#pretty much all i write of them these days is self-indulgent mushy BULLSHIT

[farahblack]

“darling!” dirk shouts from the bedroom, “have you seen my tie?”

todd, who is in the kitchen, cutting the crusts off sandwiches, yells back: “which one?”

“the one with the little lobsters? it has stripes!”

todd cuts the crust off the final sandwich and debates whether he should cut them all into triangle halves as well. “have you checked the tie drawer?”

“who do you take me for, todd?”

“did you?”

there’s a brief moment of shuffling around, and todd smiles to himself, knowing that dirk is rifling through the tie drawer.

“yes! it’s not here!”

“check in the laundry basket,” todd says, and slices a sandwich in half. “the clean one, dirk. if you wear a dirty tie i’m divorcing you.”

“oh, hardy har har,” dirk responds. “you love me too much and you know it.”

todd rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “damn right i do,” he says, just loud enough he’s sure dirk hears it. he finishes cutting the sandwiches, and neatly arranges them in the tupperware container he’s set aside.

dirk kisses todd’s cheek when he walks into the kitchen, still adjusting his tie, before jumping up on the counter. todd half-heartedly swats at his thigh; one day he’ll convince his husband that it really is unsanitary to put his ass where they make food, but judging by the smug grin he receives in return, they’re both well aware today is not that day.

today dirk’s jacket is salmon, paired with a crisp white shirt and the pink lobster tie. he has a golden earring dangling from his right ear. todd remembers how dirk begged him to pierce it -- it’s the gay ear, todd, come on -- and smiles fondly.

“penny for your thoughts?” dirk says. he’s reached behind himself for the picnic basket, nudging it toward todd.

“it’s a beautiful day,” todd remarks, tucking the sandwiches into the basket.

dirk makes a strange face -- it’s a bit of a fond smile and a pained frown rolled into one -- and says, “my god, you’ve turned into an old man, husband.”

“such is the influence you have on me,” todd says in a terrible british accent, hand pressed to his chest as he swoons, which has dirk letting out a snort-laugh and pushing half-heartedly at his shoulder.

“i can’t believe i put up with you.”

todd offers his hand to dirk, which he takes, hopping down from the counter. “that’s my line.”

dirk presses an obnoxiously loud kiss to todd’s cheek. he grabs the picnic basket and loops their arms together, half-dragging his husband out of the kitchen. on their way out the door, todd stalls to grab his keys from the turtle-shaped key bowl, locking the door behind them. he unloops their elbows and reaches for dirk’s hand, swinging it between them as they make their way down the stairs.

it’s a beautiful day out. in front of their building, todd pulls his husband in by the tie and presses a firm kiss to his mouth; they’re both smiling too hard for it to last long.

[yoongspd]

Pillowtalk; knj

Genre: friends with benefits au, angst

Word Count:3k words

Warnings: implied sex

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Author’s Note: Hi, Tabitha @ga1axydefender! Thank you for helping me improve my work. I’d realized the dull spots of this fic through your comments. Also, credits to @pjmnnie for the raw image of this header.

If you think it’s good or bad, I’d appreciate if you tell me as I’m quite new to writing Creative Fiction. Enjoy!

___________

“Uhh, Joon?”

“Hmm?” he mumbles, slightly-built arms still wrapped around you.

You bite your lower lip out of habit. It was either you piecing your thoughts together or you trying to find the courage to utter your words. “Can I crash on your sofa? I don’t want to walk home alone tonight.”

“Goodness, ____!” He chuckles as he turns and leans on his side to face you. “News flash, ____, we just had sex. What’s wrong with you staying over? Especially on my bed where, well, we’ve fucked? Quit your couch bullshit. You’re always welcome here, sex or none.” His eyes are fixed on you. His mind flashes him a supercut of yours and his casual trysts together over the past weeks, but his lust-strained thoughts are overpowered by a curious amusement of your mind’s workings.

You cover your face with your left hand, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. You hated what this all implied. “God, this will sound pathetic and paranoid,” you mumble with a certain hint of annoyance.

Namjoon snickers. “I’ve known you for some time, I wouldn’t be surprised anymore. Well, because you kind of are paranoid.” This earns him your infamous death glare.

“Ugh, nevermind. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Shut up. I’m sure you do. Go hand me a serving of your daily introspection.” He says all this with genuine encouragement. He shifts on the bed once again to make himself more comfortable.

Despite your annoyance, you fight off the small smile trying to tug at your lips. He noticed. And he was right. You liked talking. Not to everyone, that is, but Namjoon became one of the few exceptions. He listened, and he always made it seem like he wanted to hear everything you had to say.

You exhale a shaky breath. “This. Our arrangement, I mean,” You pause to lower your gaze from his pale ceiling to his eyes. You are quick to hide the sudden halt in your chest as you see him engrossed. Cliché enough, you felt as if your lungs were gripped on a chokehold. The atmosphere was in a tight pause for a few seconds. He was paying attention.

You remind yourself that this was Namjoon, he was a good person – scratch that, he was better than majority of the human species – he is always like this. “I know this trope from movies and fiction. We’re obviously friends with benefits, fuck buddies, whatever you call it. And we both know this is platonic,” you ease into the context of what you plan to say.

He interjects, “So? What’s your point?”

You take a deep breath and say in one go, “I hope I don’t scare you away, but like there’s this thing where somehow this sort of thing would lead us towards feelings because of like couple-y gestures. Sorry, I mean, like acts beyond the fucking. For example, sleeping over and… your arms around me.” However, Namjoon seems to have his mind elsewhere now.

“I fucking doubt we’d become that, but I’d like to avoid all possible hazards,” you wrap up, but your words weaken their resolve with every uttered word.

“I get what you mean. I can stay on the couch if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to put you in much trouble. So sorry. Uhh, is it fine if I sleep here beside you then?” You fidget with your hands, avoiding looking at Namjoon directly. “Of course.” Remembering what you’d said earlier, Namjoon releases his arms draped around you much to his regret. But as he sees you loosen up, he kicks at his previous thoughts and longing of having you in his arms. Platonically, of course.

He lies on his back again, staring at the ceiling like you were. It seems the temptation of sleep has abandoned the both of you.

Namjoon gathers the courage to ask, “Why do you say sorry too much?”

The sudden invitation to converse doesn’t surprise you. Namjoon liked to speak of the stars, philosophy, and whatever an aesthetic angsty romance blog dreamt of.

Yours and Namjoon’s eyes solely wander the ceiling, but you talk, “Good question. But do you really want me to start a sob story right now?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well, I’ve actually had some introspection regarding this.”

“Of course you have.”

You snicker at his comment. “You know me so well.” And you send him a huge grin, because well, you love talking about yourself, and he seems to love listening to you. “Uhm, okay. So I think I say sorry a lot because I know I only have myself to blame every time.”

“That’s ridiculous,” despite the interjection, you hear the smile in his voice.

“Maybe for you, but… I guess, this is negatively Nihilistic, all things happening to me are consequences of what I have done,” you defend.

Your words trouble him. To him, it seems you are carrying the weight of the world if you think like this. Now, he sees where your apparent self-hatred sourced its fuel. “Not always. You didn’t choose to be here.”

“Well, not at the start. But there’s always something I can do about things. Had I really not wanted to exist, I’d have killed myself. However, as much as this life is a tragedy, things aren’t always bad.”

“You know what?” You prompt.

You don’t get an answer from him. Nonetheless, you continue, “Whenever I failed something, you know –not do what my mom wants me to have done, she’d find the fault in me. And maybe that was a bit too harsh, but it was logical. I guess there’s always something I could’ve done whenever things went wrong.”

He quotes, “When you’re the leader, everything’s your fault.’ That’s from A Bug’s Life. If everyone thought like that, there wouldn’t be wars.”

“Thanks.”

“But ____, not everything is your fault,” He repeats.

“I know, but I think bad things don’t happen to people if they are cautious enough.”

A brief pause hangs in the air. But you surprisingly don’t feel uncomfortable.

“So when I stood you up at that ball when we were fourteen, did you blame yourself?” He tries to argue. But he also wanted to indulge in your thoughts about him.

“Partly. Had I been prettier or more interesting, maybe—“ “No! No! You’ve got it all wrong. Nobody deserves to be treated the way I did you!”

“You were also fourteen, Namjoon. And you were an immature dimwit. Really, if you’d liked me, you would’ve gone with me rather than pick up another girl when we already had plans.”

“I. was. the. asshole. Okay?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. But face it, these things do not happen to pretty people.”

He punches himself mentally for he was already void of a response. “I’m sorry.”

“Too late. It haunted my self-esteem for the entirety of my adolescence.” You laugh, and he only cringes. It was a total dick move.

“Would you have said yes if I asked you to be my girlfriend back then?” He wonders.

“You never would have. But you know the answer to that if you had asked that girl I killed. Now, good night, Namjoon. Thanks for letting me stay in your bed. Shut up already.”

“Good night, ____.” There was a slight ache in his chest. He knew you liked him so much when you were younger and immature. Would you have been childhood sweethearts if he had kept his promise that night? Maybe, if he weren’t an asshole. You weren’t on the boys’ stupid date list. You kept to your circle of friends and didn’t initiate conversation outside of it. Nevertheless, you caught Namjoon’s eye. Quite a looker, if you look closely. He noted in his head before. Namjoon frowned.

But had you two been together back then, he doubted it would last. Then you wouldn’t speak to him ever again and wouldn’t have what you two had today. He falls asleep contented with his reasoning. He liked this, what you two have now.

–

“Why doesn’t she like me back?” He voices faintly. His words mimic a whisper, but you hear them as they are one of the few things that maintain a presence of life in his room. You are both staring at his ceiling again.

You know he is talking about Carmen from one of his Engineering classes. The kind of girl that never gets caught in trouble. Partly because she would hardly risk herself in those, and partly because she was still careful when she got into them. She was kind, smart and pretty. Average. But the only interaction you’ve ever had with her were your eyes meeting at the corridors, so you couldn’t tell.

“Tell me what she’s like,” You ask instead.

“She never fails to make me laugh. She’s really witty. And— And she has dreams. Like, real dreams and goals for her future.” You can tell he was carefully choosing his words, but despite that, it was clear for you that Namjoon was whipped.

“Wait. How would you know she doesn’t like you?”

He hesitates. “I told her two days ago.”

You laugh at that, “Goodness, Joon, you’re such a sap!”

“And she told me she could never feel the same.” The embarrassment creeps up on him. He felt so mushy sharing a heartache with you. Now, you’re the one embarrassed.

“Okay. That’s it. Goodnight, _____.”

“You can’t escape from me, Joon,” You tease. “What are you, twelve? Confessing feelings and shit like that?”

“This is why I should’ve never told you,” He groans.

“Sorry, Namnam. But, honestly, I can’t see why she doesn’t. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” You turn to face him, offering a kind smile.

He shifts too, the both of you now facing each other. The close proximity charges you with a static you choose to ignore. This was Namjoon.

“So, you’re saying you’re lucky to have me?” He grins.

“It’s an honor,” you jokingly correct, “But I’m only saying that because baby Joon had his heart broken.”

“Nah, you can’t take that back anymore. It’s an honor for me too.” His smile never leaves him. Then, without much thinking, he kisses your cheek for extra assurance.

The move surprises you, and you want to punch yourself in the gut for feeling something you can’t quite identify.

–

“You keep on hating society and its structures, but we make up society, Joon.” You say after you’ve tucked yourself beneath his sheets. Sleeping over after cleaning yourself off had become a shared habit for you and Namjoon. And the pillowtalk was a necessary bonus.

“Yet you still follow the structures as if you don’t have a choice.” He debates.

You glare at him. He was right, but it took him so much ease to judge– as if he already knows all of you. You sigh. “I don’t have the luxury to deviate, you know that.”

“And I do?” He points, quite dumbly in your opinion.

“Haha. I’m not going to stroke your ego.”

“Really, tell me.” He says with a grin stretching across his face, eyes encouragingly squinting from his smile.

“You got that merit scholarship without reviewing for the CETs, right?”

He nods cautiously. He knew this was going to be thrown against him.

“Well, I studied so so hard for that same scholarship. But I received one for financial need rather than intellectual prowess.”

“Hey, hey, that doesn’t invalidate your intelligence.”

“Maybe. But my point here is you don’t have to make much of an effort anymore. You’re literally a genius. So please don’t hate on me when I say you have it easier. Me? I have everything at stake.”

Another pang of ache in his chest. His ego, maybe. “Only in the case of academics. Life is difficult for me too.”

“Maybe.” You respond, though unconvinced.

He nudges your shoulder after absorbing what you replied. “Now you’re invalidating my pain.”

“Yes. I’m aware I’m an insensitive bitch.”

“Why did you want that scholarship so bad? Most of who we know stayed.”

You take a while to respond. This… was personal.

“I wanted to get away. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But often I couldn’t bear living with them. It’s difficult to explain.”

“Once again, do tell me. If you feel like it of course.”

You exhale a bit.

“Well, my mother always made me pretend I was bubbly and an overachiever and that this family was picture perfect when we all knew it was fucking dysfunctional. It was fucking exhausting. She even lies about my achievements. No, she didn’t exaggerate. She lied. She’d say I’d competed in a Math Olympiad in High School. You know I didn’t. And I had to live up to that lie and when I reflected on that, I guessed who I am and was is someone my mother isn’t proud of. Imagine feeling not enough as a child. Then she asks me why I “act” all depressed.”

“I thought she loved you.”

“She does. I think she does. On some days, she supports me. But most of the time, she asks, why didn’t you get that? Like the Merit Scholarship, for example. All my achievements are nothing because they aren’t the best.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Nobody does.”

“You never shared.” He quickly interjects.

“Nobody asked.”

“We were always willing to listen.”

“Namjoon, If I don’t have my family, who do I have?”

You are surprised to feel his hand over yours. You are both connected once again in his bed, but this time it was different. As the warmth of his hand seeps through your skin, you tense up in alarm. This was against the rules.

“The answer is nobody, Namjoon.” You lightly chew on your bottom lip. Regardless of your words, you don’t exert effort to remove your hand under his. His grip only tightens on yours.

“I’m here for you, alright.”

“You don’t know that.” You finally remove your hand from his, and proceed to lift yourself off of his bed to dress up. “I can’t stay the night,” you explain.

“It’s late, I’ll walk you home.”

You don’t refuse, there was no way to change his mind.

–

The both of you pause to look at the river. Calm and serene, wrapped under the subtle radiance of the dawn’s moon. Unknowingly, you and Namjoon share the exact same comfort the river offers.

Staring straight ahead, he says, “____, I need to tell you something.”

Not looking at each other has become a habit. You don’t give him an answer, and only continue to stare at the river. However, you feel him take a long look at you, and you remind yourself that this was Namjoon.

“_____, I think I like you. Beyond friends. I like you beyond what we have right now.”

His words register and you feel as if something has lodged itself in your throat. “Are you messing with me?” You finally croak out, you have decided all of it was bullshit.

“Why would you think that? Of course I’m not.”

“Okay. You’re just saying this because you’re trying to move on from Carmen,” the panic evident in your voice.

He groans at your reply. “I’m not, okay. Seriously.”

All of it still sounds surreal to you. This was Namjoon, and he never before liked you back when you did, back when you still felt. This was Namjoon and if he did have feelings, they should be reserved for people who were still whole.

“I don’t think you’ve thought this through,” you frantically piece together, “If you need a casual fuck, you know I can offer you that.”

“Listen,” He grips your arm. You freeze in response, completely taken aback. “I’ve been starting to long for our conversations more than whatever happens before those. And Carmen was almost a month ago, _____. I like you. It’s that simple.”

His grip on you finally loosens and the silence that remains decides to engulf the both of you. Your mind files all his recent words under the same folder labelled bullshit. Namjoon would never lie, but sometimes he could have errors in judgment. You walk ahead, and he only looks at your frame trying to understand what was going on in your head before he finally matches up with your strides.

–

Before you close the door between the two of you, you extend your “good night” and “thank you”s through, “If what you were saying was not made up fiction, you had easily moved on from Carmen after a month. I can’t be any different.”

Before he can retort, you tersely cut him off, “It’s not simple. And you don’t know that.” You shut your door.

After minutes of the guilt and self-hatred gnawing at you, dreamless sleep finally overcomes you.

Namjoon only picks up on what you meant as he meets the river on his way back. Momentary anger looms over him and he kicks a stray rock into the waters.

–

Kim Namjoon: I’ll stop disturbing you now. Please, let’s talk.

You: 4pm. cafe near east wing.

When he receives your reply, he doesn’t feel the relief he was hoping for. He was muddled again. You had ghosted him for a week after that night he walked you home. And he thought you two were friends already. You’d already known him so well. Even on things he never said out loud.

Frustration is evident on his face when you take the seat across his.

“You know what I think?” He didn’t even bother with a greeting.

You look at him sullenly, you don’t have to put yourself in pain by giving him answers.

“You stick to this notion that if someone actually loves you, they should be sure of it the instant they say it. That they should be absolutely fucking sure that you are all they want. No baggages left. And unless that’s what’s happening, they don’t love you at all. Well, truth is, you are so fucking difficult to love, __!”

Tears spill angrily from your eyes. You weren’t one to cry in front of others, you were always the tough one, always resolute on what you believed in. But this time, he was right. Bull’s Eye. He had laid it in front of you. One of the nightmares which had always haunted you: nobody will ever love you.

“Yeah, well fuck the idea that there actually is somebody out there who is meant to love you. That we were all born in pairs. That’s just another bedtime story mommy told you to rid your mind off the monsters under your bed. Fact is, love isn’t for everyone. I thought you –of all people, what with your screw society’s expectations maxim—would fucking know that! I don’t need a goddamned pep talk on: oh, Susan you are not worthy of love. Because. I. Of all people. Fucking. Know.”

He closes his eyes in frustration. Inhales a deep breath to calm his thoughts. And he meets your eyes again, yours always seemingly unfazed from criticism—always stoic. “You’re wrong,” he finally says.

“And I’m staying to have this forsaken conversation with you. That’s the only wrong thing I said because I am leaving,” you say as you wipe off your tears and put down the money to pitch in for what you ordered earlier.

He sighs again. Repeating the same short ritual of getting his aggravated thoughts in place. And before you push back your seat to cue another unsaid good bye, he once again speaks up. All this, he’s said with eyes downcast.

“You’re wrong because, yes you are such a pain in the ass, but that doesn’t fucking stop me from feeling this way. No, not just feel. I’d fucking choose you today over any perfectly binded fairytale, over and over again, ____.”

You were already halfway towards the café’s exit. But with what he’s said, your feet remain frozen on the floor. You look at his slumped figure, and everything inside you is drowning into a riot. You’ve been through this before. For most parts of you, this was bullshit. Wordlessly, you head quickly to make the leave you promised.

When your room’s door behind you shuts, hot tears silently rage down your face. You’ve never forgotten how it felt when that clenching heaviness tore away on the edges of the void, the center of your chest. But now that you feel it again, the sobs escape louder this time.

You hold a hand over your mouth, struggling to breathe properly. This and the void were all that you knew. You hunch over yourself, and bask in self-hatred. Why were you crafted this way? Why can’t you just love and be loved like others do?

–

Four days after, and your scent still lightly clutched on Namjoon’s unwashed sheets. Its lingering presence serving as a vague reminder of one of his favorite things in the world—his face between your legs. Unintentionally, every breath he takes under his blankets as he lulls himself to sleep only reminds him of what wasn’t there anymore. And as he recognizes you at the seams of his consciousness, he couldn’t help but loathe the world even more.

You didn’t have a clue on what he was going through. Well, maybe you did, but you had invalidated all he felt –all he feels—right in front of his face without even uttering a single word.

That was Namjoon’s truth: maybe he loves you. Because he liked how your mind works. He wanted to hear about your everydays. He wanted to learn the bits of you he couldn’t reach. The sides of you you had closed off. But it wasn’t just about you, for you had listened to him and had understood. You also made him question where he stood, and affirmed him when he’d been too confused. You’d made him feel comfortable around you. He was most of himself. And he’d felt that you liked him most as he was himself, too. Wasn’t this what it felt like to be loved? Now, it was only the end of what could have begun.

Three knocks on his door bolts him up from his thoughts.

It looked like a storm had hit him. Heck, he seemed to be brewing the storm itself for the past eleven days. And so far, he had no plans of rehabilitating. It wasn’t too obvious, but behind his eyeglasses and face mask were bloodshot eyes and a neglected skin routine.

“You look… great,” were his first words.

You were there, and you looked just the same. The same probably unbrushed hair, your mild milky soap scent, usual sneakers, a sweater he already knows, jeans he had preferred off you and actually slid them off of you several times. You were the same, as if it were just another of those casual visits you always made. You were the same, and he had slowly deteriorated as he had spent his time staring at the jagged pieces of himself.

You finally muster the courage to speak. “I don’t want you to stop disturbing me.”

He is now the one without the words. What you said hardly made sense in his head. This was not part of the pattern.

You continue, “I’m still the same, and I don’t want any fixing. But if you want to, maybe we can talk properly this time.”

“Then, come in,” were his second.