fantastic-reading-world

[fangsandfeels]

Going through all the ascended Astarion stories, where Tav either breaks up with him and reconnects years later, bringing the messiest “divorced couple” vibe along, or becomes his spawn and ends up being completely miserable and at the complete mercy of the vampire lord, I got a vision.

(Short outline: spawn!Tav goes to Avernus to avoid being trapped in a relationship, badassery, horrors, and deep existential issues ensue. Full description of the cringe can be found below)

- Tav agrees to be turned into Spawn by Astarion, ignoring the red flags because they really wanted to believe him and didn’t want to leave him alone. However, after they do, they get slapped with way too many red flags in the face (the “as long as you remember who you belong to” phrase during the second encounter with Araj, the command to shut up after mentioning Cazador’s name, the deceptive reasoning behind why he isn’t making them a full vampire), Tav grows very aware of eternity that awaits them after they defeat the Netherbrain. And it terrifies them. They understand that they don't want to find out what being his consort means. They are no longer sure about anything.

- When Karlach starts burning, Tav talks her out of it and jumps on the opportunity to go to Avernus with her  (and Wyll), before Astarion gets to react and use compulsion on them. They aren't sure it would work, but it does. Small mercies.

- Between fighting off Zariel’s hordes and getting used to their new condition, Tav goes through heartbreak, oscillating between being angry with Astarion to missing him to feeling sorry for themselves. It's a cycle of angst and mental gymnastics, interrupted by battles and stirring trouble in the Hells.

- Ultimately, Tav reflects on the choices and actions that led them to this path. And when they find a way to fix Karlach’s heart, making it possible for her to go to Faerun for good, Tav chooses to stay in the Hells. Not even because they aren’t eager to confront Astarion and get controlled by him, but because they feel they belong there. Cazador might have planned the ritual, and Astarion might have completed it, but it was them who helped him do it -- they can be angry at Astarion all they want, they can tell themselves it's no longer him. They can spend years guessing whether he really wanted it, whether he is happy or not right now. Maybe they did fail him. It all doesn’t matter. They are as guilty for condemning these souls to suffering in the Hells. So, the question is: what will they do about that?

- Basically, a story that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Astarion, and is mostly focused on a vampire spawn Tav, who navigates hellish landscapes, occasionally helping whatever poor souls they can, learning sad stories of victims who got lured into horrible deals, musing on existential questions and wondering how should they take their life when their luck runs out on them, and they get captured by Archdevils.

- While they avoid signing any contracts or any deals and focus on honing their skills and new vampiric abilities, they do seek ways to modify their body, so they could increase their chances for survival (yes, I freaking love Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, how can you tell?).

- For an extra Divine Comedy (and angsty) flavor, Tav talks to an imaginary Astarion (the one they remember so fondly before his Ascension) -- the habit that started from a random “what the Astarion I knew would have said about this?” thought and kinda became a way to stay sane in this place.

[leth-writes]

I'm so happy to see someone writing for twilight it really doesn't get the love it deserves.

This is weirdly specific, so bear with me.

Can I request Paul (twilight) x reader who's Jacob's ex-girlfriend, and they had like a really messy brake up so they REALLY don't like each other and so Paul and jacob get onto a fight about it.

Thanks for your time I've really been enjoying reading your work❤️❤️❤️

hello, lovely anon!

Usually I do shorter pieces for requests, but I kinda blacked out and wrote 2000 words for this... Sorry?

Please enjoy!

It was quiet, without Jacob. The two of you had been dating for over a year, before suddenly all he could think of was Bella, Bella, Bella. She was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. You didn’t mind the two of them being friends, you weren’t jealous and you didn’t believe the rumors spreading at school, but you still wanted to SEE him! You loved him, for god’s sake! But no, Bella was sad or Bella was tired or Bella wanted to go exploring and suddenly, he had no time for you. 

It had been weeks since you’d last truly spoken beyond a quick 20 minute phone call every time you tried to hang out. In fact, you decided, today was the last day. It was the last day you would grovel and beg for his attention. This was it; if he didn’t agree today, you were done. He could go date Bella for all you cared.

You stomped down the stairs, your socked feet hitting against the soft white carpet, and skidded into the tiled kitchen. The grey light streamed in, illuminating the phone like a halo. It was fitting for something that would determine the fate of your relationship.

Angry, yet hopeful, you strode forward and picked up the phone, resolutely dialing Jacob’s number and waiting as it rang.

Finally, someone picked up. “Hello?” Jacob called, sounding groggy.

“Hey, Jake! I was thinking, we should spend some time together! It’s been a hard couple of weeks, and I haven’t seen you at all!” You said, anger draining and hope filling your chest, suddenly feeling weak at the knees. God, you’d missed his voice. “Can’t, Bella and I are going to try and build the motorcycles. You know she’s been having a hard time recently, and I think I’m really helping!” He responded, sounding distracted and far from the phone. 

The hope shattered like ice, cutting up your insides. “Jake, we haven’t hung out in 3 weeks. I could really use my boyfriend today,”. Even to your own ears, your voice was pleading. It sounded weak and brittle, like you were fragile, not the strong front you’d tried to put on for him.

He sighed, voice crackly through the receiver. “Listen, you know Bella hasn’t been doing so well, and I’m the only thing that makes her feel better. You can’t expect me not to go out with her, just because you’re feeling a bit lonely…” His voice was exasperated and distant, like he was already done with the conversation.

Suddenly, that anger came roaring back, licking up the sides of your chest and burning away at your heart. You felt yourself trembling with rage, with despair, at the way he was talking to you.

“No, you listen, Jacob! I’m done! If you aren’t going to see me, if you’re going to prioritize Bella, then you can go stay with her! I never want to see your stupid, selfish face ever again, you fucking asshole!” You practically shouted, slamming the phone down. You whirled around, nose practically bellowed steam, and stomped to the couch, grabbing a pillow and screaming into it. You’d show him, you’d go out and have fun all by yourself and prove you didn’t need such a shitty boyfriend anyways!

It’d been a month since you last talked to Jacob, and while the breakup hurt, you were glad you’d ended the relationship when you had. Looking back, the thought of hanging on was depressing; you’d reconnected with your friends in the past month, going out practically every day and hanging out anytime it got too rainy to go to La Push. You hadn’t seen Jacob or Bella around, and you could honestly say you were happy to not have to so much as think about them anymore. It wasn’t your business.

It was the perfect day to go La Push, and your friends were already there when you pulled into the parking lot. It was overcast, no real sign of rain, and a gentle, cool breeze was drifting through. The beach was covered in large rocks, not really meant for swimming, but perfect for drinking and just listening to music and gossiping, and that’s exactly what you did. 

Until, of course, they arrived. Jacob had been sure they were a blossoming gang, but you hadn’t been so sure. You’d never really spoken to them but Billy had thought they were good kids, just a bit… odd. Yet, now, seeing them on the beach, you could understand where Jacob would’ve gotten that misconception. Sam and his friends were massive, Sam himself standing at almost 6’6” by the looks of it and the shortest member, the boy with the dimpled chin, cleared 6’0” easily. They were heavily muscled, each wearing cargo shorts and shirtless, and were rough-housing as they walked, bumping into each other and shoving each other as they approached your small group. The loudest of the boys, the one with the intense expression and the loud voice, shoved the smallest and laughed boisterously. Then, he looked over. And he made eye contact with you.

And he stared.

And stared.

Eventually, you grew uncomfortable, shifting uneasily on the small picnic blanket you were sitting on as you looked away, toward Sam. He was pulling the loud boy to the side, harshly whispering as the boy kept eye contact. You leant over to your friend, quietly asking which boy was which. You listened as she pointed them out; the one staring at you was Paul, and he was dangerous. You gulped, once again looking away and out toward the shoreline.

“Hey, mind if we join you guys?” Sam asked, approaching with his group and staring at you. The others also looked exclusively at you, though not as intensely as Paul, as though your answer was the only one that mattered. Shivering, suddenly cold, you nodded and looked down. “Hey, at least they’re hot,”one of the girls in your group muttered, and the tension was broken. You burst into laughter, snorting as you held your sides. At least you weren’t feeling uncomfortable anymore, even if you did feel a little dorky. You glanced up through your lashes and Paul was still staring, though less intensely, a soft gleam in his eyes and a small, genuine smile on his lips.

That was the beginning of your relationship with Paul.

You woke up to loud pounding on your front door. Racing down the stairs, you skidded to a stop in the front hall, making eye contact with Bella. Fucking Bella Swan was at your door at 6 in the morning, pounding furiously and looking like death warmed over. You sighed, resigned to not getting to sleep in on a Saturday, and opened the door slowly.

“There’s something wrong with Jacob!” Bella exclaimed. She looked haggard, eyes ringed with deep purple bags and pale skin looking almost translucent. Her hair was ragged and greasy, hanging limply around her wan face, clothes baggy and dirty. She looked like shit. Maybe Jacob broke up with her?

“Okay, and why does that involve me?” You said, leaning against the door jamb and staring off into the distance, squinting at the pale morning light.

“You’re his girlfriend, he’s bound to listen to you!” She cried, thin clammy hand clutching at your wrist as she tried to tug you toward her red rustbucket of a truck.

You remained unmoved, now glaring at her. “No, Bella, I’m not his girlfriend, we haven’t been together for over a month, and I haven’t seen him in over a month and a half. He spent all his time with you; why would he listen to me now?”

She paused, hearing the hurt hidden in your voice and glancing up into your eyes for the first time all morning.

“Wait… you broke up? But Jacob loves you!” She said, voice weaker than before, almost a whisper.

“Yeah, well, he cared about you more. But, I guess if he’s in trouble, fine. What do you need me to do?”

Jacob’s yard looked exactly the same as you remembered it. That made you feel oddly sad, like you’d subconsciously expected it to reflect Jacob’s sadness at you leaving. Yet, it remained the same, just as it was before you’d ever come into his life. Had you really had such a small impact?

Bella was already out of the truck, running toward Paul and the others as they sauntered toward the house from the tree line. You sprinted to keep up, knowing she was going to say something and futilely trying to prevent it. When you reached them, she had shoved Paul and was accusing the boys of hurting Jacob, whatever that meant. Paul was shaking, literally trembling, as his muscles jumped and leapt under his skin. It looked like his skin was… moving as he puffed in effort. “Paul?” you tentatively approached, drawing closer as he leant over, panting as his shoulders jerked. “Shit!” Sam cursed, leaping forward to pull you back and away from Paul. You kicked and struggled as he picked you up, trying to get back to Paul. Couldn’t they see he was sick?!

Suddenly, Paul was gone, and in his place was… a giant wolf. It was like he’d been cut out of the world and replaced. What had happened to Paul?

“Bella!” Jacob shouted, vaulting over the porch fence. His skin seemed to split open, replacing by rapidly growing fur, and his face elongated as his nose broke and became discolored. By the time he hit the ground, he was a wolf. Were you hallucinating? You felt faint, leaning heavily against Sam, who shifted to support your weight and drag you away from the fight. Both wolves were now circling each other, growling and barking, trying to nip at each other's flanks. You felt like you were receding from your body, like you weren’t real. Everything felt far away, and your ears rang. Then, you passed out and went limp.

You jerked awake with a gasp almost as soon as Sam caught your full weight, shifting to lift you up into his arms.

“Paul!” he called, and the wolf who had replaced Paul looked over, eyes wide and sad as he saw your trembling form. Then, the wolf was gone and Paul was standing in its place, quickly pulling on clothes as Embry passed a pair of shorts to him. He cursed lowly and jogged over, grabbing you from Sam’s arms and holding you close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over, like a prayer.

He sent you down gently, still holding you close to his chest, enveloping you in his soft warmth as his arms wrapped around your shoulders. The world went quiet and all was right, until Jacob interrupted the two of you by shoving Paul.

“Get the fuck away from her, you piece of shit!” He yelled out, punching Paul hard in the nose and causing a spurt of blood to leak out. Paul cursed again and spat out a mouthful of blood, growling lowly. “You don’t get to say that, asshole! You broke her heart, you have no right to tell her what to do!” Paul returned, standing his ground as Embry and Jared tried frantically to stop the fight from continuing. 

“That doesn’t mean you can put her in danger!”

“I didn’t! She didn’t know until your little girlfriend came along and started shit!” Paul bellowed, gesturing at Bella, who was shrinking into herself behind Jake.

“Don’t bring her into this! This is about your shitty control, Paul! Don’t blame Bella for you not being able to handle a little pressure!”

“Stop!” Sam said, getting in between the two. “Jacob, you go blow off some steam. Don’t come back until you’re calm. And Paul…” Sam continued, trailing off as everyone looked at you. “Just… Just explain everything, okay?” He said, sighing and rubbing his forehead to fight away the growing headache.

Paul turned to you, opening his mouth to speak. 

And that was the day you learned about shifters.

[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. ♡

[bullet-prooflove]

Say It Again: Eric Blackburn x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @4everademigod @totalstitchlover19 @doglover-24 @bravo4iscool

Companion piece to:

Scars - Eric loves every single part of you.

See It (NSFW) - Eric wants you to see exactly how he feels.

Logistics - Eric tries to navigate the logistics of your hospital release with Navy.

Three Months (NSFW) - Eric returns home from Afganastan.

When General Steinback tells Eric to break things off with you, it takes everything in his power not to  tell his commanding officer to go fuck himself.

It’s the first day back after his suspension and he’s already spent the day ignoring the side eye he’s getting regarding his relationship with you. The only positive aspect of this whole thing is all of this gossiping will be long over by the time you return to work in a couple of months. He’s happy to bear the brunt of it if it means that you won’t have to.

When he’s called into Stein’s office he expects the discussion to be around reassignment. The two of you can’t exist in the same unit and you’re a valuable asset. He expects he’s about to be shifted onto one of the other teams like Charlie or Delta.

“You need to end it.” He’s told instead as he stands before the huge oak desk. “The two of you are integral to Bravo, we can’t have this relationship getting in the way of things, making it messy.”

“With all due respect sir…” Eric says, straightening his spine and tilting his chin up. “Ending the relationship won’t change how we feel about each other.”

Stein looks up from his paperwork and the look in his eyes…

This is not a man whose used to having his orders challenged.

“Do I need to repeat myself Commander?” Stein asks, his voice taking a dangerous edge.

“No sir.” Eric says, meeting the other man’s gaze. “But the answer is still the same, I won’t be ending the relationship.”

After that the shouting can be heard all the way down the hall, it feels like it goes on for what feels like hours, the threatening, the berating, the cajoling but still Eric stands resolute because he’s already served his punishment. Legally there’s nothing the General can do about it.

It’s a few days later that Eric discovers that he’s being sent to Afghanistan. He realises that this is Stein’s solution to the problem that Eric’s creating.

“I hate this.” He tells you, shoving his clothes into his duffle bag that night. Your sitting on the edge of the bed watching as he tosses in item after item. “I fucking hate this.”

His flight is due to leave tomorrow at 0700 hours which means he barely gets to spend anytime with you before he disappears off to a warzone for the next three months.

“Eric.” You say softly, your hand catching his before you tug him down onto the bed beside you. You cradle his face between your hands and he closes his eyes, revelling in the sensation because it’s going to be a long time before he gets to be with you like this again. “I’m going to be ok.”

That’s where all this upset is coming from. You’re just getting back on your feet and now Eric’s shooting off to another country. It kills him that he can’t be there to support you through the rest your rehabilitation, that you’ll be left to cope with all this shit alone.

“I don’t want to go.” He tells you, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. “I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want…”

I don’t want this to end…

That’s what the voice at the back of his mind is telling him because in Eric’s experience it always ends when the deployments start. He has the ex-wives to prove it. This will be the first deployment since you’ve been together that he’ll be undertaking without you.

“Eric.” You say as your fingertips ghost over his grizzled cheek. “I had a building fall on top of me and I still fought my way back to you, I have to believe that no matter what happens in Afghanistan you’ll do the same…”

“Always.” He says fiercely. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He trails off then because he’s not used to talking about his feelings, to expressing vulnerability but this is you, the woman he’s walked through hell with countless times.

“I know I’m always the one leaving but I’m also the one that gets left behind.” He tries to explain and your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “My last two ex-wives…”

He tries to smile but his expression is full of anguish.

“I came home to divorce papers and an empty house.” He tells you and your chest aches because you’ve always known he was divorced, you’ve just never been aware of the circumstances. “And I don’t want that with you, I don’t want this to be the thing that ends us.”

“Eric, I love you, that doesn’t stop because you go away for a few months.” You promise him as you kiss his mouth. “Me and you, we’re ride or die.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said it you know?” He whispers, the edges of his mouth tipping up into a smile.  “That you love me.”

You don’t realise that until this moment. You’ve always felt it but the words they’ve never quite managed to make it off your lips. You think that’s because you’ve never been sure of the commitment until the last few months. The two of you had always been a series of stolen moments, you’d never talked about a real relationship and what that looked like for the two of you and then you were hospitalised and everything changed.

Eric had put his entire life on hold for you, he moved you into his house, took a suspension, pay cut and reprimand. He attended your rehab sessions, dealt with your frustrations, told you were the most beautiful woman in the world when your face was held together by stitches and staples. That’s when you knew that the two of you were going to go the distance, that you had found the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

“Oh I have been a terrible partner to you, haven’t I Eric? Not telling you how I feel.” You murmur as you climb into his lap and Eric’s hands chase underneath the t-shirt you’re wearing, smoothing across the scar etched into your skin.

“Say it again.” He whispers against your skin as he draws the shirt up and over your head. “Please baby, just say it again.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 · · · · 𝚅𝙸. 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 ║ ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡⓔⓓ

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 || 𝚗 𝚊 𝚟 𝚒 𝚐 𝚊 𝚝 𝚒 𝚘 𝚗 || 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x fem!OC/reader

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | CHAPTER CONTENT: inherent power imbalance due to boss/employee dynamic, Feelings Turning Into Action™, fucked up family relationships and drama, abusive relationships, brief mention of abusive child/parent interaction, alcoholic parent, Joel being protective, Joel being an old man, dialogue on steroids, the messy journey of healing | WORD COUNT: 10.4k

| CHAPTER SUMMARY: After a chaotic, tumultuous New Year's Eve, you start the New Year off with Joel by your side and make some much overdue resolutions.

The light is coming from the wrong direction.

The gentle glow of the hazy, hesitant sunrise creeps slowly through the blinds and sheer purple draperies, ghosting against the impending day. There’s an unfamiliar but welcome stillness to it all, but the subconscious recognition that you aren’t waking in your own bed stirs you. Your lids lift and flutter as your mind begins piecing together all the atmosphere and context of your current setting.

The cuffs of Joel’s flannel, bunched up in your grasp, beckon your nose closer just to breathe in the scent of him. When your eyes flutter again, the room is significantly brighter. The blink of an eye and hours gone by. You’re fully awake this time, though; no drifting again. The house is still a comforting quiet, but there’s the intimations of someone else already up and about. The crust in the corner of your eyes feels particularly sharp as you rub them. The floor is cool against the arch of your foot when you swing your legs from the warm bedding and finally start to face whatever awaits you.

You’d kissed Joel. He’d kissed you back.

And then you’d practically run off upstairs while he sat there in shock. Did he regret it? Did he think you regretted it? Do you regret it???

No. There’s no amount of mortification that could ever make you truly regret finally getting to know what his lips felt like against yours. Still, you can’t quite meet your reflection’s eye while washing your hands in the hallway bathroom after peeing. His pants feel soft and warm around you. You stare into the sink, finger dabbed with toothpaste acting as a brush, and give up looking for mouthwash after a minute or two. Nothing left but to go downstairs and be confronted with the aftermath of your impulsive, reckless advance last night.

Music drifts low from a speaker somewhere in the corner of the kitchen.  A spice bottle is almost to his nose as he squints at the label. He huffs and glances off the other way and snatches something off the countertop. The swell of his bicep stretches the hem of the sleeve as he bends his arm towards his face. The slightest peek of his torso is revealed when his shirt lifts from the movement.

Joel Miller in all his scruffy morning glory. Pajama pants impressively wrinkled. T-shirt sporting several misshapen areas that droop and give from being pulled too many times. Hair mussed and tousled. Scruffy beard serving as a place for his hand to rub contemplative passes as he skims the label on the spice bottle, words and letters coming into focus with the help of his readers perched atop his curved, proud nose. His lips move in little rounded and bent shapes as he wordlessly reads through what you imagine is the ingredient list. He looks so warm and cozy and homey.

He’s breathtaking.

Your silent ogling is noticeable, apparently, because Joel notches his head in your direction in a swift jerk, eyes and mouth softening at the sight of you.

“Morning,” you offer up nervously.

He smiles, an affectionate, relieved wash over his features, and returns the greeting with more confidence. “Mornin’.”

“Uh, Happy Ne–” You stop yourself short of wishing him a happy new year when you remember you already did that several times last night and would rather not bring up your incredibly forward advance that went with it.

He grins easy like he knows your train of thought. “Hey, it’s—”

“No,” you interject. “Listen, I shouldn’t have—” You take several strides into the kitchen. You need to own up to your actions and take responsibility for making things weird. Had you made things weird? There was something shifting and new in the air, that was certain.

He holds up a hand to stop your spiel, but you drive the conversation forward.

“I’m really sorry about last night, and I shouldn’t have just done that,” you hastily apologize. “And if I crossed a line, I’m– I really wasn’t meaning to make— I just–”

“It was nice,” he contends with a casual shrug.

“Wait, what?”

You weren’t really sure what to expect, but it wasn’t that. A reminder that things need to remain professional, maybe. A gentle correction that you hadn’t asked permission before kissing him. But a declaration of acceptance? You hadn’t let yourself hope for that much.

“Yeah, you know, I haven’t had one of them in a while,” he explains. “A midnight kiss on New Year’s Eve,” he adds when you shake your head in confusion.

“So you’re… not upset with me?”

“The only thing that’ll upset me is if you don’t help me read the fuckin’ tiny writing on this thing.” He holds the spice bottle out for you to take. 

“Um.” You hold it in your hands and read out the list of ingredients in the mix. You hand it back to him and fix your face from the dubious, hesitant hope it wants to broadcast. 

“Thanks, Pluck,” he beams and gives your upper arm a quick rub before continuing whatever it was that you’d walked into.

Was that it? Was it really going to be that simple? No big conversation? No huge deal made about it? You aren’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, and you aren’t sure if it makes you feel better or worse.

“Y-Yeah, Goob. No problem.”

He sorts out some additional spices and sets them beside some pans. The oven is already on a low heat, and you smell something salty and sweet. 

“You, uh, got anywhere you gotta be this mornin’, or ……?” he hedges.

Is he asking because he’s trying to be polite and doesn’t want to outright ask just how long you plan on invading his personal space? Is he asking because he wants you to stay but doesn’t want you to feel obligated to do so?

“No. Is that–Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” he chimes. “Need me a sous chef today.” The corner of his mouth twitches up like there’s some funny inside joke. 

“What’re you making?” you ask, deciding to just take his lead and act like everything is normal. 

It’s the least you can do for letting yourself get out of line last night. You wish he could just understand the sense of calm and safety that overrode your brain when you woke up with his arms around you. You wish you could explain how after months and months of feeling seen by him, you’d finally given into wanting to be felt by him, too.

“Classic New Year’s Day dish. Ham, cornbread, and black eyed peas.” 

“Never had it,” you admit with a shrug.

He gives a theatrically shocked look, wide palm clutched across his chest, with an exaggerated gasp to pull it all together. You giggle and give him a small shove with your elbow.

“You’re acting like everybody should’ve heard about it – like it’s some huge deal.”

“‘Round here it is,” he contends. “Been makin’ this every New Year’s since, well, as long as I can remember. Used to have it as a kid, and then I just sorta kept it up when I got old enough, I guess. Now I still make it even though it’s just me around to eat it.”

“Oh.” Even though he hadn’t said it in any way to suggest it, you can’t help but feel like you’re intruding on some private tradition meant for those nearest and dearest to him, which you most decidedly are not.

“What’d’ya mean ‘oh’?” he snorts.

“Just sounds… I dunno, sounds special, I guess. Sounds nice.”

“It is nice,” he agrees. “And, yeah, pretty special, too.”

You force yourself to meet his eye again, and the warm, welcoming brightness there speaks volumes.

You belong in this space. You’ve earned yourself a seat at the table for something like this. I want to share this with you, too.

“So you gonna learn the ropes and join the ranks?”

“Such a fearless captain at the helm, how could I refuse?” you jibe.

He throws you a flimsy salute and stations you to prepare the cornbread. Your body feels electric every time his shoulder bumps into yours side by side at the counter as he explains the “absolutes” and the “must nots” of the meal.

He explains how you soak the beans the night before so they cook evenly and timely, how it's imperative to use yellow cornmeal for the cornbread, how a pinch of sugar brings out the flavor and compliments the ham.

“You gonna eat greens if I make ‘em?” he asks over his shoulder, digging through the fridge for various ingredients.

Thankfully your brain autocorrects I’ll take anything you want to give me, Joel into “I’ll give them a try, sure.”

The morning passes languid and cozy as you watch him come to life, animated and bright over something clearly sentimental and meaningful to him. Part of you knows that you’re involved simply because you happened to be here, but another, smaller part of you likes to imagine that he would’ve liked to have had you here and a part of it all regardless.

Being this close to him, all soft and cozy in the kitchen as you share in a little feel-good bubble, brings the simmering want that your kiss last night sowed. It’s teething and clawing in your belly, this need for more more more of him heightened in every conceivable way. Any minor and innocuous movement or glance threads a burning wire throughout every bit of you, all alight and inciting as though it was being done just to pull you further into the clutches of him.

Your body feels hot and itchy, the urge to just throw caution to the wind and kiss him again - just to see what would happen - inches closer and closer to drowning out all the sensible thoughts in your head. You’d expected a more stilted, awkward atmosphere this morning and had waited for it, but it never came.

The better than expected reception has emboldened you in a way that you don’t recognize. The only thing keeping you from throwing yourself at him again is the notion that he deserved – you both deserved – to know that you weren’t just being reactionary from last night’s trainwreck and seeking out something to comfort yourself as a result.

You get the first major distraction from your inner thoughts when Joel’s phone lights up with a call. A silly little photo of him and Sarah together, her name bright across the top of the screen. It’s a video call. His eyes flit to yours, something apologetic mixed with something imploring. You aren’t sure if he wants you to be in the background of the call or not, but you aren’t up for all the questions that would garner.

“I just remembered I should probably charge my phone from last night,” you point out. It’s not untrue. You went to bed with it unplugged and didn’t think too much of it with everything else swirling around your mind at the time.

He nods and tells you there’s a mix of chargers on the desk in your room before picking his phone up just as you make your way out of the kitchen. It doesn’t take much searching to find a charger that works with your device, and you quietly descend the stairs to avoid alerting Sarah to your presence. You listen to the light, affectionate lilt in Joel’s voice as he talks with her.

You find the closest vacant outlet and plug in your phone. It takes a few moments before it comes to life again. There’d been no notifications on your old phone, which hadn’t died because old bricks like them seemed to survive just about anything, but you still worried you’d missed something on your work phone. No missed calls or texts from your dad, which is a relief, but there are a few from Kenzie along with dozens of texts.

A quick scan through the messages reveals numerous apologies and pleas for you to let her know you made it somewhere safely. There are a few notable messages, namely i wasn’t thinking straight as well as i fucked up so bad pls im sorry i just want to know if ur ok.

You feel guilty for worrying her, which annoys you for some reason, but it’s the overwhelming feeling of self-disgust for leaving her by herself last night that takes center stage. You know deep down you should be making sure she’s okay, too – that nothing horrific happened after you abandoned her, drunk and emotional with two creeps in an already unpredictable environment.

You lock the screen and push the phone aside on the table to finish charging. A hearty chuckle from Joel draws your attention back to the kitchen where you stealthily creep against the doorframe to listen closer. He’s holding the phone at an unnatural angle above his face, fat fingertip poking and jabbing at the screen as Sarah mocks him for not knowing how to use technology.

“You sure got lots of energy for somebody who was so drunk last night she didn’t even text me that she got home okay,” he chides half-heartedly.

“Ohhhh my god, dad, I’m sorry,” she groans almost petulantly. “I was with Ben – you know that. I was perfectly safe, I swear.”

“Uh huh. Weren’t you just sayin’ how y’all were both taking turns throwin’ up earlier?” he snickers.

“It wasn’t that much,” she scoffs. “Like, two times each max.”

“Yeah, enjoy that while ya can, kiddo, because once you hit about thirty those hangovers start lastin’ longer and hittin’ harder.”

“Yeah, well, right now I’m young and invincible,” she jokes. “And hungry.”

“You mean you ain’t had any time to cook up some peas and ham in between all the puking?” he snorts. “How’re you gonna usher in good luck and prosperity in the coming year?”

“Ugh, that actually sounds so good right now,” she huffs. “Me and Ben should try to find somewhere that makes it so we can have it today.”

Joel rambles about how next year they should just come stay with him so he can play chauffeur and chef for them. You’re hyper-aware of how neutral and nonjudgmental the conversation is. She’d called him and evidently spoken freely about how she’d had too much to drink, hadn’t been entirely responsible during her night out, and had been sick as a result of her revelry for a good part of the morning. 

Joel hadn’t given her a lecture about being hungover and overindulging and hadn’t admonished her for not texting when he’d told her to. It was just an uncomplicated, warm conversation about their lives and happening –  a simple exchange between two people who simply cared about each other.

You wish you could see Calum.

“Alright, tell Ben I said hi and all that.”

“I will, dad. Love you.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you. Bye.”

He’s smiling warmly at the screen when the call disconnects. His expression holds so much tenderness and warmth it makes your insides feel syrupy. He rests his phone on the counter without locking it and continues staring fondly. When you crane your neck to see what’s holding his attention, a little gasp gets caught in your throat. His head snaps your direction, fingers quickly turning the phone over and hitting the lock button.

Your eyes meet, and you swear you must’ve imagined it. Surely he hadn’t taken one of those pictures Kenzie sent of you yesterday and made it his wallpaper. His bugged eyes and mouth practically agog suggest otherwise.

“Phone charger?” he chokes out while regaining some composure.

“Huh?”

“Found a phone charger?” he repeats, fumbling forward with the conversation and glossing over the fact that he almost definitely has you set as his phone background.

“Um, yeah. Yes. Charging it now.” You nod and clamp your teeth together to hold down the nervous giggle threatening to bubble up.

“Good. That’s good.”

His cheeks are flushed a delightful shade of pink as he runs a hand along the nape of his neck, eyes zipping around for a diversion. “Your, uh, friend doin’ alright? She text you that she got home okay?”

Classic Southern gentleman. Chivalry isn’t dead, apparently, but you’d wish in Joel’s case at least that it’d take a long nap. He never would’ve left anyone, especially a young woman, in a situation like that. If he knew the truth about how you’d deserted her and threw her to the wolves, he’d probably not be all warm and fuzzy about sharing sentimental family traditions with you and letting you spend the night in his house.

“She’s fine,” you mumble, now also avoiding his eye and looking around for something to occupy your gaze.

“You, uh, you never said what happened last night other than some sorta fight between the two of ya….”

“Just dumb stuff,” you say quickly – dismissively. “It’s fine.”

He bobs his head, slow and understanding despite the fact that you both know you’re lying. “Okay.”

“So anyway—”

You rock on the balls of your feet and gesture broadly to the stovetop. He takes the hint and gets back to putting the meal together. Things return to a normal cadence, and he strikes up conversation again as you plate the dish into pale blue bowls that somehow are so distinctly Joel that it makes your heart ache for something you don’t understand.

“Any resolutions?” he asks when you finally sit down together in front of the steaming food.

You chew a tender piece of ham and work it over for a moment in thought. “Mmmmm, this is delicious,” you praise. “And, uh, I dunno. Always seems like I’m jinxing something if I try to think that far ahead. High expectations means big disappointments, you know?” 

Being candid with him felt so dangerously freeing. Even sharing that small bit of truth had you hungering to let everything out in all its chaotic, thorny veracity.

“I do,” he sympathizes. His forehead scrunches and relaxes. “Ya know, sometimes when things feel like that, it can be less intimidating to just pick somethin’ real small.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs and works through a heaping spoonful before answering. “Just mean that you can start with somethin’ that ain’t high stakes. Even like watching more movies, like you said a coupla weeks ago. Just somethin’ you wanna do more of, somethin’ to make you happier.”

You hide a smile behind a big bite. His preoccupation with you getting to watch and enjoy more movies – all because you’d mentioned it almost offhandedly some weeks ago – makes your tummy feel fluttery. 

“That actually doesn’t sound too bad,” you concede. “I think that’s a really good one.”

“So there ya go: resolution sorted.” He has that big, lopsided grin that makes you want to devour him.

“And what about you? What’s your resolution?”

He thinks it over, takes it earnestly into consideration, and decides on something you think wouldn’t hurt for you to take up, too.

“Taking bigger chances, maybe? Maybe not like crazy leaps of faith or somethin’, but just– I dunno, not letting me talk myself outta somethin’ every time. Maybe just not thinkin’ too hard on things every single time, learning to lean into instincts or whatever a little bit more.”

“Trusting your gut,” you summarize.

“Yeah, trustin’ my instincts,” he reaffirms.

The meal and the company have left you feeling full and comforted, and the two of you make quick work of cleaning up the kitchen. It’s so calming listening to Joel hum a song you don’t recognize, feeling like somehow you know it intimately after hearing him sing it. Midday rolls around, and it’s the first point where the bubble bursts.

“You never said anything about a ride home,” he starts.

“Oh. I guess I didn’t.”

The sentiment that you’ve overstayed your welcome leaves you embarrassed.

“I mean you’re more’n welcome to stay as long as ya want. Just don’t want you stickin’ around because you feel sorry for me bein’ by myself or somethin’. Don’t wanna hold you hostage.”

“Joel,” you huff, entirely incredulous that he could ever think you wanted anything other than to be right next to him, wherever that happened to be. “This is the best New Year’s I’ve had since… well, this is the best New Year’s I’ve ever had, actually.”

Joel makes a face, and you’re sure he’s wondering how on earth that could be true when you had such a terrible night last night with Kenzie. “Kinda hard to believe that,” he chortles. “Bar must be so low it’s in hell for that to be true.”

Just as he often did, Joel ran straight into the point without knowing just how right he was.

The burgundy sedan parked outside your house isn’t one you’ve seen before, and it’s certainly seen better days. You don’t even bother lying to Joel about the fact that you don’t recognize it despite it being parked clearly in front of the curb of your house.

“M’comin’ with ya” is all you get before he’s opening your car door  and herding you to the front of the house like a personal bodyguard. Not up for discussion, and certainly not going to be disputed. It doesn’t feel domineering or demanding, though. It gives a sense of calm and protection. Your dad’s compact SUV is parked in the driveway as usual.

Joel inspects the lock and seems satisfied that there’s no sign of forced entry or damage to it. You tense as he turns the knob and heads inside first. You tail him like a second shadow, eyes darting furiously around for any indication of something amiss. The foyer has several shattered picture frames on one side, and the doorframe into the living room is missing a chunk out of it at about shoulder height. You set your handful of items on the foyer table with a shaky hand as you strain your ears to listen.

“You stay behind me, you understand?” is Joel’s firm demand, maybe the first one you’ve ever really heard from him with such a tense tone. You nod and let him take the lead again.

“Dad?” you call out. Joel whips around and pins you with a look that says you probably shouldn’t be shouting out your location into a house that’s clearly had some sort of disturbance recently. You duck your head down and mumble an apology.

How could you explain that the state of the house isn’t out of the norm? How could you explain to Joel that you wouldn’t have looked twice at the damaged areas if you’d come home like usual? The only aspect of it that was unexpected was the worn down sedan parked outside.

A soft sound travels down the adjoining hallway where your room is located, and your heart sinks. Had your dad gotten drunk and decided to ransack your room for an impromptu inspection? Was he going to find the envelopes of money you’d hidden around that end of the house in various vents? How fast could you get a handle on the interaction before Joel put his foot down and demanded you tell him everything? Could you control the situation enough that your dad and Joel wouldn’t get into a physical altercation?

Without thinking, you rush towards the sound and get an immediate hiss of disapproval from Joel who picks up his strides to cut you off right in front of your bedroom door. A louder sound comes from somewhere you can’t see, and you’re almost knocked on your ass with how quickly Joel shoves you behind him, acting like a shield. There’s some shuffling – whoever it was in your room now being alerted to you and Joel’s presence in the hallway - but you can’t see past the width of Joel’s back, and his arms are outstretched behind him to keep you bracketed and guarded.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doin’ here?” he snarls.

“Jesus christ, man! What the fuck! Who the fuck are you?” a man’s voice snaps back, a trill of panic laced in the challenge.

“You got ten seconds to get the fuck outta this house before I–”

Joel doesn’t have a chance to finish his threat as you launch out from behind him and stagger towards the stranger’s voice — except it’s not a stranger at all.

“Calum!” you gasp when your eyes land on him, confirming that it really is him even under all the bumps and fresh bruising and dried split lip.

You’re running and crashing into him with loose limbs before you can even process the situation fully. Hot trails stream down your cheeks as you grab at him and grip him tight so he can’t get away – not that he’s trying. Your chest fractures into a tiny million pieces when he lets out a soft exhale that’s one breath away from weeping as he grabs you up into his arms and holds on for dear life.

You’re a blubbering mess, but Calum isn’t far behind, sniffling and warbling your name as he holds you closer and sways you both on the spot in a meager attempt at self-soothing. 

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry he keeps saying over and over.

Your strangled whispers of “it’s not your fault” and “it’s okay” fall on deaf ears.

“This your brother Calum?” Joel interrupts. His voice has a tense edge to it, like he’s still not at ease with the situation.

You break away from Calum and nod. “This is my brother Calum,” you confirm.

He eyes him with patent suspicion but doesn’t speak on it. You step closer to Joel, who surprises you by angling his body slightly in front of yours and directly addressing Calum.

“You make a habit of going through her shit?” he demands in a harsh voice you’ve never heard from him until this moment.

“Joel!” you snap. “He can be in my room. Stop it.”

You and Calum exchange a loaded glance and drop it quickly. You know he can sense that Joel isn’t abreast of all the nitty gritty details of your life. Joel cocks his head sideways and back to meet your eye like he’s sizing up whatever silent, weird undercurrent he’s clearly not privy to.

“There’s a car you don’t recognize parked in front of your house and then we come inside to find shit banged up and broken. Then there’s sounds from your fucking bedroom? After you called out and nobody answered? He’s lucky I don’t fuckin’ carry because plenty of people woulda assumed it was a fuckin’ intruder and shot his ass,” he gripes.

It’s so unlike Joel to be so tightly wound, and it’s hard to pin exactly why he’s reacting so severely.

“Hey, man, I didn’t mean to scare anybody,” Calum offers. “I’m sure that it was kinda crazy to walk in on the house like that. I’m sorry.”

Joel is still tense, the lack of being clued in on the unspoken situation clearly causing him further agitation. “You got any explanation for why you look fucked up?” he demands.

“Joel!” you hiss. “Don’t fucking talk to him like that!”

You round on him now, placing yourself between the two of them, and square up your shoulders.

“Hey, it’s okay. I get why he’s–” You’re sure Calum is ready to stick up for Joel, but you’re not having it. Joel has no right to come into your house and demand anything from Calum. 

“He doesn’t get to talk to you like that,” you say plainly.

Joel’s outstretched hands beckon you closer, a gesture of apology and placation. “Can I talk to you in private in the hallway for a minute?”

Calum gives you a terse nod, and so you agree.

“Somethin’ weird is going on here,” he starts in a low voice once he makes sure Calum’s out of earshot. “I don’t know what it is or if you know what it is, but I don’t feel comfortable leavin’ you here alone with him.”

In a moment of clarity, you’re afforded the realization that Joel is acting so unkind and sharp because he’s afraid. Not of Calum and not of the mysterious stranger he’d been up until he’d confronted him in your bedroom. No, he’d been afraid that something or someone could’ve been lying in wait to harm you. Leftover frustration at the feelings of adrenaline and fear that you could’ve been in a potentially unsafe situation by yourself if he hadn’t insisted on accompanying you inside. A threat to your well-being that ultimately ended up okay but still left him with an electric energy to keep you out of harm’s way.

You soften and take his hands in yours. “Joel, I trust Calum with my life. He’s safe. I promise you, he’s okay.”

Joel swallows hard and slides his jaw back and forth in a moment of calculation. “Would you tell me if he wasn’t?” he wonders. Your head inches back in surprise at the question, but he’s talking again before you can even answer. “You would tell me? If you needed to get out of here? Because you know if you said the word, sweetheart, we’d be outta here no questions asked. You’d come to mine, and we’d figure it out from there. You’d tell me if that’s what you needed, right?”

His hands slide above your hips on either side of your body, a gentle squeeze pressed into the flesh there. Something in his pleading eyes and open, earnest face that tell you he’s not just talking about right here and right now. He’s begging for you to tell him that you’d come to him if you needed somewhere to go, someone to talk to.

“I know more than ever that you’d show up for me, Joel. Last night you came to get me without a second thought. Trust me, I know I — I know that I have you.”

“You do,” he repeats firmly. “You have me.”

You’re locked into each other much in the same way you were on the couch last night. His lips part ever so slightly, and you don’t need the fireworks bursting into the night air to feel that same fiery explosiveness between you. You tilt your head back in an invitation. Kiss me.

“I can, um, I can go if that would….” Calum’s head is peeking out of your doorframe, eyes darting curiously to where Joel’s hands rests on your waist.

“Let’s just take this outside,” you announce abruptly, turning on your heel and making for the front door. Calum follows in step with Joel stepping in sync behind him. You know Calum doesn’t have anything he needs to grab on the way out. There’s nothing for him here anymore. You grab your things from the front table and hop down the porch steps.

“Ride around the block and talk?” Calum surmises from your silent thoughts.

“Yeah. Just give me a minute, okay?”

He nods and shoots Joel a wave before heading to his sedan. You turn to find Joel still watching him with a probing stare.

“Hey,” you gently prod him.

His gaze settles down to you and softens. He’s still worried. You can see it in every etch and downturned corner of his mouth.

“He just ain’t gonna explain anything about why the fuck the house looks like that? Who the fuck was he throwin’ hands with? Your fuckin’ dad?”

He sounds almost incredulous, as if the idea of Calum and your dad beating on each other was outlandish rather than the normal fare that it actually was.

“Probably,” you answer plainly. Your mind is racing too fast to come up with something, so you opt for the most simple version of the truth.

Joel’s brow pinches together with a whole new expression of concern. Why doesn’t that upset you? Why does that sound like it’s not a surprise to you in the slightest? Why don’t you seem fazed by any of this?

“Listen, I’m going to go for a drive with him so we can talk—”

“In that piece of shit car?” he balks.

“Joel,” you warn. “I’m going with him. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

His hands splay wide across his hips, one knee jutted out while he thinks it over. He huffs but eventually appears to come to the conclusion that you’re getting in that car with or without his approval.

“I want you to check in. Not a text, okay? Call me,” he urges. “Please,” he adds softly. 

“I promise. I won’t leave you hanging, okay? I’m going to call you first thing.”

“That thing even have heat?” he wonders aloud, almost to himself. “You gonna be warm enough?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer and instead peels off his outer flannel. He helps you work your arms through the sleeves and straightens it up on you. He brings you into a tight hug and rests his mouth just beside your ear.

“You tell me if you need anything. Anything. I’ve got you.”

You shiver when his lips graze your earlobe as he pulls away. He watches you get into your brother’s car, sparing an inquisitive look at your house just as you round the corner and lose sight of him in your rearview mirror.

The drive to a nearby park is quiet and serene. It feels unreal and leaves you almost giddy just to be in close proximity with your little brother again. He parks and cuts the engine. He turns to face you, and for a moment you just smile back and forth. A rarity to be in each other’s company without the threat of imminent harm closing in on all sides.

You break the silence first. 

“What happened with dad?”

He scoffs and flicks the steering wheel. “Came to talk to him. A real conversation - or at least that was the goal. Figured if I did it on New Year’s it wouldn’t be so bizarre. New beginnings and setting intentions and all that.”

“I can’t believe he even let you in.”

“He didn’t. I still had a key. Dumbass hadn’t changed the locks. Probably thought I’d be too afraid to ever step foot in the house again, so no need to change them.”

You swallow hard thinking back to that fateful day Calum had left. He’d have every reason to be afraid of crossing the threshold of that front door ever again. You straighten up and dismiss the memories for now.

“So, you waited up for him? Or …. I mean, what happened?”

He smirks, but it lacks any trace of amusement. “Well, he was already pretty hammered when he got in. Saw me waiting in the living room and accused me of coming to ‘kill him like the coward I always was.’ Told him I’d come to talk with him and see if those bridges were really burnt up, you know? I think he got kinda smug thinkin’ I meant I wanted to make sure I hadn’t burned any bridges because I wanted to come back, so he let me stay and say my piece.”

He shakes his head and laughs as if recalling the memory of it was too absurd to be real. “ Once he realized I was basically letting him know I had no intention of speaking to him ever again, he got pretty pissed. That’s when we started scuffling. I tried to hold back so it wouldn’t escalate, but he just kept going harder. You know how he gets.”

Your lips press together in a tight line. You knew very well how your father got.

“Anyway, I got him off me and told him I was leaving. Didn’t need him calling the cops or something. He was already bent over the kitchen table with a bottle of something when I went out the back. I hung around until he blacked out because I could tell he was going to, you know? Didn’t know where you were and wanted to wait up for you. Wanted to see you and make sure you were okay.”

“That unfortunately sounds about right, I guess,” you sigh. “ Um, thank you for sticking around to see me. I’ve– It’s been a little bit. How’ve you been? I’ve been worried about you.”

“Been doing okay,” he offers up noncommittally with a lazy shrug. “Don’t wanna jinx it by saying it’s been going good, you know?” he exhales in a laugh. 

“But you are? Doing good?” you press. 

“Yeah. I am.”

He picks at his hands like he’s hesitant or unsure of what to say and where to start. You give him the space and time he needs.

“I stay and work at a halfway house sorta place. They agreed to let me board there even though I’m not on anything. No drug habit or whatever to overcome, but they still allow me to board there.  Guess they took pity on me and needed some extra help anyway. So. Yeah. Got a safe place to lay my head at night. Get two free therapy appointments a week there. My counselor specializes in sobriety and recovery, of course, but he’s still been a big help with all… my stuff.”

“Wow,” you breathe. Your chest feels like it could burst hearing how well he’s doing and how secure he sounds. “That’s so amazing!”

He snorts and waves off your praise. “Yeah, wasn’t all that impressive when I first got out there. Bouncing from shelter to shelter. It’s where I met Jaz, though. She’s the one who got me linked up with the sober house. Wouldn’t be doing as good if it weren’t for her.”

“Jaz?”

He gets noticeably antsy at the way you clocked his attachment to this Jaz person. “Yeah, Jaz. Or Jazzy. Jasmine.” He says her name so delicately, like if he spoke a syllable too harshly the name would crumble altogether on his tongue. There’s a soft reverence there, and you want to know all about whoever it is that has your brother so clearly happy.

“So you still get to see her then?”

“I guess you could say that.” His shy grin stretches until the glint of his teeth is visible, his palpable joy unable to be contained. “Only about every day.” He doesn’t bother holding back now, his whole face beaming with a bright smile.

“So are you….”

“Yeah. Girlfriend territory, definitely. I mean, we haven’t sat down and had the conversation or anything official, but… I mean, if having Thanksgiving with her folks isn’t official then I don’t really know what is.”

You stiffen slightly with a twinge of hurt at the mention of him spending Thanksgiving with a new family. A normal family. One that didn’t include you. 

Realizing the impact of his choice of phrasing, he quickly attempts to correct himself. “I shouldn’t have said it all casual like that. I’m sorry.”

A watery smile plays on your mouth. You tell him that it’s okay. That you know he didn’t mean anything by it. That you thought about him on Thanksgiving Day, too, and imagined that he was somewhere with a group of people who were warm and kind and welcoming. How happy you were to know just how right you’d been in your wishful hoping for him. That you don’t begrudge him for doing so well all these months apart.

He in turn tells you that he thought about you often. About how he’d told Jaz’s parents all about you already. That her mom was a Community Outreach Coordinator who, along with Jaz’s Nonprofit Organization Lawyer father, had given her the passion for helping others and offering the gift of her empathetic heart.

Calum went on to share that Jaz and her parents knew all about his upbringing and what had landed him in a shelter on his own so young in the first place. How they’d taken it in stride and applauded his steps to bettering his situation. How they’d said how proud he should be of himself and how proud they were of him.

His own eyes shimmer now with fat lines of wet threatening to spill over. He sniffs loudly and clears his throat. You imagine it’s probably the first time in his life a parent, even if it was someone else’s, told him they were proud of him.

“I came back because… well, I wanted to see you, but also because my counselor had said I should give myself ‘the gift of closure.’ Coming back to talk to dad and make sure that deciding to go no contact was the right thing. Because I was starting to doubt myself, you know? Even with all the good things happening with him out of the picture, there was still that little thought of what if. And thinking like you and him were a package deal or something since you still live at home. My counselor said that wasn’t true, you know? And after all that went down this morning, it was the push I needed to cut ties with dad completely.”

“I understand.” You look out into the clouded sky, a visual white noise to let your coherent thoughts through. “There’s no path forward there. Just a dead end.”

“Yeah…. I always sort of knew it, in a way, but I think I needed to come here to leave myself with no doubts. And – just let me finish saying this, okay? – I owe you an apology. I should’ve reached out. I didn’t have your number when I left because my phone died and got cut off, but I still could’ve— I dunno, I could’ve called the grocery store or something. Reached you that way. I was just so into my own shit and getting my head clear that I just left you behind, and I didn’t even mean to. I didn’t realize it had even happened, and that’s what makes me feel so fucking bad about it all. I didn’t realize how long it’d been since we last spoke, and it’s not okay. I got so lost in my own process to deal with all this shit that I just left you here even though I know exactly the sort of shithole it is.”

“I don’t blame you for getting out and not looking back.”

“I know that. You were always too nice for your own good, I think.”

You share a small laugh at the truth of it. The laugh runs short when he offers a place for you to come with him.

“Just… up and leave? Calum, I-I can’t do that.”

“Dad’s not stable. You know he’s not fucking stable,” he rebuts. “It’s only a matter of time before he does something serious. Not just a broken door or a slap across your face. He’s dangerous, and he just gets worse the longer time goes on.” You can hear the tinge of fear in his voice.

“I know,” you concede. “I’m-I’m working on it, okay? I’ve got a real job now, and I’ve been able to put aside more money than ever. I’ve got myself into a good path to getting out, but I want to do it on my own terms.”

“And do those terms include Joel?” he pries with a smile you can hear in his voice without even needing to look.

“Maybe.” You bite back a grin and shrug.

“So, what? I tell you about Jazzy, but I don’t get to hear about him? Fuckin’ guard dog of a boyfriend. Thought he was gonna beat my ass for a second there,” he huffs in a laugh.

Boyfriend. The sound of it makes something warm and syrupy drip down your spine. As much as you’d love to claim him as such, you tell Calum it’s not quite that straightforward. You don’t downplay your feelings for Joel when Calum asks you about it directly. He’s delighted at all the thoughtful gifts you received for Christmas. You tell him all the small things Joel does that make you feel supported and set up to succeed and seen. You tell him how you don’t know what to do with all of it sometimes. How you feel overwhelmed with the goodness of it all at times. 

“I know. It’s such a weird feeling, isn’t it?” he commiserates. 

“What feeling?”

“Of somebody taking care of you. Wanting to. Not expecting anything in return. It’s a mindfuck.”

You both burst into a fit of laughter, something so freeing and weightless about the candor and being so deeply, intimately understood passing between the two of you. 

“You know, Joel seems like a good guy,” he notes after a beat of quiet. “I think you should go after it – whatever it is to you. Really. Just– Just chase happiness, you know? Because you deserve it. You deserve to have that.”

You reach over and squeeze his arm, shooting him a soft look of appreciation. “It means a lot to know you get a good feeling from him, even if he probably was about to rock your shit at the house.”

He chuckles again and tucks his chin down in reflection. “I do. But I trust you, too. Your judgment. And, if you feel safe with him, then he’s my new favorite person.”

Your next exhale feels like you’re breathing out all the tension and last bits of apprehension about diving head first into Joel. 

“Plus he’s just so handsome,” Calum gushes theatrically.

You playfully shove him but don’t argue because it’s the truth. But just as good things do, it has to come to an end eventually. Calum apologizes for having to leave so he makes it back by curfew. You aren’t ready to go back home just yet.

“Drive me to Joel’s?”

“Like I didn’t figure that’s where you wanted to go,” he snorts. “God knows you don’t wanna go back to dad.”

His engine sounds pitiful as it cranks to life, but you’re quickly headed back into the neighborhood. He pulls to a stop outside Joel’s house but motions for you to wait before getting out.

“Hey, promise me you’ll go to him if dad does anything.”

“Calum, I can’t just—”

“No. Promise me.”

You sigh and give in. “Okay. Fine. I promise if anything happens, I’ll go to Joel.”

That placates him, apparently. He leaves the car running while he walks you to the door. You see him grin from the corner of your eye when the front door swings open to reveal a relieved looking Joel who appears appropriately sheepish and apologetic about their previous interaction.

“Sorry about that. Earlier, I mean. Just got a little high strung there for a minute. Hope you don’t take it too personal,” Joel says with a sort of tail between the legs kind of tone.

“Not at all. Consider it history, Joel,” Calum supplies brightly. “Actually pretty glad there’s somebody out here looking after my sister like that.”

They shake hands and put the awkward first meeting behind them. You hug Calum as tight as you can and triple check that he has your number before seeing him off. Joel shuts the door softly behind you both just as Calum rounds the end of the street.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t text or call before coming over.”

“You can come over whenever you want. Open invitation. You should know that by now, sweetheart.”

A loud sound from the TV draws your attention, and Joel skirts around the couch for the remote to mute it. You follow closely and ogle the way his shirt stretches the span of his back with each movement. You hear Calum’s voice echo in your head.

Chase happiness. Chase happiness. Chase happiness.

You can’t stop thinking about kissing Joel. He’d kissed you back last night, hadn’t he? Was it just reflexive? You’d both just woken up. Maybe he was just so shocked by it that he didn’t have time to react in a way that was aligned with his actual feelings? Had it meant anything to him? But then you could’ve sworn he wanted to kiss you again just a few hours ago in the hallway of your house.

“Found it.” He switches the volume off and sets the remote back down on the table before plopping down onto the couch and patting the spot next to him. You sink slowly into the cushion beside him and work your flannel – Joel’s flannel – off you.

“Thanks for letting me borrow this.”

“You can keep it on if you need to.” He almost sounds like he wishes you’d keep it.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“So, did he… what was goin’ on with–”

“Can I ask you something first?” you interject.

Joel sits up straighter and angles himself towards you. “Yeah, of course.”

“Are you– Did you think anything after… when I … last night when those fireworks woke us up?” you gulp, chickening out on asking a straightforward question.

He’s quiet in thought for a few beats and reaches out gently for your hand, which you readily slide into his warm palm. 

“You really wanna know?”

“Yes.”

“I was thinkin’ about how guilty I felt to just take from you like that,” he admits.

“What?” you gasp. “ You didn’t take—”

“You’d just been in a fight with your friend – obviously had a bad night. Needed somewhere to crash. Probably weren’t in the best of mind, and that still wasn’t enough to keep me from kissin’ you back.”

You sit in a stunned silence and absorb this alternate version of events that hadn’t even occurred to you. It made sense from his perspective, you suppose. You’re glad you didn’t tell him about Logan because you can only imagine the sort of unwarranted guilt he’d feel about it.

“And I, you know, I’m your boss, and if I’m puttin’ you in a weird spot–it’s just – I don’t wanna take advantage–”

“If I kissed you right now, would you kiss me back?” you interrupt in a strained whisper.

His head inches back in surprise. “I– Would you want me to?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I would. I really would.”

He licks his lips and nods, eyes skirting down to your mouth and then back up. He reaches out for you no sooner than you’re clambering onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. His mouth is hot and eager on yours, the plush give of his lip contrasting delightfully with the scratch of his beard. He rocks up into you, pressing on the curve of your spine to flatten your body against his. The wet smack of your mouths is only drowned out by the breathy moans escaping your throat.

The warm pad of his palm runs along your back where his hand is shoved under your shirt – his shirt – and dances across your bare skin. Your body writhes against him instinctively, seeking out more points of contact between the two of you, as the kiss deepens. His free hand wraps around your hip and encourages the swivel of them against his lap. Joel’s gravelly groans spur you on until you’re deliberately rocking against the plump of his belly. 

You’re thanking yourself for forgoing your bra and panties from last night and just donning the clothes Joel gave you to borrow because there’s so little separating your bodies. When your reflexive grinding lands the heat of your core against the firm pressure of his thigh, you gasp and break from the kiss.

 Joel’s eyes are dark and half-lidded, eyeing you with a hunger that makes you clench around nothing. 

“You gotta tell me to stop if you need it to stop,” he grits.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you choke out as you rush to resume the heaven of his touch.

You chase his lips and pout when you realize his mouth is drifting to the side as he pulls away for a moment longer.

“Listen, I just gotta– I gotta make sure of somethin’ before I get caught up in all this and can’t string two thoughts together. Are you, uh… you been with … somebody before?”

You blink a few times and level your breathing while you process the unexpected question. “You mean am I a virgin?”

His face flushes a million degrees. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m askin’.”

“Are you a virgin, Joel? You’re pretty pink right now.”

He flushes deeper. “Nah, quit it. M’serious. I just, you know, I wanna make sure you’re— I don’t wanna hurt you or anything is all. I don’t mean to ask after your whole history or somethin’—”

“You sorta sound like you’re interested in deflowering me,” you tease.

“Christ, I dunno about that,” he scoffs.

“You mean the idea of a sweet, innocent virgin doesn’t do anything for you?”

“Honestly, it’s — that would be— that’s a lot of pressure if I’m bein’ honest. Not that I wouldn’t— I would take care of anybody that needed— I mean, of course, but I think I’d be so in my head about it the whole time worried I’d ruin your first time or somethin’.”

“Well, you’re off the hook. I’m not a virgin.”

He gives you a crooked smile. “Phew,” he jokes.

“But, um. Well, I’ve actually never— I’ve only been with girls, so I’m sort of new to … your type of equipment,” you admit.

“Oh. Oh.  So– wait. You— you’ve had stuff up there before though, right?”

“Fingers.”

“Small fingers if it’s just been girls.”

You shrug. You can feel heat flooding your face now, too. You hoped you weren't coming off as inexperienced and scaring him away. “Normal fingers,” you petulantly argue.

“No, what I mean is—” he takes your hand in his, easily cradling it in the size of his own “—mine might be a little more to take. Among other things.”

Heat floods your cheeks and panties. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” you assure him. While you really do mean it, you pray that Joel doesn’t want to stop.

“How about we just see after you today, huh?” he suggests. “See where that takes us.”

“What did you have in mind?” You roll your hips against his lap and giggle when he groans and grips your sides.

“You gonna be trouble for me, huh?” he rasps. He slips a hand under your  waistband and curves his hand around the meat of your inner thigh, knuckles grazing against your pussy lips.

You jolt forward with a loud moan and grip onto his shoulders, mouth gone slack. You catch the satisfied grin on his face before he ducks his head to nuzzle your throat where he lays a line of wet, open mouthed kisses.

You grab at his wrist to push him closer to where you ache to be touched, but he freezes for a split second in confusion, thinking you wanted him to stop. A devilish grin blooms on his mouth when he realizes it’s quite the opposite, and then he’s teasing his thick fingers in a V on the outside of your lips.

“Can’t even wait for me to touch you there, can ya?” he goads. “You need it real bad, huh?”

You shake your head dumbly at a complete loss of words. He grins even wider.

“Yeah you do,” he hums low and breathy.

He presses against your thigh creases before drawing his fingers together, trapping your lips between his middle and pointer fingers. He massages the engorged flesh and applies pressure and friction to your clit with your own folds. The smear of his movements makes your dripping arousal smack and pop.

“Please touch it,” you beg, not even caring how desperate and needy you sound.

“Like this?”

Four of his fingers stacked on top of each other form a wide, flat plane against your folds where he runs firm passes. Your hips buck as you cry out, and you feel a release already building. You could say it was the much needed tension relief or how long you’ve wanted Joel like this, but it’s undeniable that he is about to make you come faster than you can ever remember with anyone or even yourself.

“Yeah, you like that,” he husks. “All wet and needy. You just let me take care of that.”

“I think I’m gonna come,” you squeak out.

“Yeah?” His face lights up with an eager hunger. “Come for me, sweetheart. Lemme see how much you like my hand, and we’ll see what else I got that you like.”

You grind in sync with his rubbing, and your pussy clenches hard and deep inside, feeling so intense you could swear it’s pulling on your stomach muscles with each contraction. Everything is a hazy euphoria as your orgasm tears through you. You’re vaguely aware of Joel’s running commentary to himself as you come down from your high. Murmurings of “pretty when you come for me” and “look so good like this.” You whine when he removes his hand, but he just chuckles and goes back to kissing and nuzzling your neck.

“You gonna let me see it or am I just allowed to feel it today?”

“You can do whatever you want to it,” you breathe, drunk on pleasure.

“Mmmm, just like I thought. Trouble.”

He turns and lays you on the couch. You feel weightless and warm. He asks if it’s okay to tug your pants down, and you draw another chuckle from him when you impatiently start shoving at it yourself. He pulls them down to your thighs and drags one pant leg all the way off before discarding them completely. He sucks in a sharp inhale when he leans in closer to your soaked pussy.

“Fuck me that’s pretty,” he murmurs under his breath. 

He drops a leg off the couch so he can crouch forward and rest his cheek against your thigh. You nearly launch off the couch when he presses a soft kiss to your clit. “Sshhh sshhhh, I got you. So sensitive, sweetheart.”

“I can’t help it,” you pout.

“I’ll be real gentle, okay? I just wanna taste you.”

“Okay,” you say back in a hush. “Lemme feel your mouth.”

He grunts at the invitation and hovers just next to your glistening core. “Look at me. Wanna see your face when I eat this pretty pussy.”

You oblige and prop yourself up slightly on your elbows until you’re holding Joel’s gaze. Your head snaps back when he flits his tongue just inside your slit, and you have enough mind to crane your head back down to look at him like he asked you to. His grin is wild and devilish, eyes locked onto you and waiting for you to look at him again before he’s lapping slow strokes up and down. 

You’d always thought that if you ever did end up getting with a guy that they wouldn’t be as skilled at going down on you as the girls you’d been with or even want to at all based on stories you’d heard from others. Apparently neither applied to Joel because you can barely keep yourself conscious of anything but him and his mouth as he devours you with a genuine enthusiasm that only further turns you on.

“Feels so good,” you whine.

He groans in approval, and the added vibration nearly sends you over the edge right then and there. He yanks your lower body closer to him so he can drape your leg over his shoulder, and you realize the loud, pitiful whimpers and moans floating through the room are coming from you.

“Look at me when I make you come,” he urges.

You hold eye contact right as he latches onto your clit and sucks with wet, pursed lips, and you’re freefalling again. Your entire body droops against the cushions, hands grabbing Joel’s curls as he rocks his head back and forth to work you through your high. He gently laps at your release, slipping his tongue around and inside you and suckling every drop until you’re limp and worn out.

Your head lolls to the side, and you watch as Joel grips a large bulge in the crotch of his pants. He almost looks pained as he squeezes, and your eyes widen at the size of his outline.

“Fuck, are you okay?”

“Just tryna…. tryin’ not to come, sweetheart,” he grits, leaning back to sit against the couch.

You scurry over to him and palm him through his pants. “I want you to come, too.”

“This is about you tod—” He lets out a ragged exhale when you clumsily stroke the outline of him.

“Please. I wanna see you.”

He obliges with an okay, sweetheart, and you keep your expression in check when the heft of him falls free. You’ve never seen one before, but you’re pretty sure that his is bigger than average. You awkwardly grip a hand around it and gently tug up and down.

“Show me how to do it,” you whisper.

He presses his hand around yours and strokes faster, but it feels a bit dry. You spit onto the tip of it, and his face is something you wish you could capture forever. Brow knitted, mouth hung open and low. Looking like he’s indebted to you and astounded all at once. The added lubrication makes your hands move faster, and you watch curiously as his balls start to pull up into themselves.

“M’gonna come,” he warns, and a few seconds later he’s erupting all over himself and both of your hands with a guttural moan.

It’s unfamiliar and arousing to see the thick ropes of cum spurt and splatter everywhere, and you watch with unabashed interest. You’re only pulled away from examining the way his stomach rises and falls as his breaths even out when he slings an arm around you and pulls you into a kiss.

It’s slower and more deliberate than before, and you taste the tang of yourself on his tongue. You get into a lazy, sated rhythm, exploring and learning one another, until you both eventually slow to a stop.

“That was really nice,” you say in a hush.

He grins and nods. “Yeah, it was.”

“I feel so good.”

“Mmmm, me, too. Wanted to make it about you, but I just got so fuckin’ hard tasting you.”

You giggle and cuddle up against him. “You looked so hot when you were coming.”

“Same to you times ten. Looked like an angel singing when you came all over my fingers and mouth.”

“The devil was an angel, too, you know,” you joke.

“Like I said earlier: trouble,” he laughs. “Just my kinda trouble, sweetheart. Just my kinda trouble.”

Thanks for your patience on this one. I will be slow responding to anybody who comments or reblogs because of irl shit, but I will do my best. Thanks for reading.

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[bird-inacage]

Only Friends: Sand's Reaction to Ray VS Boeing

I know some people will be annoyed that Sand wasn't more forceful in telling Boeing to leave him alone. In my opinion, this isn't really surprising. Sand's biggest strength and weakness is his kindness. He'll make concessions for people, even those who hurt him. Ray is a prime example. Why would his ex be any different?

Boeing's Dubious Intentions

It's glaringly obvious just how uncomfortable, stiff and exasperated Sand's body language is during their second exchange. This is someone he shared his ultimate dreams and passions with, which must have made the betrayal even more devastating. We still don't have the full context as to how this all went down, but I'm sure Sand hasn't forgotten that Boeing chose to leave him. Compared to their first re-encounter where Sand appears rattled and somewhat flustered, here he seems to display a more resolute lack of patience, possibly after reminding himself of Boeing's true colours.

This doesn't erase the fact that Sand had feelings for him once, cared about him once. Sand didn't choose to end the relationship, Boeing did. So there would have been unresolved feelings that Sand had to process alone in the aftermath. For Boeing to have the audacity to swan back in rightly warrants a less than lukewarm response.

Even so, Sand shows Boeing an incredible amount of grace when he certainly doesn't have to. He tries to calmly but firmly ward Boeing off. "State your business". "Just forget it. I don't think I'll go." "Just friendship. That I can give you." He makes it very clear that Boeing can find him at the bar but nowhere else. He's trying to establish a distinct boundary, which Boeing swiftly disregards.

Sand's Unease: Where Past & Present Collide

The way Sand is reacting says to me he desperately doesn't want Ray involved. He seems eager to keep him well away from Boeing. Sand could have chosen not to mention his ex's sudden reappearance, but decides to be upfront with Ray about it. I think Sand's turmoil is a sign of worry over what Boeing may do, rather than an indication of indecisiveness over his own feelings. The reason I say this is because Sand doesn't show any warmth, residual affection or happiness in seeing Boeing again. He looks mostly wary, unnerved even.

I can also see why Sand would try to refrain from openly displaying his feelings for Ray in Boeing's presence. If he exhibits just how much he cares about Ray, whose to say whether Boeing may pull another stunt like he did with Mew/Top and try to pursue Ray instead just to be messy. The way Sand looks at Boeing is laden with suspicion and uneasiness, particularly when Ray is around. This is really noticeable when Boeing first addresses Ray - Sand's whole demeanour gets much colder and standoffish.

We don't know precisely what Sand is afraid of - that Boeing may target any ill will at Ray? Or that Ray may be affected by his ex flaunting details about their history which could cause jealousy? Things are going really well between Ray and Sand right now but it's possible Boeing could try to stir up a misunderstanding or create conflict between them.

Ray's Protectiveness: "Deal with him or I'll do it."

Ray knows better than ever what Sand is like. He's all too aware of just how painfully kind and caring his boyfriend can be, often to his own detriment. Boeing is keen to exploit this very fact by trying to appear imploring towards Sand, "You never yell at me." Ray is also acutely familiar with how Sand struggles to say no to those he cares about.

Whilst Ray observes angrily, I like to think this comes from a place of being mad for Sand more than anything. If he's seen their entire interaction play out, he'll notice that Sand has not once initiated physical contact with Boeing. He doesn't shirk him off, but he certainly doesn't respond either. He keeps his arms firmly planted at his sides, and yet Boeing keeps trying his luck. Something about the way Boeing behaves with Sand feels like he treats him as a plaything - someone he used to have wrapped around his finger. Perhaps he thinks that the power he used to have over Sand still remains.

Sand's expressions also feel loaded with shame, as if he's repeatedly chiding himself for being foolish enough to love someone like Boeing, who so cruelly tossed him aside. That somehow he feels partly to blame. Maybe this is a Sand he doesn't want Ray to see. Yet here Ray is, on the side-lines, taking all this in.

From their very first interaction, Boeing is trying to undermine Ray. You can see Ray's growth as he doesn't confront or make a fuss, but chooses to respect Sand's wishes and instead stays quietly hidden to keep watch. He looks to Sand for confirmation he'll be okay on his own before leaving. Though he can detect something isn't right, he allows Sand the opportunity to handle this first.

As soon as he sees Boeing trying to cross a line, he steps in. He's not going to permit Boeing trying to drag Sand off somewhere alone, he'd rather keep the enemy directly under his nose.

What I'm hoping to see in Episode 12 is protective Ray to come out full force. I've said this before but the entire series has been Sand looking after Ray. Whereas this would be a great opportunity for Ray to look out for Sand, and to teach Boeing a lesson at the same time.

That eye contact in the last scene was so loaded. Ray's gaze is a silent threat- 'That's my man you're looking at, don't get used to it. If you're really stupid enough to try anything on my watch, I'll tear your neck out.' Don't ever underestimate Ray, he's small but feisty.

[sepublic]

            Kinda enamored by how much Willow’s arc and its whole resolution comes from being loud, messy, and emotional; She self-actualizes by being openly angry, and as scary as it can sometimes be, expressing frustration is key to Willow’s happiness. It’s encouraged and mandatory for her to ‘hold a grudge’, and Willow isn’t really punished for it. That’s not something you see in a lot of female protagonists, and there’s also the added layer of her being an Asian girl; And Asian girls, alas, are expected to be quiet and demure, and often fetishized for this as they grow older.

         A lot of Willow’s suffering can be attributed to her trying to keep the peace; Not lashing out against Amity’s condescension in their debut, nor bringing up her anger towards Amity in S1B because it’s both uncomfortable to her, and I imagine because Amity and Luz seemed happier for their friendship! So Willow’s all about just keeping quiet, because that’s better than vocalizing and manifesting things; Surely it’s wrong to hold onto anger, surely that is the unhealthy part?

         “Out of sight, out of mind” is what Willow says in response to her memory photos. Even a simple gag about her ignoring the bones she’s walking on when meeting the Bat Queen is indicative. Willow thinks she’s content quietly accepting what her parents want and not resisting, because that will ‘keep the peace’, right?

         But we have glimpses of that frustration; Like that moment in Understanding Willow, where Inner Willow sarcastically asks Luz if she’d enjoy witnessing the falling-out between Willow and Amity that she’s been so curious about. I love Luz, but her concurring despite her reservations, as well as her general actions that episode, definitely showed her flaw of still somewhat seeing things as a magical fantasy adventure, where Luz is so enamored by the novelty of what’s going around she forgets the (for lack of a better term) human element that she should prioritize. The jeopardy isn’t a jeopardy, it’s an opportunity for adventure!

         Yet Willow doesn’t think so, especially as someone for whom this is mundane, having grown up with it; So this eventually culminates in her calling out Luz in Wing it like Witches, for basically seizing control of Willow’s conflict with Boscha in order to play the hero and enact her own cathartic comeback on Boscha. Obviously Luz does legitimately care more about people than being the hero and meant well, so she does accept her wrongdoing and atones for it, and Willow appreciates the gesture enough to forgive.

         And that’s the thing, the resolution for both of them comes when Willow snaps; When Willow is angry. Willow is supposed to be ‘unpleasant’. I think a lot of Willow’s character is an insistence on being submissive and palatable for the sake of others, and when she became more open as an athlete, surely she solved her problem, right?

         But by designating herself as the mom friend of the group, Willow just traded one form of repression for another, seemingly more empowering, kind. But Willow is still focused on prioritizing the needs of others, being the leader people need her to be, once again keeping the peace by solving problems and minimizing her own. Being open means being vulnerable, it means introducing Willow’s issues into the mix and that’s not peaceful.

         Yet Willow’s happiness isn’t about being peaceful, it’s about being open and defiant, it’s about being messy and emotional and obvious. She tries to overlook Amity’s condescension in Labyrinth Runners because Willow doesn’t want to jeopardize their healing relationship, she wants to appreciate Amity’s effort, but eventually she has to express her anger, and is validated for that. Willow speaks her mind, rather than maintaining the peace between her and Amity, because it’s not even a real peace, not at the cost it inflicts upon Willow anyway. Willow recognizes Amity’s effort, and she’s grateful for that at least, but it also isn’t working and if this is about Willow’s sake, then she should say as much.

         Willow’s big arc in For the Future has her openly wail, tears all over the place, over how much she misses her dads. Willow is used to being a wallflower, overlooked and not drawing attention to herself; She made the first step by being a leader people follow, but Willow still hid an important side of herself. While Willow does snap and rant at Boscha during the climax of her repression, it’s interesting that she isn’t made to regret it; If anything, even after opening up to Hunter and Gus, Willow happily reminds Boscha that she still isn’t finished with her. Willow’s still holding onto a ‘grudge’, if that’s one way to put it, and that’s good!!!

         It’s a lot like Luz’s arc in the series finale; These two girls of color realizing that it’s okay for them to be angry, to speak their mind, to vent their frustrations and prioritize themselves. Belos pitifully implores Luz to make ‘peace’ by helping him, but Luz isn’t some white moderate; She’s not going to let grievances go unaddressed for the sake of order, and neither does Willow. Willow has emotional threads she feels are unresolved, and that matters more than sparing someone else’s feelings, even if they do mean well. 

         Sometimes, these two really, truly don’t owe anyone anything; Luz is allowed to speak out and complain to Eda, and is rewarded with things like Hexside and a more transparent mentor. When Luz doesn’t do these things and worries instead about what her mother feels, it contributes to her horrific depression, until Camila implores Luz to not worry so much.

         Willow is so used to minding others’ feelings by not getting in the way of theirs, or coddling them; But her being a dependable leader isn’t mutually exclusive from speaking her mind, if anything she needs to call people out sometimes, so both they and Willow can face an uncomfortable truth they weren’t aware of and/or denying.

         And I think that's really important for girls of color to be told that they aren't jeopardizing unity by addressing grievances, nor are they also the aggressors for responding; Because girls of color especially are told to keep quiet and let certain things be forgiven for the sake of the community. But they're not riling things up, they're calling upon justice to prevent more issues from occurring, to end this silent violence that calls itself peace. As Eda puts it, they have a right to be upset, and it contributes to the larger theme of communication, so loved ones can actually work with problems they’re aware of.

[utilitycaster]

i think it's telling that so many of the responses to imogen's convos with liliana and laudna were 'this is kinda fucked up and i am fascinated by it and am enjoying it' and but the response to THAT was like 'STOP trying to make everything toxic, ugh fandom never should've learned therapy speak'. like. ignoring that's NOT what that is, people are pretty clearly interacting POSITIVELY with these moments but because what they're enjoying is the parts that are messy, that's somehow bad too???

YUP! There are definitely people who use therapy speak inappropriately, including about Imogen and Laudna, and honestly I pretty specifically avoided using the word "toxic" (or "codependent") about their most recent interaction, but like...there is nothing wrong with enjoying the relationship for being messy! A good deal of the people who are calling it toxic or messy are people who support it and enjoy it! A good deal of people who don't particularly like the relationship for being flat and bland and the conflict constantly fizzling out into nothing, myself included, perked up at yesterday's conversation! It was fascinating: Laudna went to comfort Imogen and told her she loved her, and Imogen's response was to say "oh, you love me? well then why did you go running off to Delilah the second we were apart? why did you lie to me a second time [Laudna did not lie to her the first time, which by now Imogen knows]?"

I don't actually think Imogen's opinions re: Delilah are inconsistent - I think she very specifically started becoming uncomfortable after encountering Delilah in the middle of the night in Whitestone (and I think Laura said as much on a 4SD too), and so her previous assertions about digging into their power sources are not hypocritical. However, yeah, I think we should talk about how both of the two big kisses between these characters are specifically Imogen trying to cut off an emotional speech from Laudna - I don't think it is intended as manipulation, but rather coming from a place of profound fear, but that's still something you need to deal with because this is now three pretty significant cases of kicking the can of conflict down the road and it's only snowballing. I think we should talk about how actually maybe it's valid that Imogen, who has had to make a lot of difficult decisions regarding her engagement with Predathos's power and could be risking losing her powers through her actions, is frustrated that Laudna hasn't done the same with Delilah, but neither of them are working it out. Imogen is letting an assassination of her mother go forward - and I agree with her choice - and Laudna hasn't done anything to extricate herself from Delilah in 30 years despite expressing interest early in the campaign. Imogen is about to lose her mother because her mother declared her reliance on a potentially evil power as an inevitability and wouldn't listen to her, and Laudna's now doing the exact same thing.

And on the other hand, again, Laudna hasn't lied to Imogen. Imogen cut off Laudna's angry, hurt, and extremely valid rant about being betrayed by Bor'Dor by asking to kiss her and so Laudna, trying to make Imogen happy, never worked out these feelings and they've just been building up. Laudna can't express her fears to Imogen because Imogen will demonstrably cut her off. If Imogen is disgusted by Delilah, and that's not going away, what does that mean? Like, is the love enough? I don't know? Could be, but not without actually having a means of resolving all of these extremely valid hurt feelings, and they don't have that. And maybe some of us would like to have some resolution, and are getting real tired of the particularly dim children going "uwu let me have my cottagecore stardew valley dream you all are such MEANIES let people like things" which. Again, if the fact that other people want different things from this relationship is genuinely preventing you from liking things, that's entirely your problem, because I like all kinds of things other people dislike. If you cannot stomach any dissent from your personal interpretation and perceive it as an attack, that says a lot of things about you and none of them bode well.

There is a deeply frustrating tendency that is not limited to this fandom, nor to discussion of Imogen and Laudna, to deny that traumatized characters can hurt other people. You see it with some of the dumber discussions of Ludinus that presume he is specifically a survivor of Aeor (valid as a theory, but unconfirmed); his (hypothetical) trauma does not negate how many other people's lives he's ruined. Percy is deeply traumatized but he did still introduce the gun to the world. Fjord is traumatized but had he willingly completed Uk'otoa's unsealing that would have caused untold damage. Astrid is traumatized but she's still done terrible things as a Volstrucker. FCG and Yasha are both traumatized and both were not even in control of their actions when they caused their worst harm, and they both feel terrible about what they've done. I mean, touching on this episode, it is not actually a contradiction to say both "Liliana is traumatized and has been indoctrinated by a cult and is a victim of said cult and genuinely believes she is doing this for Imogen's benefit" and also "Liliana is a fucking shitty mom." These are both true. This is what cycles of abuse and generational trauma look like. This is what that "blorbo-centered morality" is; suddenly when it's your favorite character they can do no wrong and every explanation becomes, instead, an excuse.

I've been talking a lot about the harassment in this fandom and it really is like...look, I don't know if this harassment is coming, from some of those partaking in it, from a personal trauma. I do not want to ascribe shitty behavior to mental illness, because some people are just assholes. But if it is - it doesn't make it okay! If you are lashing out and sending hate because you project a lot of your own trauma onto Imogen or your own relationships to that of Imogen and Laudna and you perceive every bit of criticism as an attack on you, guess what! You're being a fucking asshole by trying to hurt other people and it does not ultimately matter that it might come from a place of your own hurt and you need to stop.

I've been going off about this and related topics all morning and so I do want to step back and say that I believe this is a relatively small group of people with an outsized toxic impact. I do think that many people are enjoying the relationship for its complexity and unhealthy, messy aspects, that most people would love to read more Imogen meta that covers her as a whole, complex person and not as a tee hee just a silly guy girlfailure. But yeah, I think everyone is getting increasingly done with the group of people who throw a tantrum and retreat into the most idiotic See Spot Run-levels of conflict fantasies whenever there's actual grit and friction and mess in the relationship.

[harrysfolklore]

another year

a/n: hi guys happy new year ! this blurb is inspired by the songs “another year” by finneas and “new year’s day” by taylor ! i really hope you like it <3

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Glitter covered the floor as upbeat music played all over the rooftop you and Harry were currently in, a handful of close friends and family gathered to say goodbye to 2022 and celebrate the upcoming new year.

You had a lot to be grateful for as you took in the last moments of 2022. It was the year that made you realize that love is not something that knocks on your door, it just barges in, and as you reminisced about all the moments you spent with Harry this year, including your first 'I love you', first anniversary and first holidays together, you grew emotional over reading the last page of a wonderful chapter of your life.

However, you were excited for the new year that was about to start, knowing that it'll be filled with moments next to the love of your life. From a stranger's eyes, it would seem like yours and Harry's relationship took off faster than an airplane, but the way you could draw each other with your eyes closed proved that what you had was strong.

Your train of thought was interrupted by two strong arms wrapping around you and a familiar scent that you knew all too well, belonging to the man that made the last 365 days worth it.

"I was looking everywhere for you, thought you'd ran off to find another bloke to kiss when the clock strikes 12." Harry said as he leaned his cheek into yours, making you tilt your head and place a kiss on his jaw.

"I thought about it, but none of the blokes around the area have a bank account as fat as yours." you joked for a moment, feeling his chest vibrate against your back as he let out a small chuckle.

"So that's all you want me for, the couple of dollars I have on my bank account?" he joked back, putting an offended tone on his voice to go with his act.

"That and your fantastic arse." you made him chuckle again and place a couple of sloppy kisses to your check before falling into a comfortable silence for a bit.

You were in a less crowded area of the rooftop your friends rented for the celebration and the loud music that played on the dance floor was just background noise for you, and as you stood wrapped up in your love's arms, feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath he took, your only wish for 2023 was to spend every minute with him.

"What's on your mind?" Harry said after spending a couple of more minutes in silence.

"You know, just thinking about how believing that Jesus Christ was born to save us it's an awful lot of pressure for a baby and that's why New Year's is the superior holiday." you shrugged after speaking, making Harry let out a laugh once again.

"You're mental," he began, "Are you drunk already?"

"Nope, I've been having mocktails all night, I'm not in the mood to get hammered." you said as you turned around to have a proper look at him for the first time since he approached you.

He looked absolutely dreamy, cream colored trousers and black button up shirt adorning his body, along with his sparkling green eyes and red tinted lips from the glass of wine he had a few moments prior.

"That's good, saw NyOh barefoot in the lobby with her heels in her purse, she's hammered already and it's not even midnight" it was your turn to let out a small chuckle at the your friend and her way to celebrate the new year.

"Any resolutions for the new year, baby?" Harry spoke again, running his hands through your arms as a way to warm you up a bit, the chilly air kicking in and making goosebumps appear on your skin.

"I don't really believe a resolution's gonna change me," you began, "But I would love to be a bit more open to the though of failing, you know? I just want to be a little less of a perfectionist and let things be a bit messy if they have to be." you shrugged and a smile appeared on Harry's face, he felt proud of your statement.

"What about you, lovie?" you let him pull you into his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist and feeling his strong ones take over your shoulders.

"Honestly, to have the gorgeous girl around my arms next to me for another 365 days." his statement made your heart melt, your wish was the same as his.

"You're such a sap, you know?" you threw your head back to look at his eyes, the sparkle on them still present.

"And I love you more and more each day, you know?" and without further notice and before you could reply, he crashed his lips to yours, making you savor the aftertaste of wine from his lips, he moved his arms from your shoulders to grab your face with both of his hands, deepening the kiss.

You pulled away after a few more seconds to speak, "Easy there, tiger. You can't shag me before midnight." he rolled his eyes with affection for a second, placing a final peck to your lips.

"I can shag you whenever I please, thank you very much." It was your turn to roll your eyes and lay your head on his chest again, listening to his heartbeats softly and feeling his hand caress your hair.

"You know, you take the piss at me for being a sap, but right now I can't find poetic ways to say that I hope this lasts another year" he spoke again, letting his words linger in the air and making your heart melt once again.

"I have no clue of where I'll be next year, but I want to be next to you for as long as you'll have me, lovie." you told him withe the softest voice you had, allowing yourself to be vulnerable with him.

"Who's the sap now, huh? Aren't you just a softie, baby?" he teased you for a minute, kissing the side of your face obnoxiously and tickling your sides a bit.

"Let's gather with the rest, It's time for the countdown." you ignored his remark and grabbed his hand to drag him to where everyone was getting together to count down the seconds before 2023.

Placing yourselves next to Mitch and Sarah, Harry stood behind you with his hands on your shoulders, his tall figure towering over you.

"10..9..8.." Jeff, the host of the night, made everyone chant along with him, excited grin's on everyone's faces as they got eager for the clock to hit midnight.

"5...4...3...2...1! Happy New Year!" everyone around the room erupted in cheers and celebratory claps, Jeff even popping open a bottle of champagne.

Harry's hands on your hips made you turn around to crash your lips into his, and in that moment you knew you wanted to start all of your years this way.

"So, another year?" He breathed out, pressing his forehead against yours and his hands not leaving your face.

"Another year." you promised, and with that your lips were against each other again.

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[shmothman]

coming through for the vash prompt! immediately thought of vash w/ num 20 ❤️

Blossoming Romance Prompts

20. clumsy attempts at flirting

this reminds me of something I’ve been wanting to write for ages now 👀👀 (I know it’s supposed to be “blossoming romance” but... hear me out... established relationship...)

(Vash the Stampede x Reader, rated G, 739 words)

“So,” comes a voice from just behind you; a voice belonging to the tall man coming to lean against the bar beside you as you raise an eyebrow. “Come here often?”

You bite back a laugh. Of all the lame pickup lines…

Turning to him with a slight smile, you take in his messy hair, the way his grin shows off a peek of sharp canines, the way his bright blue eyes scrunch up with his smile, and you fight down a blush that threatens to rise in your cheeks. He really is the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

“Actually, I just got into town,” you tell him, pretending not to pay him much attention as you sip your drink.

“What a coincidence,” he says, and the sound of his voice sends your heart fluttering. “I did too.” Now he pretends to examine his nails, lowering his voice to a languid drawl: “I’m a bit of a drifter.”

Your lips twitch upward. “Oh,” you say, “a drifter. Must be a hard life.”

“Oh, it is.” His eyes dart upward to meet yours, smile turning sly. “Don’t get a lot of comfort, out in the wasteland.”

Despite everything, your heart pounds at the look on his face. You ignore it and hum a noncommittal tone. “Handsome guy like you, I doubt comfort’s in short supply.”

“Maybe not the kind I’m looking for.” 

“What are you looking for?”

He grins like sunshine. “Why don’t you join me on the dance floor and I’ll show you?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest. “Alright, cowboy, lead the way.”

His smile gets even wider as you tip back the rest of your drink, leaving your glass on the counter in favor of taking his hand. He helps you down from the stool, his gaze heavy as he tracks your full figure—down and back up, slow and purposeful—and now you can’t stop the warmth from rising in your face, coloring the tips of your ears.

You don’t miss the happy sigh he lets out as he leads you to the cleared area of the bar where a few couples sway to the sound of the radio, and you don’t miss the look in his eyes as he pulls you closer, lifts your hand to brush a kiss across your knuckles, meets your gaze from beneath long lashes. 

“Charmer,” you accuse with a smile.

“Guilty as charged,” he returns. Then, his prosthetic hand rests on your waist, and he’s turning with you, sweeping you into his embrace, chest to chest as he grins down at you. His voice is so soft now, so quiet as he says, “this is the kind of comfort I want.”

You know your emotions are plain on your face: an adoration you can’t even pretend to hold back… but the same is in his eyes, too. Still, you can’t help the way your lashes flutter as you pitch your voice low; “you sure it’s all you want?”

This time, it’s his turn to blush—and red is such a lovely color on him. He recovers quickly, though, his grin going dopey. “Why, pretty stranger, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were offering something.”

You sway with him, warmth tingling from your head to your toes. “And what if I am?”

“Then I’d say I’m interested.”

A thrill of anticipation runs through you. “Wha’d’ya say we get out of here?”

“I say yes,” he answers quickly, resolutely, and you giggle. 

He’s clearly excited, buoyed as he practically drags you across the bar, single-minded in his purpose. You shiver as you step out into the cool night air with him, but he only smiles back at you, wraps his arm around your waist, leans in to brush his lips against the shell of your ear.

“I love you,” he sighs happily.

“Vaaash,” you laugh, playfully pushing him away. “We’ve only just met!”

“Ah, ah, ah—” he grins back, “I never told you my name!”

You pout. “I can’t know the name of the handsome stranger who’s taking me back to his room?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you later,” he teases with a wink. 

“Alright,” you relent, unable to keep the smile off your face for long. 

He clears his throat as he gets back into character, puffing out his chest and deepening his voice. “So,” he says. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?”

[augustjustice]

It's What's Inside!!!! is good!!!

It really is!!! I got the chance to watch it Friday, I've just had a crazy hectic weekend so couldn't respond until now. But I really, really liked it, and I'm so happy you did too! So relieved to have a good bodyswap flick that isn't afraid to do some cool things with the premise.

Some spoilery thoughts below the cut:

You mentioned this in your liveblogging of it, but I really liked the editing style here and how it drew attention to itself! The freneticness of it did a great job capturing both the imitation of social media they were at times going for and also some of the chaos of the premise as it went off the rails in the latter half. And I thought they did a great job depicting what anxiety can be like with some of the filmic techniques they used, which I know the director has spoken about wanting to tap into with this movie.

Some of those tricks especially worked well with the bodyswapping concept! I liked the moments when the camera peeled back the layers to reveal "who was inside." At the time when they didn't show Forbes, I thought they were just playing 4D chess with us, keeping who was who somewhat concealed. That worked really well looking back with the eventual Beatrice reveal at the end.

The way the film layered in roleplaying/desire to be someone else was deftly handled, I felt. I think it was smart to kind of anchor the movie in Shelby and Cyrus's relationship troubles with his continued fixation on Nikki being at the center of it. The entire friend group's dynamic being so messy with many of them clearly still romantically and sexually hung up on each other really heightened everything, and it also opened up some interesting questions about physical vs. romantic desire. Like, the fact that Cyrus was obsessed with Nikki regardless of "what was inside" (🥁) is...telling. I also thought it was fantastic to have a film acknowledge race as a complicated component of identity when it comes to bodyswapping! Gender is often played with in this trope, but that was the first time I had seen media try to tackle that element of things.

One thing I liked the most about the movie is that the events had real consequences. I've never seen a piece of media actually engage with the question of what would happen if someone else died while inside your body, so it was exciting to see that tackled and to have an ending without a neat resolution. It leaves you as a viewer to ponder their fates and what happens after this, which I really appreciated.

Also, brief shout out to the acting! Of course that's always pivotal in these movies, but the cast did a stellar job of telegraphing who was who even when those characters were trying to conceal their identities from each other.

Overall, fantastic movie! Definitely going into my rewatch list of bodyswapping films.

[madarasgirl]

Madara SFW Alphabet

Happy Valentine’s Day! Madara doesn’t celebrate! So we bring Valentine’s to him.

Tried to come up with words to some letters that are a bit different. Have fun!

A- Asking you out

He’s quite awkward but acts nonchalant and indifferent. You were possibly unaware he was romantically interested. He knows he isn’t a great flirt, so he hides this by being forward and blunt like he normally is, making a date invitation sound a lot more like an order.

B- Body part (Favourite)

Are not his eyes. While he acknowledges their power and utilizes them to devastating effect, each Sharingan upgrade was derived from significant personal loss. His Sharingan is a reminder of his greatest losses and failures. Even his Rinnegan was only obtained after a lifetime of exceptional bitterness in his heart.

His hands are more favoured. Not only do they get him through regular stuff like the activities of living and taking care of you, they help him carry out many of his amazing feats, like forming hand seals, performing taijutsu, and wielding weapons.

C- Cuddles

He is affectionate in private with you when he no longer has his public image to maintain. He enjoys lengthy, wordless hugs anywhere in the house, as long as it’s with you –by the entrance, lying together on the couch, in the shower. He’s the one who will nuzzle you and hold on for a few more moments when you’re ready to part and do the next thing in your day. Your presence and touch drive his demons away.

D- Dominant MADARA is uber dominant. That’s what the big “D” in his name stands for, aside from the obvious. He likes making the major decisions in the relationship and would be upset if he wasn’t consulted. He is however easygoing on the more trivial choices in daily life and readily goes with whatever you decide. Careful, he will take advantage if you’re too agreeable with him. Don’t be his doormat. Remember, he likes to be challenged so he can prove he’s right.

E- Emotions

Expresses his feelings through physical or practical means. That includes defending you from enemies, acts of service (ensuring your coffee is made the way you like it in the morning, taking care of laundry from time to time so you won’t have to worry about it), sex, and through lingering non-sexual touches. Madara ensures you are clothed, fed, and have a safe place to sleep. You will be provided for and know you’re loved, even if he doesn’t gush about it. Madara isn’t the best with words unless he’s waxing deep philosophy or roasting someone.

F- Fighting with S/O

Madara’s not going to hit you, because let’s be honest. If he were to strike you in an argument, you would likely get seriously injured and/or die. This drama king often practiced conflict resolution through battle and getting himself beaten up (which sometimes he let happen, like with Gai so he could get his adrenaline rush), so he will let you hit him, on the other hand. I don’t advocate abuse from either partner, but Madara would let you hit him if you chose to out of anger until eventually, either he stops you or you run out of steam. At this point, he’ll try to talk things through, even if he is harsh and blunt (with no clue how to make his words sound nicer) and this first attempt may not resolve your differences.

G- Good Morning (how does he wake you up) Usually he gets up early and leaves you sleeping after giving you a kiss. On other days, if neither of you have anywhere to be that morning, he stays in bed with you in his arms until you wake up naturally at an hour when you’ve had enough sleep. After memorizing your waking expressions, he kisses you all over despite your attempts to dodge him because you have morning breath.

H- Hypertension

Something that irritates and gives him a high blood pressure is a messy environment. Madara is an orderly person who probably has OCD. If you’re messy, he will try to rearrange your stuff and teach you about organization, until you can’t find your stuff due to his meddling. Since Madara wants you in his life and you’re not changing your ways, eventually you and him will call a truce in some areas of the home/in life where you get to have your way and he will turn a blind eye.

I- In Labour (and Delivery) He’s a nervous wreck and a bit of a monster, even if it isn’t the first child you’re having. Madara already lost too many people and he’ll be damned if he loses you too. It doesn’t matter to him if childbirth is much safer today than in the past. He yells and glares at all the people trying to help you, feeling helpless because he isn’t useful in a medical setting. This is his way of attempting to exert some control over the situation. He’s a disruptive menace and would have been thrown out long ago if anyone was capable of such a feat. Depending on your demeanor and stage of labour, maybe you snap and demand he leave. Otherwise he will bear your crushing grip on his hands without a single complaint and whisper words of encouragement and love to you throughout the entire course of labour. He’s civil again only after mother and baby are safe. Wait, but then he’ll be in over-protective papa mode. Never mind!

J- Juvenile

Madara is silly when he’s happy, which admittedly isn’t often. A friendly spar gets him going, while challenging him in dumb things (ex: a race, whoever can eat more of something, etc) will bring out his sense of competition and more childish side, provided whoever he is competing with provides some sort of resistance. He loves a good fight, even if it isn’t really a ‘fight.’

K- Kiss

Madara is a passionate deep kisser when given the choice. He prefers taking the time to explore you properly and unwind, which he only does in private. On rare occasions in public, he may pull you aside for a chaste kiss when he’s feeling emotional for you. He’s a visual man and likes to peek at your kissing face.

L- Little ones He loves children despite their fear of him. It’s one of the only times he has any semblance to being soft. Madara would love to have his own children with you. He is also the type to adopt kids and be a mentor to them. He is involved in his children’s lives, ensures they are trained properly, disciplined and is a firm, yet fair father (or father-figure). He will not be as cruel as his own father, not wishing to perpetuate the harsh style of upbringing he endured.

M- Macho

This silly man is a dramatic show-off. At home, he’s casual about his strength, offering to help lift heavy things and open tough objects. Whenever you happen to catch Madara training, he flaunts flamboyantly and needlessly performs much fancier techniques to flex for you when he’s sure you’re watching.

N- No (Deal breaker)

Do not lie or betray him. Madara highly values his bonds. It took so much for him to trust and become open with you. Therefore, he holds you to a certain standard. He expects you to reciprocate and be loyal and honest with him. He will give you the world and all of him in return.

O- Openness (when does he start revealing things about himself?)

Not any time soon. This man is paranoid and only trusts himself and a few of his closest kin. In fact, you should feel honoured if he even deigns you worthy enough to speak more than a few sentences to at a time. Madara telling you the deepest secrets of his heart? You’re more valued than you’d ever understand. Now that you got him to open his mouth, be prepared for an earful and him to not shut up.

P- Protect

Madara is at his heart a protector. Everything he does is about protecting others, even hypothetical future generations (which later morphed into a twisted plan to take responsibility for all humankind and forcing them into a dream world). He loves having people depend on him, which gives him purpose. He is generally peaceful until anything threatens those he swore to protect. He will ruthlessly destroy those things without remorse.

Q- Quizzes (how much does he remember about you?)

Everything, including all the small details about you and even if he’s quiet when you tell him things casually in passing. You’ll be the one to forget anniversaries or that you have an appointment tomorrow where you are supposed to bring extra shoes, not him.

R- Random Headcanon

Madara takes care of stray animals, sometimes bringing them into his home for the ones in direr need in order to feed, medicate, wash, and care for their injuries before releasing them. He’s a kind man at heart and someone has to care for those weak, forgotten beings. His previous rescues occasionally visit him in the garden. He doesn’t let his falcons out when his small animals are visiting.

S- Serious

He is seriously serious about his relationship with you, once he figured out he’s romantically interested, wants to be involved, went through asking you out, and is actively courting you (plus the other steps). He’s extremely committed and will try his best. I’ve mentioned before that once you’re his, he’s also yours. It would take a lot for him to give up on you and your relationship, likely a betrayal of unforgiveable magnitude on your part, which he would never get over.

T- Talent(less)

Madara is talented in almost everything and can learn basically anything he sets his mind to. Possessing the Sharingan is a useful shortcut for those endeavors. But what about the opposite? Madara is a terrible fit in any sort of therapist profession where he has to give advice related to people’s issues. Try picturing him as a psychologist, psychiatrist, or a marriage counsellor.

Madara actually has the perfect tools set up to make him successful in each of those fields –a deep understanding of human nature, excellent analysis and critical thinking skills, heck he can look into his victim’s mind with the Sharingan! He sees the problem very clearly. His issue comes back to his lack of talent in social interactions. His delivery of his diagnosis to patients would be interesting. It's way too blunt, and when coupled with his amazing insults, his patients end up more traumatized and with more problems than they started with. Perhaps his help leads to a divorce.

U- Unrequited Love

I am (very) biased, but how can anyone not love Madara once they get to know him as a person beyond his reputation? He has so many great personality traits once you get over a few of the less positive ones haha.

Unrequited love will be very painful for Madara, even if he’ll be accepting of this. He dwells on his undesirable aspects and why you shouldn’t be together. He holds this pain to himself and lets it fester, but goes on with his life and ambitions, keeping an eye out on you from a distance. No one loves harder than an Uchiha. There will likely never be anyone else who’ll replace your position in his heart even if he wants to forget you.

V- Vulnerability

Madara presents a stoic facade, but he’s truthfully very sensitive and prone to be hurt by the ones he loves most. He remembers all your interactions, even your conversations down to the exact wording. Depending on the conversation and the health of your relationship at the time, he ruminates over your words and may take things out of context. Beyond the tough exterior, there’s that sensitive man who feels excruciatingly deeply. This vulnerability leads to him feeling hurt, even if he doesn’t show it until much later, when his emotions boil over and he pettily throws your past words back at you in spite.

W- Wanderlust

Madara enjoys traveling. He is more open-minded about people from different backgrounds than other shinobi from the Warring States generations. If there was peace and he wasn’t wandering the world as a bitter missing-nin, if he didn’t have the responsibilities as clan leader and was not founding a village, he’d be very interested in experiencing different cultures and customs.

If he could hide his scary aura and murder vibes, he’d appreciate the anonymity of people not knowing who he is and getting to live with some normalcy. If he had his beloved Izuna (somehow) and S/O with him, this would already be picture perfect to Madara.

Y- Yearning (what he does when missing you) When he’s away on missions, he replays his Sharingan memories of you. Some of these were captured during random endearing moments when he was feeling especially soft for you. They keep him warm on his darkest days, reminding him there’s still someone at home waiting for him, someone who needs and loves him for who he is. They give him strength and help him stay sane. He can’t wait to come home to you.

Z- Zzz (sleeping)

Madara doesn’t sleep much. Have you seen his eye bags? When he finally gets some shut-eye, he’s the model shinobi. It’s as light as a cat’s. You can’t sneak up on him. Even if he was sleeping, he wakes and knows when you stir in slumber and when you’re dreaming. It’s almost impossible for him to sleep at all without you.

[musical-shit-show]

Can I request 36 and 39 from prompt list 2 with Beetlejuice? I adore your writing sm🛐 and I’m in desperate need of some angst.

no other shade of blue

Pairing: Beetlejuice x Reader

Inspiration: Prompts #36 (“stop pushing me away.”) and #39 (“don’t blame me, you know what you signed up for.”) from Prompt List 2

Warnings: alcohol consumption, cursing, angst, sexual references, beej and reader are kinda both assholes

Word Count: 1,550

Author’s Note: Sorry this took so long, anon! I know I say this a lot, but it’s been really hard for me to find creative inspiration these days. I’m going to blame the weather. But luckily now that the holidays are over, I might finally take my resolutions seriously and write more. Who knows!

Anyways, I love writing angst so I really need to do that more often. If you’d like to read more, check out my Masterlist and About Me page. And if you’d like to make a request, I have several Prompt lists for plenty of inspiration! As always, thanks everyone for the support. I really want to get better at writing this year, so that requires me to actually, ya know, write. Hopefully I stick to that! Happy 2024 and happy reading!

“So, you got a boyfriend?”

You couldn’t help but groan as you downed the shot he had so graciously bought you. He was a friend of a friend of a friend, and you were getting drunker by the second.

Your actual friends had decided on a dingy bar in the city that night, but you couldn’t help but look at the time nervously as they happily clamored around the pool table behind you. It was getting late.

“Oh, what an interesting and complicated question, Darren,” you replied, doing your absolute best not to slur your words. You exhaled, your elbows digging into the top of the bar. “Yes and no.”

Darren couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. He was cute, but definitely did not seem above taking advantage of a drunk girl with an ambiguous relationship status.

“Situationship?” he probed, pulling his beer towards his lips. You didn’t answer. “Been there. Can be fun, but…messy.”

A dry laugh escaped your lips. Messy didn’t even begin to cover it, but you didn’t have enough hours in the day to explain it to this guy. Nor did you want to.

“Yeah,” you said, toying with the shot glass, ���He can be sweet but…I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side if I were you.”

“I’m tough.”

“Believe me, it’s not worth the trouble.”

“I’d like to decide that for myself, thanks,” he drawled, his eyelids heavy as he glanced towards the door. “Wanna get outta here?”

Before you knew it you were slammed up against the side of a building that made up a dimly-lit alleyway, the brick digging into your back as Darren kissed you aggressively.

Your eyes fluttered, trying to focus on the task at hand. But your attention turned the flickering streetlamp and menacing fog that seemed to be encroaching upon your impromptu hookup.

He nipped at your neck, and you couldn’t help but let out an involuntary moan. An action that you would certainly be paying for later.

“Shit,” you muttered, hearing a low growl in your ear. He was close, and you could only imagine the shitstorm he would cause if you continued to make out with this random. 

You cursed the day you ever listened to Beetlejuice. He was persuasive in more ways than one, and if you didn’t act fast, things would get ugly.

“Hey,” you said as Darren came up for air, “I have to go, but, uh, I’ll call you?” He looked at you a little disappointed, but after a few moments and an awkward number exchange, you were left alone.

You looked around, making sure no other living person was in earshot. “Alright, show’s over, asshole!” you goaded, growing angrier by the second, “Come on out now.”

“You’ll call him?” an indignant voice bellowed, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Beetlejuice was nothing if not dramatic.

Ever since you summoned him—accidentally, you might add—the ghoul had been nothing but a thorn in your side. Unfortunately for you, you also happened to be drawn to the passionate energy that came with that kind of adversarial relationship.

It was a problem you knew would be better addressed in therapy. Instead, you thought it’d be a better idea to fuck the ghost. 

“No, you idiot,” you shot back as the demon appeared, floating angrily above you, “You’ll make sure of that, won’t you?”

Beetlejuice’s feet hit the ground, his hair glowing bright red in the moonlight. He drew closer to you, a predator stalking its prey.

“I’ve been watching you all night, babe,” he hissed, your back hitting the wall yet again. Your body instantly tensed, the smell of death and decay overwhelming your senses. He shook his head, a mix of arousal and disgust flashing on his pale face.

Your eyes bore into his as they glowered with envy. “So?” you drew your shoulders back, straightening your spine, “We’re not together. Who I fuck or don’t fuck is none of your goddamn business.”

He laughed indignantly, “You think I’m threatened by that guy? Please.” His amber eyes flashed briefly with a twinge of insecurity.

“Then why go through the trouble of scaring him off, hm?” you goaded, “Afraid I’d finally found someone better?”

Beetlejuice couldn’t help but feel wounded. Sure, you both fought. A lot. But you couldn’t stay away from each other for long. You’d fight, you’d banish him, and then like clockwork, you’d call him back and reconcile, which usually involved ripping each other’s clothes off.

Despite never defining the relationship, the two of you couldn’t help feel possessive over one another. And because you had a vindictive streak, you didn’t care about using other guys to make him jealous.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” he growled, pressing a large hand against the wall as he inched closer to you, “And we also know that I’m a better fuck than any of those other breathers combined.” You inhaled, stifling your fear and shoving it back down your throat.

Beetlejuice’s gaze softened. Even for a dead guy, he could pick up on your mannerisms like no one else. “You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that? I just wish you would stop pushing me away. A demon can only take so much back and forth from one human.”

Your eyes narrowed, your face inching closer to his. You studied his expression for cracks in the façade that he loved to put up. It was just one of the many ways he liked to fuck with you.

“Ah, the ‘woe is me’ bullshit,” you smirked. “Don’t blame me, you know what you signed up for.”

Even in the dim streetlight, you could see Beetlejuice’s mood shift from pure scarlet anger to a melancholic swirl of violet and maroon. It would’ve been almost beautiful if you weren’t so pissed at him.

“And if I remember correctly, you were the one who didn’t want to be tied down,” you scoffed in disgust, reminding him of his many trysts down to the Netherworld, “It’s not my fault you can’t take the same bullshit that you dish out to me.”

You typically had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy; but recently, you could feel the jealousy between the two of you reaching a boiling point. You were looking for a fight, and you knew hooking up with another guy would send Beetlejuice over the edge.

“Drop the tough guy act, sweetheart,” he was almost pleading with you, ignoring the harshness he exhibited only moments ago. “You know I don’t want anyone else.”

‘Not in the ways that matter, anyways,’ he thought, unwilling to tack on that addendum verbally.

You felt hot tears forming in your eyes, but you held them back. You’d be damned if you let Beetlejuice see you cry, after all the vitriol you’d spat at him.

He finally backed away from you, giving you room to breathe. You peeled yourself from the brick wall, unsure how to proceed.

Beetlejuice considered sweeping you off your feet; maybe an attempt at wooing you would make you both forget the meaningless squabbling.

After all, that was how the two of you communicated: passionate fights and even more passionate sex.

Not exactly the healthiest relationship. And by the looks of it, this…thing between you was starting to take its toll.

“I don’t…I can’t believe you,” you muttered, your heart pounding in your chest. “W-We fight constantly, and I’m awful to you, and…I don’t like who I am when I’m with you, Beej.”

All red from the demon’s hair was instantly replaced with deep purples and blues. A sign of complete melancholy.

“I get it, babe,” he said, his voice dripping with despair. “What can I say? I bring out the worst in people.” He sounded disgusted with himself, like he knew this would happen eventually and he did nothing to prevent the inevitable.

It didn’t matter that he loved you more than any other breather. He couldn’t tell you. It was too late.

Beetlejuice knew he was broken, and now he had broken you too. And the thought of that made him want to die again and again.

You tried to speak but no words were able to escape your throat. You wanted to apologize, to tell him that no other guys mattered, that you could start over and figure it out.

But you couldn’t.

Instead, a strange sob came out, and you tried to shield yourself in the shadows of the alley so that he couldn’t see you. Beetlejuice cocked his head, a sad expression on his pale face.

“I should, uh, probably go then,” he said, his gravelly voice low. He usually relished in making breathers cry, but now he couldn’t even bare to look at you as tears streamed down your face.

You nodded, signaling that you wanted him to leave. “I’m…fuck, I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t really know what else to say, the air thick between you.

You turned around to face him, salt stinging your eyes. But he was gone. Not even a stupid puff of green smoke left behind.

‘It’s for the best,’ you thought as you walked home alone.

Of course, you knew that thought wouldn’t stick; you knew you’d last three days maximum before you summoned that demon again.

Old habits die hard.

*****

Thanks for reading! Please like/comment/reblog if you enjoyed!

[natasha-in-space]

I got a yoosung angst prompt cuz its fun to put the most sunshine guy through the worst traumas

How do you think his relationship will mc be post Bad Ending 3. Yeah its the ending where Unknown kidnaps and tortures him. Lets assume that he eventually got rescued and nearly died in the process (cuz Unknown badly hurt him in a fit of rage) but he survives....he lives

But whats gonna be after that how the whole ordeal is gonna affect his relationship with his S/O because it is going to be tough for both the parties. Ofc yoosung who was directly affected by the ordeal will need alot of therapy, and love and support. But it was quite tough for mc too.... if anything yoosung route does, it shows us the fact that losing a loved one is traumatic, nearly losing one too as well and MC also was traumatised and is guilt ridden (maybe i should have tried harder to stop him had i knew this would happen is a constant thought in her head) she also becomes somewhat protective of him because he has been through enough and deserves to get the best of the world.....but while mc is well intentioned in her actions....it somehow stings Yoosung, he is the one who should be protecting her, he should be the proactive one in the relationship....thats what he thinks. It makes him feel small....besides he can also see her running herself thin for him....and he just wants to not be a burden to her...

I rambled alot im sorry but i wanna see your take. As always i just wanna let you know I love your writing

Well, the unfortunate thing that I just can't help but bring up is that... Bad Ending 3 happens due to the player's (MC's) actions. That's not how it works in real life, of course, but with the structure of MM's storyline, that's how it plays out, and that's how it's meant to be interpreted by the player. In that ending, MC prioritizes themselves first, and encourages Yoosung self-sacrificial tendencies for their own benefit (or, well, safety, to be more exact). MC's actions are what led Yoosung to sacrifice himself in that ending in the first place. And that's also the reason behind his seeming resolve with what Unknown is putting him through in the aftermath.

'It's okay. I'm protecting them. They wanted me to keep them safe. So they wouldn't be scared. I need to stay strong for them. I'm doing this for them. Because I love them. Because I don't want to be in the dark and not do anything like it happened with Rika.'

So both sides of the argument are dealing with a messy tangle of emotions to deal with. And if you do want to imagine a better resolution to all of this, it'll probably involve a lot of conversations between the two.

Your dynamic between each other is unbalanced in that particular ending. And that's something that needs to be fixed. MC should take more care of Yoosung's well-being first before their own and believe in him, while Yoosung needs to work on his anxious attachment style.

It is difficult, though, because Yoosung's worst traits got the best of him as a direct result of MC's actions. The situation is pretty similar to those who want to imagine a better solution to Jumin's 2 Bad Ending. While it's possible, it needs to be acknowledged that MC is the one who needs to put most of the work in.

In my opinion, what would their relationship be like? Well, if we assume that MC does feel guilty for everything that happened, that's a lot of emotional baggage to deal with. Yoosung got hurt. Bad. Both physically and mentally. And he'll probably dismiss it too. It's important to remember that in this particular ending, he's devoted to you to an unhealthy extent. Not the same as in his 1 Bad Ending, but in a very self-sacrificial way. He'll probably just smile at you and say that he's happy you're safe. That that was the only thing he ever wanted. And that he held out for so long because he remembered what you told him, and how scared you were.

So... it's a pretty heavy situation for MC to be in. It's one thing to have your loved one disregard their well-being for you, but it's completely different when it's the direct consequence of your own actions.

Many apologies need to be made. Even if Yoosung doesn't understand why you're apologizing to him. Lots of talks to be had. And lots of very slow and steady progress to be made.

It's possible to come up with a better resolution to this mess. But it'll require a lot of work and patience from both MC and Yoosung. It does make a very interesting story to think about, though!

[katboykirby]

Drop some facts about SoloKTan immediately. (It’s the only thing that can make my day better)

-💚

OH okay ☆

Have a rough summarisation of their backstory from S1 ~

We know that Satan and Solomon canonically knew each other prior to the events of the first game (Solomon is seen to already be in casual, friendly relationships with both Satan and Leviathan during the early chapters of OG)

Once the exchange program started, and they were both introduced to MC (Kirby), the first few weeks remained mostly amicable. They both had a reciprocated/mutual interest in Kirby, but things were still relatively low-stakes at this point.

As time went on and that interest progressed into actual feelings, that's when things started getting messy. As it became more clear that there was something potentially serious here, that there was a very real possibility of an actual relationship, both Satan and Solomon started butting heads more and more often. Satan was the first to shift his view into seeing Solomon as a rival, a direct competitor for Kirby's attention. Solomon played it off as if he didn't even consider Satan to be genuine competition, but he was aware that the Avatar of Wrath had the undeniable advantage of actually living in the same house as Kirby.

On Kirby's part, they differ from the blank slate MC in the games in that Satan and Solomon are the only two love interests for them. So the canon 11-way split between suitors is reduced to only two, creating a pretty intense love triangle (since all the romantic tension in the games is now attached to the 3 of them alone with no other buffers)

To say that this stresses Kirby out is a dramatic understatement. They are an introvert who tends to avoid being the center of attention whenever possible, so suddenly having the full focus of both these men is pretty damn overwhelming.

Kirby likes both of them a lot, and at first they think that "Well, I would be happy no matter who I end up with. They figure they'd better just let Satan and Solomon bicker it out, and let one of them make the first move themselves.

This doesn't work.

Satan and Solomon are both very aware that Kirby returns their feelings, which means they're also aware that Kirby is unlikely to choose between the two of them for fear of hurting the other with rejection. They had been okay with that so far, more concerned with fighting each other for the "right" to a relationship, but they both eventually realised that if they didn't do something different, eventually one of them would probably just kill the other.

(Or, more likely, Kirby would get sick of their endless rivalry and give up on them, leaving them both behind)

The "solution" that Satan and Solomon eventually logic themselves into, after things have been continuing to escalate without any foreseeable resolution, is to just do it the demon way.

"As the saying goes, when in the Devildom, do as the devils do" is how Solomon explained it. When Kirby didn't understand what he meant, Satan espouses that "it's not entirely uncommon for more than one demon to be courting a potential mate at the same time. If it's agreeable to you, we'd both like to court you until you decide on a partner between the two of us"

"You mean. Date both of you. At the same time? Like, sharing?"

"Yes, we determined that was the fairest way"

"Until you make a decision on who you'd like to have as a partner"

Kirby obviously thought that this sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. "And what if I don't make a decision?"

"Don't worry, you will" Satan had already assured himself of his future victory.

"And no hard feelings when they choose me, right Satan?" Solomon was probably even more confident than his rival.

"Sure. Fine. Just remember that you guys chose this"

Art by @shootingstarrfish

[twig-tea]

Love in the Big City Part 4: Having Trouble Letting Go

Processing part 4 was so much harder than the other three parts, for me, and I think the clear and concrete shift within the narrator and how he narrates in this part is why. Young has spent the last 3 parts pretending he doesn’t really feel much of anything; in my Part 1 write-up I called him an emotionally unreliable narrator and this is the first part where it feels like the emotions are present in the text rather than inferred based on my own experiences with the situations he’s described. It’s telling that his descriptions of Gyu-ho are, in his words “preserved under glass” (love that we both felt compelled to call out this quote @wen-kexing-apologist)  but his descriptions of his emotions grieving Gyu-ho in this part are the closest we get to true emotional vulnerability from our narrator.  

This chapter is also “about” Young’s relationship with Habibi, but it’s very clear that this relationship is only important to Young in that he was involved with this person while he was processing his grief at losing his relationship with Gyu-ho. I don’t know that the narrator would say that, but it’s how I read this section. Young's interactions with Habibi feel much more reminiscent of his relationship with Hyung in Part 2; lacking in vulnerability.

This is about a Young who is grieving what he lost by letting Gyu-ho go. The grief is ugly, and messy, and doesn’t come to any real resolution. But the fact that he’s actually feeling it, like @lurkingshan discussed in her post,  gives me hope that Young is able to find happiness again in future, and this time allow himself to keep it.

This reminded me a lot of the ending of The Cornered Mouse Dreams of Cheese, except we didn’t get to the part where the protagonist sits himself on the stool in the middle of the apartment, we’re still at the place where he’s looking at the ashtray in his garbage bin. This chapter left me so deeply sad for this reason, even while intellectually I see it as a critical step towards catharsis, processing, and eventually change. When I think about it, the ending of the book does give me hope for Young’s future happiness, but not with Gyu-ho, and not anytime soon. 

There are a few things that stuck out to me in this part; the way Young is ironically the most “present” he’s been in the whole novel and is also so dissociated from what’s happening in his present and is instead reminiscing about his time in Bangkok with Gyu-ho; The way Young tells the story about getting antiretrovirals in Thailand and how he wishes he’d known about the post-exposure prophylactic properties of PrEP (reminding me of my own sentiment about how I wished he knew about and had access to things from my Part 3 write-up); and the way Habibi feels so much less formed as a person than the other characters central to the other parts–which feels intentional and like result of good writing, rather than a gap. 

Regarding the adaptations and what I’m looking forward to as per @bengiyo’s questions, I keep thinking about the visual metaphors in this book and how well they’ll translate to screen: the blueberry stains on Young’s fingertips in Part 1; the pesticides and park grass in part 2; the bloody lip in part 3; and the crashing lantern with Young’s wish to be forever with Gyu-ho are all ones that come to mind. I’m also thinking about the many different ways Young managed to convey the concept that he was "toxic"–the latest in Part 4 being the dream in which Gyu-ho is taken over with dark ooze–and how heartbreaking I’m going to find those visually represented. With a visual medium so much more can be done with those recurring themes, and so I suppose the part I’m most excited to see in the adaptations is how the creators fill out the world that, by nature of having been a book written in the first person, does not have a ton of description. That gives the adapters a lot of room to have fun with the details.  

@hyeon-comb put it better than I could come up with, that one of the overall takeaways I’d love people to have from this book is that it’s ok to have made mistakes, to live with regrets. Like @bengiyo said in his post, I know Young, I love Young, and I see myself and many of my friends in Young, Jaehee, and the T-aras, and I want them to be happy (or, at least, happier) for their own sakes.

I loved the Acknowledgments and Translator’s Note (both of which appear at the end of my epub version of the book, which is why I’m discussing them now) and how both talk about the thrill of being depicted on the page. I want to call out how critical this is, and how much I loved that aspect of reading this book. This story felt queer, and queer in ways that were familiar to my experience (even though I’m not a man nor Korean nor ever been to Seoul). But I still share so many of these experiences, and have friends who have experienced even more. And the power in having those experiences represented accurately in a story is one that is still rare enough that it’s thrilling every time. I also love Young’s sense of humour and his devastating reads; I’ve loved his character since “you all have faces like rat dicks” followed by the table flip. 

I think this book does an incredible job of telling a story from the perspective of a character who have been the instrument of their own unhappiness and who is struggling with the result but thinks it was the right decision–and letting us, the audience, experience his emotions while also having enough distance to see where he’s not able to have perspective, where he’s made assumptions, and where he had value in the relationship before he gave it up. It’s not an easy balance to walk. I hope that this book gives others some perspective on the choices they may be making on behalf of others that they don’t realize they don’t have to make.