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fionarara · 10 months

Text

+ cherry bomb .

+ GOJŌ SATORU x READER .

+ T W ⇾ 18+ only . smut . sugar daddy!gojo . dilf!gojo . f!reader . implied ddlg dynamics . adult age gap (the amount is your interpretation) . aquaphilia aka underwater sex . praise . a bit of a baby bimbo reader so um dacryphilia, no rly, like i’m talking actual tears, yeah . gojou has a dumb joke (or two) . mention of divorce (not yours) and of gojo’s child (also not yours) . slight size kink if you squint . i feel like both flaunted capitalism and vapid self-indulgence needs a tag here ?? we be explorin dark kink of all kinds on this here blog, right? (｡>ω<｡) . reader has a few nicknames . no beta . and lastly, probably goes without saying but daddy kink, i repeat, daddy kink . oyasumi ✌︎ .

+ A N ⇾ um, istg i totally did not mean to post this dilf!gojo on actual father’s day, h-whoa? but the universe just always has my back i swear, an amazing coincidence as i only realized right before posting, and somehow it feels *symbolic* ?? - this is for the sugar daddy collab by @sleepysnk, ty for letting me join last minute summer ♡

+ W C ⇾ circa 5,500

Zz Zz Zz.

Within your skirt a vibration kicks off.

The ringing of a phone tucked into the waistband against your tummy chimes out its soft little tune where you withdraw it to peek at the screen. Flashing vibrantly across its surface reads ‘DD Gojo’, and the smile unveiling on your face shines as brightly as the reflected device in your palm.

From where you stand on the sidewalk in elegant heels, all dolled up for the occasion, the twilight of dusk is visible on the horizon. The vision of picturesque dark multi-colored hues harmonize nicely with the wafting scent of warm pastries and tea in the air nearby, out from the cafe of the luxury shopping center you’ve been waiting in front of: Gojo’s favorite meeting spot. Whereby inevitably, has become yours as well.

A place you have both frequented together before, where he has showered you with many gifts, many times over, treasured in both of your memories. Cherished adventures built here upon wining and dining at the finest restaurants, playing dress up at the shops amongst extravagance, the cavalcade of glittering jewels and lavish garments–all the things you deserve as far as he’s concerned. He is of the belief that whatever you receive should be nothing but the best the world could ever offer, or at least his wallet, he figures.

And since life has been really tough on him lately–divorce is a bitch, the entire ongoing legal process has been one drawn out migraine–you and your overall companionship are so highly prized, not only in his day-to-day, but because of the new glow you’ve supplied his life. Especially during the last several months of regularly seeing one another after the separation from his marriage.

Unabashed in his absolute fondness for you, he has deemed you his little crème de la crème angel.

You pick up the jingling phone in your hand.

Gojo Satoru seems to be in an especially exuberant and silly mood when his voice forces a notable husky tone, answering your greeting with a fun-loving tease, a low murmur on the other end of the call.

“Ring-ding-dong—is baby ready for my dong, sweets?” He finds himself hilarious, goofy, a laugh ripping out of his throat with audacity, clearly and thoroughly enjoying his own terrible joke.

Wow. There’s that classic on-a-whim, lively, larger-than-life bluntness that comes along with Gojo’s Sagittarius energy you have come to know well: he’s innately playful and comedic, fun, loud, has got a charmingly sharp tongue with no filter—it can sometimes come back to bite him in the ass if he’s not careful—and all of that is blanketed by a sort of fiery sense of passion for the things he loves.

The fact remains that his way of being has always been able to find a kind of carefree humor within you, something so inexplicable. He brings out in you a sense of total ease or lightness you weren’t even sure you were capable of. A kind of untapped, unfettered joy no one has ever been able to touch in you before…

So you’re halfway snickering at him now, amused, but with full-blown sarcasm you reply, “Ha–ha, Satoru, you’re so classy…” then you’re truly giggling, “...just shuddup and get over here already.” You try to restrain the crack of a too-wide smile from spreading across your cheeks, but fail, gloriously.

So you give in to it. Deciding to oblige him, you press the mic of the phone closer to your lips with a hand cupped over your mouth, shielding your next spoken words while you avert your head downward in a play of secrecy. It’s almost a whisper when you respond.

“But…yes, I think that…just maybe, I am ready for it. Got it?”

He’s unable to actually see the minxy raise of your brow shown on your face, but the gesture is not lost on him from the tone in your voice. He hears it loud and clear.

“Jeesus, baby, I’m comin’, I’m comin’...”, the subtle rise of anticipation within him giddy and excitable. "Listen, I’m almost there. My GPS says I’m two minutes away.”

Late afternoon air has you rubbing away chilly goosebumps alive on your skin, particularly your upper arms, to bring you warmth. “Ok, good. Please hurry, it’s getting nippy out.”

“Oh?” Here it comes… “Mm, ya better have nipples out…see you soon.” The sound of a bold chuckle is distorted by the phone speaker before it’s cut off by a prompt click. He disconnected the call in that way.

Already, it is your second humored eye-roll of the evening from his cheeky Gojo-behavior and you haven’t even seen him yet.

Your chest is lighter because of it.

The shopping bags in your grasp shift from two hands into one, your free hand thumbing to find the golden credit card Gojo lent you in the pocket of your jacket. Assuring yourself that it’s still there is important.

Over a month ago, he had broken the news of how meetups between the two of you would soon become more of a challenge, due to court and custody hearings surrounding the finalization of his divorce. You’d be spending a considerable amount of time apart, he’d said. It would be longer than usual, by a whole month, and offered to grant you some form of consolation in return. So the very next day, an express-shipped credit card appeared at your doorstep in the fine afternoon with a letter enclosed. In it, he expressed that you were to use it and shop to your little heart’s content. The only deal was that you would hand it back upon the arrival of this date.

The car that pulls up to double park along the curbside beside you is, without a doubt, the most expensive car you will have ever ridden. It’s new. Gojo had mentioned it last week, making the purchase to lift his spirits and also as celebration for the court case he’d won against his ex. They’d granted him equal joint custody of their child. Actually, his final stop prior to fetching you this evening had been dropping off his baby daughter.

The door swings open on its own, remotely controlled by electronics. In view and resting on the front seat is a tatty teddy bear belonging to his child that was forgotten.

“Oops, lemme move that for you.” Somehow the sight of this tiny plush toy in his large hand brings about the sweetest rush in you for him. The stuffed animal is laid to rest onto the back seat where you also note a hollow purple baby bottle leaking a dribble of spilt milk from its nipple and onto the cushion.

Nineties grunge-rock plays soft on the radio when you climb in. The air is filled with a sweet and peppery, woodsy scent, one you recognize immediately–it’s him, his comforting cologne so greatly missed, only making you that much more aware of just how profound the ache has truly been for this moment to be by his side.

Crawling towards him, you pelt your eager arms around his neck, a way that communicates it has felt like an eternity apart. Both of you have a greater sense of it now, from being in the other’s presence. You can hardly keep your exhilaration in check, not with the soft squeals you let loose on his shoulder. For a moment, together you melt, breathing into each other.

It hangs in the air of the moment as you embrace.

The weight of the wait.

He then cradles you deeper, pulling you into an assertive kiss so welcoming, so sloppy with intention, it’s as if he’s blissfully unconcerned with how messy it is because, finally, you’re here. Letting you know it’s been far too long for him when he’s matting your cheeks with numerous pecks and taking in the scent of your hair.

Withdrawing to observe you, his eyes alight with radiance at the full sight of you, your energy. “God, I almost forgot just how stunning you are. Look at you! Just…incredible.”

The praise washes over you and after exchanging a few more greeting words, of how you’ve longed to see each other, he shifts the car gear into drive.

Buildings whip across the dark sunset and late dusk settles in. The spectacle of nightfall on this ride, of the city through the windshield, excites him enough to ignite a sudden curious stir in his pants. Maybe it’s the prospect of what night can bring with you along after so much distance that has his dick twitch at the thought alone.

And with that, his hand is creeping over to your lap. It should be almost comical when you believe for the quickest moment that his approaching hand would be innocent. One only of affection, to caress you, a gentle expression only in missing you…

But consequently, their energy becomes different—turn into those fingers, the kind you know well that are wanting, possessive. And being able to even think another thought is lost on you before he is squeezing at the thickest part of your inner thigh then slipping under your skirt.

“Satoruuu…wait…” you swat his arm with a light tap, dissuading him from getting too distracted. It’s happened once or twice before he’s lost control of the wheel when attempting something as naughty as this, but it is half-hearted when you breathily urge, “…pay…pay attention to the road…”

Not a moment later, out from the speakers the bass booms more loudly, the volume amplifying higher by the second where the music thumps heavy throughout your body. You locate the outlandish crystal-eyed culprit and his thumb pressing the ‘+ volume up’ button on the steering wheel.

Not only does he have the music blasted, but has the gall to flash a cutesy grin of mischief at you, a most sinful and impish face. That expression is followed up with a playful mocking yell, where the holler of his voice competes and cuts through the music.

“HUH, baby?-! WHAT? I can't hear you!” he teases, then carries on anyway with the slide of his fingers between your pressed thighs. It’s difficult for you not to part them a smidge while the electric feel of his three fingers reaches for your clothed cunt. They press flat against your mound at the first touch, then begin to fondle lightly at the grooves of your pussy, tracing the outer shape of it with his fingertips.

Having some restraint here had been your aim, but tonight you seem to be failing plenty at not completely succumbing to his whimsical charm–it's just been so long since you’ve been near him–you’d almost forgotten how magnetic his presence truly is.

Attempting to keep your desire hidden, you try stifling the puff of air that escapes your throat, turning your head away towards the window, but it is futile. On full display to him now is how unable you are to withstand his spellbinding touch, and he’d spotted it. That little starved expression tells Gojo how badly you’re fiending, it has him lowering the radio, the amplitude of the loud song descending and funneling out of the small space, volume all the way down so he can very clearly hear what his defiance has wrought on you.

Listening to your tiny constrained moans sends heat straight through his abdomen. You do not want to be condoning any of this while he’s driving, but unfortunately for your willpower, you act on instinct when you begin pawing desperately at the muscular forearm connected to strong fingers massaging over the wet spot of your panties.

“Yeahh…you like this, huh? Knew it.”

But, in a moment too soon, he is cut off by an abrupt swerve of the car and you gasp.

“Shit–” he grips steadfast onto the wheel, gaining composure of the vehicle.

“...Alright, alright, you were right. Let’s save this.” Punctuating the final word with one reassuring pat down onto your pussy, it's honestly more like a gentle spank.

You’re pouting, but of course you nod, agree, and settle into the electrically warmed seat produced by the suave leather chair, feeling loosened up.

Safety first.

. + .

The door to Gojo’s opulent estate, only a fraction of what sits on a 22-acre property, welcomes you by the greeting of a polished and suited butler. Warm lighting casts down from the expansive ceiling and it’s the first time this evening you’re able to catch a true glimpse of Gojo’s eyes. They look a bit tired, a tad worn from his recent circumstances, but it is truly a wonder how he can make even a light touch of under-eye bags look sexy.

Walking past the foyer toward the candle-lit living room, you extend him your comfort. Wrapping your arm around the bulk of his bicep, the other palm reaches for the hard pec on his chest to rub soothing circles of understanding.

Here you are at long last, approaching the grand sofa, both of you plopping yourselves atop the plush expanse and seamlessly locking on to one another. He relishes in the beautiful body flush against his.

Encircling his waist with your arms, you find it rather cute in taking note that he is marginally plumper around his middle than before, having developed a more modest weight around his butt and love handles. Though abs of steel still ripple his shirt, the overworked dad you hold in your arms seems to have relaxed a little from the recent stress and you are filled with a sudden pride for him.

A light-hearted joke flickers in your mind of his natural ability to take up space from his energy alone anyway–how you admire it, a part of you secretly wishing you could embody more of that in yourself–but mostly in how you appreciate this bigger physical development in him, because it now means there's a little more of him in the world.

“Shall we toast?” he suggests, so he whips you up a nice pink drink while he sips hard gin on the rocks, leaning back, thighs spread open like an empowered slut.

Curiosity then strikes him when the haul of shopping bags sitting on the floor from your spree earlier this evening catches his eye. “Ooo, lemme me take a peek at what you got.” he sits up and nods, face gleaming.

One by one each item is showcased and he is enthralled by every piece, because of course he is—it’s part of why he adores you, chose you, your keen eye and clear level of taste has always been impeccable, distinct and unique, highly attractive.

Then his heart is increasing in size as you confirm, right here, right now, that those aren’t amongst your only positive qualities when you’re showing him you’d also picked up something for him and had been thoughtful enough to do so. An ornate watch is pulled out of a fresh bag by your delicate hands, that then with a snap is on his wrist, handsome as it glints and refracts in the candlelight of the room.

Your body reaches over the littered items on the elaborate rug, clasping the final shopping bag which houses the bikini you had bought for this reunion by his request.

He whistles at it. “Superb. Model it for me, will you, babe?”

You do. Twirl, shimmy, joke with an exaggerated runway catwalk, giggle, then there’s something visible written on his face and you’re able to anticipate what his next move might be.

Gojo had developed a pension for bestowing you with a few cutesy nicknames in the time spent getting to know you. Amongst his favorites and most frequently used is that of ‘cherrybomb’. Must be a fan of The Runaways, you figured, but it truly came about when, almost exclusively, you began wearing rouge-shade lipsticks in his presence. Perhaps you could make yourself seem a little older, you’d hoped, give yourself a closer touch of sophistication in his world by presenting yourself in such a way.

But mostly he’d donned you with the specific moniker because a smattering of the red tends to end up around the lower half of his dick after he's had his way with you, a faint painted crimson over his pelvis near where it meets the shaft.

You’re halfway through striking a faked model pose when he lifts himself off the couch and approaches. With an index finger so sensual, he presses up into the cushion of your ruby lips, holding tight to your gaze, coaxing you with a query, “So, gonna help daddy feel better now, cherrybomb?"

Then, far into the depths of crystalline aqua you swim, deep into the mesmerizing eyes that lock onto yours and you say nothing; nothing except for an exhale of hot moist vapor releasing onto the firm finger that baits you. The slow lick you give it afterward, dragging your tongue up along the column of his digit, landing at the tip, answers any and all of his questions. He can already feel the swell of blood trickling in to fill up his cock.

The time has come for his hand to guide you through another hallway toward the recently completed construction of a large-scale naturesque onsen the size of a massive pool, installed in the outdoor area beyond the sliding doors. Intending to experience it tonight for the first time was on his agenda, professing his desire to christen the new space with you, right before he glides a magnificent lustered glass door to one side, letting you through.

You step into the open atmosphere: water bedazzled by moonlight, submerged light fixtures softly illuminating a mint-aqua azure-blue glow, steam rising thick as fog. A plethora of tall bamboo trees enclose the surrounding space, a waterfall cascades off a giant boulder just around the bend and beneath your feet and everywhere is an assortment of gorgeous stones varying in shapes, sizes and sorts.

Gojo leans into you from behind when you approach the onsen’s outer edge, planting kisses along your neck. A clean tug at the string of your bikini top by his hand has it flopping off your breasts, exposing them to the crisp night air, amongst the sprinkle of stars hanging in the heavens. Bikini bottoms hit your ankles next and he strips completely, down to his boxers, then to nothing at all. Already he’s rock hard, a cock so upright, it seems it could nearly touch his abs.

A large hand links to yours, leading you down into the inviting water.

"God, you’re tiny next to me." He tells you, loving how much his big build towers your frame, admiring your body from behind as you descend into the blue, bare feet hitting each lowered pebbled step.

Submerging into warmth, it cradles you as you dip in. Vapor floats off the lapping surface where your joined bodies bob together in water, all of your limbs wrapped around him. He wastes not another second longer, gripping you impossibly closer, making out with you, ardently; proving himself to be ever the great multitasker with one hand gripped on your asscheek and another kneading at your breast.

Now the sizzling of your skin isn’t from the heated water alone, for beneath the very surface you simmer for him, a robust flame of aching arousal so unbearable it has you trembling. Shaky and flustered by lust, from how strong hands grope every inch of your body, how his tongue intoxicates you as it rolls fluidly against yours, he senses it all—how overcome you are by need—making him groan with a fire in his belly, as do you, too.

Desire has your spine arching. Legs still grasped to his waist, your ass pops backward as far as it will reach, creating easy access for him where he can trace fingertips along the crack of your ass as a guide, down to the ‘X’ which marks the spot of your slick hole.

Two thick fingers dip up, curl inside you, and plumes of oxygen off your light moans release between whimpers. Like your third eye opening, the instant clarity you receive in understanding how these fingers are able to create such powerful sorcery is made evident now, by his digits making literal magic in you as they fuck you filthy beneath the water.

“Missed you like hell.” He murmurs, then you grip tighter, moaning, sucking a quick bruise on his neck.

Yet all too soon, he notes the angle of his wrist is not ideal, nor the slight pushback from the water. All of it provides much resistance for him to thrust into you at the necessary speed that he knows would truly have you unraveling for him.

A light bulb flicks on in his head.

“Turn for me.” He commands, gentle and true.

In favor of getting you back to the onsen steps without letting you lose arousal, he whips your body around, directing your arms to wind behind his neck, your ankles to wrap around his. With your back meeting his chest, exposed nipples sting wet in the cold bite of the air, wading you through the water. His goal to keep that hot coil of desire burning within you also means his own cravings run high right now, to have you squirming on his fingers from this position, knowing where that button can be pressed upon.

“Thaaat’s it, baby, keep it up for me…” He entices, approvingly, an eager hand reaching from around your hip to the front, massaging over your clit in winding motions of expertise. His game is won when your hips begin to stutter, rocking and chasing for more of his touch and he can sense the steady rhythm of your thighs tensing against his.

Soon, your feet hit the stony steps. Placed on a higher level than him, it gives him reason to bend you over as planned, to hike your ass up above the waterline where it collects just around your thighs. It’s there you are instructed to hold steadfast on the edge of the onsen.

“Good, baby. Just like that.”

He reckons it’s his turn to make you pliant and easy access for himself. From where he stands below, waist deep in water, his face is lined with the entirety of your raw nether-region, anxiously awaiting to eat you out from behind.

But first, the sight of you like this is truly something to behold.

Here is a quick moment of pause for Gojo, caught in admiring the beauty of pearlescent vapors casting heat off of every bit of your skin, dancing upward through the shine of moonbeams contrasted against the darkness.

“Mmm.” There’s a tone of carnal wonder—and just a touch of light playfulness—in his humbled voice. “Your pussy is steaming hot, baby. Literally.”

You whine from the unfavorable lack of contact as he purrs his sweet words. Air is blown over your bare steamy cunt by his lips, cooling it down, watching it clench, eyeing heat vapors disperse around it. Then he gingerly pries the petals of your pussy open, lingers in admiration for another moment longer before finally tugging your thighs backward to strike his face onto the wet folds. He impresses a deep open-mouthed kiss onto it, sucking your pussy slow and deep into his mouth, and you snap—out comes your ungodly cry in ecstasy. He makes it sloppy, purposefully a bit disheveled, all wicked slurps and licks of passion, and a huff from his nose hits your asshole in a stimulating sensation.

The taste of the mineral water mixed with the sweet drip of your cunt thoroughly quenches his thirst for this christening.

Light daddy scruff from his lower face can be felt against you as another slow upward lick nearly grazes your anus. He wants to create a plateau of his tongue stretching across the whole of your pussy, so he’s scooping under to search for your clit and press there, toying with the nub for several long languid beats.

That is until he makes a quicker decision to swap it in favor of shoving his fingers inside you and pump them with force from behind. When you thrust back to help his fingers reach deeper, he already misses his face being trapped and pressed to your cunt, so he moves back to slurping your clit too.

Your head falls forward as you crescendo from tiny whimpers into staccato groans, then sensing him pause for the smallest of moments only to catch a breath where you can feel his rapid draw of air.

He is attuned to when your hips begin gyrating harder onto his sucks, it’s a signal you’re close to your finish. So he doubles down, grabbing hold of your sides in a bruising grip, fingertips digging deep into the flesh of your hips where he forces you tighter onto his face. All that’s left to give is a tiny sting of pain to send you reeling and crying out his name, so his large hand cracks down on an asscheek, several filthy slaps, with the swirl of his tongue still on you.

He alternates, working and circling open your tender hole to motioning down onto pulsating clit-sucks in such perfect rhythm, it’s like the epic beat of a hit song—and in an instant, it must be your favorite tune, because now you’re singing out along with it, belting out with a searing vibrant orgasm that courses through you.

Your elbows and knees wobble, near to collapse, but he’s caught you just in time with a slide of his arm underneath your tummy, holding you up with another hand by your outer thigh.

And you feel entirely supported by him, in many more ways than one.

You’re weakened and topple sweetly into the water, flopping backward into his broad chest. He draws in your back from behind, whispering warmth in your ear. “Daddy’s turn.”

The way your cheeks beam in post-glow daze has him tender-hearted. “Aw, my little cherrybomb…” he brushes away clumped strands of hair plastered to your face, “...like how only I can make you feel?”

Being older than you means he’s more experienced. No one other than Gojo has even remotely had you cumming as hard, so you can't deny his accuracy. You’d never dream of denying it anyway.

“Without question, daddy,” a little raspy voice so sincere, your body twirling in the clear blue liquid to face him outright, telling him point blank, “you’re the only one that has the power to make me feel this good.” Nearly sung like a lullaby off your tongue, you stare up at him with the most earnest eyes.

The sweet innocence of your praise is so astounding it raises his eyelids to widen so greatly until the appearance of the moon’s reflection fully shines in his eyes ; a genuine response to your unwavering devotion. Then it’s gone in a flash, because his eyelids shut when he’s peppering a line of kisses over your forehead and his dick is forcibly throbbing against you.

“Mhm yeah, you feel that?” He sucks on your earlobe, it’s still between lips as his whisper vibrates on the sensitive skin. “Want you bad. Help your daddy out now."

It’s nearly impossible to contain yourself when the all consuming thought and need in this moment is his grown cock in your hand, to supply him with anything and everything that would satisfy him, service him with the utmost amount of pleasure possible it’s as though he would never again know of pain.

Plunging forward and splashing further into the water, you hurl yourself onto him, a hand wrapped around his cock, an arm thrown around his nape. You pull him into another session of sucking one another’s faces, feverish mouths echoing moans into each other while you fist him below the water.

Gradually, the motion pushes him further and further backward until his spine hits an eventual rocky wall, arms-length away from the flow of the waterfall.

Gojo hauls you up by your thighs to wrap over his hips, simply wanting you to feel how hard he is from the outside, skin against skin, tenderly outlining the full protruding length of himself over your folds. Teasing between velvety lips, he’s grinning at how much of your slick can be felt through the water as he rhythmically runs his hard cock to bump up against your clit. Pleasure erupts through you with uncontrollable shuddering, from the remembrance of how unbelievable it could be just to have Gojo rubbing over you, the rush of the hazy memory all comes flooding back to you now.

Your head cannot withstand its own weight any longer, dropping dead into his fragrant shoulder, the scent of his neck driving you to delirium, inducing an almost intolerable desire for him.

“Enjoying yourself?” He chimes, but you are barely able to muffle out an agreement with your mouth muted against his skin. The best you can give is a tiny nod and it feels you’ve mildly blacked-out behind closed lids. “Tell me how much you need it.” He commands.

“I-I…” you start, but it dies in your throat, “...I...I–”

“Come on, baby,” he coos, a little smug, a bit more pride in his request, “I wanna hear it.”

You're at a loss, struggling to form coherent sentences, already helplessly weak from his cock and it's not even inside of you yet.

“...so...s-so bad, please…I–”

A wordless understanding soon emanates between you both, suspended in the air surrounding you. It’s a palpable exchange of etheric empathy. He understands–identifies, since you have never spent this much time apart before and seeping into the gravity of that is also beginning to make him feel dizzied. “That's it…that’s it…you can do it, sweets, you can tell me...” He rocks his taunting hips, hypnotizing your needy hole from the outside with the prodding head of his cock as you try once more to formulate a sensical sentence.

“D-don't think…I've ever…wanted anything–so badly–I-I–”

The more you babble, the harder he throbs.

“Daddy, I just–!” You feel actual tears starting to well up in your eyes, “–missed you so much-!”

An unexpected pang in your chest induces a flood of tears from your lower lash line. It’s only obvious to you now that you’ve been harboring this specific avoided emotion for a while, possibly even weeks. Trying to keep “strong”, convincing yourself you’ve been fine, or shoving down anything that would surface from within you about making the distance a bigger deal than you thought it ought to be.

Feeling so foolish, naive, to be crying with a mix of anguished pleasure for him, you lightly choke on your resistance to all of it, but without any ability to stop it.

He slows, then halts to observe your face, detecting the moisture below your eyes. It catches him by surprise. Concerned for you, he speaks with care.

“Aww, angelll…”

A tear streams down your cheek where he stops it with his lips, kissing it away, and Gojo feels his cock swell harder.

Undeniably horny by your undeniable ache for him.

A hand swipes over your face, shushing you to calm. “Shh…that's alright, okay baby, shh, you did good–so good speaking up for me–letting me know how much you want me…” soothing tingles by gentle scratches of his hands along your back quell you, “...re-laaa-x…shh…that was good enough for me now.”

Your cheeks are burning, born out of the pit of stupidity you feel as it pools in your stomach. Yet still, you continue to tear up, subtle quivering comes in waves over your body and has him offering you more words of comfort.

“...Nnnm…I missed you too, hey, hey–” he cups your face, making sure you’re truly hearing him. “–I did too, I really did…I know, baby, I know…” since you’re already crying, he might as well give you a better reason to, in the only way he knows to make it better, “...missed you somethin fierce…here–lemme show you how much. Come’ere–”

Lining up with your drenched hole, he guides you down onto the smooth stretch of his thick cock and your breath constricts. It has your face contorting from the dizzying nature of it all, denting your nails into his broad back. Gojo’s glimmering eyes connect with yours, reflecting back a shared intensity. Your gazes mirror one another as two pairs of eyelids are drooping together in unison, carefully examining each other’s faces as you adjust to him and he finally bottoms out inside you. But he grants you mere moments before the overwhelming thirst for you is far too irresistible to bear any longer.

He surrenders to the will of his body as if possessed, chasing more of the sweet suck of your cunt in every thrust and now you’re crying from something else entirely. Strong, effortless, determined pumps of his length drive into your core, the way he knows you’ll always end up begging for, although now, no longer does he want to ask that of you.

In this instance, his sole purpose becomes your unspoken bliss, to anticipate your desires without you needing to word them, yearning to spare you any further trace of strain or exertion. He intends to allow you the full sensation of simply craving his strong presence, pistoning into you, to let you relinquish control, entrusting him to tend to every remaining detail of your pleasure.

“Does this make you happier, baby? Hm?” Still carrying you, he turns a 180, switching spots to push your back against the flat rocky surface and ram you up against the wall. “Does it? H-huh? Ngh. Does it make you ha-happy?”

The splishing of the waterfall and his fierce rhythmic grunts are the only sounds filling your ears. You nearly match the waterfall as more tears spill and that’s when you’re sure he doesn’t require a verbal reply. The confirmation of your entire body responding to him renders sufficient, like how your fingers instinctively entwine with his hair, gentle tugs at snowy locks for extra support, you then give a few wobbled nods.

But now he needs a little more support and leverage, gearing up for that one ideal angle in you.

Hanging low and tilted just overhead, rests a bamboo tree. Reaching that one sweet gummy spot inside of you will mean reaching one of his arms up to grab hold of it. Gojo steadily raises both of your connected bodies so both waists together are just a hair above the waterline. He is up on his toes, tight grip on the bamboo culm, when he pounds you to perfection, deep and generous, positively wrecking you ‘till you’re wailing from your finish in blinding satisfaction.

And daddy fucks you raw into the night, again and again, through to the edge of dawn; then later on, when the birds begin to chirp and you are fully spent in his bed – so fucking cute when you’re fast asleep – Gojo realizes he won’t ever grow tired of the faint traces of cherry smeared across his pillows.

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ugh-yoongi · 1 year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him, if you were a betting man.

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

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

You already know which one Yoongi is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

“Can you expand on that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, that’s rich.”

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

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

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

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

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

“Can we talk about it now?”

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

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

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

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

Is that why… “The song?”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Can you now?”

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

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

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

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

“But you are.”

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

“Relationship euthanasia.”

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

“What would that even look like?”

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

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

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

“Yoongi...”

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

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

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

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

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

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

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

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

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

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

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

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

“The one in Oakhurst?”

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

“How long?”

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mouth.”

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

He’s not so gentle after that.

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

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

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

“Fuck, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

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

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

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

“I’m sorry—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’d gone like—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

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

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

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

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

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

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

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

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

“And why is that?”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

“Are you all packed?”

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

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

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

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

“With what?”

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

“How much are you bringing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?”

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

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

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

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

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

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

—

Oakhurst is small.

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

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

A place that makes you smile.

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

Yoongi laughs anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

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

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

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

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

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

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what you think?”

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

“Leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

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

You think thirty will look good on him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I went to the grocery store.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

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

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

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

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

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

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

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

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

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

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

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just sends you A Look.

—

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

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

“SURPRISE!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you—”

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

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

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

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

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

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

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

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

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

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

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

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

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

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

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

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

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

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

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

“Real answer, please.”

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

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

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

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

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Everything reads like an attack.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Something that’s true.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[interlude: monday morning]

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

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

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

“Should we go home soon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just seventy-five percent?”

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

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

“Not this shit again—”

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. You listen.

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

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

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

It’s the thirtieth of December.

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

Good riddance.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks, catching the keys with one hand when you toss them to him.

You nod. Then you fold yourself into the passenger seat and reach for his hand.

—

Oakhurst is still small, but it’s made room for you, now.

There’s still only two traffic lights before you reach the road your cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. It doesn’t matter what time of year you make the trip, because the uneven, precipitous little road always makes your stomach drop, but it’s home now. Another physical one, because you and Yoongi have worked hard over the last year to make as many as possible.

(And, even still, the strongest home you’ve made is Us. What the two of you have is something still standing long after the storm. Something that has persevered and stood tall, even when the foundation was shaking. Even when you wanted to tear it down. Even when it seemed beyond repair.)

“Home sweet home,” Yoongi jokes as he kills the engine, and you laugh because his tone is flat and dry. Belies his excitement, his insistence on digging out an old box of Christmas lights from the attic and bringing it with you. That he has this whole plan to spend New Year’s Eve decorating, bringing life to this little blue bungalow with the pink door.

“It is pretty sweet,” you agree, and just like before, you neatly unpack your stuff and thread your clothes through velvet hangers and Yoongi abandons his suitcase in a corner of his studio.

—

There’s a woman on the television with rosy cheeks and a drink in hand. She isn’t trying to sell you anything.

She’s lovely and very drunk and even more beautiful when she laughs, teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white. She’s prattling off questions to some celebrity, rapid fire, and they’re trying their best to keep up but it’s hopeless. Eventually they, too, just smile into the camera.

Yoongi’s in the kitchen fixing drinks. Expensive champagne flutes filled with inexpensive champagne, a pair of raspberries tossed into each one as a garnish. Your husband doesn’t even like raspberries, but he’d wanted to feel fancy, so you don’t bother questioning it. You know what it means—wants a do-over of last year. Wants this year to be what the last should’ve been, because this year the two of you will be sitting on the same side of the couch, drinking cheap champagne from Vons out of expensive glassware.

A gift from Seokjin, because he’s a bastard. A housewarming gift for a house you’d bought from him.

There’s still an hour before the countdown. There’s still an empty pot on the stove that used to be full of tteokguk. It’s a different New Year, not Seollal, but Yoongi had wanted to make it anyway. Cracked a joke about not wanting to risk it, so he’s going to eat as much tteokguk as possible, that he might need the luck, you never know. I didn’t eat any last year and still bought a second house, he’d said. Imagine how powerful I’ll be if I eat ten bowls of this.

Your husband is always powerful, but you hadn’t pointed that out. Hadn’t pointed out that the only reason the two of you could afford a second house was because Seokjin gave you a steep pity discount, either. Sometimes it’s just nice to believe in luck, on top of all the other things you already have to believe in.

(Like each other.)

There’s still an hour, and Yoongi hands over a flute of champagne and sinks into the couch beside you. You forget about the woman on TV, but you don’t forget about—“You know, I distinctly remember you making me a promise before we came up here last year.”

Yoongi quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? Did I make good on it?”

“For the most part,” you answer. “Like, eighty percent.”

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

You set your glass on the coffee table. Angle yourself so you can swing a thigh over Yoongi’s lap to straddle him, earning you another quirked eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you promising to fuck me in every room of this house.”

His own glass abandoned, Yoongi settles one hand on your hip, the other on your thigh. “Surely I already did,” he answers, words spoken into the crook of your neck, goosebumps rising along your skin. “No way I would’ve been able to keep my hands off you.”

Warm lips press against your neck. Kiss their way to your jawline to the corner of your mouth. “Do you remember me fucking you on this couch? On the floor? You remember how hard you came that time?”

Your hips start to grind, seeking friction. This time, the cool metal of Yoongi’s wedding band against your flushed skin doesn’t shock you. Just feels like another home. His hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt feel like home. His tongue licking into your mouth tastes like home. When he pulls away to say, “I know you remember the time in the kitchen, the way I fucked your mouth,” you lose all concept of home entirely.

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

“I fucked you in that bed so many times. Against the bathroom sink. Always so good for me.” He’s thumbing over a nipple, embarrassingly hardened from the husk of his voice, the way his cock is filling out in his joggers. “Where’d we miss, baby?”

You swallow. Know it’s audible even over the sound of the television. People are cheering, but you aren’t turning around to look, because what could they possibly have to cheer for when they don’t have Yoongi? When Yoongi only looks at you like this—like he’s already a little crazed, a little fucked up?

“The st-studio,” you choke out. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Not a drop of champagne made it past your lips and still the world spins.

You can feel Yoongi’s smirk against the column of your throat. Hate what it does to you, because Yoongi could talk you off a ledge when he’s like this. “Ah, you’re right.” Fingers trail along the hem of your pants, toying with you. “Is that what you want? You wanna ride me in my chair? You want it fucking dirty like that, my sweats barely pulled down, like you’re fucking desperate for it?”

You are, and you do.

So that’s how Yoongi fucks you. Gives you exactly what you want: sits in his oversized chair, pulls you into his lap. Sweats pushed down only as far as he needs to fish his cock out, slick it up, and then he’s pushing inside of you. Groans loud, tells you how tight you are, how wet and warm. And it’s stupid, because your husband is fucking your brains out, but there’s a little window in his studio, just above his desk.

Through it, you can see the Christmas lights the two of you spent the afternoon putting up.

You can hear Yoongi’s grumbling in your head, all his shouting when he thought he was going to fall off the ladder even though you were holding it steady. Cursed about not having enough zip ties. Cursed about one lightbulb being burnt out. Cursed when the extension cord wasn’t long enough. Only stopped cursing when you shut him up with a kiss.

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

(From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you’re finally able to feel, last year’s numbness long gone and replaced with endless warmth. Yoongi only leaves to grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and then he’s cleaning you up and pressing his lips back to your kiss-reddened mouth. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? Just minutes ago. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi is right beside you.

Fireworks explode outside. You cry this year, too, but they’re happy tears. They’re tears that serve as proof you survived, that you went through hell and made it to the other side. Yoongi sheds a few of his own. Laughs, almost disbelieving, as he tells you he loves you. Smiles, certainly disbelieving, when you repeat it.

You’re going to miss this place when you leave, but there’s a ring on your finger and a man beside you that tells you home can be anywhere, be anything. Tells you that sometimes you’ll have to fight for it, but it’ll always be there so long as you choose to.)

if you've made it this far, i'd like to say thank you again for reading this. as i said, this fic is deeply personal to me, and i hope you find something relatable in it as well.

i know people don't always love to read the members in westernized settings, and i completely understand. i chose oakhurst/yosemite because it's where i went for my own honeymoon, and, well, personal.

i'd love to hear your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are always appreciated. ♡

#btshoneyhive #btswritersclub #kvanity #bangtantheatrenet #bts smut #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts x you #bts fanfiction #bts angst #yoongi imagine #bts imagines #bangtan #yoongi

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petrichorium · 10 months

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Peaches and Cream

in which you rescue jing yuan from an afternoon of starchess

jing yuan x fem!reader

word count: 1.7k reader: mostly neutral (no pronouns, mostly neutral terms (one use of "martial mother" in jest), no clothing described) tags: fluff, slice of life, established relationship, banter, fairly suggestive, making out, peach eating, embarrassing the shit out of yanqing (sorry yanqing) note: part of the willow's house meet fruit collab hosted by @willowser. go check out all the other fics!!!

the boy’s hand freezes. his eyes dart up to you, questioning, and you sigh.

“he’d have won in three more moves if you did what you planned to. look at your cloud knight.”

“there, see? a lovely guiding hand.” jing yuan’s eyes glint when you toss your head over to glare at him. your fingers find his forearm where it rests against you and pinch him, far harder than you’d grant anyone else. he can take it—he only laughs and holds you tighter, smug. “perhaps the pair of you together can finally win.”

yanqing purses his lips, clearly holding back his temper when he says, “i hardly need help.”

“a wise soldier makes use of the resources he’s given. i’m giving you a fine resource, yanqing.” jing yuan raises his free hand to stroke the back of his finger against your cheek. “this one is the only opponent who’s beaten me since i became general.”

you bat him away none too gently. “he’s lying to you, yanqing, he let me win—which is why i will never play with him again, even through you.”

You find Jing Yuan and Yanqing precisely where you expect them: out in the garden, sat on either side of a starchessboard.

While you’d intended to pretend it was happenstance, you don’t bother when Jing Yuan sees you. His lips quirk into a grin immediately, one white brow raised in a knowing look. He’d been sprawled out on his side—waiting for Yanqing to take his turn, clearly, judging by how intensely the boy is staring at the board—but he straightens as you draw near.

It’s only when you’re close enough to touch his shoulder that Yanqing notices. He jumps, just a little; too comfortable with his teacher nearby, certainly, which has the very man chuckling under his breath.

Your lover beckons you over eagerly, hand patting against his thigh and sitting up even more. You consider denying him, just for the amusement of his pout and the inevitable chase, but it’d be rude to interrupt their game so suddenly.

Jing Yuan will do so on his own terms soon enough. It’s growing too far past noon for him to do much other than wheedle you into a nap.

“Darling,” he greets, half-drawled and full of affection as you stoop to join him. “Come to grace us with your presence?”

“The game was going on too long.”

He drapes himself around you before you’ve even settled, tucks up at your back, arms resting on your waist happily. You make yourself comfortable against his lounging body by bracing yourself on his thigh and busy yourself with the peach in your hand.

The paring knife you’ve stolen from the kitchen is small and simple, sharp in your nimble fingers as you slice into the fruit. When you pull the sliver you’ve cut free from the pit you can tell from the soft give that you’d chosen wisely.

Reaching out, you offer it to Yanqing, who hesitates for only a moment before taking it from your hand and giving a muffled thanks.

Jing Yuan’s thumb catches gently at your waist. “Look at you, a model martial mother. Feeding the body and the mind.”

You wrinkle your nose. “When have I ever fed his mind? Isn’t that your job?”

And yet you can’t help yourself when Yanqing reaches for one of his pieces. The low chastising click of your tongue is involuntary.

The boy’s hand freezes. His eyes dart up to you, questioning, and you sigh.

“He’d have won in three more moves if you did what you planned to. Look at your cloud knight.”

“There, see? A lovely guiding hand.” Jing Yuan’s eyes glint when you toss your head over to glare at him. Your fingers find his forearm where it rests against you and pinch him, far harder than you’d grant anyone else. He can take it—he only laughs and holds you tighter, smug. “Perhaps the pair of you together can finally win.”

Yanqing purses his lips, clearly holding back his temper when he says, “I hardly need help.”

“A wise soldier makes use of the resources he’s given. I’m giving you a fine resource, Yanqing.” Jing Yuan raises his free hand to stroke the back of his finger against your cheek. “This one is the only opponent who’s beaten me since I became general.”

You bat him away none too gently. “He’s lying to you, Yanqing, he let me win—which is why I will never play with him again, even through you.”

“Petty.” The word is whispered into your ear, low and husky. The glare you give Jing Yuan now is one of warning; he lifts his hands just slightly in surrender. The look on his face, however, is unrepentant.

If Yanqing heard him, or saw the exchange, he pretends not to. His eyes remain glued to the board as if memorizing it. And, sure enough, a few seconds later he’s rising to his feet.

“I’m going to the bathroom!” he announces loudly, making you giggle. Jing Yuan snickers as well, though his hands are preoccupied with your waist and thighs.

When Yanqing disappears from sight, you turn back to your peach. This time when you put the blade to its surface, you intend to taste it yourself; you let yourself look closer at the starchessboard before you and slice into the fruit absent-mindedly.

There’s a pinch at your thigh. Your hand stills halfway to your lips, perfect slice held loosely in your fingers—you snap your head over to glare at the culprit.

Jing Yuan, obnoxious, brazen man that he is, opens his mouth expectantly.

You consider shoving the knife down his throat. But, even you have to admit, that wouldn’t be worth the trouble of being labeled slayer of the oldest and most capable Arbiter-General, so instead you bite into it as you’d intended the whole time, maintaining eye contact with him petulantly.

The flavor bursts over your tongue, sweet; you watch Jing Yuan’s eyes fall to your mouth briefly and you go a little hot under his gaze, the way he leans forward slightly. At your waist you feel him hold you just a bit tighter before his hand—the one that had pinched your thigh—moves to trail up your side and then down your arm.

His grip goes solid around your elbow and pulls it towards him. Those golden eyes never part from yours as his tongue makes contact with your skin, lips grazing just barely as he licks up your wrist. Following your pulse, he pauses briefly to nip at your palm before sinking his teeth directly into your peach.

“Jing Yuan!” you shout, lightheartedly chastising, ignoring how your stomach swoops as he turns his head to the side and rips out a chunk of flesh. He snickers, low and rich; throat bobbing with a swallow, pink lips glimmering with sticky juice that covers your hand, too, messy and savage as he’d been.

And then he goes back for more, hand tighter on your forearm to stop you from pulling away as he bites down again, deep enough that he can yank it out of your grasp entirely despite your increasingly breathy protests.

“Brute,” you accuse with a pout and an attempt at retrieval that he artfully dodges. He growls for good measure, stupidly exaggerated, and tosses his head like a dog with a toy as you reach for the torn remains of your poor peach. The only thing you can get a firm enough hold on now is the pit, fingers delving into the mush that’s become of the fruit; the laughter in your voice is entirely unable to be contained now. “Down, boy. Drop.”

For half a moment he pretends to obey, loosening his jaw’s grip on the fruit until you can pry it from his mouth and pat the palm of your hand against his cheek in reward—but then he snatches it from your hand with his own, tossing it aside carelessly as he catches your wrist and tugs it forward to close his mouth around your thumb.

Jing Yuan’s tongue is hot against the pad of your finger. It’s meticulous, swirling carefully to clean the lingering taste of the peach from your skin. At first your attention lies solely on that, the purse of his lips and the occasional peek of his tongue through them. Then you make the mistake of glancing up and seeing the heavy-lidded gaze he’s giving you, golden eyes lighting up as you meet them. He hears how your breath hitches, you know; his mouth quirks up at the corners and he tugs you closer, just barely.

When he’s deemed the first digit cleaned enough, he moves on, tongue threading between your fingers, licking flat against your palm and at the pulsepoint of your wrist. Without realizing, you let him draw you closer, subtle and sly in the way his hold at your waist and those long legs guide you to crawl over his form until you sit straddling him entirely, watching as he draws your index fully into his mouth as far back as it will go.

Behind you, someone clears his throat. You whip around to find Yanqing standing on the other side of the table, boldly holding his general’s eye though his cheeks are a hearty pink.

“If you’d like me to leave, general, then dismiss me,” he says.

“No,” you start to say hurriedly, yanking your hand away with haste and lurching away—or rather trying to, because you only manage to kneel properly before Jing Yuan’s large palms find your thighs and stop you from very far as he speaks.

“Run along, then.” It sounds amused, and when you turn back to scowl at him the expression he wears is that of a teasing grin, but you—and, you’re sure, Yanqing as well—can hear the command behind it. Your lover slides one of those palms up your thigh to wrap an arm around your waist again and tug you back down with easy strength; you catch yourself on his chest with a low hiss, wordlessly admonishing. “It grows too late for strategy. I need rest.”

“But we’ve yet to finish our match,” Yanqing tries, halfway to whining despite his previous attempt at manners. “It’s hardly past two—“

“And you well know that afternoons are for napping, so run along. I promise you won’t miss anything interesting.” Jing Yuan pinches your thigh again hard enough to make you yelp. The glare you send is met with a heavy-lidded look, one which never parts from you even as he continues with his words still directed at his pupil. “Unless you’d like to stay behind and watch—”

Yanqing interrupts with an emphatic gag that has Jing Yuan barking out a laugh. You don’t hear the boy leave, but he’s swift enough that he’s out of sight when you glance over with the corner of your eye.

A good choice, because Jing Yuan is surging upward to capture your lips for real before you can turn your attention back to him. Like most kisses he gives you—especially at this time of day and sequestered in the quietest parts of his manor—it’s languid and teasing; a little messy, a little playful, entirely unhurried as he falls back and uses a hand behind your neck to guide you to follow until you’re pulled entirely on top of him, forced to brace yourself with your arms over his head.

He tastes like peach, perfectly ripened.

#jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x y/n #jing yuan x you #hsr x reader #hsr x y/n #hsr x you #mine.🌧#char.🌧 jing yuan

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favoniuscodex · 2 years

Text

pulling them by their collar [ diluc, itto, & childe ]

prompt: how they react when you pull them close by their collar/necklace/tie/etc. !!! characters: diluc, itto, childe (separate) w/ a gn!reader warnings: adult innuendos (diluc & childe)! canon-typical violence (diluc). reader wears glasses (itto). please be 16+ to read (just for my own comfort bc there's a few saucy topics) word count: ~2.0k a/n: this is a collab w/ the lovely rulaine! (@rulaineyu) !!! she wrote the same prompt but for zhongli, thoma, kaeya, & ayato! read them here!!

DILUC:

It's not like you meant to be rendezvousing with a man every night and gallivanting through the streets until dawn. It kind of just... happened. When you're a vigilante in a city that is in dire need of assistance, it's practically inevitable to team up with the other masked strangers on the street. You had paired up with the one woman who was definitely one of the Church of Favonius Sisters, even if she looked repulsed at your suggestion that she was such a figure. But now, you're paired with the most infamous of vigilantes yet: Mondstadt's very own Darknight Hero.

You've always wanted to be the best, but much to your behest, the Darknight Hero is fantastic at helping you clear out hilichurl camps on the edge of Mondstadt. You aren't quite sure why he's helping you when he could easily just complete these tasks on his own, but his presence means less work on your plate. Less tasks on the outside of the city means more helping the people inside the walls, which is always a good thing.

"You did well," The Darknight Hero says, causing you to jump out of your thoughts. "Your weapon is helpful for dealing with the archers."

You're spooked at him speaking for once. Usually, the two of you work in silence, communicating only through brief hand signals. Yet, you're even more spooked at the fact that he seemed to sense your self-doubt. It means you aren't concealing yourself as well as you'd like. You straighten your posture.

"Thank you," You say, looking at the mask that covers his eyes and the hood that covers his hair. The apples of his cheeks are still revealed and you swear they seem so familiar.

"Is there a way I can assist you that would red-" Your partner begins, but you quickly tune him out as you hear a twig snap in the distance. You look past him and he thinks nothing of your sudden loss of attention. In one hand, your polearm weighs heavy, but you reach the other hand out and grab the first thing you can think of: the choker that peeks out from underneath his cloak. Your fingers clasp around the red jewel in the center and you tug him far too harshly, sending him stumbling into you.

"Wha-" He begins before you hastily shove his larger figure off of you and step around him, charging towards the direction of the snapped branch and flinging your polearm like a javelin. The final hilichurl cries as your polearm makes contact, knocking it out of the tree it was hiding in. You let out a sigh of relief before turning back to him, grimacing apologetically in his direction.

Now on the ground, the Darknight Hero stares up at you with a flushed face and pure admiration in his expression. His chest heaves heavily as he recovers from you tugging on his collar, before a soft chuckle escapes his lips.

"I am not necessarily against playing rough with you," The Darknight Hero says, causing you to scoff. "But a warning next time would be appreciated."

Ignoring the way your heart flutters at his flirty remark, you shoot him a warning glare before pointing to the flaming hilichurl arrow that is extinguishing itself in the spot where he was previously standing. With the disguise of his mask, your fellow vigilante seems to find himself to be too comfortable with you. Unfortunately for him, you've realized just who he is.

"C'mon, Diluc," You say condescendingly, watching as his eyes blow wide. "I can tug on your collar more later if you'd like, but we gotta clear out the rest of these hilichurls."

"Wai-" He begins, but you huff and turn away and go to retrieve your polearm, leaving him chasing after you.

ITTO:

“Babe!”

You look up from your newly purchased light novel at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. He charges towards you with cupped hands and you spot the horns of an onikabuto peeking over his fingers. A victorious grin spreads across his lips as he stops in front of you.

“Guess who just won their latest bug fight?” Itto laughs proudly. “This guy! I’d point to myself but I can’t drop my special champion.”

You smile sweetly up at him, pushing up the bridge of your glasses to better focus on him instead of the pages below. At this angle, Itto blocks out most of your reading sunlight with his towering figure, but you had no intention of continuing the book in your hands. No matter how enthralling the plot was, you would much rather give your undivided attention to the man in front of you, especially when he always does the same for you. Thus, you slide the picture of Itto that you use as a bookmark between the pages and set the novel to the side, causing Itto to gasp with interest.

“That’s the book you were gonna get later, right? I thought it wasn’t released yet!” Itto says excitedly. He fumbles with the bug in his hands as it crawls over the edge of his fingers and onto his knuckles. You laugh gently and gesture to the basket next to you.

“I went for my usual books of the week, but Miss Yae was there and gave me an advanced copy,” you say sheepishly. The victorious onikabuto continues to crawl circles around Itto’s hands and you giggle before lifting up the opening to your book basket. “Put him in here.”

“You sure?” Itto asks before grinning even wider as you nod in response. Gently, he lets the onikabuto crawl out of his hands and into the safety of your basket. “He can read the books and get even smarter!”

“He’s already pretty strong if he won a bug fight…” you say, closing the vented lid to the basket. “What if he gets too strong?”

“Well, he won’t be stronger than me,” Itto says confidently. “I’ll protect you!”

At your boyfriend’s haughty tone, you giggle again. The sound causes a faint blush to rise to his cheeks, but his confident posture fails to change.

"How'd the fight go? Y'know, besides the whole winning part?" You ask and your boyfriend practically jumps in place with excitement at your question.

"There was this new guy at the fighting grounds," Itto says, as if the onikabuto fighting grounds aren't just wherever the closest patch of dirt is. "I think his brother brought him or something. He said he had an onikabuto he wanted to fight with and I immediately challenged him, because who better to be your first challenger than the toughest oni out there? Either way, no matter how big his beetle was, he didn't stand a chance against the Beetle Gladiator's beetles! Arataki beetles can't b-"

As your boyfriend rambles about his victory, you can't help but space off. You want to pay attention, but the cute furrow of his brow as he recounts every detail has you focusing more on his appearance than his words. Deciding to save him the breath, you clear his throat.

"Not to interrupt your well-deserved victory speech," you say slyly. "But there's something on your face?"

"Oh, there is? It's probably some of the dango I had earlier," Itto hastily wipes his hand across his mouth and you stifle a mischievous giggle.

"No, that's not it, lean down a little bit so I can get a better look!" You say and Itto obliges.

"Just let me kn-" Itto begins, but you cut him off by hooking a finger through the loop on his choker, just above his Vision. You tug him close, unable to hold back a victory laugh of your own as a vibrant red flush takes over his cheeks. Speechless, Itto stares at you with wonder. You swoop in before he can recollect his thoughts and place a kiss on his nose.

"Got it!" You say proudly and Itto continues to stare at you blankly. The gears in his head struggle to catch up with your brazen actions and he lets out a soft whine.

"You can't leave me with just that, lovebug," he grumbles. You giggle at his flustered state and, at the sound of your laughter, Itto leans forward and steals a kiss from your lips, determined to get yet another victory. You lean into his kiss, letting him hold you close until you run out of air.

"C'mon," you say breathlessly as you pull away from him. "Let's go get some victory snacks!"

CHILDE:

"So? How do I look?"

Your boyfriend is egotistical. Sure, he's earned most of his ego, especially as the youngest Harbinger, but that doesn't mean you like to encourage narcissistic behavior. It is important to retain a level head, especially in a position of power like his. You like to think you're pretty good at keeping him balanced, but as he exits the bathroom to present himself to you, you feed directly into his narcissism, staring at him with wide eyes.

Childe splays his arms out wide, showing off his perfectly tailored black tie suit to you. He often avoids such formal clothing, but the Fatui have shed their typical formal coats to opt for a more modern style of dress for the evening. Typically, you're more than happy to not be by his side at boring political parties, but you're mentally punching the air with jealousy at the knowledge that everyone else gets to see him in this outfit all evening. The suit clings to his waist and shoulders perfectly, sculpting out his figure with flattering precision.

You press your lips together, swallowing heavily.

"You look... nice," you say politely. Childe bursts out into laughter at your formal response.

"Well, it seems as though I know what to wear when I want you to fling yourself at me so we can-" He begins, but you cut him off by clearing your throat. You can't think of anything like that right now or you won't let him leave the door without tearing at least one piece of his clothing off. You smile politely and Childe looks utterly enthralled by your barely contained desire.

"Where is your tie?" you ask sweetly, as if you aren't swooning and falling in love with him all over again at the sight of him in a suit for the first time.

"Oh! Let me go get it. Gotta complete the look for my most adoring fan, huh?"

He slips back into the bathroom before you can chastise him for his teasing. As quick as he departs, your boyfriend returns. You stare at the cloth knot that now sits on his neck and move from your position on the bed. You walk over to him and Childe grins haughtily at you.

"You look good," you say as you stand in front of him. "But your tie is crooked."

"Is it?"

"Yup," you say, wrapping your hand around his tie, fingers curling atop his collarbone. "Let me fix it."

You tug him forward and Childe stumbles, but quickly regains himself as his lips crash into yours. The kiss is messy, and Childe laughs into your lips as his hands instinctively steady themselves on your waist. Before you can pull away and let him return to getting ready, Childe deepens the kiss, hungrily moving his lips against your own. When the two of you part, Childe's cheeks are flushed with exertion and your own lips are slightly swollen.

"I could be late," he offers, and this time, its your turn to laugh at his want for you. His hands loosely rest on your waist and you move your hands to his chest, splaying them out on the black fabric of his tuxedo.

"Oh? Really?" You feign interest. Childe looks hopeful, but you watch as his dreams shatter as you push yourself back from his chest with a giggle. "I don't think you're allowed to be. You're a Harbinger and all."

"You don't have to remind me," Childe whines as you lazily make your way back to the bed. "At least help me fix my tie, babe."

You giggle. "I know I messed it up, but if I help you fix it, you really aren't leaving the house."

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact fluff #diluc x reader #childe x reader #childe fluff #diluc fluff #itto x reader #itto fluff #axia.writing #writing.itto #writing.childe #writing.diluc

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merakiui · 1 month

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*whispers in your ear* Sk! Azul who moonlights as Idol darling’s manager and the scary stalker that keeps sending her love interest /costars death threats.

👁 👁 looking directly at this!!!!!!

Your always organized, so helpful, very diligent manager who only wants what’s best for you. Who makes sure you have the best of the best: the best venue, the best security, the best brand deals, the best collabs, etc. He employs Jade and Floyd as your bodyguards and you’re none the wiser. In your eyes, your manager is just always on top of everything. You’re so happy and lucky to have such a caring manager! He handles nearly everything for you. Any fans who might’ve become too invasive or troublesome are swiftly dealt with and you’ll never have to feel anxious again.

Sometimes you don’t even feel his eyes on you. Azul has done well to keep these sides perfectly separated like oil and water. It was easy enough to worm his way into your company and snatch up the position of manager before anyone else could. Before he was your manager, he was (and still is) your most devout fan. He’s so obsessed with you. Keeping photos pasted to his wall, some more secretive and candid than the usual photo cards they sell… he keeps things you’ve thrown away: a pen, a napkin, a candy wrapper. These things are all so important and sacred because they were touched by you. He collects all of your merch and albums. He listens to your songs during his commute. Sometimes he drives past your residence when he’s not working in hopes of catching sight of you in the window.

As your manager, Azul has access to you at all times, at every hour, whenever he wishes. You’re practically in the palm of his hand. It’s any stalker’s dream—to be so close to their idol, to know the inner workings of their life, to know them on a professional and personal level… he’s quite lucky.

Azul hates to see you so fearful. He understands it’s difficult. Stalkers are nasty business. Those love letters and threats that were sent to you and others associated with you are terrifying. You have every right to be scared. He offers his shoulder for you to weep upon. He comforts you. He tells you it’ll be okay and he knows it will be because that’s the truth. With him around, he’ll keep you safe. You have nothing to fear. He’s here. :) he’s such a good actor, feigning innocence even though he’s the one behind those letters. It warms his heart to know you read them, but then it hurts him that you didn’t like the poetry he’s penned or the promises he’s made—things regarding how he intends to marry you, to sweep you off your feet and out of the spotlight once and for all, to love you so much that one day you’ll come to love him the same.

Azul watches you slowly crumble. Letters are piling up; threats are relentless. There’s only so much you can take before you inevitably break. When that happens, Azul will be there to hold you close and soothe you. And you trust him because he’s your manager, because he’s so sweet and helpful, because he would never hurt you.

#twisted chit chat #yandere twst

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xfancyfranart · 1 month

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For my first of two super fun DCRB24 collabs, I got paired with the amazing sunkenfox <3

When I put in this art prompt that would inevitably lead to both Destiel and JenMish content, I was a bit worried that no one would want to write it - especially because my Reverse Bang ideas are usually very specific. Sunkenfox took on the challenge and exceeded all my expectations though! Whenever I had suggestions or asked for little tweaks, they didn't hesitate to work them in somehow and I couldn't be happier with the outcome. It has (non-explicit but very in love) Cockles, Queen Danneel on board, our boys finally finding their way to each other, and maybe a few fandom shenanigans too ;)

Thank you so much for claiming my art, Jen, you've been a fantastic collab partner! <3 And thanks to our wonderful mods as well, you rock!!

Fic link TBA, but feel free to keep on eye on the @deancasreversebang blog meanwhile :)

EDIT: Go and read this gem HERE :*

#deancasreversebang #dcrb 2024 #dcrb24 #destiel #deancas #destiel fanart #deancas fanart #destiel fanfic #destiel art #cockles #jenmish #jenmisheel #sunkenfox #xfancyfranart

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mysteriawrites · 6 months

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Hey can you write about Luxiem having a crush on the reader who is also a nijisanji vtuber? I just can imagine how cute that will be

Of course I can dear requester (requestee?). Here you go!

Luxiem with a Vtuber S/O

An: I had my own idea for a vtuber wave that I’m gonna use for this but feel free to use your imagination

You and your genmates are part of the royalty themed wave: REGALIA

Luca Kaneshiro

You were the bright and cheery royal of your wave. The stereotypical royal that brought a smile to everyone's face, was a friend to everyone, and shined bright like the sun just like our boss.

You and Luca are always goofing off during collabs. You guys usually play Minecraft and team up to prank the other members (and sometimes each other).

Luca also uses your collabs as an excuse to use his pickup lines on you so he can play them off as jokes as to not be embarrassed for being so cheesy.

You guys inevitably end up working on a cover together. Whether you work on the art, the animation, the mixing, or do vocals with him it ends up being a huge hit. Breaking 1 million views in less than 24 hours.

In group collabs you two proceed to be absolute menaces. No one is safe from your relentless trolling. Whether it's crab game, among us, Mario cart, or goose goose duck you'll have half of the branch in a fit of rage by the end. Truly a terrifying duo.

Shu Yamino

You were the mysterious royal of your wave. Your aura exuded power and beauty as well as danger.

You and Shu mainly play fighter games or fps games together. If you're good at these types of games then you make a formidable team that guarantees victory, but if not, Shu doesn't mind teaching you. He's just glad to have someone to share his favorite games with.

He also likes to play silly games with you like that bunny game. You guys are in perfect sync, and even when you're not you have so much fun laughing and talking that it doesn't matter if you beat the level or not.

I feel like you guys would have a Lego building handcam stream. No real reason it just seems right. You guys build the most intricate structure that it's honestly intimidating.

It's noticeable to everyone how much Shu loves streaming with you, because he laughs so much more. He's sillier goofier and more unhinged and having fun and the chat can feel the chemistry and positive energy a mile away.

Ike Eveland

You were the quiet, smart, and bookish royal. Always a book in hand with elegance and grace.

You and Ike partner up to play story games. If there is no in game voice acting, you two will take turns voicing different characters and putting on a whole performance for chat.

You guys also do covers together. If you don't feel confident about your singing ability, then Ike will coach you and help you build up your confidence. Man really wants to hear your voice.

You guys will also do watch a long streams of your favorite films or anime. Gushing about your favorite characters and scenes. He thinks it's it really cute when you're excited about your favorite character (and maybe just a little jealous).

At first Ike is more quiet and polite whenever you guys' stream together, but as time goes on, he becomes more mischievous and teasing. He won't admit it, but he thinks your reactions are cute (just like the rest of you) and it makes him want to tease you more.

Mysta Rias

You were the rowdy and rebellious royal. Always stirring up mischief and not letting anyone tell you what to do.

You are Mysta's emotional support when it comes to scary games. This can go one of two ways. Either you're good with horror games and you're actually helpful, or you're also bad with horror games and you're both screaming your heads off. At the end of the day though you both had fun either way (even if you can't sleep that night).

You're the voice of reason during cooking streams. Even if you're not a great cook you can't be bad as him. At the very least you manage to save yourselves from food poisoning.

You two also play silly co-op games like keep talking and nobody explodes. It's funnier when you both share a braincell and have to figure out how to work together to beat the game.

Mysta may not collab often, but you're his favorite person to collab with. You have plenty of misadventures in off collabs too.

Vox Akuma

You were the warrior royal. Always protecting others and standing up for what you believe in.

You and Vox would have cooking streams together. Whether you're good at cooking or absolute shit, you two will have fun goofing off in the kitchen and still make a meal that's at least edible.

You guys also have film discussion podcast like streams where you talk about the latest films. You discuss your thoughts and opinions about the film, but also deep things like symbolism and what the directors and actors were thinking.

You know how Vox is when it comes to Ike. Well, he's like that, but times 10 when it comes to you. Flirting with you at every chance and gushing about you every time you achieve something significant in your streaming career.

Sometimes his chat will make jokes about who he loves more you or Ike? He will answer cheekily "Why choose I have two hands~", but he always makes sure you know that he of course loves you more.

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deartouya · 1 year

Text

i like you a latte | denki kaminari.

denki kaminari's determined to make you fall in love with him, cheesy one-liners and all, even if it takes months and puts him in debt. little does he know he's already won you over, you just like watching him fumble.

pairing: denki kaminari x gn!barista!reader

word count: 1.3k

content: reader has a job!, mentions of food/eating, lots of fluff, denki's cheesy but it's fine bc he's cute

hehe do you like my very clever pun ?? i think writing this made me realize i'm a little in love with denki </3 he's a charming dork idk. written as part of @cup-of-fluff's time to shine collab !! ty so much for hosting ^-^ this was soso much fun to write,, im sorry for being a whole month late ;—;

You’re beginning to think Chargebolt doesn’t have any friends. At least, you would if you hadn’t seen him sitting at their crowded table—Red Riot, Alien Queen, Deku, Ingenium, Cellophane, even Dynamight makes the occasional, disgruntled, appearance—his elbows planted in their sides and smiles splitting their faces. Or a poorly hidden grin in Dynamight’s case. But, you reason, he must not like them very much with how much of his time is spent alone in the cafe. Always in the same spot, the same order, with the same barista: you.

So, he has friends. He’s just decided to spend all his precious free time drinking over-priced lattes and eating equally expensive cheese Danishes. Sometimes he brings a binder, thick with unorganized papers and what looks like incredibly important reports, but he never even opens it—too busy monopolizing your company and stretching over the little cafe table to get your attention.

You can’t really complain, though. He always attracts a crowd, even with an incredibly inconspicuous cap pulled over his eyes, which means more orders and more tips and more money. You also can’t deny that you’re just the tiniest bit amused with him, all with his cheesy smiles and jokes and flattery.

Which, he’s not nearly as skilled at as the press pretends. Pro Hero Chargebolt, with his bolstering reputation as a flirt with—reportedly—never-ending charm never fails to come up with the most nauseatingly cheesy café puns. Puns which have, regrettably, endeared you to the Pro.

“Just admit it, you’re in love with him! Y’know it’s healthy, everyone is in love with at least one member of class 1a,” Izumi’s wrought with faux consolation, “it’s human nature, inevitable even. And most people don’t have them sitting in the front of their shop every week.”

“I’m not in love with him,” you huff, sounding too much like a petulant child for your liking. Izumi’s tease isn’t new either, ever since Denki first showed up during one of your shared shifts, she's been insufferable.

“That’s not what your eyes say—they get all hazy and lovesick when he’s ordering,” Izumi says, voice high and sing-songy as she finishes clearing the last table, “and I think your chargebolt keychain says otherwise too.”

“You bought me that.” She doesn’t falter under your glare, though, smile only widening as she perches on the counter, chin cradled in her palms. “And you’re just hoping if he keeps coming around, he’ll bring Ingenium with him.”

A forlorn look suddenly passes over Izumi’s face as she remembers the one and only time he visited, a time she wasn’t even working, “and alas, it’s only happened once.”

“I’m not in love with him. He’s a good Pro Hero and I respect the work that he does.” She scoffs a laugh, earning a very pointed stare, “now, back to work—if you burn my muffins, I'm making you re-bake them.”

It ends the conversation—Izumi disappearing back into the kitchen, palms raised and facing you with a grin—but it settles deep and heavy in your mind. Her words repeat themselves to you throughout the day and into the next. You’d gotten used to Denki being there, to all his cheesy flirts and smiles. So used to them you’re not sure what a week would be like without them. Some selfish part of you hopes you never find out.

“They’ll work on you someday,” Denki catches your eye as you pass, the rest of the cafe quiet and empty. He’d been there since his morning patrol, entertaining the same blueberry muffin and attempting to fold his napkins into paper cranes. He was getting better at it despite the little stack of lopsided and half-formed birds.

He smiles, as bright as the dying sun streaming in through the cafe’s open windows. He watches you clear the table next to him, eyes trailing the slope of your nose and the subtle curve of your smile. His grin broadens when you scoff to hide your grin.

“Don’t you have t-shirts and headshots to sign, hero?” You can’t help the way you chew at your lip, fighting off the warmth bubbling there. He’s right, it’ll work on you, it is working on you. His voice calling you brew-tiful haunts you everytime you make a chai latte. He’s sunny and determined and you can’t help the way you relish the whole of his attention being focused on you. “You’ve had three tables staring at you the entire hour you’ve been here.”

“I’m not trying to woo them, I’m trying to woo you,” it’s a simple sentence, but it's the way he says it that gets to you. Sure and just a little exasperated—like it’s obvious he’d rather watch you clear tables for the next hour than anything else. “Is it working?”

Denki’s grinning again—wider, brighter, and utterly charmed by himself—from where his cheek is squished into his fist and you can feel the way your pulse stutters. He’s charming, disarmingly so, bundled in some obscure graphic t-shirt and bright pink puffer, jeans marked up with lightning bolts you’re pretty were done by him, he’s pretty. Prettier than you’d ever admit to his face, you think his ego’s plenty big enough.

“Maybe,” your voice is drawn out and teasy, hiding any nerves as you move to clear the last few tables of cups and pastry platters, “maybe not.”

Denki’s face warms just a bit in the way it always does when you tease, cheeks splitting with the force of his grin as he—somehow—leans closer. He watches you disappear behind the counter, picking through what's left of the muffins and danishes to reemerge with a square of cake—bright and citrusy in a way which always reminds you of him.

“I’ll see you again tomorrow,” he fumbles with the words despite saying them every week, a stack of manilla folders and binders, the same ones he’d been using as an arm rest, decidedly not working, are stuffed under one arm. He smiles and you’re reminded of spring and the warmth of the sun on your face, “rain or shine.”

“I know. I can’t wait.” You return his grin, lifting the slice of cake, now nicely wrapped and ribboned, “for the road.” The road being his half a block walk back to his apartment, though you know he’ll probably still have the slice eaten before he gets there.

Denki’s fingers brush against yours as you hand off the box. A chill runs up your spine at the contact. His hands are always warm, he’s always warm and this close you can smell the familiar citrusy warmth of his cologne. The thought makes you want to hold his hands, wonder what they’d feel like laced with your own.

You shake the thought with a smile, ignoring the little hitch in your chest when he turns to leave, forcing yourself not to watch him and hoping he’d find your note once he got home.

The note, written neatly on a slip of construction paper a week ago, is tucked into the top of the box. You’d written it the day after Izumi had teased you, hiding it beneath the tip jar and hoping that you’d work up the courage to slip it to him. ‘ I like you a latte too, hero. just make sure to save some of those lines of yours for the date ;)

xxx-xxx-xxxx

You think he forgot how glass works, pausing in front of the shop's corner to pump a jittery fist, the one still clutching your napkin and number—full and happy. The sight startles a laugh out of you. Denki’s head whips up to find you—face flushed and beaming—and he makes a show of waving the notecard in his hand.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #denki x reader #denki kaminari x reader #kaminari denki x reader #✶ writes #✶ writes.bnha #✶ writes.denki

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violetsaffron5 · 1 year

Text

Love the Way You Lie

Pairing: toxic!gojo x toxic!reader

“High off of love, drunk from her hate, it's like I'm huffing paint and I love her, the more I suffer, I suffocate and right before I'm about to drown she resuscitates me, she fucking hates me.” He doesn’t want you to leave, but he’s constantly pushing you away. Nobody ever said leaving Gojo Satoru was going to be easy, especially when he decides he wants you to stay. Fic inspired by Love the Way You Lie by Eminem.

Words: 5.4k

CW: toxic relationship, fingering, overstimulation, vaginal sex, Gojo being an asshole, slight dacryphilia, breeding, rough sex, creampie

AN: This is my entry for @zorotits Ex's and Oh's collab and I had so much fun writing Gojo being a little shit.

AN2.0: this fic takes inspo from Love The Way You Lie, however there is no physical abuse! This is definitely a type of relationship I think a lot of people can relate to, so if this something that's hard for you to read or triggering, please skip!

Being new to Tokyo Tech, you decided to accept Shoko’s invitation and go out to the bars after work one day. You didn’t expect your life to change that night by meeting Gojo Satoru, who happened to show up, complaining Shoko was keeping the new girl to herself.

The two of you hit it off immediately, finding common ground in your dislike for the higher ups, and your desire to change the Jujutsu world for the better. After listening to his smooth voice and honeyed words for the better part of the evening you went back to his penthouse with him.

It didn’t take long for your legs to be entwined, lips locked in a tender embrace, an instant mutual attraction where your future seemed so bright, high off each other's love that slowly turned into a sickening love-hate.

After a few nights together he went to the higher-ups, insisted he be the one to train with you, to take you out on missions. Even in the beginning, he never wanted you far from him, until he was ready to push you away.

It’s the kind of relationship you hear about, only seen in the movies where after every heated argument you’re pushed against the wall, or on top of him, hands around his throat as he thrusts into you with reckless abandon.

You hate it, but you also can’t help but love how you get lost in each other’s touch after every fight. And you love him too much to truly walk away for good. You say you’re going to leave, but you’re never really gone.

At some point in your relationship boundaries cease to exist, and trust went out the window months ago, the way the two of you were always looking through each other’s phones, computers and even stooping so low as to read work emails.

“Where are you going?” He asks as you grab the duffle bag filled with your things, headed for the front door.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving.” You answer, cheeks stained with tears.

“No, you’re not.” He gives a wry, pissed off chuckle before another argument sets in.

More yelling, more tears and after it’s all said and done you end up making up the same way you always do, promising it’ll never happen again.

And things would be fine for a while after that - when things were good between you, they were great.

His penthouse would be filled with joy and laughter as you watch movies, holding onto one another, but inevitably you would get fed up, try leaving once again.

Both of your words are filled with venom when you fight, argue and scream, as objects are thrown across the room and broken against the wall in frustration because he’s so intense, and so are you, fiery and passionate. It’s too much together.

You know it but it’s so hard to let go because you love him so much.

He makes a mountain out of a molehill, seeing a work related text from Ijichi on your phone, shattering the screen in the palm of his hand in anger as he accuses you of seeing another man behind his back, and in response you would throw the stand his precious glasses sit on, watching it shatter as soon as it hits the ground. You stare each other down, neither relenting until your bags are packed and you’re leaving once again, falling back into the same pattern.

He says he hates routines but he sure seems to love this one.

“Baby, please, come back,” he begs quietly outside the bedroom door of your apartment when you refuse to let him in after your hundredth break up, “it wasn’t you, baby, it was me. This one’s on me. Let me in, let me say I’m sorry.”

He always comes, flowers in hand. He always brings your favorites.

And after a while of hearing his strained voice through the door, you open it and accept the gift, you always do. He always knows what to do and say to bring a smile to your face, the tears that were streaming ten minutes ago slowly forgotten as he wipes the last of them away with his thumb, promising it’ll never happen again.

He says you’ll both work on your attitudes and tempers, and learn how to communicate better with one another. You both promise to never use such violent words against one another, promise to never say things you don’t mean again.

It never happens, and you’re both at fault.

He kisses you sweetly, whispers sweet nothings and apologies in your ear until you’re writhing in pleasure underneath him, wrapped in his arms in the morning, makeup still smeared from your tears of pain and pleasure the night prior.

But you can’t keep doing this, you know you can’t. You’re too deep in this cycle of destruction and the only way to stop is for one of you to finally walk away.

So you push his arms off of you, “don’t touch me. I can’t keep doing this Satoru.”

“I thought we made up last night, what the fuck happened already?” He’s following you out of your room like a lost puppy, “you can’t leave me. I can’t lose another person I love.”

“I can’t keep going down this path with you. This is the last time. I mean it.”

“Okay.” He answers quietly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, “we’ll get it right this time. I swear.”

He says he’s sorry, it’ll never happen again, just like all the other times before, even though you know it’s all a lie.

And you always did love his lies.

It only took a few weeks this time, before your back is pressed against the wall of your apartment, tears running down your face, unable to catch your breath as you press your palms into your eyes and tug at the roots of your hair because it’s over this time.

And you really mean it.

Staring at yourself in the mirror of the upscale restaurant bathroom you’re currently standing in, you look over your makeup while adding a little extra lipstick before throwing the tube back into your clutch purse and moving the necklace you’re wearing to sit in the center of your chest again.

You sigh deeply to yourself, this is a place you and Satoru had come to several times during the course of your relationship. You know you shouldn’t be thinking about your ex while you’re out on a date with another man, but the fact that you are likely means you’re really not ready to put yourself back out there.

Shoko had come over a few weeks ago, during one of the times you were having a breakdown, ready to run back to Satoru’s arms. She brought several bottles of alcohol, reminded you of why you broke up again and that you were adamant about not going back to him this time. So, she suggested you put yourself back out there and try dating someone else for a change.

A few too many shots later and you agreed with her, downloading a dating app to your phone, the two of you giggling into the night while making the profile.

That’s how you ended up here, out with a window. A compromise, you told yourself, someone who has a foot in the Jujutsu world you don’t have to lie about your daily life to, and someone who couldn’t manage to be as much of an asshole or nearly as emotionally stunted as the man you fell in love with.

“Everything okay?” Your date asks as you make your way back to the table and take your seat across from him. He’s attractive, clean cut with raven hair, deep brown eyes where you can barely see his pupils but still incredibly beautiful. He works a desk job in accounting for some bank you’ve never heard of.

“Yeah, everything’s great,” you smile at him, “just freshening up my makeup.”

He cocks his head to the side while smiling, “you look great, er, beautiful, I mean.”

You smile back and sigh, the first date you’ve had since Satoru and it’s… fine. He’s nice enough, talks a lot about his desk job, tries to relate to you about how important his own secondary job as a window is in your world. You sit and listen, nodding along as you play with the straw of your drink, hand resting on your chin.

He does most of the talking, asks what kind of movies you like, what your favorite color is. Simple, surface level questions which were meant to get to know one another but you just couldn’t be less interested if you tried.

There’s no passion in his voice, rarely any sort of influx in his tone - just monotone, droning on and on. It’s too much to ask, you know that, to go on a single date and run into someone who could keep your interest; after all, it’s not every day you run into someone who dislikes the higher ups and has a desire to change the way the world you live in works. Hell, you doubt the man across from you even knows there are higher ups in charge.

“Yeah, I’ll have a tequila sunrise, no tequila. That shit’s nasty.”

“Sir, that would just be orange juice and grenadine.”

“Perfect. Extra grenadine.”

You still at the familiar voice coming from behind you, eyes widening as Satoru comes to stand next to you, hands in his pocket, a saccharine smile spread across his face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You hiss incredulously, looking at him horrified and embarrassed.

Satoru looks at you from behind his dark square shades with a raised eyebrow, feathering his jaw.

You look good, all things considered, with the dress you’re wearing pinching at your waist, pushing your breasts together in the most alluring way, leaving just enough of your cleavage exposed to still be classy.

You were looking to get fucked tonight and he does not like that one bit.

Satoru let himself fall in too deep with you, in over his head and he tried to push you away over and over again but he also couldn’t bear the thought of living this lonely, sad existence without you. So a tug of war began in your relationship. He knows you’re suffocating because of him, so he tried to stay away this time, but when Shoko let it slip you were going out tonight with a window-

Well, he couldn’t stay away any longer.

He knows you can do better than that - he'd rather accept you running off with Nanami behind his back because at least he would treat you like a queen, in the ways Satoru never could. Hell, he’d even accept you defecting and running off to follow Suguru.

But a window?

That’s just a disgrace.

Satoru points behind him to a woman at a booth sucking her teeth, arms folded over her chest, one leg crossed over the other bouncing in annoyance as she glares at you from across the room, “I’m on a date too. Saw you here, thought I’d come say hi.”

“Great. I hope you treat her better than you treated me.”

Satoru opens his mouth, ready to retort, but your date cuts in. He's clearly nervous, a little sweaty now because he clearly knows who The Strongest is. He shifts in his seat slightly with wide eyes that could bulge out of his head at any moment.

“You’re G-Gojo Satoru?”

“The one and only,” Satoru replies cockily, “so you guys fuck yet or what?”

“Oh my god, Satoru, that is none of your business!”

He laughs, “okay, well I’ll take that as a no then.”

“Take it however you want and just leave us alone.” You’re seething, of course he’s out on a date and of course it just happens to be at the same place you’re at.

Rather than leaving, Satoru sits next to you, making himself at home, spreading his long legs out under the table and spreading them wide, just to take up as much space as humanly possible. He snakes his arm around your shoulder and you stiffen from the contact, unable to help the jolt that's sent between your legs after not having felt his smooth hands on your body for so long when he gently caresses your exposed shoulder with his thumb.

“Who-Why is he here?” Your date looks at you, an expression just as mortified as your own.

“He’s my-”

“Boyfriend.”

“Ex.” You clarify as Satoru rolls his eyes from behind his glasses because that’s just semantics.

Your date purses his lips, looking between the two of you before clearing his throat, “right, well, this is a lot, so I’m going to head out. It was, uh, nice meeting you.”

“Ouch, first date, huh? That sucks.” Satoru laughs loudly as your date exits the booth, grabs his coat jacket and makes his way out of the restaurant.

“Fuck you. Move so I can leave.”

“No, I don’t think I will. In fact, I’ll just have Jazmyne join us, that’ll be fun to watch.” Satoru smiles at you, ready to call his date over to your table.

“You’ve already ruined my evening, Satoru. The least you can do is move out of my way so I can go home alone,” you hiss, blood boiling at his antics. You wouldn’t put it past him to have planned this entire thing just so you couldn’t go out with someone else, “and after tonight I never want to see you again.”

He chuckles, looking at you with a sly grin, “sure, babe.”

“I put in a transfer request. I’m done, we can’t be near each other.”

Satoru stills at your comment, looking you up and down, “to where?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, “away from here, away from you. I was serious when I said I can’t keep doing this.”

He watches you, the way small tears prick the corner of your eyes, the way you swallow thickly and your shoulders slump slightly. You’re telling the truth, you really want to leave and be done. After a few minutes of silence, he moves, letting you out of the booth.

Satoru noticed before your date left that he didn’t bother paying, leaving the bill to you. You’re clearly too upset to have realized as well, so he sighs, pulling out his wallet and throwing too many bills on the table for the dinner you didn’t even order yet. Pursing his lips, he watches your hips sway as you make your way out of the restaurant deciding to follow suit, because there’s no way he’s just going to let you leave.

“What are you doing?” Satoru is standing beside you, on the sidewalk just outside of the restaurant, hands in his pocket.

“Taking you home?” He answers as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“Just - go back to your date.”

“Nah, gotta make sure you get home safe.”

There’s no point in trying to argue with him, you’ve learned well enough that it will just result in more tears and pain, and you’d probably give in and take him back at the end of it. So, you make your way to your apartment with him in tow.

And despite wearing heels, the bastard doesn’t even offer to warp you there.

“You know,” he says as soon as you enter the hall of your apartment, “if I were that shitty little window, I would have had you spread out across the table-”

“No, you wouldn’t have Satoru,” you say exasperatedly, opening the door to your apartment, “you would have been too busy arguing with me over something trivial and meaningless.”

“I don’t want to fight all the time.” He hopes you can hear the sincerity in his voice.

You scoff and roll your eyes, closing the door but his foot blocks the path before he easily pushes it open, entering your space, “right, I can totally tell. It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s over, we’re over and I’d like to move on and pretend we never happened.”

“You sure about that?” He smirks, amused.

“Satoru, I don’t care what you think, just leave.”

“Baby, you’re so cute when you lie.” He coos, voice low and smooth as he removes his glasses, crystalline eyes shining in the light of your apartment as he walks over to you.

“You went out with another man tonight, wearing a dress I bought you. You’re also wearing that shade of lipstick I always loved on you when you’d be between my legs,” he runs his thumb over your bottom lip as he watches in amusement, “wearing the necklace I got you for our anniversary. You even let me follow you back to your place without so much as a mild argument.”

You roll your eyes and click your tongue. All of those things were just a coincidence, you certainly didn’t mean to pick out several items he bought for you, and the only reason you let him follow you was because you already know there’s no way to get him to leave you alone despite how many times you tell him to.

“Satoru, I can’t keep doing this back and forth with someone who doesn’t love me, so just get out.”

“You think I don’t love you?” He laughs, “maybe if you keep this shit up I won’t.”

You stare at him, pissed but not the least bit surprised about what he just said, always turning it around. It’s the same thing all over again. He doesn’t want you to leave, but is constantly pushing you away.

“See this is what I’m talking about, every single time, Satoru! You don’t want me so we fight non-stop and then you say things will change and they never do! It’s just lies, all of it has always been lies.”

He stares at you for a long moment, before you’re speaking at the same time.

“That’s not true-”

“Just get out-”

The two of you are arguing now, such a familiar sight, speaking over one another, arguing about your relationship. You’re trying to make a point about how hot and cold he’s always been but his lips are on yours before you can finish your thought, hand on the back of your head, holding you close to him so you won't push away, you’re gripping onto his silky button up shirt with no plans of letting go.

Satoru pushes you against the wall with enough force the picture hanging in your entryway rattles on its hook while lifting you by the back of your thighs to wrap your legs around his waist. It’s an automatic response, the way your hips move on their own to rut against him, you can’t help it.

“Gonna,” he sighs against you, “gonna make a mess on my pants if you keep doing that,” he runs his hands over your thighs, gripping into the plush of your ass, squeezing hard enough bruises begin to blossom around his fingertips.

He pulls away, moving his hands to rip the top of your dress, exposing your breasts as the soft fabric pools at your waist. He’s entranced by you, always has been, especially now, watching the way your tits rise and fall so beautifully with every heave of your chest.

“Look at you,” he coos, hips moving in time with yours, dry humping you against the wall, “can’t go more than a few weeks without needing me.”

“Fuck you,” you’re ripping open his shirt, the small buttons flying out in every direction. Neither of you care, he’ll buy a new one, hands roaming over his sinewy torso and chest.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he dips his hand in the space between his stomach and your thighs, groaning into you as he runs his fingers through your slick folds, his cock is straining against his thigh, so hard it hurts.

Satoru chuckles at your feistiness, he always did love it, “you know,” he slips two fingers in watching with an icy stare, “I can scare away anyone you try to date with a single glance.” He angles his fingers up, running them along the spot that always makes your legs shake and quiver, using his thumb to encircle your clit causing you to clench around his fingers as he smirks at your reaction.

You’re moaning his name, pulling him in closer to you, hand gripping his soft white tresses as you do so. He loves how malleable you are to his touch, the way you melt as soon as his lips are on yours. You’d let him do anything he wanted.

There’s a knot forming quickly in the center of your core. Satoru knows your body like the back of his hand, knows all of the spots that have you crying out, whimpering and convulsing around him.

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll let you cum as many times as I want.” He coos, leaning forward to whisper next to you, his hot breath on the shell of your ear causing a shiver to run down your spine.

He pumps his fingers, brushing your spot every time, he knows you're close, the way you’re mewling into him, bucking your hips as he picks up his pace, the palm of his hand slapping against your clit with every thrust.

“S’toru- I’m-” your words are cut short with a series of broken moans as he continues to pump his fingers, working you through your orgasm, the small space filled with lewd squelching noises as your walls clench and legs tremble around him.

He slows his pace, continuing to rub slow circles on your sweet spot watching the way you arch your back away from the wall, your soft breasts pressing into his hard chest.

“Satoru, wait-”

“Nah. I’m good.” His voice is stern, hardened as he continues to run his fingers along your insides, “I already told you, you’ll cum as many times as I want.”

He knows if it’s too much you’ll use the safe word you agreed on, but he knows you won't. As much as you’re trying to pretend you don’t love what he’s doing to you, he knows you do.

You let out a chain of embarrassing whimpers as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, steadily increasing his pace again until you’re shattering around him over and over and over.

Through each and every one of your orgasms Satoru’s soft lips are on yours before planting several soft kisses over your flushed face before moving down to suck and nip at several spots along your neck, chest and shoulders.

Closing your eyes, you rest your head back against the cool wall before he shoves his fingers in your mouth. You open your eyes and watch him; cheeks pink, lips parted, eyes half lidded, pupils blown with lust watching the way you swirl your tongue around, tasting your arousal as he works to undo the button and zipper of his pants.

You let out a loud gasp when you feel the blunt end of his thick cock slide through your folds, tip teasing your clit, pulling your hips away from him automatically at the sensitive feeling.

Satoru grabs your hip and pulls you forward again as he continues to tease you, sliding his cock up and down your soaked cunt.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, trying to wiggle your hips out of his grasp.

“You can handle it.” He remarks bluntly, leaning forward to suck a tender spot below your ear, “besides, you deserve this, don’t you? Trying to make me jealous, going out with another man.”

“No.” You answer firmly, breathlessly as he leans up, amusement in his eyes at your response, “we’re over. Just-just fuck me already, Jesus.”

He chuckles, letting his cock circle your clit a few times, twitching when he hears your pretty little gasps, before teasing your entrance, “I’ll let you have it when I’m -ah-” you buck up, his tip slipping past your folds. He lets out a loud groan, lips ghosting yours as you slide down the length of his cock despite his words, “ha- you bitch.”

Satoru rolls his hips a few times, both of you moaning at the feeling of having each other just one more time, because that’s all this can be, even if he’s not ready to give you up yet.

“I made you everything you are. Training you, taking you on missions,” he rambles through clenched teeth, pulling out about half way and slamming back into you, “you’re mine, aren’t you, baby?”

“Y-yes,” you answer in a broken whine, moving your hips back to meet his every thrust, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix in a way you know you’ll be sore later “all yours.”

It’s an automatic response at this point, even when you’re delirious, getting fucked within an inch of your life. He gets jealous, seeing you speak with Nanami, smiling at Ijichi and now it’s another routine, a part of your relationship you had come to expect.

“Yeah, fucking right you are, baby,” he groans, slamming his hips into yours relentlessly, watching your tits bounce in time with his thrusts as tears pick in the corner of your eyes, making his own light up as they overflow and spill down your cheek. “You wanna change the world? You know that’s only possible when you’re by my side."

He regrets pushing you away, the way he lets you leave each time your bags are packed. Despite your words, he knows, deep down, you’re not going to take him back this time, but he wants you to, even if it’s incredibly selfish of him - he doesn’t give a shit. Doesn’t want to know or think about you going out, being with someone else, being happier with someone else. Not when you could and should be with him.

“Gonna make sure everyone knows who you belong to.” His lips slam into yours, hot searing kisses on your lips, tongues gliding together sloppily until he moves to nip at your ear lobe, “gonna fill you so full, put a baby inside you - won't be able to leave then, will you?”

He laughs next to your ear, unhinged, high pitched and amused with his own thoughts, his hot breath tickles your neck, sending a jolt right to the apex of your thighs.

“You’re demented. I hate you -shit-” your hands are under his open shirt on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood, he doesn’t try to stop you or use his infinity. He lets it happen, his own twisted form of punishment for watching you drown under him and being unable and unwilling to let you resurface.

Satoru rests his head against the wall, heavy breaths fanning your ear, his cock twitching each time you grace him with one of your pretty moans, the picture frame continuing to rattle with each thump of your body against the wall.

“I hate you too,” he kisses your jaw, licks the trail of tears streaming down your cheek, leaving a kiss below your eye before ripping the rest of the silky fabric of your dress from your waist, letting it fall to the floor, “you take my cock so fucking well, baby.”

You look down, moaning at the sight of where you’re connected, watching the way his thick cock disappears in your cunt. He runs his hand along your abdomen, where the familiar bulge from his cock sits.

“Right there keep going, harder, please.”

Satoru watches your eyes roll back, watches the way the sheen of sweat that’s formed over your body glistens in the light of your apartment. You’re so gorgeous with the blush that’s formed on your cheeks down to your neck, with your sweet, breathy moans that are only for him.

He snakes his arm around your hips, pulling your ass out from the wall, leaving your shoulders connected, putting you in the most severe arch you’ve ever been in. His hands are cemented on your hips keeping you in place while he fucks into you with reckless abandon, throwing his head back, using your body however he wants, however he needs.

“Nobody will want you -ah- if you have a kid with me. Scare off any fucking date you have, you’ll have to stay with me then, won’t you baby?”

The sound of your arousal drips obscenely to the floor below, as he pins your hands over your head, using his infinity to keep them against the wall as he continues to fuck into you. Grabbing your legs from his waist, he pushes your knees down to your face, literally folding you in half, eyes rolling to the back of his head from the feeling of your soft, warm walls tightening around his cock.

“Shit, right there,” you gasp as his hips falter, “don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop.” Your walls clench and shudder around him, encouraging him to speed up, to cum inside you like he knows you want him to. You’re clenching around him, hard, before you know it, body shivering like you’re seizing, vision going white as your high takes over all your senses.

Satoru lets out a string of breathy moans, brows furrowed at the feeling of your walls squeezing him for all he’s worth, hammering into you until his hips are stuttering and he’s no longer able to hold back.

“Take my cum, baby,” he hisses, thrusts sloppier than ever as he loses himself in you, “I love you so fucking much.”

He lets out a deep guttural groan as his release floods your insides, and you could swear the force shifted the world in his favor. It always seemed to be that way, after all. He wills something to happen, so the universe makes it so.

You’re panting into one another as he continues to slowly rock his hips, fucking his cum deeper inside, making sure it sticks, because he meant everything he said.

Lifting you off the wall, he carries you back to your bedroom and gently lays you down on the bed, cock still buried inside you as he runs his nose along the length of yours, whispering sweet nothings about how he’s sorry, how he misses you and wants you to take him back. This time things will be different, he swears.

You know better than to listen, but you missed this. Missed being in his strong embrace, so you let it slide for the night, indulging one last time before it’s over, really over this time.

You stay like this until he’s hard again, going at a much slower tempo, deeper strokes than before.

Somewhere between the third and fourth rounds, he gets a call, a Curse User running amok and he’s needed to go out and take care of the situation.

“Satoru,” you say, holding the sheets over your frame trying to cover the shame of falling into bed with him again so easily, “I never want to see you again.”

He lets out a mix between a scoff and a laugh, looking you up and down before putting on his little black glasses and giving a nefarious grin.

“Sure, babe. Whatever you say.”

It’s been a little over a month since that night. After Satoru left, you got up and started cleaning your apartment of all the things he had gotten for you over the years. Just like when you told him you were never getting back together, you meant what you said about never wanting to see each other again.

You even followed up on your transfer request, but Ijichi informed you that it could take a few months to make its way to the higher-ups and to count yourself as lucky if they approve the request.

It seems Satoru heard your message loud and clear, since you haven’t heard from him over the last few weeks, taking care to avoid one another in the halls, not sparing a glance at each other during meetings you’re both required to attend.

But that’s about to change as you walk through the halls of Jujutsu Tech, eye’s red, puffy and swollen from crying the last few days.

It’s evening and hardly anyone is around as you open the door to Satoru’s office. You knew he would be here tonight, because you had threatened Ijichi into not doing his paperwork earlier in the day, so you’d be able to easily find him without having to show up at his apartment.

He looks up, a cocky grin on his face as if he already knew you’d show up with a stick in hand, two pink lines on the display.

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#jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #violetsaffronfic #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojou satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo #LTWYL #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #oneshot #ex’s + oh’s collab.

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