#yes I give her a clef chin

[artistocrazy]

You know you’ve done good when she gives you this look 👀✨

[gumballavocadoharry]

Harry and River:

The babysitters club:

I set up blankets and River's old high chair and bassinet for our little guest that was staying here for the day. Gemma's friend, Carrie had a baby girl named Everleigh who was born only a few months ago. She was beautiful with big blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair. She had this cute little smile and a little clef on her chin.

I was excited because I missed having a baby around the house. I mean, I loved River the age he is now and he will always be my forever baby, but it was still nice to go back in time for even a little while. "River," I knocked on his bedroom door. "Are you excited for our guest today? Carrie's coming over today with baby Everleigh, and she wants us to babysit her for today. So that means while Everleighs here, no loud music or voices like yelling or slamming your toys around."

River nodded and agreed to that. "Okay, now with that settled.....want to help take care of Everleigh?" "Sure." I thought that if I included River in the baby caring process, then he would be less likely to get jealous. But little did I know.......he would.

Ding! The doorbell rang and I rushed downstairs to answer it. "Hello Carrie," I said, giving her a side hug. "And how's this little cutie?"

"She's fine, thank you." Hey I appreciate you watching her, I needed this girl's day." I nodded. "I completely understand, I know how it was with River when he was that age." She handed me Everleigh and her baby bag. "She's already been fed, all she needs is probably her diaper changed later on and a nap. Thanks again."

"Of course, it's me and River's pleasure." Carrie kissed her baby goodbye before she left. "Okay Riv, it's you, me and Everleigh now." River smiled slightly, while examining Everleigh. "Isn't she pretty?" I sat down with the tiny baby in my arms and River followed. "You're the sweetest little baby, yes you are the cutest thing." I cooed, making kiss noises then eventually kissing her chubby cheeks.

River furrowed his eyebrows a little, before feeling Everleigh's cheeks with the back of his hand until one of his fingernails nicked her a little, which then made her give way to a soft whimper. "River, be careful! She's smaller than you." River jolted his little hand back abruptly, which made me feel a little guilty. "Oh, I'm sorry for yelling rivie, but she is just a baby."

River smiled and seemed satisfied with my apology and tagged along as I went upstairs to change Everleigh's diaper. "Okay sweetheart, we're getting rid of that yucky diapie." I cooed in my baby voice. I tickled her little cheeks and tummy before undoing her diaper and grabbing a couple wipes and diaper powder. River came in shortly and from the corner of my eye I could tell he had something in his hands.

"Daddy, when you're finished with Everleigh....can you help me color a picture?" I glanced back to River concisely before turning my attention back to the little baby girl. "Sorry babe, but daddy's gotta rock Everleigh to sleep afterwards." River gave a small pout and left. I was do busy on making sure I didn't mess up the diaper change, that I failed to see River's discard. "Okay sweet girl, let's get you to beddy by." I picked her up and started rocking her to sleep, lightly humming soft tunes.

CRASH!

River's loud car chase made Everleigh's whimpers turn into full on cries. Pique rippled through me, as I set Everleigh down and confronted River. "River! I just said I was rocking Everleigh to sleep! Can you please try to find something quiet to play." Exasperation escaped into my tone, more than I would've liked. River's face grew sullen. I left the room and went back to Everleigh to soothe her.

"There, there baby girl...it's okay." Her cries disintegrated enough to put her into her portable crib. I kissed my fingers and tapped it on Everleigh's rosy cheek. I quietly tiptoed out of my room and continued downstairs for a nap. I heard little footsteps, trace the wood against his socks until I felt his presence standing above me.

"Daddy! What about the picture?" My eyes shot open and I turned to River to shush him. "Be quiet, Everleigh's asleep," But I wasn't quick enough and heard her soft sobs coming from upstairs. I furrowed my eyebrows a little at River. "She's awake.....River why don't you go paint daddy another picture okay?" I didn't want to sound annoyed, but I think River sensed that.

He hung his down. "Sorry." I patted his head before jogging upstairs to Everleigh's bassinet. "There, there sweetie...it's alright. I'm here." I peppered her cheeks with kisses before tucking her back into bed. "There you go honey, back to dreamland." I swore, I had seen River standing behind me about to go into his bedroom but then walked away.

I quietly opened River's bedroom door, and found him quietly playing with his toys. I closed the door and went downstairs for a nap. In my spare time, a little before Carrie brought over Everleigh, I had knitted a little sweater for her.

A couple hours later, I was awoken by Everleigh's crying. A hungry cry. I was an expert at this by now from having River. "You hungry?" I asked in my baby voice. "I know you are, and I'm going to get some food in that tummy." I cooed.

I made Everleigh some mashed peaches and heated up her bottle. "I'm hungry too daddy." "Okay Rivie, just let daddy feed Everleigh and then I'll make your dinner okay?" River pouted, but I turned my attention back to Everleigh. "Who's a good girl? Eating her yummy peaches? And you're as sweet as one....yes you are, yes you are." I cooed, making the little blonde baby giggle mercilessly.

"I can feed myself like a big boy," I glanced over to River. "Yes, I know you can."

"Everleigh! You finished all your dinner! What a good girl!" I tickled her under her chin. "You're a special little baby, aren't you? Like a pretty princess!" I scooped her up and pressed a big kiss to her cheek. "Oh, who wants some ice cream?"

"But, my dinner?" "Oh, right. How about a nice turkey sandwich?" River nodded with a small dose of omit in him. I quickly made River's dinner before turning back to Everleigh. I gave her a few small spoonfuls of ice cream before taking her to the living room. "Daddy, pick me up too!"

"I can't River, I'm holding Everleigh....maybe later," River pouted again. "I'm sorry bud, but she needs me more right now. Besides, you have to finish your dinner." River went back to his sandwich, and I set Everleigh down on a blanket and let her play with some of River's big blocks.

"Hey those are my blocks!" River stomped over to Everleigh and snatched them, making her fall over and cry. "River!" My stern voice kicked in. "You give Everleigh back those blocks and go upstairs to you room right now!"

"But dad-" "Now!" River dropped the blocks and ran upstairs to his bedroom. I rubbed my temples and checked on Everleigh. "Are you okay honey?" I handed her a block and kissed her forehead. I looked up to the stairs, contemplating talking to River. But the sound of the doorbell interrupted that.

I opened the door, and saw Carrie standing there. "Hello Harry, how was Everleigh? Was she a good girl?" I smiled and nodded. "She was an absolute angel. A very good girl."

"Thank you so much for watching her! I hope it wasn't too much trouble." "None at all! And you're welcome...she's a real sweetheart."

Carrie looked so prideful once I handed her back her daughter. "Thanks for being such a good girl for Uncle Harry, say bye, bye." She made Everleigh wave her hand goodbye. "Goodbye sweetie. Oh, but before you go...." I grabbed the magenta colored sweater for Everleigh. "I made this for you."

"Awww, that is so sweet Harry. Wasn't that nice of him honey?" Carried cooed to Everleigh, her smiling baby.

Once they left, I immediately went upstairs to River's bedroom. I knocked on his door before letting myself once I heard no answer. "Riv?" His back was turned to his window, and his head was down sniffling. "River, what's wrong?" I stepped closer to him wanting to comfort him, but he turned away. He swallowed hard. I looked over his bedroom and noticed the picture he drew me was ripped in half. "River," I picked up the split piece of paper from the ground.

"Why did you do this?" Ny breath faded a little. He shrugged. "You didn't want it." I sat down next to River. I gently touched his face. "Sure you do that now since she's not here!" He sneered. "You love Everleigh better!" He jolted up from his bed and went over to his dresser in anger. I was shocked. The tone and words that were pouring out of my little boy's mouth were heartbreaking.

"River, I don't love anyone more than you....Everleigh's our friend just like Carrie her mother." He turned around, tears streaking down his rosy cheeks. "But you gave Everleigh my blocks, and you made her a special dinner and knitted her a sweater...but you didn't have any time for me. And you kissed her bunches, but not me." He cried.

My head pinged. For that moment, I had forgotten River was only a toddler. He didn't understand that much about babies and how much attention they need. "I'm so sorry River.....I never meant to not give you any attention. And I am especially sorry for making you feel left out." River wiped his face. "Me and rexie played all by ourselves." He arrogantly boasted.

But there was still sadness in his eyes. I walked over to him with my arms stretched out. I picked him up and set him on my lap. "River, I love you." I pressed my head against his. "I love you, and nothing or no one in this world could change that, okay?" River shrugged.

I furrowed my eyebrows. "Ya know?" A single tear dripped onto my jeans. I wiped River's face and kissed his cheek. I squeezed him harder. "It's true....don't be sad...." I didn't really know what to do to make River feel better. "Rexie's going to eat me, if you're mad still baby...you know how much rexie is protective of you."

A small smile escaped from River, followed by one of my own. I hugged River tightly and kissed him all over his face. "How about some ice cream?" River nodded with a more widened smile.

I scooped him up in my arms and trollied downstairs to a delicious ice cream treat.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 5

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Pairing: Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader (Gender neutral) Rating: T for language and mentions/references to an (emotionally) abusive relationship. Mild, brief violence. Warnings: TW for referenced emotional abuse, mild TW for possible physical abuse (sorry, angry Dani is not 100% gentle with people she doesn't love-love) Notes: Music for this chapter here. If you're following this story and really want to continue reading, but worry about the TWs for this chapter, just send me an anonymous message and I'll write up an alternative version of this post. It's not something I would do without it being requested, but it's also not a big deal so don't feel like you're bothering me if you want that. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Tocatta

Chapter 5: Poco a Poco (Italian: Little by little)

Finding a schedule for lessons to follow proved to be an insurmountable task. Consistency was something that Daniela struggled with greatly, even when it came to things that she genuinely cared about. Things like ensuring you lived long enough to entertain her. Instead of working with you to find a balance that worked for both of you, the youngest Dimitrescu daughter seemed intent on doing things in her own time. Little by little. Which would have been fine, if the two of you weren’t restricted by time.

Fate wasn’t entirely unkind, however. There were still a few things that Daniella recalled from her “youth”, bits and pieces of musical theory, the bare basics of reading sheet music. Not having to teach her proper posture or the structure of a piano would save you a little bit of time. On top of that, you had been informed that, somewhere in the castle, there were a few books of sheet music you could borrow. Assuming you were eventually able to find them, that is. So far they had eluded you, but you hadn’t even had much time to search, as you were still expected to perform your usual Maiden-related tasks.

In the end, it was Daniela herself that proved to be the biggest obstacle in your way.

“Look,” Daniela said one day, barely ten minutes into a lesson, “I think we should take a break… maybe have some fun?” One of her hands is resting on top of yours, the other tucking your hair behind your ear. There’s a smirk on her lips, unsurprisingly, and she’s mere inches away from kissing you. If not for the heavy threat hanging over your head, you would have already thrown yourself into her arms. Instead, all you can do is sigh, turning away from her as you do. “Don’t be like that, sweet thing. C’mon, no one can hear us right now. Might as well enjoy ourselves.”

“Babe. Darling. Buttercup, honey, cute little button on a bear, you are not the brightest bulb in the lighting department,” you replied, holding the bridge of your nose between two fingers. Instantly Daniela is upset, giving you a (thankfully) playful smack on the arm. Before she can protest more you continue speaking. “Your family would not hear us making out, true, but they would definitely hear us not playing the piano. I’m pretty sure your mother already thinks I’m doomed to fail as a teacher, and the last thing I need is to give her a reason to drop the curtains this early into our performance.”

“First of all, I am not an idiot,” Daniela said, a bit of a growl to her voice. “Secondly, what harm can a few minutes really do? Don’t you think I’ve been working hard enough to earn a little reward?” Now she’s holding a finger under your chin, lifting it up, making sure you’re looking right at her. There’s no dissuading her, it seems, as she leans in for a soft kiss. This was one of the more frustrating aspects of dealing with (courting?) her; communication felt like a one-man play, except the audience was as likely to throw knives as rotten tomatoes. Whenever Daniela acted like this, pushing away your concerns in favor of her pleasure, it felt helpless to try and resist her.

So you kissed back, wrapped your arms around her, and hoped that she’d be more open to compromise afterwards. At least kissing her was nice. Even though it had only been a week since you first kissed her, she was already getting better, evidently learning through experience. The passion behind her movements had grown as well, leaving you a tad breathless. Regardless of her odd perception of romance, and her insistence that she knew best, you found yourself charmed by her. It was scary. Terrifying, really, how you felt yourself falling under her spell. Wait. Hadn’t you been in this sort of situation before?... Staying with someone who wasn’t good for you? Why were you kissing her? Why were you starting to tremble, tears in your eyes, mind falling down a slippery slope of memories?

By the time you snap out of it, you’re sitting on the floor, Daniela awkwardly kneeling by your side. What the fuck? You think, sniffling a little. Head spinning, mind reeling, you struggle to form coherent thoughts. Next to you Daniela is unsure of how to help. But she’s trying, sort of, one hand holding your own, the other gently rubbing your back. She’s saying something, the words going right over your head. Understanding her takes times, focus, like tuning an instrument until the pitch is just right.

“I don’t understand, we were only kissing, what happened? Can you even hear me? Is this your way of tricking me into not making out with you? Because that’s a total dick move and-” she rambles, only stopping when you give her hand a soft squeeze. Then she’s meeting your gaze, looking uncomfortable, shoulders tense. “You’ve been weird for a while. Distant. Like you don’t want to touch me anymore. Don’t you still love me?”

There’s real, honest pain in her eyes when she speaks. If the timing had been different… you’d have thrown your arms around her and covered her face in kisses, promising to hold her onto she felt better, promising that yes you cared. You cared so fucking much. But she’s making you exhausted; every second has to be focused on her, not you. Every moment of concern is flipped around until she’s the victim, or at least the one that needs comforting. You didn’t think that she even realized what she was doing. Well, you hoped that she didn’t, wanted to believe that if she understood she’d change.

“Remember the first day we kissed?... how you pulled me close, and I kissed you harder, and we started…. Remember how I made a move and you pushed me away? I’ll never forget the look on your face. I felt like shit afterwards. I should have asked before I tried anything,” you explain, letting go of Daniela’s hand so you could pull your knees to your chest. Somehow you can’t bring yourself to maintain eye contact with her- not right now, not when you could still remember what it felt like to be on her side of this story. “I don’t want to push your boundaries, or make you feel pressured to do something you don’t want to do. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you like that.”

“Oh bullshit,” Daniela snarled, shocking you, before getting to her feet. Confusion doesn’t begin to describe how you feel in the moment as you watch her pace back and forth. Both her hands are clenched into fists, and she’s refusing to look at you. There’s a buzzing sound in the room, faint but growing louder, like she’s a split second away from entering swarm mode. “We’re a couple, aren’t we? Shouldn’t you be able to tell what I want? Shouldn’t it be obvious what I desire, when I’m pinning you to the wall and shoving my tongue down your throat? What more do you require?”

“Holy shit, Dani, I know communication isn’t your forte, but have you really not even considered talking to me? That’s simple, easy, literally the first thing that should come to mind!” You snapped, too in disbelief to keep your voice down. For a moment Daniela stops her pacing, turning to stare at you with narrowed eyes. If you weren’t so mad, you’d be convinced she was ready to kill you. But she doesn’t move to grab her sickle, or otherwise advance on you, instead groaning and tugging on her own hair in frustration.

“Because that’s not romantic, genius!” She replied. Some dots start to connect in your mind, but you lack the full context, as if looking at sheet music with no clefs or time signature. It’s not until Daniela continues that you really understand; and, by extension, realize just how ridiculous this whole mess is. “None of the books I’ve read involve conversations like this. People just… they just love each other! And figure it out as they go along, reading each other’s body language and facial expressions, inferring what they need to know through touches and reactions. Why can’t we do that?”

“This isn’t a fucking book, dumbass! I don’t have powers like you, I can’t just read your mind and figure out what you want. That’s not how relationships work! Communication is key. And you can’t just talk, you have to listen, hard, and understand,” you continued, still on the floor, heart pounding so furiously you thought it might leap from your chest at any moment. As angry as you are, you wonder if you’re being too loud, too angry, wonder if there was a better way to get through to Daniela. Before you can think of a solution the air is ripped from your lungs. Your “partner”/student is grabbing you by the front of your shirt, yanking you to your feet. Instinct makes you struggle against her, as useless as it is.

“I. Told. You. I’m not an idiot!” Her free hand comes up to your face, cupping your cheek for a moment, then pulling away just as fast. When it moves back up she’s gripping onto her sickle. The sharp edge ends up resting against your neck, the slightest movement threatening to cut you open. This is the most Daniela has ever openly threatened you, and in that moment all your anger melts back into fear, tears spilling down your cheeks. A flicker of something shows in her eyes, making you think that even she doesn’t like where this is going. “Give me one reason not to end this right now.”

“... I don’t… I can’t think. I… Why would you?” The words leave you in a rush, even with the pauses, and each syllable makes the sickle press into your skin a little more. There’s sure to be a cut there, though you can’t even begin to estimate how bad it is. The blade is sharp, clearly, and it hardly even hurts as it slices you. Thankfully the sensation doesn’t last long. Once you’re done speaking, Daniela’s grip loosens considerably, hand slowly letting your shirt go. Her other hand takes a few seconds to move, but eventually pulls away without any fuss. For a few seconds she just watches you, eyes filled to the brim with a rich sorrow, mouth open but unmoving.

“No lesson tomorrow. I need a break,” Daniela whispers, barely audible. Then she’s dusting herself off, no longer looking at you, and heading towards the exit. Just like the first time you met, she pauses in the doorway. “How’s that for communication, hmm?” When she laughs, it’s empty, forced. Part of you wants to stop her and ask if she’s okay.

Instead, you watch her leave, unspoken words tangling with your tongue until you almost can’t swallow.

Then your feet move, automatically, leading you to the piano. You sit down without thinking. You touch the keys without thinking. When you play, you play without thinking. It’s just a song, the world tells you, and you have no choice but to play. It’s not just a song, you know this, but you can’t think. Can’t argue against the personification of your isolation, or the embodiment of your trauma. All you can do is let yourself get lost in the music, softly, recalling lyrics from a forgotten time.

I’ve been running all my life, trying to find a place to hide ‘Thought that I had settled down, but I guess things are changing now Don’t make me go, don’t make me go Just don’t make me go, this feels like home

As soon as the last note fades out you stand, wordlessly, and leave. Your feet carry you down corridor after corridor, past maidens working, some of whom gasp when they see you. But you don’t stop, not even when you cross paths with Lady Bela, who eyes you with surprising concern. She doesn’t try to stop you, though, and you doubt you would have cared if she had tried. It’s not until you are within your shared room that you finally stop moving. It is there that you sit, shaking, finally pressing a cloth to your neck. Blood stains the fabric, first in just a few dots, then spreading out. There’s not enough to make you fear for your life, but there is enough to make you cry harder. Washing the wound will sting… so you don’t do that. Soon you will have to return to your work, and the thought puts pressure on your skull, summoning an all-too-familiar migraine.

When you close your eyes, you don’t mean to fall asleep, but that is exactly what you do. And when you dream, you do not wish for nightmares. You never do- and fate never denies you their company.

[bonvoyagenoona]

Countermelody (M) | 03: Syncopation

Countermelody | Masterpost

Word Count: 21,819 (whyyyy am I like this) | read on ao3

Rating: 18+ / Explicit / Mature

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader

Playlist: Seeing as this is a fic about music and all 😏

Summary

This new city has already invigorated your tired bones and shy heart. The people here seem kind and exciting. All sorts of interesting silhouettes are always shuffling about, and you write little stories for each person who passes you by. Even the stationery shop next door is warm and inviting, and you’re grateful that Mr. Kang offers you the manager job on the spot. But you get a funny feeling about things when he shows you the boxes in the back, the ones marked with red tape and the name MIN YOONGI scribbled on top. You wonder what makes this customer particularly special. You don’t know that the process of finding out will make you question why you ever moved here in the first place.

Chapter Excerpt

Yoongi flushes. “Oh.” He blinks. “You said you didn’t want to come to dinner because you have the store in the morning, so I figured you were done for the evening.”

“Then why did you walk me home?”

He fidgets. “It’s late, and, uh, I, uh wanted to make sure you got home OK.”

You raise your eyebrows. Maybe you’ve misread the vibe. “Oh. Well, thanks. That’s really sweet.” But you can’t help adding, “Sorry, I thought you walking me home, especially after the very, um, selfless offer you made this morning, meant that maybe we could---”

“Yes!” he blurts out. “I mean, I didn’t know if you wanted--- that is, I didn’t want to assume--- ”

You laugh. “I did want to see if… if you could… help me with something,” you say, your hand around the doorknob, the door still closed, your body leaning a little, and your chin pointed up at him. “But like you said, it’s late, and I don’t want to keep you---”

“I can help.” Yoongi smiles at your big, twinkling eyes. “My offer is good. Redeemable at any time.”

Content Warnings: Soft and hard smut, including fingering and penetrative sex, but also just like a Yoongi warning in general because my god

Taglist 💜: permanent @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld @greezenini​ @missbickerbocker​ | countermelody @adventuresinwonderlust @min-yus @dearbambideer (taglist open, feel free to add yourself here!)

Special Shoutout: Chapter 03 mood board and title art by the ingenious @purplehearts1996​!! Without giving too much away, I love these pics of Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi, and I love how the mood board captures the light of the karaoke and the nighttime scenes in this chapter! And I adore the title art, with the clefs, and the music notes! Amazing!! Thank you so so much for creating!!

03: Syncopation

“YOU FINALLY HAD AN ORGASM?!”

Jungkook gawks at you as he screams his words right into the mic in his tattoo-covered hand, his voice booming through the speakers, his pupils like specks of soil lost in snowballs, and his jaw unhinged as if he is about to swallow whole the entire order of food and drinks that the waitress has just brought to your private karaoke room.

The waitress freezes at her current 45-degree angle, still gripping the bottle of soju that you’ve ordered, centimeters away from setting it down. She blushes pink, and the bottom of the soju bottle lands on the top of the wooden table with a clomp! 

She hides her eyes from both of you, the forgotten shot glasses on her tray rattling loudly as she skitters away.

You look up at Jungkook from your seat on the couch, the fire in your glare hopefully melting his incredulous snowballs for eyes.

“The door was fucking wide open!” you snipe, crossing your legs, and folding your arms, so angry and embarrassed that tears threaten to form at your waterlines. 

“SORR--”

You lock gazes again, and Jungkook winces. He lowers the volume of the music and lets his arm swing down, taking the mic with it.

“Sorry!” he whispers. “I just… you said you hadn’t… and then you bought all those… and then you still hadn’t---”

The karaoke bar owner shuffles through the door. He looks so upset that you genuinely think he’s going to kick you out and ban you from coming back, but he stops at the table before slamming down the two shot glasses that the waitress forgot to leave for you. He shakes his head in disgust at you both before leaving, making sure to close the door behind him.

Jungkook sits down next to you and sets the mic down on the couch. You look away from him, pouting. He sidles up right next to you and rubs his nose into your shoulder. 

“Hmph,” you mutter, folding your arms tighter and pressing them harder against your ribcage.

He whimpers.

You sulk.

He gently places a hand on your left knee, which is crossed over the right and swinging your calf impatiently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to yell it like that. I was just excited.”

You raise your chin, still refusing to make eye contact with him.

“C’mon Boss,” he whines. “Let’s eat.”

You really wish you weren’t so hungry. 

After forcing him to stew for a few more minutes, you slowly turn to him, and he looks so excited to see your face again that you feel stupid for getting upset. 

The only light in the room is coming from the cheesy karaoke backgrounds on the TV, and they dance across his flawless skin, bathing him in cool sea greens, ocean blues, and beach sandy yellows.

“You shouldn’t feel embarrassed,” Jungkook says, leaning forward and immediately starting to fix you a plate of apology food. “If anything, this is a cause for celebration.”

His incessant blabbering is making it hard for you to stay cross. Jungkook’s voice is adorably raspy because, though you’re now pausing to rest and eat, you both have been singing practically nonstop for the past two hours. His voice is incredible, so much so that you’re surprised that he’s not already in the entertainment business. Ballads. Anthems. Protests. He sang something from every genre and covered all the notes in his range. Plus, he just screamed about the soul-destroying orgasm that you had the night before.

The soul-destroying orgasm that you had with Yoongi.

Actually, you wonder if you should say it that way. Was it really with Yoongi? You were the only one who got anything out of it. Was it more because of Yoongi? Then again, you’re pretty sure that it didn’t really have much to do with Yoongi as a person. From Yoongi? Maybe that’s best. Like a gift. A simple, general one. From a co-worker. Although, that last part cheapens it a bit. Though you’re not sure what, if anything, that means.

You hold your breath, trying to quiet your spiraling mind. You need to get the wording right. Because you’re about to use those words to explain things to Jungkook.

He hands you the plate, and you soften. You huddle next to him and start to eat, deciding to gobble up the lamb skewers and french fries first. As he makes his own plate of food, Jungkook’s eyes dart back and forth between the plate and the side of your face. Even after he’s selected everything he wants, his fingers still seem busy and anxious.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He purses his lips. He looks like he wants to say something, but every time he collects his thoughts, he fails to gather enough courage to share them. 

“Is everything OK?” you ask, concerned.

“I wanna ask you about it, but… I don’t want to make you mad,” Jungkook says meekly.

You smile. And then you chuckle. He’s right. You shouldn’t be embarrassed.

“I’m not mad. Ask away.”

Jungkook brightens, and his thoughts fly out at you, all at once. 

“How did it happen? What did it? Was it one of the toys? Were you on a date? Is that why you were late? What was it---”

“One at a time!” you laugh, overwhelmed.

Jungkook smiles and gazes at you. He’s just so happy, even though his voice has a bit of grit in it when he pedals back and asks, “OK, so how did it happen?” 

You puff out your cheeks and think. “Well… I guess… I couldn’t sleep.”

“What did it?” Jungkook asks next, getting ready to shove food in his mouth. 

“A toy was involved,” you say carefully. 

“So it was one of the toys,” Jungkook nods thoughtfully. A smirk pops up on his face. “Was it just one of the toys, or…”

You try your best to keep your cool, but your face flushes, and Jungkook’s eyes get so big that you can almost hear them stretching, blocking out the quiet sound of the third or fourth karaoke track that you had queued up.

“Were you on a date??” Jungkook asks, not quite learning the lesson from earlier, simply choosing to channel his scream through his tightly constricted vocal cords so that it comes out as more of an exaggerated whisper.

You aren’t sure what to say, but because what comes out of your mouth is, “No?”, his eyes suddenly narrow and fix on you.

“That’s not a full ‘no’,” he replies, his voice and expression suddenly gravely serious. “Are you holding out on me?”

He looks at you expectantly, as if your friendship depends on what you say next.

“I’m talking to you about it now, aren’t I?” you say, and Jungkook eases. 

“So it wasn’t a date?”

“No, it wasn’t a date.”

“But you weren’t alone.”

You think about beanied Yoongi sitting at the foot of your bed.

“I technically had company, correct.”

Jungkook stares at you for a moment, then takes both of your plates and purposefully sets them down on the table. He pours two shots of soju and hands you one of the shot glasses. He turns to face you, criss-crossing his legs on the huge couch cushion and leaning forward.

You clink glasses. You throw them back. You wonder what else you’ll say, now that they’re in your system.

You echo Jungkook’s stance, choosing to tuck your legs next to you instead of criss-crossing them, and resting your side against the back of the couch, your armpit moulding to the top of the couch pillow as you rest your temple on your propped up, partially closed fist.

“First things first,” Jungkook says. “Could I take them in a fight?”

You think of Yoongi in his beanie, and you bark out a wheezing laugh. Jungkook can’t tell why, or whether to be offended.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “It’s just… Well, let’s just say that you don’t have to worry about that.”

Yoongi and fights, you think. Jimin pops into your head, and you feel even more sure about what you’ve said. Even when Yoongi has a perfectly fair reason to fight, he just won’t. He favors a contemplative cigarette over a furious fire. 

“That’s a nice sentiment, but you never know with people,” Jungkook replies quietly.

He gazes at you protectively. For a moment, you wonder what has happened to Jungkook in the past to make him think that way. 

You reach out for his hand, fingers fumbling toward fingers and tickling at each other. You tell him not to worry, not just because of his somatic aptitude and unfathomable physique. Having spent so much time with him, you also know that Jungkook is the kind of friend who would carry your banner and yell your name as he gladly marches into battle. Even when he’s the only one. Especially when he’s the only one. 

He eases back and relaxes, now mimicking your stance, keeping his legs crossed but leaning sideways on the back cushions of the couch.

“Well, go on,” he says, insistent. “Who is this person?”

Your eyes meet his.

“...Yoongi.”

Given Jungkook’s tendency to react so viscerally, especially today, it completely unnerves you when he remains silent and still, frozen mid-stream, as if unable to comprehend what you’ve just said.

“You’re judging,” you sulk.

“What? No!” he exclaims, though he’s reaching over for the soju again.

You down two more shots.

Jungkook drags the back of his hand across his mouth before dabbing his forehead and cheeks. “I’m just, well, confused.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’? He’s so gruff and mean. I know you work together now, but I didn’t know you were…” 

Jungkook thinks carefully. 

“...Friends?”

You shrug. “I don’t know that we’re friends, but I don’t know that we’re not friends.”

“Co-workers with Benefits, then,” Jungkook jokes, and you slap him on the knee.

“Bene-fit,” you correct. “It only happened once.”

He rolls his eyes. “I promise you, I’m not judging. So you fucked Yoongi. Big deal. Who hasn’t disappeared into a closet with a co-worker for a quick fuck?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say that we fucked.”

Jungkook frowns. “Wait, so, like… literally just the vibrator?” 

And you realize that he doesn’t have the full picture. You pick the story up from the night before. How long you were working. How late it got. How much you needed it. How convenient it was that Yoongi was willing to give it to you. How it wasn’t even transactional. How it was purely selfish, just for you. And mechanical. How -- and you say this part quite adamantly -- there were no feelings involved whatsoever, just two people experimenting to see if they could work towards an outcome together. It was less of a date, and more of a team-building exercise. 

“Relax, Boss,” Jungkook laughs, after your long-winded essay. “Whatever makes you happy is alright in my book.”

It finally sinks in that though Jungkook’s asked all the questions, he’s not the one concerned about explanations. 

“Any other questions?” you joke, poking your finger into Jungkook’s ribs and making him giggle and squirm. He catches your arm and tickles you back, making you squeal and kick. You wrestle a bit with each other before leaning back on the couch cushions again, panting and grinning at each other.

Wiggling his eyebrows, Jungkook asks, “How was it?” 

You smile and bite your lip. You’re not dallying. It’s not that you don’t want to describe it. It’s that you lack the words. 

So, instead, you reach for the soju bottle and pour two more shots.

“Oh shiiiiiiiit,” Jungkook says, happily taking his shot and clinking his glass with yours so hard that some spills out, “I’ll fucking drink to that!” 

You both drink so heartily that soju dribbles down the sides of your mouth, and you laugh with each other as you mop yourselves up. Your eyes settle on sweet, soft-hearted Jungkook, and you finally decide to ask him what’s been echoing in your mind during your entire conversation.

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“Always!” Jungkook exclaims gleefully.

You did this before, when you met Mr. Kang. Now, a corner of your heart, the one that’s reserved for the most special of life’s feelings, clears out a space for Jungkook, your heart becoming a little more his.

Smiling, tight-lipped, you ask, “Why are you so curious?”

Jungkook pales. “Agh. I’m sorry, Boss. I think I was just excited for you. I didn’t mean to overstep---”

“You didn’t!” you rush, leaping for his hands and taking them in yours again. You beam at him, and he smiles back at you, relieved. A pain moves to the front of your chest, and you’re surprised at how intensely you feel it when you speak it aloud. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a friend who cared about me like this.”

Jungkook softens. “What about your unnie?”

“I’m still not ready to talk to her. Besides, she wouldn’t have asked me about this stuff,” you say, annoyed. You think of all the unread messages waiting for you in your muted chat thread since the day you spoke to Eomma. The only one you’ve read is the first one. An apology for missing your call.

Jungkook sighs. “Well then.”

He stretches out his legs and lays them on top of yours, his knees hanging over your thighs. He interlocks your fingers, and he snuggles next to you. “It’s a good thing that I’m here.”

You grin, and he reaches for the mic behind him. He hands it to you, and he observes you, watching over you, as you start to choose a new song.

“Hey, one last question,” Jungkook says softly. “If that’s OK, I mean.”

“Sure.”

“Why were you late earlier?”

Lips bending into a crooked grin, you manage not to give it away. You make up a lie about losing track of time because you don’t want to tell him. You had given him this long essay about how last night, with Yoongi, meant nothing. 

You don’t want to admit that the reason that you were fifteen minutes late for your playdate with Jungkook was because you were too busy to start getting ready. Too busy moping. Too busy moping about waking up to find Yoongi gone, without having left any kind of goodbye. 

Too busy moping about how it meant nothing.

When you get to the studio, most people are leaving work for the day. You watch them all glide through the turnstiles with their IDs on lanyards and belt clips, the galloping of the herd forcing a breeze your way as you scan yourself in the opposite direction. You smile as you turn back and watch them empty out into the street, happily chattering about what they’re going to do with their evening now that they’re free, some of them making plans on the fly. They all seem like perfectly fine people, especially if they work at this label. 

But you still feel like such an outsider.

You’re an outsider even from the other outsiders. Overachieving interns, all of whom you’ve gotten to know, and who view you and your measly, one-year, underpaid contract as their worst nightmare. Fellow contractors, all of whom are stretched beyond measure, and who are jealous of your close ties to the trio. And trainees, all of whom are hungry and hard-working but stressed, and who aren’t sure what value you might provide them yet. They all scoff at you, eager to whisper their thoughts about how endlessly confused they are that raggedy, old you could have supposedly replaced Park Jimin’s spot amongst the greats.

That is, except for one trainee.

When she’s in class, she often chooses to work alone, sitting off to the side, always on her laptop, jotting notes down and singing into her phone. 

When she writes, she likes to sit in the hallway, sometimes tripping people with her feet if she doesn’t look up and see them coming. 

When she eats, she sits by herself and reads while listening to music, her huge, closed-back headphones putting the others off, but to you, only adding to her allure.

And when she gets on the elevator with you, she hides her bright and curious eyes from yours by staring at the points of her shoes.

She greets you professionally, and formally.

“Suran, you can use my name,” you laugh softly. “I’m just a person.”

Looking up at you, she smiles and chuckles along. She knows how observant you are. And she’s pretty observant herself.

“I have to tell you, I just love your voice,” Suran says shyly.

You startle. “When did you hear me sing?” You wonder if the demos that you’ve been working with the trio on have gotten out somehow, some kind of diabolical plot that Jimin and Taehyung executed during their recent visit. You start to panic.

But Suran puts you at ease. “There’s that old jazz lounge a few blocks from here,” she says. “I stumbled upon it when I was taking my dog out one night. I saw the sign out front, that you were doing a set. So I stopped by to listen fand watch through the window.” She grins. “It was so good. I could listen to you forever. Your voice is haunting.”

Haunting, you think. You smile and thank Suran for the compliment, all the while thinking about Jungkook and the lounge full of ghosts. 

“It’s mutual,” you say. “I love the alternative R&B feel that you have. Chill, easy, and…” Your lips tighten into a familiar smile. “Friendly.” 

You’ve heard her recordings, shared with all the producers in the company to get a feel for the talent pool. Though you haven’t worked together yet, you’ve always hoped that you would. 

You laugh and say, “I also love your Domo sleeve,” you tell her, nodding to the laptop that Suran’s clutching to her chest. “I like how it’s supposed to look like he’s eating it when you slide your laptop inside.”

She laughs. “You like Domo?”

You grin and show her your guitar case, the Domo sticker a tad worse for the wear, but immediately recognizable and cherished. 

The elevator doors open on Suran’s floor, and she thanks you, telling you to have a nice day as she waves a sweet goodbye to you.

It isn’t that hard, you think, saying goodbye. 

Sure, you walked out on your ex, but he was going to break up with you anyway. And you moved cities without really telling anyone, but you weren’t expecting to cut ties with anyone. And yeah, Yoongi left without a trace, not even bothering to swing by the store today, but he just as well as could have written a note or a text. But then you think of all those unanswered messages from Unnie piling up in your phone.

Upon thinking twice, you tell yourself to try your best not to be so wounded, and you reach for the door.

Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi are playing a track back, and they look up when you enter the room. Namjoon and Hobi grin and gesture to the snacks on the table, and you join Hobi on the couch. 

The track ends, and Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi discuss some notes before they forget them. And then they turn to you.

“Good day at work, Boss Lady?” Namjoon greets you.

Everything looks like it normally does by the time of day that you join them, but there’s no doubt in your mind that Namjoon knows what happened between you and Yoongi, and that Namjoon is trying his best to keep things as calm as possible. 

You know that Namjoon knows because Hobi knows. And you know that Hobi knows because he is pure id. If he’s hungry, he eats. If he’s sleepy, he sleeps. And if he knows something too good to keep to himself, he’s going to share it. That’s why he bounces in his chair every time he looks between you and Yoongi, who still hasn’t made eye contact with anyone in the room since you’ve arrived. 

That’s how you know that Namjoon, despite his completely ordinary demeanor, knows.

“Day was good. Weekend was good too,” you dare to laugh, albeit nervously. 

Yoongi presses his lips together into a straight, horizontal line.

Hobi’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he starts bouncing, curling his hands into excited fists.

Namjoon notices Hobi and winces. “Hobi, uh, I think we’re low on water.”

“OK, I’ll call Sejin,” Hobi replies, reaching for the office phone.

Namjoon snatches Hobi’s wrist. “No, I mean, wanna come with me to go get some? From the cafeteria?” He points his laser-focused eyes right into Hobi’s soul, and he finally gets what Namjoon’s trying to do.

Hobi stares back into Namjoon’s eyes and lets the realization wash over him completely. 

Hobi grins at you. “Suuure. Haaappy to.” 

And then he turns to Yoongi. “Be right baaack.”

Yoongi grimaces, and Namjoon and Hobi make themselves scarce.

Finally, Yoongi’s eyes meet yours. You melt when you see him snatch the beanie off of his head and swipe his hand through his hair in an attempt to look more presentable. His textured, black locks settle into a perfect, bedhead-y look that you might have seen the morning after, had he stuck around. You’re oozing as he softens, but he tightens up just as he’s about to fall completely. 

“Uh, hi,” he mutters, his voice unsure, and his teeth anxiously scraping his bottom lip.

You smile, trying not to feel nervous. You realize how happy you are to see him. You realize that you may have even missed him a little bit. “Yoongi,” you say warmly, the bass in your voice resonating.

That’s all it takes. 

Yoongi perks up, and you feel him starting to open. He scrunches up his beanie in his hands over and over again.  “You said you had trouble sleeping… And I didn’t know if a text would… I just didn’t want to disturb you,” he says. And then he’s back to chewing on his lips.

You blush, and you feel silly for being upset. It seems like Yoongi’s been carrying this half-formed but fully understandable explanation since he left your apartment. But it feels good for him to unload it now, and it feels good for you to know that his lack of goodbye was actually him trying to be considerate.

“I had a really good time,” you say. 

Yoongi’s confidence makes a welcome appearance. 

He winks and sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. “I know.” He chuckles and, in a voice as pillowy and deep as it was that night, he tells you, “Me too.”

You smirk. “I thought about what you did. A lot.” You clear your throat, feeling flustered.

He can’t believe what you’re saying. He’s so glad, and his resulting gummy smile makes you feel like you’re soaring.

“I…”

Yoongi pushes his precious, pouty lips out. You’re glad he’s not biting them anymore. For their sake, you hope he continues to feel at ease with you as he muddles through whatever he’s about to say. 

“I can help you whenever you need it,” he says, firmly. 

Blood rushes everywhere, to your thighs, to your chest, your cheekbones. 

“Good to know,” you say, smirking.

Though you appreciate the conversation, you get annoyed that it distracts you for the rest of the day. You’re regretting sitting in the small recording booth because it means having no choice but to feel Yoongi’s eyes trace your outline to absorb each of your idiosyncrasies, like how your fingertips move as you fingerpick several melodies on your guitar. His gaze flusters you, forcing Hobi to have to stitch together several of your vocal takes. It distracts Yoongi, too, when your eyes settle on him. As he creates that cocoon of sound, he accidentally turns a dial too much or forgets another button, and he has to backtrack or refer to one of his many journals. Yoongi, the man who touts precision and preaches optimized workflows, suddenly can’t remember which settings he had decided on five minutes ago.

By the end of the long day, as you’re all gathering together and listening back to what you’ve recorded, Hobi makes his stance clear.

“Are you two gonna get better at keeping the flirting to a minimum?” he asks. “We went for two hours longer than usual. I mean, the tracks are really taking shape, but I’d like to get home at a decent hour tomorrow.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat on the sofa, his shoulder bumping Yoongi’s.

“Sorry, Hobi,” you pout playfully, making Yoongi bite back a smile and mumble something similar while staring at his knees.

Hobi smiles wide at the sight of you. He places his hands over his heart and sighs, leaning back and peering over at Namjoon, who is just as smitten.

“This week is gonna crawl by,” Namjoon laughs, standing and getting his things.

You gather together in the elevator, and Yoongi remembers something.

“Maybe tomorrow, we can start working on an idea I had?” Yoongi suggests, pulling out his phone. 

“You wrote something new?” Namjoon asks. “On your own?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, quizzically. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

Namjoon and Hobi exchange excited smiles, which you catch in their reflections in the elevator mirror. You don’t know if you’re supposed to know, but Namjoon told you that though Yoongi had always been a prolific writer, he had been struggling since the incident with Jimin. He was leaning on old beats and songs that he had written, choosing to dust them off and tide him over until new ideas came along.

This was the first completely new idea that Yoongi has shared since the day Jimin left the studio for the last time.

Yoongi plays the track, and it sounds like the next generation of whatever it is that your group is writing now. 

“The tremolo on the vibes?” Hobi whistles. “Gorgeous.”

“And the syncopation in the verse, with that disorienting start-stop feel, makes the hook that much more powerful,” Namjoon agrees.

“The power comes from it being stripped, too, I think,” you say. “The instrumentation is a bit sparser, but it opens the song up in a new way.”

Yoongi’s singing voice comes on, sketching out some options for the melody, sounding like melted, dark chocolate.

But suddenly, Hobi snickers. 

“What?” Yoongi asks, grinning.

More of the melodic line plays, and some of Yoongi’s notes come out a little more off-key. You grin, thinking of how that happens in Yoongi’s other demos, and enjoying the sight of Namjoon and Hobi doubled over, colliding with each other and the elevator mirrors as the door opens.

“Damn, I thought I was getting better,” Yoongi chuckles, as he glances at you. 

You smile back sweetly. He’s actually a decent singer. He’d have to be, given how talented of a producer and songwriter he is. But Hobi and Namjoon just can’t help making fun of the one thing that Yoongi’s not the best at in their little trio.

“You create such beautiful music,” Namjoon replies. “Just don’t sing it.”

Hobi’s eyes catch Namjoon. “You’re one to talk,” Hobi laughs.

Yoongi laughs along at Namjoon’s pout as Hobi raises his arm and swings it around your neck.

“How about we all agree to leave the singing to the Boss here,” Hobi chuckles, “and let’s save the rest of the work talk for tomorrow. I’m tuckered out.”

“Agreed,” Namjoon and Yoongi say in unison, looking at each other and smiling.

Hobi shoots you a wink.

And, in your heart, you start carving out space next to Mr. Kang’s and Jungkook’s, just wide enough for three more people. 

The four of you gather in front of the building, all of you (except grumpy Yoongi) politely acknowledging the security guard who gave you a hard time as you walk past the desk.

“Late night dinner?” Hobi asks, immediately on his phone and looking for a good spot.

“I’m down,” Namjoon replies.

“I shouldn’t,” you say. “I’ve got the store in the morning.”

“I’ll walk you home, then,” Yoongi says unexpectedly, “yeah?”

You think of the scene that greeted you when you arrived earlier. Young, fun people going off to do young, fun things. Yoongi’s only offered you company on a walk home, but to you, it counts. Now, you’re one of those young, fun people. It’s been ages since you’ve gotten to make plans on the fly. You’re curious and excited about what those plans will entail. 

“OK,” you say, grinning.

Yoongi beams. “Boys,” he says with a curt nod, as you give a little wave to them.

Namjoon and Hobi say their goodnights, and when you and Yoongi turn to head toward your apartment, you miss how Namjoon nudges Hobi in the ribs, and how Hobi lets out a puff of air through his nostrils.

You and Yoongi walk for a while in near silence, letting the sound of cars driving and honking amidst the chatter and bustle of other passersby fill the space between you. Yoongi keeps glancing over at you, almost as if to make sure you’re still there. And each time he sees you smile back at him, he lowers his chin and smiles to himself. 

You’re both staring at the sidewalk when you say, “That new demo was great, by the way.”

“You think so?” Yoongi asks.

You nod. “Why did you wait to play it when we were in the elevator?”

Yoongi blushes a bit. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “To be honest, it had been a while since I had written anything completely new.”

“Namjoon mentioned something along those lines,” you tell him.

He nods. “I feel like I’ve lost my footing a bit, and, well… I was afraid that if I played it on the speakers in the studio, I dunno…” He sighs. “The edges would have sounded that much more frayed, or something.”

You draw in a breath as you catch up to Yoongi’s quixotic and nimble brain. You’ve learned so many more things about Yoongi just now. You’ve learned that, given his previous successes, he holds himself to a ridiculously high and punishing standard. You’ve learned that he’s aware that he’s stumbling around a bit. And you’ve learned that he has something interesting in common with the previous occupants of Big Hit’s building, when it was still a clothing factory. You know now that Yoongi views songwriting to be like weaving, methodical and intricate and delicate, and he fears that he isn’t as good at tucking in the ends as he used to be.

“Whatever those speakers would have picked up, you would have picked up first,” you reassure him. 

Yoongi looks at you again, and this time, he doesn’t look away when you smile back at him.

As you approach your apartment lobby, you reach into your pocket and grab your keys. 

“What was blocking you?” you ask.

Yoongi holds the lobby door open for you, and he follows you through the hallway. “Don’t you think that’s obvious?” he chuckles, stepping sideways to make room for a couple of people walking past you. 

You shrug. “I mean, I know that the incident with Jimin probably caused a lot of tension. But I guess I could see how that whole thing might’ve inspired someone even more. Could’ve channeled the tension into the process.”

“Easier said than done,” Yoongi mutters, and you imagine him off somewhere, surrounded by crumpled up bits of paper, notebook after notebook shredded, with Lamy 2000 lines through their pages. 

As you arrive at your front door, you wonder if that’s why he buys so many notebooks and pens, week after week.

You place your key into the lock, and Yoongi seems to twitch at the sound of metal catching metal. 

“Well, have a good night,” he says hurriedly, starting to turn on his heel.

“Wait,” you say softly. 

He turns back around to you, and you smile your friendliest smile.

“Aren’t you coming in?” you ask.

Yoongi flushes. “Oh.” He blinks. “You said you didn’t want to come to dinner because you have the store in the morning, so I figured you were done for the evening.”

“Then why did you walk me home?”

He fidgets. “It’s late, and, uh, I, uh wanted to make sure you got home OK.”

You raise your eyebrows. Maybe you’ve misread the vibe. “Oh. Well, thanks. That’s really sweet.” But you can’t help adding, “Sorry, I thought you walking me home, especially after the very, um, selfless offer you made this morning, meant that maybe we could---”

“Yes!” he blurts out. “I mean, I didn’t know if you wanted--- that is, I didn’t want to assume--- ”

You laugh. “I did want to see if… if you could… help me with something,” you say, your hand around the doorknob, the door still closed, your body leaning a little, and your chin pointed up at him. “But like you said, it’s late, and I don’t want to keep you---”

“I can help.” Yoongi smiles at your big, twinkling eyes. “My offer is good. Redeemable at any time.”

Those big, twinkling eyes of yours linger on him a little longer than they probably should for something that is supposed to be completely mechanical.

You step into your apartment, and Yoongi follows you inside.

“Y’know, the mental block after Jimin left was probably for the best,” Yoongi goes on, setting his things down at the kitchen table, swinging his coat around the back of the chair that he used last time, setting his bag in the same exact place it was on the first night he came over. “Looking back, I wouldn’t have wanted to pour those emotions into my stuff. I don’t want to write songs out of spite.”

Your heart twinges. At all of it. How thoughtful Yoongi is with his craft. How eager he is to help you out. How Yoongi now has his own spot in your apartment.

He watches you as you set your things down and start making some coffee. 

“If I may be so bold as to make an observation,” Yoongi replies, as he takes off his beanie and ruffles his hair.

You chuckle at his sudden formality. “Sure?”

“I don’t think I’m the only one who’s suffering from a mental block,” he shares, sitting down.

You arch an eyebrow.

“Why is it that you think you… need help?” he asks you.

You frown. 

“I don’t know.” 

The coffee machine, the kind that uses Unnie-approved pods, is certainly more efficient. It whirrs softly in the background and spits out a full mug in seconds. But you miss the days when you would have to tuck the coffee filter into its place, measure and scoop the grounds, dump them into the filter with that soft, satisfying fwoop! sound as they land and disperse, and wait a couple of minutes in anticipation for your coffee, the aroma enticing you as it wafts through the air.

“It used to be simple,” you comment. “I used to be so easy.”

Yoongi laughs, and you bite your lip at the way you’ve phrased it.

“Not like that!” you defend. “But… my orgasms… they used to just pour out of me. Someone, or even myself -- even I could do just the slightest thing, like think of a particularly sexy memory, or even just sit a certain way. And I’d be ready.”

You take the two mugs of coffee and join Yoongi at the kitchen table.

“I think that part of me is broken, somehow. I can feel it.”

“I couldn’t,” Yoongi remarks, taking his mug and nodding a thank-you to you before you both take a drink. He looks over at you and adds, “I didn’t touch you directly, but it felt like everything was, y’know, working.”

“Before our little session, I didn’t think I could even orgasm at all anymore,” you admit.

Yoongi grins.

“But it took me a while to get there,” you remind him.

“I couldn’t have been with you for more than twenty minutes tops,” Yoongi says, more to himself than to you. Then, he looks at you and leans forward. “Wait, how long do you think sex is supposed to last?”

“Not twenty minutes!” you remark.

“Agreed, but I feel like we’re on opposite sides of the spectrum in this debate,” he says with a grin.

You scoff. “Maybe you’re not as good as you say you are.”

“Hmm,” Yoongi says, and you know that this part of the conversation isn’t over, even though he goes on to say, “And why the toys? Your hands can’t get you there?”

You shake your head. “It’s like my body is suddenly completely foreign to me.”

Yoongi nods. “I see.”

There’s a long, long pause, and you both get down to half a mug of coffee each until Yoongi speaks.

“Then you should take the time to get to know it again.”

Something within you shifts. Yoongi, yet again, has made you feel lighter. But you don’t just feel lighter. You feel enlightened. You kept thinking about this as a problem that needed to be fixed. Not a new adventure entirely.

“Do you still want to…” 

Yoongi’s eyes drag across the length of the kitchen table between you until they reach your fingers curled around your mug, at which point, his eyes flick up and meet your eyes with dark and warm intensity. It feels like two stifling hot, star-dotted, summer night skies suddenly crashing over you.

“...y’know?” Yoongi says, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth.

The coffee that you’ve just had isn’t going to help slow down your racing heart. 

You stand up so quickly that your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “Absolutely. Grab that beanie and let’s go.”

Yoongi laughs at your impetuousness. “Hang on.”

You whine and sit back down, squirming.

“Would you be comfortable if we tried something different?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“Like… maybe I get a little more involved.”

You push your lips out. You love the idea. But you know that you need to tread carefully. Your conversation with Jungkook echoes in your mind. This is not about feelings. And you fear that if you entertain the little sparks that you’ve been feeling in Yoongi’s presence, and the emptiness that you’ve felt in his absence, then you’ll possibly ruin everything. Sure, you would lose this channel of experimentation, but that’s not what really concerns you. You’ve seen how messy it has been for Yoongi to have his personal life wrapped up in his professional one. You don’t want to ruin things with your stupid feelings. 

“What do you mean by involved?” you ask, trying to see this conversation through a clear lens of objectivity.

“That I lose the beanie, for one.” He ruffles his hair again, and he pouts. “I don’t mean to say that I’m going to leer at you or anything. My head just got really sweaty last time.”

You laugh, and he chuckles along.

“OK,” you say. “I’m actually… I’m fine with you… seeing things.”

Yoongi’s eyes deepen, and you kill the squeal that was rising in your throat.

“Are you fine with me… touching things?” he asks.

You nod. “That too.”

“Alright, then,” Yoongi says, rising slowly. “I have an idea. Not just for today, but for how all our sessions go from here on out. Sound good?”

You excitedly jump to your feet like you did before, and he laughs. You extend your hand for a handshake, and he firmly takes your hand in his. 

His hand feels so soft. Surprisingly so. Given their look, veins and knuckles tapering into long, strong fingers, you always viewed them as rough workman’s hands. You like that there can be someone who is so fiercely industrious and prolific, but who also isn’t afraid to be soft. Who, in fact, prides himself on being so.

You hold his hand tighter, and you lead him to your bedroom.

You both stand at the foot of your bed, and Yoongi scrunches up his face as he looks around, deciding how to set the stage.

“Mind if I sit on your bed?” he asks you.

“Go ahead,” you say. 

Yoongi sits and leans back against your pillows and headboard. 

“OK, I’m thinking that you could sit in front of me, and we could just take some time to explore,” he says. “Kind of just… move your hands up and down your body.”

You stare at him quizzically. “What?”

“Trust me,” Yoongi says, and he says it with such determination that you try to tamp down any other anxieties you might feel in the moment. Yoongi has shown himself to have a trustworthy opinion, after all.

“Just hands? But don’t we need the toys?” you ask, moving toward your door to get to the box  that you inexplicably put back in the open-ass living room, and trying to use this as an instance to remind yourself to fucking keep them somewhere else.

Yoongi smirks. “You won’t need them.”

His sentence wraps itself around you, and you know that he doesn’t mean just for this session.

“Do you think I should… um… take anything off?” you ask.

Yoongi’s mouth hangs open a little. Given all your concerns and questions, he didn’t think you’d be ready for that. “Whatever you like,” he says, careful not to push.

“Maybe I can start off like last time?” you venture.

“Sounds good,” Yoongi says, but this time, he keeps his eyes on you.

You feel flattered that he wants to watch. That he wants to see you. A smirk transforms your lips as you wiggle out of your pants, and Yoongi takes a slight breath in when he sees you standing in your underwear, the lace detail in the front giving him just enough of a peek at you.

“Sit here,” he tells you, adjusting himself to make room for you between his legs.

You teeter a bit, and when you turn to sit down, you miss how Yoongi reacts to the fully see-through lace in the back, admiring your plump ass, and doing his best not to reach out for it. While you swing your legs onto the mattress and get comfortable, Yoongi looks up at the ceiling, pleading to no one in particular, that he can get through this in one piece. That you won’t inadvertently kill him in the process.

“Lean back on me,” Yoongi instructs.

You do so, and you melt into his frame, feeling cradled. Supported. You feel your pussy twitch. You close your eyes and let your head fall back onto Yoongi’s shoulder, your temple just by his neck. You’re already starting to feel dizzy. Less there.

“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice low and soft.

You nod, still hypnotized by him, and you chuckle. You love that Yoongi is so committed to helping you that he’s asking if you are comfortable in your own bed.

Your hands are resting at your sides, in the gap between your thighs and Yoongi’s. He rolls his sleeves up to the elbow and places his arms over yours, the backs of your hands in his palms, his fingers resting on their counterparts.

“Follow my lead,” he says, and you nod again.

He takes your hands and lifts them off of the mattress. And then he places your hands on your warm, drooling pussy, making you spread your legs a bit, and close the gap between your and Yoongi’s thighs. He runs your hands up and down your own thighs slowly, only your skin touching your skin, and you start to squirm.

“Feeling good?” he asks you.

“Yes,” you answer.

He notices your hips starting to move, your pussy aching for attention.

“Show me what you do when you touch yourself,” he tells you gently.

You nod, and you bring your fingers, and his, to your quickly waking clit. You rest your hand over the cloth of your underwear, and you start to press into your folds. When you do this alone, you don’t feel much. But now, you hear Yoongi licking his lips, sending tingles through your body.

“Why do you do it over your underwear?” he asks, remembering how you started the first night.

“I like the feel of it, to start,” you answer, delighting in the way that the lace gives you an additional sensation, letting you build up to something. “And, well… honestly, when I come, it makes it less messy.”

Yoongi sighs, and you feel it resonating in his chest.

“You’re already thinking about how to clean up after yourself before you even let yourself enjoy it?” Yoongi questions.

You feel a bit hurt at the critique, but you do recognize that he’s right. Maybe that’s one of the things that has changed about you. You could argue that moving to a new city, and your strained relationships with your family, evoke that, too. You no longer care how messy things get. You’re desperate to do what you want to do. To feel what you want to feel. To live your life.

Yoongi starts to guide your fingers now, having gotten an understanding of what you like. He presses deeper, your folds sucking in the fabric, his fingers starting to get wet. He shows you how to wrap your fingers around your clit, teasing you a bit, and demonstrating how difficult it can be when there’s a barrier keeping you from yourself.

“Hnnnng.” Your groan is choked off by your throat. 

“More?” Yoongi asks you. “More of that? Around your clit?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Can I push this to the side?” 

He uses your other hand, the one that has been sliding up and down your thigh this entire time, to reach for the hem of that leg of your panties. He curls his fingers around yours and makes you pinch the fabric, tugging on it to show you what he means.

“Yes,” you breathe, really starting to lose yourself.

He runs your hand up and down that thigh, and then he slowly lifts his hand away, showing you that he wants you to keep going. You do, and then he uses his now-free hand to hook the fabric of your panties to the side, exposing all of you.

He grunts when he sees you, and you smile and bite your lip.

Still not technically touching you, he uses your other hand to guide you on how to touch yourself, wrapping your index finger and thumb around your clit, and showing you how to stroke it.

“Oh!” you exclaim, shuddering, knees nearly knocking at that first stroke.

“Is that the first time you’ve done that?” he asks.

“Y-yes,” you stammer, pinching your thigh with your other hand as you continue stroking your throbbing clit.

Yoongi chuckles. “It’s a good first feeling, isn’t it?”

“God, yes.”

Your hips are rocking now, digging into the mattress, even pressing back up against him. You feel him hardening against you, his cock undoubtedly straining painfully in his jeans.

“How’s that feel?" you ask. 

Yoongi can only moan approvingly before pressing his lips together and squeezing his eyes tightly.

You smile proudly, momentarily stepping back from the moment and feeling relieved. You can’t help it. As a performer, you’re always thinking about your stage and execution.

“But this isn’t about me,” he whispers, trying to stay in control. “It’s about you.” Yoongi knows what you’re doing. He feels you disengaging, even if only for a moment. 

Needing you to refocus, he puts more pressure on your fingers as he moves. 

“Good?” he growls.

“Good,” you repeat. “Good… Gooood.” It’s almost like a chant or a prayer, the way the word is billowing out of your mouth.

“You don’t necessarily like it when things are about just you, do you?” Yoongi asks, his nose starting to follow your jawline. 

You let out a sheepish laugh.

“It’s a shame,” Yoongi says, his voice so entrancing. “Because you should see you. You look amazing like this. You look like you do when you’re in the studio, lost in the music.”

You moan, enticed by the image that Yoongi has of you in his mind. 

“I wish I could have seen you that first night, but I’m glad I could hear you,” Yoongi tells you. “Your moans, like songs.”

“Yoongi,” you whine, your head lolling back, your mind starting to evaporate, though you swear you can feel Yoongi’s hips rubbing against you, too.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers urgently.

“Whatever you want to do, do it,” you tell him.

You keep stroking your clit, playing around with the pressure, even grazing your fingernails against it and making yourself quiver.

Yoongi’s hand slides off of yours, and he presses his middle finger into you, making you cry out and slam your hips until his finger is surrounded by you, all the way to the base knuckle. He spreads his fingers out to lay over and rub the lips of your labia, your hands playing off of each other, covering every single inch of you, meeting every single one of your immediate needs. You lean back and let out another beautiful moan, pressing against him even harder, your ass and hips ramming back into his cock.

“I could smell you, too,” Yoongi grunts in your ear. “When I would breathe on you, to make you warm. You smell sweet. Full. I could’ve stayed there for days.”

You whine, every muscle inside of you clenching as Yoongi finds the spongy tissue of your G-spot and starts to massage it, driving you wild. He even has the audacity to let out an excited, throaty laugh to spur you on.

“That’s it. Get it out of your mind, whatever block is telling you that you’re broken. I see you. I feel you. You’re not.”

You reach for Yoongi’s thigh, and he moans when you run your hand back toward him, gripping his jeans, needing something to hold onto.

“Fuck,” he gasps, as you find his cock. You run the tips of your fingers along its length, and you wrap your palm around as much of it as you can. 

He’s struggling to stay steady, moaning and losing himself in the moment. He’s so close to letting go of you and undoing his fly, or kissing you, or wrapping his arms around you and lifting that beautiful ass onto him. But that would be selfish. So he pulls it together. He wants to. He needs to. For you.

“Don’t think that you can’t have this,” he whispers. “Because it’s already yours.”

You gush and squirt everywhere, your orgasm shutting your body down, but thankfully Yoongi is there to keep going. You squeeze your thighs together, locking Yoongi’s hand and wrist in place, and you hug his arm to your chest. You rub your clit against his hand as you ride the wave, your juices sticky and letting out little bubbles of sound as you slow.

You’re already fading into sleep when Yoongi speaks.

“Good?” he repeats, with a smile.

“Good,” you sigh.

Your thighs relax, and you release him, but he doesn’t leave you right away. He rubs you gently, helping you ease down. When both of your breathing has leveled, he drags his hand up, and you catch it with your hands. You bring it down to your mouth, and you surprise him by sucking his fingers dry.

“Damn, Boss,” Yoongi exhales, his breathing starting to pick up as you wrap your tongue around him.

You release him, and you feel embarrassed for letting the moment overcome you. “Sorry. Was that weird to do?”

“N-no,” Yoongi says, sucking in his breath through his teeth. “That was… fuck.” He smirks. “But maybe next time, you’ll let me have a taste, too,” he mutters, and you hope he’s not joking.

As Yoongi rounds the corner and comes into view, you smooth your hands over the back pockets of your jeans. There’s a soft crinkle of paper as you do it. It comes from the note that Yoongi wrote to you before he left the night before. 

That was fun. Maybe I’ll swing by tomorrow at lunch.

You barely remember how you parted yesterday evening, but you have memories of Yoongi sliding out from underneath you and pulling the covers over you. Thanking you for sharing another session. Saying a soft goodbye. 

The brass bell rings, announcing his arrival. You try your best not to look too excited, but Jungkook is sitting on the counter, facing you, smiling tight-lipped at you as he swings his legs and eats his sandwich. You’d caught him up earlier, during the morning delivery, and there was no way he was going to miss lunch if Yoongi was planning on showing up. He made sure you wouldn’t miss it either, getting you a sandwich and ridding you of any need to leave.

“Hi,” Yoongi says, smiling.

“Hi,” you reply, as Jungkook looks at Yoongi from over his shoulder.

“Delivery boy,” Yoongi says, with a less-than-happy grin, but a grin nonetheless.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow as he smiles and says, “I heard you two had a pretty fun evening.”

Yoongi blushes. You jam your elbow into Jungkook’s thigh, but it’s rock solid. He grins down at you, and you can’t help but begrudgingly smile back. 

Mr. Kang comes out from the back office, holding his chips and guacamole dip.

“Yoongi!” Mr. Kang greets him excitedly. “Thought I heard the bell. How are things?”

“Good,” Yoongi replies, sighing happily and glancing over at you as you lean on the counter.

“Well, what brings you in today?” Mr. Kang asks.

Yoongi draws a blank. “Um… I… just wanted to say hi,” he fumbles, not technically a lie.

Mr. Kang grins. He plants himself on your other side and looks at you. “See, Boss?” he tells you. “He came by just because he wanted to say hi. You may not believe me, but I told you he was a good boy.”

You grin and flash a look at Yoongi, who looks puzzled, but happy just the same.

“Yoongi, do you still have your grandfather’s watch?” Mr. Kang asks him.

“This one?” Yoongi asks, rolling his sleeve up and showing him the same, ordinary watch that he wears every day.

“Yes,” Mr. Kang says fondly. He turns to you and Jungkook. “Do you see how pristine it is? How he takes such good care of it that it’s still in tip top shape today?” Mr. Kang clicks his teeth. “It looks exactly like it did the day that he got it.” 

“Were you there with him when he bought it?” Yoongi asks knowingly.

Mr. Kang nods. “I actually almost got it for myself.”

“OK, so we’ve addressed that Yoongi is a good boy and has a super old watch,” Jungkook says, not getting why this is important.

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “Can you even tell time, Delivery Boy?”

“Yes,” Jungkook says plainly, “because, as you love to keep pointing out, I’m a delivery boy.”

Yoongi frowns at how Jungkook’s deflated his remark, and he only slightly considers it a betrayal that you’re laughing and high-fiving Jungkook back.

“He -- and I -- just want to know the story behind why it’s special,” you explain, making eyes at Yoongi to lighten up on Jungkook. 

Yoongi softens. “Well, my grandfather met my grandmother because of it,” he says, smirking and passing the story on to Mr. Kang.

“You have to tell it from the start!” Mr. Kang encourages, his eyes gleaming. Yoongi just shrugs and looks back at Mr. Kang with affection. He knows how much Mr. Kang loves telling this story, and Mr. Kang knows how much Yoongi loves hearing it.

“Gojong and I were students at the time,” Mr. Kang says, “and he was getting ready for a big job interview. Neither of us come from money, so Gojong had to save up for the basic things that you needed for a job like that. A solid pair of shoes. A good suit. And a nice watch. Nothing fancy, just something presentable and durable.”

Mr. Kang smiles, his glasses rising with his cheeks.

“One day, Gojong tells me that he thinks he has enough money for a watch, and it comes at a good time, because the interview is that week. He asks me to go with him to the jewelry store down the street, which is around where the grocery store is now. We went into the store, and the saleslady helping us wouldn’t negotiate on any of the prices for the watches that Gojong wanted. She offered him this one, and he hated it. She said that it was a perfectly respectable watch, in his price range, and that he’d thank her later. He said it was too plain, and that she was just being greedy.”

“He said she was really mean, too,” Yoongi adds, making Mr. Kang laugh. “And super judgy. They argued so loudly that other customers were complaining.”

“People were pushing, demanding why Gojong was taking so long. And he had no real choice. So he bought the watch,” Mr. Kang goes on. “As we’re leaving the store, Gojong stops walking and takes a moment to put the watch on. He tells me that if he had to pay that much for as ugly a watch as this, there must be something else that’s special about it. And right then, a car hits the curb just ahead of us, barely missing us as it crashed into a fence and landed in someone’s yard.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“Miraculously, no,” Mr. Kang says in a whisper. “Not even the driver.”

Jungkook sighs, relieved. You can’t help but simp at his sweet reaction.

“How’d you know the driver was OK?” you ask.

“Gojong and I run over to the car, and there’s a gorgeous woman in the front seat. She’s flustered and has no idea why this has just happened. Gojong takes care of her, even helping her with the repairs, and finds that it had something to do with the steering column. They got to know each other, and, well… got to know each other, as they say,” Mr. Kang says vaguely, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Mr. Kang!” you exclaim, making everyone laugh.

“As you can imagine, Gojong feels invincible at this point. And on the day of his interview, he’s not even nervous,” Mr. Kang goes on. “But for as good an interview that he had, the employers went with a different applicant. And the woman tells him that she can’t be with a man who doesn’t have a job, and who wears a watch as plain as that one.”

Jungkook frowns. “But I thought you said that your grandfather met your grandmother because of that watch?”

“Well, that’s when he realizes,” Mr. Kang continues. “Had he not stopped walking to put the watch on, we would have been farther up the sidewalk, right in the car’s path. So, I tell Gojong, ‘You’d better go back to the jewelry store’. And he says, ‘What for?’ And I say, ‘She said you’d thank her later. Well, it’s later.’”

Mr. Kang turns to Yoongi, smiling. “Gojong went to the store the next day, and he told the saleslady that had it not been for the watch, he would be dead, or married to a complete snob, which would have killed him.”

Yoongi smiles fondly. “That saleslady was my grandmother, Myeongseong,” he reveals. “He asked her out on their first date right there and then.”

Your heart fills, and you and Jungkook share a dreamy, appreciative look.

“Aw, that’s a nice story,” Jungkook sighs. And then he glances at you. “Funny how people can surprise you.”

Mr. Kang catches Jungkook’s knowing expression, as well as the next in what seems to be a million looks with a hidden message between you and Yoongi. Mr. Kang’s about to say something addressing the vibe, until he chirps, “They’re back!” 

You and Jungkook snap to attention, and Mr. Kang lurches forward, grabbing the bowl of guacamole and chips that he’s waited to start eating. 

“Who’s back?” Yoongi asks.

“Antique Store Guy and Candle Shop Lady,” Jungkook says, as you all peer out the storefront.

Yoongi looks at the three of you and turns around to see the owner of the antique store and the owner of the candle shop arm in arm, walking into the candle shop. They’ve just gotten lunch, and they start tucking into their meals together.

“Things are progressing quite nicely,” you say.

“Just looks like lunch to me,” Mr. Kang observes.

“Wait!” Jungkook exclaims. “I see one milkshake, and two straws!”

You watch with glee as Antique Store Guy and Candle Shop Lady start to share the milkshake that they’ve brought back with them.

Yoongi stares at you, completely lost. 

You laugh and say, “I can catch you up on the backstory soon.”

Yoongi nods and smiles. “Sounds good. See you all…”

He watches as the three of you remain riveted at the scene playing out across the street.

“...Later,” Yoongi finishes, rolling his eyes and making his way to the door.

“Yoongi,” Mr. Kang adds suddenly, “why don’t you join us all Wednesday night at one of the Boss’s gigs?”

Yoongi blushes. “Huh?”

“Mrs. Kang and I will be there,” Mr. Kang says. “And so will Jungkook. We can laugh about the watch story together. Bring those boys you work with, too. Let’s make it a thing!”

Yoongi looks over at you and smiles a little funny. He raises his eyebrows, and you shrug. 

“Oh. Um, OK,” Yoongi replies. “See you then.” He leaves through the front door and waddles back up the sidewalk, toward the Big Hit building.

Mr. Kang nudges his shoulder into yours and says, knowingly, “Just like his grandfather.”

This week’s set list is that much more important now. You’re still awake, even after a full day of work and recording, going through the ideas that you’d been arranging since you started this gig. You can’t help but admit feeling a little more pressure for this week, now that the trio is going to be there, even though they literally listen to you perform every day. There’s something different about it being all yours that makes you feel like they might watch you with that much more scrutiny. Even Yoongi could sense the pressure was on, somehow knowing not to walk you home that day and giving you a bit of space.

You look down at your bed, and you see that your toes are wiggling. You start to feel anxious, and then you pull out your phone, looking at the text Yoongi had sent you when you split off from the group.

Yoongi (10:42 PM): Just pretend like it’s any other Wednesday. You’ll do great.

Seeing just his name makes you feel calmer.

But that feeling also makes you more anxious.

Suddenly, you see that you’re getting a call from an unknown number. You almost never pick up unknown numbers, but with all the new contacts you keep making through your work and lounge gig, you fear missing something important.

“Hello?”

“I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out that you’d muted my notifications,” Unnie says. “And don’t hang up!”

You pout. This was the longest you had gone without talking to her. It was starting to feel like an accomplishment.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“To check in with you,” Unnie says.

“Where are you even calling from?”

“This is Jin’s work phone.”

“And Jin has a broken laptop and some work emails to send, so please call her back on her cell!” Jin yells in the background.

“Jin!” Unnie scolds. 

“Ridiculous,” you grumble, hanging up.

You throw your phone onto the bed in annoyance, and then you pause. You wait to see if Unnie will call you back. You start to feel a sense of guilt overtaking you. Unnie isn’t one to let her personal matters bleed into other areas of her life. Using Jin’s phone is kind of a big tell of what she’s feeling with regards to your behavior.

You think about how supportive she’s always been. It’s not fair for you to lump her in with all the anger you have for Eomma. 

So you pick up your phone and call Unnie back.

“Hello?” she sniffles.

“Are you crying?” you ask.

“Well, yeah!” Unnie exclaims. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks! I don’t know if you’re eating, or making rent, or, like, I don’t know, caught in some sort of elaborate drug trafficking scheme, or bartending again, or---”

“Couldn’t you just have used your fancy tech job to track me unknowingly?” you ask, half-joking.

“Don’t you think I tried that??” Unnie screeches.

“Hey, hey,” you say gently, your heart aching. Tears start to prick at your eyes. “I’m OK. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“How could I not worry? You’ve left me on read. None of your friends here have heard from you. Eomma is freaking out.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is that why you called?” 

“I called because I love you,” Unnie tells you, and you know that she’s telling you the truth. This isn’t some reconnaissance call, the kind of thing you’ve been suspicious about. 

You sigh. “I love you, too. I’m sorry. I’ve just been. Y’know. Busy.”

“Are you still managing that store?” Unnie asks you hopefully. “Are you finding time to do some gigs?”

You smile. “Both,” you say. “And one new thing.”

You start with the cruel words that Eomma had told you when you last spoke. And then you tell her about the first jazz lounge gig, and Yoongi showing up, all the way to the contract with Big Hit. You tell her about all of the work that you’ve been doing with Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi. How kind everyone’s been. How creative you’ve felt. How you think this could finally be your big break.

Unnie sighs softly.

“What do you think?” you ask, nervous.

“I’m just so proud,” she croaks, and though you roll your eyes, your tears trickle down your cheeks, and Eomma’s words sting a little less. 

“I want to come visit you,” Unnie says, sniffling again. “Jin and I have some vacation time. Can we drive down? Next week, maybe? See you in action? I miss you so much.”

“Sure,” you say. “You know that you’re welcome anytime.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was,” Unnie says pointedly. “I don’t even have your address.”

You laugh and put her on speakerphone, opening your text thread and sending it to her before you forget. Your eyes catch a glimpse of a text, and you scroll back up to read it in full.

You realize that your eyes weren’t deceiving you. 

“What is Jae’s name doing in our texts?” you ask, not bothering to read on.

“Right,” Unnie says. “Well, a couple of weeks ago, Jae-hwa reached out. He was also worried about you because you basically disappeared on him.”

“We broke up,” you say.

“And then you vanished,” Unnie replies. “He tried reaching out to you, and when everyone that he had thought to ask told him that they hadn’t seen you in weeks, and then months, he got scared. So then he called me.”

“And then you told him to piss off, right?” you ask.

“He misses you,” Unnie explains. “I’m not saying that you have to get back together. I’m just passing along the message.”

“And you’re judging me for not getting back together with him,” you add.

Unnie sighs. “I hate when you put words in my mouth.”

“But you are judging, aren’t you?”

Unnie pauses, and for as much as you love her, and as fond of her as you are, you hate that you can’t go one conversation without her trying to get you to improve in some way.

“He’s a smart, nice guy who cares about you. He has a stable job. He can support you as you work your way up the ladder at Big Hit. He’s vetted. It just makes sense,” Unnie replies. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just stating facts.”

“Well, here are some facts of my own. I didn’t really care much about him. I like my three jobs. And I don’t need you or Eomma or anyone else to vet whoever I choose to bring into my life,” you reply.

To an outsider, the conversation seems tense. But at this point, you and Unnie are just doing the dance. 

“It’s not just that,” Unnie sighs.

“Well, what else is there?”

Finally, she asks it. 

“...Aren’t you lonely?”

You sigh. “I have a nice little family surrounding me, thank you very much.”

Suddenly, you hear the bite that your words have. You try to soften it.

“I’d love for you to meet them,” you add. “Or vet them. Or scan them. Whatever you and your drones consider human contact to be.” 

You hear Unnie laugh softly, putting you at ease. She draws in a breath and lowers her voice. “Is there anyone in your life who’s… y’know… giving you… intimacy?” she asks.

“You mean fucking me?” you ask bluntly, and Unnie clicks her tongue at you.

“No,” she says, annoyed. “Or, well, yes, but… y’know. Connection. Feelings.”

You think of Yoongi. You wonder if he’s still out with the guys, stuffing his cheeks with food and dipping in and out of conversation as his mind works. Maybe he’s home, wherever that is for him, and settling into bed. Maybe he’s at the studio, returning to tweak his demo after not being able to fall asleep. The thoughts you have are as adorable as his stupid beanie, and you hate that he’s coming to mind when prompted by this question.

“I don’t know,” you say. 

“Well, in that case, I’d say Jae’s worth a shot,” Unnie replies.

Your roll your eyes. “Sure.”

You look down at your set list, and you think you hear Unnie yawn. 

“I should go,” you say.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Unnie tells you.

“I won’t. Goodnight.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“Wow, really?”

“Night.”

You hang up, and you stare at your set list again. And though you aren’t any closer to finalizing the list of songs, you at least feel a tiny bit better.

You’d guessed that Yoongi was out with Namjoon and Hobi, or at home, or working another late night in the studio. But tonight, the trio are lying on the floor at Hobi’s place, his apartment being the closest to the steakhouse that they had drunkenly stumbled out of after dinner. Now, they’re getting even more drunk while watching Jimin’s new music video on repeat. His dance moves are as smooth as his velvet suit. His silhouette glides against a backdrop of pastel backgrounds shifting in and out. Certain words take over the screen as Jimin sings them, his face and movements filling in the letters. 

During the bridge of the song, the camera closes up on Jimin, and he stares straight at the audience, showing off his fiery red eyeliner. 

“That shot right there is about to be on every channel on every TV in the country,” Namjoon drunkenly slurs, lying on his back. “Are we ready for that shit?”

“Fuck no,” Hobi complains, rolling onto his stomach and pulling his hood over his head to hide. “Remember how long it took to workshop the music video? I can’t believe that bastard had the gall.”

Yoongi stares up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t matter.”

Namjoon, and a still-hidden Hobi, raise their heads slightly to look in his direction. 

“Wait, really?” Namjoon asks.

“What?” Yoongi stares back at them, befuddled.

“It’s just that… I don’t know, it’s hard for us to gauge where you’re at with him,” Namjoon replies, sitting up suddenly, stopping halfway and wincing, and taking the rest of the trip upright much slower, folding his legs underneath him and resting his elbows on his knees. He props his aching head up with his hands, his cheeks fluffing out as he does so. 

“Whenever he does anything, you shut down or disappear or act out. And now you’re saying that it doesn’t matter? You were the one who came up with the whole aesthetic. You came up with the red eyeliner.”

“I’m glad it’s working for him,” Yoongi says. “He looks good.”

Hobi shakes his head, his face still hidden, but his hood wiggling. “So all of a sudden, we’re OK with Jimin?”

“No,” Yoongi says definitively, pointedly. “But we can’t do anything about it. It’s like you said, Joon.” He stretches his hand out to gesture to the screen, Jimin’s smirk bobbing in their faces. “That shot is going to be everywhere, and we’re going to have to deal with it. I’m trying to finally let it go.”

“And what prompted you to ‘finally let go’?” Hobi asks.

“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, shrugging.

“Bullshit,” Namjoon says, grinning. He turns to Hobi and smiles. “I bet I know.”

Yoongi sighs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me---”

“How is it?” Namjoon asks. “How are things going?”

Yoongi frowns, unwilling to admit how his skin is getting all tingly at the thought of you. No one’s even said your name yet, and he’s already singing it to himself in his head. He kind of always is. 

“S’fine,” he mumbles, rolling away and turning his back to them.

“No, no, no,” Hobi says, face still hidden, hands engulfed by his long sleeves, ghost hoodie arms reaching out for Yoongi and dragging him back to the group. 

Namjoon raises his torso offthe ground using just his arms and, keeping his legs crossed, scootches into the little triangle that they’re making. 

“We want details!” Hobi clamors, finally crawling out from under his hood, his hair full of static. 

Yoongi furrows his brow.

“Not the dirty stuff,” Namjoon clarifies, forcing Hobi to pull his tongue back into his mouth and grunt in annoyance. Namjoon looks back at Yoongi. “Just more specificity. How are you feeling? Where do you think it’s going?”

Yoongi scrunches up his face. “Is that… y’’know… proper? To talk about?”

Hobi looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how it’s going. We’re still in the middle of…” 

Yoongi can’t find the right word. 

“...Courting?”

Namjoon and Hobi crack up laughing. Hobi’s stomach is working so hard that he can’t breathe, slamming his hands and feet on the floor as he sacrifices each gasp of air to more fits and starts. Namjoon is sputtering and failing, shaking his head violently, as if trying to whip the word out of his giggle-filled mouth.

“Cuh… C-cour… COURTING?!”

Hobi and Namjoon lose it all over again.

“How old are you, like, 80?!” Namjoon howls.

Yoongi grabs his beanie and pulls it over his face in anger and embarrassment, drawing his legs and arms into his giant hoodie.

“You can’t turtle your way out of this!” Hobi exclaims, as he and Namjoon leap onto him and drag his limbs back out.

Yoongi peers back up at them, his skin flushed.

“Just tell us how you’re feeling, then,” Namjoon encourages.

They all straighten, sitting up and facing each other. As Yoongi talks, Namjoon reaches back for the whiskey that they were sharing, and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

“Fine,” Yoongi sighs. “I mean, things seem to be going OK. She invites me over. I think we have a good time. I try to make sure she definitely has a good time. And I always have a good time.”

“Well, great!” Hobi exclaims.

“Do you want more with her?” Namjoon asks.

“I think… I think I do,” Yoongi says. “But…”

Yoongi sighs. This next part, the point that he’s about to divulge, is starting to become somewhat of a theme in his life. How many people have wanted to be his friend, only to ask him to listen to their demo or mixtape, disappearing when they suddenly aren’t Big Hit’s next major act? How many people have seduced him at a concert or club, only to get access to the bigger names performing that night, treating him like the screener for the groupies? It’s why he hasn’t really gone anywhere except his apartment, the studio, or Mr. Kang’s store in years, and it’s why the trio has remained a trio since Jimin’s betrayal.

Until you.

“You know what it’s like,” Yoongi laments. “I don’t know if she wants my help or if she wants… me.” 

“She doesn’t seem like a clout chaser,” Hobi points out. “I mean, you were the one who sought her out. And didn’t she hate you in the beginning?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees. “But don’t most people?”

“You’ve never talked about it?” Namjoon asks, passing the bottle of whiskey to Hobi, who takes a drink.

Yoongi shakes his head.

“You usually talk these things out,” Namjoon observes.

“I’m good at the sex talk,” Yoongi replies. “Not so great at the relationship stuff.”

“Didn’t you hear him, Namjoon? They’re still courting,” Hobi teases Yoongi with a wink. “It would be improper and, dare I say, scandalous to have an open, honest, reasonable conversation about relations at this stage! Why, he hasn’t even an idea of the dowry!”

“Point made,” Yoongi says, chuckling along. “I’m old.”

“And you don’t have time to wait much longer,” Hobi says. “Not because you’re old,” he adds quickly. “You’re not old. But it seems like you’re already there with her. This is your window of opportunity.”

“If you have feelings for her, maybe it’s worth it to check in, in some way,” Namjoon replies.

Yoongi nods. He knows that things are coming to a point with you. He’s not sure what that point is, but he can’t help but feel like his heart is on the mend after having met you. And that’s not a feeling he wants to go away anytime soon.

“Come with me tomorrow,” Yoongi says. 

The guys had already declined the invitation when Yoongi asked them earlier in the day, their tongues hanging out in disgust at the prospect of wasting a perfectly good evening with a bunch of geriatrics. But Yoongi raises his eyebrows and says, “I know it’s not your thing, but maybe you could see for yourselves? Weigh in on what it seems like is happening between us? If I’m misreading the situation, or if there really is something there?”

“We see you two flirting non-stop every day,” Hobi reminds him, but then Namjoon kicks him, and Hobi adds, “But we’ll be there.”

Hobi hands Yoongi the bottle of whiskey.

Yoongi grins and takes a swig. 

This can’t be happening. This is your worst nightmare.

You look over to the table that Mr. Kang, Mrs. Kang, and Jungkook are sitting at. Jungkook waves excitedly and looks over to the front door of the lounge. Namjoon, Hobi, and Yoongi are smiling and making their way toward the front, to a table pushed right next to Mr. Kang and the gang.

You turn the dials again and again. You flip the power switch over and over. 

Nervous, you look back at the tables. Yoongi pulls his beanie off and gives a little wave to you, while Namjoon and Hobi order drinks. Yoongi catches the worry in the smile and wave that you send back to him. 

“Give me your set list,” the DJ tells you, and you hand him your notebook. You look up at him as he reads through the titles. “Be right back,” he tells you, stepping over to his setup and checking his files.

Your heart starts to sink. 

A hand lands on the small of your back, and you turn to find Yoongi’s eyes peering into yours. A wave of comfort flows through you. You can’t believe that a gesture so tiny can feel so relieving.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“My amp’s broken,” you say sadly. The timing couldn’t be worse. Your set is supposed to start in three minutes. 

“Can I help?” Yoongi asks. “I can run and get one of the amps from the studio, or---”

“It’ll take too long,” you say mournfully. “My set would be over by the time you get back. The owner said that either I start on time, or I cancel, and the DJ takes over.”

You feel troubled at the thought of Mr. Kang finally bringing Mrs. Kang out for a nice night out, only to have it be for nothing.

The DJ returns, holding your notebook out to you. “Not to worry. I’ve got backing tracks for all of these except the last one. I don’t know it.”

“I know,” you sigh. “It’s kind of an obscure piece.” You shrug. “Well, four songs it is, then.”

“Wait,” Yoongi says. He turns to the DJ. “Do you have a piano, or a keyboard?”

“Yeah, we’ve got one in the back. It’s kind of old and crummy, though,” the DJ says.

Yoongi turns to you. “Do you have sheet music for the last song?” 

You reach into your guitar case and pull out the booklet. “Yes, but I don’t know it well enough to perform it on the piano yet,” you admit. “I’ve only learned it on my guitar.”

You hand Yoongi the booklet, and he reads through the piece. He smiles to himself, able to hear the soft plinks of the piano and the haunting melody in his head. “Wow. It’s… it’s really beautiful.”

Your eyes light up. The smile that grows across your face is resplendent. “I heard in a movie. Bought the music right after.”

Yoongi smiles warmly. “What if I play it for you?”

The smile on your face grows even bigger. “Can you?”

Yoongi nods. “It’d be a shame not to get to share this song with this group. They’ll absolutely love it.”

“You’d do this for me, on the fly like this?” you laugh. 

He softens. “When I said that I was here to help, I meant it,” Yoongi tells you meaningfully. 

Your heart swells, and you think you could have kissed him in that moment.

But now, you’ve only got two minutes. Yoongi turns to the DJ and asks, “Can I go get the keyboard while you get her set up?”

“Sure,” the DJ says, catching the owner’s eyes by the bar, gesturing to Yoongi, and then pointing to the back room.

Yoongi marches off to explain the situation to your two tables before meeting the owner and disappearing down the hall. Your tables of guests look over at you, and you throw them a thumbs-up, letting them know that everything is OK. They smile and settle back into the conversations they were having, and Jungkook sends you a wink.

You look over at the DJ and sigh. “Thanks,” you say. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a gruff smile. 

“By the way, that was my friend, Yoongi,” you explain. “We write songs together.”

“I know,” the DJ says. “I see him every week.”

You blink, confused. “You what? Where?”

“He’s here every week for your set,” the DJ repeats. “He stands in the back. Orders a Manhattan. Sometimes we talk shop.” He chuckles and says, “Here I thought he was your boyfriend”, before he walks over to his setup to queue up your tracks.

Your jaw drops slightly, and you look over at Jungkook. He smiles back at you again, but when he sees your face, he raises his eyebrows. 

The words that want to come out are some kind of muddled surprise at what you’ve just learned. But as you raise the mic to your lips, you force them down and greet the crowd instead. You linger on Jungkook’s eyes long enough to let him know that there’s a story here, and he gets the message, watching you that much closer.

Somehow, you figure out a way to start. 

You introduce yourself, as usual. You describe what you’re going to be playing for the evening. You briefly explain some of the minor technical hiccups you’ve run into, but you reassure everyone that they’re gonig to be in for a treat. 

The crowd seems incredibly forgiving, as if whatever hurdles you just had to jump weren’t hurdles at all.

It’s lucky that you’re only expected to do covers for these gigs. Your contract with Big Hit might become null and void if you were to share any of your original pieces, so it works out perfectly. Each week, you pick five songs, just enough for a set that’s about half an hour. And you love watching the crowd respond to your choices.

Tonight, you start with a cover of Ella Fitzgerald’s rendition of In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning, light and sweet. It helps ease people back to their seats after they’ve been dancing for a bit. You grin as you watch Mr. and Mrs. Kang gaze into each others’ eyes as you sing, hoping that you’re kicking off their hot date night just right.

You move into a cover of Someone to Watch Over Me. People start to sing along, including Jungkook. You can’t help but melt at the way that Jungkook is grinning at you. You think of his fierce loyalty. His kindness. His friendship.

Next is a cover of Nina Simone’s Lilac Wine. Longing and aching. You put all the confusing feelings that you have for Yoongi into the performance, letting them serve as a backdrop for the heady, dizzy feeling described in the lyrics. You see Namjoon and Hobi smirking at you as you sing.

Then, a cover of Pink Martini’s Hang On Little Tomato, a jaunty, sweet, positive tune that some couples get up and dance to, once you’ve established that the song will stick rigidly to its tempo, rather than pushing and pulling like your previous songs. You grin as you watch them all taking in the message of tenacity, and you daydream about what kinds of stories they take with them as they twirl around.

The entire time you’ve been singing, you’ve seen Yoongi in your periphery. He’s watched and listened while you were performing, only moving and setting up the keyboard in short bursts whenever you’d end and pause for applause, so as not to disturb the performance. Once he gets the keyboard set up, during Lilac Wine, he sits just to your left, and a little behind you, watching quietly, hands folded in his lap, gazing at you. And you feel so touched by his selflessness. So much so that it nestles into your voice, and the audience can feel it.

And finally, the last song.

Your heart clenches. You haven’t performed this song in front of an audience before, but you sing it all the time. It’s a jazzy rendition of a traditional Polish tune. You sang it to your friends so often that they thought you actually understood Polish. You sang it to help calm your then-baby niece and nephew before their naptimes. Everyone in your life knows it as Your Song. But more recently, you’ve only sung it to yourself, in the comfort of your apartment, or during an empty, slow day at Mr. Kang’s store, your chin pointed down and eyes lowered, the melody never quite leaving your chest.

You introduce Yoongi to the crowd. He gives a small smile when they clap, save for Mr. Kang, Namjoon, and Hobi yelling “MIN YOONGI!” happily and eliciting some chuckles. 

You tell the crowd the story of the song. It translates to Two Hearts, Four Eyes, and it’s about lovers who can never be together. 

You warn the crowd that you’ve never practiced this, but both you and Yoongi are willing to give it a go.

Yoongi shares a happy, pleasant look with you.

And then, you’re off.

The heartache of a song streams out of your pores, swirling around the lounge like smoke, pulling everyone into a hazy, bittersweet fog. Some couples slow dance and rest their weary heads against each other. You even see some couples starting to kiss. Mr. Kang himself leans over to Mrs. Kang and nibbles on her cheek, making her smile and blush. Jungkook, drunk, stares in awe of you. And Namjoon and Hobi watch, jaws slightly open, heads tilted toward each other, mesmerised by the beauty writen into the score.

Yes, your voice carries the song through the air so gorgeously.

But from the first run in the introduction, you know this song is no longer just yours.

Yoongi’s fingers capture the pensive gloom perfectly, the keys falling just on the back of the beat, not enough to throw off the tempo, but just to make the song feel a tad laborious, as if it takes the singer extra effort just to get the song out. It’s the same way you like to sing it, your voice effortless, but your performance effortful. You’re so impressed with Yoongi’s talent. You knew he could play, and you’d watched him play some sort of instrument every day in the studio, but you didn’t know that he could practically be a studio musician in his own right, as well as a producer. 

It’s not just the piano skills that you’re impressed by, either. You just can’t believe that, when Yoongi plays along with you, completely unrehearsed, he fits you like a glove.

When the song ends, there’s a moment of contemplative silence as everyone breathes the last of the fog in.

And then you receive the biggest applause you’ve gotten, not just in this lounge, but perhaps ever.

You turn back to Yoongi, and you see that the corner of his lips turn up into a nearly imperceptible smile. Having spent more time with him, you know now that this is his proud smile. You think that he’s proud of himself for saving the day. But he’s actually proud of you. Delivering under pressure, and performing a set as incredible as that. 

You say goodnight, and as the spotlight dims, people come up to you to commend you on your performance. One couple that is fluent in Polish commends you on your pronunciation, and one of them tells you, “I haven’t heard that song since I was a child. Thank you for singing it. It was marvelous.”

Chest heavy with emotion, you turn back to Yoongi. You want to tell him that he was right. That it would have been a shame had you not shared the song tonight. But he’s got a little audience of admirers of his own. When his eyes find yours, you share a look, and he smiles at you.

The small groups around you die down, and the DJ turns on the rest of his playlist, beaming and nodding at you.

You wave back and smile, and then you walk over to Yoongi, who has just unplugged and turned off the keyboard, moving it into the corner as instructed by the lounge owner.

“That was…” 

You sigh. 

“I don’t even know what to say. Thank you for playing.”

“Thanks for letting me,” he says, grinning.

You fidget a little, your dress swaying a bit. “You don’t have anywhere else to be, right?”

“Not at all,” Yoongi says.

“Then let’s hang out with our friends, and then… let’s hang out some more,” you say, your heart beating so fast that it sounds more like buzzing than pumping.

“Sounds like a plan,” Yoongi says, blushing a little.

You join your group at the tables, and everyone raves about your performance. 

Mrs. Kang tells you, “It takes me a lot to want to leave the house this late at night, but I’m so glad that we came. That was just amazing.” 

“Thanks for coming out,” you laugh. “So glad you enjoyed it.”

She grins and looks up at Mr. Kang, who is getting a couple more drinks at the bar. “I hope Mr. Kang doesn’t tire out before we get home,” she admits, a little tipsy. “I’m feelin’ a little frisky after that last song.”

“Mrs. Kang, you animal!” Jungkook exclaims, making her squeal. “Sounds like we need to take you out for a spin on the dance floor!” 

He stands and pulls her to her feet.

“She’s not joking,” Hobi adds, leaning over and grinning at you. “You guys had quite the steamy moment at the end there.”

“Well, it’s a smoky lounge and a smoky tune,” you reply.

“I’m not talking about the song. I’m talking about that look,” Hobi says, making Namjoon nearly spit out his drink, and Yoongi get so embarrassed that he folds his lips into his mouth, looks straight up at the ceiling, and widens his eyes.

Mr. Kang returns with his drinks. He sets them down on the table and looks around. “Where is my wife? I swear I brought her here.”

“Jungkook took her out for a dance,” you laugh.

“Oh, he did, did he?” Mr. Kang asks, looking out at the dance floor and catching sight of Jungkook dipping Mrs. Kang and making her guffaw. “Ooh,” Mr. Kang comments, “looks like Jungkook’s done me a bit of a favor. I haven’t heard her make that sound since the 60s.”

You all laugh, and Mr. Kang’s eyes settle on you. “Of course, you’re the reason why we’re all here. I guess you’re really the person I should thank.”

You shrug. “I’m just glad the set wasn’t a total disaster, given how things started.” 

Mr. Kang’s eyes shine over Yoongi. “I’m much more interested in how things end, myself,” he says, looking back at you. He extends his hand to you. “C’mon. Since our dance cards our empty for this song.”

You smile and take Mr. Kang’s hand.

You can tell Mr. Kang was probably quite the looker in his heyday. Not to say he isn’t handsome now, but in his youth, you know that he was probably one sought-after bachelor in his own right. That, plus his charm, and sweetness, could melt a heart over and over again.

Some of that charm and sweetness settle over you now, as he guides you in a mid-tempo dance.

“You did great, Boss,” he says softly, and you chuckle sheepishly. “No, I mean it,” he presses on. “That was truly magical. I can’t imagine what you and Yoongi are cooking up in that studio every night.”

“The songs won’t be out for quite some time,” you admit.

“I’m not talking about the songs,” Mr. Kang says, his eyes twinkling. 

He turns you so that you face Yoongi, and you’re surprised to see him watching you and Mr. Kang dancing, his eyes so soft. Though he answers Namjoon and Hobi as they talk, looking over to them every now and then and laughing, he always finds you again in the crowd.

“He really is a good boy,” Mr. Kang tells you. “So be good to him. Be good to each other.”

You nod. 

And that clinches it. 

There’s no more confusion. No more vacillating. You’re just as game as you were when Yoongi offered to play for you. 

You want to know what it could be like if neither of you ever had to leave the stage. 

You all gather outside, saying your goodbyes and figuring out your ways home. 

Mr. Kang and an admittedly grabby Mrs. Kang scamper off like teenagers to Mr. Kang’s car, parked just down the way.

Before he heads out, you plant a kiss on Jungkook’s cheek, and he tells you, “You’ve gotta tell me what that look was for, before you started.”

“Oh, believe me, just wait,” you whisper back.

When Namjoon and Hobi call for a car, they already know to call it just for two. And as you hug them goodnight, Namjoon drunkenly mumbles in your ear, “If you have s’more drinks, don’t let him have more’n five. Otherwise, he’ll fall asleep before things get interesting!” 

You and Namjoon share in wild laughter as Hobi carts him into the car, and though Yoongi wants to demand what provoked it, he chooses to glare at a chuckling Hobi instead.

Alone at last, you and Yoongi turn to each other. 

“Allow me,” Yoongi says.

“Hmm?” 

You see his arm move again, and you look down. His hand is reaching for your guitar case.

“Oh!” you say. No one, not even your ex, has ever offered to carry your guitar for you. “Um… sure. Thank you.”

You hand it to him, and as he takes the guitar case in his hand, he stealthily takes your now-free hand in his, turning to stand next to you, and leading you down the sidewalk.

You let out a soft chuckle. “Damn. That was smooth.”

Yoongi turns to you. He slightly winks and sticks his tongue out before nodding his chin up with a grin.

You think you might die.

“Cold?” he asks you, his thumb rubbing against yours.

“Not too cold,” you say, your heart so full that it’s radiating warmth.

“Tired?” 

“Definitely not.”

Yoongi smirks. “Perfect.”

You look up and you realize that you’re a little disoriented, though. For the amount of time that you’ve been walking, buildings that should be there are not there, and buildings that should not be there are.

Now, you really think you might die.

“Uh, where are we going?” you ask nervously.

“I’m walking you home,” Yoongi says simply.

“We’re walking in the wrong direction,” you point out to him.

“Well, we’re getting a celebratory meal, and then I’m walking you home,” he clarifies.

He leads you to a 24-hour diner that you didn’t know existed. It’s a little off the beaten path, populated mostly by long-haul truckers and all sorts of night shift workers who are stopping by for their break. 

People here seem to know Yoongi, and he nods to them as he leads you to what you assume is his usual booth.

“One of your hangouts?” you ask.

Yoongi shrugs, gently setting your guitar case down on his side of the booth. “A newer one, but yeah, been coming here for weeks now.”

“Every week, after my set?” you ask, relishing in the look of surprise on Yoongi’s face when you say it.

“You---” Yoongi clears his throat. “You know that I come every week?”

“The DJ told me tonight,” you say, as a waiter comes up to you with a couple of menus.

You and Yoongi smile at him, and then you start going through the huge books, all kinds of pictures of all kinds of meals flashing by as you turn the laminated pages.

“Why do you come every week?” you ask, peeking over your menu at him to gauge his reactions.

He does the same with you. “I like listening to you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming?”

“Didn’t want to make you nervous.”

You laugh. “We play together every day. Why would I be nervous?”

“I can tell when I make you nervous, Boss,” he says, his voice low and suggestive.

You feel his foot graze yours, and you start to blush. You lower your menu and look up at him. He’s looking at the bottom right corner of his menu. But he’s smirking.

You raise your menu again before you smile to yourself.

“Well, I like listening to you, too,” you say. “You play beautifully. How did you pick up Two Hearts so fast?”

“Been playing piano for years and years.” Yoongi sets his menu down. “My Eomma says that I’m so talented because she did the Baby Mozart tapes while she was pregnant.” He mimes his mother’s pregnant stomach, with headphones surrounding it. “Headphones and all.”

You laugh to yourself, imagining a baby Yoongi with a baby beanie in his mother’s stomach. Listening to Mozart. Frowning.

A group of college-aged kids burst into the diner, probably drunk and in search of greasy food to mop up all that liquor and booze. They thankfully choose a booth farther away from where you’re sitting, but then you hear a familiar tune that they’re carrying with them.

Jimin’s -- well, the trio’s -- latest single.

You feel Yoongi stiffen, and the waiter arrives with water, and mugs for coffee. He takes your orders, some waffles, and an omelette, before collecting your menus and heading over to the group of college kids.

“Ignore it,” you tell Yoongi, who just smiles.

There’s a pause. And then, Yoongi asks, “Have you seen the music video?” 

You nod. “It’s such a cool idea. But I hate that it’s set to your song.”

Yoongi purses his lips. “The idea for the video was ours, too.”

There are seemingly no depths to Jimin’s effrontery, nor your disappointment in him. You sigh, and Yoongi looks at you gratefully before adding, “But I’m trying to let it all go. The anger. The resentment.” He smiles at you. “There are new, better things to think about.”

You grin. “Did you ever get a chance to talk to him after that day?” you ask.

Yoongi traces shapes in the condensation of his water. “A couple of weeks after it happened, I went to go see him. Try to talk some sense into him. Convince him to come back.”

You lean forward. You’ve never heard this part of the story, and you get the feeling that Namjoon and Hobi haven’t either. 

“And?” 

Yoongi suddenly looks like he regrets bringing it up.

“I’m here to listen, but we don’t have to talk about it,” you say.

Yoongi sighs. He kind of wants to tell you. He kind of needs you to know. And he thinks you’ll understand.

“Well… I’m assuming that Namjoon told you that the reason Jimin was upset was because I left for an anniversary dinner with my ex, Yaeji,” Yoongi begins. When you nod, he goes on to say, “When I went to see Jimin, I saw Yaeji in the hallway, knocking on his door and calling out to him. Saying things. And… like… moaning things.”

He gets fidgety, and you can only imagine what sorts of things.

“We were already fighting, and me being late to our anniversary dinner was the last straw for her. She broke up with me that night. And I totally understood. But when I saw her looking for comfort from him, after he had just taken all my work… I just…” 

He sighs and slides his hands off the table and back into his lap. Like taking bullets out of a gun.

You watch him. Observe him.

“I’m so sorry,” you say quietly.

More silence passes between you.

“Did he open the door?” you ask.

“I didn’t stick around to find out. Neither of them saw me,” Yoongi replies.

The waiter returns with your food, and though you both thank the waiter, you both also just stare at your plates. 

“Sorry to kill the vibe,” Yoongi apologizes. “We were having such a nice---”

“My ex’s name is Jae-hwa,” you tell him, cutting the omelette in two and splitting it between you both. You pick up your fork and start to eat. “He was an asshole, too.”

Yoongi smiles at you. He reaches for his own fork and starts to dig in. “Oh?”

“Yeah. My Eomma, which, don’t worry, you’ll get earfuls of her later,” you say, rolling your eyes as Yoongi chuckles warmly at the thought that there will be a later, “well, she thought Jae was a pretty good catch. But to her, the only things that mattter are looks and money.”

“What did he do?” Yoongi asks, and you selfishly appreciate the edge in his voice, and the assumption that the breakup is Jae’s fault.

“It was more what he couldn’t do for me,” you explain. “He is stable and generally pleasant. But I never felt serious about him. He was so selfish. With chores. With dates. With sex.” Your eyes meet Yoongi’s, and you both grin knowingly. “And with the way he ended things.”

“How did things end?” Yoongi asks, his cheek poking out, full of waffle.

“I was performing at an open mic thing, and he chose to break up with me that night,” you say.

Yoongi’s eyes widen.

“Two acts before me,” you add.

Yoongi gasps.

“To a cover of Into the Mystic,” you finish.

Yoongi coughs, nearly choking on his food. He quickly chews and swallows his bite, and then he chases it with some coffee. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks, his voice raspy.

“Yeah,” you say, disgusted. “And it wasn’t even a good cover.”

“Into the Mystic? That’s like…” Yoongi’s eyes move back and forth quickly, searching for a metaphor. “That’s like someone taking you to heaven only to tell you that you can’t go inside.”

You brighten. “Exactly.”

Both of you eat and chat, catching each other up on life’s yarns. Tales of the trio when they were a quartet. Notes about Eomma and Unnie. Fond memories of Mr. Kang and the shop, both old and new. Even the backstory of Antique Store Guy and Candle Shop Lady.

Soon, Yoongi is walking you up to the front door of your lobby, still clutching your guitar case.

“Thanks for tonight,” you say. And then you laugh. “And, I guess, this morning.”

Yoongi smiles. “We tend to stretch on, don’t we?”

You nod. “But I like that about us.” You smile. “I like that we live in the wee small hours.”

Yoongi takes a deep breath and looks at you sweetly. As he exhales, his pink cheeks and nose wiggling, his breath condenses in the cold air.

“Listen,” you say, softly, stepping into him and catching him off-guard. 

He peers down at you as you wrap the ends of his scarf in your fingers. “About Yaeji… I’m so sad that things had to end,” you tell him earnestly.

Yoongi’s free hand finds its way to your hip. “Well, I’m actually glad. And I’m glad that Jae broke up with you, too,” he tells you. He wraps both of his arms around you, his hands crossing behind your back and pulling you close, your guitar case resting just on your ass. 

He breathes you in. “If those things hadn’t happened, then you and I wouldn’t have…” 

“I know,” you say.

And then, the moment comes. The moment that you always wait for. The moment you decide whether things are going to start or stop. Like always, you’re hoping that something magical happens. That moment tends to end a certain way, like it did with Jungkook. But what you’re not realizing is that Yoongi already feels the magic happening. It’s been happening all night. To him, you are the magic.

You catch sight of the iron gate of Mr. Kang’s storefront.

“Do I remind you of Mr. Kang?” you ask meekly.

“Mr… Kang?” Yoongi asks, confused.

You smile brightly, and you push yourself up on your toes, kissing Yoongi, full, and soft.

Yoongi hugs you tight and kisses you back, hungry, as if he hadn’t just had a whole meal a few minutes before this.

The push past the front door of the lobby and on through the door to your apartment is a blur. You remember squeezes, and kisses, and giggles, and slight trips, and one minor collision with a neighbor. 

But then, you’re in the comfort of your own home, and Yoongi’s setting your guitar case down, along with his coat, his scarft, and his beanie, in his spot at the kitchen table.

You crash into each other again, helping each other undress as you kiss passionately, fumbling for each other as you make your way to your bedroom and land on your mattress.

Now that Yoongi’s lips are on you, you realize that it feels so natural. You feel more naked without them than without your clothes. 

You wrestle playfully with each other, and eventually, Yoongi sits back against your headrest as you straddle him, kissing, hands roving, bodies heating up. You reach down for his cock, strained and trapped by his jeans during your last session, but now, swollen and pulsing and free. You stroke him as you kiss, and when you get it just right, he bites your bottom lip and lets out a moan.

He reaches down for your pussy, already wet for him, already yearing for him. He massages you, sighing at the sight of you, finally feeling like he can take as much as he gives with you, and thankful that you’ll let him.

You bend down and wrap your tongue around the tip of his cock, making Yoongi suck in his breath and hit the top of his head against the wall.

You both laugh, and you ask, “Are you OK?”

“Am I OK??” Yoongi asks sarcastically, curling his fingers into a fist and resting it on his forehead. “God, keep going, please.”

You chuckle, the vibrations in your throat buzzing his shaft as you bob up and down his length, aiming to make him as soaked as you are, lapping every single inch of him over and over. He starts to move his hips, and you take it as a compliment, continuing to suck and lick, whatever drives him wild enough to act.

“Fuck, you taste so good. I want this inside me, now,” you say, looking up at him.

“But I haven’t even,” Yoongi pants, almost sounding worried, “I h-haven’t even gone down on you yet, and you’ve b-been wanting it, and I---”

“Next time,” you say urgently. “Right now, I want this.”

Yoongi opens his arms to you and nods, cueing you to place your palms against his chest, melting into his embrace.

Finally, you straddle him, sink down onto him, and you both shiver at how good it feels.

You’ve never been this connected with someone before. For the most part, the sex that you have had has been rushed. You discovered your sexuality quite early, your fingers already dextrous at their maneuvers while your schoolmates were still learning what the clitoris even was. You lost your virginity in five minutes to some unworthy soul that you completely forgot in six. Whether it was because you only had such little privacy at home, or because you had such limited time after you grew up and moved out, you’d draw pleasure out of yourself so furiously and straightforwardly, desiring nothing but the feeling of your body bursting, and putting up with anything and everything to get there. You fast-forward through the kissing and romancing when you watch porn. As if you’d watch a whole video. In your private bookmarks are just a series of clips, some even shorter than the most viral social media clips that litter your text threads. Your libido is difficult to quench, something that your fuckbuddies and lovers and boyfriends found incredibly sexy at first, but laborious in the end. You were always racing full-speed when chasing your next orgasm, thinking the other things were nice but inevitably inconsequential. Instead of stopping to smell the roses, you were always doing everything you could to get yours to blossom as quickly as you could.

Sex with Yoongi completely turns you on your head.

He’s so patient. Not because he’s understanding and empathic, though, incidentally, he is. He’s so patient because he’s so confident. He knows that whatever happens, you will explode, and it will be because of something he’s done to you. 

He feels so familiar, like an exact copy of your unconscious, the personification of everything you never knew you wanted but so desperately needed someone to do with you. In Yoongi, you have finally found someone who was willing to give it his all, for as long as you want. 

And he takes… his… damn… time.

He forces you to slow down, and in doing so, he directs your attention to your other senses. Even now, your bodies exposed and tangled, the feel of his thick cock inside of you, the feel of his lips and tongue wrestling with yours -- all of it is drowned out by the achingly slow pace at which his palms are rubbing your back. Both of his hands start in the middle of your spine, where his forearms had previously been resting and pulling you to him. His right hand slides down at the same pace to grab your ass. His left hand slowly climbs up your spine to tangle his fingers into your hair.  And he pulls you back a little by your hair as you ride him, your knees sliding adagio and in circles on the mattress on either side of Yoongi’s hips.

You moan as he paws at you, your hips automatically picking up the pace as he leans forward and deepens your kiss. At the feel of the unexpected faster pace, Yoongi breaks your kiss by raising his neck again, resting the crown of his head against the wall while his back is propped up firmly against your headboard. His legs stretch out in front of him, and you rest your hands back on his thighs, moving your hips in wider, faster circles now. He bites his lip and groans as you bob your hips up and down, rocking against him. 

“Easy,” he tells you.

You whine and have every intention of disobeying, but suddenly, you feel pin pricks and pinches on your scalp.

“Ow,” you complain, giggling a little and reaching for Yoongi’s hand in your locks, fingers spread apart and gently cradling the back of your head.  When Yoongi’s eyes flash open and land on yours, you smile reassuringly. “I think my hair is caught in your watch.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Yoongi apologizes, his brow creasing with worry as he does his best to free his hand without tugging any more than he needs to. “Not like we need this thing right now anyway,” he adds, smirking. 

Even Yoongi’s grandfather’s watch forces you to slow down. You keep moving, feeling the head of his cock with your walls clenched tight, watching him in splendor as Yoongi keeps his right hand glued on your ass, rubbing it and squeezing it languidly but firmly so as to show you what pace to maintain. He locks eyes with you and slowly draws his left wrist to his mouth. He parts his lips and sets his teeth on either side of the black, leather strap of his watch. You see the pink of his tongue slowly slide the tail of the band through the loops, and you watch his teeth nimbly undo the buckle. Your abdomen tightens involuntarily and deliciously as you watch him bite the end of the strap of the watch and gently pull it from his wrist, the face of the watch glimmering up at you as it dangles just under his chin. No, you don’t need this instrument right now, not unless, instead of marking time, it can stop it, or give you all that you could ever want.

You can’t believe you ever thought that this part of sex was overrated.

You’ve been here forever, and you’d gladly stay here as long as Yoongi would let you. You haven’t switched positions once, but you’re so in the moment that you aren’t letting your mind wander, wondering about things like if Yoongi’s ass is getting numb with you sitting on top of him like this, and you won’t feel the rug burn on your knees and calves from all your grinding until hours later.

Yoongi’s eyes finally let go of yours when he turns to your bedside table, using his left hand to set his watch down before walking his fingers up your spine and combing them through your hair. They settle back into place to hold the back of your head as he brings you to him, parting his lips, and making you part yours.

You can’t stop thinking about Yoongi’s famous tongue, your mind still trying to make sense of what you’ve just watched him do. You felt his pride and joy on your chest for the first time earlier, his tongue like a new visitor that had traveled down the path of your neck and chest to set up camp on your bosom, the strong muscle happily swirling around your nipples as his jaw widened and narrowed the boundaries within which it could play. He nipped at you, told you that your skin tasted good, salty and sweet, maybe even a little flowery, like your perfume, taste and scent mixing together on his palate. You wonder what his opinions might be about the other parts of your flesh, like your soft belly, or the meat of your ass, or, most importantly, the velvet, glabrous parts of you that are starting to quiver now, stimulated by the way his cock is twitching with excitement.

You almost regret declining his offer to show you, but you remember that you’ll have time to find out.

“I think I’m going to come,” you whisper, breaking your kiss.

His voice purrs deep in his throat. “So come.”

The way he says it. So simply. As if you hadn’t been struggling all this time with it. Like all you had to do was make a choice. And you realize that it really is that clear for him. He’s a man of his word. This is what he does. He produces.

You lean back and start to move in waves now instead of circles, quickening your pace. But Yoongi moves his hands to your thighs and squeezes, reminding you what he means. Don’t come right now. Don’t rush it. When it comes, which it absolutely will, just let it. 

It’s a valuable lesson, one that you think every musician may not remember to practice, but understands inherently. You don’t renumber measures or skip forward in a track just to hear your favorite parts. Every note has its place, and they’re all important in building up the overall, lasting high.

Yoongi leans forward, connecting with you, smiling into your kiss upon hearing the melody of your whines and whispers of his name. He loves doing this to you. With you. Writing symphonies together.

His hands move up to your temples, caressing the sides of your face and running down your neck, shoulders, upper arms. His touch tickles your skin as he strokes his cock firmly with you. He doesn’t speed up, but he’s starting to move his hips a little more, deepening his thrusts as you meet him with your hips. His hands settle on them, gripping and kneading the fold where your legs meet your pelvis, fingers entrancing you as they move to your front and tease the soft skin of your mound. He takes all of his fingers away but one, his right index finger, which he curls into a hook. He places the stretch between the top knuckle, just under his nail, and the middle knuckle, the next bend after that, flat on your pussy. He strokes it softly and looks into your eyes, gently asking you if you want him there.

You close your eyes, moaning at his touch, making him smile happily. Of course he’s wanted there, your body tells him. And he so loves being wanted.

You’d kind of forgotten about your clit until he places the pads of his upturned fingers between your folds, opening you up. Your clit screams out, and you groan with pleasure. You feel your released desire dripping onto him, and onto your sheets, your emotions and juices leaking everywhere.

Yoongi slides the soles of his feet up and meets your back with his thighs, giving you something to rest against as he starts to take control, never abandoning the pace that he’s set from the beginning. His fingers start to circle around your clit at that same pace, making you shiver.

“How’s it feel?” he murmurs. You both know that he probably doesn’t need to ask, but your eyes are still closed, hiding the facts, and Yoongi just wants to make sure.

“P-perfect,” you stutter, both of your hands gliding into your hairline and feeling just how sweaty you’ve become. You grab fistfuls and moan. “It’s fucking perfect.”

You start to move your hips with him, trying to increase the tempo, but he smacks you on the thigh playfully with his other hand.

“Am I going to have to resort to spanking you?” he challenges, laughing and biting his lip.

You giggle and open your eyes, and Yoongi beams so brightly. 

That smile. It does something to you. Your heart’s been racing this entire time, but you feel like certain pulses are dropping and erratic. It feels like an old, worn record. 

Like it’s skipping beats.

You’re not just shivering now. You’re full on shaking, and you can’t help it.

“Yoongi,” you whine desperately.

He licks his lips and lets his jaw hang slightly open to take in more air. “Stay with me now.”

His fingers press harder into you, swimming around your drenched bud and sticky lips, the sound erotic and dirty. As tears pool in your eyes, his other hand lets go of your thigh, running up your side and along your arm to find your hand. He interlocks his fingers with yours, and you grasp him tightly, palms and skin so, so sweaty. 

You can’t believe how wet you are, everywhere. Beads trickle down your chests. There’s a stain on the headboard from the crown of Yoongi’s head. Condensation from the steam you’re co-creating appears on the sheets around you. Nothing, though, is wetter than where your hips meet, Yoongi starting to fuck you deeper, pressing deeply and noisily into your mattress and using the energy from the springs to launch himself up, raising his ass off the bed when he slams into you. The sound and feel of you rhythmically colliding again and again reminds you of jumping jubilantly into puddles.

He starts to wiggle his hips a little with each thrust, really trying to screw himself into you, the tip of his cock slamming into your wall as if it hopes that with just one more dig, it can break through. Your cunt tightens as if trying to catch it and hold it in place, unable to fully grip its lubricated shaft as it glides in and out. He lets out a grunt as your folds hug him tighter, and harder, squeezing him and shaping him so seductively that he almost breaks his own rules about the tempo. 

Your hand balls his palm into your fist, bending his knuckles back and popping them.

“Fuck!” you cry out, your neck starting to go limp, and your other hand latching onto your breast, fingers taking your nipple between them and clasping tightly as your palm massages your skin.

You bring your hands to your mouth, and you start to suck on Yoongi’s fingers, biting where he bites when he’s anxious, running your tongue to soothe him again.

“Aahh,” he groans. Yoongi has to shut his eyes. It’s so much. Too much. You already feel so good around him, insanely hot, unthinkably taut. If he watches the way that you’re squirming and playing with your gorgeous body, and if he sees how red and purple your tongue is making the tips of his fingers, he’ll fall apart right away.

His fingers and thumb start to wrap around your clit, five points of pressure surrounding the bundle, and he starts to stroke it, his fingers tightly dragging down all sides of it before reaching the bulb and spreading out a little, slightly parting your folds as they go, before regrouping at the base of your clit to do it again. And again. And again. And again.

Your ass pushes into his thighs, and you furrow your brow. Your shoulder blades slam into Yoongi’s knees, and you go completely limp. Your clit can’t take it anymore. It prompts you to come, wave after wave, nonstop, overwhelming, mumbling a mix of “Yoongi”s and “yes”es in staccato bursts, the only way you can get them out with your sharp and ragged breathing.

It’s the hardest you’ve come. Maybe ever. 

But just because you come doesn’t mean Yoongi stops. 

He smiles fiendishly at you, and now, after your body has begged for it over and over again, he starts to quicken his pace.

His fingers flatten and start rubbing your clit with such speed and force that it hurts. You sob, but you nod, and Yoongi helps you push past it by whispering and moaning to you. “Shh. Almost. Almost there.” There’s a razor sharp but playful edge to his voice. “You’re a nice girl, aren’t you? Be a nice girl now.”

Your countenance disappears from sight as you drape yourself over the back of Yoongi’s knees, your hair spilling down his calves, your arms dead at your sides, the sides of your legs resting on the mattress, your body completely splayed out in front of him, unable to do anything but whimper and experience this.

He slams into you faster and faster, harder and harder, and your pussy almost becomes nonexistent, either so tight that there’s barely any room to move, or so completely destroyed by pleasure that physical forms don’t make sense right now. It all feels so rapturous, the way Yoongi’s breaking you apart into your elements to reform you into something new.

A growl bleeds from his throat, and it sounds so delectable that you reawaken, as if he’s summoning you to him. You spring forward and latch onto him, enveloping him in your embrace, clutching him tightly.

“Shiiiiiit,” you whine again, “Yoongi. Fuck. It’s so, so good.”

He grunts, and you start to bounce on him, using your knees for full leverage, and slapping your hands onto the headboard and wall for even more.

Yoongi growls again, and he bites your neck, sucking hard as he digs his nails, still covered in your saliva, into your back. You suck in some air and lean down to kiss him, both of you moving so fast and erratically now that your mattress is slightly off of the bed frame, and your motions have knocked your phone and Yoongi’s watch to the ground from your bedside table to the ground.

Your cunt tightens like a vice grip, and you come again, bringing Yoongi with you this time, drawing every last drop of his cum and pleasure and thoughts and sex out of him. You burst around the head of his cock, marinating him in your juices, your cunt still so unyielding that your liquids can only seep warmly down his shaft, sousing his still-wet sack. He goes slack and loses his breath, muttering appreciatively as you slow your movements, easing you both off of your highs.

Inevitably, you come to a stop, still like the world around you.

You curl into his chest, and he rests his lips against your forehead. It surprises you. Yes, you’ve just had mind-blowing sex, but it’s so… intimate.

With sleepy eyes, he looks up at you, dragging a finger through your folds, making you moan a little, before raising his finger to his mouth. He tastes you, and he smiles. “Delicious.”

“You’ll have to have the whole meal next time,” you reply, making him laugh.

“I thought you were a nice girl,” Yoongi says thoughtfully, making you laugh softly through your nose. You don’t yet have the energy to give much else of a response, and Yoongi says, “Though, I guess we did already have breakfast”, making you laugh again.

As he strokes your hair, you think of Yoongi’s eyes taking you in as you sang those words during your first set at the jazz lounge. And his eyes tonight. For as long as you’ve been working together, you still can’t believe the feeling of having his eyes on you. It drives you crazy. You know he could be looking at literally anything or anyone else, and you’re completely puzzled as to why he’s continuing to choose to train them on you. 

You sit up and look into those eyes now. And even though he’s smiling in sleepy bliss at you, there’s still a bit of that enticing edge. Suddenly, you remember what Mr. Kang told you about Yoongi.

“I thought you were a good boy,” you say back naughtily.

Yoongi’s eyes deepen, and his smile widens. “Mm,” he thrums cryptically. Then, he pulls you in tighter, his arms resting around your waist, his soft pout kissing your breasts carefully. “C’mere. Let’s get some rest.”

He cranes his neck up, and you smile at him. You tuck your sweaty strands behind your ears, and you nestle your fingers into Yoongi’s drenched locks, just at his temple. And you bring your lips to his, kissing him gently.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he helps you lift up and move off of him, caringly, knowing how raw it all still feels, knowing because he’s raw, too. But not just right now, as a result of something shared. 

What you don’t know is that he’s raw all the time.

He lies down next to you, his lips just grazing your ear. He starts to hum quietly, a soft, aimless tune.

“Are you singing me a lullaby?” you chuckle, feeling so warm and cozy that you’re starting to fade.

“I can,” he tells you, “but you heard what Namjoon and Hobi said about my terrible voice.”

“I love your voice,” you whisper, reaching back for him. 

His hand is resting on your hip. You place your hand on top of his and bring his arm around you, lacing your fingers together and locking them to your chest. You feel his lips curl into a contagious smile, which you catch as his soft pout sliding against your ear lobe, making you smile, too.

“In the wee small hours of the morning, while the whole wide world is fast asleep…”

His singing voice is so deep. Low, and warm. Soothing. Comforting. 

“You lie awake and think about the girl, and never, ever think of counting sheep…” 

His thumb starts to move over your knuckles in a slow rhythm, and he starts to slide his legs closer to you.

“When your lonely heart has learned its lesson, you'd be hers if only she would call…” 

You feel the rest of his body moulding you. His arm relaxing so that you feel its full weight on your body. His hips against you. His knees filling the space in the backs of yours. Your feet touching under the covers.

“In the wee small hours of the morning…” 

You breathe, and it feels like you’re breathing him in.

“That's the time you miss her most of all.”

As you settle into slumber, your heart does that thing again.

It skips a beat.

Countermelody | Masterpost

<< 02: Tuning | 04: Modulation >>

[psalloacappella]

Red (oneshot)

Title: Red  Pairing: SasuSaku legit i don’t write anything else  Word Count: 3400~ Rating: E, for like explicit, not for everyone. NSFW. Ya get it. Tags/What you’ll see: Sakura getting the office and oral she deserves 

Summary: An old dress, a new office — Uchiha Sasuke offers regards to both.

Ao3 | FFN |  ↓

(I have to preface when I post this that my top-tier amazing friend convinced me to do so and reminded me not to delete it this morning in the cold sober dawn lol. I consider this absolutely self-indulgent)

.

.

.

“Ah, Sakura?”

Jade eyes alight and ringed with red, her subordinate regrets interrupting what seems to be a bout of sickness or sadness; she’s been busy lately. They all are.

Spine bent in bass clef camber, in exhaustion, she straightens at his words into a ramrod illustration of diligence. Over scrolls and haphazard paperwork, empty mugs sitting in their own fossilized dregs, she snatches up a fountain pen to preserve her dignity and reputation. At her age she’s been handed enormous tasks that she only imagined in her wildest dreams, and most of those, in the past, were of love and marriage and not the nightmares and duties which replaced them.

Extreme stress manifests in mysterious and chaotic ways; she intuitively knows this, especially today, as she basks in the quiet glances, the way their eyes follow her long, long legs leading into ankles in heels that feel like cages. Her choice of a dress underneath her white coat today feels like a wanton beacon, but her battle reputation precedes her, legendary and terrifying; no one will dare blithely approach legs like those or earn the ire of her dangerous hands, so delicate until they’re crushing mountains and throats.

Electricity, a buzzing in the marrow of her bones; she taps the pen on the desk in a stilted rhythm.

She regards the young medic with a hazy gaze for a moment, then waves a hand. “Sorry, I’m just—”

He steps over the threshold; Sakura raises her chin, lips taut.

“No no, I’m sorry,” he insists. Under her bright eyes he feels the beginnings of idiocy and bumbling; his boss makes him tongue-tied, stupid. Younger than him, in a league of her own as she stands at shoulders with new legends; lethal, inured to all the stories about herself.  

He notices the ochre on her lips like an invitation.

“I wouldn’t come too close today,” she says. Grants him a demure smile, the type that doesn’t quite fool her friends but still works with fools like him. “I’m not feeling the best. It could be contagious, and that wouldn’t be helpful to our operations right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Agreeing, nodding fervently with the obedience of a particularly compliant breed of dog. “If I may — you work so much. Too young to be feeling so tired.”

A laugh, it bubbles — starts from her chest as a giggle and drips from her lips as honey. Makes her quake, mottled red seeping through the skin of her chest as a sieve, collarbones sharp.

She looks feverish; she looks like a dream.

In turn she struggles to keep the waver out of her voice, knowing she’s lit up as fulgent as rouge festival lanterns and there's no way to kill the current.

I’ll never live this down — have to get him out of here

The cough she musters up is weak and if this was Ino, or gods forbid, her teacher, they’d call it pathetic. For a young man trapped in her sphere of admiring attraction, it does nothing but induce sympathy. But her legs are shaking, the situation is dire, and she’s loath to have another round of torrid rumor on the flapping lips of civilians and staff.

“Ah!”

At her cry, she lets her temple fall into her hand and her subordinate rushes forward. Gasping, she raises her other one, trembling.

“No, please. That sounded worse than it was. Just a headache coming on. In fact,” she rasps, “if you can let Shizune know I’ll be taking the next hour to recoup? A nap, maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t know if I can leave you like this.” His tentative step earns her sharp gaze again, pursed lips that start his mind wandering in a way that makes him blush. Physically shaking his head to clear it, he nods slowly, finally, backing out of the doorway.

The hollow sound of Sakura’s kneecap hitting the underside of the desk rings in the space. Her gullible underling starts forward again, but the foreboding slap of her hand on the desk stops him cold. Acute, like it’s one to the face.

Sakura brings her knees together, swift, crushing his damn near regal bone structure and the handsome high bridge of his nose between the muscle of her thighs. A warning.

She glances down at him, he’s slicked with sweat — the glimpse of his glittering black eye and swirling purple one bring her too close to a wave she can’t indulge; she’s still this unwanted visitor’s boss until he closes the fucking door.

“Just me being clumsy! Do as I’ve asked and let her know, and,” here her breath hitches, hand leaving the desk, fingers burying themselves in dark messy hair, “th-thank you for worrying. I appreciate it.”

She’ll pay for the smile she gives this man, a sparkle of hope, like he’ll ever earn his boss’s favor in that way, as if he’ll measure up in any lifetime to the man that has her heart, the man on his knees under her desk.

“Sure. I mean,” horrified at his own too-familiar tone, “of course, right away, ma’am. Miss. I—”

“Oh go now. ” It stutters out in jete musical meter, resembling pain — or other things. “Please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him to close the door, though she’s surprised he didn’t find another excuse to stay with her. Oh, he has it bad. But there’s no time to think —

Sinking into her chair, her hands grip the armrests with an intensity that forces music from them, cracking underneath her fingers. And now all the words of the last few minutes tumble from her lips, an unintelligible medley of curses and pleas cradling the half-formed shell of his name.

Without warning, she yanks him back by the hair and almost comes right there:  His eyes scalding her, the mess on his stupid and incredibly fuckable face, a talented and dangerous mouth settling into a smirk as he thumbs an errant bit of her off his lip.

“That was close. Ah, so are you.”

He says it with such smugness and vanity. Quivering in her office chair under nothing but his stare, still in the grips of the unrelenting buzz and hum he’s enticed, and he absolutely notices.

“One of these days, we’ll be caught!” Tries to sound stern even as he rolls his neck and shoulders with a pithy nonchalance. “Stop that. So arrogant, preening like that—”

“Me? That’s rich.” He lazily trails a finger from her swollen, hot clit to her opening, lingering and lush to force all the heat and sounds he’s craving — her fingernails dig into her thigh while the pallor of her skin and dress seep and marry, reflections of one another. “Why did you wear this, Sakura?” Nudges the fabric with his nose, and she mumbles something hazy under his resumed touch; lost in orbit, in a void, in a place unearthly.

He starts the routine again, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Frowns at the irritating strip of fabric that constitutes clothing; it’s been twisted and pushed aside anyway. Her skin burning against his face, a lean cord of muscle taut underneath her pale skin. Vaguely threatening, but she’s yet to crush him to death and he’s on the second round of bringing her there and back again, and close calls such as those seem to stoke something smoldering. Some days, it feels like the only thing worth pulling himself out of bed for.

He fucks like he fights:  Relentless, consuming. But that essential difference for the former is he never gives an inch; here, he pours it all in, something like an endless apology. Maybe she knows and that’s why she wears the red dress he won’t admit he prefers and paints her lips and runs the entirety of this village hospital system with grace and her own brand of gentle ascendancy — why he’s desperate for just the ragged edge of danger.

One of her legs shudders, the frenzied tap-tap-tap of her heel stammering against the floor in a cadence fit for instruments. “Sasuke-kun.”

Between the presses of his lips leading a hot, agonizing march back to her core, an arrogant noise in his throat escapes, rich and amused. “So this — is your new office?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, still clinging to the chair. The only support she has; the room’s spinning and every cell is vibrating, pink eyebrows knitted as she fights to remain upright and solid and somewhat human because the door’s not locked and she knows he knows, knows he doesn’t care and frankly neither, really, does she. Melting like basalt in unending, stifling heat.

Calloused fingers walk up the soft skin of her calf, catching and searing, sundering the delicate layer where they brush to release the pent-up steam underneath.

He’s fire; she is earth.

Always, all of him ablaze —  possessive in its own discipline but a thing begging for taming. He builds the pyre here, as he has been for the last hour or so, to focus himself, patiently coaxing it into something chaotic but fruitful. Lately all he’s felt is the joyless, sober embodiment of a tool to be used though perhaps this is the same, a compulsion by any other name.

But it can’t be, not with her looking like this. Striding down her hallways with purpose while bending the horrors and ills of the world to her indomitable will. Certainly this dress is no accident, as it never is, not with him coming off a mission full of blood and necessary evil.

Dragging the thin, sorry excuse for fabric down the burning skin of her leg, Sasuke’s tongue finds her clit with terrifying precision and rips a moan from her throat, pulling a jerk of her hips against his mouth. The shockwave shared, vibrating as wires intertwined, a forcible current.

Leans back, takes her in:  Her trembling, knuckles white from the fatal grip on the arms of the chair, knees sinking inward toward one another. The sight of this rich red dress against the stark, starched white of her coat blending with the mottled pinks and crimsons painting her cheeks and chest. Unraveling before him, extraordinary, even while this space belongs to her.

This, sometimes, feels like undeserved forgiveness.

Because she is always, always in living color.

Adjusts his own knees, shifts, a catch of air in his throat as he accommodates the hard length of his own caged cock. They’re no stranger to claiming desks and other surfaces as their own, but she has strings on him and there's authority in here now, where she holds men at the door with a flicker of her gentle jade eyes borne of the grueling process which created her.

Sliding the useless fabric into his pocket, raises his chin to her. Stares as she bites her lip and struggles for composure, though it’s difficult under the gaze of a man like this.

He waits, and the only sounds are ragged breathing from both.

“Please,” she whispers. Quivering, even at the ask. “Before someone comes back.”

“You worry so much,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about apologies?”

She blinks, startled, and her lips part. A sparkle, a brilliance emerging in her eyes as she clenches and unclenches her fingers. Still, they shake a bit, the anticipation and remnants of the rise and current before still lingering, lying in wait. Predatory. A wetness floods to her lips and she swallows it down, leveling her eyes to his glittering, savage gaze.

With a deep inhale, she spreads herself before him, knees apart. Blushing invisible, lost in the red that’s already dappled every inch of her, she exhales the rest of her timidity with an edged, sharp expression and hopes she’s being clear—

Sakura just barely glimpses the fierce red in his gaze before he answers with his tongue, deft, ardent, and divine.

Breaking the chair arms beneath her delicate hands again, scrabbling to stay on the beautiful planet before it turns her loose. Sinking, again, the boundaries of atoms dissolving — they are nowhere but bliss.

Like before, the careful building of a fire, the agonizing escalation:  He drops a kiss here, employs a firm tongue there, skirting the easy option in favor of the tease as he peels her back, layer by layer. Running it the length of her slit, heart skipping a bit at the dangerous quake of her thigh muscle; how long it's taken to differentiate between pleasure and impending crush. Again, the sensation of crawling into the den of something prized and feral. He feels it, her writhing and the pace and canter of her breathing and she’s liquid gold, fucking melting —

Her hips jerk, hard, when his tongue swirls around her clit, the cry coming from her jagged as broken glass and trembling like music, all things that make his own situation difficult to manage but he will, because these sounds entrench him firmly in reality. Alive. Knees screaming on the hardwood floor, unyielding as his cock cradled only by fabric and not as he wishes, by her hands or her red, red lips like the kind she’s wearing now.

Instead he slows her down again, pendulum swings between teasing and a furious rhythm that coaxes the full spectrum of human sounds from her beautiful throat. Rewarded for it with a whiny gasp as if breaking the surface of water, mingling with his own as he catches his breath. The end of it careens into words, something rough, he’s not even quite sure what he’s saying but he imagines, neither does she.

This—fucking dress—!

Nice, isn’t it?

Gets you attention

But only from you, S-Sasuke-kun

And her hand lands on his head again, thin fingers yanking his hair and guiding him as he splays her open, lays her bare. His name never quite fully leaves her lips, dancing with fragments of alternating pleas and curses. Just for that, for something he’d never thought he’d ever hear in his life, he grimly knows he’d write a fucking sonnet just to hear her like this — and with his tongue, he does, or at least approximates. The tremors of her shift deeper now, approaching release; she’s so slick it feels vile, indulgence in sin. All of which is smeared on his lips, his face, tasting of tang and salt; how many times has he been told he’s selfish? Guilty. Greedy, too, as he pauses to breathe—

looking up at her, he has an idea but can’t possibly know the extent of this, how she’s absolutely wrung out and beyond this dimension, hell, this galaxy, every inch of her humming in tune with the universe and brimming with absolute, inescapable heat, muscles taut and and begging for climax. Though the soft edges of her green eyes that see through him and everything else, rolling back, mouth open and lips parted in mimeo of an oracle, sunken in the weight of divinity, might give him some clue.

Don’t stop, please—!

— he’s there, with his fingers buried and soaked and deep, playing that just-right rhythm with a thumb on her clit that’s been worked to the edge and back again over the span of her busy afternoon. Hairs part from his scalp without remorse; her nails scrabbling and fingers clinging as she prays and sighs and curses occasionally, quietly, into the limp back of her hand. As if she’s really still trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism in the throes of being launched into orbit.

So very close. He knows by the slightly erratic rhythm, the pulsating of muscles inside and out and around him, tight and he steals a quick breath to endure and ease his fingers out to redouble effort with his mouth because the way she’s sounding, that sharp icy note on the ragged edge of pleasure and pain, tends to be the signal, the tipping point. The tremor her free hand sends through the bones of the chair. Knees apart as far as she can manage and desperately meeting him at the hilt —

Steady through until the end.

Release comes as glass shattering, atoms splitting. Unintelligible words trapped in amber, in a moment, in desire. With a mouth full of fire, he rides it with her through every wave, persisting through her slow and ebbing tumble back down to earth. To him.

He leans back at last, groaning at the pain in his knees. Watches her tremble and twitch, wringing out the very last dregs of her orgasm, displacing everything coherent left in her head.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and he gets to his feet as she languishes in a pool of pleasure, steeping as scalding tea.

At some point her hand rises to her own lips, limp and wavering, to clean her own unabashed drippings with an expression of dizzy surprise. The white dissipates from her vision and she finds his eyes on her again, one still richly red in its sole mission of memorizing the glowing after.

“Oh.” That’s all she says, breathless.

Sasuke brings fingers across his own mouth, rolls his jaw side to side, and something about his expression of smug satisfaction resonates, strings of a plucked instrument, a pull again of desire that threatens to ruin the sanctity of this brand new office and the role that comes with it.

For a moment she leverages the chair to rise, then loses strength — she lowers herself back in it, arms still quaking.

She reaches for him, plucking at his shirt. Hair flyaway, askew from her frenzied fingers, still in his mission gear.

Yanking him down by the collar, she crashes her mouth against his, red and hot, the tang and taste of herself immiscible with his own. Whatever sound he makes, this growl or rumble or ache, splits them open.

What pulls them apart is the grating sound of their former sensei’s voice:  “I heard from a bird that someone in here was sick?”

Sasuke feels them in the room now and pulls away. Half-turns, finds himself leaning on her desk in a way that’s almost too casual, but necessary — his knees are shot through. Sakura smiles too widely, masking a secret; after all, both still feel the pinpricks of liquids drying in the new air.

“From your darling subordinate,” Kakashi twinkles, grinning underneath his mask.

“That one who follows you around like a puppy,” Naruto supplies, pouting.

Kakashi tilts his head toward him, both still lingering over the threshold. “Terrible, hm?”

Naruto misses the jibe and instead turns his wide ocean eyes on her new space. Whistles. “Man, Sakura-chan, this office is niiice. I’m jealous.”

“You’ll be in your new one soon enough,” she says, and there she is, her usual self. “I have faith. Anyway, this office comes with responsibility.”

“Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“He was under the impression you were sick. Looking at you now, though,” and here Kakashi pauses in a manner all too deliberate, eyes sweeping over Sasuke’s cloak and belongings in a chair, and ends it with looking right at him, “you seem all right. Exhausted, I imagine.”

Her flush threatens to undo them both.

“He’s . . . sweet. To care.”

“He’s a fool,” Sasuke mutters.

“Perfect, you’re dressed nice,” Naruto crows. “How did you know we’d come make you celebrate? You didn’t eat, I bet you didn’t!” He eyes Sasuke up and down, at his unusually ruffled appearance, and clicks his tongue. “You didn’t even go home first, did you? Shitty boyfriend.”

The damage he committed on his recent mission pales in comparison to the crimes Sasuke wants to indulge now.

“Anyway, we’ll wait out here. After all,” Kakashi says, inclining his head, “this is your space now.”

Sakura exhales long and slow as they step out into the hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “No matter my job, I’ll never escape embarrassment, huh?”

Standing at last, she readjusts her clothes and kisses the underside of Sasuke’s chin. She reaches for his pocket and he moves easily out of her grasp.

“Sasuke-kun!”

“Pointless now. I’ll keep it.”

No matter what time, season, dimension, he regards all of her — the dress, the lips that held their color, the new flush simmering on her neck and chest — and craves, endeavors, to always love her red.

[iamvegorott]

Gods At War Ch. 7

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Study Break

“Name the spaces of the treble clef.” Loki read off of the sheet of paper in her hands as she sat at the ‘head’ seat of the large circular table. It was called that by Tony and only Tony since it was his spot, but the man of iron wasn’t there to stop her from sitting there.

“Face,” Peter stated as his answer, laying in the center of the table and looking at the ceiling.

“Face isn’t a letter,” Loki said.

“F-A-C-E,” Peter explained as he counted off the letters with his fingers. “It’s a trick Mrs. Wolrige taught to help us remember.”

“I see.” Loki hummed and she went to the next requirement that was listed on the study guide. “What are the spaces for the treble clef?”

“Every good boy deserves fudge.” Peter tilted his head back and laughed at the face Loki gave him. “E-G-B-D-F.” Peter had to speak slowly.

“At least those phrases are working,” Loki said with a sigh.

“I’m gonna ace this test.” Peter chuckled and rolled over to his stomach. “Mr. Stark said if I get a hundred, he’ll let me pick dinner for Friday night, you wanna come?”

“I thought I was going to your birthday dinner?” Loki placed the paper down, assuming it was time for a quick study break.

“Well, yeah.” Peter rolled some more and was now sitting up, legs crossed under him. “But that’s forever from now.”

“It’s three weeks,” Loki stated.

“That’s forever in teenager time,” Peter whined before breaking and laughing, earning an eye roll from Loki.

“Is teenager time like dog years?” Loki asked with a little chuckle when Peter pouted at her. The pout went away when a portal appeared behind Loki and Stephen stepped into the room.

“Looks like I won’t have to take much effort to find you, Loki.” Stephen smiled at Loki and Peter pressed his hands to his face to hold back his squealing.

“Are you okay?” Loki raised a brow, but Stephen caught on to why Peter had made that sound and it told him that he had listened in on him and Apollo. The kid was a lot smarter than he looked and Stephen gave himself a mental note to have a talk with him as well.

“Nothing, I just figured out where I want to eat when I get that hundred,” Peter said with a smile that said different things to Loki and Stephen.

“I’m assuming you have a test of sorts?” Stephen asked.

“Yep.” Peter popped the ‘p’. “It’s in music theory and Mr. Stark doesn’t think I can get a good grade in it since I’m a science kid and Loki’s helping me study so I can prove him wrong.”

“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I steal your study partner for a bit.” Stephen watched as Peter hummed and tapped his chin.

“Do you need anything, Dr. Strange?” Steve asked as he came into the room. “Tony’s in his lab looking at the cyclops if you’re looking for him.”

“Would you mind helping Peter study while I have Loki help me?” Stephen asked. “I’ll go down to the lab when I’m done and fill you in on my findings.”

“Wait, are you gonna do magic things? Can I come?” Peter asked, bouncing up so he was on his knees.

“You need to focus on your grades first,” Steve stated, taking the paper Loki handed him.

“But, Mr. Rogers magic-”

“Your education is just as important.” Steve cut Peter off, looking over the page. “Music theory? Oh, I know a few things about music. Did I tell you about when I was a performer myself?”

“Have fun, Peter.” Loki giggled as she stepped out of the room with Stephen, hearing the beginning of Peter’s protest before the door shut and cut him off.

“Steve was a performer?” Stephen asked.

“He punched Hitler in the face on the beat,” Loki said. “So, what is it that you need my help with?”

“Oh, yes. I was in the seams of realms and found the cause of the, what I’m going to refer to as, the Greek Realm, combining with our own. Although, by cause, I mean I can see the aftermath of the realms somehow colliding.”

“Colliding? As in they crashed into each other?” Loki asked.

“It’s hard to put it into words that makes coherent sense,” Stephen admitted. “What I can gather at the moment is that the pieces of the realms need to be separated from each other in order to send the Greeks back to their realm with little to no risk of damaging either realm.”

“Sounds tedious,” Loki said.

“Very and I’d have no problem doing it on my own since I’m used to such tasks, but I’ve discovered that there are a few things that could cause problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“There is now an opening between the realms that anyone or thing can travel through either freely or accidentally due to it being in several places across the realms.”

“Meaning that another monster could fall through?”

“Yes.”

“Great.” Loki pinched the bridge of her nose as a silence hung in the air, a pause in the conversation. “You said the realms collided, right?” Loki got a nod in response. “Do you know why or how it happened? It’s not like realities go bouncing around.”

“That’s the part I haven’t discovered yet. None of the other realms have moved from their place but for some reason, the Greeks and ours has and are practically overlapping each other.”

“Maybe one of the Greek Gods did something that caused the realms to move, Zeus mentioned something about arguing with his father, maybe there’s something there that needs to be looked into more?”

“That’s a good idea,” Stephen said. “We can talk to him when we’ve returned.”

“Returned from where? I’m guessing that my help is more than just talking?”

“I can’t separate the pieces of the realms on my own. There are too many pieces and one pair of eyes can only see so much, and I can also only do so much when I’m in the seams and can’t cast beyond what my physical body can do and travel from seam to seam.”

“Okay.”

“Now, I know it sounds dangerous and I assure you that I can keep you safe and-did you say okay?” Stephen stopped himself.

“Sounds fun,” Loki said with a wink.

——————–

Requests are CLOSED Commissions are OPEN

Tag List: @wolfbear135 @thesinginggal

[willow-of-hingashi]

The Ijin Shikomi [RP]

(( Rating: PG ))

(( Genre: Slice of Life ))

(( Cast: Kikyo Hagane of @the-firetouched and Nobuyuki ‘Ichihiko’ Ienaka ))

 Kikyo Hagane has been padding about the mansion for some time in her bare feet, feeling the tatami against her toes. How unusual to find a place like home so far from where she once had grown. She hums softly to herself as she goes, eyeing the curious decorations and trying to learn about the place where she will soon work. But really she was looking for one person: the geisha who apparently worked within these halls. Kiyo-chan so badly wanted to learn as the geisha learned in Kugane. To exalt in the music and the dance and the beauty that had captured her heart...but then, as she pushes through another set of doors, she spots a well-dressed individual. Worth another ask, even if this person also has no idea how to answer her! She performs the proper bow. "Hello. I am Hagane no Kikyo. Do you know where the geisha who works here is?" Her Eorzean is heavily accented.

 Nobuyuki Ienaka curled a finger in front of the neck of his shamisen, each pluck soft as the tuning pegs creaked with each twist. The sheet music that sat before him wasn't in Hingan notes, but Western order. A treble clef sat at the left of each page. ["Western keys. . . what is it with them and G major? I don't get the appeal. . ."] His muttering ceased when the shoji slid open. "Oh, good evening," he began with a bow of his head. He listened to the girl for a moment before tilting his head. She didn't sound or seem all that old, either. . . but he didn't know a lot about the aging of races outside of Hyur and Kojin. "You are speaking to him," he responded, going to set aside the instrument that was in his lap.

 ["Would Hingan dialect be easier for you?”] he asked. [”Your accent is Doman, though."] Hingan and Doman were essentially the same language, but their dialects were distinct in their sound and even word usage.

 Kikyo Hagane is Doman by nature and thus her reaction of excitement is reserved. But it would be quite clear to an Easterner such as Nobu. She clasps her hands in front of her and her eyes light up. She smiles. [”I can speak Hingan!”] she says. [”I lived in Kugane for...a short time. It would not sound as beautiful as yours,”] she adds quickly. She bows her head again. [”I am so honored to meet you, Geisha-sama!”] A phrasing which may...clue into her youth. [”I have searched for you all day. For it is my greatest dream to train in the arts...though I worry I may not be good enough,”] she admits. She keeps her eyes to the floor, respectfully. [”I am a new worker here at the onsen.”]

 Nobuyuki Ienaka hummed, his head tilting back a bit. ["So, you are a Doman,"] he noted out loud. He observed her for a moment, giving a polite look-over. ["Seventeen summers old is a good age to begin as a maiko. I started myself when I was fifteen. From the sound of it. . . you haven't been a shikomi, have you?"] He didn't sound disappointed, but it was clear he was scrutinizing her.

 Kikyo Hagane 's unflinching smile finally hesitates a little, sensing she is being scrutinized. She tries to stand a little taller and hold herself more elegantly. ["No, geiko-sama, I was never allowed service in any Okiya. I did try!"] And while her face remains placid, her eyes spark with determination. ["This is when I learn they do not prefer ijin in their ranks...for yes, I am from Doma."]

 Nobuyuki Ienaka blinked. Then, he sighed. It almost seemed like he was unimpressed for a moment until he spoke. ["That tends to be the case for ijin,"] he responded. ["They're turned away and sometimes, they run off and try to make their own okiya. Sanjo Hanamachi has only been slightly forgiving of this. . . you have to know people."] He pursed his lips. ["I do not doubt you didn't try. I'm Hingan and I've have a similar experience. . .  but, answer me this; when exactly is your next nameday?"]

 Kikyo Hagane nods politely as he speaks, still trying to impress with her politeness. ["The 5th sun of the 6th Astral moon! So soon, is it not? I am sorry to hear that you have seen the same...you're so fashionable,"] she says, slipping up. She starts and bows. ["That was forward of me, I apologize."]

 Nobuyuki Ienaka watched Kikyo fumble with a polite smile. It wasn't out of pity; it was rather cute. She resonated her youth. ["You're forgiven,"] he replied, content. ["It is quite soon. . . but I have a plan."] He folded his arms, raising a hand to his chin. ["I an Ichihiko of Ichimitsu Okiya. I will. . . send a letter to my okiya and see if they would accept you as a shikomi under their name and my watch. I'm a licensed professional geigi, so I have the authority to oversee your apprenticeship. If they would allow me to do it is another thing, but I got along well enough with the otou-san of the okiya. It should be alright."] His arms returned to his sides. ["I'm going to ask you something you might have already answered for, but I want the answer in detail. Can you dance? Can you sing? Can you play an instrument?"] He canted his head. ["Your conversation is fluid enough in Eorzean and Hingan. . . your etiquette is proper, but could use some refining."]

 For the first time, Kikyo hesitates in answering -- not out of doubt of her answer, but of the strange and dark memories it surfaces. ["I trained as a shrine maiden in my home village until the Empire finally decided they were no longer entertained,"] she says, as diplomatically as she can. ["I have sung hymns and know dances to calm the great kami of our mountain home. I am eager to work and learn!"] she adds, hopeful.

 Nobuyuki Ienaka 's gaze was filled with sympathy. So many Domans displaced at such a young age. . . and one was upon him. ["I am sorry for your loss,"] he responded softly. ["That will do as a foundation. I will see you trained in seasonal dances and in Hingan instruments. The shamisen is a good start. You'll be practicing the shamisen for two bells every morning. Your dance lessons shall be in the evening, also for two bells. These are daily. You'll also have tea cereony, calligraphy, etiquette, and lessons focused on another instrument. Ths shift throughout the week. I'll arrange a schedule for you and you'll follow it. Is this clear?"] His shoulders squared some. ["This will begin once I have the otou-san's permission. We'll arrange for getting you your gei license. Hopefully, your misedashi - your debut as a maiko and the start of your career - will be shortly after your nameday."]

 Kikyo Hagane is old enough to understand but, perhaps luckily, too young to truly grasp the exact level of devastation enacted upon her lands and family. Or perhaps her optimism is blind and wishful. But not today! As Nobu lists her training, she cannot help from rolling to the balls of her feet in true excitement. ["Yes, Ichihiko-sensei! You honor me so much! I hope to honor you by serving as a good student,"] she says genuinely, bowing. ["What would you have me do before the debut? Do you require maid services? I shall of course be about the onsen as well..."]

 ["As a shikomi, in between your lessons, you will be doing chores. Preparing food for ozashiki and for our daily meals, serving and cleaning dishes, folding and cleaning kimono, tidying the ozashiki hall. . . many simple things."] It hardly sounded like Kikyo would be getting any free time!

 Kikyo Hagane seemed perfectly fine with this -- excited about it, even! ["I will do this! I will be the best shikomi of Uranami Onsen,"] she declares seriously, for being the only shikomi at the onsen....

 Nobuyuki Ienaka clasped his hands together with a polite smile, but his eyes were still serious. ["Very good. I'll give you your first official duty after I send the letter. It may take a while to get a response, but seeing as the onsen's already hired you, I don't see why you can't already start. We just need to get your gei license for your misedashi. Then you'll be good to go. Your first business would likely be helping me attend the onsen's stall at Ketto-Sai, the festival of samurai in Kugane."]

 Kikyo Hagane seems a little nervous at the mention of Kugane...but she wouldn't be alone this time! She had a real job! She would be at a festival working in probably nice clothes. She recovers and nods. ["Oh, a festival...how exciting! What will we be doing there, if I may ask?"]

 Nobuyuki Ienaka gave the answer bluntly. ["Selling soap."] He shifted his weight between his feet. ["We'll also be advertising the ozashiki hall for banquets. Which do you think you can handle more? Advertising the geisha or selling onsen goods? The former might be good if you want to try your hand at explaining to others what we do as geisha."]

 ["Soap can be pretty and smell very nice,"] Kikyo says, nodding, taking everything seriously as she is wont to do. ["I love the geisha arts. I would be honored to explain it to others!"]

 Nobuyuki Ienaka nodded once. ["Excellent. You must keep in mind, though; there will be Eorzeans there. Westerners. They /will/ ask if or why geisha are sex workers. You tell them they are not! It is forbidden by Hingan law to hold both a gei license and a prostitution license."] He tucked some hair behind his ear before reaching for a notepad, of which also rested on the stage. ["I have a number of performances scheduled this moon. . . most notably at this strange 'KupoCon.' I think someone your age may enjoy it."]

 Kikyo Hagane looks shocked at this! That people would even think that!! ["I will tell them!"] she says seriously. ["It is a job of beauty and artistry..."] As Nobu obtains his clipboard, she watches curiously. As to the topic of Kupocon...she tilts her head. ["Is a Kupocon where they celebrate the poofy ball mail creatures? They are cute..."]

 Nobuyuki Ienaka 's eyes shifted. ["Eorzeans are. . . forward and don't understand our concept of keeping face,"] he responded. ["Respect becomes something foreign. Show them geisha deserve it. . . and that means being on your best behavior."] He glanced back down at the notepad. ["I am actually unsure. Sort of? It's in their logo. Anyway, I'll be one of the 'idols' performing there. I am also hosting a talk about how geisha actually function to teach the Westerners about them. Your assistance, if you'd like, would be appreciated. The performance, you are free to watch. There's a party towards the end of the evening. You're quite free to attend."]

 Kikyo Hagane straightens up her posture once again when he mentions being on her best behavior! She cannot erase her excited smile, however. ["I would love to attend and assist however I can. I like very much to be helpful. And..."] She looks away, blushing a little. ["...I would like to see this party. I want to touch one of the kupos..."] She doesn't know they aren't called that!

 ["It's a great mesh of Western and Eastern culture. It shall be interesting."] Nobuyuki sets the notepad aside. ["Ah, one of the moogles? There might be some. Many stalls are selling graphic novels. It seems to appeal to many Western teenagers, and I can understand why. Such novels are popular in Kugane as well, I've noticed from my time there. Having been a shrine maiden, I trust you can read."] Then, he started to make his way for the door. ["Come. There are pumpkin cookies at the bar, along with some tea. Let's partake of it while we talk."]

 Kikyo Hagane follows excitedly! ["A moogle..."] she tests the word. How strange. But her joy largely bubbles up fro the promise of cookies. Yay! ["I love reading stories...I am learning Eorzean words very quickly..."] she would say, as they settle in for their chat...

[hadesburns]

INTRODUCING…

woo taehyun, the cashier at v records + worker at midnight noraebang who moved into the sweetheart sharehouse four years ago. we hear he’s staying in 3E, and that he wants to be a solo electric violinist. good luck with that.

THE PAST.

( tw: suicide )

taehyun is four years old when he speaks his first words, somehow having held off for so long despite the constant reassurances from the doctors that there is nothing wrong with him. he is not deaf or mute, he simply won’t speak, he is simply silent, even as his mother and father ache to coax words from his lips. he is resolute somehow, communicating in other ways that only his older brother can seem to understand.

dongyul is the epitome of everything taehyun wants to be in his life, is perfection on legs, is kind and good and warm, all sunlight through morning leaves and big, wool blankets in the wintertime. seven years between them means that he is old enough to really care about taehyun in a soft, older brother sort of way, and taehyun idolizes him and follows him around whenever and wherever he can. he is the boy’s whole world.

which would explain why his first words are at dongyul’s orchestra concert, after his amazing performance in his violin solo. the child says his name before running over to his hero while both parents gape and catch their breath.

dongyul is a prodigy at the violin and although taehyun wants to be just like him, he is more content to just watch and listen and brag to his friends about how great his older brother is. one of his most prominent memories is when he is seven years old, sitting on the floor in the living room, their new infant sister cuddled up in his lap, while dongyul plays the violin. it’s christmas and the lights flicker and dazzle and somehow everything is sweet and calm and taehyun feels safer than he ever has before.

when he is eleven, he stays up one night reading and dongyul comes into his bedroom to sit with him. he has his violin in a case and he looks down at it for a long moment before presenting it to taehyun. “i want you to have it.”

“what? but it’s yours..”

“i know. and i want you to keep it safe for me, okay? it’s important.”

“are you getting a new one?” taehyun’s head tilts, his eyes wide and confused.

and dongyul just smiles brightly at him.

the next morning, taehyun is sleepy, his eyes half-closed and his hair a mess, but they are late for school and his mother is fretting. she has to take care of the toddler so she tells taehyun to go get his brother quickly, and taehyun shuffles up the stairs and down the hall.

at first he thinks dongyul isn’t there. had he already gone downstairs? did they miss him in one of the other rooms, the bathroom perhaps?

but then taehyun opens the closet door and there is his whole world… on a string.

he doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring at the hanging body of his brother, the moment suspended in airless space, the sun pausing, the earth halting, stars and clouds and god himself blinking for a second or an hour or a year, but time ceases to really mean anything after a while. the silence in the room swallows him entirely, yawns like every other black-hole below his feet and everything drops down into it, into the terrible stillness, and he is once again without a voice. he can’t move or look away and all his thoughts turn grey– something deep and clean inside him, a white and pristine lining of his soul, dies an ugly, strangled death along with his brother in that instant.

when his mother comes up, she loses all sense of propriety, the room spasms in agony, and the screaming catches the attention of her husband who rushes up the stairs as well. taehyun is ushered from the room, but the image of his mother clinging to the dead body of her son is burned into his retinas. the image of her clinging to the coffin and sobbing, falling to her knees at burial grounds, bursting into tears at dinner only days later.

taehyun stops speaking for months afterwards. he cries every night in his room, clutching the case with dongyul’s violin inside it like a lifeline. he wonders why he has this. why did his brother give it to him? what was the point in loving someone so hard only for them to leave so suddenly? couldn’t he have stayed just a little while longer?

it’s autumn that same year when taehyun stands in front of the window and runs the bow across the strings, and it’s apalling, a screeching, whining sound that shatters into the room, begging for a bullet. he doesn’t know how to play, but there is some sort of song pounding in his head, clawing and screaming, threatening to break him if he doesn’t let it free. the cacophony is almost perfectly horrendous, but he’s somehow determined not to stop.

his mother almost takes the violin away from, comes in like a storm and tries to wrench it from his grasp, but he falls on top of it, clings to it as tightly as she had clung to dongyul’s coffin, and he would rather her set him on fire before he lets this instrument go. eventually his father convinces her that it’s alright for him to keep it, but he has to only play it in the garage. where they can’t hear him.

it’s another six months before he starts speaking again. more quite now though, careful, hesitant, as though every word would be his last.

he learns how to play better through watching videos on the internet, and practices every day, for hours a day, his fingers callusing, scraping, cutting. he doesn’t study school as much as he should, a less than average student, but that’s made up for by his little sister becoming top of her class. he’s proud of her, but all his smiles look broken.

he is sixteen and drunk off his ass when he buys his first electric violin. honestly, he can hardly remember the event, except that he saw it and knew true love was real, knew he would never love anyone else again the same way he comes to love this device. he still keeps his brother’s violin in perfect condition, and plays it often enough, but the electric instrument is his home now. he burns his heart into it, pours his soul and his tragedy into every note he plays.

“you’re graduating tomorrow,” his father tells him when he is 18 years old, as if he doesn’t already know. they sit in his office at the bank, because that’s where his father usually always is.

“yes, sir.” he’s not sure if that’s a question or…?

“i don’t know what sort of plans you might have for yourself, but your mother and i think it would be beneficial for you to go to college seeking a business degree. it’s something that will definitely come in handy in most jobs you’re likely to get.”

“yes, sir.” it’s the only thing he really says to the man anymore, despite what he may or may not be thinking about the topic, despite how he may or may not feel.

instead of college though, he graduates and goes straight into the military. he gives himself two years to weigh his options, to lose himself in something other than grief. he misses his music, his notes and bars, the clefs and trebles, but tells himself that he is doing this to gain clarity; in the slow hours of the night, however, he knows he is doing this to run away.

but two years disappears quickly and when it’s time to come home, he is there for only a week before catching the next train to hongdae, desperate to find work and an apartment and a tune to match. there’s only so long one can avoid the topic of going to college, of finally getting that business degree, of finally making his parents proud of him, so he decides it’s better to just drop all pretenses and do away with the whole concept of it. he wouldn’t call himself the black sheep, but dongyul at least got violin lessons and concerts to perform in.

the first time taehyun plays his electric violin in public, it’s on the streets of the city, and it electrifies him to the core, the lightning in the tool cascading through his veins, setting him on fire. he wonders how he never played in public before, he wonders if this exhilaration is what dongyul felt on stage every time, and now, finally, he feels closer to his brother than he ever has before.

when he moves into the sweetheart sharehouse, his favorite part about it is the rooftop. he likes to stand on the very edge of the building, the landlady’s gardens behind him, the sunrise in front of him, his lifeline tucked under his chin, playing music to the sky. good morning, hongdae, here’s a lullaby to start your day. sometimes it’s sweet and warm, like that christmas on the floor, and sometimes it’s tragic and sticky, like the ghosts he can’t let go of.

either way, it’s his whole world now… on strings.

THE PRESENT.

he’s been in the sharehouse for four years, four years between two dead-end jobs, four years between the sun and the moon, between music and silence. some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them, and then there’s taehyun, who neither wants nor expects it, satisfying himself with simply breathing and sleeping and spending the first ten minutes of every day convincing himself to get up out of bed because sometimes gravity weighs on him like a freight-train; and that’s enough.

he borders on the abyss of his mind, the muted gulf still yawning below his feet, an ever-constant threat to swallow him alive, choke the voice right out of him for good, drown his thoughts in the dissonance of static, but the music always draws him back, the notes and chords always swaying him away from the edge, away from the turmoil, away from the dark. the sharehouse is a safe-haven for him, despite whoever else he has to step around, allowing him to explore that music, to lose himself in the walls, in the rooftop, in the floorboards, and sometimes it’s a poison, a hatred, to have something to hold onto. but he holds only it anyway. for the time being, it’s really all he can do.

[momentskrp-archive]

INTRODUCING…

woo taehyun, the cashier at v records + worker at midnight noraebang  who moved into the sweetheart sharehouse four years ago. we hear he’s staying in 3E, and that he wants to be a solo electric violinist. good luck with that.

THE PAST.

( tw: suicide )

taehyun is four years old when he speaks his first words, somehow having held off for so long despite the constant reassurances from the doctors that there is nothing wrong with him. he is not deaf or mute, he simply won’t speak, he is simply silent, even as his mother and father ache to coax words from his lips. he is resolute somehow, communicating in other ways that only his older brother can seem to understand.

dongyul is the epitome of everything taehyun wants to be in his life, is perfection on legs, is kind and good and warm, all sunlight through morning leaves and big, wool blankets in the wintertime. seven years between them means that he is old enough to really care about taehyun in a soft, older brother sort of way, and taehyun idolizes him and follows him around whenever and wherever he can. he is the boy’s whole world.

which would explain why his first words are at dongyul’s orchestra concert, after his amazing performance in his violin solo. the child says his name before running over to his hero while both parents gape and catch their breath.

dongyul is a prodigy at the violin and although taehyun wants to be just like him, he is more content to just watch and listen and brag to his friends about how great his older brother is. one of his most prominent memories is when he is seven years old, sitting on the floor in the living room, their new infant sister cuddled up in his lap, while dongyul plays the violin. it’s christmas and the lights flicker and dazzle and somehow everything is sweet and calm and taehyun feels safer than he ever has before.

when he is eleven, he stays up one night reading and dongyul comes into his bedroom to sit with him. he has his violin in a case and he looks down at it for a long moment before presenting it to taehyun. “i want you to have it.”

“what? but it’s yours..”

“i know. and i want you to keep it safe for me, okay? it’s important.”

“are you getting a new one?” taehyun’s head tilts, his eyes wide and confused.

and dongyul just smiles brightly at him.

the next morning, taehyun is sleepy, his eyes half-closed and his hair a mess, but they are late for school and his mother is fretting. she has to take care of the toddler so she tells taehyun to go get his brother quickly, and taehyun shuffles up the stairs and down the hall.

at first he thinks dongyul isn’t there. had he already gone downstairs? did they miss him in one of the other rooms, the bathroom perhaps?

but then taehyun opens the closet door and there is his whole world… on a string.

he doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring at the hanging body of his brother, the moment suspended in airless space, the sun pausing, the earth halting, stars and clouds and god himself blinking for a second or an hour or a year, but time ceases to really mean anything after a while. the silence in the room swallows him entirely, yawns like every other black-hole below his feet and everything drops down into it, into the terrible stillness, and he is once again without a voice. he can’t move or look away and all his thoughts turn grey– something deep and clean inside him, a white and pristine lining of his soul, dies an ugly, strangled death along with his brother in that instant.

when his mother comes up, she loses all sense of propriety, the room spasms in agony, and the screaming catches the attention of her husband who rushes up the stairs as well. taehyun is ushered from the room, but the image of his mother clinging to the dead body of her son is burned into his retinas. the image of her clinging to the coffin and sobbing, falling to her knees at burial grounds, bursting into tears at dinner only days later.

taehyun stops speaking for months afterwards. he cries every night in his room, clutching the case with dongyul’s violin inside it like a lifeline. he wonders why he has this. why did his brother give it to him? what was the point in loving someone so hard only for them to leave so suddenly? couldn’t he have stayed just a little while longer?

it’s autumn that same year when taehyun stands in front of the window and runs the bow across the strings, and it’s apalling, a screeching, whining sound that shatters into the room, begging for a bullet. he doesn’t know how to play, but there is some sort of song pounding in his head, clawing and screaming, threatening to break him if he doesn’t let it free. the cacophony is almost perfectly horrendous, but he’s somehow determined not to stop.

his mother almost takes the violin away from, comes in like a storm and tries to wrench it from his grasp, but he falls on top of it, clings to it as tightly as she had clung to dongyul’s coffin, and he would rather her set him on fire before he lets this instrument go. eventually his father convinces her that it’s alright for him to keep it, but he has to only play it in the garage. where they can’t hear him.

it’s another six months before he starts speaking again. more quite now though, careful, hesitant, as though every word would be his last.

he learns how to play better through watching videos on the internet, and practices every day, for hours a day, his fingers callusing, scraping, cutting. he doesn’t study school as much as he should, a less than average student, but that’s made up for by his little sister becoming top of her class. he’s proud of her, but all his smiles look broken.

he is sixteen and drunk off his ass when he buys his first electric violin. honestly, he can hardly remember the event, except that he saw it and knew true love was real, knew he would never love anyone else again the same way he comes to love this device. he still keeps his brother’s violin in perfect condition, and plays it often enough, but the electric instrument is his home now. he burns his heart into it, pours his soul and his tragedy into every note he plays.

“you’re graduating tomorrow,” his father tells him when he is 18 years old, as if he doesn’t already know. they sit in his office at the bank, because that’s where his father usually always is.

“yes, sir.” he’s not sure if that’s a question or…?

“i don’t know what sort of plans you might have for yourself, but your mother and i think it would be beneficial for you to go to college seeking a business degree. it’s something that will definitely come in handy in most jobs you’re likely to get.”

“yes, sir.” it’s the only thing he really says to the man anymore, despite what he may or may not be thinking about the topic, despite how he may or may not feel.

instead of college though, he graduates and goes straight into the military. he gives himself two years to weigh his options, to lose himself in something other than grief. he misses his music, his notes and bars, the clefs and trebles, but tells himself that he is doing this to gain clarity; in the slow hours of the night, however, he knows he is doing this to run away.

but two years disappears quickly and when it’s time to come home, he is there for only a week before catching the next train to hongdae, desperate to find work and an apartment and a tune to match. there’s only so long one can avoid the topic of going to college, of finally getting that business degree, of finally making his parents proud of him, so he decides it’s better to just drop all pretenses and do away with the whole concept of it. he wouldn’t call himself the black sheep, but dongyul at least got violin lessons and concerts to perform in.

the first time taehyun plays his electric violin in public, it’s on the streets of the city, and it electrifies him to the core, the lightning in the tool cascading through his veins, setting him on fire. he wonders how he never played in public before, he wonders if this exhilaration is what dongyul felt on stage every time, and now, finally, he feels closer to his brother than he ever has before.

when he moves into the sweetheart sharehouse, his favorite part about it is the rooftop. he likes to stand on the very edge of the building, the landlady’s gardens behind him, the sunrise in front of him, his lifeline tucked under his chin, playing music to the sky. good morning, hongdae, here’s a lullaby to start your day. sometimes it’s sweet and warm, like that christmas on the floor, and sometimes it’s tragic and sticky, like the ghosts he can’t let go of.

either way, it’s his whole world now… on strings.

THE PRESENT.

he’s been in the sharehouse for four years, four years between two dead-end jobs, four years between the sun and the moon, between music and silence. some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them, and then there’s taehyun, who neither wants nor expects it, satisfying himself with simply breathing and sleeping and spending the first ten minutes of every day convincing himself to get up out of bed because sometimes gravity weighs on him like a freight-train; and that’s enough.

he borders on the abyss of his mind, the muted gulf still yawning below his feet, an ever-constant threat to swallow him alive, choke the voice right out of him for good, drown his thoughts in the dissonance of static, but the music always draws him back, the notes and chords always swaying him away from the edge, away from the turmoil, away from the dark. the sharehouse is a safe-haven for him, despite whoever else he has to step around, allowing him to explore that music, to lose himself in the walls, in the rooftop, in the floorboards, and sometimes it’s a poison, a hatred, to have something to hold onto. but he holds only it anyway. for the time being, it’s really all he can do.