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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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scoonsalicious · 4 days

Text

Unwanted: Chapter 29, Unarmed, Redux - Pt. 4

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language,

Word Count: 741

Previously On...: Steve made some confessions.

A/N: Finally, resolutions!

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

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You sat there, staring off into space for several moments. You couldn’t believe that had just happened. Was there no end to the number of times a super soldier would betray you?

Bucky cleared his throat after a few silent minutes. “I’ll… I’ll leave you alone now, doll,” he said. “‘M sure I’m one of the last people you want to see right now.”

He made to leave, but you called him back. “Buck, no,” you said. He turned around and looked at you quixotically. “Stay. We’re not done.”

He swallowed, then nodded, coming back to sit in the armchair next to your bed. “Yeah, okay,” he said.

“Did you mean what you said,” you asked, looking up at him. “Back in Atlantic City? When you said you were self-sabotaging?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at you in confusion, as if that was the last topic of conversation he expected you to bring up right now. “When, uh… when you broke things off, for good, after Russia, I started seeing Raynor a lot more frequently. Like, two hours a day, every day,” he offered. “I needed to understand why I kept ruining things, especially when you make me so damned happy. It didn’t make sense to me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, didn’t make much sense to me, either,” you told him with a smirk, but he didn’t catch it.

“She told me, and I’m paraphrasin’ here, that, despite all the progress I’ve made, I still haven’t forgiven myself for the things I’ve done as the Winter Soldier,” he said, fidgeting with his metal fingers. “And, because I haven’t forgiven myself, I can’t see myself as being worth being loved, being happy. So, I did things, behaved in ways that proved I shouldn’t be. Like a, uh… ‘self-fulfilling prophecy,’ she said.

“She said that I created a loop, a cycle, where I kept makin’ fucked up decisions because I kept expectin’ to fuck up,” he continued. “Like, of course I hurt you, because I was scared of hurting you, if that makes sense? She said Carthage was like a mirror. When I sought validation from her, I was really seeking it from myself. I don’t necessarily know if I buy that,” he chuckled humorously. “Feels like it lets me off the hook too easily, but the doc seems to think it makes sense.”

You nodded, considering his words. “I thought you said she was a shitty quack,” you said after a moment. Bucky looked at you questioningly. “I did.”

“Sounds to me like you owe her a ‘thank you,’” you said, smiling at him. “What did she tell you to do about it?”

Bucky shrugged. “She called me a fucking dumbass, to start. Told me real love isn’t about whether or not you think you’re worthy of someone; it’s about working to be worthy of someone, to keep striving to be the best version of yourself for them. She said I needed to learn how to be honest, with you, and myself, to let you know when I’m struggling, to open up so we can help each other carry our burdens, and not hide mine away because I’m afraid.”

“She sounds a lot smarter than you’ve ever given her credit for,” you teased gently.

Bucky snorted. “Never let her hear you say that,” he said. “I won’t hear the end of it.”

“Can I ask you a question?” he said, after a moment of silence. You nodded. “Did you mean what you said, in front of Carthage, that you wished we could start fresh? Build something new? Something better?”

You nodded again. “With my whole heart,” you told him.

Bucky seemed to take a moment to contemplate your words before he stuck out his hand. “‘M Bucky,” he said.

You scoffed playfully. “What the hell kind of name is ‘Bucky’?” you asked with a grin.

“I dunno,” he said with an answering grin of his own. “What the hell kind of name is Pocket?”

You grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him to you, slotting your mouth over his and feeling his smile against your lips. “POCKET!” you heard Tony shout from behind the closed door. “He’s been in there long enough! The people demand to know! What the ‘F’ Is It?”

You and Bucky broke apart from your kiss, foreheads pressed together as you both laughed. Yeah, you thought with a smile, the two of you were going to be okay.

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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howtofightwrite · 11 months

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I'm always a little bit (more than a bit tbh) skeptical when I see it in movies or read in books, that an archer uses their bow as a melee weapon when the enemy gets too close. I feel like using a bow like a club would not go down well with the bow.

On the other hand, a crossbow? Could you use a crossbow as a close-quarter combat weapon in a pinch? Like, whacking someone over the head and then trying to get distance between you and the enemies again.

Also I'd appreciate your 2 cents about the trope of "stabbing someone with arrows".

You really don't want to do any of those things.

So, the bow as a melee weapon runs into the issue that the limbs themselves really aren't designed to sustain blunt impacts, and even if they're made of something sturdy, there is a real potential for damage. Similarly, you don't want to damage the string. If either of these things are damaged, the weapon is basically trashed. This also applies for blocking melee attacks with a bow. In situations like that you're almost guaranteeing that the weapon will be critically damaged. Now, that could be an intentional decision, “sacrifice the bow instead of dying,” but it's rarely presented in that context, and the weapon frequently emerges unscathed (or with minor, cosmetic, damage) from these events.

Crossbows have the same problems as bows, with the additional consideration of their trigger mechanism, their winding system (if they have one), their optics (again, if they have any beyond sighting down the bolt.) Damaging any of these things will start to impair the weapon's ability to function. It doesn't mean that clubbing someone over the head with the stock would automatically break the crossbow, but there are a lot of mechanically sensitive components that could react poorly to blunt force impacts, so, it's best to avoid that entirely, and just not use it as a melee weapon.

Everything I just said about the crossbow also applies to just about any firearm more advanced than a 14th century hand cannon. Firearms do have the advantage in that they're expected to experience some kinetic kick, so it's not as simple as, “well you can't do this, or gun will break,” but as a general rule, you shouldn't do it. Clubbing someone over the head with your M4a1 shouldn't mess up your zero, it shouldn't damage your trigger mechanism, it shouldn't affect the firing pin, but you still shouldn't do it, because there is a genuine risk of breaking something. There are a lot of moving parts in modern firearms, and if any of those are out of place, it's not going to work right.

Ranged weapons are intended to be used at range, they're not supposed to be used as improvised clubs, and while most modern examples should be able to survive some abuse, it's still a bad idea.

Stabbing with an arrow is something I have mixed feelings on. From a realism perspective, it's not. Arrows (and bolts) are designed to be aerodynamic, you want low drag on the shaft, and that means that you're not going to get the kind of grip you would with a knife. The shaft should be smooth, and as a result, able to move through the air with ease, but that also makes it harder to manually shove it into someone.

At the same time, most arrow stabbings in fiction are examples object conservation. It's a kind of Chekhov's Gun, where the item is being completely repurposed in the moment, and that's a bit of creativity that I'm rather fond of, even when it's not completely realistic. This even extends to situations where someone's been shot with an arrow, pulls it out, and then stabs someone with it. It's biologically impossible in most cases, but it can be a well done moment that effectively plays with the objects that have already been established in the fight.

It's a little off topic here, but getting shot with an arrow (or bolt) is very different from being shot by a bullet. In the case of bullets, they tear through your musculature and (usually) exit the body. The problem is that you now have new holes, through which your blood is now seeking to escape. Being hit by an arrow will pin your muscles together in their current configuration. Think of it like running a toothpick through a stack of thinly sliced meat, the exact position of those slices is now fixed in relation to one another. The problem is, your muscled don't move together. They're multiple layers of meat moving over one another, and when you skewer that, you cannot change the relative position of those muscles. Meaning, getting shot with an arrow will lock up portions of your body, preventing motion. This is why I said that pulling an arrow out and then stabbing someone is sometimes biologically impossible. It is biologically impossible to continue fighting after taking a couple arrows, because you'll be unable to sufficiently move your limbs.

So, the short answer would be, “can you?” Yes. “Should you?” No. There's a non-trivial chance you'll damage the weapon. It's not likely, but you really wouldn't want to take that chance.

-Starke

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#how to fight write #writing reference #writing advice #writing tips #starke answers

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total-drama-brainrot · 22 days

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TD World Tour Alenoah AU... Where Noah is immune to Alejandro's fake charm... Instead, Noah gets charmed by the true Alejandro's quirks and dorky interests like dinosaurs and puppets... How would Alejandro feel about Noah only liking Alejandro, when Alejandro is being himself?... Especially since Alejandro's family shuns him for being himself? 🦕🦖🦕

Now you're speaking my language.

One of the most common running themes in all/near enough all Alenoah central AUs is having Noah be the first person to see past Alejandro's persona and actually appreciate the person he is, or at the very least prefer the real Alejandro to his mask of perfection. It's one of the draws of the ship itself; the idea that Noah, being the blunt person that he is, can and will wage a war of attrition against the walls Alejandro has built up around himself- not just to keep others out, but also to repress the more authentic aspects of himself to himself- in order to reveal the person beneath.

I touched on this a little bit in a previous post concerning this AU, but Alejandro and Noah both see glimpses of the other that they try so valiantly to hide- in Noah's case, Alejandro sees hints of the scheming mindset he's pretty much supressed under layers of apathy and sloth (as Noah's laziness is one of his biggest character foils, alongside his snarky attitude), and in Alejandro's case he reveals tid bits of information about the Real Alejandro, not the persona he's usually portraying himself as, which is enough to humanise him in Noah's eyes.

They both become People Of Interest in each other's eyes, because they're both puzzles to be solved. Alejandro's curious and competitive to a fault so he'd dedicate himself to unravelling the layers behind Noah's stony exterior, as he'd see Noah's continued distance as a challenge. That's a given. But the topic at hand here is Noah's interest in Alejandro.

Because Noah's not exactly competitive, so why would he be so interested in unveiling the real Alejandro? That's simple; Noah values authenticity. Look at his friendship group, it consists of people who are unapologetically themselves. Noah is also unapologetically himself, in all of his sarcastic glory. So of course he's see flickers of the real, authentic Alejandro and his natural inquisitiveness would be piqued- a novelty for him, as Noah's staunch apathy generally tends to override any semblance of curiosity.

So Noah goes out of his way to make notes of the small interests Alejandro offhandedly mentions at one point or another, like palaeontology or puppetry or even his fifteen-step skincare routine- things that Alejandro shows genuine excitement or passion over that shines through the cracks of his perfect persona. He sees the dorky giddiness Alejandro experiences when Noah lets him ramble on about how Jurassic Park was incredibly inaccurate from a scientific standpoint but monumental for people's interest in palaeontology (or something along those lines, I don't know I'm not a dinosaur nerd) and suddenly the annoyingly flirtatious faker he's spent the better half of his time on the jet is A Whole Ass Person with interests and passions and a sense of depth he's been so bereft of until now. Suddenly Alejandro's more than just the antagonist of the show Noah's working on, he's an interesting person that the bookworm finds himself wanting to know more about. And, perhaps, he finds himself growing genuinely fond of the person behind the mask.

And he uses those notes to prompt Alejandro into sharing more of himself, the real authentic Alejandro, in the privacy of their interactions.

At first, Alejandro's fairly oblivious to what Noah's doing, since he's so caught up in his own enjoyment of Noah's company plans to essentially do the same to Noah that he barely notices his own tricks being used against him.

Of course, he's also just elated at being able to infodump to someone who isn't outright penalising him for doing so; not that I think Alejandro is even aware that what he's doing is infodumping, nor the fact that he's so obviously autistic, because his family is a particular brand of awful that would never let him get a proper diagnoses and in all likelihood forced him to mask/supress his symptoms.

It isn't until Alejandro realises that he's shared a lot of information about himself that he (as a Burromuerto) is expected to keep close to his chest, and he sees the glimmers of satisfaction in Noah's intelligent eyes, that the archvillain catches on to the fact that he's been played. But the thing that really catches him off-guard isn't the trickery, it's the fact that Noah's done nothing with the uncharacteristic displays of vulnerability.

Alejandro can't understand why Noah hasn't taken advantage of his "weakness" yet. Inevitably leading to him confronting the assistant, as Alejandro isn't the type to "let sleeping dogs lie" so to speak, and he's still very much so in the one-track mindset of winning the competition- thus he assumes that any show of vulnerability can and will lead to his untimely elimination. But when he practically demands that Noah reveal what he's been planning, why he's been sneakily collecting information on him, all Noah can do is shrug his shoulders and say;

"I guess I just like seeing the real you. That's all."

And Alejandro doesn't know how to respond to that. No one's ever wanted the real him, he's always had to play the role of the perfect son, the perfect brother. He doesn't understand.

And like most people when they're faced with a foreign concept they have no basis of behaviour for, he lashes out.

#ending it there on a sort of angsty note #alejandro “please treat me nicely” burromuerto when someone treats him nicely: Don't Know How To Proccess This :(#truthing autistic alejandro that's canon. not even a headcanon just canon #(they're both autistic that's why alenoah works. 50% of their interactions are parallel play)#(alejandro's an infodumper and noah's a listener match made in heaven)#honestly this scenario could be applied to most alenoah aus #but specifically in the assistant au alejandro feels there's a sense of power imbalance since noah DOES have some authority over the--#contestants. and alejandro's needling for information was him punching UPWARDS whilst noah's breaking of his walls was in alejandro's eyes-#an abuse of power. of course that's not the case but alejandro's less concerned with the morality of it and more so concerned with--#the “fairness” of noah knowing a lot about him whilst remaining fairly mysterious.#can you tell i kind of ran out of Writing Juice at the end there?#even outlines are taking it out of me lately. burnout is my enemy.#total drama #td alejandro #td noah #alenoah #assistant noah au #others' ideas #replies

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earl-grey-teacake · 4 months

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omg hello! your brain is truly so big for this idea… george coaching logan lives rent free in my mind at all times and their minimal interactions bring me life fr 🥺🥺 now.. very important question.. WHO adopted logan first? alex as his current teammate or george as his long-time mentor? i also have this insane image in my mind of george making a powerpoint titled “7 step plan on how to win oscar’s heart / why he’s definitely in love with you don’t be stupid / we need to talk about your (lack) or self esteem” . yea there are three topics but alex has sighed deeply and provided snacks to keep them going. and also the idea of carlando adopting oscar?? it’s a very strange dynamic bc lando is so excitable he’s def not a parent figure and oscar and carlos are still squinting suspiciously at each others for sure. maybe the three of them are using their combined 8 brain cells to come up with a game plan for wooing logan? and they’re just sitting their arguing over flower symbolism and lando and carlos genuinely almost break up over how worked up they both get. i know this ask got out of control but bestie.. your mind is so large and i am obsessedddd w this idea

Hello! Thank you so much! Very happy to hear that the ideas my brain makes up in the middle of the night are appreciated!🥰

To answer your question, Alex adopted Logan first. I see George keeping his distance, close but still professional. Alex, as both an eldest sibling and having gone through 2021, is very sympathetic to Logan. He sees the spiraling, he understands being alone as your parents are dealing with their own issues, and he knows what it feels like to be left behind while the friends you joined F1 with go on ahead. When Logan stops answering his texts and James brings up his worries, Alex is at Logan’s door telling him to pack up and come over to his place. George starts off in a “I’m here to help but mainly because Alex wants to do this and I love Alex” and quickly becomes “i am onboard with helping you, here is a list of therapists I have complied, please pick one.”

George is absolutely making PowerPoints. It starts off with “No one on the grid or your team hates you + with proof from the group chat” to “Your lack of self-esteem is alarming and we are all a bit worried” before becoming “Oscar is in love with you + photographic evidence.” George’s love language is PowerPoints. When he was getting Alex that Williams seat, I imagined him cornering people with a laptop in hand and a PowerPoint titled “Alex Albon’s Achievements: Why he is a perfect fit for Williams”. Alex is ordering take out and providing commentary on the slides, and questioning where certain photos came from.

I see Carlando adopting Oscar not in a parental way, but more in a “I have more life experience so let me tell you why ghosting your friend and crush is a bad idea”. They absolutely brainstorm ways to woo Logan but they keep failing because Logan thinks Oscar is doing this to apologize for not talking to him for a month/forgetting his birthday and Oscar is slowly going insane because nothing works and in every interaction Logan looks sadder and sadder. Carlos and Lando are definitely getting worked up because it was never this hard when they got together .

Your idea with the flower language is genius, can I write that in the fic? I am thinking of a scene like

“No, Lando we cannot put yellow roses in the arrangement. They mean decrease of love, that’s an awful flower to include.”

“How about orange lilies? There aren’t exactly a ton of papaya or orange flowers to choose from.”

“No! Orange lilies mean hatred. We should be starting simple like pink roses and baby breaths.”

“Those options are basic. They don’t have personality to them. It looks like Oscar just went to a supermarket and picked it up. How is anyone supposed to feel special receiving a standard supermarket bouquet?”

“I wouldn’t know Lando. You never got me flowers before so I don’t know how I would feel receiving a supermarket bouquet?”

This ask was super fun to answer! Thank you so much for sending it❤️ I am also obsessed with it and am drafting outlines to write it. Please feel free to send more asks. I really love answering them.

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laylasmoonchild · 1 year

Text

“Are You Okay?”

Sam Kiszka × Reader NSFW 18+

Author's Note:

I have no idea what l'm doing or what possessed me to write this... That's partially a lie- There's no Sam Fics out there, and this is compiled of some requests l've had/Requests l've seen on other blogs. This is loosely inspired by Daisy Jones & The Six (The Amazon series, not the book, the book was better though hehe), Basically when Camilla was seeking out attention during a rough patch with Billy. I'm Layla, let me know what ya think, or don't. Just be nice! Sorry if there's typos, this took me hours to write on 2 separate nights, l'm not an amazing writer, just out here trying new things!

Summary:

Sammy's girlfriend (Y/N) is under the impression he is cheating on her and not only gets drunk to mask her feelings, but seeks comfort in Jake... Yup, it's messy, folks. Also, there's sex, read the warnings!

WARNINGS:

Angst, Topics of Cheating, Arguing W/ a S.O., NSFW, Sex, Spit Kink (this is a common request on Sammy blogs, if you're not into it, close your eyes or keep it pushing! my page is a no judge zone!), Unprotected Sex (Wrap it up, or don't, it’s not my business… prob wrap it up though.)

Word Count: 7,149

——————————————————————————

I was looking out the window of the plane that was taking me to God knows where. All I knew was that I was on my way to the love of my life.

Sam’s been on tour for a few months, and honestly, I’ve been starting to feel a distance. I’m assuming it’s more on my end, I’m working a high stress job while trying to make my art my main one. Sam’s understanding of it and I think it’s time I show him just how much I appreciate that of him.

As the plane is landing, I start to write out a text to Jake, who’s going through a major rough patch with his girlfriend. Sam mentioned they were on a break, but I won’t pry, I just want to tell him to let Sam know that I’ll be at the hotel in about an hour…

“Hey! Could you let Sam know I decided on taking an uber? I think his phone’s dead, I’ll be at the hotel in an hour!”

“I haven’t seen him since last night, but I’m sure I’ll run into him, be careful, sweet girl…♥️”

Sweet girl… Jake’s nickname for me since we first met… He always said I was too sweet for Sam.

As I gathered my bags from baggage claim and made my way outside to my Uber, I started thinking about how Jake mentioned he hasn’t seen Sam since last night… I never think about Sam’s whereabouts, I know most girls would be itching to know what their traveling, rockstar boyfriend was up to, but he’s never given me an inkling of a feeling that the rumors about guys on the road and his past were true. And I was far too busy career wise to think into those thoughts.

But I’d be lying if I said the reason I was tapping my foot in the backseat of this Uber wasn’t because I was starting to believe it.

————————————————————————

I got the keycard from concierge and made my way to Sam’s room. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking that the distance I’ve noticed wasn’t just me, and maybe he wasn’t as trustworthy as I thought…

I shook away my thoughts while the elevator chimed it’s arrival on his floor. I walked out, luggage trailing behind me, and anxiously speed walking to his door. Suddenly I was picturing the scene behind that door. A Penny Lane wannabe enthralled with him between the sheets, while he tells her I’m the last thing on his mind. What was wrong with me? I knocked on it, holding my breath.

I heard rustling behind the door, and feet lazily lugging themselves across the floor. It swung open, and there he was.

“Hey,” He pulled me in for a half hug, out of breath, hair a mess. He smelled like the floor of a dive bar.

“Hi, baby” I entered the room, it was in decent condition considering he’s been here for at least two nights.

“Room looks clean…” I huffed as I released my bag from my hand in the small walkway.

Sam looked around, yawning a bit while running his hand through his tendrils.

“Yeah, I guess- Haven’t really slept in here.”

I tried to ignore the pit in my stomach, telling myself not to read into it as I kicked my shoes off.

“Crashed at Danny’s or something?” I asked, trying to remind myself that he has 3 other rooms to end up in if he pleases…

I tried to look for his eyes as he sat on the foot of the bed. He looked guilty. This wasn’t in my head anymore. Suddenly my extremities went cold.

“Sam?” I said, firmer than usual. My chest was rising and falling at this point.

“What?” He practically spat at me. He looked at me like he’d been found out. His eyes blinking with a dullness behind them that felt inhuman.

“Sam… Where were you last night?”

“Y/N…” He held his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes.

“Sam. Answer me.” I felt tears beginning to sting my eyes.

“Y/N, I was at Danny’s, okay?” He stood up now with his arms open in defense.

“Look, I’m hung over, I really don’t want to be questioned by my girlfriend right now.” He walked past me to make it to the bathroom. As I turned to watch him slam the door.

Sam was the most attentive man in my life. Never leaving me when I’m upset, always letting me cry it out to him and absorbing every word I had to say.

Instead, he started the shower.

A few tears made their way out as I unpacked my outfit for tonight, feeling stupid as I pulled out each piece that I was so excited to wear for him. A cream colored, see through, lace dress with a slit up the leg, dark brown cowboy boots and a dark brown slip to wear underneath it.

I continued laying everything out when I saw something peeking out from underneath the duvet. Assuming it was one of Sam’s shirts, I pulled it, with the intention of folding it and placing it to the side. Except it wasn’t his shirt. It was distinctively a woman’s blouse. Orange chiffon, staring back at me. I stared back at it in my hands for a second. Hoping it would disappear from my hands and maybe I would wake up from a dream. Suddenly, I had no tears, my throat was too dry to speak.

He stepped out of the bathroom in a towel and I shoved the damned piece of fabric into my luggage. His eyes were softer now.

“Love,” he called out softly.

I nodded, eye’s fixated on his. He walked towards me, he took my waist into his hands and pulled me close to him.

He brought one hand to the valley between my jaw and neck, resting his thumb on my cheek.

“Y/N, I love you, I just had a rough night. I’m so happy you’re here, I’m sorry okay?” He looked me dead in my eyes, and something about that made my stomach turn. He’s lying to me, while looking into my eyes.

“Okay.” Was all I could manage. I felt a sense of serenity, or extreme numbness. He looked puzzled, looking for the rest of what I could say on my face.

“You love me, right?” Sam said, matching the hand that was on my waist to the one on my face.

“Of course,” I smiled, insincerely. “I have to shower now.” I motioned my head towards the bathroom door.

He leaned into kiss me, I moved my head slightly to where he could only kiss the corner of my mouth.

“I feel gross from the plane, sorry.” I said acting like everything was fine. He nodded and let me go.

————————————————————————

After my shower, I immediately started getting ready. It was all so robotic.

Sam knocked on the door to let me know he’d be going to the venue for soundcheck, which he’d been late for. I put my hairdryer on to drown him out mid speech. I heard the hotel door shut, and my phone lit up on the counter.

“Baby doll I left for soundcheck, I don’t know if you heard me♥️ See me before the show like you do?”

I “thumbs’d up” his text and continued my hair and makeup.

While doing my makeup, I suddenly felt thirsty. I opted for every alcoholic nip in the mini fridge.

————————————————————————

I finished getting ready and Ubered to the venue. I drunkenly vowed to myself that Sam will not make a fool out of me. If he was going to realize what I was being short about, it will be on MY terms. Not his, and most certainly not on my emotion’s terms. The alcohol has numbed every emotion, and I was thanking the heavens for that.

While I got into the building and was escorted backstage, all I could think about was another drink.

Entering the green room, I made a beeline for the bar cart while everyone mingled and were making the last touches to their outfits. Danny, Sam and Josh were gathered around the tour manager while Jake was off to the side, looking rather uninterested.

I poured myself a drink and sent my happy-fake smiles to the tour crew as they passed by, cheerful to see me. As I sipped my concoction of liquor, I began to feel disgusted with them too, knowing they could smile at me while they probably know of Sam’s girl on the side and smiled the same way at her.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, as I turned around, I was met with the soulful eyes I so dearly loved. It was Jake. Who reeked of rum. It broke my heart that we were drinking for similar reasons.

“Hey, my sweet girl!” He pulled me in for a hug, squeezing me extra tight and letting his hand linger on the small of my back as he positioned himself to the side of me. A classic Kiszka hug. The kind of hug that makes girls wonder if it’s flirtatious but it’s really just their loving nature.

I beamed for the first time all day. Jake and I were the kind of close where we didn’t need to speak all the time to keep the friendship alive. We often found ourselves on late nights after shows talking about everything while everyone was off to sleep. As I look into his eyes, I’m realizing he might know me more than Sam does.

In my drunken state, I didn’t realize my smile faded till his eyebrow became crooked.

“Are you okay?” Was all he said, my extremities went cold once more like they did earlier.

“I-“ I felt an arm snake around my waist and someone kiss my cheek from behind. I knew who it was.

“Baby doll, come with me before I go on, talk to Jake later” Sam said, all too normal.

I smiled weakly at Jake and he gave me a concerned look. He must’ve made eye contact with Sam because his concerned look quickly became a forced, tight lipped smile. And with that, he caught up with the rest of everyone, who waved at me, unaware of the situation at hand.

Sam led me down a dark walk way, the route that takes them to the stage. The opening act was on and I could feel the bass in my chest.

We stopped walking and Sam pulled me in for a kiss. I barely kissed back, uninterested in his lips on mine… Knowing they were on God knows who’s the night earlier.

“Y/N, kiss me,” He said running his hands up my sides then to my neck, pulling me in again.

“Sam, I’m not in the mood.” I slurred.

“Y/N, I told you I’m sorry for before. I still am.”

His eyes were looking through me at this point.

“Sam, this isn’t about you, okay? Really, it’s okay!” I amazed myself with how natural it was to pretend that I didn’t find another woman’s article of clothing in his hotel room. I grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him. He began to melt into me, pushing his tongue into my mouth.

I faintly heard the opener end their set, they would be getting off on the opposite side of the stage so I wasn’t worried about stopping him. Even if I didn’t want to kiss him right now, a part of me wanted to make him think I was okay before his show.

“I love you so much-“ He said in between kisses. I kept thinking of him talking like this to another woman. It made me sick. I pulled away. Staring at him plainly. His eyes were dull with lust and confusion.

The boys started walking towards us, getting ready to go on stage. I turn to them and smile.

“Good luck tonight,” I blew them a kiss and smiled while they said their thanks and blew kisses back. Jake watched me intently as I started to walk backstage, not daring to turn around and look at Sam.

“Hey,” Jake grabbed my hand.

I turn back to him and look for his eyes, that are fixated on my hand, and work up to my face.

“Sweet girl’s on my side tonight, yeah?” He winked with a grin. His thumb rubbed my hand, all of this making me blush. This gesture was more comforting than flirting.

“Of course.” I said, bashfully.

Jake smiled once more, and I looked back towards Sam. His face was stone cold at the interaction.

————————————————————————

The concert was amazing as always. Jake made it a point to wink in my direction and blow me a few kisses during their set, all of which Sam saw.

I was still, naturally, upset. Drinking as much as I could, stumbling in the crowd a bit. I was trying to blend in with the stands but of course some of the fans recognized me, I’m embarrassed to admit I was probably too incoherent to hold any sort of conversation with them.

We were now at an after party backstage, celebrating the tour or something, I could barely tell in my inebriated state.

Sam was on his phone, frantically typing and trying to stay focused on the conversations around him. I assumed that was her on the other end of the text screen. He put his arm around me while Danny and their roadie went on about an equipment mishap. Before Sam could reply to the phone vibrating in his pocket, I turned to glance at the tour crew & opening band dancing in the middle of the room. Jake was on the other side of the dancing bunch and caught eyes with me.

“I’m gonna dance-“ I said while breaking free of Sam, who said something in return but I couldn’t hear him over the music. I walked through the moving bodies and put my hand out to Jake, who took a good swig of his drink and slammed the glass on the table beside him. He took my hand and pulled me into what felt like the music itself engulfing me. We danced, innocently. Singing the lyrics to each other as we swapped dancing partners and laughing gleefully like little kids. I felt someone grab my wrist.

“Gonna save a dance for me, right, little girl?” Sam husked into my ear.

Feeling incredibly prideful and cocky, I danced with him, and as he leaned into me, I moved my mouth to his ear.

“Tell that little slut to get her cheap shirt before tour’s over.” I said in a tone only he could hear. Sam’s grip on me loosened.

“Y/N,” His face was pale, and his feet were suddenly glued to the floor. I kept dancing.

He reached his arms out for me when I started dancing too far from him and he pulled himself into me.

“You’re not going to make a fool out of me, Sam. I’ll play stupid for everyone around us right now, but trust that I won’t let you continue this. I’m not going to be the other woman in my own relationship.” I said still quietly but snidely.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” Sam said as he tried to pull me out of all the dancing, swiftly and without causing suspicion.

“Good idea, I need air.” I said, walking towards the tunnel that lead to the parking lot.

“Even better, I’ll come with.” He said following behind.

“No, stay! Please, enjoy yourself!” I said in a tone where he knew I was sarcastic but people around us would assume I was genuine if they overheard us.

Jake came up between us and put an arm out to distance Sam.

“I’ll go with her, don’t worry!” I couldn’t tell if Jake realized what was happening or if he really thought he was just helping ease Sam by following his drunk girlfriend who needed to get air in a sketchy parking lot.

Either way, I locked arms with him and smiled.

“Thaaaank you! Enjoy yourself, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes started to get glassy. Those around us would probably assume it was from weed or the alcohol, but he was on the verge of tears. His face was hard, stoic as he watched his brother whisk me away.

————————————————————————

We made it outside. Surprisingly no one was around, just the empty trailers, cars, and tour buses.

I started running to the middle of the lot & began spinning with my arms stretched out, basking in the cool air. I heard footsteps coming towards me, increasing speed.

Jake ran up to bear hug me, I yelped.

“You’re too drunk to go exploring, let’s go closer to the building, Y/N!” he laughed as he pulled me towards the brick wall. I tried to protest but I was too weak and he was too strong.

We reached the wall and I turned to him. There was that concerned expression again. It made me shiver.

Jake started to take off his jacket, he laid it gently on my shoulders.

“Better?” He asked. I’m assuming he thought my slight shiver was from being cold, considering my outfit choice, but the truth is that my blood is boiling from anger and alcohol, I can’t feel a thing.

I nodded and gave him a tight lipped smile.

“Are you okay? And answer me this time. You drank like a sailor, and you don’t do that.” He waited for me to respond. Suddenly I was too scared to speak again, like my voice wasn’t going to be strong enough to carry these feelings into solid words.

“Are you okay?” He repeated.

I teared up, flicking away the single tear that dropped on my cheek. I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling it out of my face, taking a deep breath.

“I’m fine.” I said, knowing he wouldn’t believe me.

“You know I know that isn’t true.” He said, leaning closer to my face. I smelled the dark rum on his breath.

“How do you know that?” I said sarcastically as a few more tears left my eyes. He got closer.

“You know things are pretty much over in my relationship… I know the signs.” Jake’s lips stayed parted and his eyes focused on my mouth.

I steadied my back against the wall, backing away. He moved closer again.

“How long has it been going on?” I asked him, scared to hear the answer.

“Hm?” He seemed genuinely confused.

“Sam and some girl…” I said quietly.

“What gir-… Wait, he’s sleeping with her?” With that, the tears flowed more. He pulled me into him and left he sob.

“Let it out, Y/N, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I can’t believe he did this to you. None of us wanted her around but he said he was just trying to help.”

He was rubbing my back, and suddenly, I was not only devastated, but curious. Who was this girl and why was he trying to help her?

I brought my head up to ask these circling questions and Jake looked at me with his tender eyes.

In this moment I felt like Jake was looking at me in a way that only women he’s been to bed with have experienced. I felt frozen, I was nervous that I was so low I’d dig myself deeper, even when I wouldn’t want to stoop to Sam’s level. I looked down, avoiding Jake’s eyes.

“I’d never do that- to you,” Jake said, letting out an awkward and breathy laugh, an attempt to lighten the meaning of his words.

I nodded, still looking down. This can’t be happening right now. I started thinking about how Jake would taste on my lips… His rum mixed with my liquor… I physically shook my head to attempt to metaphorically shake these thoughts in my head.

Jake’s single finger lifted my chin to look into his eyes. His other arm lifted, planting his hand on the wall.

“Wanna get out of here?” Was all he said.

Like clockwork, my phone started vibrating. Text after text, and the night was too quiet to ignore it. Jake waited for an answer, trying not to look down where my phone was located, inside the calf of my boot.

My face was plain, not able to answer him. Saved by the bell, his phone in his jacket pocket started ringing, I reached for it and saw Sam’s contact photo. I handed it to Jake, an attempt to make him get his finger off my chin.

He sighed, then muted it and put it into his back pocket. My phone continued to vibrate. Jake looked into my eyes once more. It felt like he was trying to subconsciously communicate that he could take me away from it all, and take care of me, even if it was for the night.

“Jake,” was all I could let out before he leaned his face, inches from mine.

“You’re my sweet girl, you know that?” He said looking at my lips. I’m not sure why, but I nodded, looking up at him.

“I love him though. No matter what.” My eyes watery.

“I know, I’d never ask you to change what’s in your nature,” He paused. Taking my hand into his. He brought it to his mouth, giving my knuckles a light kiss, staring into my eyes as he did this. “It just breaks my heart that you’re so loyal to someone who was entertaining someone else, even if it’s my baby brother.”

Suddenly, the curiosity was getting the best of me. Who was this girl?

“Jake, just tell me who she is.” I took my hand out of his and rested both hands on his chest. Practically pleading and trying to change the subject away from his earlier question. Surprisingly, he let me.

“You know that ex girl of Sam’s? James’ girlfriend’s best friend?” He adjusted his jacket that was falling off my shoulder.

James was one of the openers who has opened for the guys every couple of legs of their tour. His girlfriend introduced Sam to his ex girlfriend, they dated for awhile. I was told through the grapevine that she would get into Sam’s head, make him choose between her and his tasks for the band… When he finally left her, he knew he would see her again on tour, but always made it a point to let me know that it wouldn’t be by his choice. She’d be there with James’ girlfriend and he didn’t really have much to say to her, so he would just avoid her.

My stomach was in knots. Thinking of him with her again. Someone he was so badly hurt by is who he chose to break my trust with. It’d hurt less if it were someone new. I lightly sobbed, moving my hands from Jake’s chest to around his neck. Hugging him tightly, he held me.

“Jake, how could he?” I looked up, trying to find the answers for Sam’s infidelity on his older brother’s face. He gave me the kind of look that told me he didn’t know what to say.

I sniffled, trying to collect myself. I thought about Jake’s previous offer. Getting out of here… with him. As we looked at each other, I knew that he knew what was going through my head. Us, going wherever he had in mind, and losing ourselves in each other.

If anyone saw us, they would think they were interrupting, and maybe they would be, but I wouldn’t dare move till he did.

“Let me take care of you.” He said, each word laced with lust, his hands were underneath the jacket he leant me, and on my waist.

I let out air through my nose, furrowing my eyebrows and frowning my lips. In a way that said “We can’t do this, I still love him.” without saying it.

We must’ve been lost in this moment because I didn’t hear the footsteps coming from the entrance of the tunnel that led to the parking lot. Until I did.

Jake and I both turned our heads to see one of the tour bus drivers. He awkwardly smiled at us and went to start the bus.

We let out a sigh of relief, knowing that if anyone else saw us, or God forbid Sam, we would be dead.

“Now or never.” He said, pulling my face to look at his. I quickly nodded in response.

————————————————————————

We made it back to the hotel after a silent ride. As we walked through the lobby and made it into the elevator, I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Jake held my hand and gave it a light squeeze. I felt him looking at me watch the floor numbers ding on the monitor. I turned to him and smiled lazily. He smiled back, and kissed me on the cheek. He lingered there for a bit before moving to my ear.

“I’m going to make it better.” He whispered.

I felt a pool begin between my legs. It felt so wrong. My boyfriend’s brother, making me feel like this. But Sam was wrong too. I hated him as much as I hated myself in this moment. But I was so detached from reality. So drunk, so lost, and so hurt. The doors opened.

We walked out, walking past Sam’s room. My eyes followed it as if he was going to come running out of it. Jake opened his hotel door, the one conveniently next to Sam’s, softly saying my name, and pulling me into the room. He closed the door behind me.

I felt him behind me as I entered more of the room, knowing I was entering the biggest mistake of my life and my body couldn’t turn off autopilot. He came up behind me, holding me. He kissed my shoulder and rubbed my stomach. I let out a sigh, I hate to admit it, but I was turned on at the thought of what he was going to do to me.

Even though my body was vibrating, my chest was aching, and a few tears escaped. He spun me around, anticipating what would be our first kiss, but he was met with my eyes, full of tears. His face was surprisingly comforting. He pulled me in for a hug. The kind of hug he always gave me.

“We won’t.” He said, as I fell apart beneath him. He kissed my forehead and held me close. I let out wailing cries, mourning what was once Sam and I, and what I almost allowed to happen. I was sick with myself as much as I was with him. I was trembling, and my throat felt raw from the noises escaping it.

A string of words kept flowing from me, “Jake what did I do? I’m horrible! I lost my best friend, I love him, how could he do this to me? I love him, Jake, I love him!”

He lead me to the bed since I began falling to the floor in his arms. He shushed me, rubbing my back.

“You didn’t do anything, I did this. Sam’s at fault, I’m at fault. Not you.” He said firmly.

I weeped. Picturing what almost happened and what transpired with Sam and his ex in the next room the night before.

“Y/N, I am miserable right now. I almost took advantage of your vulnerability because I lost the love of my life. I betrayed my brother, don’t blame yourself right now. Please. I will make this better.” The last sentence was said in a new tone than it was in the elevator.

———————-————————————————

I woke up to knocking on the door. The room was pitch black, my face was damp, and my throat was sore.

The knocking turned into banging.

“JAKE, LET ME THE FUCK IN. YOU PIECE OF SHIT, OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR.” The banging persisted, and the voice was familiar. It was Sam.

My body was frozen, I felt Jake rustle beside me.

“Stay here.” He said, making his way through the dark, turning on a lamp on his way to the banging door.

I sat up, and looked at my phone on the nightstand, I tapped it to see any notifications. My phone was completely blown up from Sam and even a few texts and calls from Danny.

“Please answer Y/N”

“Y/N”

“Hey”

“Y/N, Sam is trying to call you, he’s going crazy right now, he’s not telling anyone anything. What happened? Are you with Jake? He’s trying his phone too. Just let me know if you’re okay.”

Jake opened the door, and Sam busted through, immediately attacking Jake.

“YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND OUT?” Sam yelled as he threw a punch at Jake, who was dodging his fists, telling him to calm down.

“YOU LET YOUR RELATIONSHIP FALL APART SO YOU TAKE MY GIRLFRIEND? DID YOU FUCK HER? THE FUCKING TOUR BUS DRIVER TOLD ME HE SAW YOU WITH HER.” He pushed Jake up against the wall. Sam hasn’t even looked towards the bed, where I was.

Sam had Jake by the collar of his shirt, I was frozen.

“Sam.” His name escaped my lips, raspy.

He turned around. Eyes blood shot, hair a mess. He let out a breathy, sarcastic laugh. He turned to Jake and raised his fist, aiming for his face. Jake, again, dodged his brothers fist, and finally used his strength to throw Sam to the floor.

“JAKE!” I screamed, finally being able to jump up. Jake looked at me while Sam struggled beneath him, cursing at him. Jake gave Sam a firm gaze, holding him down.

“YOU FUCKED HER? YOU FUCKING TOUCHED HER?” Sam yelled.

“I could’ve but I didn’t. Because I fucking love you, and I love her. And YEAH, I am miserable right now, I wanted to take her from you because of it, but what the fuck is your excuse?” He spat through his teeth. Sam writhed underneath him.

“I DIDN’T CHEAT ON Y/N, I WOULD NEVER DO THAT TO HER,” Sam yelled “Y/N, PLEASE LISTEN TO ME.” Jake let Sam go. He stood up in front of me.

“I didn’t sleep with her, I didn’t kiss her, I didn’t even hug (her name), PLEASE believe me, listen to me, LOOK AT ME.” He said, tearfully, shaking me by my sides as I struggled to keep eye contact.

I finally caved. I nodded in return. Waiting for him to continue. Jake gave me a kind smile, and patted Sam’s shoulder. He told us he’d be in Josh’s room if he needed us, and left.

Sam led me to sit on the foot of the bed. He held my hands and continued to speak.

“She was on tour, like I said she would be. She told me that one of our roadies and her had a fling after her and I split two years ago. She said she wasn’t expecting to see him again and it was hard to avoid him because he was working close with James’ team.” He looked into my eyes, waiting for me to let him continue. I nodded.

“She said she was scared of what he would do if they were alone because he threatened her, I told her she could hang around us. I have no say in who’s fired, I tried to relay it to our tour manager but he said that the roadie was one of his best employees and wasn’t dropping him this far into tour because of something that can’t be proven. I was stupid. It was a way in. Last night she said he said something about knowing which room she was staying in…”

Again, I nodded. He hasn’t broke eye contact, or tried to retrace his story… He was telling the truth, and I let him continue just that.

“I didn’t want to deal with her, believe this. But our tour manager was being a dick, I know she’s not the talent and doesn’t have needs in their eyes, but I felt obligated to help. I told her to come to my room, stay there the night, and I’d go to Dannys… She came to my room, and immediately, I knew something was up, Y/N. She started asking about you, and how serious we were. I asked her what her intentions were. She joked to get me back. I told her to get out, but she wouldn’t. She insisted that the story about her and this roadie was still true, and she wanted me to protect her. I left her in my room, and I slept in our photographers room. I knew that if I slept in Danny’s, she wouldn’t end this till she got in. And as for her shirt, one of mine was missing from my suitcase, I assumed she took one of mine to sleep in and left hers for me to find. And baby, I’m so sorry that you found it. That’s awful.” He put his hand on my cheek, forcing me to look at him.

“You don’t have to believe me, I know this sounds like a load of bullshit. But please, ask anyone. Anyone you want. They’ll tell you what impression I fell under.” His eyes pleaded with mine. Even though it was hard to give into him after this entire day, my gut was telling me that he was telling the truth.

“Sam,” I tried to find what I was going to say next. That I believe him and that I love him of course, but I couldn’t say that without being honest about what almost transpired between Jake and myself. He waited patiently.

“I almost did something unforgivable tonight, to spite you.” I continued. His chest physically sunk, and his eyes welled up.

“Almost? Not just Jake?” He spoke, loosening his tight grip on my hands.

“I’m not proud.” I teared up. My voice was still raspy.

He cleared his throat, letting out a sigh, opening his mouth to ask “How far?”

“He asked me to come here and I did-“ I started, but Sam put his hand on my thigh, trying to get me back on track.

“Baby, how far?” He said firmly, but still sadly, nonetheless.

“He kissed my cheek in the elevator… when he got to the room, he kissed me here from behind.” I ran my fingers along my shoulder, showing him where. His face was stoic. He looked at my cheek and then my shoulder.

“He stopped when he realized it’s not what I wanted. I promise he did, Jake is not at fault. He feels like he is, he says he is. He’s just lost right now. He doesn’t want me like that, nor do I want him. I never did. It’s always and only been you, Sam. I was in such a bad place. My life felt like it was over.” I began to weep again.

He pulled me into his lap, let me cry, and held me… Like he always did. He kissed the top of my head while I soaked his shirt in my tears.

“It’s okay. Him and I will talk, but you and I are okay, baby.” Sam let out. I was relieved, but still felt like it wasn’t.

“I’m so so-“ I tried to reply, but he stopped me with a kiss. He let me go and looked deeply into my eyes.

“Don’t you say sorry. I’m sorry. I could’ve told you from the jump. But I was so in my own head about that night and I took it out on you.” He kissed away what tears were on my face and stroked my hair.

He always knew how to make me feel at ease, and right now I did… For the first time all day.

“And by the way, I was texting her earlier to never show her face around me again. You’re more than welcome to look-“ He said, reaching for his phone, but I shook my head in protest.

“Not now…” I said softly, looking into his eyes. He placed his hands back where they were, supporting me in almost a cradling like position.

“Sammy.” I spoke out. Knowing he knows I only call him ‘Sammy’ when I’m feeling soft.

“Yes, Baby doll?” He tucked my hair behind my ear.

“Take me to bed?” I rasped. He smiled and leaned forward to me, into a passionate kiss. His tongue dipped between my lips, searching for mine. I let out a small whimper, and he let out a deep moan in return.

He kicked off his shoes, while I transitioned from his arms to straddling his hips, wrapping my arms around his neck. I started to grind my throbbing, clothed pussy onto the denim covering his hardening bulge. His hands made their way onto my ass, guiding me on top of him. We let out moans and soft laughs in between our passionate kisses.

I took his bottom lip between my teeth, earning a low groan from my beautiful boy. He lightly tapped my ass.

“Lay down, baby.” He instructed, and I did as I was told. Resting my head onto the pillow, I looked up at him… He was undoing the buttons on his shirt. I leaned forward, helping him. Once the buttons were undone, I worked it down his shoulders. I went to undo the buckle on his belt, but he moved my hands away, and had me lean back by gently pushing me.

“I’m taking care of you.” He said firmly. I thought of how Jake said this earlier, but the truth is, only Sam could.

I blushed under his gaze while he removed his pants, leaving him in his briefs. His cock was rock hard, Sam caught me looking at it pulse for me. I bit my lip lightly and went to cover my face, squirming my legs beneath him.

“Don’t be shy, now” He let out a little laugh and so did I. He began undressing me, removing my dress, then my slip. He looked down at me in my bra and panties. Completely flushed and exposed, just for him. I opened my legs while he got between them.

“Sammy,” I began. His eyes traveled up my body and landed on my bashful gaze.

“Hmm?” He hummed, running his hands up and down my thighs.

“I love you too. I didn’t really answer you before…” I said, still trying to make things right.

He smiled lightly and pushed air through his nose.

“I know you do, my girl. Don’t worry.” He replied looking up at me. He began to slowly remove my black lace panties. Once they were discarded, I let out a shakey breath… Sam laid down next to me and gave me a tender kiss. He spread my legs wider for him. He took some of the wetness from my core and dragged it to my clit.

He began rubbing it just the way I like it. Immediately, I’m saying his name over again. He dips his skillful fingers into my pussy, toying at my g spot. He alternates between my clit and pussy while kissing my mouth, and slowly moving open mouthed kisses down my neck.

I pulled the lace of my thin bra down, exposing my hardened nipple. I start squeezing the sensitive bud, suddenly it’s replaced with Sammy’s wet mouth. His hand is solely focused on my clit while his tongue works my nipple. I reach my hand down to his throbbing cock. I cant think of anything more intoxicating than the thought of him deep inside me.

He moans onto my nipple, creating vibrations that intensify the sensation.

“Sammy, I need you, please.” I let out, desperately.

He releases my nipple and doesn’t let go of my clit while now, starting to lean over me.

“Aw, look at you.” He says, looking down at me, grinding into his hand, squeezing the nipple he just had in his mouth between my fingers.

“My girl wants it rough, huh? My pretty girl wants me to cum inside her perfect little pussy, right?” It doesn’t matter how sweet Sammy can be, he loves to see me fall apart for him. He wants to see me cry for him, beg for him. Always loving a show put on for him.

“Yes, Sammy, baby please, I need it, give it to me.” I moaned out, feeling like I could cum just watching him drool at the sight of me. He removed his hand from my clit and removed his briefs. His cock sprung up for me. He positioned himself between my legs.

He kissed my forehead, lining himself up with me, before sinking into my aching pussy. The sounds alone from my wetness were enough to prove how much I needed him. He fucked into me, bringing his hand to my clit once more.

He kissed me deeply, pulled away, and looked into my eyes.

“I love you,” He groaned while pumping in and out of me.

“I love you too.” I moaned, unintentionally tightening my walls around him. My arms were around his neck, while his chains danced from his chest onto my neck.

We both moaned into each other’s mouths, he brought up his other hand to relax my jaw into a more opened position.

He let a slow, string of spit into my mouth, earning a pornographic moan from me as I swallowed it. He mouth hung open while watching me do so as he continued to fuck deeper into my pussy.

His fingers sped up on my clit and he sped up his pace while hitting my g spot. I felt a familiar knot in my stomach, and he could tell I was close by my walls clenching and face alone.

“Cum for me, baby, cum on my dick, let it out, little girl, let it go for me.” He cooed as I came. I wrapped my legs around his torso, tightening them with each second of my release.

I felt his cock twitch inside of me.

“Cum inside me, Sammy, give it to me, please, please-“ I panted. And with that, he came deep inside of me. Moaning and panting, sweat beads on his forehead, pressing his to mine. He found my lips and kissed me hungrily, like he was starving for my mouth.

Our eyes were still teary eyed from earlier but extra teary for the passionate love making we just shared. He collapsed on top of me. Pulling himself out of me, he rolled onto the side of my body, now pulling me into him.

“I love you, so so much, Y/N.” He said softly.

“I love you so much more, Sammy.”

#sam kiszka #sammy kiszka #sam kiszka smut #sammy kiszka smut #greta van fleet #greta van fleet smut #fanfic #greta van fleet fic #sam kiszka x reader #sam kiszka x y/n #smut #jake kiszka #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka x y/n

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leportraitducadavre · 10 months

Text

Sharingan no Kakashi

Volumes Covered: 1-27 (first part)

Hatake Kakashi, the copycat ninja, has been a fan favorite amongst readers of the Naruto Manga since the very beginning. For as long as I have been on Tumblr, his image has been plastered everywhere to the point where his design is known even outside the manga’s universe: many people who are not usual consumers have seen at least one panel/screenshot/fanart of him.

When I first read the manga, I too became really invested in his story (he was the mysterious, possibly good-looking kind of character that as a teenager was appealing to me) but as years passed (more so now that I’m currently re-reading the manga), that appreciation shattered, or rather, dwelled.

This is not to say I hate him, nor that I’m encouraging enthusiastic readers of the manga to dislike him, my particular mention of this relies on the need to give those that choose to read this post a warning, for I will be analyzing particular aspects of his character that can (and should) be considered negative and/or controversial.

Now, I’m not going to perform a detailed list of everything his character does during the first part of the manga because not only would it be excruciatingly long (and I don’t see the point in doing so for it beats the purpose of this meta), but also, because not everything about him is to be noted. In that sense, I chose some topics that interested me the most and that I consider important (if not central) to his characterization.

Long post:

Types of relationships

How does Kakashi Hatake interact with those around him? What kind of relationships does he prefer or does he have and how does the social aspect of shinobi’s culture shape the bonds he manages to create?

Mentor-student / commander-soldiers

During the first interaction of Team 7 (meaning, the one they have on the rooftop, not the one where Naruto pranks him) Kakashi asks the newly formed group to share personal information outside the data he already was given about them, however, when is his turn to share, his responses are extremely vague and general (here), preventing the team under his command to have any sort of knowledge about him outside of his military role. Furthermore, the way he decides to reply (that is the wording of his answer to, let’s remember, his own question), is not only empty of any meaning but also seems to be on the verge of mockery. Considering the way he acts and how other sensei ask the same thing (we can see that during Guy’s flashback), we can infer that the question wasn’t of his choosing, and he’s most likely following a script.

To give some context to this introduction, Kakashi up to this point has performed the same questions for at least a few years to different groups of Gënin which failed to pass his test (we don’t know exactly how many, only that he’s being failing teams for years) - so it’s not weird for him to lack any sort of interest in this team since it might be no different from the ones he already failed.

In addition, during this exchange, there are two dynamics that he introduces:

1. The dynamic between a leader and subordinates (in the general aspect). As a commander, Kakashi is not required to share personal information with his underlings, they -however- are bound to share/do whatever he asks of them due to his superior position in the chain of power.

2. The (non-existent, yet highlighted by this particular absence) relationship between teacher and students. Kakashi seems to start their link by severing it from the very beginning: he distances himself from the team, choosing to favor the dynamic leader-subordinate over the mentor-student (this will be cemented during CH 35, where he calls them “soldiers under his command”, and reiterated on CH 43 -where he refers to them as “subordinates”). Iruka becomes, by juxtaposition, one of the only real “teachers” inside the narutoverse.

The type of relationship we see between Kakashi and Team 7 (particularly Naruto and Sakura) seems to be replicated by every other Konoha team we are introduced to, except for some dynamics that can be put, in some way, inside the latter category: Kakashi/Sasuke (this dynamic in particular is presented in quite a toxic manner, I’ll expand on this later on), Asuma/Shikamaru, Gai/Lee and (to a lesser extent, since Team 8 was never focused on), Kurenai/Hinata.

About Kakashi and Sasuke’s dynamic (the one I mentioned could be more or less put inside the mentor/student category, although that specific label isn’t as strong as I might have implied), the headcanons about their relationship overtook many aspects of their canon interactions.

It’s true that Kakashi favored Sasuke and it’s true that one of the canon reasons for him to do so was that they shared the same chakra nature (lightning), so Kakashi was more able to help Sasuke to develop some techniques. However, there’s a fandom misconception that Kakashi was planning and/or actually helping Sasuke with his Sharingan -but that’s simply not true. At no point in their training are we shown how Kakashi tries to help Sasuke once he “awakes” (rather, gets conscious access over) his doujutsu, furthermore, I don’t see an actual reason for him to do so:

First, Sasuke probably knows a lot about the Sharingan (he grew up in a clan where many members possessed it; canonically, his father and brother were users. We don’t have confirmation about Mikoto, but because of how the Sharingan might be inherited she might possess at least the genes). They had conversations about the Sharingan and Mangekyo (x, x), and Sasuke saw it while being used multiple times in its basic form (x) and even in its Mangekyou form (x), meaning, theoretically, Sasuke was more prepared and educated than Kakashi, even with no experience. Second, the Sharingan is quite literally Sasuke's nature; I don’t think he needed much help (if any at all) on how to use it.

Beyond their chakra nature training, there’s not much Kakashi does or even proposes to do. Additionally, for Kakashi, training Sasuke also meant to do the least amount of effort while also implicated to gain the most prestige: Naruto was unstable -the Seal of Minato was tampered with by Orochimaru during the chünin exams which made him fail on basic skills (even those he had already mastered); Sakura didn’t reach the final stage -and for some reason, that meant no training for her, as if she didn’t need it the most*, while Sasuke was already internationally famous for being the last Uchiha: he was the main “spectacle” during the Final Stage.

*[Sakura’s need to be trained after her tie with Ino is to be discussed in a deeper manner. The chünin exams are not real exams but displays of the military forces of each village, hence why Sakura wasn’t trained after her failure and why the focus was on both Sasuke and Naruto. The third stage of the exam is a spectacle for other Kages and Daimyos to see, hence why she -almost literally, mattered not].

To add to this discussion about Sasuke and Kakashi’s relationship, it’s important for me to touch -at least briefly (for going in-depth with this will extend this post to an unmanageable degree), Kakashi’s projection of himself onto his student. Let’s look at their similarities first in order to dispute them after:

a- They are both geniuses, which puts them in the “highest” position inside their respective teams: This particular aspect of them, in addition to receiving the constant praises of their peers during such formative moments of their life, made them particularly arrogant (this doesn't diminish the training Sasuke subjected himself to as to reach such level of skill, here).

Yet, while Kakashi refused to cooperate with his own team (Minato’s) and relied upon his newly achieved rank (Jönin) in order to tell them what to do (x, x, x) Sasuke creates a bond with his teammates to the point where Naruto -who, by all means, would refuse to obey Sasuke during their first interactions, often follows his lead or trusts his judgment. In this specific aspect: Sasuke constructed a bond with his team, while Kakashi didn’t.

[Their context while growing up is vastly different: Kakashi had to deal with something Sasuke didn’t: the dishonor that suicide brings particularly in Japanese society, x (and vice-versa, as Sasuke witnessed his brother murdering his entire family), however, both of them shared the pressure of knowing that they were the only ones capable of "bringing their families’ honor back", so it isn't weird for them to act in such manner.]

b- They share similar personalities: This is, of course, partially a consequence of the prior point (you’ll notice that Neji, also a genius, comes off as arrogant -yet I will not focus on this aspect particularly), but the main reason for this similarity is that traumatic experiences shaped their personalities and the way they approach other people.

They both are rather passive-aggressive to others (now that I think about it, Neji is also like that -and a traumatic experience was indeed the reason behind such a mindset), yet Sasuke modifies his behavior the more time he spends with his teammates (he cheers up Sakura when she’s depressed, acknowledges Naruto’s strength during the chünin exams and saves their lives multiple times even when doing so puts his own life in danger and thus, jeopardizes his ultimate goal: kill Itachi).

Kakashi, for his part, was far crueler and linear with his teammates during his youth (and I’m specifically making a comparison between kid Kakashi and kid Sasuke for that’s the parallelism Kakashi draws -which is the basis he uses to judge Sasuke’s actions later on), his response to the trauma of finding his father’s dead body was to live for and live by the rules established for Konoha’s militia to follow -to the point where emotions were aspects of himself or his teammates that he refused to acknowledge; in the same manner, he prioritized the mission’s success over his team’s safety (unlike Sakumo). Later on, with both Rin and Obito’s deaths, Kakashi modified parts of his personality in order to model himself after Obito (not the real Obito but the perception he got of specific parts he chose -or thought worthy of mimicking -more of this will be discussed in the Nationalistic Mindset part of this post).

c- They both possess guilt complexes from which derived a strong feeling of inadequacy: This particular aspect is intrinsical, I believe, to Kakashi’s approach to Obito’s dogma (I won’t be expanding much for this is tackled, again, on the Nationalistic Mindset title). And again, both of them share a similar complex, yet their reason to have them is completely different (yes, they both might have survivor’s guilt, but it’s not the one I will speak of): Kakashi’s remorse lies in the fact that he wasn’t able to protect his teammates (once he formed a bond with them), he failed Obito -who died to save him despite Kakashi’s earlier attitude (I’m not diminishing Kakashi’s life, I’m pointing out Kakashi’s possible perspective about Obito’s death), and later on he failed him again when Rin died (he also failed Rin herself for not be able to prevent her kidnap). The manga doesn’t show us much of Kakashi’s trauma, but it’s somewhat safe to assume that he models his personality after “Obito” in response to this guilt, making himself someone “worthy” of both their teammates' sacrifices: he vows not to fail at protecting his teammates again, (“I will never let my comrades die”, here) for that’s what Obito taught him (here).

Sasuke’s guilt also has to do with his own incapacities, yet his main issue is that he wasn’t able to do anything against his family’s murderer (he arrived at the compound after they were killed), and it’s this specific event that germinated and blossomed into Sasuke’s core objective: Avenge and restore his clan [honour]. He could do nothing then, but he will do so one day. None of his family members “sacrificed” themselves for him to live (Itachi might have killed them to “save” Sasuke, but they would have been murdered regardless; sacrifice implies that those who perished took a conscious decision to die in another person’s place), so their background is nothing but different.

In addition, these specific events (including Sasuke’s incapacity to fight against Gaara during the invasion or against Itachi in Shibuya), shattered both their conception as geniuses (which, in lieu of the arrogance they constructed around it, makes the fall from grace much more difficult to bear), which pushes them to extreme changes: Sasuke, to flee Konoha in order to polish his abilities and achieve his goal; Kakashi, to make his life a memoir of “Obito’s dogma.”

Personal bonds

The types of relationships Kakashi values are first shown in CH 8 when we are introduced to the Memorial Stone. He refers to those who are carved in such space as his “best friends”, a statement that is (at least) questionable once we learn Kakashi’s background and how his relationship with Obito and Rin actually was prior to their death. The only possible explanation about why they are his best friends is that he developed a deep connection with them after their death (in lieu of their sacrifices and the feeling of guilt such occurrences brought upon him), it’s possible (headcanon alert!) that he also twisted specific memories of them in order to elevate them and -later on, force himself to become someone “worthy” of their sacrifices, as he did modify the original quote from Obito.

In that sense, Kakashi’s relationship with Guy (at least during their first interactions) is particularly blown out of proportion, out of the three jönin-sensei, Guy is the only one who stands alongside Iruka (hence, against Kakashi, Asuma, and Kurenai) and asks them -but mostly Kakashi, to reconsider their decision to register their rookie teams in the exam. Kakashi replies by laughing at him, justifying his choice by stating that “what they lack in experience they make up in surprises” (I guess “surprises” encompasses the fact that one of them heals almost instantly thanks to Kurama and the other one already has the Sharingan, which replies absolutely nothing to the actual matter at hand), and finally proclaiming that team seven will make Guy’s team “eat dust”.

After that, their next interaction is during the preliminary rounds, where Kakashi ignores Guy yet when Lee is fighting Gaara, Kakashi claims to be (literally) disappointed in him for teaching his student a forbidden technique, even if later on tries to cheer him up when Lee loses. And yes, the interactions are hilarious, yet the relationship is carried solely by Guy’s character for Kakashi is particularly closed on his one-sided relationship with his deceased team. That’s my point.

Emotional Manipulation

I have established before Hiruzen’s approach to the Will of Fire (exploiting people’s bonds and emotions in order to tie them to Konoha rather than a person/clan; basically constructing Konoha as a symbol that encompasses those who are dear to the shinobi, creating a nationalistic mindset where family=village. x), now, how does that dogma interact with Kakashi, influencing his actions and interactions with other people -particularly (but not limited to) Sasuke?

Kakashi has linked Sasuke’s capacities to the Uchiha Clan’s value since the bell test (CH 7), and repeated the behavior more cruelly in CH 18, and again in CH 27 (albeit this time positively, in the face of an enemy). The technique he uses to “push Sasuke forward” (in the sense of giving him motivation, since Sasuke’s bond with his family is intrinsic to him) can be (should be) considered emotionally manipulative. Should Sasuke fail or perform at a lower level than expected, it means the Uchiha Clan’s honor downfall.

Furthermore, Sasuke is not the “finest hope” of the clan, as he called him, he is the only hope since the only other member of the clan is Itachi, who massacred them, and Kakashi is aware of such circumstances. It’s different in Naruto’s case (Kakashi also displays emotional manipulation towards him) because he’s not linking a traumatic experience to his value -furthermore, he’s not linking the honor of an entire (deceased/killed) clan to his value, which is what he’s doing to Sasuke. The caption on Sasuke’s panel is “stab”, the words of Kakashi were purposefully chosen in order to downgrade Sasuke’s ego (I’m not denying he still uses them to “motivate” Sasuke -I’m questioning his methods). If we also take into account that Sasuke, at this point, has seen Kakashi’s Sharingan (and believed him to be part of the Uchiha clan) it gives his input more weight since Sasuke’s doubt about whether or not his teacher is related to the clan hasn’t been addressed yet (Sasuke didn’t ask nor does he know where Kakashi got the eye, and since he doesn’t know doujutsu can be transplanted yet, he assumes he might be a distant relative).

In this sense, is to be added that, one, Jönin-sensei vow upon their clan’s honor that their students are ready for the Chünin Exams (CH 35), and two, Hiruzen, in CH 65, states that shinobi defend not only the balance between nations -but also, the honor of their village. It’s no surprise then that Kakashi is so insistent on tying the Uchiha’s honor to Sasuke’s name (Naruto is an orphan to whom a “generic” last name was given -even if it’s his mother’s, he represents no clan nor has any knowledge about his family, Sakura’s family name isn’t renowned nor important enough for him to even care).

However, and despite the fact that Kakashi’s abasement of Sasuke is harsher than the one he performs on Naruto, it doesn’t imply that such degradation doesn’t exist: Back in CH 10, after Team 7 is attacked (and for the first time for the three gënin, might I add), Kakashi says to him, “it never occurred to me that you would freeze up,” meaning, he elevates him first (implying that he did consider him capable enough to respond to an attack of such caliber), only to dismantle him from the previous conception he -apparently, possessed. His words leave such an impression that Naruto cuts himself with his own kunai: from a narrative perspective is a powerful moment -but hadn’t been for Kurama, Kakashi would have had an injured student (he even mentions he could bleed to death), so why apply such psychological pressure to a gënin that has already a lot of emotional stress from the earlier attack? From a teacher’s point of view, it doesn’t make sense, however, it does make sense from a commander’s point of view, something Kakashi has actually had experience on (Team 7 is literally the very first team he passed), so his methods of “teaching” are yet to be polished.

[Jönin-sensei is a title where jönins (soldiers) are told to pass on their experiences/techniques to future members of Konoha’s militia, without being given pedagogical education to interact better with their students. Being a teacher (that is, a person actually capable of educating, with everything that it entails), it’s not important -being a good soldier is. This is incredibly highlighted during this interaction back in Chapter 3, where Kakashi calls this pedagogical situation a “mission”].

But this type of approach isn’t reserved solely for those under his command, showing that Kakashi either is not using it consciously as a tool -but rather is the way he was approached and, therefore, believes to be the usual way to speak to others; or that he’s constantly on “shinobi mode”, meaning, he uses every tool at his disposal (always, ever) to achieve the result he considers is the best (I, personally, believe this option to be the most truthful to his character, for he performs emotionally charged speeches to his own peers).

An example of the point previously made: During CH 22 [Wave Arc] Inari and Naruto get into a fight, Inari screams at Naruto and the main character responds by calling him a crybaby. After the confrontation, Kakashi finds the little boy, and we have an interesting interaction where Kakashi talks to him and (without Naruto’s permission) tells him part of Naruto’s background for no real reason but to appeal to the emotions of Inari and build a case for his student (which isn’t strictly necessary, the kid doesn't have to like Naruto and -likewise-, Naruto doesn’t have to like Inari for the mission to be successful).

What we see is what follows: Kakashi applauds Naruto’s way of handling trauma (he doesn’t cry rather, he hides his feelings) and, by juxtaposition, he brings back Naruto’s claim about Inari (him being a cry-baby) in order to criticize the young boy. Inari -who is a kid younger than Naruto-, is a coward and uses his pain to justify that supposed cowardice, Naruto doesn’t, which makes him better and should be reason enough for Inari to one, get along with him; and two make him a role-model.

Now, Inari is a civilian who lives in a civilian village and his experiences have nothing to do with those of a shinobi. Kaiza (Inari’s father) was publicly killed because he tried to defend his hometown, but he lacked the tools a shinobi possesses. Naruto grew up in a hidden village and the shinobi’s approach to death is completely different from what a civilian kid might be taught or experience. Naruto doesn’t have to know this, so his hostile reactions towards Inari are understandable from a character’s point of view, but Kakashi's reaction isn’t. People can argue that Kakashi, like Naruto, was taught and lives solely under the cultural aspects of his village, which is the reason why he brings Inari’s experience to his own sphere of understanding, yet while we can see that as his reasoning, it doesn’t mean we should condone it, as he has more experience outside his cultural bubble.

His words are successful, as we see here and here. Inari internalized both Naruto's and Kakashi’s speeches and instead of running to escape and reach safety, he decides to help his captive mother (who has been taken hostage by Gato’s men). Let’s add some more context: a young, untrained boy is forced through emotional manipulation (and here I will spare Naruto due to his lack of experience, but not Kakashi, who might understand things through the veil of his own culture while lacking the knowledge of civilian rules -yet he is aware of civilians incapacities during armed conflicts and still “pushed” Inari to take action against Gato’s thugs by glorifying Naruto’s behaviors) to “stop” being a coward (meaning: to confront trauma in a particular manner: the shinobi way, that has no claim in civilian society); and his life had to be literally saved by a ninja as a consequence. Furthermore, his cowardliness wasn’t an issue he was already struggling with before the shinobi arrived to the island, it was an uncertainty introduced by the group (brought in by Naruto -who knew no better- and cemented by Kakashi).

It’s when Sasuke “dies” and Sakura recites one of the shinobi rules, that we learn that Kakashi and Naruto were judging Inari’s “cowardliness” through the perspective and internalization of the same rule Sakura is now reciting. Inari, as a civilian, can't be judged by those premises.

I have pointed this out in some other posts but there’s no harm to reiterate: the pass from childhood to adulthood -unlike in the civilian society that follows different rules, is marked by the bestowal of the headband. That is, adulthood has little to do with age and more to do with rank. With that mentality, Naruto and Kakashi’s behavior towards Inari is slightly more understandable since, to them, his age is not an excuse to behave like a “child” (furthermore, Kakashi took the Chünin Exams when he was six, meaning he was considered an adult since that age). Yet, again, where Kakashi fails is in understanding that Inari is not governed by the same principles that he is.

Nationalistic mindset

How do the Will of Fire and Obito’s apparent dogma interact? Did Kakashi’s character really have the possibility of seeing Konoha as an oppressive state that considered him nothing but a mere tool? Did he have the “potential” to rebel?

Back in Wave Arc, among many things, there’s an interaction between Tazuna and Kakashi, where Kakashi mentions that a previous Hokage (we aren’t told who) taught his people to “fight for what is right”, selling the idea to the civilian in front of him that his hidden village (specifically) is the “good” side against the “evil” side (Zabuza, Gato -even other hidden villages). However, this particular speech of Kakashi, which he gives solely to Tazuna and not to his subordinates (who, by Tazuna’s standards are children), clashes with the prior idea that “missions’ feuds are high and we do what we are paid to do” (assassinations or babysitting). Meaning: there’s a narrative to be told to civilians to shape their view of shinobi (particularly Konoha’s), and the actual reality that only Team 7 (as ninjas), gets to see.

In addition, during Kakashi’s second fight against Zabuza (CH 30), Kakashi states that Konoha (therefore, he), knows about the swordsman’s attempt to coup and kill the current Mizukage -alongside his wish to raise funds to attempt another coup after his failure. We learned previously thanks to Haku’s background that there’s a bloodline cleansing currently happening in Mist; a genocide on such a large scale can’t be kept secret that long -furthermore, there’s no indication that the murders are happening quietly either since those who possessed Kekkei Genkai were pushed to hide their bloodline; and if Konoha knows about Zabuza and his attempt to take over the government, then they surely know about the reasons behind it.

What I mean by this is what follows: Kakashi and Konoha claim that they fight for “the right thing” to those civilians they encounter, but do nothing -neither military nor diplomatically, to stop those massacres from occurring (nor do they take a stance against them either, as it reduces Mist numbers and weakens their military power). They’re still pretty much in touch with the Mizukage that carried out/ordered such killings, for his government was the one that told Konoha about Zabuza’s attempted coup when declaring him rogue.

Kakashi downgrading Zabuza for working for Gato is, in a way, absolutely comical because not only is he working for an authoritarian regime, but he also downgrades someone who (even as despicable as he might be) is actually trying to do something against those who wronged him. Kakashi (under Konoha’s mindset), can’t differentiate between a person’s ambitions and their ideals, they might seem equal on the surface, but they are intrinsically different: One goes after an individualistic goal, and the other one is founded on the possibility of a communal achievement. To Zabuza, another individual raised under shinobi culture, killing innocent civilians to gain funds in order to bring down his oppressive government is a plausible course of action (we can make a value judgment on this, but this does not dispute the idea of Zabuza taking actual actions in order to overthrow the oppressive government in his village).

As said before, Kakashi doesn’t seem able to differentiate between personal ambitions and ideals, therefore, he will never be able to take a stand against Konoha. Hence, the belief/headcanon where Kakashi rebels against Konoha or has the “potential” to do so should Kishimoto “allow him to” is contradicted by Kakashi himself, to the point where he defends Konoha even when it’s not being questioned (building it in a positive light).

Furthermore, there’s an interaction that pretty much confirms this: Here and here. Kakashi admits that the belief system under which a shinobi’s life is valued “bubbles beneath the surface of his mind, disturbing him” (he also uses the plural, referring to the ninjas -as a kind, which means that from his perspective everyone feels uncomfortable with that mindset, and yet, no one seems to question it, for those who questioned are then labeled as missing-nin). Even if Naruto later on promises that he will create his own “Nindo” (and by context, that destiny is presented as opposed to the “I’m a tool” mentality previously discussed) and Kakashi smiles, there’s no actual denial of his current belief system.

Kakashi was intended to be the representation of a nationalistic/pro-shinobi system mindset, as he follows the narrative’s stance (which, in turn, follows Naruto’s). Even after everything Kakashi said to Zabuza in order to degrade him (like, for instance, questioning his standards for affiliating with Gato and staging a coup), the moment Zabuza says “I won’t kill Tazuna because I won’t get paid, so let’s not fight”, Kakashi immediately agrees. His problem with Zabuza isn’t that his mindset is different per se, but that is opposed -at that moment- to Kakashi’s and his mission, once Zabuza is not at the other end of their fight, everything is forgotten/forgiven (he simply doesn’t care anymore).

Later on, because of this nationalistic ideology, Kakashi is willing to sacrifice his students’ well-being: Again, the Chünin Exams (analysis I made here), are nothing but staged wars in order to display each village’s military forces to draw the attention of potential customers; therefore, even tho Kakashi knows about Sasuke’s condition (Orochimaru giving him the Cursed Mark) - he stands against Anko when she asks the Hokage to pull Sasuke out of the exam. Even though he later on warns the child the fact that he allows such a dangerous situation to occur while putting the whole weight of the issue on Sasuke’s shoulders, is rather telling of his priorities.

Kakashi’s phrase (well, it isn’t Kakashi’s phrase but actually his interpretation of Obito’s) “I will never let my comrades die” (x) is solely true until Konoha’s wellbeing (in any sort of way, including prestigiously) is on the line. Dying is the only thing Kakashi protects them from, physical or psychological damage isn’t included.

The idea of him respecting and following Obito's true dogma is an absolute contradiction because Obito’s core ideology and Konoha’s are intrinsically contradictory, they can’t coexist and still be truthful to their basis. To Kakashi, Konoha is the symbol of peace -of his comrades, so the physical existence of an individual isn’t as important as the symbol’s survival, therefore, sacrificing his soldiers’ wellbeing to give the village more leverage during the chünin exams isn’t a problem -unlike them dying at the hands of Zabuza, which would mean Konoha failed on the mission and lost three gënin in the process.

And here I'll add this: Obito's actual phrase was "Sure, in a ninja’s world, those who violate the rules and fail to follow orders …. are lower than garbage. However….Those who do not care for and support their fellows…are even lower than that! If I’m scum…the rules are no good to me! And if breaking them makes me the wrong kind of shinobi…then I’ll crush all the so-called shinobi!!" here. In lesser terms, Obito's dogma is this one: If a system (shinobi's/Konoha's) prioritizes political/warfare success over the lives of those fighting for it, I will not be a part of such a system - furthermore, I'll rise against it.

My claim of Obito joining Madara in his quest as something always existing at his core sustains mostly in this. Rin is a catalyst, for I'll admit, he didn't turn completely against it until her death when the system personally affected him and those he cared for (can he be blamed when he was taught to be loyal to it? It isn’t weird for him not to see such flaws until they impact him specifically, we can’t fault him for something so humane), yet his beliefs are right there and have always been there.

The very important, very much intrinsic difference between Obito and Kakashi's approaches is that Kakashi (and later on, Naruto) puts the weight of his comrades' well-being upon his shoulders and his shoulders alone (his trauma with Obito's death, who sacrificed to save him, and Rin's who was "killed'' by his hand, are probably the main reason for Kakashi's specific approach to his former classmate's dogma), while Obito disputes the very basis of the issue. Obito isn’t blaming Kakashi per se but the rules that Kakashi, as a commander, chooses to follow indisputably (x, x). Obito will gain no awards or recognition for saving Rin while compromising the mission, on the contrary, he'll gain the same punishment Sakumo did: ostracization, now not only from the Uchiha but also from the general population.

And here's the thing: at that moment, his respect for Konoha is so little that he doesn't care - going against the rules is going against Konoha, fine "I'm scum, I'll crush the so-called shinobi!!". Here Kakashi "fails" (yet it's to be mentioned he's a child soldier in distress and in the middle of a battlefield) to externalize the critique and place it upon the rules (hence, the system) where it belongs, rather, he internalizes it and blames himself, believing that he's responsible for everything since he was "too uptight" to bend (x and x).

Obito and Kakashi’s opposition comes from the answers to these questions: "What are they fighting for?" and "Why are they fighting for it?" (the what's and why's in narrative and character-construction by Dushman-e-jaan). The first answer might be similar as they both might answer, "Konoha", particularly at that point in time; it's the why, which drives the what, that's different. For Kakashi, as established prior (although, during his childhood, that might have been the answer as that's what he was told to do and what he was taught to want, rather than a personal conviction), Konoha in and of itself is what matters, the place, the land, the symbol of peace; while Obito's core belief would push him to say "Rin", as in, an individual; hence, “the people”. Then why would he choose to sacrifice Rin (the people) in exchange for the survival of a place created to ensure their well-being? In his eyes, it makes no sense (and yes, later on, he “betrays” his own core beliefs as he carries out the UCM for a "greater good", yet he does that because he considers the real world to be hell, so he cares not for it -x,x-, as the only world that matters it’s the I.T one).

Obito was written by Kishimoto to be Naruto’s “dark” parallel, as he was a morally good child (wanted to become Hokage to stop the war, helped ladies on the street, even sought his master advice and changed his stance on Kakashi after Minato’s speech) that the environment transformed onto one of its darkest consequences (and well prior to Madara’s intervention as he claimed he would crush the “so called shinobi” shall he need to). Meanwhile, Kakashi reflects the pro-shinobi stance as he never even begun to question it when a child (the same could be said for Neji, who showed revulsion to his personal situation, and was definitely closer than Kakashi to rebel, yet he never questioned the status quo in itself).

It’s difficult to give closure to a post this charged and long (as of now, it’s fourteen pages), so I’ll finish up with this: Whether you agree or not with this post, try not to just blatantly insult me (if you end up doing it, oh well). I genuinely don’t care if you find my analysis revolting, and it’s just as easy as ignoring my blog altogether or creating your own post with your own takes and reading of the manga; I have no problem discussing these topics, but if your entire argument relies on your personal headcanons and you provide not a single panel of evidence I’m ignoring you, so don’t bother.

Here it is, spent months on this post (it depended on my re-reading of the manga, which is why it took this long), so I hope you guys enjoyed it and I want to personally thank those who read all of this, I genuinely appreciate it.

Cheers.

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jahayla-parker · 3 months

Text

Black & White : Peter Paker x Reader Series

Part 2

For full warnings, descriptions, and other parts, see series masterlist here.

While Peter had done a fairly decent job at keeping his distance, he knew he had to put that aside when he unexpectedly got a late night call from her. She was practically in tears when he’d picked up, and it crushed him. It had taken him time to get her to open up to him, both figuratively and literally in the sense of him standing outside her door. That night, Peter had come to the realization that despite what he’d done earlier that week, he had already earned a place in her life. He came to understand that suddenly abandoning that role, especially without explanation was hurtful. And Peter couldn’t get himself to hurt her. He had only ever wanted to keep her from harm. So, it seemed he now had to find another way to keep her safe without hurting her in the process.

“I don’t know if I ever said this out loud,” y/n mumbled, treading carefully. She and Peter been talking about their high school days when the topic of Peter’s aunt, Aunt May, had come up again. Y/n looked up with sympathy as his confused eyes met hers. “But, I’m sorry about your aunt, Peter,” she whispered. “I wish she was still alive, I can see how much she meant to you”.

Peter shifted anxiously in his seat, but his eyes never left y/n. “H-how…,” he mumbled. Peter cleared his throat before trying again. “How did you know th-that Aunt May.. died?” He inquired.

Y/n softly sighed. “I didn’t mean to be nosy,” she apologized lightly. “It’s just, that… well, when you talk about her,” she rambled cautiously, “it's always in the past tense”. She watched silently as Peter nodded in understanding. “Plus, I-… there's so much sorrow in your eyes Peter,” y/n added. Upon earning another inquisitive look from him, she gave him a half-smile. “I know that look of sorrow and grief all too well myself,” y/n informed him. She paused as Peter visibly debated over what to say. “You don’t need to talk about it,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “not if you don’t want to”.

Peter nodded lightly in appreciation. While he didn’t want to talk about Aunt May, he couldn’t get his focus off of the question that was now on his mind. He realized asking it would prolong this conversation and perhaps place him in a position where he’d have to try and vaguely explain what gained to May. But, Peter couldn’t not ask the all too pressing question that was now plaguing his mind with worry. “How..,” he swallowed thickly, afraid of her answer, “how do you know that look?”

Y/n faltered. She hadn’t expected Peter to open up and talk about his Aunt much more than he had over their past interactions. But, she truly hadn’t expected to be asked about her own past. A simple charge in topic, sure. But, was this truly the only topic he could think of? However, as her eyes once again met his, she could tell Peter was genuinely wondering, genuinely worried about her understanding something like that. So, while she didn’t want to trauma-dump, she knew she owed him a brief explanation. “I.. uh, I too, have lost those who were close to me,” y/n simplified.

Peter felt the tightness in his chest intensify. He knew it was an unrealistic desire, but he wished y/n hadn’t experienced whatever it was that caused her to understand his pain. But, he could tell from the glossy and distant look on her normally bright eyes that she did. As much as he hated the idea of her going through this kind of heartache, he couldn’t help but simultaneously be grateful that he had someone around who understood; as much as one could.

Peter wanted to know more. He wanted to know what y/n had been through. He wanted to know how he might be able to be of assistance. He wanted to know as much about her and her life as he could. But, Peter could tell she didn’t want to talk about it, so he didn’t press.

Y/n nervously clutched her phone in her left hand as she held it to her ear. She wasn’t actually calling anyone. It was late and she wasn’t sure who would even still be awake. Peter might be. But, she didn’t want to bother him. Especially if she was possibly overreacting to this. Yet, she couldn’t help the way her heart beat rapidly in her chest as she tried to keep her breathing steady as she focused on not tripping on the broken cobblestone sidewalk. She could still feel the man behind her, following her despite her already having told him she didn’t have any cash on her.

“Oh, yeah? Then what happened?” Y/n asked no one, her right hand squeezing her keys tightly as she mentally prepared for a fight. The sound of the man’s footsteps echoed loudly in her head as she tried to form a plan on how to get home without the stranger knowing where she lived. She still had several blocks to go, but then what? Maybe she would need Peter’s help after all.

“No it’s okay, I’m only a few minutes away, you can tell him I’ll meet him at the door,” y/n spoke into her phone. She hoped the comment would deter the man from continuing to follow her. Only, as she turned the corner, she looked over her shoulder and saw he was still trailing her. She took a deep breath as she tried to keep her fear from forming tears in her eyes. She needed to see clearly if she wanted to get out of this. And boy did she want to get out of this.

Y/n faced forward just in time for her foot to get caught in a buckled piece of concrete, sending her flailing face-first into the ground. She instinctively attempted to catch herself, only for her to injure her wrist in addition to her face. She heard movement behind her and closed her eyes, readying herself for what was coming next. She could hear the screams that had once haunted her nightmares playing back in her mind, all the sounds from that night on repeat.

A hand rested lightly on y/n’s right shoulder, causing her to rapidly push herself up on the ground. She had formed a defensive posture before her frantic eyes actually read the scene. There was someone in a red and blue spider suit standing before her, palms facing her as they held their hands up in surrender; Spider-Man, she realized. Behind Spider-Man was the stranger who’d been following her, only he was now webbed up against the nearby wall.

Y/n’s eyes flickered between the superhero and the stalker repeatedly as she tried to make sense of what she clearly missed while the flashback played in her mind. She noticed the way Spider-Man kept his distance out of respect, but was watching her closely. After she’d steadied her breathing, she took one last glance over at the stranger. Her eyes narrowed in anger but she simply huffed and looked away. She glanced up at the hero who stood a few inches taller than her. “Th-,” y/n cleared her throat, “thank you”.

Spider-Man quickly shook his head. “A-are you okay?” He asked, lowering his hands down to his side as his eyes scanned y/n.

Y/n bit her lip, her tongue gazing the inside prompting a metallic taste to form in her mouth. Her teeth let go of her bottom lip as her tongue danced around it in their place, searching for the cut. She quickly located the split in her lip and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She spared a frustrated glance at the streak of blood on her thumb after doing so.

Y/n remembered she wasn’t alone and looked back up at Spider-Man and quickly nodded. While he was wearing a mask that covered his face, she could tell from his mannerisms that he was in doubt of her answer. “I’m fine, th-thank you Spi-Spider-Man,” she replied. “Umm.. Can… Can I go now? Or do you need-?”

Spider-Man shook his head. “You can go home,” he nodded. “Do you want me to walk you-?” He offered.

“No thank you,” y/n answered, grabbing her phone from the ground. The screen was cracked, but it was still functional. “I.. I have someone waiting for me,” she lied. He might be a superhero and might’ve saved her tonight, but she wanted to just get home. She was only a few minutes away, and now that the stalker was kept in place, she could return home safely without worrying about giving away her address. “Goodnight,” she mumbled, forcing a small but polite smile in appreciation before turning and speed walking the rest of the way to her apartment.

Peter’s heart was beating out of his chest by the time he swung into his bedroom window. Given the fight was over, y/n was safe, and the man had been arrested, his adrenaline should be calming down by now. Only, Peter was still worried about her. Not only had she split her lip, suffered a small gash on her cheek and palms, her eyes were full of fear; even when she saw the man was apprehended. He needed to check on her.

Peter rapidly tore off his Spider-Man suit and haphazardly put on some comfortable clothes. As his quick feet slid to a stop behind his door, he forced himself to take a moment to calm down. As worried as he was, his supernatural senses having gone off adding to his worries, Peter needed to relax; or at least appear to be. Otherwise, he risked giving himself away.

Peter’s knees nearly buckled when y/n slowly creaked open her door upon him knocking. Her eyes were bloodshot, face puffy, hair a mess, and she was trembling. He sucked in a breath as he approached her. Remembering her fear from earlier, Peter froze a couple inches from her. “Can I… can I hold you?” He asked quietly.

When y/n shakily nodded and sniffled in response, Peter promptly closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. “Shhh,” he whispered as he rubbed her back. He helped keep her upright as she melted into his embrace. “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” Peter promised.

It had been several minutes since Peter had arrived before y/n spoke up. In the meantime, he’d shut and locked her door, guided her to her futon, wrapped her in the nearby blanket, and whispered generic words of support to her as she cried into his chest. He wouldn’t have even noticed she was trying to say anything coherent had it not been for her leaning back to look at him.

“Peter?” Y/n repeated, knowing the first time she asked, it hadn’t come out clearly. When he nodded at her in response, she sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ho-how did you know? That..” she mumbled.

“I hadn’t seen you arrive tonight, and..,” Peter shrugged, trying to not have to lie, “I sensed something might be wrong”. He squeezed y/n’s hand as her glassy eyes stared back at him silently. “So I wanted to check on you”.

Y/n sniffled loudly and nodded. “I’m glad you did,” she whispered. She watched as Peter gave her a warm smile despite his eyes showing his lingering worry. “Thank you,” she sighed.

“I’ll always be here for you,” Peter promised, stroking y/n’s hand. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up,” he suggested cautiously. “And while we’re doing that, you can tell me what��s going on,” Peter added, standing up.

Peter’s anger towards the man he’d webbed up earlier this evening only grew as y/n recalled her experience. He’d come across the scene just as y/n looked nervously over her shoulder. He hadn’t been quick enough to catch her, not expecting her to be so frightened she’d trip. But, he quickly put two and two together and trapped the man in his webbing. He only now knew that the man had been following her for awhile, and just how frightened she’d been.

Peter focused on pushing his anger aside in order to be gentle as he dabbed y/n’s scratched cheek with the damp washcloth. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, frowning. He should’ve been there earlier. He should’ve known she would be working late, and he would’ve had he checked his phone during patrol. If he had, he could’ve ensured she got home without all of this happening.

“It’s not your fault Peter,” y/n replied quietly as she tried to keep herself from breaking into tears again. It was all just too much. Her mind wouldn’t stop replaying the events of tonight and that of a few years ago.

“I know,” Peter commented as he watched y/n slowly try turning her wrist. “But still,” he argued. He shook his head in frustration. This shouldn’t have happened. “You didn’t deserve to-“ he began, stopping when tears started falling down her face seconds before a sob escaped her throat.

“Woah,” Peter gasped, dropping the washcloth and cautiously taking her injured arm in his hand. “Maybe I should go with you to the hospital,” he commented as his eyes analyzed the skin on her wrist in search of any visible evidence of how bad the injury was. Upon noticing y/n shaking her head no, he frowned and sighed softly. “Y/n/n,” Peter murmured, “if it hurts this badly, we-“.

“It’s not that,” y/n whimpered. When Peter’s troubled eyes flickered up to her face, she sniffled and her body shook as she tried to keep from falling apart completely. “I… It’s….” She mumbled, looking away. “It’s… That’s how I lost… My… My parents,” y/n explained, her voice splintering with nearly every word.

Peter swallowed thickly as his eyes squeezed shut in sympathy. His heart hurt and he felt his own eyes tearing up. But he pushed that down. He had to be here for y/n. She needed him. Peter let out a soft breath and neared her. He wrapped his arms around her again, closing his eyes as she buried her head into his neck. “I’m here,” he said, knowing there was nothing else he could say to help her through this.

Peter brushed some stray hairs away from y/n’s face as she rested against his chest. He wished so badly to be able to take her pain away. Obviously he knew all too well what it was like to lose someone so unexpectedly and so violently. But, he wished y/n hadn’t gone through that. But he knew that was outside of his control. What was in his control though was whether or not she had to face this alone, and he was not going to let that happen.

“The other night,” y/n murmured, “when I told you…”. She sighed, “I forgot part of the story”.

Peter looked over at y/n, turning his attention away from the news. “Oh?” He asked, voice dripping with concern.

Y/n heard his worry and smiled appreciatively. “I’m okay Petey,” she promised, snuggling into his side, earning a small laugh from a now-red faced Peter. “It wasn’t anything bad that I left out, I just realized that i didn’t tell you the whole thing, start to finish,” she explained. That night, she’d told Peter about having been followed, tripping and how the flashbacks of her parents’ deaths took over. But, she didn’t tell him about how she’d gotten away from the man. Come to think of it, why hadn’t Peter questioned about that? Maybe he didn’t care, so long as she was safe? But, most people would be curious, no?

“Oh?” Peter repeated, although this time his voice was much more relaxed. “And what’s that?” He asked, pulling the blanket that had fallen to y/n’s hip up to her shoulder.

“It was him,” y/n commented, pointing at the television. When Peter didn’t say anything, y/n interpreted that as him being confused as to what she meant. “Spider-Man was the one who made it so I could get away,” she explained. “He webbed to the creep,” y/n told Peter, “he saved me”.

“You still ended up hurt,” Peter said softly as he gazed down at y/n. His eyes trailed over her slightly healed cheek. “And scared,” he added, the arm that was around her instinctively pulling her closer to his side.

Y/n hummed. “That wasn’t his fault,” she argued. “I’d panicked, the memories became too much..” y/n frowned as she replayed the events of that night. “If Spider-Man hadn’t been there… I-,” she trailed off.

“Shhh,” Peter whispered, rubbing y/n’s shoulder. “You don’t need to think about that,” he reassured. “You’re safe, you’re safe”.

After a brief moment of silence to compose herself, y/n nodded. “I’m just saying, it was him,” she repeated, her chin pointing towards the TV as yet another segment about Spider-Man saving a bus that’s brakes had failed played on the screen.

“Yeah?” Peter asked, biting his lip.

Y/n nodded. “It was crazy, looking back you know?”

“How so?” Peter inquired, raising his brow.

With a shrug, y/n giggled lightly. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s just, I’ve never seen him in person before, on TV of course, but not in person”.

“You’ve watched Spider-Man on TV?” Peter asked, trying not to smirk.

Y/n shrugged, “I mean, the Daily Bugle is kinda obsessed with him”. “It’s not like I go looking for Spider-Man content,” she laughed loudly, “sometimes I just turn on the TV and there he is”.

Peter chuckled and nodded. “What do you uhhh… what do you think about him?”

“I mean, I don’t really know him, ya know?” Y/n answered. “Not like the way I know you,” she added as she rested her head on Peter’s shoulder again. “But, from what I’ve seen, I’d say he’s pretty cool”.

Y/n wrapped her arm around Peter’s waist, in need of some light grounding. “Like, I admire what he does and stands for,” she explains, starting off into space. “I wish there were more people like him,” y/n said. “If more people were looking out for the little guy, maybe… well, that doesn’t matter, it’s too late now…” She took a deep breath as she felt Peter rub her arm supportively. “But, you know, he doesn’t have to do anything crazy like the Avengers,” y/n rambled. “Simply looking out for the little guy, being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man like they call him, it’s plenty”.

“Woah,” y/n gasped as the blood that had rushed to her face slowly started to return to its original location as her body was lifted upwards. She heard Peter chuckle lightly, making her giggle. “Nice reflexes,” y/n complimented as her eyes turned to the side to see him as he stood beside her having caught her as she tripped over a broken curb.

Peter’s cheeks glowed red but he nodded. “You don’t uh…,” he mumbled nervously. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You don’t have to literally fall head over heels to get my attention, you know,” he flirted in a hushed voice.

Y/n giggled and nibbled on her bottom lip. She grinned at Peter and shook her head bashfully. “That was cute,” she complimented, pleased when she saw it eased his nerves over having lightly flirted with her. Yet, she could see the way Peter’s cheeks flushed brighter and his mouth parted slightly before closing again as he tried to search for a response. Y/n smiled and took his hand as she resumed their walk to the grocery store, “come on, Petey”.

“Peter, this is Eddie,” y/n introduced, smiling as the guys shook hands. “He goes to school with me,” she explained as she returned to Peter’s side. “Eddie, this is Peter,” y/n concluded, not certain how to label Peter in relation to herself.

“Nice to meet you Eddie,” Peter greeted politely. “What are you studying?” He asked.

Eddie Brock Jr. explicitly looked Peter up and down silently.

Y/n tsked loudly. “Eddie! Don’t act like that,” she scolded with a teasing laugh. “Peter, don’t worry about him, Eddie’s like practically my older brother, so he’s trying to act intimidating and protective,” y/n said as she interpreted the scene before her.

Peter nodded and while he had his suspicions about the guy before them, he remained friendly. If this Eddie guy was y/n’s friend, so be it. He’d of course make sure his sensation that something was off wasn’t something that could result in harm towards y/n. But, other than that, he’d put his personal feelings aside for her sake. “No problem,” Peter nodded. “I understand,” he replied. “After all, you do tend to manage to find trouble,” he joked, nudging y/n.

Y/n giggled and shook her head defensively. “Hey!” She whined. “That’s not fair! It’s not my fault that construction crew on third dropped the beam a few feet in front of us,” y/n argued, crossing her arms over her chest.

Peter laughed and pretended to contemplate y/n’s defense, earning him a playful slap to his bicep as she laughed. He could feel Eddie’s eyes on them, so he smiled over at the man. Only, he simply got a squint in response. Peter knew y/n hadn’t seen it as she’d buried her head in his shoulder during her laughing fit.

Peter mentally rolled his eyes as Eddie walked into the theater he and y/n were standing in line in. By this point, he’d figured out that Eddie had a crush on y/n. But, while Peter and y/n weren’t together yet, he’d also learned that she wasn’t interested in Eddie that way and that she figured he’d get over it sometime soon. Yet, once again Eddie managed to show up while Peter and y/n were hanging out together. Peter hadn’t figured out just how he managed to do that. Whenever he and y/n were out, there was at least a 40% chance that Eddie would show up uninvited.

“Is that..?” Y/n asked, her voice trailing off in confusion and surprise. “Is that Eddie?” She repeated, squinting her eyes as she looked across the theater’s concession room to where the latest person had entered from. “Did you invite him?” She wondered, hoping her voice didn’t portray her slight disappointment over Peter having invited someone else to their night out. While they weren’t dating, there’d been some more light flirting and she was hoping one day when Peter felt comfortable, he’d ask her out. Her disappointment resolved when Peter shook his head no in response.

“Hey y/n!” Eddie greeted as he joined y/n and Peter. He quickly pulled her in for a tight hug, a wide smile on his face as he pulled back. He didn’t bother looking at Peter until y/n stepped closer to him as she softly explained how they were seeing y/f/m in a few minutes. “Oh, cool, mind if I join you, y/n/n? I was going to sit alone, but it would be nice to be with you instead,” Eddie requested.

Y/n smiled politely and nodded. She looked over at Peter. “That’s fine,” she answered, feeling slightly obligated given Eddie’s verbiage. “Right Peter?” Y/n checked, squeezing his hand. When Peter glanced over at her and nodded with a smile, she relaxed and smiled back at Eddie again. “Okay, cool,” she said as she turned around to continue waiting in line for their chance to order snacks.

Y/n stared at Spider-Man’s masked profile as she walked alongside the vigilante. She pursed her lips as a thousand thoughts raced through her mind. She couldn’t possibly be correct in her theory. Could she?

A few nights ago, y/n had begun to suspect that Spider-Man might be someone she knew. More specifically, she began to suspect he might be Peter. She didn’t have enough evidence to support her suspicions yet, so she hadn’t brought it up to him. But, the suspicions remained.

Y/n had noticed the masked hero watching her from the rooftop a few nights ago when she was walking home from a late shift at the diner. She’d been exhausted and couldn’t care enough to wonder why he suddenly happened to be in her area despite not seeing him there prior to the incident a month or so ago. Besides, his presence and protective watch over the street was comforting.

However, y/n quickly noticed it wasn’t a one time thing. Whenever she had a late night shift at work, Spider-Man just so happened to be in the area. She initially tried to brush it off as a coincidence. But, when she picked up a last minute night shift, she found the vigilante was nowhere to be seen. Yet, immediately upon returning to her original schedule for the week, she found him there again.

Y/n didn’t have a set schedule. Rather, her shift schedule changed weekly. So, y/n knew that the only person who knew her schedule -other than her manager, who was a senior citizen and therefore certainly not Spider-Man- was Peter. In fact, after analyzing the situation further, she realized that the one night Spider-Man wasn’t there to ensure she got home safely, Peter hadn’t known about her picking up the last minute shift that night. And when she’d gotten home and texted him about it to complain, she received a reminder from him that she needed to be safe when working late.

As such, tonight, upon finishing up at the diner, y/n made her way over to the building where the vigilante was normally perched. “Are you going to come down and walk with me at some point?” She taunted, staring up at the masked man. Worst case scenario, she was wrong and this was some random person who was trying to keep her safe after seeing what nearly happened to her awhile back. But, she had this feeling it was more than that.

Therefore, y/n continued to stare wordlessly at the masked hero as he walked beside her. When he’d joined her, he offered a brief greeting -his voice a bit peculiar- before he began walking alongside her. “Is that you..?” She whispered.

“You should really look where you’re walking,” Spider-Man teased, using his gloved hand to turn y/n’s shoulder forward.

“You didn’t answer my question,” y/n commented despite complying with his suggestion.

“Which was?” The masked vigilante asked.

“What’s your name?” Y/n inquired.

“You expect me to tell you my name?” Spider-Man laughed. However, he noticed the way y/n faltered at the sound, causing him to promptly stop, afraid she might’ve recognized his laughter. “That would defeat the whole masked up thing,” he argued.

“Perhaps,” y/n nodded in agreement. “But, you can’t expect me to not ask when you’ve been stalking me for nearly a week now,” she pressed.

“Stalking?” Spider-Man all-but gasped.

“My best friend has warned me about walking home after my late shifts,” y/n commented, her eyes scanning the hero for signs of his reaction. “Perhaps you’re what he was referencing,” she replied.

“I assure you I’m not,” Spider-Man laughed, holding his hands up. “If it makes you more comfortable, I can leave though,” he offered.

Y/n shook her head, her eyes still trailing all over the man beside her. “Something tells me he’d be fine with you seeing me home,” she teased, hoping for a reaction she could use as evidence.

“Oh?” Spider-Man questioned as he guided y/n around a pile of garbage.

“Yeah, he’s kind of obsessed with you,” y/n lied. She smirked when Spider-Man choked and tried to play it off with a laugh. But she knew that laugh. She adored that laugh. “But I have a feeling you’re more similar than either of you will let on,” she stated, not wanting to push him further but still trying to clue him in that she knew.

Y/n yawned as she slid her textbook away from her and threw her head back against her pillows that were propped up by the wall. She let her eyes close for merely a second when she heard a knocking sound coming from her right. Her eyes flew open and she tore open her curtains, her pencil held up as a -albeit poor- makeshift weapon. As her eyes adjusted to the lights of the surrounding buildings, she saw Spider-Man leaning against her window as he stood on her fire escape.

Y/n gasped and tossed her pencil aside, carelessly discarding it as she tugged open the window. “Oh my God,” she gushed as she stared at the crimson colored patch on his side beneath his hand. She quickly helped him in through her window and into her apartment. “What happened?!” She panicked as she herded him to the edge of her bed.

“‘m sorry,” Spider-Man mumbled, his masked head hung lowly. “I had nowhere else to go,” he admitted.

Y/n shook her head. “It.. it’s fine,” she promised as she crawled off her bed and ran towards her kitchen. “But- God! What happened to you?” She asked again as she frantically dug through her medicine drawer.

“Turns out I’m not indestructible,” Spider-Man joked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Y/n glared over at him as her head snapped up from where it had been buried in the medicine drawer. “Not funny,” she scolded before resuming her search. Once she had an armful of supplies, she rushed back to him. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” “Other than your side?” She asked.

Spider-Man nodded slowly. “Hit my head too,” he commented, frowning when y/n’s worry visibly increased. “No concussion, but I think maybe a slight cut,” he reassured.

Y/n stared at him in disbelief. She shook her head and passed him the gauze. “Hold this to your side. Let me see your head,” she directed as she reached for his mask.

Spider-Man shook his head rapidly. He leaned back ever so slightly to keep the distance so y/n couldn’t touch his mask. “I can handle that part, just need help with my side,” he explained.

“Peter, knock it off and let me see the cut on your head,” y/n groaned, reaching back towards his head.

“Wh-what?” Spider-Man faltered. “I… Peter...?” He questioned futilely. He could see from the look in y/n’s eyes that she knew. “I don’t know what-“.

“The cut is going to be the least of your head pain if you don’t stop,” y/n grumbled. She sighed and sat down beside him as she began attending to the wound on his side. “I know it’s you, Peter,” she said, her voice soft and compassionate. “I need to see your head, please just take off the damn mask,” she pleaded, her worried eyes gazing up at him as she held the gauze to his side.

Spider-Man Peter slowly gripped the material of his mask and lifted it over his face and off his head. He gave y/n a silently apologetic expression as he finally revealed his identity to her.

“That’s not a small cut Peter!” Y/n scoffed as she grabbed his right hand. She pressed his hand back against his own side as she turned her attention to his forehead.

Peter shook his head in disbelief. She was offended he’d undersold the extent of his cut, but not that he’d kept this secret from her? “Y/n, I..,” he whispered.

Y/n shook her head. “We can talk about it later, really,” she reassured Peter with a small smile. “For now, we have to see how much I can remember from my first aid courses,” she hummed, standing up to grab more items from her first aid kit.

When y/n returned to Peter’s side, she noticed he’d stripped the suit down to his hips so she could have better access to his wound. She fought to keep her eyes away from his defined chest. Evidently she didn’t hide it well enough because she heard Peter chuckle shyly. She bit her lip bashfully and focused on the hole in his side.

“Can I please explain now?” Peter asked as y/n finished up the stitches on his side. When her eyes met his as she applied the bandages over the sutures, he gave her a timid smile. He watched her smile softly in response as she nodded before commenting that she was still going to patch up his head though as he spoke.

“I wanted to tell you,” he whispered. Peter’s bottom lip slid to the side as he sighed. “Well, no that’s a lie. I didn’t want to tell you,” he confessed.

Y/n’s hand froze for a moment as she looked up at Peter. Unable to read any clues in his eyes that would ease her confusion, she absentmindedly continued to attend to his wound. “Thank you?” She asked, uncertain what else to say.

Peter’s eyes widened as he realized how his words were interpreted. “No, no, no,” he rushed out frantically. “It’s not like that,” he pleaded as he grabbed y/n’s unoccupied hand.

“You…” Peter mumbled, carefully thinking through each word before he spoke them as to not mess up. “You recall when I said I lost those who were close to me?” He asked in a hushed voice.

Y/n nodded sympathetically, briefly meeting Peter’s eyes before looking back up at gash in his forehead. She waited patiently for him to elaborate as she silently resumed wiping the dried blood from his head.

“It was my fault,” Peter informed y/n. “They got close to me. To Spider-Man,” he corrected with a sigh. “It’s a long story,” Peter admitted. When he saw her lips curl downwards slightly, he squeezed her hand. “One I don’t mind telling you now,” he added.

Peter was thrown off by the sympathy and support from y/n. Despite having explained in detail how getting close to him could be dangerous to people, she only seemed to be worried about what he’d been through, not her own safety. Even when Peter had gone on and on about how Aunt May had died and about the memory spell that had caused his friends to forget him; y/n focused on him and not on what that could mean for herself.

“I can’t believe you’ve suffered through all of that, Peter,“ y/n said as she frowned deeply. “I’m really sorry, I know that doesn’t change anything or help, but-“ she rambled, wanting to find the right words to say.

“It does,” Peter spoke softly. “Your sympathy does help,” he promised squeezing y/n’s bicep as she once again resumed dabbing the skin around his facial wound. “I shouldn’t have let you get this close,” he scolded himself.

Y/n’s brows squinted momentarily before she switched tactics. “Peter, you’re not contagious,” she teased as she placed the now-bloody towel down.

Peter laughed lightly. “No, I know, but…,” he sighed. “You were right before, I tried to keep my distance.” He looked away from y/n’s focused eyes. “I was worried about what might happen to you because of me. But now,” he sighed as he shook his head in frustration with himself. “It’s too late,” Peter explained, “you already mean too much, and me distancing myself from you will only actually make things worse as I won’t know when to step in to protect you”.

Y/n gave Peter a sad smile. She let go of his hand and then moved both of hers to his jaw. “You don’t always have to be the hero, Peter”. The worry lingering in his eyes caused an aching in her chest. “Everything is going to be okay,” she promised, lowering her hands as she grabbed the butterfly suture supplies from beside her.

Peter smiled softly at y/n’s ever present optimistic outlook on life. “I… you mean far too much to me.” He took a nervous deep breath as he stared up at her eyes as she began to work on sealing the cut on his forehead. “I li… like you. Really like you,” he mumbled.

The breath seemed to leave y/n’s lungs instantaneously. She forced herself to take a choppy inhale. “Like…. More than a friend?” Y/n dared to ask despite her not being daring enough to meet Peter’s gaze.

Peter nodded, quickly earning a scolding glance from y/n as she continued to attend to his injury.

Y/n bit her lip bashfully over Peter’s confession. “Good,” she replied breathily. “Because I.. well... I like you too, Peter,” she confessed, finding the courage to turn her eyes from the new butterfly stitches on his head and instead down to meet his eyes.

Peter watched severely as y/n unnecessarily continued to attend to his wounds, bandaids being placed over each of the tiniest of scratches that scattered his body. Her confession had given him the confidence to finally ask y/n out on a date. Only, he wasn’t sure how to. Trying not to overthink it, Peter decided to just go for it.

“I.. I want to ask you something,“ Peter stated. He smiled when he got a slow nod from Y/n as she gently applied another bandaid to his lower arm. “But first, I want you know that I thought through this an infinite number of times before deciding to tell you any of this,” he promised, “I thought through how to best keep you safe”.

“Peter,” y/n sighed sympathetically, looking up from Peter’s scratched-up forearm. “You make it sound like you’re doomed for all eternity,” she frowned. “You’re not, you know?”

Peter smiled warmly. “See. That’s just it,” he hummed. “You taught me that I don’t have to shut myself off from others, from you… even after losing someone”.

Y/n smiled with a bashful but proud expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, removing y/n’s lingering hand from his arm so he could hold it in his. “So I’ve prepared for the possibility of something happening, but I also trust your optimism that it doesn’t have to happen like that,” he explained. When she smiled at him, he automatically grinned back. “So.. uhhmmm. What I have been needing to ask you, is… will umm …,” Peter cleared his throat, turning his head to the side in order to not do so in y/n’s face. He blushed madly as he turned back her. “May I take you on a date?” Peter asked breathily.

Y/n happily accepted, quickly nodding her head with a wide smile on her face. She nodded and unconsciously leaned closer to Peter as they smiled at each other. She couldn’t help but notice their lips were only millimeters apart when Peter suddenly jerked backwards. Y/n tried to hide her sense of rejection as she quickly looked away and went to clean up the mess of medical supplies.

Peter immediately noticed Y/n’s worried and self conscious reaction and pouted. He tenderly guided her attention back to him by placing his hand on her arm to stop her from collecting the bandaid wrappers. He used his other hand to tilt y/n’s chin up and offered her a childish smile. “It isn’t you,” he promised, his head still unconsciously tilted to the side faintly. “It’s hard to explain, but after I was bit, I get these sensations… almost like a sixth sense where when there is-“ he began to explain, but ironically was cut off by a loud siren.

Y/n’s eyes widened in understanding and realization as the sharp tone of the sirens rang in her apartment. “You have these senses of trouble,” she surmised. “It’s almost… it’s from a spider…,” y/n rambled to herself while Peter watched in silent amusement as she thought it through out loud. “It’s a spider sense, you have spider senses. No, spidey senses!” She exclaimed.

Peter chuckled and shrugged. “I guess I do,” he blushed as moved to stand up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Y/n said as she squinted intensely at Peter.

Peter raised an eyebrow and pointed out the window in signal to the siren that was still there in the background.

Y/n shook her head, “not like that you’re not”.

Peter smiled warmly but opened his mouth to argue.

Y/n picked up on what Peter was about to do and quickly tried to shut him down. “I don’t know about you Parker,” she hummed, trying to suppress a smirk. “But, I’d personally actually like us to get to the date you mentioned, and for that, you need to be alive and alert,” she pointed out.

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