but Jordan did not look at them. His eyes were like a hawk’s and I felt like a little mouse.

  “They’re watching us dance, it’s fine!” I shouted over the music.

  Cate shook her head. “He’s not looking at all of us.”

   As much as I enjoyed dancing to the next five songs, I could not get Cate’s words out of my head. This was supposed to be my night not to think about anything, but I could feel the rumination looming.

  But there’s nothing to think about. We’re just friends if we’re anything at all and Cate’s been on this since I joined the group, I thought, squashing any others.

  Once “Like That” ended, I let Marie and Cate know I was going to take a break before making my way back to the booth and plopping down next to Jordan.

  “Having fun?” I panted.

  “Yeah, but not as much as you,” he replied.

  “You should join us next time.” I huffed as I flipped my braids over one shoulder and sat up. “Where’re the others?”

  “Luke went off somewhere and Andre is making some girls suffer through his coin trick.”  

  “And you don’t have anyone you like?”

  I thought Jordan paused but he shook his head. “No, but you’ve been entertaining me.”

  Something jolted in my chest like I’d been shocked. I had another sip of champagne to get rid of the feeling and Jordan’s silver rings caught my eyes. Slowly, my fingers slipped over the ones on his middle and right ring fingers.

  “These are pretty,” I mused.

  “Thanks.”

  As my fingers continued slipping over the rings, he moved so that we were holding hands and a chuckle escaped me.

  Jordan’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “You have man hands,” I chortled.

 “Seriously, freshie?” Jordan sighed.

 “It’s true!”

  I couldn’t stop laughing at how his hand engulfed mine, but it was comforting in a way too. It took me a minute to calm down and when I did, my eyes found Marie and Cate on the dancefloor.

  “I’m glad she came tonight,” I said.

  “Yeah, she’s really nice,” he agreed.

  “See, not all strangers are horrible.”  

  “Okay, you were right.”

  I gasped and put my free hand on my chest. “I must be really drunk because you just admitted I was right about something.”

  “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Jordan groaned.

  “I should’ve been recording because no one will ever believe that Jordan Li admitted they were wrong about something,” I cheered.

  Jordan shook his head. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

  “It’s already there.”

  I didn’t know how long I sat there, laughing and watching Marie and Cate dance. There was something fascinating about seeing Marie in the element and getting along with everyone. She seemed so…free but it was so genuine. How did she manage that?

  “Do you like her?” Jordan asked.

  I blinked and looked back at him. “Huh?”

 “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been flirting with her all night.”  “I have not! I’m being welcoming.”

  “Really, because I’ve never seen you look at anyone like you do with her.”

  “Are you jealous that I’m getting along with someone else?”

  “Why would I be jealous? You’re not going anywhere.”

  Something was off about his tone but I couldn’t put a finger on it. Why would Jordan say that? Marie was my friend and I’ve been treating her like a friend. Why would they care how I acted anyway?

  “I’m thirsty,” I declared.

 “You want me to get you water?”

 I shook my head. “I need Casamigos.”

 Jordan smiled widely. “You sure?”

 “Mmhmm.”

 Jordan stood, pulled me to my feet, and started leading me to the bar. Halfway there, they shifted into their feminine form, becoming even more adept at navigating the crowds. Once we got to the bar, she got the attention of the bartender and ordered the shots. At some point, I started bouncing on my heels as we waited.

 “Hi, Barbie,” a gruff voice sounded behind me.

 I jumped, nearly running into the bar. The man was tall and his mustard yellow suit washed out his pale skin and blonde hair. His smile was all wrong and made my stomach churn.

 “Um, hi, Planters Guy?”

 Jordan burst out laughing next to me, making the man glare at her for a second. She waved her hand in apology and turned towards the bar.

 “It’s Michael, actually, can I get your name?” he stepped closer to me.

 I opened my mouth to respond but Jordan answered.

 “She’s with me.” Her hand slowly slid to the small of my back and pulled me into her side.

 “What if I bought you a drink?” Michael offered.

 I glanced at Jordan. “Well, I guess that’s alright.”

 Jordan rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

The bartender set two trays of shots in front of us and Jordan and I each grabbed one and turned to Michael.

“Thanks for the drinks!”

 Once we got far away enough for him to hear, I burst out laughing and tried not to spill anything.

 “Works every time,” Jordan stated.

 “What am I gonna do when you graduate next year?” I mused.

 “Aw, are you gonna miss me?”

 “I’ll miss how easy it is to get free drinks with you.”

 My face warmed and I ignored the warmth in my stomach. Andre was waiting for us back at the table.

  “Jordan, why’d you change?” Andre asked curiously.

 “Makes it easier to get free drinks,” she answered.

 I plucked a shot from a tray and leaned on Jordan’s shoulder. “I appreciate them in both forms.”

 Jordan seemed to tense under the contact, and I leaned back up, wondering if I’d done something wrong. If I had, she did not act like it as she grabbed a shot and made Andre grab one.

 “Cheers to another year?” Andre suggested.

 “The year Y/N breaks into the Top Fifteen?” Jordan joked, raising an eyebrow.

 I grinned. “Who knows, maybe this is the year I take your spot.”

 “Ooh, bold, Y/N, I like it,” Andre cheered.

 “I’d be more scared if your punches didn’t feel like a kitten pawing at me.”

 “Just cheers!”

  She laughed as the three of us clinked glasses and did the shots. The tequila was smooth as it ran down my throat and I was practically buzzing as I went for the second one.

  “Whoa, are you sure you don’t want to slow down?” Jordan asked.

  “It’s fine, I ate before we went out, I’m not even tipsy,” I insisted.

  Around the third shot, Andre disappeared and by the fifth, everything was blurry, like one of my visions. I think I pouted at the thought.

  Then, the starting chords of “Standing Next to You” filled my ears and my body moved on its own, jumping to my feet.

  “Oh my gosh, they’re playing Jungkook, we have to dance!” I yelled.

 “Okay, calm down,” she said, setting down her glass and letting me pull her onto the dancefloor.

  My body kept moving on its own, body rolling and feet shimmying. The song was entrancing and I was lost in it, singing as well as I could. Jordan spun me a couple of times before pulling me closer and I laughed as I wrapped my arms around her neck.

   I couldn’t remember the last time I was this close to Jordan. She had such pretty features but her eyes were amazing, like molten pools of dark chocolate.

  “Thanks.”

  I gasped and clamped my hand over my mouth. “Oh my gosh.”

  “It’s cute, you like my eyes?”

  “Stoooop,” I whined.

  “Oh no, I’m never letting this go,” she teased.

  In that moment, I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole, but I did not get what I wanted. Instead, Jordan’s hands pulled me flush against them, fingers tapping against my hips.

  “Come on, you were so bold a second ago,” she whispered.

  “That was different,” I muttered.

  “But I want to know what else my little freshman likes about me.”

   Their mocking tone made my body heat rise and I did not know how to stop it. Even in their feminine form, Jordan was stronger than me and it would take a lot of effort to get out of their grip.

 “I’m not a freshman.”

 Suddenly, we stopped moving while everyone else around us was making out or dancing. Somehow, no one bumped into us and I wondered if there was some sort of invisible field blocking it from happening. My eyes wandered away from Jordan, glancing at the colorful lights and feathers on someone’s dress. That did not last long as I felt her soft fingers move a braid away from my face.

    I could hear my heartbeat in my ears as I turned back to her. Jordan seemed so soft as her hand trailed behind my ear before finally resting on my shoulder. Any words I could have said dried up on my tongue and I couldn’t think as our faces got closer to each other.

   Her woodsy cologne filled my senses, and I wondered what she could sense. Just as I closed my eyes, a terrifying scream broke through the crowd. When I opened my eyes, everything was a blur. At one moment, Jordan was in their masculine form and tugging me through the crowd. In the next, Andre was pushing me back into Luke’s car.

  Jordan, Andre, and Luke were yelling or talking but I couldn’t understand any of it. Cate seemed panicked in the front, but I had no idea what she was saying.

  “Where’s Marie?” I asked.

  Darkness overtook everything before anyone answered my question.

 The throbbing in my temples the next morning made me want to strangle George Clooney. My head weighed a thousand pounds, and it took even more effort to push myself up in bed. Thankfully, the curtains were drawn on my windows and only some rays of sunlight peaked through.

  When I was finally able to open my eyes, I noticed the bottle of Vought Water on my dresser and two aspirin. It was too early to ask any questions and I took the medicine and almost cried at the relief. Then, I did my best to walk to the bathroom without aggravating my spinning head.

  As soon as I turned on the light, I noticed the red and black jacket around my shoulders and gasped.

  This was Jordan’s.

  If they brought me home how messed up was I? I groaned at the thought and carefully hung the jacket on the hook on my door.

  My morning routine was plagued by all the possibilities from last night and what I’d said. I remembered vaguely gushing over Jordan’s eyes and dancing with Marie and Cate and…

   Almost kissing Jordan.

  How was I going to live that down? What had even come over me? It had to be the tequila and champagne. Thanks to that combination, Jordan was going to have material to tease me for at least a few months.

  After pulling on a baby blue short-sleeved fuzzy crop top and matching linen shorts, I slipped on my white Stan Smiths and went downstairs for breakfast. Per usual, it was buffet style with an option of fresh fruits, turkey bacon, steel-cut oatmeal, or toast. Sydney, Alina, and Sasha were the only ones in the dining room, all wearing matching Alo Yoga sets.

  I took the seat next to Sasha and forced myself to eat the oatmeal. “Good morning, everyone.”

 “Good morning, Y/N,” they all replied.

  “How was your night?” I asked Alina.

  “Fun,” she replied.

  “But not nearly as fun as yours,” Sasha commented.

  I stiffened and tried to cover it up with a sip of coffee. “What makes you say that?”

 “For one thing, you’re not ready to join us for Ashtanga yoga. Second, Jordan Li had to walk you to your room.” Sasha emphasized Jordan’s name with the biggest Cheshire cat grin on her face.

  “I’m glad you have such a good friend,” Sydney expressed, flicking a curly strawberry blonde hair out of her green eyes. “You always need those when Si Chi sisters can’t attend the same events.”

  “Thanks, I’m glad they’re my friend too.” I smiled as kindly as I could without side eyeing Sasha.

  Fifteen seconds passed before Alina broke the silence.

 “Did you hear what happened with that freshman last night?” she asked.

 Sasha groaned. “It’s been all over my timeline.”

 I frowned. “What happened?”

 “This freshman got caught off campus at a club,” Alina said as though it was the greatest gossip known to man.

  “Didn’t she save someone’s life, though? They had some kind of accident?” Sydney added as she popped a grape in her mouth.

  In that moment, the caffeine must have hit my brain because I almost yelped at the realization. We’d left Marie at the club last night, I had abandoned her. I grabbed my phone from my bag and started texting Emma.

 Y/N: Hey, did Marie make it back last night? Lost track of her.

 Emma responded back pretty quickly.

E: Yeah. She got a weird email from school. Ohw to Lamplighter.

My stomach churned and I willed myself to settle it. For a second, I closed my eyes and focused on Marie, but I couldn’t get a clear image of her.

 “Shit,” I muttered.

 Alina, Sasha, and Sydney turned to me, microbladed brows raised.

 “I’m sorry, I just realized that I forgot to read a chapter for a class today.”

   The girls may have said something as I quickly finished my breakfast and left the dining room, but I couldn’t hear them over my racing thoughts. Twenty minutes later, I was walking into the Crimefighting building with two iced coffees from Jitterbean in my hands and Jordan’s jacket slung over one of my arms.

  There were only a couple of people milling about the people, professors making final touches on lectures, and students cramming. I paid none of them any mind as I came across a sulking Jordan. They were in their feminine form and if they were hungover, they did not look like it.

  “Hi,” I greeted once we got close.

  “Hey,” she replied.

  “Um, I brought you coffee and your jacket as a thank you for last night. I heard you had to take me home and I’m sorry about that.”

  I handed her both items and she nodded. “It’s fine but you do owe me.”

  Her tone wasn’t as light as usual. Even when they were hungover, Jordan never missed an opportunity to go back and forth. This had to be about that almost kiss. As much as I wanted to avoid it, I had no choice.

  “About that, uh, kiss,” I whispered.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jordan affirmed.

  “Are you sure? Because----”

  “Seriously, it’s fine, we were drunk, well, you were wasted but it’s okay.”

 They did not sound nor look “okay” and they spoke as if they wanted me to drop it as soon as possible. Earlier, I wanted to erase it from my memory but their response made me want to shrink into a corner. Why did I even care? It’s one issue resolved.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Anyway, have you seen Marie today? I can’t get in touch with her.”

  “No, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Telling me not to worry doesn’t make it go away. I feel bad about leaving her last night.”

  Jordan glanced around us before pulling me off to the side. “You should’ve told her the risks before having her join us. You know none of us can get caught breaking the rules,” she hissed.

  “I didn’t think abandoning her would be a possibility,” I muttered.

  “She’ll be fine. You should know to look out for yourself by now, freshie.”

  For a moment, I narrowed my eyes at Jordan, who was suddenly more focused than they’d been since we started talking. They had a point, they and the rest of the Top Five always covered themselves but that typically never meant someone got hurt.

  “Would you have done the same thing if it were me instead of Marie?” I asked.

   Jordan flinched and her silence was all the answer I needed. Tears threatened to burn in the corner of my eyes, but I turned before she could see them. I thought I heard her say something and I mumbled about seeing her in class later. Just as I was about to make my way out of the building, Marie flew in, eyes flaring.

   “Did you know about this?” she questioned.

   “About what?” I asked.

   “They’re expelling me to cover up for you.” She looked behind me. “And you.”

   “Wait, what?” Jordan replied.

   “That doesn’t make any sense. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I gently argued.

   “Well, I guess I did because I thought you were different from them.”

   Her cold words felt worse than the time a girl with ice powers caught me in the shoulder during a training session. For a second, I couldn’t speak, and I thought I heard buzzing in my ears. Nothing was going the way I thought or envisioned it would. What was the point of having these powers if I couldn’t help my friends or figure out who were fake friends?  

   “Marie,” I started.

    She pushed past me and Jordan, storming towards Brink’s office. As I turned around to go back to my room and lick my wounds, a vision flashed in my head.

   Bright yellow flames covered Luke’s body and he had a murderous look in his eye as he approached someone. The perspective switched to a frightened Marie stumbling out of Brink’s office with Luke trailing behind her, his flames growing larger and more sporadic. Then, Jordan appeared.

   As soon as it appeared, it left and I had a sinking feeling in my chest as I whirled around.

   “MARIE, DON’T!”