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#shoutout to unhinged jaw

rush-the-stars · 23 days

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undone

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pairing: nicholas wolfwood x afab f!reader

cw: smut. quickie? praise, reader referred to as "girl" and "sweetheart" and "baby". f!receiving oral. hair pulling. this is pretty tame tbh

wc: 2.4k

a/n: the fact that i wrote 2k words in the span of like. 2 hours for this man. unhinged. i am really going through something. shoutout to the anon who asked about wolfwood undoing corsets. i had softer and sweeter ideas with this but. alas. maybe i'll make it a lil series.

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You have roughly twenty minutes before Meryl and Vash are back from the water-station. Maybe more, depending on how much trouble they manage to get into on the way there or back—but that means you'll have to bail them out, too. So, still, twenty minutes.

Your back hits the door to the little room at the inn you'd gotten for the night with a dull thud.

"Nico!" You hardly have time to yelp before his mouth is on yours, stubble scraping against your soft lips. You claw at his shoulders, pawing and pushing at his blazer until it falls to the floor.

There's only two buttons on his shirt you have to pick at before it's open to you, since he wears it so obscenely low and unbuttoned already. When you get your hands on his bare skin, he's making a sound against you, low and desperate.

It's been a week and a half since he's had you like this, in his arms, big hands all over you.

It's been a week and a half since you'd had even a moment to yourselves long enough to do anything—

When his lips move over your jaw, your fingers sink into his dark hair, tugging, "don't leave any marks!"

The sound he makes can only be considered a growl, a rumble of it from his chest in annoyance, almost a groan. Your stomach swoops, tilting your head back anyways to give him room.

"Why are we hidin' it from them, anyways?" He barely gets out against your throat, warm, wet lips trailing lower and lower.

If you weren't half out of your mind with him, you would've been able to give a cohesive answer—something about not wanting it to make it strange to travel with or—maybe because Meryl's been warning you away from Nicholas for awhile now and you don't yet want to hear it from her.

Something like that.

But for now, all you can do is whimper when Nicholas' lips get down to the tops of your breasts before meeting the arch of your corset. He suddenly turns you and your hands fly up to steady yourself against the door.

And behind you, he gets on his knees and you feel a sharp tug at the lace of your corset.

You groan, "we don't have time for this—"

"Damn you, you said that last time—"

And he’s right, last time was quick and hot in the back of the truck, with your skirts hiked up around your waist but otherwise not a piece of fabric fully taken off. Just your poor bloomers ripped at the gusset.

And stubborn man that he is, he continues to pull at the laces expertly. Thick, strong fingers weaving into the delicate satin of the ribbon, as he gives another tug. It loosens.

You glance over your shoulder and the sight is—

Nicholas on his knees, shirt open, dark lashes fanned across his cheeks as he focuses on your corset. Another quick tug and the bodice loosens again, then he brings his other hand up—so big, so rough, and pulls at the corset deftly.

“Careful—“ you barely manage to breathe, watching, enamored with the way his fingers delve in to the delicate satin again. “You have to get this back on me before they get back, too.”

“Quit worrying,” he says, and you feel the stiff fabric give away, laces coming undone with his expert hands. “I don’t know when I’m gonna get this much time with you again.”

You let it fall from your body, freeing your breasts and revealing the sheer, ruffled slip underneath.

He hardly lets you step out of it before he tugs at the strings of the underskirt around your waist, expertly undoing that, too. It pools around your feet in swaths of peach and cream, joining your poor, undone corset.

“Slip off,” he gets out, big hands coming up to bunch in the fabric at your waist. You listen to the command almost instinctively, letting the white fabric fall from your shoulders, but realize sluggishly that—

“You’re a little too good at this,” you manage to get out as you’re finally bare up top, slip joining all your discarded clothes.

Down to your little bloomers and stockings, he lets out a huff of a laugh, one hand roaming over the bare skin of your side, other curling into the waistline of your bloomers. “What are you tryin’ to say?”

Bloomers slip down your legs with an easy pull.

“You’re a dog, Nico—!”

Your words break off into a sharp breath, just as you feel the nudge of his nose against the back of your thigh, lips settling in a wet kiss towards the inner crux of your legs. One of his hands presses on your lower back, bending you into a pretty arch for him.

The other holds you steady, creeping over your waist, thumb stroking soothingly against bare skin.

Heat rips through you like the high sun at noon, blazing, and furious. You whimper when you feel his stubble against the soft skin of the back of your thighs.

You feel where he’s headed—and it’s—in this position—

“Nico—“ you whine, and again, you try to say there isn’t time—maybe, to spare you some form of embarrassment or, or—

His tongue is sinful and hot between the shockingly wet glide between your legs. He shoulders your legs a little further apart for himself, squeezes your hip appreciatively and groans low and dirty.

You curse, hips twitching, trying to wriggle out of his hold, but he bares down. His hands squeeze.

“Don’t you run from me, sweetheart.” He gets out, gruff and soft.

And then the hot clutch of his mouth opens, sinful, against your cunt, damn near dripping onto his waiting tongue.

The whimper that works its way out of you is a flustered one, nails digging into the wood of the door as he sets to work on you. It’s messy—it’s fast and heated and his hands are being a little rough, guiding you on his mouth.

Sparks of pleasure, low in your stomach, erupt. He’s a little relentless—a little desperate. And you’re so damn wound up—

You arch into it and he hums in praise, pulling you back into the warm, wet heat of his moth, into burning pleasure.

It’s honestly a little embarrassing—

He slips one finger inside of you and curls and the angle with—his mouth—

You cry out, a pleasure burst of heat racing through your body, along the arch of your back to pulse hard and quick against his tongue.

He laughs a little when he realizes he’s already made you come, but he doesn’t let up right away. Not until you’re mewling and whining all pitiful, voice going high and desperate.

“Poor thing,” he says when he stands, crowding you against the door now with his height. His size. “Must’ve been so worked up—didn’t know you needed me that bad, sweetheart.”

“Just hurry up and fuck me—“

He laughs, low and soft, as he unzips his pants and pulls himself out. You feel him then slip through silken folds, glide all sweet and easy over where you need him most.

“Don’t have to tell me twice, hellcat.”

You groan as he sinks the head of his cock inside you. He curses. The stretch burns a little, aches deep inside—

“So fucking tight still,” he gets out, almost a growl, as he eases out and then a slow glide back in. You arch your back for him further, rock back further so he sinks deep down into you.

His turn to groan, one hand coming up to steady himself on the door by your own hand. He laces them together—sap that he is.

His other hand feels your bare body for once, no corsets or shirts in his way, calloused hands skimming over your torso. Your breasts.

He keeps himself deep inside you a moment, marveling, petting and stroking you as you try and catch your breath.

His thumb grazes the peak of your breast, pleasure skittering to life and rushing through your body. You wiggle your hips, desperate.

“Nico, c’mon, don’t tease—“ you mewl.

And then you move your hips off him, before taking him back deep inside you.

He groans again, “fuck—how could I deny you?”

You begin to set a slow pace, easing off him almost entirely before sinking back onto him. He carves a blaze inside of you, turns your mind to mush, as you continue rocking.

“Atta girl,” he gets out, watching himself disappear inside of you, before slowly pulling back out.

You moan, arching further into his touch, his embrace, before you feel his hand squeeze at your waist.

And then he thrusts, slower at first, letting you adjust. But you’re finding your own rhythm with him, chasing your own pleasure—chasing his. The way he moans, dragging you back and forth on his cock. So thick and deep, pressing into you.

His hands are all over now, savoring the way your skin feels, being able to hold and grope you like this. Rough hands on your breasts, your thighs, your ass.

You tip your head back onto his shoulder and he showers you in attention and praise—

“So fucking pretty, huh? You feel good, sweetheart? Whad’ya need from me, hm?”

“Harder,” you get out, turning desperate eyes on him. He groans again, helpless to your whims.

“Whatever my baby wants,” he says before moving to tangle a hand in your hair, taking a fistful in a swift move that has you gasping. Not too hard—but—

You moan as he sinks in roughly this time, tips your head back with his hand in your hair.

He doesn’t change the pace, just the strength. And you feel yourself flutter around him, feel the way he rumbles out another low sound of his own pleasure, as his thrusts get harder. Deeper.

“You got one more for me, sweetheart?” He asks, scattering kisses on your jaw, the side of your neck.

He lets go of your hair to skim his hand down the front of your body, to find the bundle of nerves between the crux of your thighs. It changes the angle, he crowds you, big bare chest up against your back. You’re so close he hardly even pulls out of you now, and you grind back against him.

“That’s it,” he hums, “take what you want, pretty girl.”

That’s all it really takes, with his fingers making quick, easy passes over your clit.

Your moan is broken, walls tightening up around him as he groans.

“Ha—fuck, good girl—just like that.”

He buries himself to the hilt just to feel you come around him, just to feel the way you squeeze and milk him.

“Nico—“ you get out, “want you—want you to come—“

Again, he says, voice a little wrecked, “how could I deny you?”

And then grabs hold of your hips to thrust, hard, and deep, chasing his own pleasure. It doesn’t take him long, especially when you start mewling and begging for him, arching all up into his hands desperately.

He comes hard, you feel him pulse and jump inside you, insides flooding with warm.

You’re both breathing a little heavy on the come-down, his lips scattering kisses along your bare shoulders.

For a moment, it’s peaceful— the sun is setting in a gold fury out the window, casting you both in its glory. Your body is warm and loose and—you press back into him.

You realize you want more, wiggling your hips again, but he stills you.

And somehow, he’s the voice of reason when he says, “I gotta get your corset back on you.”

You curse.

You have maybe, maybe five minutes. If that.

And then you’re both a flurry of movements, trying to clean up and get clothes back on. He helps you back into your slip.

He takes a seat on the edge of one of the beds and you stand between his legs, facing him, as he helps with your skirts, dutifully tying off the knots around your waist.

And then he’s helping you with your corset—

Nimble, knowing fingers lacing it up as if he’s done it a hundred times before, barely looking over the curve of your waist to do it.

He tightens it up, nice and snug, and you gasp at the way his big hands pull at it. At the cinch he makes.

He looks up at you, all dark, smoldering eyes.

“That was a real pretty sound,” he rumbles, twisting the lace around his hands carefully, then giving another swift tug.

You gasp again, reaching out to steady yourself on his broad shoulders.

He swears under his breath, “I need at least forty-eight hours with you alone.”

You hardly get a retort, because you both hear commotion down the hall of the inn. And two familiar voices bickering—

You lurch away from him, stepping out of his grasp and bustling over to the other bed, where you’d set down your bag, as if you might be unpacking.

Nicholas pulls out a pack of his cigarettes, puts one between his lips and lights it just as the door bursts open.

Meryl is berating Vash over something, but they’ve got the water they set out to find. And the town is still standing.

Vash cocks his head all funny when he gets in the room and looks between you and Nicholas, but otherwise doesn’t say a word.

Meryl, oblivious, is going on about how Vash almost stuck his nose somewhere he shouldn’t.

“What else is new?” You snort, trying to feel normal and not like jelly, not like you want to collapse in the arms of the man just across the room from you.

You turn to keep folding clothes, when Meryl says;

“Oh—your corset came undone. It’s untied.”

For a moment, your heart stops.

You glance at Nicholas, who catches your eye through a haze of smoke.

“Let me fix it.” Meryl says easily and you nod, swallowing, mumbling a thank you, as you turn away from her.

Her hands take the ribbon in hand and begin to wind and tie.

You face Nicholas, who’s eyeing you darkly.

And then Vash who says, “strange thing, that. Good catch, Meryl.”

He shares a look with Nicholas.

And then he chirps, “who’s sleeping with who tonight?”

You almost choke.

Meryl pipes up about how obviously you and her are sleeping together and Vash and Nicholas can figure something out—just like always. Why would it be any different? She asks.

True to his list of disastrous namesakes, what Vash says next makes pandemonium break out among the room. And truly, this might as well have been the trouble he was trying to stick his nose into, the kind of trouble that might just take down the town itself with the storm it’s about to cause.

And here you thought they’d managed to avoid trouble and you and Nicholas had gotten away scot-free.

Vash shrugs and says, “I dunno— why was her corset untied?”

#wolfwood x reader #nicholas wolfwood x reader #nicholas d. wolfwood x reader #wolfwood x you #wolfwood x y/n #nicholas x reader #nicholas wolfwood x you #trigun x reader #cielo writes!#cielo's writing!

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uhgood-girl · 7 months

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why jikook?

i've been asking myself this a lot recently bc well, why them? why not tkook? or ynmin? hell, jihope even, they're underrated as hell honestly, have you seen that hot tub video? hobi was ready to unhinge his jaw to swallow jimin whole (and who (jk) could blame him.)

but jikook, in a not joking way, hits different. they always have. it's been years at this point that i've been deep in this rabbit hole (within the larger bts rabbit hole, my god, how deep does it go) but i don't recall making the conscious decision to fall in.

maybe a little background?

i'm a fake love army. actually, if we're getting technical, i'm an outro tear army bc it was in the comments of the freshly released fake love music video that i saw someone recommend outro tear if i enjoyed fake love and then it was over for me. extremely not fake love at first listen, who's voice is second on this track? i NEED to know. i'm a yoongi/rapline bias to this day. fake love still fucks though, don't get me wrong, it's a never skip for me.

for that first year and then some, i consumed backlogged content like it was my day job. i am a prone to hyper-fixations hermit, basically, who was going to stop me? my therapist? nah, she picks her battles.

i watched everything i could get my grubby little hands on like someone would be testing me on it later. (shoutout qdeoks, you were so real) i didn't open stan twitter for the first time till probably the end of 2018, really just in time to be slapped in the face full force with the shitshow that was a hate campaign against these boys i was deeply invested in by then, the likes of which i had never experienced in an online space up to that point. it was a truly, truly wild era, don't ever let anyone tell you differently.

all that to say, i've been here for a hot minute and i developed my own first impressions on bts and the members as individuals in a vacuum. no one had to point jikook out to me, they stuck out on their own.

potentially relevant disclaimer before we continue: i am really really queer. i grew up in the united states conservative deep south and had to change high schools my sophomore year bc i was outed and then violently ostracized for being in a relationship with my same sex best friend at the time. it is safe to say i have a lot of feelings about and experience even when it comes to having to be low key (understatement lol) about who you love. i am not here just to make my barbies kiss.

actually, on that note, jikook wouldnt even be my chosen barbies out of bts. if we're in true fantasy delulu hours here, i would want yoonjin to be real. god, that would be the stuff, they're so old married as it is. peak romance.

i think the first place jikook ever truly caught my attention were the memories dvds. jimin has always been a sweet, bby angel taking care of all his members but i remember thinking that he seemed to pay a little extra, special attention to jungkook. and of course, why not, jk's the maknae after all. all of them have always been doting on him and deservedly so. but in those briefly shown really serious, quiet moments, jimin was often first in line. a spot very easy for him to obtain tbh as jk never seemed to be very far from him anyway. maybe if you've never in real time lived the satellite jeon accusations (hi pandemic army, bless you, i hope you make it to 2025 when we have them all back without restrictions) you might find them easier to dismiss but it was so consistent back then in all of the content being released. and once noticed, i don't know how anyone ever un-notices it. but i was in deep before i even realized the water was boiling.

should i talk about why not tkook? or ynmin, for me? i'm just pulling those as examples bc i know they're the popular contenders here but all joking in the beginning of this post aside, none of the other members interpersonal relationships, in any configuration (sadly, RIP yoonjin romance), have ever struck me as anything other than puppy crush/deep friendship/family. and that's not bc i don't think over half of those men aren't queer in some form or fashion because WHEW, that is an entirely different post and we simply do not have the time to unpack rn but it's not for lack of looking.

i started in a vacuum, but i have by no means stayed there, i walked in all of those front doors and sat down and said "convince me." i've got the time and lack of life, i am ready to be won over. what have i missed?

to this day i still regularly try and check my own confirmation bias, i'm obviously looking for jikook at this stage but i'm still ready on my toes if any of the others want to get crazy. (yoonjin i am rooting for you, we're all rooting for you)

and i'm not here to really persuade or sway anyone one way or another either. there are a 1000 other blogs on this site that can probably offer you better explanations, specific clips, and detailed break downs of moments throughout the years and even then people are going to see what they want to see. i just wanted to write some of my own thoughts down finally.

though...i guess if i had to point to any one single piece of "evidence" it would definitely be tried and true gcf tokyo? but if watching that the first time didn't ring through you like a gunshot, i def don't think there's anything i could say beyond that.

honestly, i think so much of "why jikook" for me boils down to the pit in the bottom of my stomach that i used to get when i first began to notice them. when i got past the initial warm fuzzies inspired by the sincerity of their interactions, my immediate second emotion was concern.

i remember the first time i heard some of the other boys make an offhand joke about them being a couple and i got anxious, fast. i thought hide, hide better, please be safe. i began to pay extra attention to the other members in general too when jikook would do things and felt like i could sometimes see a similar anxiety to my own in their expressions. for a long time, i just worried about them and where i saw other people rejoice in their more obvious moments, i was slow to celebrate.

despite my initial hesitation, it's now been about 5 years since the first time they ever made me double take. they're a few years younger than me but i feel like we've been growing up together. (parasocial? idk her.) they're less conspicuous these days, and for lots of obvious reasons, but i feel like overall, their confidence in themselves and each other is quite high. i know that's probably a funny thing to say in light of this last week especially, but i stand by it. i've seen this song and dance before. i have managed my own expectations in the past, taken full steps back only to be beaten anew over the head so many times with enough "coincidences" i felt borderline foolish to try and deny anything. jikook are truly some sort of neuro-spicy pattern recognition drug, i swear.

and i've never really gotten to talk about any of this with anyone before! i'm shy irl, and shy online apparently bc i have just been lurking around the outer lines of this circle this whole time like some creepy creep but i've decided i'm over it. fuck it. growth.gif. idk that i have anything important or new to contribute to the conversation but my god, no one else seems to let that stop them so i might as well take my turn on the soapbox, no?

so 📢 JIKOOK REAL (?) jikook sus. jikook make bandaged queer little heart go boom boom.

#jikook #kookmin #hi hello welcome to the personal jikook ted talk literally no one asked for #in this essay i

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teenagemutantninjatrauma · 13 days

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Shoutout to @/agenticed’s little Stockshop fic called Infestation which is technically about hysterical domestic shenanigans but got me spinning some horrific horrific Stockman headcanons again <3333

⚠️ Full warning, this gets a little fucked up and graphic, Insane In The Membrane style.

Like…… after everything, I think Stockman has some majorrrr trauma about rot (for Insane In The Membrane reasons) and rodents (for Mousers reasons) specifically, but also pests in general.

His lab is always, always pristine. The moment something got used it’s getting rinsed, everything goes back in its place, and partially this is just y’know, general lab safety, it’s good practice. But part of it is, what if something doesn’t get cleaned properly right away, what if you touch something and it will react with your skin, eat at it, melt it, ruin it.

He can’t leave dishes in the sink. The moment the food’s eaten, everything is getting washed, or he’s never gonna bring himself to touch it. What if it rots? What if there’s mold? What if he accidentally breathes it in? What if it catches onto him, roots in his flesh, burrows too deep in him to ever be rid of it?

It’s the worst with dead bodies, honestly. He doesn’t see many of them these days (thank God) but working with the organic Mousers can lead to the occasional corpse, either of a Mouser or something it had caught, and while dissecting his own creations properly in his lab tends to be fine (safe space, familiar process on a familiar project, focus on the science like you always have, you can always rely on science), the Mousers are experimental and sometimes die outside while working and have to be retrieved. Sometimes it takes a while for people to retrieve them.

And those can be terrifying.

When the flesh smells of rot and is being overtaken by scavengers, worms and bugs and all sorts of small living things, when it starts falling apart easier, so much easier than it should, it’s hard not to make it personal. It’s hard not to think about your own lower jaw slowly, gradually, unhinging from where it’s supposed to be, of your eyesight blurring much faster than it’s supposed to, it’s hard not to think of falling apart, witnessing yourself dying long before death takes you.

I think about that a lot.

#chatter #my headcanons #not tagging agenticed cuz you didn’t sign up for getting tagged in a post about rotting corpses but I’m sure this post will find you anyway #<333 #tmnt 2k3 #tmnt 2003 #2k3 stockman #tmnt fast forward #tmnt insane in the membrane #anyways my guy would probably do HORRIBLY in like a zombie apocalypse #and I’m deciding he can’t really handle rodents in his home because rodents mean rot and rot means some very bad ptsd #anyways read agenticed’s Stockshop fics tho they’re good and fun and I love them #(biased)

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meowdarame · 2 years

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pretty | shion madarame

“you’re so pretty, shion.”

pretty, huh? that’s a first.

if you asked those around shion madarame to describe him, you’d get a mix of answers. if you asked his enemies, they’d call him scary or frightening, and in some cases, even unhinged. if you asked his bosses, they’d say he’s an idiot whose reckless actions frequently got the gang into trouble. and if you asked his ex “lovers”— if you can even call them that— hot would be their most common response, maybe handsome if they were trying to use flattery to get something from him.

but pretty? shion doesn’t think that pretty is an appropriate adjective to describe a man who’s seen and done the things that he has.

“no i’m not,” he huffs out after a few seconds of silence.

“yes you are,” you giggle.

“nuh-uh.”

“mhmm.” you grab his jaw and force him to face you.

“fine,” shion rolls his eyes before deciding to indulge you. “tell me, how exactly am i pretty?”

your delicate fingers push back the loose strands of hair that have fallen on his forehead. “well,” you start. “i think everything about you is pretty! from your eyes, to your tattoo, to even your cute lil nose—” he chuckles when you plant a soft kiss on the tip of his nose, a cute blush tinting his warm cheeks.

“but i think that the prettiest part of you is your smile.”

he stares at the ground and shakes his head. “i think you’re the only person in the world who would say that.”

you playfully pinch his sides and he squirms under your touch. “well, i’m the only person in the world who can say that. i’m the only person who’s seen that smile of yours— and no, i’m not talking about that sadistic grin you flash at people when you’re about to beat the shit out of them.”

you both laugh, but then you add on, “i’m talking about the bright yet gentle smile, the one that you show to me and only to me, the one that’s so full of love and gives me heart palpitations every time i see it.”

he’s stunned by your kind words; he has no idea how to respond. so, he does what he usually does when you somehow manage to fluster him— he teases you.

“are you tryna hustle me for something? a new dress? a new car? what d’ya want?” he chuckles.

“no, i don’t want any of that,” you shake your head and smile. “just want you to know that you’re pretty.” you nestle your face in the crook of his neck. he wraps his arm around you, pulling you close and holding you tight. he basks in your warmth as his mind begins to wander.

pretty.

pretty, pretty, pretty. he repeats the word to himself a few more times.

i could get used to that adjective.

special shoutout to @kennyb0y for matching me w/ shion in her appearance matchup because now i’m a shion fucker and simp!

#🎲.writes #🎲.oneshots #tokyo rev #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev one shot #tokyo rev fluff #shion madarame #shion x reader #shion oneshot #shion fluff #tokyo rev shion

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bonvoyagenoona · 3 years

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Countermelody (M) | 03: Syncopation

Countermelody | Masterpost

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

Rating: 18+ / Explicit / Mature

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader

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

Summary

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

Chapter Excerpt

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

“Then why did you walk me home?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

03: Syncopation

“YOU FINALLY HAD AN ORGASM?!”

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

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

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

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

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

“SORR--”

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

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

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

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

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

He whimpers.

You sulk.

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

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

“C’mon Boss,” he whines. “Let’s eat.”

You really wish you weren’t so hungry.

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

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

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

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

The soul-destroying orgasm that you had with Yoongi.

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

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

“Is everything OK?” you ask, concerned.

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

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

“I’m not mad. Ask away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A toy was involved,” you say carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it wasn’t a date?”

“No, it wasn’t a date.”

“But you weren’t alone.”

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

“I technically had company, correct.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes meet his.

“...Yoongi.”

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

“You’re judging,” you sulk.

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

You down two more shots.

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

“Why?”

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

Jungkook thinks carefully.

“...Friends?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Always!” Jungkook exclaims gleefully.

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

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

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

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

Jungkook softens. “What about your unnie?”

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

Jungkook sighs. “Well then.”

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

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

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

“Sure.”

“Why were you late earlier?”

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

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

Too busy moping about how it meant nothing.

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

But you still feel like such an outsider.

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

That is, except for one trainee.

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

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

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

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

She greets you professionally, and formally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She laughs. “You like Domo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi grimaces, and Namjoon and Hobi make themselves scarce.

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

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

“I had a really good time,” you say.

Yoongi’s confidence makes a welcome appearance.

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

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

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

“I…”

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

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

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

“Good to know,” you say, smirking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But suddenly, Hobi snickers.

“What?” Yoongi asks, grinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hobi shoots you a wink.

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

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

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

“I’m down,” Namjoon replies.

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

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

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

“OK,” you say, grinning.

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

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

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

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

“You think so?” Yoongi asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was blocking you?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait,” you say softly.

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

“Aren’t you coming in?” you ask.

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

“Then why did you walk me home?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle at his sudden formality. “Sure?”

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

You arch an eyebrow.

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

You frown.

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi grins.

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

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

“Not twenty minutes!” you remark.

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

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

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

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

Yoongi nods. “I see.”

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

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

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

“Do you still want to…”

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

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

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

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

Yoongi laughs at your impetuousness. “Hang on.”

You whine and sit back down, squirming.

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

You laugh, and he chuckles along.

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

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

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

You nod. “That too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead,” you say.

Yoongi sits and leans back against your pillows and headboard.

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

You stare at him quizzically. “What?”

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

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

Yoongi smirks. “You won’t need them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lean back on me,” Yoongi instructs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feeling good?” he asks you.

“Yes,” you answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmmhmm.”

“Can I push this to the side?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God, yes.”

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

“How’s that feel?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

“Good?” he growls.

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

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

You let out a sheepish laugh.

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

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

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

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

“Can I touch you?” he whispers urgently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re already fading into sleep when Yoongi speaks.

“Good?” he repeats, with a smile.

“Good,” you sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” Yoongi says, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s back?” Yoongi asks.

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

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

“Things are progressing quite nicely,” you say.

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

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

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

Yoongi stares at you, completely lost.

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi blushes. “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seeing just his name makes you feel calmer.

But that feeling also makes you more anxious.

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

“Hello?”

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

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

“What do you want?” you snap.

“To check in with you,” Unnie says.

“Where are you even calling from?”

“This is Jin’s work phone.”

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

“Jin!” Unnie scolds.

“Ridiculous,” you grumble, hanging up.

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

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

So you pick up your phone and call Unnie back.

“Hello?” she sniffles.

“Are you crying?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unnie sighs softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You realize that your eyes weren’t deceiving you.

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

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

“We broke up,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

“But you are judging, aren’t you?”

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

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

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

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

“It’s not just that,” Unnie sighs.

“Well, what else is there?”

Finally, she asks it.

“...Aren’t you lonely?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know,” you say.

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

Your roll your eyes. “Sure.”

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

“I should go,” you say.

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

“I won’t. Goodnight.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“Wow, really?”

“Night.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, really?” Namjoon asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi furrows his brow.

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

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

Hobi looks confused. “What do you mean?”

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

Yoongi can’t find the right word.

“...Courting?”

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

“Cuh… C-cour… COURTING?!”

Hobi and Namjoon lose it all over again.

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

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

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

Yoongi peers back up at them, his skin flushed.

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

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

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

“Well, great!” Hobi exclaims.

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

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

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

Until you.

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

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

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

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

Yoongi shakes his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come with me tomorrow,” Yoongi says.

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

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

Hobi hands Yoongi the bottle of whiskey.

Yoongi grins and takes a swig.

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart starts to sink.

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

“What’s going on?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, you figure out a way to start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, the last song.

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

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

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

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

Yoongi shares a happy, pleasant look with you.

And then, you’re off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was…”

You sigh.

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

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

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

“Not at all,” Yoongi says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stands and pulls her to her feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile and take Mr. Kang’s hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

And that clinches it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Allow me,” Yoongi says.

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

You think you might die.

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

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

“Tired?”

“Definitely not.”

Yoongi smirks. “Perfect.”

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

Now, you really think you might die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One of your hangouts?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t want to make you nervous.”

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

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

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

You raise your menu again before you smile to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

Yoongi suddenly looks like he regrets bringing it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You watch him. Observe him.

“I’m so sorry,” you say quietly.

More silence passes between you.

“Did he open the door?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi’s eyes widen.

“Two acts before me,” you add.

Yoongi gasps.

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

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

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

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

You brighten. “Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you say.

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

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

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

“Mr… Kang?” Yoongi asks, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sex with Yoongi completely turns you on your head.

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

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

And he takes… his… damn… time.

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

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

“Easy,” he tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like it’s skipping beats.

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

“Yoongi,” you whine desperately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In the wee small hours of the morning…”

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

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

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

It skips a beat.

Countermelody | Masterpost

<< 02: Tuning | 04: Modulation >>

#bts #bts fanfiction #my fics #countermelody #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x y/n #suga x you #suga x reader #suga x y/n #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #BTS EVERYTHING #ALSO MR. KANG IS KILLING ME

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wroteclassicaly · 4 years

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A/N: Since I’m on mobile it’s easier for me to publish requests as a separate post and then link them. I’m slowly getting back into writing and I intend to publish chapter two of Ripe when I finish it and when I get WiFi back for my laptop. Thanks to everyone who still supports me! I <3 y’all! A special shoutout to my biggest cheerleader & fan: @icylangdon, whom is beyond special to me.

Based off this prompt list. Anon chose:

Fluff: Marry me?

Warnings: None. Just tooth rotting fluff.

Marry me?

It’s a question that he keeps asking you a lot. You try not to let this all feel so cliche, but it fails. A supernatural romance with repeated proposals of marriage? How very... Twilight this all seems. Michael had sneered upon the comparison, opting to just walk out of the room, leaving you to feel slightly guilty and somewhat relieved.

You don’t want a cheap proposal, you don’t want it to be because some bigger meaning needs fulfilled. If Michael Langdon commits to you, you want the man’s commitment, not the demon’s. And so you’ve held off, albeit, not easily. This week seems to be a little more high octane in the romance department for you both. There’s something more brewing in Michael, you notice.

His usual proposal doesn’t cease, but his demeanor afterwards does. He’s withdrawn and more thoughtful, almost as if he’s studying you. It causes a lot of discomfort from your end, and, if you’re being honest, a lot of embarrassment. You try to ignore it, focusing on minuscule tasks, but it doesn’t work. Michael’s ocean eyes are staring holes straight into you with every chance that they get.

“Okay, you know what, is my soul tarnished or some shit, because I’m about to go insane from all the damn staring?!” You snap at him later that night, the both of you residing in their library for your nightly reading ritual. A normal routine you both enjoy.

There’s a soft press to the lines of his mouth, almost a boyish cheekiness—as if he knows something you don’t know. You blink a few times, raising a brow in expectation as he places his hands on his lap, before rising to walk over and stand in front of you. Your breath is stolen right from your lungs, limbs a hot lava rock that weighs you to the floor. Your mouth is dry when you attempt speech.

“Michael, what are you doing?”

He drops down, his dinner jacket cascading across the ground beneath him, his tight fitting black velvet slacks wrapped smoothly around his muscular thighs. He props one knee and looks at you with this glow in his eyes you’ve never seen.

“I’ve been searching for the answers all week, why you’ve repeatedly said no to me when it’s clear that we both fit together,” He starts. “So I had to figure some things out, Y/N.”

An invisible fist twists into your flesh and holds your beating heart, ready to dust it and leave you hollowed out from the inside. He’s consulted with his ‘father’ and he’s going to get rid of you. That has to be what he’s done. You nod, his grin furthering your fear. Still, you don’t leave, leaning in, accepting death as long as it’s by his hand and his alone.

“I didn’t need to do anything but think about you. So I did. I thought about you and how the smallest things you do give me a calm that I’ve never had. Your presence here makes more sense to me than anything my short years on this earth ever have.”

Your jaw becomes slightly unhinged, throat itchy from sucking in the cool air of surprise.

“I don’t believe in luck, Y/N. I’m not really sure what I believe in. But I believe in you,” Michael pauses, his eyes glistening with tears, a vulnerable cover surrounding him, as if he’ll be rejected or struck down. Still, his voice is strong when he finishes. “I love you.”

He produces a small wooden box, opening it to reveal a custom diamond. Your close your mouth, but it opens on its own accord to let out a sobbing whimper. “Michael...”

“Marry me?” He’s so hopeful, so... human.

You slide down into the floor and hug his neck, rocking back and forth with him, forehead to forehead, just drinking each other in. You hold out your hand for him to slide the ring on. Perfect fit.

“I love you, Michael Langdon.” You give him, his face elated with a joy so undeniably pure that it can only belong to him. “Of course I will.”

He thumbs away your tears, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you off the floor to walk you to the sofa. Who says the honeymoon can’t start early?

#kristenwrites #michael langdon #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon x you #michael langdon x reader #ahs fanfiction #ahsfx #ahs #ahs8 #ahs apocalypse #ahs: apocalypse #american horror story

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neednothavehappenedtobetrue · 3 years

Text

okay. this is a post about a new character, who is a person in the same 'verse as the main one for Robert and Isabelle, sci-fi and spaceships. she is a pastor in the one specific "limits on technology" religion I made up, but also, she is very cool. she does not live on their main terraformed colony, she lives in another colony with some definite cultural differences.

I am mostly posting this for my own future reference. there are definitely people who will enjoy Gwendolyn a lot, even with the extensive trigger tag situation here, but I think "a short story that has space for more nuance" would be a better venue for her than "my thoughts from Skype at 4AM"

if you do decide to read this, check the tags first, please

shoutout to @anonymus-maximus-er for being my thought partner on this.

but as I understand it now, there are, like , degrees of Intensity in Church Of Man

like, even their chillest followers are kind of intense about it because it's hard to be real, real chill about "god said we were only allowed to use these specific fifteen technologies" or whatever the exact rules are

but as far as incubators go, Aimee's community, the one you saw, would definitely have been like "well, too bad God wants that baby to die" and there are some other communities which would be more like "okay, probably make sure your baby does not die, do what you've gotta do there, but don't come back and talk to us afterwards"

and also for sure there are communities like "do literally whatever you have to do to make sure your baby does not die, we will be here with whole-made casseroles when you're home again"

and like, could some of those kids have benefitted from subsequent quality-of-life stuff they didn't get? probably, yes

to varying degrees

but hopefully Aimee finds a nice community where she can be like "this is so important to me but my babies and I experienced a bunch of technology in order to not die and we got excommunicated."

and they're like "wow that sounds like a lot of Not Your Fault would you like some whole-made casseroles and toddler clothes?"

and she's like "I got excommunicated" and they're like "did you know, perhaps you didn't, that there is no Central Authority for every Church Of Man church in the galaxy? there for sure is not! the people from New Maryland often pretend they are, but we didn't vote for them! your old pastor is just not at all the boss of us, is the thing"

that is the future epilogue I want for Aimee

I feel like the Tau Ceti Church of Man community is small and some people think they're weird, but they're nice neighbors. their pastor is a woman named Gwendolyn or something who is just constantly mad about Richard Brinton That Fucking Asshole

she has never called him any of those words because of decorum, she has just spent a lot of time talking to new people like "wow you seem very traumatized did you know he is not the boss of us?"

"we don't have a pope!"

"we've tried to have a council a few times, but it's logistically complicated"

"every church is supposed to make its own rules in accordance with the texts"

"yes, I have read every single one of his missives to the world, I know which bits of the Texts you probably have memorized, here are some bits I like a lot"

Gwendolyn has some opinions

like, churches are supposed to set their own rules about "necessary" technologies and she has quietly labeled almost all life-saving medical technology "necessary"

meanwhile, Brinton thinks it's necessary for him to have access to telecommunications equipment to he can send his editorials all over the galaxy, so people can be Educated

huh

of course, he does not actually physically touch the telecommunications equipment, he keeps like four people who know how to use it around so they can spread his word, but also, huh

the thing about Gwendolyn is that she has spent a long time watching traumatized New Marylanders join her community, many of them quite young and quite traumatized

also, she was never a New Marylander, she is fourth-generation Tau Ceti, which, crucially

means that her first set of principles is "Church Stuff, Misc" and her second set of principles, right there after the first is "you're not the boss of me"

even if somebody could point to actual scripture that said they were the boss of her, she would have some trouble with it, but some dude! who cannot point to anything at all! no justification whatsoever! nothing in the texts even a little bit! keeps trying to be the boss of her! and also keeps traumatizing all of the people in his community pretty badly! and making everyone else look like jerks!

"I'm more conservative than you, therefore, I am the boss of you"

NOPE

not for Gwendolyn

Gwendolyn votes in every local election and votes for her Senator, who she has met and quite likes. she occasionally goes to protests when the local government does some dipshit thing, but the Tau Ceti local government is pretty well-behaved because if it's not the citizenry will absolutely be like "fuck you, you're not the boss of me" at its government

she has some Very Big Opinions about debtor employment. she's not thrilled about the like, severity of the gang situation in her city, but she doesn't have a lot of optimism that the Government is gonna fix it, so she does community groups instead

also, in recognition of the fact that she can't just throw these traumatized New Marylanders right off into the personal autonomy deep end she is like "okay, if you need someone to tell you what to do sometimes, I will be the temporary boss of you until you are ready to be the boss of you"

she does not Love that aspect of her job, but sometimes you gotta

you can't bring people from "obedience all the time" to "you must make every choice in your life with no backup" overnight, they'll just collapse in on themselves or become targets for worse people

so she does the thing

she and Brinton have a <very> passive aggressive correspondence going as church leaders

there are many many long letters back and forth

they are very polite and also, if any of them are preserved, historians will find them fascinating

"wow these people just fucking loathed each other"

Anonymus, 5:05 AM

your obedient servant, A. Burr

5:05 AM

if they did not live on separate planets, legitimately maybe

like, if she could get to Brinton's house on a horse to yell at him in person, she would have by now

she didn't swear a lot in real life, but sometimes she wanted to

she got real good at saying "that man" or "sugar" or "nonsense" in A Tone, but you could tell

I can't decide if she has a husband or a wife

Aimee's church definitely thinks gay people are Modern and therefore Wrong, but like

I feel like probably their specific religious texts don't even have that much on being nice to people? like, there's definitely a few pages on like "kindness is an ancient value, we hold fast to ancient values, these are them"

but it's like 70% Rules Minutiae

it's also not a super long book

so everybody has very different opinions about how to interpret the Rules Minutiae in light of the 30% of the book that's like "here are our actual values"

"modesty" and "fidelity" are both in the Ancient Values bits for sure

and I feel like different denominations went in different directions on the "modesty" and "fidelity" implications of "gay people"

no, I've decided, Gwendolyn definitely has a wife

show her in the actual rules where she can't have a wife

yes, fidelity, that thing she has with her wife

Anonymus, 5:13 AM

can the wife be a very proper rebbetzin?

organises all the casserole chains

5:14 AM

yes, she can definitely organize all of the casserole chains

5:18 AM

right

Gwendolyn's wife's name is Tara and she came from an Earth Church of Man community where they were like "technically it's not illegal for you to be gay, but, like, ehhhh? we'd rather you didn't and also you definitely cannot have children if you're gay"

5:20 AM

and she got to Tau Ceti and met Gwendolyn who even in college was like "show me in the texts where it says I cannot have a wife."

"show me."

Anonymus, 5:21 AM

sounds like excellent breeding ground for Very Textually and Theologically Conversant, but not actually a religious authority

5:21 AM

the thing is, Tau Ceti is Bad At Authority

if they had a motto on their coins it would just be "you're not the boss of me" but maybe in Latin

but maybe not even in Latin because people who know Latin often think they are the boss of you

Anonymus, 5:22 AM

WHO MADE U KING

5:22 AM

for real

I think there is a dude who is technically the "boss" of Gwendolyn and they take turns giving the sermons and calibrating which parishoners they support based on like, communication styles in a way that often ends up with just all of the women and queer folks being Gwendolyn's people

she is smarter than him, he handles all of the Local Politics things that require you not to go "EXCUSE me, where is the LAW ABOUT THAT"

Anonymus, 5:24 AM

different type of smart

5:24 AM

if he ever tried to pull rank on her, she would either be so startled that it would work or she would unhinge her jaw and eat him

so he's never tried

he doesn't want to! very few people on Tau Ceti even want to be in charge, both because it's like herding cats who will hate you if they catch you herding them and because the finely honed distrust of authority doesn't go away when you become authority

Anonymus, 5:26 AM

"I'm pretty sure I'm up to some bullshit"

5:27 AM

yeah, Gwendolyn spends a lot of time with these sad transplants from other communities, nearly all of them women (because for SOME REASON women tend to get excommunicated WAY MORE OFTEN. HUH. are there ADDITIONAL RULES for WOMEN? I DON'T SEE ANY)

and they're like "please I am so sad and scared just tell me what to do"

and she wants to be like "I am not the boss of you, you have to be the boss of you" but they often are not ready for that, so she just tries to get a sense of what they want to do or what might be healthiest for them and tells them her strong recommendation is that they do that thing

everyone in her community knows she is passionate and can get fired up about some of this stuff, she doesn't hide that, but also, there are some conversations she (a only has with her wife and also (b has had with her wife a number of times

they are basically "our community is like 55% traumatized exiles from other communities and like 30% traumatized people from This One Dude's Community specifically. he traumatizes women and girls and girls he calls women and gay people and parents with sick babies!"

"we have so so many people we take care of now who are so so shaken and traumatized and sad"

"and we only get the people who don't leave the faith entirely!"

"it's not fair! it's not fair that he gets to do that! it's not fair!"

because when you carry the faces of like twenty good people all traumatized by the same garbage person and all you can do is try to take care of them and send passive-aggressive letters, sometimes it sucks!

if they lived on the same planet and she could get there on a horse, she would have done something ill-advised by now. yelled, certainly

but then again, if she had been born on New Maryland she would be a super different person and if he had been born on Tau Ceti there would have been a hard upper limit on how much he could get anyone to listen to him

like, bad bullshit happens on Tau Ceti, but the first time he married a fourteen-year-old girl off to her rapist, his neighbors would have set him on fire

church of man neighbors, regular neighbors, possibly neighbors who are criminals, just all the neighbors

5:37 AM

so her wife listens to her cry and reads over her letters to Brinton to make sure she doesn't actually say anything Too Impolitic (I think her boss also reads them, but he's less invested)

and her wife has these new folks over for dinner and helps them find clothes for their kids and adapt their modesty rules to the thing where it's like, as hot as it is possible to be in Tau Ceti

5:38 AM

like, most of the summer it's like 120 degrees, on a brisk day in December it drops into like, the low nineties

5:39 AM

sometimes people from other communities are like "we do modesty more modestly than they do" and they have to be like "okay, your choices are us dressing this way or us using air conditioning, because people do die in real life of heatstroke sometimes, that is a thing that can kill you"

also, even before Gwendolyn came along, her previous pastor was definitely like "we're gonna make electric fans permissible. we're just... heatstroke sure does kill you in real life"

"particularly in Modest Dress"

she liked him. they had meetings like twice a month when she was young because she had A Lot of questions and her parents were less invested in the answers than she was

when she was like twelve, he was like "maybe they'll give you my job one day" and she was like "I don't want your job! you're the boss of people!" and he was like "they very much would not give you my job if you wanted my job, kiddo"

(even 50% of the organized crime leaders on Tau Ceti are like "hey, I'm not the boss of anybody, I'm just a guy you don't want to fuck with because of all of the friends that I have got"

"I am not the boss of you, but I do have this gun")

5:49 AM

final thought on Gwendolyn: she had a real hard time when Robert Thompson died, because that dude thought her faith was a good reason to murder a husband and father.

and like, that dude is a fucking asshole, obviously, but it's hard

and then Brinton puts out an editorial about it and it is the only time Gwendolyn and Tara's children ever hear one of their mothers swear

because she is usually super meticulous about that

but also, sometimes

there is a limit

she makes several attempts before she writes him her next letter and the subtext of the entire letter is just "fuck you SO much, I do not generally believe in Hell, however, I will make an exception"

there is a limit! a man is dead and his wife and daughter are grieving and then a dude who everyone thinks is, like, the pope of her puts out some bullshit like "of course we don't do hate crimes but also that dude who got murdered deserved it" bullshit

there is a limit she is past it!

5:53 AM

also, they have seven adopted kids

#rape for ts #religion for ts #religious abuse for ts #there is a bit about babies dying in here #because their religion does not always allow for medical technology #I don't know what the succinct tag is for that #hate crimes for ts #organized crime for ts #is that a thing?#guns for ts #briefly #the ghost and the machine #as inappropriate as the gun #her tag would be #show me in the texts #I might legitimately need to write this

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fancybois · 4 years

Text

I love this idea of an episode on carrots! So unique!

Okay but the video image they created is hilarious cause it looks like Andrew is disgusted by Steven unhinging his jaw like a snake to eat fisbdksnd

Omg I love parks like that!

I think it’s interesting that they didn’t finish filming for this episode so based on what is filmed in the highlander we can see how they typically film things for the show! Possibly.

Okay I love that they’re highlighting Detroit because it has this reputation as being crime riddled which is never fair to a predominantly black city.

Dawww the Midwestern boys are back home! (Kinda. Close enough)

That cake looks beautiful

Andrew is being the most critical he’s ever been but still so complimentary, what a guy 😌

Steven being 10 pounds when he was born is not a new fact but Andrew still looks so shocked haha

Omg based on the exterior of this second place, I wouldn’t think it was open??

“Are we going to see up dog?” *laughs* “what’s up dog?” “Not much, what’s up with you?” Why did that sound like he was forced to say that joke ahdlfgksjs

Okay but the scenery here is SO different from the places we’re used to seeing. I say this in the most loving way because I love industrial vibes, but most of the exterior shots look so busted. That really speaks to the decay of the once booming Midwest. I could have a whole post on industrialization, don’t mind me

I had a throwback to the hot dog episode with that cheers omg

Ouuu the restaurant has vegan baking classes! I wanna do that!

“When will we stop lying to children?” 🤣🤣🤣

STOP NO THAT SHOT OF ANDREW POINTING UP AT THE BIRD WITH STEVEN IS SO CUTE NOOOOOO

Wow that carrot steak looks SO good and for only $20?? I would so pay for that

Oof we love a romantic candle setting

Okay I’m loving that in this season all of the $$$ restaurants are doing super unique things

Adam shaking just head at Andrew calling the carrot steak, carrot cake 😂

Okay but idk why I’m touched by Steven choosing the carrot cake and giving a shoutout to everyone who makes carrot cakes because we know Andrew is the one who loves them 🥺

They’re finally doing quesadillas!! Jesus it’s only been 8 seasons!

#bfwi #buzzfeed worth it #thoughts

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crownlessliestheking · 3 years

Note

For the fanfic asks! 18 What’s on your fanfiction rec list?

I’m going to leave out arrogantemu’s stuff, along with the DWMP and its associated stories, as well as Sansukh (and ITS associated stories), because I feel like those are all really popular, but I can’t not give them a quick shoutout. Fun story: Someone I matched with on Tinder recced DWMP to me.

I’ll also stick to Tolkien stuff as a focus, for brevity. I type, as the list gets stupid long. I realize now how biased I am to Silvergifting, and. it’s wild.

I adore dialux’s Queens of Numenor fic (as I mentioned in another ask somewhere, but I feel guilty tagging them again. https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508940 here is the fuck, though), along with- okay. All their fic is good, I unhinged my jaw and devoured it in a very short period, especially the Findis one. Sire to pyre? Hello???

Also a new appreciation for Finwean ladies, so this (https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836894/chapters/65474908) was a real treat.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202157 This is also excellent, I do love a blood magic abomination Eol.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794743 More Celebrimbor, a history of giving, as the fic says.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397199 And yet another Silvergifting! Ias’s work is....mmmm. Good. So good.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382800 This Sauron-centric fic was Gorgeous, and I really enjoyed the characterization.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17270126 This was also neat. Not as dark as the premise makes it sound!

https://archiveofourown.org/series/337978 This series. Silm, but in the ‘20s? I absolutely adore how well the world-building was done for it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5067949 I think this one is the Witch-King Tar-Miiriel source fic! Or series. I love that headcanon with all my heart.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9144181 Vampire Celebrimbor in Numenor, enough said.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608037 And this, for Nienna!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542338 Peak slutty Sauron

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159690 Also, this. Sauron’s shitty science. Trigger warnings in place for Body Horror.

There’s of course a few old favorites, as I used to be very into Bagginshield: Avelera’s Prayers to Broken Stone, ironically a contrast to the one above, (https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508940), Child of the Earth and Sky (https://archiveofourown.org/works/731004/chapters/1361456), this fic that dared make me like Lobelia (https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837262), this is probably one of the darkest things I’ve read, warnings in tags (https://archiveofourown.org/works/664610), This is super cute (https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902853).

Can you tell I don’t know how to make links neat in here?

(Thank you for asking, though <3)

#aipilosse #fanfic #tolkien fic #fic recs #ask meme

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

bound to you (pearlet) - pipedream

a/n: this is about a million firsts for me (including the first time i’ve written in about two years) and for context this is a chapter from a much bigger trixya fic i’m writing based on the film burlesque that i planned ages ago. i knew i wouldn’t be able to include every scene and pov i wanted for this in the actual fic so hence this mess. massive shoutout to @grey-darling for beta reading and being an all round angel (thanks for preventing my utter neurosis) and i just made a sideblog for writing that i’m hopefully actually going to use so check out @piipedreams if you want!

Violet’s wedding dress is, to say the least, unconventional. Barely hitting mid-thigh, it manifests itself as a white corset pulling her waist to an almost impossible size with her small breasts perfectly cupped and stone lines running down the bodice, thick white feathers along with strips of glittered tulle hanging off in every direction as a skirt. Her hair is perfectly coiffed to avoid tangling in the white feathers rising up from the top of the corset behind her like a regal collar or strange halo, and despite looking like one of her dance costumes, the glittering tiara and jewels twisted into her updo and her signature red lips constantly upturned make her seem like the most regal person Trixie has ever seen. It is glamorous, extra and, she thinks, quintessentially Violet. Trixie loves her. Trixie loves weddings.

In spite of her expectations, the wedding is a rather small affair. Around forty guests are invited, most the charismatic yet sleazy twenty-somethings Max keeps as friends, laughing obnoxiously loudly and milling about with undone top buttons and bottles of lager clutched in one hand as they try to charm the girls from the club. Trixie feels fiercely protective of them as she watches an already intoxicated man wrap a possessive arm over a tense Farrah, and is about to stride over to the scene when she feels a hand clasp around her upper arm, acrylic nails slightly biting into her skin with the force of the grip.

Katya had left the apartment early that morning, while Trixie was showering, without a hello or goodbye, to get ready with Violet and her bridesmaids Raja, Courtney and Alaska. Trixie hadn’t seen her dress, her makeup or her planned hairstyle and as she swivels around to face the hand clutching her, she remembers why she abandoned religion long ago, because no god could be so merciless as to force her to endure such torture. Because Katya is stunning in every way, from the violet lace flowers adorning her sheer, knee length dress to the silver Dr Marten boots contrasting the elegance of her tiara, curls and makeup that must have been done by Raja. Trixie could fucking cry, she wants to say something but she’s lost, eyes firmly planted on the offensive boots she wears. But Katya doesn’t seem to have the patience to be stared at, yanking Trixie closer to her and pressing two fingers from her spare hand under Trixie’s chin to tilt it up to face her.

They’re inches apart, Katya as always chewing incessantly on gum, so close that Trixie can hear every time it’s squelched between her teeth, can smell and taste the mint radiating from her grape painted lips, can feel hot air against her face and Katya’s eyes bore into her, solemn and serious, slightly wide and pupils dilated. Her lips part in what seems like slow motion to Trixie, gentle and graceful, and when she speaks her voice is a soft whisper.

“Pearl is here.” And now it all makes sense. The words come out rushed, panicked and her eyes widen further, her chewing on the gum picking up pace and power until Trixie is slightly terrified she’s going to grind her teeth down or unhinge her own jaw. Her fingers are twitching. Trixie doesn’t break their gaze.

“Who the fuck invited her?” she demands. All she can think about is the last few weeks, Pearl’s sullen face and blatant antagonism, every biting comment aimed her way, every bitchy side-eye at one of the girls and muttered insults. Pearl drinking, Pearl turning up late, high, Michelle refusing to let her go on stage and replacing her. It’s not the day for drama or negativity, for the pendulous grey cloud hanging over Pearl’s head like her own personal crown. In short, Trixie can’t be fucking bothered with her.

“Violet, I think,” Katya responds, face contorted so Trixie knows she’s chewing on the inside of her cheek enough to make it bleed. “I love her but you know she can be pretty–” She stops, sighs and tugs Trixie’s arm harder so they’re slowly making their way across the room from the bar to the double doors, “–oblivious.”

Trixie nods once, goes to instinctively bite her thumb nail before remembering they’re now acrylic and detouring to the skin around it instead. She lets herself be pulled to the door like a child, only stopping when Katya slaps her hand out of her mouth, catching it in her own before it falls to her side to wipe the pink lipstick from her silver nails with a sweeping caress. She doesn’t let go after that, releasing her arm with a quick rub to it and avoiding all eye contact as she says, almost guiltily, “I’m taking you to talk to her. She asked to speak to you and I didn’t know what to do… or say. Sorry.” Another sigh. The tension wrapped in her lithe body aggravates Trixie but there’s now a swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach so she stays silent, lets Katya push open the wooden door with a bang and strides over to the smoke signal indicating Pearl’s presence. Katya leaves without a word.

Due to the rushed plans and low budget, Violet’s wedding is in a local town hall, a simplistic location with nothing special. Pearl’s stoic expression, precisely painted face and cigarette seems more than a little out of place somewhere so rustic, and finally Trixie sees what all the other girls must have, once upon a time, because she doesn’t want to get any closer but she can’t tear her eyes away. Pearl is like a Renaissance painting, intimidating and ethereal to look at yet much too powerful to be near. Sitting on the curb, looking out upon a carpark of battered Hondas seems wrong to Trixie, as though she is breaking some kind of divine rule. The smoke of the cigarette held between them chokes her as she carefully positions herself on the left of Pearl, neither one of them looking at the other now. Trixie’s love for weddings is slowly fading. She’s tongue-tied.

“I swear I wasn’t always such an uptight bitch,” Pearl begins, taking a drag of her cigarette as Trixie decides whether to gasp or laugh. It seems too out of the blue to be real. As she exhales, Trixie watches her features pinch and her eyes screw up for a second before she exclaims, almost desperate, “I don’t know what the fuck has happened to me!”

Trixie doesn’t speak. She has no words to say, no sympathy for the girl who thus far has only tormented her and thrown the dynamic of the club off completely. It’s not fair of her to call Trixie out like this, force her to listen to her breakdown and her frustration and her probably meaningless sob-story excuse. But she was raised too polite to say any of this, or to get up and leave to have fun with her friends as planned, so she just taps her foot in time to the new number Michelle told her to learn and listens.

“It’s a whole long fucking story I don’t want to go into and I’m sure you don’t too and I– I swear this isn’t an excuse or anything I know there’s no excuse but– fuck – I used to be so, like, flazeda, you know?” Pearl turns to her, the cigarette in her fingers long forgotten.

“Flazeda?” Trixie huffs out a breath of laughter, baffled.

“Is that– Is that not the phrase? I don’t know, I was always a dumb bitch according to Violet– fuck, Violet– but like, I swear I’m usually so fucking chill.”

Trixie finds that hard to believe. “Are you drunk?”

“No, I had like one cocktail when I got here but there were too many people at the bar and I know they don’t want to see me right now so I just kinda avoided everyone after that– God what am I saying? - anyway-”

“Get to the point, girl. I don’t wanna be out here.”

“Right, sorry, I just-” She sighs, takes one last drag from her cigarette before putting it out against her knee, burning a small hole through her dress. Trixie knows Violet made that dress. She wonders if she did that on purpose. “-I’m not a bad person. I know I’ve been a fucking asshole to you and I know you hate me, which I get, but I swear this isn’t me. And I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what you’re even saying, Pearl. And why now? Your timing is… kinda fucked.”

“I know, I know, I just-” She looks skittish and panicked, nothing like what she’s used to, or what she claims to be. “-Violet’s getting married!” She pulls out her carton of cigarettes again with twitching hands only to find it empty. Without a second thought, she hauls it into the car park and watched it bounce off one of the battered Hondas. Trixie stifles a snort. She tries again.

“Violet’s getting married and I know that now. She’s got a whole future ahead of her, a life planned and she knows who she is and what she wants and that’s so good! It is! But I’m a year older than her and I know nothing and I’m just letting things happen and fucking things up over and over again and for what? To watch a twenty three year old I care about more than anyone slowly leave me and show me everything I’m doing wrong. Everything is a fucking mess and I need to start fixing things. And there’s nothing I’ve fucked up more than my relationship with you.”

The words feel too weighted for Trixie to process. She speaks in riddle and metaphor, convoluted and fragmented all at once and Trixie didn’t sign up to solve puzzles today. She gives her a look, pointed and demanding, all hooded eyes and pursed lips.

“I never thought Violet would get married. At least, not now. Not like this.” She shakes her head. “But I’m, like, coming to terms with it and accepting it and moving on. So I had a lot of shit going on and I took it out on you and I’m sorry. I was bitter and jealous and fucking disheartened and I blamed you but I shouldn’t have. So I can put all that resentment and drama behind me if you can. I want a fresh start. So,” she turns to face Trixie with her whole body, arms wrapped around herself as she meets Trixie’s gaze, looking smaller and more human than ever before. “Truce?”

Trixie is exhausted. While Pearl’s voice can often be soothing, as pleasant as her very appearance, the neurosis under every word made it heavy and painful, and neither of them, she realises, are heartless. They’re all just girls desperate for a place to come home. So she nods, rests a hand on Pearl’s knee to repeat “Truce,” as authentically as she can and rises, ready to immerse herself in the celebration and hope awaiting inside instead of festering in Pearl’s hopelessness any longer.

As Trixie retreats, Pearl tries to gather her thoughts. She’d expected her apology to sound sincere and genuine, to allow Trixie a first glimpse into her old self, the real her she’s trying to become again, but the moment she arrived her whole situation had become too much for her brain to handle and she’d spouted out nothing, she felt, of value. She wonders if she’ll have time to pop to the shop across the street for more cigarettes before Katya sends over the next person she requested, and considers laughing briefly when she tries to conjure the image of Katya like a scout trying to lead lost girls through to her like some kind of interviewer, but all amusement falls from her when she sees the stern face of Michelle out the corner of her eye. Another demon to face.

Michelle doesn’t lower herself to the same level as Pearl. Reaching her, she doesn’t lie with her body contorted in ways that should not be possible and nick a fag like Katya, doesn’t curl up on the curb in a ball and look up earnestly like Adore, nor does she stretch out with long legs extended into the road like Trixie. Instead she just stands, looking down on the pathetic form in front of her, and Pearl has never felt more ashamed or guilty, not in all her outbursts, all her moments with Violet, all her fights with Trixie. She wants to get it over with as quick as possible.

“I didn’t sleep with Sean,” she starts with a sigh, trying to block out the fleeting memories of the night she yelled that at Michelle, drunk and high and stupid with unbridled emotion. “I just wanted to find a way to make you hurt the way I was. I crossed a line.”

“Yes.” She responds, features slightly relaxing. Pearl loves her. “But you did sleep with Violet.”

And there it is, the elephant in the room for weeks, months, over a year. The world’s worst kept secret she convinced herself was the best. In theory, she knew that most of the girls, hell, most of the workers at the club in general, must’ve known, with the exception of Trixie and Adore, perhaps, but nobody ever said anything or even hinted, so she told herself over and over again that they didn’t know, that this was just for her and Violet, something for them to enjoy in private. Just the two of them. But the club is her family, and family know everything, whether they acknowledge it or not. She can’t deny it.

“Yes.”

“Multiple times.”

“Yes.” She thought calling people out to speak to her like this would be good, that she’d have full control over the situation. Trust Michelle to hold all power over her effortlessly. Instantly. She watches her mouth open again, ready to speak more unbearable truths, to tell her things she hasn’t even spoken aloud yet, so she cuts her off with a lulling, classically Pearl voice, proud. “Michelle, I want to come home.”

“You came here, despite everything. You’re already home.” The words are gratifying, like some kind of spell that saves her, redeems her, makes everything feel not-so-hopeless and finished. For a moment, the tightness of her lungs relieves itself as she thinks about how easy her next conversations with Kim and Shea should be after that, until Michelle lays a hand on her shoulder and regains her attention.

“I know you’ve been sending Katya in search of all of the girls for you to talk to but I stopped her. I told her to just send in the one that matters, because I knew you wouldn’t call her. So talk it out, get out your own head and don’t you ever pull any of that shit again or you will be out so quick it’ll make your head spin.”

“Yes ma’am,” she responds to Michelle’s retreating form in a moment of pure catharsis.

“And don’t you ever fucking call me that again, bitch!” Pearl finally allows herself to laugh, open and real and it feels so good, so freeing and real until the tightness in her chest returns and she stops, mouth still open, caught dead. Michelle doesn’t fuck around, and she could recognise the silhouette approaching her anywhere.

“Violet,” she breathes out, stunned. It wasn’t that she didn’t ask for Violet because she had nothing to say, she just had far too much and couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to decide what was appropriate to tell her. She can barely think at all in Violet’s presence, it’s what’s lead her to the position she’s in now, sat helpless on a curb with no fags and too many feelings outside the wedding of her best friend, who approaches her like she’s a wounded animal, all gentle eyes and slow movements. It’s a Violet most of the world hasn’t seen, and she wonders how much of this side Max has seen. Wonders if it’s more than she has. Wonders whether she really wants to know the answer to that.

Unlike Michelle, Violet sits, but not next to her like any other regular human. Muttering a petulant “I didn’t want the fucking thing anyway,” she removes the long veil from her head, places it on the ground and tries to lower herself to sit on it, fighting the control of her corset, right in the road, directly opposite Pearl. Face to face. She lets out a groan as she finally sits and stretches her legs out so her feet sit in Pearl’s lap. It feels too familiar, and to disguise her expressions Pearl looks down and fiddles with the white faux fur attached by hand, she’s sure, to the stilettos. “You wanted to talk?”

“No,” Pearl admits, because this is Violet. “Michelle wanted us to talk.”

“About…?” And she’s stumped. Of course she knows what Michelle was insinuating but she doesn’t have the words for that yet, isn’t ready to open and fully delve into that can of worms, she’s dumbstruck and overwhelmed and terrified. She reaches desperately for something, anything that matters and can get across her point in a subtle and ambiguous way that she doesn’t have to fully come to terms with. “Why are you marrying him? Wait, no, why are you getting married in the first place?”

Violet doesn’t look half as offended as she’d expected, but throws out pretty quickly a defensive “Because I’m in love!” as she kicks Pearl’s hands away from her feet. She’s unsure if it’s an act of petulance or protection over her brand new shoes.

“Are you? Or at least, is that the real reason for all this, not the pregnancy drama?”

“Are you?”

She ignores that, tries to persist. “I just want to make sure you’re doing this for the right reasons. I mean, Jesus Violet, you’re only twenty three.”

“Answer my question. Are you?” Violet’s tone is pointed, eyes look black as they pierce her, imploring.

“Answer mine first.” She gulps. She didn’t want to have this conversation, curses Michelle and Katya and Violet and herself and any greater being if they exist.

“That seems like all the answer I need. But not what I want. And you know me, Pearl. I always get what I want.” Pearl can’t grasp her tone and work out whether it’s seductive or intimidating as she tilts her head to the side, capturing her eyes in a fierce gaze. She finds it both, equally. “I’m getting married to secure my future with somebody I love, who can love, take care of, and provide for me for the rest of my life. I’m in love. Are you?” She tilts her head to the other side this time, eyes slightly wide, all curious and innocent.

“I– who would I even be in love with?” Pearl stammers out, barely able to form words. She feels caught off-guard entirely. Like Michelle, Violet knows how to command anything and immediately take charge of the situation. It used to be one of her favourite things about her.

“Me.” She stares harder, refusing to allow Pearl to look away.

This is Violet. The girl she calls her best friend, the girls she’s spent endless nights with, countless intimate moments, the girl she’s admitted most of her secrets and all her darkest thoughts to. This is Violet, who she promised never to lie to and never to hurt. She doesn’t break promises, but now she finds the two in complete opposition. She knows which one she has to break, but she can’t bear it.

“Do you love me?” Violet tries again, but it’s not a firm and demanding as before. It’s by no means soft or gentle, not at all sympathetic, it’s just a plain and sincere question. She could’ve been asking what she had for breakfast.

“No.” She tries. “I mean, yes. You’re one of the girls, you know. You’re family, and I love you all. You’re my best friend and I care about you more than anything. Of course I love you.” The lump in her throat swells as she speaks and she tries not to let it affect her words or block her airway. “But are you in love with me?” Never satisfied, she thinks, mentally rolling her eyes.

“No.” Pearl lies. Violet bites on the tip of her own tongue.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I care about you a lot but I don’t think it’s love.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I promised you I’d come. And I don’t break my promises.” She lies again, but it’s enough to placate Violet, who nods once, assured. Pearl watches with hungry eyes as she takes in a deep, sharp breath and smiles.

“Good. Well, you found out why I’m getting married and I found out why you’re here so everything is even, right?” Pearl nods quickly. Violet pulls her feet out of Pearl’s lap and places her hands on the ground, bracing herself to stand. Before she does, though, she reconnects their gaze with friendly, slightly guarded eyes.

“Are you staying to watch the ceremony? Or did you just come to fix things with everyone?”

“I don’t know.”

“OK.” It feels too anticlimactic an ending. Violet must sense it too as she stands, because she looks back as she picks up her ruined veil. “It starts in five. I’ll see you in there, or– maybe not. But hey, you can keep this.” She tosses the veil into Pearl’s lap nonchalantly. “And Pearl?” She halts her movements and softens. “I’m glad you’re back. And happy.”

“Me too. With you. I’m glad you’re happy with him, and in love. You deserve it.” Blatant lies mixed with truth. Pearl thought she had turned over a new leaf. What a dumb bitch she is.

Violet walks away, outfit still as white as ever, right down to the shoes. She pushes through the booming double doors like an ice queen and out of Pearl’s sight entirely, leaving her on the curb facing the car park with nothing but a battered veil and her thoughts for company.

By time she’s finally collected herself, ran back through every conversation of the afternoon in her mind, the sun is setting slightly and blinding her and she decides to go inside. The concept of time had left her grasp a while ago and she’s not sure if the ceremony has started or finished by this point, but she decides to take her chances. She promised Violet since they were barely adults, long before they should legally have been in the club, that she’d always be by her side. Her wedding included. So she stands without another thought and strides towards the wooden double doors, a veil in one hand and an old clutch bag in the other, and pushes open the doors with her fist and a little too much force, stumbling through them like an idiot as she loses her balance and slips on one leg. When she regains control of her limbs to stop herself from falling to the ground and embarrassing herself entirely, she is met with around forty faces turned in her direction. The heaving wooden doors had slammed together behind her with a thud and, naturally, drawn all attention in the room to her pathetic, bumbling figure. She tries to conjure up something to say and, devoid of any sense of dignity, holds the soiled veil clutched in her fist up.

“You forgot your veil.”

Being such a mess, so mortifyingly out of control, she expected the guests to laugh at her. What she hadn’t expected was the stoic silence she was met with, eyes flitting between people and back at her, mixtures of shock, confusion and utter disdain upon their faces. She slowly lowers her hand and watches Katya grab Trixie’s hand, chewing on the skin of her bottom lip. Michelle will be furious if it bleeds, she thinks momentarily, but it’s neither the time nor place, and she hadn’t meant to cause a stir but she can’t see an empty seat and an all-too-familiar voice breathes out “Pearl” with such ambivalent emotion that she seems to have forgotten every reason she decide to come in the first place.

“Pearl.” This time the voice is Michelle’s, speaking to her like she’s a stubborn child. “You–”

“What is she doing here?” Max demands to an unresponsive Violet, whose full body had turned to Pearl upon her arrival, crimson lips parted and eyes wider than she’d ever seen them. The quickening, deep rise and fall of her chest as she breathes is visible even from the other side of the aisle. Realising he’s not going to get anything from his soon-to-be wife, Max rounds on her instead. “You weren’t invited. Get out of my wedding.”

For once in her life, she decides, she’s going to stand her ground. She’s going to follow her gut and do what feels right and she isn’t going to give in and let people down. Violet is twenty three and about to be married because she knows who she is and what she wants and goes for it. Pearl is twenty four and it’s time she starts acting upon that too. “Violet invited me.”

Max scoffs. “No she didn’t. We wrote the guestlist together, you weren’t send an invitation.”

“No.” She screws her eyes shut for a second before they meet Violet’s wide ones, knowing the words are going to hurt. “She invited me at the club. Face to face.”

Max rounds on Violet again, who is still motionless. “Is this true?” He does not demand, as she’d expected, but asks softly with a furrowed brow. Hurt, perhaps.

Violet nods slowly. Pearl watches her throat bob as she swallows. In barely more than a whisper she tries to speak again, a gentle “Pearl, I-” before she is cut off this time by their minister. Everything and everybody is in disarray.

“I believe we were at the vows, yes?” She aims to Max, nodding frantically to try and regain some sense of order. Violet is elsewhere, frozen, as he nods back at her and places his hands gently on her waist, turning her to face him as he expresses his love for her in words Pearl is certain only half the room is really hearing. She resigns herself to watch the ceremony standing, watch her best friend sign her life away to a man twenty years older than her who hates Pearl and has to physically move her in order to get her to marry him. It all feels so wrong. She hates that Violet wants this. A bitter, selfish, dark part of her prays that Violet doesn’t really want this but she silences it.

As Max says “Till death do us part,” with a small smile on his lips and his hands clutching Violet’s, Violet shuts her eyes. It’s the first time she’s moved of her own accord since Pearl’s entrance. Her eyes are squeezed so tightly shut her eyeshadow is barely visible and Pearl wants to call out to her and stop her, to press her index fingers against the wrinkled eyelids and flatten them out, to tell her her makeup is going to be ruined, but she can’t. There’s an aisle and a man and a ring between them, and all the man is doing is saying “Violet!” once in a sharp whisper, like a parent berating their child while trying not to embarrass themself. Like anyone could ever be embarrassed of Violet.

Taking in what looks like a huge breath, Violet opens her eyes and slowly extracts her hands from Max’s grip. She looks at him with sorrowful eyes and turns away to face the aisle. Like some sort of Medusa, she turns Pearl to stone as her gaze fixes on her, and this time she speaks properly, with volume and power and certainty.

“Pearl,” despite the newfound conviction, she is soft when she speaks, her voice all breathy and airy, perfectly regal. It’s not the first time she’s been so compelling Pearl has wanted nothing more than to get on her knees before her, but this time it is nothing but respect and a feeling of pure unworthiness that makes her feel as though she should kneel, or bow or curtsy. The aisle is short but Violet finds a way to walk only halfway down it, an equal distance from Max and her. It’s all too much and there are forty pairs of eyes trained on them that Violet seems barely even aware of as she speaks again.

This time, there is no teasing, no fleeting insinuations and speaking in metaphor and half-sentences. She is plain and direct when she finally asks “Are you in love with me?”

And while part of Pearl had been fully expecting the question, she is still somehow taken aback by the words. This is it, her very last chance, the precipice of their whole relationship and Violet’s future. It’s the final opportunity she has to act upon what she really feels, regardless of the consequences. It’s now or never. Before she opens her mouth, however, Violet speaks again. “Pearl. I need to know. I can’t get married without knowing everything there is to know about myself and my life. I’m about to give my whole future to him, until death. I have to know. Are you in love with me?”

The question has been asked so many times it’s beginning to become unbearable. But so is the old Pearl, so she straightens up, looks Violet dead in the eyes and tries to prevent her voice from cracking as she says without a hint of regret or hestiance “Yes.”

Violet takes one step closer. One fucking step. “Say it.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, just for the two of them. She does not command, implore or desperately plead. She just speaks, encouraging Pearl to speak again like she’s sharing another secret with her beneath silk sheets. And Pearl is melted by her gaze. “I love you.” She swallows the lump in her throat and it leaves for good. Her body feels light. It’s a feeling she hadn’t remembered. “I’m in love with you.”

Behind Violet, Pearl can hear Max stuttering out single syllables with an expression like a fish, all typical masculine outrage and bewilderment, completely struck wordless by the idea of his wedding day being anything less than perfect. But as Violet approaches her with an unreadable expression and grabs onto her upper arms with both hands, she finds she couldn’t care less about him, or anyone else for that matter. They have forty people as an attentive audience unable to tear their eyes away from the soap opera drama they have a front row seat to, but she doesn’t care about them either. Because Violet is gritting her teeth and pulling her closer as she turns and says, with only a slither of apology laced in her tone “Max, I can’t marry you. I love you, and you could give me the future I always planned for myself, but I’m twenty three now. And that’s not the future I want. So I’m sorry, but I guess I’m cancelling the wedding?”

The last phrase comes out more as a question, her voice breaking slightly and Pearl fears, for a moment, that Violet has made the wrong decision - is still barely able to process that Violet has made a decision, that she had a decision to make - but then she turns back to Pearl, who sees that her voice had wobbled as a huge grin had graced her face, mouth half open as though more than pleasantly surprised with her own decision and eyes sparkling.

Pearl loves her. Pearl is so in love with her and her toothy grins and twinkling eyes and when Violet ecstatically says “I– I love you too!” with a furrowed brow and breathy voice, completely dazed by her own life, Pearl feels giddy and silly and she laughs. Her hands go to Violet’s hips, slightly tickled by feathers as she pulls her closer and they laugh right into each other’s faces, ugly, loud, completely unromantic and more than perfect.

And when Violet finally kisses her, long and lingering and interrupted by dizzy grins, soft yet firm lips making more promises than even Pearl has and washing away every moment of tension she’d had out on that fucking curb, more fulfilling than the cigarettes she’d been craving for what feels like forever now and more addictive than nicotine could ever be, she feels like the old Pearl all over again. She can vaguely hear a man wolf whistle and the newfound defiant side of her itches to put her middle finger up until Violet, beautiful, perfect, unromantic yet still in love with Pearl, does it first and Pearl pulls her closer, breaking the kiss to rest their foreheads and noses together, not yet ready to face her smeared lipstick. Katya is whooping, she’s sure, and she can feel the grins from the girls from the club radiating off them.

“What now?” Violet asks as she pulls her face away, eyes flickering down to their conjoined hands almost self-consciously. It’s a very un-Violet like gesture, the kind to put her on edge for a moment, until she continues. “I’m not letting you be the Elaine to my Ben so you better have a plan.” Always so demanding.

“When have I ever had a plan for anything?” Pearl responds, shaking her head with her lips upturned and eyes more fond than she’d like. Violet laughs again, loud and obnoxious, turning away to face the girls from the club. As they’d got caught up in each other, the guests had for the most part made their way to the bar, trying to make the most of its availability before they inevitably get kicked out. Their club family, however stand in a cluster closeby, waiting for them to break away so they can round on them, and for a minute Pearl has flashbacks to playing football as a child and the team gathering her up after scoring a goal. Violet, she thinks, is the greatest goal she’s ever scored.

Alaska is softly sobbing into the crook of Sharon’s neck, who has one arm wrapped around her and is laughing hysterically as Katya bounces up and down behind her with her hands on her shoulders, talking endlessly about everything too quickly for Pearl to process. Violet is wrapped under her arm now as people speak to them, congratulations and jokes and bets and claims they knew all along tossed on them unrelentlessly until Michelle appears.

“How do you feel?” She asks, and Pearl doesn’t know who she’s directed it at. She lets Violet speak first.

“This was the right decision.” Pearl’s heart feels full. “I would’ve been signing my life away to him, bound to him for eternity. I don’t think I’m meant to belong to anyone like that.” She nudges Pearl with her hip. “This one wouldn’t dare try me. She knows me too well.”

Michelle laughs, hearty and glad. “Good luck with that one,” she says, addressing Pearl this time. “She’ll keep you on your toes. I hope you know what you signed up for,” she jokes with a wink.

“So do I.” She returns with false dread, teeth gritted and brow raised as Violet screams beside her and pushes her away momentarily, pulling her back by her hand into a chaste kiss as Michelle retreats before turning to her, eyes doe-like and youthful with sudden sincerity.

“You know you could’ve avoided all this drama if you’d just said yes outside. I knew you loved me all along, but I couldn’t be with someone who couldn’t admit that to me. I’m too old to be ashamed of anything anymore, especially not love.”

It’s too much for Pearl to take. She is brimful with love. “Shut the fuck up,” she simply says with a grin, shoving her head slightly. “You’re a fucking baby.”

“Your fucking baby.”

“Oh, do you have a plan for us now, since I’m apparently so useless?” she shoots back, all playful and flirty, and god how she’d missed this.

“Maybe,” Violet replies conspiratorially, tapping the side of her nose before she plants a big, red kiss on Pearl’s cheek. Pearl fucking hates her. “I love you!” Violet adds with a grin.

#rpdr fanfiction #violet chachki #pearl liaison #katya zamolodchikova #trixie mattel #pearlet #cisgirl au #angst #fluff #pipedream #concrit welcome #submission #lesbian au

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