Luca

However, as he watches you discreetly, he realizes you are not alone. There’s a guy, a bulky man accompanying you. He says something and you laugh a little and then both of you settle on a table by the window. 

Namjoon frowns at how easy it seems to be for the guy to make you laugh. You keep talking to him animatedly with gestures and all - and it stings Namjoon right in his heart. 

When was the last time you talked to him like that? 

He watches as the server comes with your order, even though you two didn’t even place the order yet. Oh? So you and your friend are regular here? So much so that even the staff know your order? 

Sipping on his americano again, he munches on the ice as he keeps his eyes trained on your table. 

At some point the mood around your table dims. Although he is too far to hear the conversation, he can tell that something the guy asks or says dims your mood. You hang your head low and cover your eyes with your hands. 

The guy stands up from his seat and wraps your entire form with his bigger one in a bear hug. You neither move away or push him away, if anything, you seem to be leaning on his touch, relaxing and wait… wait is that your hand holding onto his? 

Kim Seokjin

“What do you wanna eat? Galbi jjim? From your favourite place?” Seokjin tries to lighten up your mood by suggesting your favorite dish from your favorite restaurant but you only sigh. 

“I'm kind of tired, Seokjin. I appreciate the thought but I'd really like to go home.” You offer him the same tight lipped smile that you have been sporting for the whole night. And if he admits then each of the time your ignorance is breaking him a little bit more. 

“Okay then, let's go to my place. I'll cook something for you. What about some janchi guksu?” He rushes to do something to keep you with him. But you don't look convinced, not even a bit. 

“Seokjin-” 

“Y/N is that you?” Another voice interrupts you from completing what you were about to. 

You whip your head to entertain the source of the voice. Seokjin does the same. And his eyes fall on a guy with platinum blonde hair, a pretty face and a set of plump lips. 

“Jimin?” You muse, eyes going big. Taking steps away from where you are standing with him, you almost run to the guy. The guy also crosses a bit of the distance to meet you in the middle and then Seokjin sees it happening. 

He sees you jumping on his arms and the guy, Jimin, wrapping you in a bear hug. You two giggle, say something that sounds like meeting each other after long but Seokjin is not sane enough to comprehend the speeches entirely.

Min Yoongi

Min Yoongi is not a jealous man by any means but you have been giving Seokjin much more attention than you have given him the whole week. And top of everything, you seem kind of indifferent towards his whole existence (which he tried hard not to worry about). Especially the way you almost denied to be his plus one for this party, he knows something is off, but he just can’t find a proper anchor to ground the theory yet. 

He is in the middle of making his way towards an elderly couple when he sees it happening. Seokjin is cupping your cheeks with both hands and leaning extremely close to your face doing something he can’t really find out from this angle. 

All of the blood from his face drains away as he realizes what it looks like. Fuck socializing! Yoongi changes his route and runs towards the corner of the room where you and Seokjin are currently standing. As he gets closer, he sees Seokjin blowing air in your eyes in order to remove something and then wiping the tears that rolled down your eye with his thumb. 

His eyes move towards your hand, which is holding onto Seokjin’s wrist protectively as if you are afraid of him disappearing. 

“Is it okay now?” Seokjin murmurs. 

“Yeah. thank you Seokjin-ssi.” you smile as Seokjin retracts his hands from your face.

“Hyung! What are you doing?” Yoongi’s voice comes out of the cage of his throat but not without the tone of betrayal. 

Jung Hoseok

Hoseok’s inside twists painfully, his heart lurches inside his ribcage as he asks himself if this handsome guy is the reason behind your sudden decision of calling the relationship off. He takes a step back, ready to turn his back and walk away, but no. He won’t go back until he has an answer. So he steps forward instead. 

“Y/N.” he calls your name, you stop. The guy detaches himself from you and cranes his neck to take a look at him. You do the same. 

“Hoseok?” your face turns somber as soon as your eyes fall on his figure. 

“Y/N. I will wait in the car. Take your time, okay?” the guy smiles at you and walks away without sparing him another glance. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask him, eyes starting to turn glossy. 

Hoseok takes rapid steps towards you, “is he the reason? Is that guy the reason behind your sudden decision to break things off with me?” it is very unlikely for him to get angry. But Hoseok is very angry right now. How could you… how could you do this to him? 

“What? What are you-” 

“I can see how he is giving you all the hugs and probably kisses that I could not give you. Is that why you chose to break up with me over text, huh? Tell me?” his hand grabs your wrist as he tugs at you. 

Park Jimin

Gulping and inhaling a long breath, he looks up at the sky and thanks his lucky stars for giving him an opportunity. Taking a few rushed steps towards you, he stops in the middle. A guy comes out of the restaurant and hugs you from behind. You don’t get startled, you rather lean into him as he places his head on your shoulder blade. 

“Aren’t you cold?” the guy asks, voice sweet and low. 

“A bit.” you reply, giggling a little. The guy detaches himself from your body, unzips his leather jacket and pulls you in his chest, covering you with himself. His hands wrap around your middle squeezing you like he can’t get enough of you. Jimin watches standing in the middle of the road as you tilt your head and the guy starts placing kisses along your throat. 

You giggle even more, twisting your head towards the direction where Jimin is standing almost frozen. And then your eyes open, you take him in, recognize him and the smile from your face vanishes right away. 

“Jimin?” you call him.

Crossing the remaining distance Jimin comes to stand right before you. “Hi” he greets, eyes going from you to your partner. The guy doesn’t move an inch from you, doesn’t show the decency of maintaining a respectable distance. He stands still very much wrapped around you. “How are you?” 

Kim Taehyung

The elevator opens and he hears two voices speaking to each other right away. As he steps outside and turns right on the corridor - he sees you. But you are not alone. 

You are standing in the embrace of another man. Yes, right in his arms as he is rubbing on your back soothingly. Taehyung’s heart drops to his stomach as several fears start springing into his brain. You are not… you are not betraying him, right?

“Hey! Just talk to him okay? I am sure it’s not too late.” the guy says, still rubbing on your back as your body shakes. Only then Taehyung realizes that you are sobbing. By ‘him’ does the guy mean him? Himself? As in Kim Taehyung?

“But Namjoon…” he hears your voice as you stand straight, now out of the man’s arms, “I have tried. I have tried asking him the problem but he never gave me a straight answer. I think-” you sob again, “I think he doesn’t really like me.” 

“Y/N, Y/N!” The guy holds your face in his both hands, “calm down please. You have been crying all evening. If you keep crying, you will soon get dehydrated.” 

What? You have been crying all evening? Because you think he doesn’t like you? When the truth is that he is irrevocably in love with you? No! He can’t let you think otherwise. Not even for a second more. 

“Y/N…” he lets his voice echo in the empty space of the corridor and watches as you turn your head to look at him. 

Jeon Jungkook

This is the first time he is witnessing an action from you in the last five days. So not thinking much, he taps on the notification, unlocks his phone and waits for the story to load. And oh… it’s you… with another guy? 

And he knows who it is. It is Min Yoongi - the guy you have had a crush on for the longest time. Jungkook’s back straightens on its own as he watches how the man has an arm over your shoulder and his chin placed on the top of your head. He is smiling, so are you. You two look like a couple and that makes him very uncomfortable. 

Why would you post a lovey-dovey picture with your ex-cursh when you know your current boyfriend can see it and can get jealous? What are you up to? Is this a trap of making him contact you? Oh that must be it. 

But Jeon Jungkook is not a man who gives in easily. So he shakes himself out of the thought and plays his anime. A few minutes goes by but he can not focus on the show. Whenever he blinks, the picture of you and Yoongi flashes before his eyes. His mind is at a war with his heart and he doesn’t know what to do. 

After almost an hour of silently fighting, he decides to give up. Grabbing his phone again, he dials your number without wasting a second more. 

You receive in the second ring. 

“Hello-”

“Are you home right now?” he rushes to ask, giving you almost no time to even greet. 

“Yeah. Why?” comes the reply, calm and almost uninterested.

“I am coming.” he invites himself and cuts the call before you can object or agree. 

Read the full fic here.

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sawamura daichi

you’d spent hours writing daichi’s letter, every word rewritten three times until it looked neat and perfect. you found him leading stretches after practice and your heart almost gave out.

you shuffled up, shoved the envelope into his hand and blurted, “don’t read it until later!” before bolting.

daichi blinked, confused, then glanced down. one look at your careful handwriting and he already knew it was something big. and suddenly—you were running away from him. oh no. not happening.

“y/n! wait!” he shouted, jogging after you with dad speed. you squealed, weaving between benches and bags, but he was faster, stronger, and absolutely not letting his precious sweetheart, out of his sight.

he cornered you gently against the gym wall, smiling that warm captain smile that made you weak. “you don’t need to run from me. especially not after giving me something this important.” he tucked the letter neatly into his pocket like a sacred charm. “i’ll keep this safe. i’ll keep you safe.”

…was it just you, or did his grip on your wrist linger a little too long?

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

sugawara kōshi

suga was casually checking homework in the empty classroom when you nervously placed a folded note on his desk. “read it later, okay?” you whispered before sprinting out.

he waited until the hallway was quiet before opening it. his eyes danced over the words, and a slow grin spread across his face. oh, you were too cute.

“y/n~” he sing-songed, standing so fast his chair toppled over. his voice echoed down the hallway as he strolled after you, pretending to be calm but moving fast. “you can’t just say you like me and vanish. don’t you know i’ll always find you?”

you tried hiding behind the stairwell, but suddenly—he was right behind you. “boo.” his whisper made you jump so hard you nearly fell, but he caught your wrist smoothly.

his chuckle was soft against your ear. “don’t run, sweetheart. i’ve been waiting for this.” he folded the note neatly, slipped it into his breast pocket, then tapped it twice like sealing a promise.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

azumane asahi

too nervous to hand it over directly, you slipped your letter into asahi’s shoe locker. but later, when you peeked back, you found him just standing there staring at it like it was radioactive.

he finally unfolded it, and his entire face went crimson. “a-ahhh, she—” his voice cracked. and then he saw you down the hall. your eyes met.

you bolted.

“w-wait!! please, don’t—don’t run!!” he panicked, fumbling after you, nearly tripping over his own feet in desperation.

“it’s embarrassing!!” you squealed.

“but i—I don’t want you to think i don’t feel the same!!”

he finally caught you near the gym doors, breathless, hair frazzled. he clutched the letter with both hands like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“i’ll… i’ll treasure this. i’ll treasure you. i promise.” his shaky determination made your heart squeeze. and the way he slipped your note carefully into his jacket pocket like it’s national treasure.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

nishinoya yū

you’d tried to be subtle, slipping a folded letter into noya’s palm during practice. “don’t open it until later!” you hissed.

but he was nishinoya. of course he ripped it open immediately.

“WHAT?! Y/N LOVES ME?!” he screamed so loud half the gym dropped their water bottles. tanaka screamed too, because that’s what best friends do.

you shrieked and bolted, but noya was already tearing after you at full libero speed. “YOU THINK YOU CAN OUTRUN THE GUARDIAN DEITY OF KARASUNO?!”

you sprinted down the hallway, heart racing, but suddenly he lunged and blocked your path like a defensive wall. he was bouncing on his toes, grinning like a maniac.

“so it’s true, right? you mean it?” his dark eyes were wide, gleaming almost desperately. when you nodded, embarrassed, he slammed a hand against the wall beside your head, leaning in close.

“good. because now you’re mine. forever.” he laughed, but his grip on your shoulder was a little too tight to be just a joke.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

tanaka ryūnosuke

you tried to be sneaky and tucked the letter under his water bottle. but tanaka noticed instantly.

“huh? what’s this?” he asked, ripping it open right then and there. the second he read “i like you” his soul ignited.

“OH MY GOD. OH MY—”

you were already halfway down the hallway when he bellowed, “Y/N, BABY!!! TRUE LOVE IS REAL!!” and barreled after you like a man possessed.

he caught you and spun you around dramatically, nearly dropping you but catching you again with surprising tenderness. “I ACCEPT YOUR LOVE!! I SWEAR TO TREASURE IT FOREVER!!” he shouted, eyes blazing with sincerity.

and yet, when he carefully folded your letter and slipped it into his pocket with reverence, the way his hand lingered there felt almost worshipful. it is

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

ennoshita chikara

you slipped him the letter after practice, mumbling, “please don’t read it now,” before running away.

ennoshita read it immediately.

he sighed, smiling to himself. “she’s too cute…” and then—he followed. calm, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

you peeked over your shoulder only to see him jogging calmly behind you. “you knew i’d chase you, right? you can’t just drop something like this on me and disappear.”

when he finally caught you, he simply held the letter out between you. “this is precious. you’re precious. don’t run from me, okay?” his voice was steady, but there was a sharp glint in his eyes, like he wasn’t asking—he was deciding.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

kinoshita hisashi

you slipped the letter into his math notebook, heart pounding. hours later, you heard him practically shout from across the campus.

“NO WAY—Y/N?!”

next thing you knew, he was sprinting toward you with the speed of a man possessed, waving the note above his head. “Y/N!!! YOU—YOU LIKE ME?!”

you panicked, darting behind the gym, but he found you instantly.

“is this real?” he panted, smiling like he’d just won the lottery. “please tell me it’s real.” his hands shook as he clutched the letter to his chest. “you don’t know how long i’ve wanted this…”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

narita kazuhito

you dropped the letter on his desk before class ended and bolted.

narita stared at it for a long time, then slowly opened it.

he read the first line and froze. then, determined, he searched for you.

he found you outside the school gate, laughing breathlessly as he caught your wrist. “you thought you could just give me this and leave me hanging? not happening.”

he squeezed your hand gently, his smile tender but firm. “i’ll take this seriously. i’ll take you seriously. don’t run away from me again, okay?” and though his tone was soft, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of a promise you weren’t allowed to break.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

kageyama tobio

you shoved the letter at him after practice and ran.

kageyama stood frozen, then opened it. the second he realized it was a confession, his entire face turned scarlet. “eh—EH?!”

he sprinted after you, sneakers pounding on the floor. “WAIT! YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THIS AND LEAVE!” his voice cracked.

he finally caught you, gripping the note so tightly it crinkled. “you… you like me? for real? then—then don’t run away. i’ll keep up. i’ll always keep up. you’re never leaving me behind.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

hinata shōyō

you tucked the letter into his lunchbox, and when he opened it, he screamed. “W-WHAT—”

he spotted you across the gym and took off like a rocket. “Y/N!!”

you dashed, but he was bouncing around you like a hyper puppy. “is this real?! you like me?!” his face was so red he looked ready to combust. “oh my god oh my god, me too!! don’t ever run away, i’ll always catch you!”

he hugged your note against his chest like it was oxygen, his grin wide and desperate. ‘good. finally.’

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

tsukishima kei

you slipped the letter into his textbook. tsukishima read it, raised an eyebrow, and smirked.

you immediately bolted, but his long strides ate up the hallway. “seriously? you thought you could drop this on me and run?”

he cornered you against the lockers, leaning down until his glasses glinted. “you like me, huh? then stop running. because you’re mine now.” his calm tone made your skin prickle more than yelling ever could.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

yamaguchi tadashi

you handed him the letter after practice, cheeks red, before running off.

yamaguchi unfolded it with trembling hands. “she… she likes me?” his heart practically leapt out of his chest.

he spotted you running and dashed after you without thinking. “y/n! wait!” he caught up, breathless, but grinning. “don’t… don’t run. i’ve wanted this for so long.”

he clutched the letter so tightly it wrinkled. “you don’t know how much this means to me. i’ll take care of it. i’ll take care of you.” his soft smile made you weak—yet his desperate grip on your wrist told you he meant every word literally.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a/n: i already have a few drafts for other teams 😮‍💨

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

For a moment, the world tilted.

Y/N blinked, certain she had the wrong address, her heart hammering violently in her chest. He stood there just as handsome as ever, though sharper, older, more refined. His eyes widened, mirroring her shock.

“Y/N…” he breathed before catching himself, voice tightening, “Oh—hi.”

Her lips parted, words lost.

And then she felt arms wrap around her from behind.

“Y/N!” Minhyun’s voice was cheerful as he pulled her into a warm hug, oblivious to the storm brewing in the doorway. He pressed a kiss to her temple, smiling proudly. “I’m so glad you came. Come in, I want you to meet my family.”

He turned to the man still frozen in the doorway.

“This is my brother, Jungkook.”

The air crackled. Y/N and Jungkook stared at each other for a heartbeat too long, before instinct snapped them into performance.

“Nice to meet you,” Jungkook said smoothly, extending a hand.

“Nice to meet you too,” Y/N echoed, forcing her lips into a polite smile as she slid her palm into his.

Their hands touched. The contact was brief, professional—yet electric.

Her stomach dropped. His eyes flickered, just slightly, betraying the same jolt she felt.

They shook hands like strangers, both silently pretending they hadn’t once been everything to each other.

-------------

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter as Minhyun led her inside, though her pulse hadn’t steadied since that door opened.

His parents were warm, welcoming, immediately ushering her to the table set with an immaculate spread. She thanked them graciously, slipping into conversation as though she weren’t sitting directly across from the man who once knew her better than anyone else in the world.

Jungkook.

She could feel him even when she wasn’t looking at him. The occasional rumble of his laugh as his father told a joke, the clink of his fork against porcelain. Every few minutes, her eyes betrayed her and flicked across the table—and without fail, she found him already watching. Their gazes collided and darted away, again and again, until it felt like a dangerous game they were both losing.

Minhyun, oblivious, kept the conversation light. He spoke about his residency, about the grueling hours and the satisfaction of saving lives. His parents beamed with pride, Y/N smiled at all the right moments, and Jungkook… Jungkook sat silently for stretches, drinking his wine too quickly, jaw tight every time Minhyun reached over to touch Y/N’s hand.

The meal was nearly finished when Minhyun’s phone buzzed. He frowned, checking the screen.

“Damn, I’m on call tonight,” he muttered. Looking apologetic, he pressed a kiss to Y/N’s cheek. “I have to go. Emergency at the hospital. I’ll make it up to you, promise.”

“It’s okay,” she reassured softly.

He turned to his brother. “Jungkook, can you walk her out for me? I don’t want her going alone.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to Y/N’s, a thousand unspoken things sparking between them in that half-second. But his reply was calm, casual.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Outside, the cool night air wrapped around them as the door shut behind. For a moment, silence stretched, filled only by the faint chirp of crickets and the pounding of Y/N’s heart.

She shook her head, half to herself, half to him. “No wonder Minhyun felt so familiar.” Her voice was quiet, bitterly amused. “You’re related.”

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck, a nervous gesture she remembered all too well. He looked older, sharper—but in that moment, he was the same boy who used to struggle with his words when his feelings ran too deep.

A thousand questions flickered in his eyes. Two years of distance, silence, unfinished business pressing in on him.

But what he blurted out instead was raw, unfiltered.

“Are you really gonna marry him?”

Y/N froze, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Then she scoffed, sharp and humorless.

“Well, that was the plan.”

Something in his face faltered.

“Why?” he asked, voice low, demanding.

Her laugh was brittle, cutting through the night like glass. “Why do you think? As you know, my past relationships haven’t exactly… worked out well.” Her gaze bore into him pointedly, every word carrying the weight of their history. “I want a family. I want stability. And it doesn’t seem like anyone else is willing to give me that.”

Her tone was cold, clinical—so unlike the girl who once whispered her dreams into his chest at two in the morning and refused to leave bed until she got a kiss.

Jungkook’s lips parted, then pressed together tightly. He had a million things to say, but none seemed enough. Not when she stood there looking at him like a stranger, hiding every hurt behind that sharp exterior.

For the first time in years, he realized just how much he’d lost.

------------

The memory came uninvited, tugging Y/N backward in time until the night air around her seemed to dissolve into the humid warmth of a campus gym.

Two years ago.

The court lights buzzed faintly overhead, the wooden floor gleaming under fluorescent glow. Jungkook stood in front of her, impossibly tall in his sleeveless practice jersey, a basketball spinning lazily between his hands.

He was already a legend on campus. Captain of the basketball team in just their second year—his skill undeniable, his future practically promised. The kind of boy everyone wanted: charming, magnetic, the kind of handsome that turned heads without him trying.

And yet here he was, spending his free evening teaching her how to shoot.

Y/n wanted to ask out one of his teammates on his basketball team and needed help shooting in case he ever wanted a basketball date. Jungkook was the good friend who decided to help out.

“Okay,” he said, stepping closer, his voice warm with amusement. “You’ve gotta relax your wrist. You’re not throwing a rock, Y/N. You’re guiding the ball.”

She rolled her eyes, adjusting her grip clumsily. “Easy for you to say. You make this look… effortless.”

He grinned, dimples flashing. “That’s because it is effortless. For me.”

She elbowed him lightly, laughing. “Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he corrected, stepping behind her to adjust her stance. His hands brushed her elbows, guiding her form. “Big difference.”

Her pulse jumped at the closeness, though she ignored it, focusing instead on the rim. “I’m only doing this so I can impress someone on your team, you know.”

Jungkook stilled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said breezily, though her cheeks heated. “Wonwoo’s cute. Think he’ll notice me if I score in front of him?”

For a beat, Jungkook didn’t answer. Then he chuckled, low and smooth, though his eyes had shifted—something new flickering there.

“Trust me,” he murmured, stepping back. “If you make this shot, the only one noticing will be me.”

She blinked, heart stuttering. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” He nodded toward the hoop. “Come on, try again.”

She squared her shoulders, lifted the ball, and released. The shot arced high, kissed the backboard, and slipped clean through the net.

Her jaw dropped. “Did you see that?!”

He was already grinning, teeth flashing, dimples deepening. “Of course I did.”

Y/N turned toward him, triumphant, her laugh echoing through the empty gym. “Guess I’ll have all the boys lining up, huh?”

“Not if I get there first.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. She blinked at him, stunned into silence.

He scratched the back of his neck—nervous, uncharacteristic, but genuine. “Go out with me, Y/N.” His voice was steady, even as his eyes searched hers. “Just one date. If you hate it, we’ll never talk about it again.”

Her lips parted, the protest dying on her tongue. She hadn’t expected this. Not from him. Not from Jungkook, the boy everyone wanted, the boy she thought she only had as a friend.

But as she looked at him—those dimples, that earnest grin, the way his confidence faltered only for her—her heart gave its answer before her mind could catch up.

“Well I guess...” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips, “it wouldn't be the worst idea. So… sure.”

His grin widened into something blinding. “Sure?”

“Sure,” she repeated, laughing at the incredulous joy on his face.

And just like that, the trajectory of her life shifted.

----------------------

The night air was cool, almost too sharp against her skin. Y/N folded her arms as though she could hold herself together, her gaze locked on Jungkook.

His words from before still hung between them: Are you really gonna marry him?

And now, his jaw tightened, the warmth in his eyes hardening into something colder. “It’s not my fault, you know,” he said, voice clipped, defensive. “Back then… I wanted to give you everything. I tried.”

The sharpness of his tone cut into her, and before she could stop it, her eyes stung. Tears threatened, blurring her vision. Two years, and he could still do this—still make her feel every emotion possible, still stir her up in ways no one else even came close to. Love, anger, longing, heartbreak—all tangled and thrumming through her chest.

She blinked hard, fighting them back, but Jungkook saw. His expression softened instantly, the edges of his posture breaking down.

“Y/N…” His voice dropped, gentle now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—there’s no need to dig up the past. You deserve whatever you want in life. More than anyone.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, tears slipping anyway, traitorous and warm against her cheeks.

He hesitated, then gave a small, pained smile. “I’m happy for my brother. And I’m happy for you.” The words sounded steady, but his eyes betrayed him—dark and conflicted. “If you’re okay with it… I’d like us to be friends. At least friendly. We’re going to be family soon, after all.”

The word family landed like a stone in her stomach.

She froze, staring at him. Then slowly, mechanically, she nodded. Wiping at her tears with the back of her hand, she forced out a quiet, “You’re right. It would be better if we got along.”

For a moment, they simply stood there, staring at one another like the ghosts of who they used to be.

Jungkook’s lips parted as though he wanted to say more, something real, something that wasn’t polished or careful. But instead, he exhaled and nodded.

“This… stays between us,” he said finally. “No need to make things messy.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, hugging herself tighter. “Agreed.”

They stood like that a moment longer, the night pressing in, the tension between them thick and unspoken. Then, without another word, Jungkook opened the gate for her, his eyes lingering on her face as though memorizing every detail all over again.

And she walked away, each step heavier than the last, knowing this fragile truce was only the beginning of something far messier than either of them wanted to admit.

-----------

Minhyun met her parents on a warm Sunday evening, the kind of dinner where her mother kept fussing over the seasoning and her father poured wine like he was celebrating already.

And in truth, he was.

The night went well. Minhyun charmed them with his politeness, with stories from the hospital, with the way he praised Y/N every chance he got—her intelligence, her determination, her kindness. Her parents beamed at him as though he were already their son-in-law.

By the time dessert was cleared, the air in the dining room was buzzing with excitement. Engagement was no longer just a possibility. It was coming, soon.

But later that night, when Minhyun walked her to her front lawn, Y/N couldn’t shake the quiet emptiness pressing at her ribs.

She stopped him near the steps, folding her arms as she turned to face him seriously. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Minhyun said gently.

“What are you looking for in this marriage?”

The question seemed to surprise him, but he didn’t falter. His expression softened, thoughtful. “A partnership,” he said simply. “Someone to rely on when things get hard. My job… it takes so much out of me. I want a wife who understands that. Someone I can build a life with, a family with. Someone I can come home to.”

His words were steady, practical, honest. They carried a kind of comfort, like warm hands wrapped around hers.

Y/N nodded slowly, but something tugged at her. “What about love?” she asked, her voice quieter.

Minhyun gave her a small smile, almost apologetic. “I already like you so much, Y/N. I think love can grow from that. It doesn’t have to be instant. Sometimes… it’s better if it isn’t.”

Her throat tightened, though she forced a smile of her own. “I really like you too. And… I think I’m looking for the same things. Stability. Family. A partner I can count on.”

Relief flickered in his eyes, and he leaned in to brush a soft kiss against her forehead. “Then I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

She smiled, letting him go, watching as he walked back to his car.

But when he was gone, she stood on her lawn alone, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Because the truth was, her heart felt hollow.

She had already had love once—the dizzying, all-consuming kind that made the world brighter and heavier at the same time. And it hadn’t guaranteed her forever. If anything, it had only left her broken. She had lost it all in the end.

And she had sworn she’d never put herself through that kind of devastation again.

Love was dangerous. Love was unstable.

She wanted something she could trust not to crumble beneath her. And if that meant living with a little emptiness in her chest, then so be it.

She turned toward her house, back straight, chin lifted.

Stability over heartbreak. It was the safer choice.

She just prayed it was the right one.

-----------

The stands were buzzing, the squeak of sneakers and echo of the ball bouncing filling the gym. Y/N sat front row, drowned in Jungkook’s oversized jersey, the number bold across her chest. She could feel the eyes on her—other girls whispering, casting jealous glances—but she didn’t care. She belonged to him, and she wanted everyone to know it.

When he jogged onto the court, tall and commanding in his uniform, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted his name. “Let’s go, Jungkook!”

He turned his head at the sound of her voice, lips curling into that devastating grin, dimples deepening. He winked, sending heat rushing to her cheeks.

The game started, and every basket he made, he pointed toward her, mouthing something cocky like that one’s yours. By the fifth time, her face was on fire, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

God, he was impossible.

The court was chaos—fast breaks, hard fouls, the crowd roaring. At one point, another player shoved Jungkook as he drove toward the hoop. Y/N jumped to her feet with a sharp, “Hey!”

Jungkook didn’t fall—he never did. Instead, he shoved back, chest heaving, squaring up until their foreheads nearly touched. His jaw was tight, his eyes flashing with fury, his shoulders broad and unyielding.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Her thighs pressed together as she watched him, her mind spinning somewhere it shouldn’t. His arms, muscles tense and slick with sweat, flexed under the bright lights. His hair was damp, strands sticking to his forehead, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face.

She swallowed hard, her pulse racing.

And then—when the ref pulled the other player aside and flashed a card—Jungkook lifted the hem of his jersey to wipe his face.

Y/N audibly sucked in a breath.

For the first time, she saw his abs—sharp ridges, every line cut deep, glistening with sweat. The way his torso flexed so effortlessly had her head spinning, her imagination slipping where it shouldn’t.

He could pick me up so easily, she thought, heat coiling low in her belly. With stamina like that, he could go all night—

She cut herself off, cheeks burning, pressing her hands against her thighs as if to ground herself.

And then she realized—he was looking at her.

Even across the court, his gaze was dark, focused. Like he could sense exactly where her mind had gone.

Her lips parted, breath stuttering. His jersey still half-lifted, his smirk slow and knowing, Jungkook winked again—this time not playful, but deliberate.

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs.

In that moment, she knew she was in deeper than she ever planned to be.

-------------

Breakfast at Minhyun’s house was quiet, the soft scrape of forks against plates filling the space.

Y/N tried to keep her voice light as she spread her planner open on the table. Pages of notes and tabs peeked out, pastel sticky notes marking sections for venues, flowers, colors, menus. “I thought maybe we could get ahead of some of the details,” she said. “Venue, food, cake flavors, even the napkin colors, so by the time we announce it to everyone, I’m not stressed.”

Minhyun smiled at her over his mug of coffee, dark circles under his eyes from another long shift. “Whatever you want, you choose. I don’t really care about napkin colors or flowers.” He sipped again, his voice warm but steady. “Right now I need to focus on work so I can take real time off later for the wedding and honeymoon. But I don’t want you to feel stressed or like you’re doing it alone.”

Her lips parted to reply—then the kitchen door creaked.

“Morning,” a deep voice cut in.

Her chest tightened.

Jungkook stood in the doorway, hair a little messy, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He froze for the briefest second when his eyes met hers, then lifted a hand casually. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Minhyun returned easily, motioning toward the counter. “There’s coffee.”

“Thanks.” Jungkook strode in, moving toward the stove with an ease that made Y/N’s stomach flip. He pulled out ingredients and a pan, heating up the stove. Within minutes, the scent of batter and blueberries filled the air, sizzling on the pan.

Y/N swallowed. Her fingers tightened on her pen.

The smell hit her like a wave, dragging her back—late mornings in his old apartment, her perched on the counter in one of his t-shirts while he flipped pancakes shirtless, teasing her for sneaking bites of the berries before they even hit the batter. He’d always insisted blueberry pancakes were his specialty, his way of spoiling her.

He always fed her blueberries while she waited and she'd always give him kisses waiting patiently for his famous pancakes.

Now, she sat frozen in another man’s kitchen, her fiancé across from her, and Jungkook at the stove.

“Actually,” Minhyun spoke again, shaking her back to the present, “could you do me a favor, Jungkook?”

Jungkook glanced over his shoulder, spatula in hand. “What’s up?”

“Y/N wants to plan a lot of the details before we announce the engagement. I can’t take time off right now, but you’re in between jobs, right? Could you go with her, help out?”

Y/N’s head whipped toward Minhyun, eyes wide. “Min—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish. Because she saw it—Jungkook’s eye twitch. So slight she thought maybe she imagined it.

But then he turned, gaze landing on her, steady and unreadable. “Sure,” he said after a beat, dimples barely flickering as he forced a smile. “That’s fine. Anything to help.”

He slid the pancakes onto a plate and set them down on the table with a clatter. “Eat before they get cold.”

Minhyun dug in immediately, thanking his brother. Y/N forced her hand to reach for the fork, though her appetite was gone.

Because the moment she inhaled the buttery-sweet scent, her chest clenched. The past came rushing back, stronger than ever.

And she knew—sharing this planning with Jungkook was going to be anything but simple.

------------

The house was alive with music and laughter, teammates shouting over each other as beer bottles clinked. The smell of sweat and cheap pizza hung in the air, proof of the rough game they had clawed their way through hours earlier. Jungkook had led them to victory, as always—captain, star, heartthrob.

Y/N slipped inside late, weaving through the chaos until she found him upstairs. His room was quieter, a little sanctuary away from the noise.

He looked up from where he sat on the edge of his bed, still in his jersey, hair damp from a quick shower. The gold chain around his neck glinted under the low light.

“You made it,” he said with that dimpled grin that always weakened her knees.

“I brought something,” she blurted, tugging a small box from her bag. Her hands felt clumsy as she opened it, revealing a thin silver bracelet with a tiny basketball charm dangling from it. “I, um… hope you don’t think it’s too girly or cheesy. I just… wanted you to have it.”

For a moment, his face was unreadable. Blank.

Her chest sank. Maybe it was childish. Maybe she should’ve just written him a card like she’d originally planned—

But then his hand shot out, pulling her toward him. His mouth found hers in a deep, greedy kiss that stole her breath.

“I love it,” he murmured against her lips. “Put it on me?”

Her smile bloomed as she fastened it around his wrist, her fingers brushing his skin. He lifted it to the light, dimples flashing again—then his hand slid up her thigh, pulling her closer.

“Climb up here,” he muttered, tugging her onto his lap.

She straddled him, her skirt riding up, the heat between them sparking instantly. Their mouths crashed together again, all teeth and tongue, the victory high still burning in his veins.

“You’ve been thinking filthy thoughts since the game, haven’t you?” he whispered darkly against her mouth, nipping her lip.

Her face flushed hot. “Shut up.”

He smirked, kissing her harder. Her fingers curled in his hair as she rocked against him, both of them panting, hungry. Clothes slipped, shoes kicked away, the world outside disappearing as she sank down onto him, moaning at the stretch.

“Fuck,” he groaned, gripping her hips, guiding her movements. “So tight… taking me so good.”

She bit down on his shoulder, muffling her cries as she rode him, their mouths finding each other again and again in desperate kisses. The bed creaked beneath them, the noise of the party muffled through the door, but in that moment there was only the heat between them, the way his hands held her like she was everything.

When his control snapped, he flipped them, pressing her into the sheets and driving his hips deep. Her nails scratched down his back as he whispered filth in her ear, telling her she was his, that no one could make her feel this way. She could only moan his name, lost in him.

By the time they collapsed, sweaty and trembling, the noise of the party had faded to a dull hum.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the blinds. Y/N stirred awake to the smell of blueberry pancakes. She sat up, his jersey slipping down her shoulder, and found the bed empty.

From the kitchen came the soft sound of sizzling and Jungkook’s voice, humming off-key.

She padded out barefoot, limping slightly, stopping at the doorway. There he stood at the stove, hair sticking up messily, bare back flexing as he flipped pancakes. A plate was already stacked high on the counter, golden and steaming.

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning when he saw her. “Morning, baby. Sit. Breakfast is almost ready.”

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist as he slid the spatula under another pancake.

And right then, Y/N knew—she was already his. Completely.

----------------

The scent of blueberries lingered, warm and sweet, curling through Minhyun’s kitchen like smoke from a fire she thought she’d put out years ago. Y/N blinked, trying to shake herself free, but when she focused again, Jungkook was already looking at her.

He sat at the counter, fork in hand, a nearly empty plate in front of him. His gaze lingered, slow and knowing, before the corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk.

Her heart jumped. God, he knows.

Y/N cleared her throat, straightening in her chair, forcing her expression back into something neutral. “So,” she said briskly, “I’ll need your number. So we can figure out when to meet up… for the wedding planning.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t even blink. “Sure,” he said easily, voice low. He tossed his phone across the counter, the sleek device sliding until it stopped right in front of her.

She caught it, fingers brushing over the smooth glass as she unlocked it. The screen lit up, and for a second, her breath caught in her throat.

His wallpaper was a sunset—vivid streaks of orange and pink melting into the horizon over a stretch of water.

It looked so much like the beach they used to sneak away to, the place where sand stuck to their skin and salt lingered on their lips.

Y/N quickly typed her number in and handed the phone back, pretending not to notice the way Jungkook’s eyes lingered on her face, as though he knew exactly what memory she was fighting off.

----------------

The drive to the coast had been filled with open windows and loud music, Y/N’s hair whipping in the breeze while Jungkook drummed his hands on the steering wheel, singing half the words wrong on purpose just to make her laugh. By the time they pulled up to the beach, the air was warmer than it had been in months, the kind of day that promised the start of summer.

They ran into the water like kids set free from school, Y/N shrieking when the first icy wave lapped against her legs. Jungkook caught her waist, lifting her with ease and splashing her until she clung to him, breathless with laughter. She jumped on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck, peppering kisses against his damp skin while he carried her deeper into the waves.

When they finally collapsed onto their beach blanket, cheeks pink and hair wild, the world seemed to slow. Y/N cracked open a paperback, the sun warming her bare legs, while beside her Jungkook hunched over his notebook, scribbling down quick sketches of plays he wanted to try out in practice. The scratch of his pen mixed with the rhythmic crash of the waves, the comfort of routine even in this carefree place.

“Look,” Jungkook murmured, nudging her shoulder. She glanced up, following his finger toward the horizon where the sky was melting into gold and pink.

They sat up together, leaning into each other as the air cooled, her head on his shoulder, his chin brushing the crown of her hair. Jungkook shifted, tugging her easily onto his lap, his arms wrapped around her waist. She tilted her head back, eyes soft, and he kissed her slowly, sweetly, as though they had all the time in the world.

When she pulled back to smile at him, her face glowing with the light of the sinking sun, Jungkook quietly lifted his phone. With one hand resting on her back, he angled the camera not at her but at the horizon, catching the sunset as proof. Proof of this exact moment—the sound of her laugh, the salt on his tongue, the feeling that he never wanted it to end.

He slipped the phone back down, pressing his lips to her hair, holding the image close not only in his gallery but in his heart.

--------------

Y/N tapped her fingers on her phone, staring at the little message bubble before finally sending it off. Want to come with me to check out a bakery?

She didn’t expect Jungkook to reply so quickly. Sure. Send me the address.

Now she sat in the passenger seat of his car, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between them. The town blurred by outside, morning sunlight spilling through the windows. She fiddled with the strap of her purse before speaking.

“You really don’t have to do this with me, you know,” she said softly. “I don’t mind going by myself.”

Jungkook’s hand shifted easily on the wheel, his profile calm. “It’s fine,” he said, voice even. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten—like he really meant it, like being here with her wasn’t an inconvenience at all. She quickly looked away, forcing herself to focus on the neat rows of buildings lining the street.

The bakery smelled like sugar and vanilla the moment they stepped inside. Behind the counter, the owner greeted them warmly. Y/N explained she was planning her fiancé’s wedding and asked about flavors, designs, and price estimates. The man eagerly pulled out a binder full of pictures and samples, chattering about fondant styles and tier options.

Y/N and Jungkook listened together, their shoulders almost brushing as they leaned over the book. To her relief, the conversation flowed easily—she asked thoughtful questions, he chimed in with a few practical comments, even teasing her lightly when she got hung up on the difference between ivory and cream napkin colors.

Maybe this can work, she thought. Maybe I’m really over him. Maybe this is just what being an adult looks like.

But then the owner smiled at them and said, “So, when’s the big day? You two must be so excited.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. “Oh—no, no,” she stammered, glancing at Jungkook. “We’re not—”

“Not engaged,” Jungkook finished quickly, shaking his head. “It’s my brother’s wedding.”

The owner’s smile faltered. “Ah, sorry. You just…looked like the happy couple.”

Y/N laughed awkwardly, heat rising to her cheeks. “No worries.”

The owner, eager to smooth over the moment, perked up. “Well, I do have a Black Forest cake fresh out back. Would you like to try a slice?”

They both nodded. Minutes later, they sat at a small table near the window, forks in hand. The cake was rich, layered with cream and cherries, the chocolate moist enough to melt on the tongue.

“This is amazing,” Y/N murmured, closing her eyes briefly as the flavors sank in.

When she opened them, Jungkook was already watching her. The look was subtle but undeniable, like he was seeing the same ghost she was. Neither of them spoke, but the memory rose unbidden in both of their minds—

their first anniversary.

Now, years later, the taste hadn’t changed. And neither, it seemed, had the way they looked at each other.

--------------

A year into dating, Jungkook had insisted on making their anniversary “special.” Y/N hadn’t realized what he meant until she walked into the Italian restaurant that night and saw him waiting at a candlelit table in a tailored black suit. He stood the moment she entered, his eyes widening a little before he grinned, boyish pride flickering through the polished image he was trying to project.

“Wow,” he breathed, gaze sweeping over her. “You look gorgeous. Like…movie-star gorgeous.”

Her cheeks heated instantly, and she gave him a shy smile. “You look good too. Really good.” She smoothed her dress nervously as he pulled out her chair for her.

The night had been perfect in every way—the kind of dinner that felt like a glimpse into the future, like they were grown-ups already, just the two of them tucked into their own world. They laughed over pasta and clinked glasses of red wine, Jungkook splurging shamelessly on a bottle he could barely afford just because he wanted the night to feel memorable.

By the end of the meal, they were stuffed, leaning back against their chairs with content sighs. Y/N thought it was over when the waiter collected the plates, but Jungkook leaned forward with a mischievous smile.

“My girl always needs something sweet,” he said, and ordered the Black Forest cake with fresh cherries and cream—the cake of the week.

When it arrived, layered with chocolate, cream, and dark cherries, they both groaned at the sight.

“Oh my god,” Y/N moaned around the first bite, her eyes closing. “This is the best cake I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Same,” Jungkook agreed, his fork stealing from her side of the plate. They laughed, feeding each other across the table, too full to eat more than a few bites but unwilling to stop.

At one point, Y/N felt cream smear the corner of her mouth. She went to wipe it, but Jungkook leaned in first, thumb brushing it away gently. He didn’t think—didn’t realize how intimate it was—before slipping his thumb into his mouth and licking it clean.

The moment stretched, their laughter faltering. Her lips parted, breath hitching. His gaze flicked down to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

Neither of them spoke, but the air shifted, charged with something heavier than wine or chocolate.

------------

They both smiled politely at the bakery owner, wiping crumbs from their mouths.

“The Black Forest was delicious,” Y/N said, voice steady even though her heart was doing flips. “But we’ll come back another time to try the other flavors.”

“Of course,” the owner said warmly. “Take your time. Weddings deserve the perfect cake.”

Y/N gave a small nod, already gathering her bag. Jungkook thanked the man with that easy charm that had always disarmed everyone, and then they were stepping back into the late afternoon sunlight.

The golden light caught against Jungkook’s skin, gilding his sharp cheekbones and jaw as he reached into his pocket. Y/N was still adjusting her purse strap when she noticed the cigarette between his fingers, the lighter poised.

“What the hell are you doing?” she blurted, slapping it right out of his hand before the flame could spark.

Jungkook blinked at her, startled, then gave a dry little laugh. “Uh, well, I was going to smoke before you smacked it out of my hand.”

Her stomach twisted. “Since when do you smoke?”

He shrugged, sliding his lighter back into his pocket. “After university.”

She froze, the implication hitting immediately. Her voice came out quieter, but sharper. “So… after our breakup.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. “After a lot of things.” His tone cooled, clipped. “And it’s not your business anymore.”

The words stung more than she wanted to admit. She rolled her eyes, masking it with irritation. “Knock it off, Jungkook. Just because we’re not—” she broke off, shaking her head. “Just because we’re not together it doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Without waiting for his response, she turned and headed for the car, heels clicking against the pavement.

Jungkook lingered for a moment, staring down at the discarded cigarette on the sidewalk. His jaw worked, but he didn’t pick it up. With a quiet sigh, he followed her to the car instead.

The silence was thick at first, only the low hum of the engine filling the space. Y/N gripped her seatbelt, still irritated, still worried.

“Do you even know how dangerous smoking is?” she finally snapped, turning toward him. “You could get hurt—”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, keeping his gaze on the road. “Forget about it. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” she shot back.

He sighed, shoulders tense. “Just forget it, okay? I don’t do it often. Only when I’m stressed.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, sharp. “Why are you stressed?”

A bitter laugh left him, and he shook his head like he couldn’t believe her. “Did you seriously just ask me that question?”

Y/N inhaled sharply, stung, and their eyes met across the small space of the car. Irritation sparked there, but beneath it—something else. Something hot, something unresolved that made the air feel heavier.

Jungkook broke first, his voice rough. “Sorry I’m not perfect Minhyun—Mr. Surgeon, Mr. Health Freak. God forbid I have some flaws after my whole career got ripped away from me and my life fell apart after university, when life was supposed to be beginning not ending.”

Y/N’s mouth parted, but no words came out. He had never sounded so bitter, so raw.

The rest of the drive was quiet, jagged. When he finally pulled up outside her place, he didn’t cut the engine right away. He just gripped the wheel, knuckles white, jaw set.

“Maybe you should find someone else to do all this with,” he muttered finally, eyes fixed forward. “Clearly we can’t be friends.”

The words hit like a punch.

“Jungkook—”

But he didn’t let her finish. He shifted into gear, barely sparing her a glance before saying tightly, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

She climbed out of the car, shutting the door with trembling hands. By the time she reached her steps, he was already gone, taillights disappearing down the street.

Tears blurred her vision. They weren’t even together anymore, and yet somehow it felt like they’d just broken up all over again. All she wanted—all she had ever wanted—was to be there for him, even in the darkest, hardest moments. And he wouldn’t let her.

------------------

They were the couple everyone talked about on campus. The pair that looked untouchable—her laughter always cutting through the noise, his hand always finding hers. Y/N wore his jersey like it was her second skin, the name “JUNGKOOK” stretched across her back a reminder to everyone else that he was hers and she was his.

Minutes before the big game, he caught her by the bleachers.

“Good luck, superstar,” she teased, tugging on the collar of his uniform.

“Don’t need luck,” Jungkook murmured, leaning down, “just you.”

And before she could answer, he dipped her low in front of half the crowd, his lips brushing hers in a slow kiss that pulled every nerve in his body into stillness. It was his ritual. His way of breathing before the storm.

The whistle blew, and she watched him sprint onto the court, her heart swelling with pride.

He was electric tonight. Every basket swished clean through the net, every play seamless. Scouts dotted the bleachers, pens scratching furiously, eyes following his every move. But Jungkook only pointed to her after each point, his smile wide, dedicating everything to the girl sitting front row in his jersey.

With a minute left, victory was inevitable. The opposing team called a timeout, but it hardly mattered. Everyone knew Jungkook’s team had it in the bag.

He looked across the court, spotted her, and sent her an exaggerated air kiss. Y/N laughed, clutching her cheeks, her smile bright enough to rival the scoreboard lights.

And then it happened.

A shove. Too aggressive, too late. Jungkook went down hard, his body colliding with the pole beneath the net. His knee slammed first, the sharp crack making her breath catch. His face twisted in pain, a sound tearing from his throat that made the gym go silent.

Y/N’s smile vanished. Her body moved before her mind caught up, shoving through the crowd, heart pounding in her ears.

“Jungkook!” She dropped to her knees beside him, hands cupping his face, desperate eyes searching his. “Are you okay? Talk to me—please.”

But he couldn’t speak. The pain was written across his face, the kind that cut deep, the kind that promised things would never be the same.

The coach and medic rushed over, whistles shrieking, teammates forming a panicked circle. But Y/N stayed locked to him, her hand clutching his tightly, whispering through the noise.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said over and over, even as her chest squeezed, even as tears blurred her vision. “I’m right here. It’s going to be okay.”

And Jungkook, writhing in agony, squeezed her hand back once—like he believed her.

-----------------

Y/N sat on the front porch steps, shoulders shaking, tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked. The wood beneath her felt cold, but it wasn’t nearly as cold as the hollow ache in her chest. Only one man had ever been able to undo her like this. Only Jungkook could make her fall apart with a single sharp word, a single careless glance.

The screen door creaked open.

“Sweetheart?” Her mom’s voice was laced with alarm. She hurried down, gasping softly when she caught sight of her daughter’s blotchy face. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N quickly swiped at her eyes, forcing her breathing to steady. “It’s nothing,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Everything’s fine. Just… stressed about the wedding.”

Her mom gave her a look—gentle but knowing. It wasn’t fine, and they both knew it. But instead of prying, she reached down, smoothing Y/N’s hair the way she used to when she was little.

“When you’re ready,” her mom murmured, sitting beside her, “you can tell me. I’ll listen.”

Y/N swallowed hard, staring out at the darkening yard. The crickets chirped, filling the silence she didn’t know how to break. Finally, she asked, voice trembling, “Mom… how did you know Dad was the one?”

Her mother’s lips curved into a small, wistful smile. She tilted her head back, as if remembering. “Because even when we fought, even when I swore I couldn’t stand him… I still wanted to be the one he turned to. I still wanted to be there when it mattered most.” She brushed a tear from Y/N’s cheek. “Love isn’t about it being easy, darling. It’s about it being worth it.”

Y/N’s throat closed, her heart heavy with unspoken truth. Worth it. God, if only things with Jungkook didn’t hurt so much.

Her mom sighed softly, her eyes distant as she rubbed her palms together. “You know, your dad and I… we almost didn’t make it.”

Y/N blinked, startled. “What? You two are—” she gestured vaguely, a watery smile tugging at her lips, “—the perfect couple.”

Her mother chuckled, low and rueful. “That’s what people see. Back then, it wasn’t so simple. He was starting out at the firm, working all hours, missing dinners, forgetting things that mattered to me. And I… I was ready to walk away.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “You? Really?”

“I remember sitting on my own porch, crying just like you are now.” Her mom’s gaze flickered over Y/N’s face, soft with memory. “And I thought, maybe it would be easier to find someone who didn’t make me feel so angry, so worried, so vulnerable. But then he showed up—still in his suit, tie crooked, eyes so tired—and he just… collapsed next to me. He didn’t even say sorry at first. He just held me. And I realized… even with all his flaws, he was still my home.”

Her mother reached out, taking Y/N’s trembling hand in hers. “Love doesn’t mean never hurting each other, sweetheart. It means choosing each other again and again, even when it’s hard.”

Y/N’s chest ached, her mind spinning with Jungkook’s face, his sharp words in the car, the cigarette on the pavement he hadn’t picked back up. Even when he made her furious, even when he broke her heart, part of her still wanted to be the one he turned to.

Her mom squeezed her hand gently. “So the question is, Y/N… when you think about him, is he still home?”

----------

Jungkook pushed the front door open, toeing off his sneakers, the house carrying that familiar hum of warmth and family. He heard his parents’ voices in the kitchen, soft and lilting with affection.

“You must be exhausted, Minhyun. Sit, sit—we’ll get you something to eat.”

Jungkook followed the sound, leaning against the doorway. His older brother was still in his scrubs, his hair damp with sweat from hours under fluorescent hospital lights. He looked worn out, but his smile for their parents was patient and kind. The golden child, as always.

“Hey,” Jungkook called out casually. “Beer?”

Minhyun glanced over, eyes tired but warm. “Yeah, please.”

A minute later, the two of them were sprawled in the living room, bottles clinking lightly. The muffled chatter of their parents drifted in from the kitchen. For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was steady, familiar.

Minhyun tipped his head back against the couch with a sigh. “Thanks, Jungkook. For everything you’ve been doing. You didn’t have to step in the way you have.”

Jungkook took a swig of his beer, shrugging like it was nothing. “You’re welcome.” He paused, letting the carbonation fizz on his tongue before he added quietly, “But I won’t be helping anymore.”

Minhyun frowned, turning his head toward him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I need to focus on finding a job. Something solid. I can’t just keep hanging around.”

For a moment, Minhyun just studied him, the corner of his mouth curving with a smile that was both proud and a little wistful. “Good. You should go after what you want. You deserve that.”

Jungkook’s throat tightened. He forced a smile back, lifting his bottle in a small toast. “Thanks.”

They drank quietly after that, both lost in their thoughts. Jungkook’s gaze lingered on his brother—his steady, selfless brother, the man who had unknowingly won the heart of the only girl Jungkook had ever truly loved.

He loved Minhyun too much to ever betray him. Too much to ever let him know.

So all he could do was dream of getting out, finding work, moving into a place of his own—anywhere that wasn’t here, where every day meant watching his brother with the love of his life and pretending it didn’t burn.

-------------

Y/N’s phone slipped from her hands twice before she finally managed to unlock it, her vision blurring as she pressed Jungkook’s name. She shouldn’t be doing this, she knew she shouldn’t—but the alcohol made her brave and her chest hurt too much to keep it in.

“Jungkook,” she slurred into his voicemail, voice thick with tears. “God, even with your flaws… you’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect.” A sob cracked through her words. “It’s so annoying. You’re worth it all, do you know that? You’ve always been worth it.”

The line clicked dead, leaving her crying into the silence of her room until she passed out.

Meanwhile, Jungkook slept soundly in his bed, his phone face-down on the nightstand. The missed call notification flickered once, then buried itself under a flood of group chat messages he’d ignore until later. He never even saw it.

Morning came, and Y/N woke with a headache and no memory of the night before beyond the ache in her chest. She didn’t think twice when her phone said she had no new calls or messages.

Instead, she dressed carefully, smoothing her skirt before heading to the flower shop alone. The bell chimed overhead as she entered, greeted by the warm scent of fresh blooms. She smiled faintly at the florist, explaining the wedding theme, the colors, the softness she wanted in the arrangements.

The consultation went smoothly—effortless, even. She nodded along, made choices, even felt a flicker of pride. I can do this by myself, she thought. I don’t need him.

But as she stepped out into the sunlight with the order form in hand, reality hit her like a cruel trick.

Every bouquet she had pictured, every centerpiece she had imagined—it hadn’t been her fiancé standing at the end of that aisle.

It had been Jungkook.

------------

For her date with Minhyun tonight y/n wanted to see one of the twilight movies. The theater lights came up as the credits rolled, and Y/N stretched in her seat, her eyes still soft from the ending. She turned to Minhyun with a sheepish smile. “I’ve always loved the whole series. Don’t laugh at me.”

Minhyun did laugh, but it was gentle. “I’m not judging. Just… I don’t know how Edward could stay with Bella.”

They walked side by side out into the cool night air, the buzz of other moviegoers around them fading as his words sank in.

He shook his head with a half-smile. “I mean, I couldn’t be with someone who had feelings for someone else.”

Y/N froze mid-step. For the smallest second, the world tilted. Her heart jumped into her throat, but she masked it quickly with a short laugh. “Yeah… I suppose I couldn’t either.”

Minhyun glanced at her then, as if searching for something in her expression, but didn’t press. Instead, he slipped his hands in his pockets, casual as ever. “Do you want to come over for a drink? Just to unwind?”

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Sure,” she said softly, her smile practiced.

She followed him to the car, but her chest felt heavy the entire walk—because she knew she wasn’t thinking about the man beside her. She was thinking about someone else.

Y/N and Minhyun sat at the dining table, half-empty glasses between them, the warmth of wine making the laughter come easier. Minhyun leaned back in his chair, recounting some funny story from his shift, and Y/N threw her head back in laughter, cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the relief of simply… forgetting for a moment.

But her laughter died in her throat when she noticed movement at the corner of her eye. Jungkook was on the stairs, hoodie loose around his frame, hair slightly messy from sleep. For a split second their eyes met—hers bright and full, his dark and unreadable—and then he turned, quick, as if retreat was instinct. Her heart dropped so hard it made her dizzy.

“Jungkook!” Minhyun called, oblivious, his voice warm. “Where are you going? Come join us for a drink.”

“I’m tired,” Jungkook said flatly, already half-turned away.

“Just one drink,” Minhyun urged. “Come on, it’s been forever since the three of us sat together like this.”

Jungkook hesitated, his jaw tight, then sighed. “Fine. One.” He crossed the room and pulled out the chair beside his brother, sliding into it with a heaviness that pressed against Y/N’s chest.

The moment he sat down, she felt it—his silence was sharp, his stare colder than the night air outside. He didn’t look at her, not once, though she could feel his presence like static against her skin. Every word out of his mouth was directed at Minhyun: short answers, clipped sentences, even the faintest curve of a smile reserved only for his brother.

It was as though she didn’t exist.

Y/N kept her smile plastered on, laughing when Minhyun laughed, nodding when he spoke, but inside it hurt—it hurt like a thousand bullets ricocheting through her chest. She wanted to shout at Jungkook, to tell him to look at her, to stop pretending she wasn’t there. But instead she lifted her glass again, forcing herself to sip, forcing herself to stay composed. After he finished his drink, Jungkook excused himself and left.

When Minhyun’s phone buzzed, he frowned, reading the message. “Hospital,” he muttered with a sigh, then stood, brushing a kiss against Y/N’s cheek. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

“Be safe,” she said softly, watching him grab his coat and head out the door.

The house fell quiet, heavy in his absence. Y/N’s chest ached with the silence until she finally stood, restless, stepping out into the cool night.

There he was.

Jungkook stood in the front yard, leaning against the porch railing with a cigarette between his fingers, eyes closed as he exhaled smoke into the night sky. The orange ember glowed in the dark, casting fleeting light across his face—sharp cheekbones, a jaw set tight, lips pressed together in thought.

Y/N froze on the porch step, the sight of him tugging at something raw inside her. He looked unreachable, lost, like a storm she could never calm. And yet all she wanted to do was try.

She’d never been attracted to anyone the way she was to Jungkook. Not even close. Not even in the safety and comfort of her engagement. With him it wasn’t just love—it was obsession. It was every little thing: the curl of his long eyelashes when he blinked slowly, the way his hair fell over his forehead like it was designed to make her ache, the long, elegant tattooed fingers wrapped lazily around a cigarette now, fingers she remembered inside her mouth, pressing on her tongue when he got rough the way she secretly craved.

He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him.

Her chest tightened, and before she could think, she marched forward, snatched the cigarette from between his fingers, and dropped it to the ground. The sole of her shoe ground it into the dirt, the ember sizzling out.

“Quit it,” she hissed, voice trembling with emotion.

His head snapped toward her, fury flashing in his eyes. “What the fuck, Y/N?” His voice was low, sharp. “I can do whatever the fuck I want. Stop inserting yourself into my life.”

Her hand shot out before she could stop herself, grabbing his, clutching it as if to anchor herself. Tears burned hot, spilling down her cheeks in angry streams. “It’s not fair!” she choked out, her voice breaking. “You’re the one who broke up with me.”

He jerked his hand but she held tighter, like letting go would kill her. His jaw flexed, breath ragged, and then his voice cracked open—raw, unguarded.

“Yeah, I did,” he spat, though his eyes were glassy, his lips trembling. “Because I felt like my life was fucking over.”

Her chest caved at the confession, but he kept going, like a dam had finally broken.

“I was at rock bottom, Y/N. Rock fucking bottom. And I couldn’t tell anyone. Not my parents. Not Minhyun. Do you know what that feels like? Watching him graduate med school, being the golden son, while I was sitting there a fucking fraud? While I had to keep it a secret for months that I got injured—that I couldn’t play basketball again? That everything I worked for, everything I was, was gone?” His voice cracked, shaking, eyes blazing with both shame and desperation.

Her breath hitched, her heart shattering for him, for all the weight he’d been carrying alone.

“That wasn’t me,” he said, quieter now, almost whispering. “That wasn’t the Jungkook you fell in love with. That wasn’t the man I wanted you to be with. I wasn't going to drag you down with me.”

Her tears spilled faster now, hot and relentless. “Are you crazy?” she whispered, voice breaking. “I never loved you for basketball or your potential career, Jungkook.” Her grip on his hand trembled, but she refused to let go, not yet.

“I love you,” she said fiercely, through the sobs. “I love the man who’s so good to me, who has to stop and pet every cat he sees. The man who knows I always need something sweet after dinner, who takes care of me after being rough with me because he can’t help himself but then makes sure I’m okay.”

Her chest heaved, the words tumbling out in jagged breaths. “That’s who I’m in love with. That’s who I’ll always be in love with. Not some stupid title, not a status. My parents might care about that shit, sure—but I don’t. I never did.”

Jungkook stood there, silent, staring at her with something unreadable in his eyes.

She hiccuped, fresh guilt hitting her like a tidal wave. “I’m so sorry you had to hide it all back then. But I was there, Jungkook. I was there, and somehow… it still wasn’t enough. I feel like I wasn’t enough for you.”

Her voice broke into pieces, a raw whisper. “And that kills me.”

She finally let go of his hand, the emptiness immediate and gutting. Turning away before he could see her crumble even more, she walked back toward the house, every step heavier than the last.

Her chest ached with the cruelest truth of all: she had lost the love of her life, and yet he was standing right there.

-----------

Jungkook closed his eyes, her voicemail still echoing in his ears, and suddenly he was back there. Back in that sterile white hospital room that smelled of disinfectant and despair.

Y/N was at his side, fussing the way she always did, adjusting his pillow until it was just right. Her hands were gentle, her expression soft. Too soft.

“Have you told your parents yet?” she asked quietly.

He swallowed hard and shook his head. He reached for his phone and pulled up a photo—Minhyun beaming in his new scrubs, masked up, pride radiating from every pixel. Jungkook shoved it toward her, his throat tight.

“How can I tell them?” he rasped. “Minhyun’s finally doing it. He’s making them proud. There’s no way I’m going to dampen their parade.”

Her brows knitted, her voice aching with sincerity. “But Jungkook, it’s your family. They’ll understand. They’d want to help. They just love you.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he muttered, turning his face toward the wall. “You wouldn’t understand.”

The silence that fell was thick, heavy, almost suffocating. When he finally glanced back, Y/N was watching him with that look—that unbearable, unflinching sadness.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snapped, his voice cracking.

“Like what?” she whispered.

“Like you pity me.”

Her eyes shone with tears she hadn’t let fall. She shook her head. “It’s not pity. I just don’t like seeing the love of my life in pain. I don’t like seeing you hurt so bad.”

The words stole his breath.

He felt the burn before he realized what it was, a single hot tear sliding down his cheek. His lips trembled as the truth clawed its way out of him in a hoarse whisper.

“I just… lost it all.”

For a moment, he thought she’d argue. Tell him he still had a future, still had her, still had everything else. But instead, she climbed into the narrow hospital bed beside him, curling herself around his broken body.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling his head against her chest. He felt her steady heartbeat beneath his ear, grounding him even as the grief finally cracked him open.

And Jungkook cried. For the game. For the career. For the version of himself that had been ripped away. For the life he thought was promised to him, now gone.

Y/N held him through it all, not saying a word. Just cradling him, letting him mourn, loving him even when he couldn’t love himself.

------------

The ashtray on Jungkook’s desk was full again. Half-burned cigarettes, the smell of stale smoke clinging to the curtains. An empty bottle of soju lay tipped on its side, sticky rings marking the wood beneath it.

He barely noticed anymore. Most nights blurred together now—late returns home, another drink, another cigarette. Another hour staring into the dark, wishing he could shut off his brain.

His parents had started asking questions, their worry thinly veiled. “What’s wrong, Jungkook?” his mother asked. “You’re not yourself,” his father added. But he never answered. He just brushed past them, retreating deeper into the fog he was building for himself.

That morning, he woke up, his head pounding, eyes bloodshot. He didn’t expect to find Minhyun waiting in his room, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

“Here,” Minhyun said softly, holding it out.

Jungkook took it, muttering a quiet, “Thanks.” He sat on the edge of his bed, his shoulders hunched, fingers curling around the mug like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“What’s going on with you, Jungkook?” Minhyun’s voice was calm, but firm. He didn’t sit down. He just stood there, watching him.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Jungkook mumbled, eyes fixed on the black surface of his drink.

Minhyun didn’t look away. “You know when I’ve seen you like this?” he asked quietly.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

“That time,” Minhyun continued, “when you finally told us you got injured. Months after it happened. You’d been carrying it all alone. And when you told us, you were… I’ve never seen you so sad. Or so disappointed in yourself. Not because of the injury, but because you thought you couldn’t come to us sooner.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, the memory a knife twisting in his chest.

“I can’t keep reliving that moment and discussing this all the time,” he muttered, his voice rough.

“What do you mean?” Minhyun pressed gently. “Who else have you been talking about this with?”

The pause stretched too long. Minhyun tilted his head, searching his face.

Finally, Jungkook’s lips parted, but all that came out was: “No one.”

Minhyun studied him, unconvinced. “Is it… that girl you were seeing in university?” he asked carefully. “The one you never told us about?”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched around the mug. He didn’t answer right away.

“You were so secretive about her,” Minhyun went on, a trace of sadness in his voice. “We never even met her. You never talked about her. And then suddenly she was just… gone. Have you… rekindled things?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Jungkook swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “I can’t talk about her,” he said finally, his voice low and tight. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not with her anymore.”

Minhyun’s expression softened, though his chest ached with worry. He placed a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, warm and steady.

“Alright,” he murmured. “But I’m here, Jungkook. Whenever you want to talk—about anything—I’m here.”

And then he left, the sound of the door closing quietly behind him.

Jungkook sat there long after, the coffee cooling in his hands, his chest hollow with everything he couldn’t say.

-------------

The restaurant was warm and golden, quiet enough that Minhyun could lower his voice without worrying about being overheard. He’d been distracted all evening, his smile dimmer than usual, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Y/N set down her wine glass, tilting her head. “You’re a million miles away tonight. What’s going on?”

Minhyun exhaled through his nose, fingers rubbing at the rim of his glass. “It’s my brother,” he admitted.

Her stomach dropped. She fought to keep her voice even. “What about him?”

“He’s… not doing great,” Minhyun said, his tone heavy with the weight of an older brother’s worry. “He’s been drinking a lot. Smoking. Coming home late, avoiding everyone. It’s like he’s trying to forget his own life.” His brow furrowed as he stared down at the table. “It scares me. He won’t talk to me. Every time I try, he just says he’s fine.”

Y/N’s hand froze halfway to her water glass. Her pulse roared in her ears. She nibbled nervously at her thumbnail, a habit she thought she’d broken years ago. “Has he…” She swallowed. “Has he been seeing anyone?”

Minhyun finally lifted his gaze to her, surprised by the question. His dark eyes searched her face. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “Not that I know of.”

Relief crashed into her chest so hard it was almost sickening. The kind that made her breath hitch, the kind that made guilt claw at her throat. Because the thought of Jungkook with someone else—touching someone else—made her stomach churn. And yet, wasn’t she sitting here across from his brother?

She forced herself to look down at her napkin, twisting it in her lap to avoid the weight of Minhyun’s steady gaze.

Because she knew. Deep down, she knew Jungkook could probably see right through her. He always could. He probably knew she wasn’t in love with Minhyun—not the way she was with him.

She had told herself she wanted stability, a family that wouldn’t fall apart, a man who was everything safe and solid. She thought she could carve happiness out of something sensible. She thought that was what she wanted most.

But hearing Minhyun’s words, picturing Jungkook alone and unraveling, tore that lie to pieces.

Because maybe all she wanted—maybe all she had ever wanted—was him.

The night was cool, the street lamps casting long shadows across the pavement as Y/N stepped out of Minhyun’s place. She pulled her coat tighter, ready to head home when she froze.

There he was.

Jungkook leaned against the side of his car, smoke curling lazily around his face. The flicker of the cigarette tip glowed red in the dark, the sharp smell of tobacco hanging in the air.

For one dizzying moment, she couldn’t breathe. He looked different—hollowed out, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes, skin rougher, dotted with faint scars along his chin. His once-polished edges were dulled now, but to Y/N, he had never been more beautiful. She's never wanted anyone else.

She didn’t think. Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She crossed the driveway and, without a word, plucked the cigarette from his lips and tossed it onto the ground, grinding it beneath her shoe.

Jungkook’s eyes followed the motion, then lifted to hers. Empty. Guarded. A shade darker than she remembered. And still—still—they burned her alive.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and slid out another cigarette, tucking it between his lips before sparking the lighter. He inhaled, the ember glowing bright, and exhaled smoke into the cold night.

Y/N’s heart pounded. Without hesitation, she plucked that one away too—snatching the pack from his hand as well.

His fingers closed around her wrist, firm and unyielding. “Give it back.” His voice was rough, gravelly, threaded with exhaustion.

She shook her head. “No.”

He tightened his grip, stepping in closer. In the next instant, he spun them, pressing her back against the cool metal of his car. The sudden nearness stole her breath.

“Let go,” he ordered quietly, eyes locking onto hers.

“No.”

The single word trembled out of her, but her resolve didn’t waver. The warmth of his body radiated into her, solid and suffocating, his chest just barely grazing hers with each shallow breath. They hadn’t been this close since the night everything shattered, and her knees felt weak beneath her.

Her head tilted up, craning to meet his gaze through the gap in their height. His eyes were endless—tired and red-rimmed, but sharp enough to cut her open.

For a moment, the world stopped moving.

Then Jungkook leaned back half a step, raking a hand through his hair as if the sight of her, this close, was too much to take. His voice cracked low and bitter, shattering the silence.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Y/N?”

Her back pressed against the cold metal of his car, Y/N felt like she couldn’t breathe. Not with him this close. Not with his words slicing through her.

Her chest heaved, and before she could stop herself, it slipped out. “I can’t marry your brother.”

------------

Wally West/Reader

When you find Wally in the room, he’s already upon you with such speed—with such hunger—that you can scarcely comprehend it.

Clearly lost to the throes of whatever sensation that bids make him mouth his tongue at your pulse, his hands working in desperate fraction to undo the button at your jeans, at your collar. 

“Wally—”—You begin in pitched moan as you try to place your hands on the man desperate to get you naked, to have you feel the girth of his cock that is grinding against the meat of your thigh.

You knew that the pollen would be bad: but experiencing it, feeling his hands working below your waistband, feeling how hot his tongue is as it scorches at your collarbone—

“I’m sorry,” He moans, a semblance of shame making itself known. But it’s quickly overridden by the way that his mouth makes greedy suck at the slope of your chest: your gasp of surprise concludes into wanton intake of breath. 

“Wally—”—You echo in repetition, but this plaintive request of his name is more beholden to lust. Is more desperate to give in to what he wants. To what you want, as well.

“Let me have you,” He murmurs into your body, in between the bites that he takes down your chest to mark his territory. “Please—I’ve never needed you more.” 

When he makes such dedicated search of you, his hands already looking for the heat between your legs: how can you refuse? All you do is pull him upwards by the scruff of his collar, taking in those pupils that are dilated beyond comprehension, blown-out with desire that can only be slaked by you. And you draw his tongue into your mouth. 

He moves beyond your comprehension: he’s done it before when the two of you have tangled in the sheets, but this time is so much more sensation, so much more energy that needs to be staved off.

His hands seek out the slick rhythm that he can work in between your legs, the pads of his fingers rubbing out a tempo that has you clutching into him for support, your teeth sinking into the flesh of his shoulder. His mouth is relentless: making bruise after bruise that demarcates his lust into your nipple, your navel, the inside of your thighs. 

When he licks at the junction of your legs: you can only twitch and gasp around him, your thighs clenched around his ears, making sure that the only sound he may hear is the thrum of your body, your pleasure made by the ministration of his own. 

When he fucks you, it’s with such desperate crescendo, such necessary rhythm—his cock sinks into you with such ferocity that usually belies his tender, romantic approach. As he presses you face-down into the mattress so that you can clutch your fingers into it, mouth open and panting as you take his cock. 

“Wally—”—You beg for more, his thighs slapping against the swell of your ass with such perfect, lewd obscenity—“—Wally—”

“Yeah?” He asks, so clearly unmoored, so clearly lost to the throes of pleasure that have him chasing his orgasm. “What—what is it—” 

You angle your head at him, letting him see how fucked out you are, the glassy, delighted haze to your eyes—to see something in parallel on his own—and you make your plea. “More, Wally.” 

He grins: and then, as any good partner would do, he obliges. And all you can do is moan around the way that he makes perfect fit inside of you, fucking you closer to that orgasm you’re quickly approaching. 

Vic Stone/Reader

”How did this happen to you?” You ask you find him, clearly roiling over with a need that has yet to be satisfied. That he restrains solely for your presence as you approach the foot of the bed. 

“Got blasted,” he groans—and what is visible of his flesh-and-blood on his face makes clear it shines with exertion—“—Taking a hit for Wally.” 

“Serves you right,” you grin as you lope a knee onto the edge of the bed. His eyes are so hungry, so lustful—so worshipful as he watches your approach on the bed. “Wally okay?” 

“Think he got blasted, too,” Vic admits; you can’t help but chuckle. There’s a knowing, good-natured grimace as you reach his feet, his legs which spread wider for your access. 

“Poor him.” You say, running a hand over the nuance of his ankle, feeling the smooth articulation of technology made in interval with the flesh, marking your lover whole. “Good thing you got me, though.” 

“Yeah,” he says, voice taut as he watches you sink to your hands and knees, “Good thing.” 

There’s an aborted, stunted grunt he tries to smother as you start your ascent to him: marked in documentation by the kiss that you linger on his ankle. Then as you cross to other leg, pressing your mouth to the crook of his knee, running your tongue over slick metal and skin that scorches with desire. 

“God—”—He shudders—“—You’re perfect—”

All he receives is a chuckle you murmur into his skin, and a kiss to the inside of his thigh that is concluded with definitive sink of your teeth. When he groans—you think you’ll enjoy more of this needy chorus as you lick up the panel that conceals the promised land. 

He makes an oath as you stare up at him with playful grin, your tongue laving up the sleek underside—something winks as you realize he takes documentation of it for later safekeeping. 

“Pervert,” you tease as you find footing on the heels of your palms, working your way up to find yourself seated on his lap. As the guide of his hands eagerly help to make you find home on him. 

“Can’t help it,” he confesses as he searches out for the warmth of you, “Just wanna feel you.” 

“Go ahead,” you say—rewarded with the hiss of air as the panel slides open, and you feel the nosing of his cock press against you. 

“Ready?” He asks—you grin. 

“Always, baby,” you confirm—and when his hands sink into the give of your hips, help to raise you up as the length of his cock slides against you—

And when he bodily lowers you down onto him, stretching you open so that all you can do is clutch to him for support—all you can do is make whisper of his name on your tongue and yours on his—

“I love you,” you say as your walls stretch against him—and you hear him murmur the same as he draws you to him for a kiss. 

Eobard Thawne/Reader

“What a perfect sight for me,” Eobard chuckles as he takes sight of you naked, sweaty, panting with a desperation only he can sate, “Been waiting for me long, sweetheart?” 

“No,” Is all that you can manage, “Eobard, please—”

“Please what?” He asks, his hand seizing around your jaw. Making you see the way his eyes are so eagerly taking consumptive view of you—as his other hand is knuckling your legs open. Working to seize the heat that you eagerly grind upon, held in the heel of his palm. 

“Please fuck me,” you whimper. “I can’t—the pollen—it's too much—”

“Yeah,” he chuckles through gritted teeth, with shoulders that are spreading wide in possessive manner. “So say it.” 

“I need you to take care of me,” you pant open-mouthed. “Please.” 

“Since you begged so nicely,” he croons—before he seizes your bottom lip between his teeth hard enough to draw blood. 

The pollen is to render you insatiable until it has run full course through your body. But the way that Eobard handles you; the way that he holds you, slamming his hips into you as you’re pulled backwards flush against him—

He teeters the line of agony and euphoria, as his cock glides in and out of you with such ease, hitting that spot that makes you wail. Fucking you stupid into the mattress as you try to muffle your whimpers into the pillow—only for him to tear it away, toss it to the floor. 

“Dumb sluts that can’t dodge don’t deserve muzzles,” Eobard says, as he bucks his hips into you hard enough to feel like you’ve bruised. As he slaps his hand hard down the cleft of your ass to make you keen in protest, before he offers the balm of his cock sheathing you to the hilt. 

“Oh, yeah,” he mocks as you slump into the sheets, “Too much for you, honey?” 

“No, no—”—You try to reply, muddled through the haze of delightful torment—“—It’s perfect—”

He laughs, mean and mocking. “Have I fucked you that stupid already?” 

When his cock slams into you again, all you can do is moan as you let him take his fill. As he satisfies you the way that only he can do for you. Even if you won’t say it: your body has already confessed enough. 

Plastic Man/Reader

“It’s not funny, Plas,” you groan as you sit on his lap, grinding with desperate need to satisfy the friction between your legs. “I just—I—”

“Need someone to take care of you, huh?” He asks with such wicked, slick delivery that even though you want nothing more than to ride him into the sunset: you can only give him an exasperated moan. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” you whimper—although his arms are already making spirited twine around your arms, your torso, firmly keeping you locked in place. “It’s bad enough I got blasted with this stupid pollen—”

“And now you have to come asking me for help, huh?” His voice is a very sleek taunt in your ear as you work to try and relieve some of the pressure. 

“We’re dating,” you groan as you try to make spirited kiss as his jaw that makes him growl—“—You should be happy to help me.” 

“And I am, honey,” he replies with such ebullient joy that if his hands weren’t already working to peel you out of your pants—you’d kill him where he stood. Or, rather, sits below you. 

“I just can’t help,” he whispers in your ear, “But take a little bit of time to appreciate you.” 

“Less appreciating,” you groan as you feel the cool exposure of air on your legs, “And more fucking.”

“Aye aye,” he grins—and then decides to get straight to work. 

Adam Warlock/Reader

You wouldn’t know that he was affected by this, if it wasn’t for the fact that you had been told. He stands before the window, his back facing you in such implacable, muscular form that always steals your breath away. 

“Adam?” You ask quietly, watching as those shoulders pitch, stiffen as he makes physical register of your presence. 

“They said you got hit with—”—Is all that you’re able to articulate. That is, before you catch glimpse of the way his eyes are riveted upon you, the way his nostrils flare and his mouth sets with something deliberate—

And then he is before you in such ethereal glory, in such impressive anatomy and poise, his hands finding the curve of your jaw to guide your mouth to him.

And when his tongue presses at the seam of your lips, it’s all that you can do to allow him access—to feel him kiss you with a starved agony that he’s never expressed before. 

His hands are desperate with such locomotion, rushing to find the nuance of your body as you moan and whimper on his soft palate; it’s all you can do to keep up. 

He pulls away—something regretful on his face, something penitent. “I do not mean to—I should—”

He cannot even conclude this sentence before he is making way to taste the salt of your skin where it collects on the column of your neck, summoning another groan on your end. 

“I should be stronger,” he curses into your vulnerable skin, “I should be above such base desires—”

“It’s okay,” you reassure as he continues to eke out such pleasure, “You don't have to be.” 

His eyes seek yours, revealing such humanity. As you affirm once more. “It’s okay.”

He whiles in internal, chaotic deliberation. And then before you can comprehend it, you are pressed into the soft folds of the bed. As his arms yawn over you, his thigh nudging between your legs easily ticking open. His mouth taking care to swipe the scald of his tongue up your collarbone, summoning blissful shiver from you. 

When he fucks you, it’s with a prescience you’ve never felt before—rather than the tender love making it usually is, this is a greedy fuck.

Each stroke that he pumps into you leaves you filled up with the curve of his cock, keening into the unyielding meter of his body. Every rock of his hips leaving you helpless to do anything but take him, with that brutal drag that stretches you so perfectly. 

“Adam—”—You sob as you feel him rut into you, his lips desperate to leave a mark on the junction of your neck and shoulder—“—Don’t stop—”

“Never,” he swears, with such voracious claim into you, “Never.” 

Bullseye/Reader

He seems remarkably put-together as you walk into the room, close the door behind yourself. Take careful visual assessment of him as his eyes seem to nearly gleam in unnatural ken as he watches you. 

“Nice of you to drop by, sweetheart,” he says, and pushes himself up with a mild grunt of exertion to cross over to you.

There’s something off in the swagger of his walk, something that is so very cunning and lithe as per usual. But you can tell that he carries different bearings: there’s something that’s nearly delirious in the catch of his eyes as they take more endured evaluation of you.

He draws up sidelong to you, encroaching on your space enough that you have to take instinctive tick back. 

“How do you feel, Les?” you ask as you feel the door push against your back, knocking gentle air from you in quiet expulsion. He chuckles, still staying askance of your touch: but that doesn’t matter. You can feel the heat that is sloughing off of him, see the uninhibited way that his pupils are drawn wide, to indicate how untethered he is from the moment. 

“Feel great, honey,” He says, and his hands take careful stance on either side of you. His mouth wanders close, so that you can feel every particular of the sentences that he speaks against you. “Feel like I could just eat you up.” 

“You sure?” You ask, watching how he lists a little to the side—and there seems to be a touch of conscientiousness in his voice, something sentient return back to his eyes. Enough to know that you should regret it. 

But you have no time to backtrack it before he closes whatever distance remains, and latches his mouth onto your neck with cruel, merciless bite.

Your mouth catches around a desperate gasp of delight, your hands already seeking out the muscle that composes your man. The implacable, unyielding wall of his body that swallows up whatever distance remains. 

There’s a rip of noise, the nosing of a blade that works up the sinew of your skin—your eyes immediately dart down as you take in the sinister blade that he’s produced. And your clothes fall in open tatters, crumpled heaps of fabric to the ground. He chuckles in amusement at how his tool obeys him. 

“Les—”—You say in combination of exasperation and surprise—“—How’m I gonna get out of here if I’m naked?” 

His mouth is already traveling down your stomach, his tongue lapping into the divot of your navel. “Don’t worry about that right now, honey. For now—” 

Where his tongue licks up in slow, torturous drag, you can’t help but scrabble your fingers against the wall for purchase, let something shuck through your teeth as he makes ragged exploration. 

“Lemme take you for a ride,” He smirks up at you. 

You just don’t realize how you will until you’re made to ride him, to bounce on the length of his cock that fills you up so wholly, a rocketing wave of pleasure darting up your body with each roll of his hips he makes.

The blade that he freed you of your clothes from presses into the vulnerable exposure of your neck, darting closer to sanctity with each treacherous sink that you make down onto him—but you could care less. Not when he looks at you with such abject desire, his tongue lolling from open mouth as he takes in the sight of you. 

“Good work, honey,” He taunts you as you sheath yourself on him to the hilt, a whine of exhausted pleasure escaping you. “Just like that—” 

The blade whispers further against your skin, making the adrenaline run taut with the wave of sensation that pushes you closer to the edge. As his fingers grow more ravenous against your waist, guiding you along in careful meter to fuck you to orgasm. 

Matt Murdock/Reader

“Will it make it more intense?” You ask—he finds you across the meridian of the bed, his hands working to interlace with yours. He burns under your touch, finding some mild relief in the homeostatic temperature that you leach into him, that he greedily accepts. 

“Make what more intense?” He asks, as you watch a bead of sweat dart in pearled manner down the arc of his temple. Your eyes fixate on it, wondering what it would taste like if you licked him from chin to crown of head, baptizing him with your tongue. 

“Your senses,” You murmur, extending hand to search out the nuance of stubble that frames his jaw. That makes him shudder, lean instinctively into you: he has no sight.

All that he can rely upon now, with this overwhelming fractal of senses, are his smell, his touch—and what must he sense from you? What can he glean from his faculties, from the way that your hand makes imparted touch onto him?

“They’re already turned to 10 all the time,” Matt says, his voice breaking as your fingers work behind his ear, sinking into the scrape of his scalp, “I guess this is just eleven.” 

Every inch of him is so hot, scorching—how he seeks to abate it with you. How he’s already crawling on hands and knees to find you, to make establishment of territory into you with hands that are pressing you back. With his lips that are search up the crook of your arm, up the slope of your shoulder. With a tongue that inches its soft palate up your cheek, teeth scraping against you. 

He tortures you now: you had expected something fast, something fueled with adrenaline, something made to leave you bruised and satisfied.

But he wants to take it slow: making cruelly navigated pump of his cock into your legs that are pinioned around his waist, making you feel the full spread of him in advancing inch by inch.

His breath huffs into your ear, his hands planted firmly into the spread of your shoulders, desperate to commemorate all of your body kept under whatever acreage of him he can manage. 

When he finally admits himself fully into you, finally bottoms out, the head of his cock nosing at that terrible spot—you arch your back against him, your hands seized against the flat plane of his stomach. “Matt, please—” 

“God—”—There’s something so truly reverent in his voice as he savors the feeling of you swallowing him, the way that his body is fully pressed against you in such intimate manner. Made for perfect complement against each other. “—I need you like this, forever—” 

He slinks out of you with such unyielding poise, every muscle of him taut, before he takes advance into you again. The wave of pleasure that is slow and torturous to make nascent peak over you is heightened by the prayer he makes into your skin. By the oath he swears by his teeth that rasp down your earlobe, his tongue that makes worship in nonverbal form. 

“Love you,” He groans, overwhelmed by the touch of you that is all he has ever needed to sate himself with, “God—” 

He is broken and in necessity of what you can only give to fix him. When you find your tongue against him, careful to make sure that he memorizes the taste of you: he sinks into you again, and you find the sanctity in the touch of your lover once more. 

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“It says to curl your fingers until you feel something spongey like.” Jungkook reads from the glowing device in the low lit dorm.

Your back is pressed to his chest, slumped slightly as he cups the underside of your caramel thigh. Practically sandwiching you in place between the bodies of your two best friends.

Jimin follows the instructions.

His fingers curling inside your drenched, velvety cunt. The both of them mesmerized as your syrupy wetness seeps out the deep pink of your inner flesh, coating Jimin’s pale fingers.

You whine around your panties stuffed in your mouth, feeling shy by your exposed position.

If you would have known the night was going to play out this way you would have shaved, slightly insecure of the bush sitting atop your mound. But Jungkook, nor Jimin, seem phased by the coarse, dark curls decorating your pussy.

Both clouded by lust, eager to bring you to climax.

“[+], be quiet,” Jungkook snaps, angling the phone closer toward Jimin so that he can read the instructions for himself. “Or I’ll stuff your mouth with something else. Jimin needs to focus.”

Jimin’s finger curl deeper inside you, causing your head to lull back in pleasure.

This is so wrong…but it feels so right.

The three of you were supposed to be studying. Exams are less than twenty-four hours away and you all had an Organic Chem midterm that could quite literally make or break your grade.

But of course, the two men had to get distracted. Jungkook jumping down a rabbit hole on the “harrowing” (in his words) statistics of female ejaculation.

The both of them completely surprised at the low demographic of women that can actually squirt.

And when you revealed how that statistic rang true for you as well, their interest in studying went completely out the window.

You’ve convinced yourself it’s the three hours of sleep you’re running on that got you in this predicament. Your critical thinking skills shot to shit.

But even on a good day, with eight full hours of sleep, there was no going back and forth with two regional debate team champions.

So, eager to shut them the fuck up and get back to studying, you caved.

But it appears your decision could potentially have detrimental consequences to your sheets.

Jimin’s pace is slow, clumsy at first as his fingers thrust into you. His middle and ring gradually sinking deeper, knuckle by knuckle, until they’re snug in your warmth.

Forced to watch, you fidget against Jungkook’s chest as Jimin’s digits collect a creamy ring of your arousal. The lewd, sticky smack of your unison raising hair bumps on your skin.

“Fuck, she’s fucking drenched already Kook,” Jimin preens thrusting his fingers inside you faster now, his confidence building as your body positively responds to his undoing.

His fingers make a “V” inside you, stretching you out before they come together, curling slightly as they brush the spot that has your spine liquifying.

You’d be outright lying to deny it feels good.

It feels beyond good.

It is euphoric.

Like all the stress and tension that coiled itself up tight in your body is finally unraveling in the most sinful way possible.

Jimin adds a third digit and you can’t help the loud whine that spills from around your gag. Nails digging crescent moons into Jungkook’s muscular thighs as you struggle to stay still.

While Jimin’s fingers may be short, it doesn’t take them long at all to find your g-spot. The heightened sensation completely foreign to you as your previous partners didn’t care in the slightest about your pleasure.

A pressure like never before begins to build at your pelvis. So consuming you can’t even keep still. Toes curling up, vision dotting as your body writhes in pleasure.

Jungkook plants a reassuring kiss against the side of your head, whispering lowly, “Don’t fight it pretty.”

He pulls your sodden panties out of your mouth, flinging the lace lazily somewhere in the dorm as he mumbles about wanting to hear you.

You tremble desperately in Jungkook’s hold. Jimin flat out finger fucking you now. Drilling his digits into your sopping wet pussy.

The sounds are almost pornographic. Your moans mixing with Jungkook’s heavy breathing, Jimin’s groans, and the repetitive squelch of his fingers inside.

It’s becoming too much.

“Jimin wait—“ you choke. A lone, fat tear breaking free. You could feel the pressure building inside you. The need to release so pressing you can’t help but cry out.

But your tears only turn them on further.

Jungkook reaches down to thumb at your clit, the action sending you over the edge as your body goes lax, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

“Fuck! I think it’s happening. She’s wet as shit down here,” Jimin beams, his fingers practically forced out by a large spray of your arousal, so intense your body convulses as you moan.

Your hips seize up, bucking to a stop as clear liquid gushes out of urethra. The sensation stunting you from processing anything other than the pure intensity of your orgasm.

It feels never ending.

Completely soaking the bedding beneath you, Jimin’s shirt, and Jungkook’s hand. Which has never left the sensitive nub of your clit, rubbing you into overstimulation.

Jimin flicks his tongue out like a filthy fuck, catching the tail end of your orgasm. And temporarily paralyzed, you watch him slurp greedily at your pussy, eyes locked on your own. Filled with mischief.

You sob against Jungkook’s chest as you grow sensitive. Flinching at every swivel of his finger against your clit until he slows to a stop. Your back vibrates as he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he showers you in praises.

“That was hot as shit,” Jimin barks out, rising up to plant a fat kiss on your lips.

For it to be the first time you’ve ever kissed, he does it so casually, plush lips moving against yours briefly, before he pulls back to stare at you.

“You good, [+]? Happy to no longer be a statistic?” Jimin asks playfully.

To weak to form a response you glare at him, thighs still trembling slightly.

Jungkook, brushes your hair from your face, leaning over you to kiss your forehead.

“Oh, don’t give him that face,” Jungkook teases. “You needed a break from the textbook, [+]. We were seconds away from seeing your brain jump out of your skull.”

Jimin laughs at that, hopping off the bed to peel off his ruined shirt before disappearing down the hall, the sound of the shower cuts on seconds later. Jungkook helps you sit up, rubbing your back soothingly to ease the lingering tremors.

“You’re going to do fine tomorrow, [+]. We all are,” he says, gently grabbing your chin to turn you toward him, his large eyes wickedly sincere. “And hey, really you should be happy. We just unlocked a new way to celebrate once we get our test scores back.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows wiggle teasingly, and you weakly nudge his chest. The half-hearted push only makes him laugh harder, the sound deep and vibrating against your skin before he leans down to press a quick, tender peck to your lips.

When he stands, the sudden absence of his warmth leaves you shivering slightly against the damp sheets. Watching him step away, a strange weight suddenly settles in your chest.

You’d known these boys for years, shared endless late-night study sessions and bad dining hall food, but the air in the room felt entirely different now. The invisible line you’d all spent semesters dancing around hadn't just been crossed.

It had been completely obliterated.

And looking at the easy, familiar smile still plastered on his face, you realize there is absolutely no going back to how things used to be.

Jungkook offers you a hand.

-

sticky sweet, tangerine.

you would think a couple living together for two years, would've had time to hit a cafe together but every christmas, you would come home with a steaming cup of hot chocolate from your favorite place, only for yoongi to steal the marshmallows on it and go, "oh, we should go there!"

but you never did and the magnet made its home on the fridge.

it seemed like a good start, a safe start.

except yoongi was about 20 minutes late.

which normally wouldn't be a big deal, but today, it was, today, it annoyed you, today, you wanted to be somewhere else and not waiting for the man you used to love at the doorstep of a coffee shop filled with couples.

maybe this was what happened when love thawed.

irritation, exhaustion, impatience came through.

"sorry, sorry!" yoongi's voice cut through and your irritation softened to guilt.

it had only been twenty minutes.

and this was still yoongi.

"i'm so sorry, meeting just went on and on and," yoongi cut himself off at your raised eyebrows, "got it," he mumbled and stepped forward to open the door for you.

years of being together did that.

knowing the threshold, the boundaries that one normally has and what pushes it just slightly.

"two hot chocolates, please," you said to the cashier who was a little too smiley for the middle of the day, "sure! would you like marshmallow fluff with that?"

you've heard of marshmallows but, "what's that? is it seasonal?"

and she literally brightens up, as if you've just discovered treasure in the sea, "so, we put a rim of melted marshmallow around your cup, and then torch it to give it that toasted flavor," which sounded great, "it's delicious and yes, it's seasonal, won't be here after this week," her expression was magical.

and you were sold.

"how do you do that if it's a to-go?" and the fantasy is ruined. you glare at yoongi who seems genuinely concerned.

you just wished he was as concerned about other things, like your destroyed relationship, rather than how burnt marshmallow fluff is transported.

the cashier smiles uneasily, "we can't do that for to-go, unfortunately, it's for only if you have it here," and you shrug, "then, we can just have it here."

"actually, i have another meeting soon, i'm sorry," yoongi chimes again and, was he always like this? or were you just noticing it now? and when did he start apologizing so much?

"oh," you deflate, telling yourself that he didn't owe you his time anymore, "okay, that's fine," you turn to the cashier and smile awkwardly, she shares the same smile, god knows she doesn't want to be in the middle of this.

"we'll just take the normal ones to-go," you confirm, and yoongi shifts uneasily next to you, "i'll wait outside," you let him know, you weren't paying for the normal ones, if he wanted the normal ones, he could go ahead and pay for you both.

it was petty but you couldn't be anything else at the moment.

outside, you focus on the dogs walking by, the trees finally changing color, the couples who whispered to each other and kissed cheeks, and you felt heavier than you did in the coffee shop.

when did it change?

you couldn't pinpoint it, you couldn't remember a particular day or moment that shifted things between you and yoongi but if you both were ready to walk away, it had to be something significant, right?

"come inside," yoongi calls out to you and you frown, "where are the drinks?"

he holds up two cups with white clouds sitting at their rims, "she said it's seasonal, right?"

and you don't hold back your smile.

you kisshis cheek as you walk in and take a cup from his hands.

after all, this was still yoongi.

-

it's too hard to describe this, in a way that feels honest.

for pottery, yoongi showed up on time and you were pleasantly surprised to see him right at the door as you walk up to the small studio.

"is this it?" he asks and you nod, "yeah, the class is only an hour long by the way, in case you have anywhere to be," you head in and he trails behind, "nope, nowhere else to be."

you ignore the tug in your heart at his words and maybe it was for the best, because two hours in, you and yoongi sat defeated in front of the rotating potter's wheel.

you stared as it went round and round, you felt the clay harden around your fingers and the sweat lining your forehead, you didn't have to look at yoongi to know that he was the same.

the instructor circled again, pausing at where you two sat and raised her eyebrow, "how are we doing here?" she had the audacity to smile at your destroyed pride and faces.

"all good," you grinned back with gritted teeth, refusing to acknowledge your collapsing creation.

"well, if you need anything, i'm right here!" she cheerfully says and you almost want to throw the wheel on her, "sure!" you exclaim, just as loud and that leaves you at square one again.

until.

yoongi starts laughing beside you.

"all good!" he imitates your tone, only to fall back in laughter again and you glare at him, "how are you laughing?"

he ignores you.

"yoongi, she was judging us, our skill, our talent!" you fume and he smirks, "we don't have any of that."

he had a point.

but.

"how are you not supremely annoyed right now?" because you were, you were so annoyed, you were annoyed that you paid to be humiliated.

"come on, you're too entertaining for that," yoongi bumps your shoulder and while you want to continue glaring, your insides soften.

yoongi had once told you.

at the beginning of your love.

you had just fought with someone over them pushing yoongi, and yoongi had dragged you away, laughing in your ear and keeping you close.

you had asked him the same thing again, how was he not annoyed, how was he not angry, how was he walking away, and he had shrugged.

he had told you, "i don't know, when i'm with you, everything is fun, even things that are supposed to be, well, supposed to be irritating."

if any of that sentiment remained, you never noticed it until today.

and as he presents to you his broken cat figure, you smile at it he's not looking.

you don't show him what you make.

a (kind of) mug for hot chocolate with marshmallows (very poorly) carved on them.

-

i just reach and you're right there.

you wanted to check off as many things as you could in town before you had to move on to the cities you'd stuck as magnets.

and that unfortunately included ice skating.

you watched with gritted teeth as yoongi sailed in front of you.

he had always been unusually good at ice skating and you, well, you had other talents, which is why you never ended up doing it together.

but yoongi had come home one day, with a smile that could break his face and he had glowed with happiness, you asked him then, "what's got you in such a good mood?"

he had kissed your cheek before answering, he always did that when he came home, "ice skating with the boys, you won't believe it but it was exhilarating."

you had laughed and told him that he could enjoy it all he wants, by himself.

but the next week, he had brought the magnet home and told you, "i think it would make you happy too."

it was like yoongi, to think of your happiness, to predict your happiness, to find and discover things that made you happy.

he was one of the reasons you had been so happy for a good chunk of your life.

now, he glided across ice as if he belonged on it and you held onto the railings and hated every second that brought you here.

no, you didn't expect him to be romantic, hold your hands and give you a whirl but.

fuck, maybe you did expect that but you knew you were in the wrong to expect that.

so, you tightened your grip on the steel bar and took step by step, slipping but not quite falling, and you were okay with that for now.

"you know, you could've just asked me," you heard and peeled your eyes away from the floor to see yoongi in front of you, standing with amused eyes, concerned eyebrows and a smile that he held in tightly.

"yoongi, i'll kill you if you laugh at me right now," clearly you didn't look the least bit threatening to him because he immediately bursts into laughter, making the sides of his eyes crease with all his teeth in view.

you found yourself taken aback a little and paused to stare at this man so trapped in his joy that he doesn't notice how deeply you take in all of his features.

you didn't want to forget this.

you didn't want to forget seeing yoongi this happy.

"come on, you could've just grabbed me," he shrugs, and you scowl, "you know i can't do that."

anymore.

you couldn't do that anymore.

and it isn't until a minute passes that you wish you could swallow your words back but they were out in the world, and you watched yoongi's laughter fade as quickly as it came.

you always did this.

ruin the moment.

never let him stay happy.

steal his joy.

it was all so clear now, why he wanted to leave, why you two couldn't go on because you would always destroy it.

you shuffled your feet, watching the lines form on the ice, debating whether to just turn around and leave, to just head home, take down all the magnets and reassure yoongi that he didn't have to do them anymore.

he didn't have to deal with you.

anymore.

but yoongi was unfortunately, still yoongi.

"come on," and he doesn't wait for your response, your reaction, he doesn't study you so deeply, he doesn't look for signs of discomfort like you do, he only takes your hands in his, places one on your waist and you're gliding.

yoongi's grip stays tight.

the lines carve more deeply into the ice.

and somewhere in the middle, both of you are breathless and laughing in each other's faces.

you forgot everything about why you wouldn't work out.

because yoongi was always right, yoongi always found a way to make you happy, especially when you didn't want to be.

-

god, i love the way you look at me.

miami was hot.

you were now two months ahead from when you first started taking down the magnets, one by one.

miami was going to take one more down and soon, there would be none left on your fridge, and nothing to see yoongi for.

he arrived a day before you, you didn't ask why, you waited at the front of the airport, scanning the crowd to catch his hair somewhere.

and you caught him easily, your eyes always found him, it wouldn't have mattered if there were a thousand more people where you stood, you would still find him.

he walked up to you, lazy smile, hands in pockets, loose shirt sticking to some parts of his skin, forehead lined with sweat, and steps, fast and sure, towards you.

"it's bloody hot, isn't it?" yoongi said, and you were spellbound, yoongi in miami was more attractive than yoongi at home in sweatpants, and it took you a minute to recover your dropped jaw.

had his mouth always been this way?

drawing out words smoothly?

flushed and so ready to be kissed?

"y/n?"

you dug your nails into your palm to ground yourself, "yeah, so...hot, suffocating, really," you made a show of waving your hands to push some air onto your face until yoongi produced a small handheld fan from his pockets.

"i have one too, you really need it around here, let's go," he handed it to you and took your suitcase, walking ahead of you.

you swallow your desire, ignore the way his fingers brushing against yours felt, and catch up to him.

-

shooting stars, racing cars.

miami was sticky.

and windy.

you and yoongi watched from the window of your airbnb as the once irritating yet pleasant weather became gushes of wind that you couldn't even walk in.

"so?"

he seemed to ask you that a lot, 'where does it go from here?', 'what do we do?', silently letting you take the lead.

if only you knew where to go.

"i don't know, we obviously can't do the amusement park today," you shrug and sit on the bed, letting your shoulders roll back and wincing at the ache in them.

damn you, spirit airlines.

damn you and your reclining seats that don't actually recline.

damn miami and it's cursed weather.

damn yoongi.

damn everything.

"tired?"

"obviously," you snap and you expect him to snap back, you expect him to start a fight because god knows, you would have if he spoke to you in that tone.

but yoongi isn't like you.

at all.

he just sits down beside you and leans back on the bed, "rest for a bit, if the weather gets better, we'll do something or we can order dinner to here."

you are almost annoyed at how quickly that makes you feel better.

"we're only here for two days and you want to sleep?" you challenge him, basically begging to start something at this point.

he gives you a look.

yoongi never started a fight, it always left you feeling like maybe he thought you weren't worth the fight, that if he just nods and moves on, you'll eventually shut up and he wouldn't have to deal with you anymore.

but he never let you win a fight either.

and you were always trying to change that.

"what else can we do?" and you're huffing, turning away from him and shoving your face into the pillow.

but just because he didn't let you win, it never meant you stopped trying.

"when i'm sleeping, if you wanna meet someone else, you can do so, you know? i don't mind, we're not fully together or anything."

was it cheap to use your relationship's fragile status to start a fight?

yes.

will you stop?

no.

you needed yoongi angry, huffing and puffing, telling you to go away and never wanting to see your face again.

but yoongi was yoongi.

"you know that i'm going to be right here," he's turning the other way, and soon, your hotel room is filled with his snores.

you glared at the wall in front of you, wanting the roof to crumble on his head.

you would never win with yoongi.

-

baby boy, honeybee.

sitting across yoongi at a beachfront bar, sipping on your fifth martini and trying to enjoy the horrid weather, wasn't the worst experience in your life but it was close.

around your first martini, you told yourself you would stop.

around your second, you told yoongi that you would stop.

around your third, you swore on your life to stop.

around your forth, yoongi tried to ask you to stop.

around your fifth, you started to feel overly conscious of the fact that yoongi was stone cold sober and you were, well, close to being gone.

and also around your fifth, yoongi pulled away your glass and chugged it himself, making you giggle and lean on your palm to watch him struggle to drink it.

he hated martinis.

nothing better than a whiskey, was what he always said and if it was not whiskey, it had to be soju.

"let's get you a drink," you tried standing up and yoongi was already rushing out of his seat to place a hand on your elbow.

"i'll get it," he tried to sit you back down but you pushed back, "it's never fun to get your own drinks," you reasoned and pulled away from him to stumble to the bar.

you didn't have to look back to know yoongi was behind you, you didn't have to look to know that it was his hand on the small of your back, guiding you through people and keeping you close to him.

at the bar, you called upon the bartender, asked him for their strongest whiskey, and let yourself lean back into yoongi's touch.

it wasn't your fault that his touch was so warm.

it wasn't your fault that you weren't fully broken up.

and you were drunk.

maybe that one was a little bit your fault.

but it didn't matter because here was yoongi, here were you, and here was miami's humid breeze ruining your hair with each minute passing by.

and you didn't want to be anywhere else.

"chug it," you turned to yoongi with the glass in your hand, and almost reeled back at how he was already looking right at you, as if he was trying to piece your face together from behind you.

it takes a second for him to say anything but when he does, he laughs and shakes his head, taking the glass from you and sliding it back on the countertop.

"i think we've had enough."

"i didn't know your tolerance had gotten so bad, yoongi," he always took pride in his tolerance so, you knew you would at least get an offended glare.

but he gives you nothing.

he only shakes his head and starts walking away, which only makes your irritation surface closer to your skin.

'fine, i guess we're not doing anything fun anymore, let's just stick to what we came here for," you push past him to your table, gathering your coat, phone and purse with heavy breaths, trying not to let it sting so much, trying not to let it bother you so much.

but god, did it bother you.

and reminded you of everything that has changed.

you and yoongi used to drink nights away, and now, you're swaying in your step and he's one step away, watching your imbalance and wanting no participation in it.

"it's not like that," his voice cuts through the noise in the club but you ignore it.

your skin was hot.

your hair was ruined.

you were drunk.

and you wanted to be anywhere else but here.

"you know, it's not like that," his hand closes around your wrist and you pull it back, refusing to let it sit on you, refusing to feel his touch because you always only wanted it more.

"really?" you turn around and you hate the look on his face.

pity.

towards you.

towards your state.

towards whatever, it didn't matter.

was it so pitiful to want the ending to not be so horrible?

was it so pitiful to cling onto the last few days you would have with someone?

and was it so pitiful to still feel love and not have anything to do with it?

"then, what is it like, yoongi? tell me." you were nowhere near brave enough to hear the truth but you asked anyway.

"i just think we should get to our hotel safely, that's all," and he gave you your lie, your comfortable space to walk out of this conversation with some pride and dignity.

but they were always in tatters when it came to yoongi.

you heard some music.

you stared at yoongi's face under a million lights, somehow, he was brighter but that, that would be a secret you keep close to your heart, that you see light in him, that you glowed because of it.

and you grabbed his hand, pulled him towards where everyone else danced, and just stood there.

you saw him eye everyone else on the dance floor, and then his eyes closed in on you, and like every other time he looked at you, the rest of the world and the sky melted behind him, and it was only him, only him and you.

and some tiny hope that today wouldn't be the last time you would be in his arms.

"you can still dance right, yoongi?" you teased him, a smile growing on your face when his own lips try to fight one away, but yoongi was yoongi.

he might hate you now but he loved you once.

and even for just the memory of it all, he lets you sway him, force him to twirl, force him to twirl you, dance circles around him and poke his body whenever you could, just to see him smile again, just to see him shake his head at you one more time.

he pulls you close just for a second to whisper, "i never forgot."

for a second, the magnets on the fridge are once again a journey and not the end.

for a second, yoongi was yours again.

for a second, you were so happy, because yoongi was so happy.

and it was all so simple.

yoongi was yoongi.

he broke your heart sometimes but he always stepped up.

as a slower song comes on, he stops your flailing hands, he holds them to your side, breaks into a laugh when you try to wiggle away.

but you stand straighter than ever when his eyes soften on you, when his hands snake around your waist, his fingertips hesitantly pressing on the fabric of your dress, his hair falling forward as he took a step closer towards you, he didn't push away the strands, only sucked in a breath when you eventually tucked them behind his ears.

he takes one of your hands and holds it to the side, he lets his other hand tighten on your waist, you let your head fall into his chest, seeing his face was too much but hearing his heartbeat kept you steady, kept you alive in this moment you will have to forget later.

yoongi runs one hand through the length of your hair before pressing your head further into his body, he holds you close, closer and closest until you became him and he became you. 

and you try not to squeeze his fingers to death, you try not to fall to your knees and cry out.

because you knew.

this was the last time he will let you get so close, this was the last time you can use being drunk as an excuse, this was the last time you and him would dance.

and you don't know if that thought scared him as much as it scared you.

-

let's just walk in the dark.

on the plane, you stare down at the city of miami, watched the buildings get smaller and smaller until it all disappeared under the clouds.

maybe you shouldn't have run, maybe you shouldn't have left yoongi behind but you couldn't help it.

waking up in the morning to his face, peacefully snoring, his arms, loosely wrapped around your shoulders and keeping you close and his body, wound around yours, made you panic.

it was hard enough, to do this, to think of waking up and not seeing him next to you and you could do without the constant reminder that every minute around him was one minute borrowed from the future.

and you were always so good at this, the running, the avoiding, never turning back and looking at the mess you leave behind.

from: yoongi

where the hell are you????

to: yoongi

plane, going back home.

from : yoongi

...

...

seen.

he left you on seen.

back home, you would answer to yoongi.

but for now, you close your eyes and pray that the magnets all disappear.

-

pick me up, walk me home, and it feels like god threw me a bone.

yoongi walked into the house and straight into your room, not even sparing a glance at you on the couch.

"yoongi?" you call out, getting up to follow him with your heart in your throat.

in the room, he has his head down, and he's removing each article from his suitcase, still refusing to look at you.

"are you not going to ask me anything?"

a beat passes where he pauses and you pause too.

and when he does speak, you wish he never did.

"should i?" he resumes unpacking, just to give you a stern glare and you feel like he might as well have punched you instead.

"actually no, can i even ask you anymore?" his bitter laugh that follows does nothing to quell your racing heart.

"what is that supposed to mean?"

"it means, since you've made it so clear so many times that i'm free to do whatever i want and be with whoever i want, i should probably let you do the same, right?"

he should have just punched you, yelled at you, anything but whatever was coming out of his mouth, would've been better.

"yoongi, what the fuck? no, it's jus-'" 

"it's just, what?"

and you have no response.

no words.

some of the few times in your life that you've been rendered speechless, was always in front of yoongi.

"i couldn't stay," you admit and he throws a shirt back into his suitcase, "why not?"

you couldn't tell him that if you stayed, you could never leave afterwards, you would have always wanted his arms around you, his breath in your ear, as you slept.

that you couldn't live in any other way.

"i just couldn't."

yoongi stares at you, and you swear you see tears forming in his eyes until he's turning away, yet again.

"fine, then."

-

here's to hoping.

you thought yoongi would be done with you, with the magnets, with whatever nonsense was left.

but a week later, you get a message.

from : yoongi

aquarium magnet, tomorrow, 3pm.

and that's how you take the clownfish magnet down.

when you reach, he's waiting at the entrance with two tickets and you lift your hand up to wave at him.

he waves back with a small smile which has you breathing out in relief.

"wanna head in?" and you walk behind him, steps slow and hesitant, to make sure you don't crowd him or annoy him.

the aquarium magnet was yours, you and yoongi had watched 'finding nemo' one night and you just knew he would love the aquarium, you had been many times but never with him.

inside, you can barely contain your excitement and forget the whole 'try not to annoy yoongi' plan.

you point to every animal you pass, "and you know, technically pufferfish can puff up multiple times in their lifetime but it causes them extreme physical pain which takes them so long to recover from," you don't know if he's listening, you can't really tell because you avoid looking right at him.

"but so many of those videos have divers showing them puffing up?"

so, he was listening.

"yeah, it pisses me off, just for some viral video, they torture these animals," you puff out, the memory of those videos always left you in a rage.

yoongi gently leads you along.

you continue to dump random information on him, this was your magnet, so you felt responsible to make sure he had a good time, "they can keep most types of sharks in captivity but not great white sharks, did you know that?"

"nope, why is that?" his ever so patient, ever so indulgent voice fills you with the same relief that it always did.

because yoongi was always yoongi.

"they can die from hitting on the surface of the tanks, they can't make sharp turns like other sharks and they don't even eat in captivity, they've tried many times but they always fail to keep them in tanks."

"which is good for them?"

"hell yeah, that's great for them," and he's laughing with you.

you keep walking until you reach the final enclosure where it's just glass and so many tiny, small, big fishes swimming around, oblivious to the beautiful scene they create to whoever is watching.

you stand in front of it, oblivious to the scene you create for yoongi.

the light passing through the blue water falls on your face as if you belong in front of it and yoongi’s never been one to look away from you.

he watches you, trapped and free, he watches you until he remembers every moment that's lead the both of you to here.

"i can see you why you like this," yoongi whispers, afraid to break your tender attention to the fishes.

even with your keen eyes on them, you want to ask, if he likes it too, if it was worth it to bring the magnet home, if it was worth the text he sent, if it was worth anything at all.

but you don't.

"yeah, i do, a lot," you say instead and he smiles at you, an acknowledgment to your admiration.

"so, what's next?"

you think back to the fridge, how empty and bare it laid now, how lifeless it looked.

"only las vegas."

yoongi looks away at that.

when you come back home, you stare at the clownfish magnet until you're sobbing and then, you throw it in the trash.

-

shooting stars, racing cars.

by the time you were packing for las vegas, you were also packing up your belongings in the house, one by one, everything you used to share with yoongi, now was either lying in a box with your name on top of it or his.

In between all this, the neon las vegas magnet stayed hanging on the fridge, its presence too blaring or too invisible at times.

yoongi didn’t talk much during this, he packed and unpacked some things, left some of his belongings in your boxes sometimes, made food for you whenever he could but you never ate together.

even in las vegas, you landed at different times, and you didn’t have yoongi’s face waiting for you at the arrivals gate like in miami.

so, it was safe to say, both of you felt the change and both of you accepted it.

you only run into each other as you’re heading out for a group tour.

“oh, hi,” you gulp when he comes into view, and yoongi nods, “hello,” and it’s painfully awkward, too awkward for especially the both of you.

“great hotel, by the way, good pick,” yoongi offers and this time, you’re the one nodding, “found a great deal,” and both of you nod one last time before joining the tourist group.

the first day, you spend looking at all the overpriced, overrated and overcrowded places that everyone goes to, you barely talk to each other, save for a few photos that your tour guide insists to take for you two.

the second day, yoongi shows up hungover to yet another group tour and you spend the day holding his hair back whenever he pukes and shaking your head each time he apologizes, but by night, it being your last night, you decide to have dinner together.

which didn’t spell disaster until you were sitting in front of him, in your best dress, trying not to break with every second that passes by.

these seconds, were all you had.

these seconds, were the last of which yoongi would be yours.

and staring at his indifferent face to all of it, stirred something ugly in you.

"so, what's been up with you?" 

yes, you lived in the same house.

and no, even if it's embarrassing to admit, you didn't know anything about yoongi's days anymore.

hell, the last time you properly spoke, was weeks ago.

“nothing much, routine stuff, nothing too exciting,” and you’re gritting your teeth at his answer.

he used to tell you even if he saw a funny-looking pebble and now, you got nothing.

“what about at work? they seem to be keeping you busy,” you press.

"well, i got a promotion," yoongi drops it so casually, and shrugs it off.

your fork almost drops on your plate but you hum with a tight smile and try to force excitement in your tone when you say, "congratulations!"

but you wonder if yoongi remembers his first promotion.

he had told you on the phone, breathless, excited, as if the world would collapse if you didn't know immediately, as if those were his last words and they belonged to you, he screamed, choked back sobs because he had worked his ass off for so long.

and you had waited at your door.

you had hugged him when he walked in.

you had cried in his arms and whispered, "you deserve it, you deserve it, you deserve it," into his ear until he nodded against your head.

you had gotten a cake and a singular balloon but that was enough for yoongi because holding the cake and balloon, was you and you were all he needed.

that night, he cooked your favorite food, even as you fussed about it being his day and he had kissed your temple when you ate it happily.

you were living, drowning in love.

and now.

"when did you get it, by the way?" you questioned, continuing to play with the food on your plate, yoongi sat back and thought for a second, "i think, three weeks ago."

and now, you were finding out three weeks after it happened.

"oh, wow," you don't hold the sarcasm in your voice and yoongi frowns, "is something wrong?"

"it happened three weeks ago, how am i finding out about it now?" 

this time, it’s his fork that pauses.

he mumbles something, and then winces, as if he never meant to let anything out which only made you angrier.

"what was that?"

silence.

"yoongi?"

silence again.

you don't know if there's some invisible wall that was preventing him from hearing your voice but he doesn't move a muscle.

"fine, i'm sorry i asked, i know i have no right, i know we're at the end here but did i really not cross your mind? d-did we really get that horrible to each other?"  you hate that your voice breaks and you also hate the flash of hurt on yoongi’s face but it only lasts a second before he’s back to being a blank slate.

“do you really want to talk about this?”

and there’s steel in his voice.

“i wouldn’t bring it up if i didn’t, would i?” you don’t try to hide the annoyance in your voice.

“so, you get to leave miami, not even bothering to text me about it and i can’t say anything. you can tell me to go and i don’t know, fuck around with other people because it’s okay, we’re at the end, none of this means anything, but if it really means nothing, why the fuck are we even here?” you try to catch yoongi’s pain in this, you only see his irritation which has your stomach squeezing for an entirely different reason.

you push back from the table, tears heavy in your throat and soon ready to flood your face and chest.

“if you don’t want to be here, then just leave.”

it was simple to you.

he could walk away.

he didn’t have to take down any magnets anymore; they were already done.

and you can walk away too.

-

a face i swear that i could spend my whole life knowing.

but it doesn’t seem so, to yoongi, who gets up and runs after you, calls out to you, all through the restaurant and then pushes past the door you so desperately try to close before he catches up to you.

“just fucking leave, yoongi!” you push against his chest when he finally breaks through and he grabs your wrist in his hands, never presses to the point of hurting because yoongi was yoongi.

but yoongi right now, fuming and heaving, wasn’t the yoongi you’ve known for years now.

“why did you leave miami? why did you not even tell me? is that what we've become to each other?" and when you struggle in his hold, he goes on, "you know how it felt! to wake up, and to not even see the dent of your body on the bed, to wake up, sick and worried, only to find out that you're already on the plane and then, you were home while i was searching every corner!”

you stop struggling, your wrists go limp in his hands, and your eyes burn with unshed tears, but you grit out, “i didn’t think you’d care.”

this time, yoongi’s the one loosening, his hands letting your wrists go and a singular hand comes up to wipe exasperatedly across his face.

“why?”

and when you don’t answer, he sighs, “i’ll do you one better, why can't we be together? why can't we work it out?"

the million dollar question that both of you ignored, until now.

the yoongi you know, would have let this go but the yoongi right now doesn’t back down.

“what’s happened to us that is so hard to come back from? what’s so bad about us?” you try not to let the pleading in his voice get to you, you try not to let the questions become daggers to your heart but one look at yoongi’s trembling fingers, breaks your resolve.

"because-" you look away because you don't think you can say it, you know he'll try to fix it if you do and you don't want to be fixed, you want to be free.

free of the guilt.

free of the worrying.

free of stealing from his happiness.

"you can't even tell me?"

"yoongi, i don't think i ever can,"

"why is it so hard for you to be with me?"

"yoongi, no." 

“tell me, am i that horribl-“

"because i can never make you happy!" 

the silence that follows, is deafening.

you watch as yoongi’s face goes from rage to concern to disappointment.

“why the fuck would you think that?” you're shaking your head, worlds and words blurring in your mind, everything spins inside and outside of you but yoongi doesn’t stop talking.

yoongi fights, and you never expected that from him.

“no, because i know when it started, it was when i got fired then, wasn’t it?”

a rock falls into your chest.

you remember that time.

you didn’t think that he did.

you would come home, and he’d be drinking.

you would peek into his bedroom, and he’d be complaining to someone on the phone.

and nothing you said, was what he wanted to hear.

nothing you did, seemed to help.

it was lonely to feel this helplessness, this helplessness of watching someone you love crumble and not have the courage to gather them in your hands.

thats when you knew, you would be over soon because if not in destruction, when else was love needed?

“you know what i’m talking about, right?”

you unfortunately, knew exactly what he was talking about.

because you pulled away too, not in a dramatic way but enough to give him space, which you thought he needed because right after giving him space, he got a new job and started thriving, in and out of home.

“you stopped talking to me, yoongi.” you told everyone and to yourself, that it didn’t matter if he stopped talking, if he stopped confiding, if he stopped loving you even, as long as you were together.

but it mattered.

it mattered almost too much.

"you stopped asking!" yoongi yells, for the first time in all the time you’ve known him, yoongi, your yoongi, yells.

the sound is devastating, his crest-fallen face after, even more so.

“and when you stopped asking. i-i thought you didn’t care anymore,” his voice reduces to a whisper and you almost catch the lone tear trailing down his face.

“you wanted me to ask?” the disbelief isn’t amiss to him and yoongi’s shoulders slump as he shakes his head achingly slowly, “always, i always want you to ask me everything.”

relief, was too weak of a word.

shock, an understatement.

grief, grief fit just right.

because none of this changed anything.

you were still in las vegas.

still on the last magnet.

“listen,” yoongi mumbles, the fight is exhausted, there’s no fuel, no fire and no oxygen left, it’s just you and him now.

“i love you, you know i do, and you know my best years are with you, why would i be with you if i wasn’t happy?”

and it makes sense, logically but to you, there is an answer.

“when was the last time you were happy with me, truly happy?”

“fuck, seriously? because for me, it’s even right now, i’m happier screaming down the walls with you than i’ll be anywhere else.” and he steps forward, you take one step backwards and his face twists in pain, but he takes another step, yoongi only hesitates for a second before taking your hand in his.

“why don’t you believe me?” his earnest eyes are hard to back away from but you know two things now.

you’ll never stop feeling like you were taking him from away from bigger, greater, happier things.

and yoongi was yoongi, he will never stop trying to make you feel otherwise.

both of you will fail.

you always thought the end didn’t have to be so bad.

because if it has to end, did it have to end so painfully?

but there was really no other way.

-

but even when i'm quiet, i love you baby, i promise.

you stare at the neon las vegas magnet hanging in front of you.

you’ve traced it so many times now that you know every line, every etching, and every color it has.

you and yoongi were done. 

all of your boxes laid neatly by the door and you were finally on your last seconds with yoongi.

“you’re finished with packing?” yoongi calls out, coming into view and even now, the tenderness in his eyes makes you want to get a new magnet, hang it up, and forever have excuses to be by his side.

because isn’t it hard to feel the pulse of where love used to be and no longer hear it beat?

isn’t it hard to know how everything was and how everything ends up?

isn’t it hard to be so sure of someone, and still let them go?

it’s hard to know the ending and still stand defeated when you reach it.

yoongi was yoongi.

he was gentle.

he fought back when you needed it.

and now, he was letting you have your not-so-bad ending too.

you would always love yoongi.

you nod at him, smiling faintly and he smiles back.

but even a second more with yoongi, would dissolve it all, would ring the bells of hope and plant your feet into the ground next to him.

so, you don’t take a second.

you step forward, you take him into your arms, you let your fingers feel the skin on his nape once, twice and for the last time, a swipe across the back of his hand, to let him know, 'it was good, we were good, we were enough.'

you let him look at you for three more seconds, you ignore his tight grip on you just a millisecond before stepping back.

one.

two.

three.

and you.

you let him go.

and he.

he lets you go.

both of you leave the last magnet on the fridge.

~2023~

Working with Hoseok I was seeing sides of fashion week I never got to see trailing behind my boss as her assistant. When it was time for the actual show, I was sitting right next to him on the edge of the runway. Because my job was to help him communicate. If this was the reason I had no job at the end of the week, maybe it was worth it. At least I got this experience. 

Hoseok leaned over smiling, “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” he said in Korean. 

“I’ve been to three fashion weeks and this is the closest I’ve gotten to the runway.” I nodded, “Thank you for this opportunity.” I smiled at him.

Our attention went back to the runway. Occasionally he might lean over and comment on a design or ask my opinion. It was about midway through the show when a particular design caught my attention. Hoseok looked over at me, his brow furrowing in confusion and concern at my expression. 

“Y/N?” He whispered, “What’s wrong?” 

“That’s my design.” I said quietly. Then my eyes darted to the next model coming up the runway. “And that…” All I could do was sit there and watch as two of my visions, come to life, walked down the runway and circled back. There were changes yes, but those were my designs. 

Hoseok looked from me to the models and back. I was fumbling with my phone, pulling up the pictures I had of the sketches. He peered over my shoulder seeing the sketches. 

“I’m sorry, I need some air.” I apologized to him before getting up. We were just about to intermission and I knew it was unfair to him to leave. But I felt like I might suffocate staying in that room. I quickly got up, excusing myself as I crossed in front of those around us. 

Once I got outside the main hall, I felt the wave of anger crash over me. The shock, disbelief, and denial all washed away right into anger. How long had this been going on? How had I not seen it happening when I followed her everywhere. There were so many questions. I ran my hand through my hair, my mind racing as I tried to piece it all together. Yet, I was coming up with nothing. 

“Y/N,” I turned to see that Hoseok had followed me. 

“You should go back inside,” I said, “I don’t want you risking…” 

“Intermission.” He stated simply as he walked towards me. I looked up to see that a few other people had come out as well. Most would stay in the hall and mingle there. “Talk to me, please?” 

“Those were my designs, but it’s her name on them.” 

“Your boss.” He clarified. 

“Ex-boss. She fired me,” I told him. “When I tried to talk to her about stepping in as your interpreter she had one of her temper tantrums and fired me.” In no way did I blame him, nor did I want him to feel like any of this was his fault. “It’s better this way anyways. She was a horrible boss and now I understand why I’ve been stuck as her assistant for as long as I have.” There was this new level of clarity that came with this whole mess. The bigger problem was, I didn’t even know how to go about dealing with this. “I’ve been such an idiot.” I was so frustrated and angry. I didn’t even realize I had started to cry. 

Hoseok surprised me, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. The sudden embrace was enough to ground me. I sighed, knowing that this was unprofessional, but I didn’t pull away. We stood like that for a few moments before he pulled back, his hands on my shoulders as he looked down at me. 

“Starting at the bottom, falling down, being knocked down, none of that means you have to stay there.” He smiled, “I should know. We fought hard to climb to the top. I know you can do it, too.” 

With intermission ending we had to go back. I did step into the bathroom to freshen up and he waited for me. I noticed that Hoseok lingered a little closer than he had before as we made our way back to our seats. I had to sit there and pretend that there was nothing wrong. 

At the end of the week there was another dinner to attend. Outside of the firing and theft, I had truly enjoyed my time working with the idol. When we arrived for dinner, Hoseok and I found the table that we had been assigned to. As we approached though, I shook my head. I had managed to work through the realization but I didn’t think I could sit at the same table as her. Hoseok looked up, recognizing my ex-boss from that first day. 

“Do you want to go?” he asked quietly. 

“It’s okay,” I replied, noting her smug look when she spotted me. “I can’t leave you without an interpreter.” 

“I never said I would be staying. We can go elsewhere. Have our own dinner.” 

I looked up at him, surprised by this, “If this is part of your schedule…” 

He was already waving over his staff. He spoke quietly with them before coming back to me. “All clear, let’s go enjoy our last night before we part ways.” 

I saw what he was doing. I also saw no harm in it, we had spent the last week together. It had been an interesting week. I found the idol to be charismatic, he managed to make everyone smile. His own smile was absolutely infectious. Working so closely, we had had the opportunity to get to know one another, too. I spoke of studying fashion and languages. He talked about being part of his group and how hard it was to be going solo for now. It wasn’t just about work, he also spoke of his upcoming military service, explaining that it was a requirement for all able men in South Korea. It had almost felt as though despite being brought together for professional and business purposes, a bit of a friendship had been forming. 

We ended up at a nice restaurant where we had dinner and a glass of wine. I noticed that Hoseok took his time with his single glass. After only a few sips his cheeks were pink. After such a crazy week, it was lowkey and an enjoyable night. 

“I do hope you’ll consider staying in touch,” Hoseok said as we were leaving. He had insisted on paying for the dinner and hadn’t even given me the chance to see the bill. Granted, it probably would have given me anxiety seeing whatever number was on it. 

“I doubt you have much space in your life for a lowly fashion assistant,” I joked. 

“You mean, an up and coming fashion designer.” He corrected me with a smile. 

We were staying in the same hotel, so we took the same car back. I couldn’t explain it, but the air felt charged. When we got back, the hotel lobby was deserted. We stepped into the elevator, each pressing the number for our floor. Reaching my floor first, the elevator chimed. 

“This is me,” I said looking up at him. It felt so final, a goodbye after the whole week. Because tomorrow we were going our separate ways, back to our lives. 

“Y/N, wait.” Hoseok caught my arm gently. He stepped forward, closing the space between us. Then he kissed me. It was unexpected, but that charged air between us ignited. I didn’t even notice as the elevator door slid closed again and started up to his floor. 

Nothing about this week had gone the way I had expected. Losing my job, interpreting for a k-pop idol, or ending up in his bed. 

One night stand with a famous guy was never anything on my bucket list. Yet somehow, I’d ticked it off. I woke up in Hoseok’s bed. The realization of what we had done hit me hard. I sat up, looking down at him as he slept. He was attractive and last night was probably one of the best nights I’d had. But I knew it was a one time thing. After today it was likely we would never cross paths again, despite his request that I stay in touch. I knew maybe it was wrong, but I panicked. Quickly getting dressed, I grabbed my phone and heels before slipping out the door. 

Thankfully no one saw me, I made it back to my room unseen. I took a hot shower to try and clear my head. One night stands weren’t typically my thing, but if one was going to happen having it be with a guy like Hoseok made it worth it. Right? I was supposed to be working with him, not sleeping with him. After my shower, I checked my phone. 

I felt his genuine concern in those texts. With the towel wrapped around me, I sunk down on the edge of the bed. I typed a response, deleted it, then typed something else. 

Hoseok: Woke up and you were gone. 

Hoseok: Are you okay? I’m sorry if what we did upset you.

It was the first time I'd called him by his requested nickname. 

Me: I’m sorry. Early flight. I’m not good with goodbyes, it’s easier this way.

Me: I’m not upset, Hobi.

One night, that’s all it was. That’s all it could be. Or so I thought.

Hoseok: Maybe we will get to work together again someday. If I need an interpreter can I keep you in mind?

Me: Sure, maybe I should get certified.

Hoseok: Then I would have to share. 

~2026~

Hobi: Your new collection is perfection. I'm proud of you, Jagiya.

Me: Thank you, Love. See you in Vegas?

Tae would fight back against them on Jimin’s behalf. But he’s weaker than Jimin and shorter than him still, both of them are very used to bruised cheeks and scuffed palms. To rug burn and bend back knuckles. Tae has never been a fighter but has always been a dreamer. Tae still remembers the first time that Jimin’s oldest brother picked him up and shook him like a bag of bread and laughed said, “God you fags are skinnier than a fucking pencil. I could pick my teeth with you.”

But it’s alright, everything’s alright so long as Jimin has Tae and Tae has Jimin.

Jimin easily has the worse  homelife. In the kitchen there is no box of snacks or easily accessible fruit like there is over at Taehyung’s house. Everything is eaten and nothing is saved. They both might be poor but Tae is educated poor. His parents have empty 401k’s and passible healthcare. There isn’t even a bookshelf in Jimin’s house (Jimin just tells Tae that why would he need books when he has Tae to read them too him or better yet, can just tell the stories). Jimin’s parent’s got food stamps last year, but Jimin’s mother can only go to the grocery store once a month because she just can’t seem to find the time. Filling her cart with non-perishables and instant meals and enough alcohol to sedate her until church on Sunday.

If Jimin doesn’t fill up that first week or the second, the rest of the month goes lean. He ends up eating dry rice before the 30th. Tae has gotten used to sneaking an extra granola bar or portion of dinner into his Lego lunchbox. Tae's mother asks him where he puts it all, since Tae is still thin as a wire. He’s not sure if she’s put it together yet where it all goes. She doesn’t invite Jimin over for dinner ever, unless Jimin is already here.

Taehyung’s father probably wouldn’t approve. Taehyung’s father doesn’t like Jimin. Never has and never will.

Jimin shares the big attic bedroom with three of his older brothers in his decrepit old farmhouse. Rented since they moved out of the trailer park a year ago after his father made Forman. It’s hardly got enough space for the four of them even with the bunkbeds. And Jimin isn’t allowed on the top bunk since his eldest brother yanked him down and bruised his skull bad last month. The attic is sweltering in the summer time and okay in the winter. He sneaks out to Tae just as much for the company as he does the relief of a cool breeze.

His eldest brother has only just left the house and gone into the military at 18. He’d left the space a little lonelier, but it’s only going to get worse, because unlike Tae's father, Jimin’s alpha raises all his sons with whip like discipline. Favoriting endless lists of chores and long hours at the old karate studio in town to try and hone their anger and aggression into something worthwhile. Somehow, there’s always money for violence.

Tae doesn’t have to wonder why his brothers harass Jimin so endlessly- it’s very very clear whenever Tae goes to watch Jimin at the studio. It’s because Jimin, half their size and half their age, is more talented than many of the instructors there. Jimin can fight back and win most of the time, and it’s only going to get worse the bigger he gets. There is a certain awareness of his body that Tae has yet to see in anyone else. the way that Jimin can feel his skin press into the fabric, the tell of a sloping floor beneath his feet. The places in the attic where the floorboards go squeaky and the vibration transfers from floor to ceiling.

Jimin has absolute control of his body even at 12, can hurl himself off the edge of the cliff at the quarry without fear, carving a perfect circle through the air, head tucked into a flip, eyes closed. Steady with the absolute faith that Jimin has in his body or God. It doesn’t make much difference to Jimin but to Tae-

Tae always catches himself watching Jimin at church. Can never quite tare his eyes away.

Tae doesn’t like Jimin’s father. He always looks at Tae a little too long when he comes by to knock at their door. Beady dark eyes that seem to find Tae's seems and pull them apart. Eyeing his new light up sneakers or his lunch box with an air of blue-collar derision. A few weeks ago, when Tae stopped by mid-morning on a Saturday, Jimin’s father shut the door in his face and told him to wait outside. And Tae heard them talk through the door.

“I don’t want you getting any ideas hanging around that one.”

“I won’t sir.”

“He’s not your brother, and men shouldn’t keep close relationships with other men outside their family. God says it isn’t right.”

“I know sir.”

All three of Jimin’s older brothers have presented as alpha’s by now and there’s very little to guess about what Jimin will present as. Cut from the same cloth as them, the same as them down to the curl in his hair.

Tae is a bit more of a mystery. Both of them have the classic parental structure, female omega mother, male alpha father. The picture of gender conforming bliss. But Tae is an only child, and his parents hadn’t been able to pay for the fancy genetic testing that would tell if Tae, as a male, carries the omega gene let alone if it’s dominant. (He is a carrier, but that won’t change anything about how he’ll present).

Jimin is not his brother. Tae is only just beginning to realize the line between friend and soulmate. Between brother and stranger. Neither of them has any sisters, they only have mother to understand the other side of gender. Maybe it’s a shame that they didn’t, then it wouldn’t have taken Tae so long to understand, to know. But if brothers treat each other the way that Jimin’s brother’s treat him- then Taehyung wouldn’t want to be a brother to him anyway.

Jimin doesn’t live far, if Tae sticks his head out the side of his window, he can see the yellow lights of Jimin’s house peaking up over the hill and the thick trees, more the impression of a house than anything else. Tae knows that if he ran the distance, he could be there in less than a minute.

His mother calls, it takes several iterations of his name before Tae looks up from his book in the yellow light, the walls all rough shades of the same knotty pine, pinned with posters from books turned movies, harry potter and Eragon. Tae's room even now is full of books in a million colors, an old stained-glass lamp turned on that Tae reads by, and a worn desk filled with deep gashes.

Everything is old and nothing is new in this house, the worn Corelle cups and the old speed queen washer that thwacks against the side of Tae's bedroom wall and luls him into an easy sleep when it’s not too fucking hot to close his eyes.

But Tae would leave his window open anyway. It’s only because of the hour, too early in the evening for Tae's parents to be asleep, for him to come through the window. At least Tae's mother likes Jimin. Otherwise, they might have been doomed from the start.

Jimin is only wearing shorts probably because nothing else is clean. The summers are like this often. One day blending into another. Reading down by the creek and waiting for Jimin to be done with chores, hiding in the thicket at the very bottom of the mountain where Jimin’s brothers rarely ever look for them. Their giggles and laughs hidden by the roar of the waterfall. Where no one can see if Tae tucks the small pink flowers that grow in the brush behind his ears and Jimin picks him a whole bouquet.

Making eye contact with each other at church every afternoon and hoping until Jimin eventually works up the courage to ask Tae's mom if he can get a ride back with them. Never mind that on the way there Tae's father has said once again that he doesn’t like the look of those boys. That the bible says that a violent person entices their neighbor, and Tae very very carefully reminds him that that’s not in the bible but some other book. Tae's father quotes it back and forth, a professor of religious studies and ethics at a college two towns away.

Tae's mom always tells him that Jimin is a good friend, making eye contact with her son in the back seat. Eyes heavy and cautioning to shut up before he starts to yell.

Sometimes at night, Tae hears…strange bad noises from his parents’ bedroom. He always clamps his hands over his ears when that happens. It sounds like his mother crying, like begging.

Tae scuttles through the house, passed his father drinking whisky in the lazyboy  and his mother cleaning up after dinner in the kitchen. The worn linoleum floor and the crumbling parquet hallway. He smiles when he sees Jimin sitting on the porch through the grain of the screen door. Pushing into his slides as a second thought. Jimin isn’t wearing shoes at all, and if he wants to come inside, he’ll have to wash his feet. “Why didn’t you come through the window?”

“Saw you reading and I didn’t want to bug you.”

He turns, face catching the light finally  and Tae's book drops onto the floor, spot lost as the cover lands closed. Jimin’s whole eye looks like it’s going to swell closed, the spot where his cheekbone sits puffy and red. Black on the bone. A bruise bad enough to break to break skin..

Tae cups his cheek before he can think better of it and Jimin grins up at him. One of his teeth is chipped, just a little. If Tae wasn’t so familiar with Jimin’s smile he might not have noticed. “Got me good this time. I know.”

This is not from his brothers, no- this mark Tae knows is from either Jimin’s mother or father.

“I got in trouble with the pastor again.” Jimin says, after Tae has gone inside to retrive both a cool cloth and an icepop for each of them. His mother grins, hands it too him without a word, lifting a finger to her mouth for Tae not to alert his father with a ‘thank you mama’ he mouths it instead.

“Ah” Tae says. Because Tae doesn’t know what to say. His heart aches, they’ve been here before. When Jimin gets in trouble with the pastor things tend to go a little bit worse for him with his mom.

He holds the cloth to Jimin’s cheek, dabbing. It smells a bit too much like onions and dinner for it to be totally comforting or sanitary. Tae has no doubt in his mind where the slap on his cheek came from or the black eye.  

There is little that sugar won’t fix. Tae hugs a leg to his chest, Jimin’s knee is close enough to his foot that Tae can feel the heat from him. They watch the fireflies burst into being in the grass. Watch the forest, the line where the porchlight fades. Where the shadows blur the bushes. Same as always. Jimin slurps at his ice pop, and Tae watches his melt, turning his fingers sticky.

“So, what did you say? What made him tell your mom?”

“He was talking about gay alpha’s again.” Tae licks his ice pop slow. Jimin’s eyes flicker from it and then to his face. “I talked back.” Tae can sense Jimin isn’t finished, but he watches, waits. Tae has no doubt that Jimin was just asking questions again. Those questions. The same ones they talk about down by the creek where no one can find them. “He said that it was unnatural, that alpha’s mating alpha’s isn’t what god wants.”

If there is a god it’s in the trees and stories. Tae doesn’t say, but even at 12 Tae is several steps into deconstructing his faith. Jimin isn’t there yet. But everyone in their little town goes to church on Sunday, Tae included. Not believing in God feels like not believing in wishes on stars or his parents. Both of which Tae and Jimin will not believe in by the end of their lives.

Tae has been thinking recently that the bible is printed on paper just like any other story. If it really were the word of God, why did it not come to him in some other fantastical way? Written on flowers, in the trees and dirt and bugs. In Jimin’s eyes, so dark that you almost don’t notice that they’re blue not brown.

Jimin tilts his head, chin and blonde hair catching the light. Finishing his icepop with one final lick. “I asked him that if it was so wrong, then why does it stick you know? Like why can omega’s bite omega’s, and why can alpha’s bite alpha’s. Why do the mating marks stick if it’s not supposed to happen? If it’s not right?”

Tae watches his popsicle melt and drip into the dust. One drop after green drop.

“If God controls everything and makes everything in his image, then why did he make that happen?”

Tae doesn’t have any answers for Jimin, at least not one that he’ll like. Temptation, love, dishonesty. Or maybe all three. So instead, Tae asks. “Can you sleep over tonight?”

“Yeah, but I should probably ask.” Tae watches him, standing there on the edge of where porchlight becomes dark, and driveway becomes woods. Jimin is already sinking into it. popsicle stick clutched in his little hand. Tae knows he’s still a little afraid of the dark. That he’ll run the whole way home and whole way back.

“I can walk with you.” Tae offers.

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back in like 3 minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Jimin grins, and breaks out into a run. Tae listens until the sound of his feet against the gravel disappears into the lull of cicadas and spring peepers.

Jimin doesn’t come back.

Taehyung waits on the porch until his mom tells him it’s his bed time and he comes inside. And then Taehyung waits in his bedroom. The window open just in case. Staring at the ceiling listening to the washer and hoping for the sound of footsteps outside and a knock against the window frame.

He falls asleep still thinking about Jimin. Still thinking about the mating marks. Still dreaming.

~-~

(You and Yoongi, 3 days later).

The pack is not going to know about your mating marks any time soon, Yoongi decides, not if he can help it.

There is too much to explain about the circumstances. Geumjae. The family. The stakes. There is simply too much to justify on Yoongi’s part. Yoongi will not guilt them into forgiving him. To use you as justification is only half the battle. The week has been busy enough that he’s not immediately alarmed that the pack don’t contact him over the weekend, regardless of Jimin’s promise regarding the flooring and siding.

Yoongi has other things to worry about.

You’d both read that mating marks from a beta go too deep but the reality of Yoongi’s mating mark is something else entirely. The mating mark is a creeping a tingle, a sense that someone somewhere is watching him or that there is something else in the room. A feeling like you’ve forgotten something very very important, déjà vu but for a person.

Yoongi hadn’t anticipated how much he’d feel it. But it’s real, it’s really there, a string under his skin that sometimes pulls tight enough to sting. Not like a bee or like pins and needles from sitting on a limb too long. Something deeper, something fuzzy at the edge of where Yoongi ends and the world begins. You. A silver lining.

He’d thought that like the rest of his bad decisions- you’d bear the brunt of it. But every time he leaves the house it’s like someone’s hooked a finger over his shoulder and is trying to pull him back. And there’s this dis-ease that builds with every meter until his heart pounds with fear and it feels like he can’t take another step or else risk befalling to some unseen harm. A tingle in his hands and in his shoulder. A pain that hits like lighting through his mating mark.

Yoongi doesn’t know if it’s worse for you. Because you won’t talk about it.

Yoongi doesn’t like the paranoia, even if his paranoia did keep both of you alive this last year. He lets it be most of the time, dismisses it as less of a mental condition and more of a simple cost. It’s not like he could do anything to change it anyways, he can only get used to it.

He revolves back to you like some sort of comet or planetary body. Here and back again. In orbit. On your worst days, that’s all you tell yourself that it is. On the good days- it’s harder to restrain your overactive heart:

Yoongi sits on the edge of the bed, not nest, because you don’t nest like another omega might. There is no careful border or elegant border comprised of fluffed pillows. Your bed in the house is just a bed. Because omega’s only nest when they feel safe- and you’ve never felt safe a day in your fucking life. Not even with Yoongi. Not even here. You are coming to the conclusion that there are likely many things that separate you and them. That make you different from the pack. You are not like the other omega’s, not like Seokjin and Jungkook.

You’re just waiting for Yoongi to notice.

You sit in the bed buried under a thick blanket so heavy that your body underneath it hardly matters. You imagine it might be able to press you thin and translucent like a pressed flower and turn you into a good decoration. You imagine it while you watch Yoongi get ready in the bathroom. Running a bit of water through his hair to make it less fluffy, and a bit of watered-down conditioner so that his ends don’t look so split.

You’re having a hard time remembering if he’s ever put that kind of effort in for you. You don’t wonder why he puts that effort in for Seokjin. You can hardly blame him for any of it when you’re like this. You don’t know if he’ll come over today, but probably someday soon. Yoongi might not get any warning, which is why he puts the effort in every morning.

Just in case.

You imagine your bedroom must have been something of an office in the house’s previous life. If the dark blue green of the walls and ceiling and chair marks in the carpet have anything to say for it. It’s at the back of the house where the windows get the least natural sunlight. Quiet and cozy and compact.

You did at least try to nest last night. You piled every available blanket in a haphazard little mountain (Most of them are folded on the floor now). Half of the blankets were unscented (no need to taint them with your unhappy scent) and most of them where the wrong color (why should you worry about being pretty here? Yoongi doesn't love you because he wants too- love is what the mating mark demands. The affection must just feel like scratching the itch).

But Yoongi had elected to keep it that way, told you it was very very comfy until you covered his mouth with your hand. His smile pressed to your skin, his hand on your waist, and you too shy to meet his gaze. It had felt almost alright with you both warm and cozy and still, curled up in  the center. Especially once he’d shut of the lights and your brain decided that there was nothing to see here.

Nothing to see if his hands stay on your waist and your face stays buried in the front of his shirt, head tucked to collarbones and his chin resting over the crown of your head. You like to sleep this way, his every breath nudging the front of your face, a reminder that he is here. That he’s still breathing. You are a delicate yolk within a fragile egg cage. Yoongi’s pale hands eggshells that crack with your every breath.

Sometimes in the darkness, when you both can’t sleep, you lift Yoongi’s hands to the ceiling to look at them. The scars across his knuckles, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, tracing the familiar lines. Hooking into the silk scarf of yours he still keeps tied around his wrist although it’s gotten progressively darker over the last few months. Stained from cooking, from paint, from life. You’ll tug at it almost playfully, aware that if you just look across the pillow, you’ll find him watching you with just as much intent.

You and Yoongi still haven’t’ broken the habit of sharing a single pillow. One day soon you might have too. Pretty soon he’s probably going to want to spend nights over at the pack’s apartment. You should have never let yourself get used to this.  

You try not to look, but sometimes when you do, he leans across the pillow and presses his lips to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, and then properly. His hands don’t stay on your waist for long after that, and yours can’t stay on his wrist, not when they tremble so. The first time he’d ever asked, “is this alright? Can I-” You’d covered his mouth until he’d just shut up. But now he rarely verbally asks anymore. It’s easier when the two of you leave the uncomfortable reality on the other side of the shadow, there’s very little good that comes out of it. Very little good that exists on the other edge of the light.

But if you didn’t want it, Yoongi would be able to feel it. If you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t pull him in or mouth at the column of his throat.

The mating mark is very hard to ignore. Insistent at times, with how it demands you two remain close. Sometimes, no amount of distance is small enough.

Your feet stretch now, a little like a cat, nudging the big blue duvet piled up at the bottom of the bed. There are a pair of fuzzy socks placed on top, because your feet get cold easily (your hands too) and Yoongi doesn’t like it when you get cold.

The blackout curtains make your room feel like a soft cave. His work flannel hangs on the bathroom door, neither clean nor dirty. You made a noise when he tried to turn on the light, as you often do in the morning (Or is it afternoon?) You remain covered, first by the blue blanket, and then by the shadows, watching his pale body move through the dark, looking at the freckles on his back when he rifles through the closet. The way his muscles move below his skin.

As if he can feel your gaze, he turns, and smiles.

Your mate’s presence even makes the room feel a little safe. Just a little. Not enough to matter.

Without Yoongi in the bed, it’s hard for you to feel warm at all. There is a full plate of breakfast on the bedside table. You know Yoongi won’t beg you to eat any of it. But it stays there, placed by him and taunting you. Gooey egg and tomato with fried brown green onions crispy and burnt. It’s the first meal he ever made you in this house, the first one you’d ever devoured fully, and Yoongi makes it for you every morning. Hoping that just like the first time, you’ll swallow it down with ease.

It's been several days since you’ve touched it.

Maybe when he leaves the bedroom, you’ll carry it to the cramped ensuite and flush it down the toilet. Maybe you’ll open up the window and dump it out the side of the house. He caught you doing that one morning a few weeks ago. And sometimes you hear his soft footsteps outside, checking to see if you’ve done it again. The betrayal on his face was almost worse than the thought of eating.

Almost.

But dead things don’t eat, and if you’re going to keep him happy, not eating is hardly the worst thing you can do. You cannot get Yoongi to understand this (not that you’re any good at explaining these days, your brain is as scrambled as the eggs on the side table).

Geumjae liked you skinny. Men like you when you’re skinny and there are very very many men around these days, some more dangerous than others.

You are very aware that other girls get this and more, they get food and they get love too, they get to be safe and eat and lick their fingers with it. But you do not get any of those things without giving others up. You are safer this way. You are safer small. Even before Geumjae you’d been too weird, too dumb, too much. To get any love, to get anything good at all you have to be perfect. You’ve known this for years, and the rules don’t change even if the man you love does.

And selfishly you’d like to keep Yoongi with you just a little bit longer. Without the mating mark he’d already be gone. Although it will probably all go poorly anyway if the sight of the pack’s omegas had anything to say for it…

Why did both of them have to be pretty?

It's inevitable and yet, you still cling to this. To him.

You couldn’t articulate why you won’t eat even if words came easy to you. Some days are better than others, and when you are having a good day it’s hardly the first thing on his mind to interrogate you about the why. Maybe he already knows.

On the good days, Yoongi only appreciates the hours he has you here and waits for the good to fade like midwinter sunlight. He waits for you to go still and quiet and silent. Like the last of the snow that melted just a few short weeks ago. First mist- then nothing at all.

You stare blankly into space, pushing at the blanket on the end of the bed. The socks, pushing them just to the edge, teetering.

Yoongi catches them before they hit the floor, smiling at you with his red toothbrush hanging half out of his mouth, and putting them on your feet, tugging them a little until you lay a little more sprawled. Grinning behind toothpaste. Hands moving slow up your calves, warm and appreciative.

You’re getting used to it, Yoongi hardly ever touches you without that same kind of hesitant warmth. Watching your face for every movement, accepted or eschewed.

That same appreciation often takes its form in devious ways. Ways that feel selfish and entitled. Yoongi is your mate; it shouldn’t feel so selfish to want to touch him. You’re used to that appreciation ending with you bare on the edge of the bed, Yoongi on his knees before you panting damp breaths against the thin hair on the inside of your thighs.

Or pressed together in the tiny shower with your forehead against his sternum or wrapped up with him on the couch under a thick blanket with the blinds drawn and the heat turned up. All your clothes folded neatly to the side.

Or once on the floor with nothing but a sheet to keep you from getting splinters in your ass from the freshly sanded floor. You’d gotten them anyway. And had barely restrained your blush while he helped you pick them out, bent over his lap in more than a compromising position that Yoongi had not at all taken advantage of in the slightest.

Other than to touch.

When alpha’s and omega’s mate it almost always triggers a heat or rut, or an increased feeling of sexual appetite that lasts for several days. Ruts and heats have only one purpose; to get the omega bred and pupped. Claimed. Without a mating mark- heats hit yearly, Usually in the spring for omega’s, and ruts in the fall for alphas. Although ruts are generally more random and alpha’s often have more than one in a given year. There are other symptoms to a fever for omega’s and what Jin would call ‘an era of dumbness’ in the alpha’s where instincts to protect and provide reach a fevers pitch and aggression becomes a need rather than just a general inclination. 

It's sort of fun most of the time. Jimin, Taehyung, Hoseok, and Namjoon do make quite the picture when they all try to wrestle and pin each other.

A mating mark triggers a biological impulse to breed and fuck until something comes of it- most of the time a pup. And while Yoongi isn’t an alpha obviously- and beta’s don’t have heats or ruts at all (and Yoongi thanks god for that every single time one of his packmates goes into rut or heat). You’re still an omega. Your instincts and needs bleed across your bond.

Maybe it’s just because you haven’t had your heat yet, Yoongi doubts you will, as the season treads closer and closer to summer.

You like it when Yoongi touches you. It feels nice in the moment even if it always makes you feel selfish and yucky later. It’s the only nice feeling you have most of the time. He’s been doing a lot of it as if he knows, casual little brushes of his fingers over your shoulders and across your face, a gentle pet over the top of your head. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to being touched with such gentleness. Sometimes you don’t know why he does it since things like you, creatures like you are generally undeserving of that type of affection (thus the yuckiness). Sometimes you see his hand coming and flinch before it even meets you. Out of instinct and necessity.

(The months and years that Geumjae trained you are sticking around despite Yoongi’s best efforts).

It’s hard for you to reciprocate without it feeling scary but you’re getting used to it. Sometimes when you really can’t resist your impulses like when you shuffle up behind him in the morning and press your body against his. Cheek against his shoulder, arms around his waist. And his answering smile is worth all the fear in the world.

And that’s not to mention all the kissing. 

It’s so much easier not to move in winter, to stay frozen as you are. To ignore the thaw. You hold your cup of coffee which is safe enough for you even if Yoongi does make it very very sweet. It tastes different today, and you can’t put your finger on why. You lie there, anxiously awaiting the spring and the end of all this. You don’t know why the churn of grass going from gold to green makes you feel so nauseous.

The change in season makes you feel like you’re running out of time. And now that the pack are here, you feel every second. You shouldn’t really care and deep down you don’t care about anything.

You’ve always known about the pack; you have never been under any illusion where Yoongi’s heart lay or how this was going to go. You don’t mind the idea of him having a place to go and get comfort when you’re finally gone. Which could be soon, or has it happened already? You’re not sure, maybe you should ask him.

When you lift your hand to your chest to feel you find a heartbeat after a moment. Very slow, too sluggish. Not yet then. (The mating mark works in devious ways. Geumjae hurts you, even dead. Even gone.)

That’s one of the reasons why you don’t really react when Yoongi pauses in the doorway. You lift your head in his direction. Aware that he’s been working up to saying something all morning.

“I don’t think we should tell them about the marks yet.”

You stir softly. Looking at him directly after a moment, he’s standing at the foot of the bed, in his flannel now. You don’t remember watching him put it on. And the light might be different too. It’s not that bad of a day today but you’re still losing time. Minutes and seconds bleed freely from you.

But after you clear your throat and banish the near constant feeling like you’re choking on something, you’re actually able to muster up a reply.

“Alright.”

Yoongi looks away then back at you. “I’ll tell them when it’s right, when you’re-” 

Gone. Dead. Better. You don’t care how he wants to finish that sentence, so you cut him off. “I understand, don’t have to say it.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, and you get the sense that you’re losing something, time or meaning behind his words. You pull your knees up to your chest reflexively but he doesn’t let you get far, leaning forward to rest his chin against your knees. “Come on, you know it’s not that.”

“It’s okay.” Yoongi looks at you like it’s anything but. “Really, I don’t care.” He leans over and you duck just in time, his arm depresses your pillow and his lips press to your forehead and not your cheek. It makes you feel warm at least, but Yoongi doesn’t look pleased when he pulls away. It’s hard for you to read his expression. Less hard for you to feel down the bond.  Although the feelings you get from it are rarely clearcut.

Whatever Yoongi’s feeling- it’s the sensory equivalent of running your hand through cold water and feeling something slimy at the bottom of a shallow pool.

He leans over again, hand on one side of your cheek, and although you pull away Yoongi’s lips land true. It takes several pecks in quick secession to get you to smile. Until you’re pushing at his chest and saying, “Stop! Tickles!”

A soft croon of “there you are” is easily dismissed into the lingering shadows and his hand that combs through your hair can almost be called a daydream. Your eyelashes flutter. Half bent over his lap with him above you. The touch of his knees hidden only by the blanket. Resting against your cheek.

He did not open the blinds, because Yoongi knows better than that. But a small shaft of sunlight cuts across the floor and almost reaches the two of you where you’re curled.

The pads of his fingers rub over the curve of your jaw, you don’t know how he knows it hurts there- but it does. Probably from you clenching in your sleep. You think about the pack, the three of them standing in the door, one black head, one brown, one blonde.

Yoongi must know you're thinking about them, because he asks, “What did you think of them?”

You close your eyes so that Yoongi won’t be able to see your emotions quite as easily. “The pretty one. Stares.”

“Jungkook?” You shake your head, tilting it to the side, pretty and omega yes. But not who you’re talking about.

“Jimin.” You pout, glaring up at him.

“Ah, Taehyung huh?” Yoongi’s voice is smooth and calm, he gives nothing away easily. But even he cannot help what you can feel through the mating mark. There’s a tell-tale twinge of longing, of pain. It's still bad but not as visceral as when he talks about Seokjin. Taehyung makes Yoongi feel like the airs been plucked out of his lungs. But Seokjin feels like being buried alive. Suffocating slowly. Something scrambling and frantic.

At least that’s the image the mating mark gives you.

You kind of wish that Seokjin had done something back to you. Something worse than only hissed. You don’t know why you want the vindication of that. It’s strange, without any violence to occupy your body- you don’t know what to do with your emotions.

“Yeah, I noticed that. The staring. Taehyung’s not usually that way.” You turn your face into Yoongi’s stomach, soft and squishy. Yoongi’s legs kick wider, and he holds you gently by the waist and back of the head, fingers threading through your hair almost without thought. Thumb and pinky rubbing behind each ear.

Even with just one meeting. You’re pretty sure that this Taehyung is hiding something. You’re just not sure if it’s only from you- or the rest of the pack. His eyes lingered on you too long, not interested, just fixated. But it was his scent that gave him away, cinnamon but with an undercurrent of something floral, fighting but failing to give out. A secret if ever you’ve scented one.

You’ve never had a particularly good sense of smell. If no one else had picked up on it, that must mean that Taehyung’s been keeping it for a while.

Yoongi’s voice is rougher when he says, “Taehyung has always been more… aesthetically inclined than the average alpha.”

You peek up at him, and you forget everything about secrets that may or may not exist. there’s humor playing on the edge of his lips, a shy excited smile. So it must be from just you then. You turn over quick enough that the room spins. “No!? Explain?!”

Speaking in one-word sentences and monosyllabic questions is hard for you even on a good day, and today is not a good day. You squirm closer but Yoongi just tips his hip to the side and sighs. A pinch of distress between his eyebrows the way someone might squint at the sun and guess at how many hours of daylight might be left, like he’s judging what you can handle or what will send you spiraling. The expression dissipates as quickly as it comes.

Sometimes the intent at which he studies you intimidates you. You can hardly meet his eyes.

You don’t blame Yoongi for treating you like you’re too fragile to speak the truth, because you just might be. He settles for ruffling your hair. Effectively steering you into another topic. Covering your forehead with hair so that you can’t see when he bends over your body and presses his lips to your forehead, your nose. Your lips. Several in quick succession. Your muscles hurt from the unfamiliar reaction of smiling.

“Will you come and sit by me while I work today?” he asks instead. Once  your giggling has calmed down and your body has gone lax again.

Your fingers trail along his knee. “Library room?”

“Yes, the library room is for Taehyung. But I was thinking the kitchen, you know how that one cabinet needs to be rehung before the backsplash? And the waterproofing needs another coat-”

You sigh out a big breath and let Yoongi’s usual spiel on everything that needs to happen with the house melt into the background noise. Concentrating on the feel of him below you, the harsh jut of his knees against the too sharp edge of your ribs in his lap. The vague hurt there as his body presses too close to yours.

There have been many days where you have stayed in bed and have only left when Yoongi decided to get into it. It’s scary sometimes, to share a bed with a man again. If it wasn’t Yoongi you don’t think you could manage it. But he rarely lets you sleep the whole day away inside this room, moving you to the couch, the kitchen, the window, the porch. Anywhere where he can keep an eye on you.

You peek up at him and find him watching you with such an intent look of focus that you have to look away, your lips puff out, mumbling through it. Your cheek squished against his knee as you ask. “Window seat?”

“Yes. It should be sunny. I’ll open the window so you can look outside.”

You trace a circle around his hip, around where you know the mating mark is. You could find it in the dark, some part of you always aware of that inch. It’s so strange to be aware of something like a limb, especially something that is so separate from your body.

“Music?” You ask, voice a pitch quieter. Yoongi’s smile is very very loud, you almost want to cover your ears from it. You can hear the smile in his voice. The mating mark feels like those cat tails, like running your fingers through something soft, like grass or fur or goose down.

“I can play the playlist. Yeah.”

“Okay.” Yoongi continues his rubbing and hardly moves an inch in the direction of the doorway, but still you have to ask.  “Stay? Till I’m ready?”

Yoongi’s hands continue to pet over your jaw, the movement endless and looping. “However long you need.”

You close your eyes; Yoongi continues to rub. And the thought of sunlight, despite everything, sounds nice.

~-~

One of your favorite spots in the house is the bay window that opens out onto the garden. It was one of the only seats or things left in the house when you moved in, the wide-open window drops about 6 feet to the garden. Where the crickets hum and the sunlight pools. Where you can watch the people in your cul-de-sac come and go, the trio of alphas on the corner, the big vacant white house and the yard that sometimes has little rabbits. The people with pups across the way, the youngest one and the oldest and how they fight and play basketball and chase each other round and round and round.

But you never linger there where there are workmen around. Never ever do. Because the idea of other people in the house besides you and Yoongi never fails to make you run for your room. The closet if you’re particularly afraid. And once, the bathtub.

But Yoongi looked at you weirdly when you did that, an odd look of disproportionate terror on his face. He shouldn’t be so afraid. But you care about him, so you try not to hide there.

The seat in the window is wide enough for you to lie down on the thick cushion and rest your cheek against a pillow when you don’t feel brave enough to cross the threshold of the house. The porch is fine most days, but sometimes, the only sunlight you get is in this window. It is midday, and the house is full of the quiet buzz of Yoongi’s radio. There is nothing in your body that wants to move from this spot. No feeling in you, no hunger or desire for anything else but this. The sun is warm, and since you are incapable of maintaining your own body heat these days, you close your eyes and lounge in it.

But when you open them, it’s night time. The window is still open, and there is an alpha in the yard.

You do not flinch, because you are very very aware of what it means to be prey to predator. The alpha is looking at you with beady eyes. He has red hair like a candle flame. Like the edge where darkness meets warm light. A strong nose and delicate birdlike features. A body that looks like it was made for movement. His eyebrows are wrinkled as he looks at you, smelling like something yellow but also ashy, like burning out suns or maybe comets. He came in Jimin’s car, but he’s not Jimin, Jimin never looks so angry, just disinterested. Jimin has no rage in him, and looks at you the way a god might look at someone undevout.

You are not very good at reading alpha’s expressions, everything that’s not threat slips by you without identification or acknowledgment.

He shuffles from foot to foot. Hands in his pockets, wearing an old sweatshirt with patches across the front, grungy but in that well kempt well-maintained way that designer clothes have.

You have been attempting to familiarize yourself with them. To remember all the little tidbits about the people that Yoongi loves. There are only two people you haven’t met yet. Hoseok. And the pack alpha. This man looks boyish. Looks like not a threat- at least not the same way that Jimin looked earlier.

Not Namjoon then.

There are no hello’s, no accusations, no pushing, or shouting. Your eyelashes flutter before they open truly. You lift yourself on shakey hands. Watching crouched. Loose hair falling over your shoulders.

The alpha takes a breath, but does not step back into the shadows. “I’m only here for him.” It takes you a moment, but you do lift yourself off of the cushion sliding on shaky legs and leave him there.

Hoseok has never known more than an apartment as home.

When he was little he thought of them as a collection of rooms and boxes. Suspended above the world. First this 4th floor, then the 6th, and then the pent house. Now the 22nd. But Yoongi’s house…

Hoseok can concede that Jimin was being a bit too harsh when he called it falling apart. The house is beautiful, even from the exterior. It stands narrow but large on it’s postage stamp. The trees grown in around it close and big, the way that they only do if the house is oldHalf a dozen yellow squares sit separated from incoming night, glowing soft and warm in the way that home only can.

Hoseok knows the ocean isn’t near, 5 miles away at best, but as the crickets in the grass squeak and the nearly salty air blows in from the shore Hoseok feels a terrible ache settle in him that he knows is only from the ocean. The air is blowing from the wrong direction- foretelling rain. Hoseok can’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu. This is the sort of house he’d always admired as a pup, the kind he'd always wished his parents had.

Hoseok spent several minutes watching it from the car, the path, and then the grass. Getting closer step by step, dream by dream.

By the time that Yoongi rushes to the door and flicks on the porch light, Hoseok is already sitting on the steps and facing the cul-de-sac. He can't stand to look at the house anymore. It’s a chilly night, the kind that borders on comfortable if only it weren’t damp. He’s thought about getting up and leaving a dozen times, he sat in Jimin’s car for 10 whole minutes while he worked up the courage to come inside. He’s not sure he would have come at all if he’d known the crumpled-up shadow in the window was a person.

Let alone if he’d known it was you.

Hoseok hears the sound of the front door opening and Yoongi behind him and doesn’t turn. Yoongi’s stands there behind him. He breathes, and Hoseok closes his eyes, turning his cheek so that it catches the light. Holding up his hand for it. “Well? Are you gonna give me the fucking playlist or what?”

“Hoseokie-”

Hoseok prepared himself for this, and yet it’s still too hard to be here. “I’m just here for the music and then I’m going to go.”

Yoongi knows he sounds needy, and he doesn’t fucking care, “Daisy-”

Alpha’s are quick on their feet, Hoseok moves through air like a wave through water, standing and gripping Yoongi by the collar of his flannel. Hoseok’s fingers slide to the nape of his neck slowly. And for a terrible hopeful moment Yoongi thinks he might just cup his cheeks, might give Yoongi what he needs, that Hoseok will press his bird bone hands. Elegant hands, to Yoongi’s face.

But the next second he pushes, shoves, and Yoongi reels catching himself against the banister. But Hoseok is still there, still so close that Yoongi wants to sag against him. Only to refrain at the harsh relief of Hoseok covering Yoongi’s mouth with his hand like a claw.

Yoongi’s lips press against Hoseok’s palm. Words swallowed up by all his anger. Yoongi closes his eyes for a second and luxuriates in the feeling. But opens them next to find Hoseok glaring at him, eyes so bloodshot and irritated that Yoongi knows he’s close to tears.

Breath against Hoseok’s palm, body bending towards him and not away. Hoseok is almost angry about how good he looks, long hair faintly curling against his nape, worn and homey if home could be a person- then Yoongi would be that for him.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. You forfeited the right to call me daisy when you walked out on me. On us. And you treated me like I was nothing to you.” Yoongi is staring at the floor, can’t meet Hoseok’s eyes. It pisses him off so bad that his hands go tight in Yoongi’s collar again. Shaking him a little. “Look. Fucking look at me.”

Yoongi does, tears welling in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

“Do you see what you did to me? What you made me? How you broke me? Do you understand that it was cruel to make those promises to me? Well do you?” Hoseok shoves Yoongi back, doesn’t give him time to answer. “Fuck you- you made me think I was everything to you. Fuck you for fucking leaving.” Hoseok needs to say it again, because he feels like Yoongi didn’t really get it that night when he came to the apartment. “I never would have done this to you. Not in a million years. You’re lucky I’m even fucking here.”

Hoseok’s words are viper quick. He takes his hand away from Yoongi’s lapel. Fingers sliding down and over his heart to feel it thud. He stands there in his warmth. And sees the goosebumps rising on Yoongi’s neck. Sees him sway. Lurching towards him in some way of bitter relief.

Yoongi’s voice warbles as he talks. This time he doesn’t look away. “I know. I know and I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t. I won’t tell you that I had to do it, even though it’s the truth. I know it won’t satisfy you. You deserve more than that, more than what I’ve done. I’m sorry for disappearing. You all deserve better than me. I wish I’d been able to do things differently. I wish I could be more than just sorry- I meant it, you have to know I mean it when I tell you I regret it.”

Hoseok shoves Yoongi back, he hits the wood with a satisfying thud. Because he hates that the words make him ache, that the words make him sag. But Yoongi doesn’t say I love you still. Because maybe he knows those are the words that Hoseok is waiting to hear. Yoongi isn’t manipulative. If he feels like certain words are too selfish, he just won’t say them. That’s one of the things that Hoseok had initially loved about him.

But now Hoseok just wishes that Yoongi would be selfish so that He didn’t have to be brave.

So instead of saying I love you, Yoongi wipes the tears from his mouth and says: “On the worst days, I missed you so bad I couldn’t fucking breathe. I couldn’t listen to music either without thinking of how I didn’t want to find a song I couldn’t show you.”

Hoseok’s eyes flicker from Yoongi’s face and then down. He shoves him again, one last time for good measure. But this time is so gentle it hardly has any weight behind it.

“Give me the playlist. I won’t ask again.”

Hoseok doesn’t know if he’s crying or not, he doesn’t say anything when he scuttles back inside. Hoseok doesn’t talk to him at all again. Just sits back on the step and holds his hand up for it when Yoongi comes back. It’s on a Walkman- fucking sentimental prick. (Hoseok says that like it wasn’t him who awoke Yoongi’s love for sentimental media, for records and mix tapes and doodled on cd’s. Playlists that are a dime a dozen when you have unlimited tracks to add. But these ones? These ones force you to really mean it. Yoongi only has 21 tracks to change Hoseok’s mind.

Hoseok takes the slim white headphones out of his pocket, puts them in his ears, and presses play.

Hoseok doesn’t get through all of it. The next time that Yoongi comes back, some ten minutes later the old Walkman is sitting on steps and the spring peepers buzz in the distance. His headphones loose and tangled sitting on the worn wooden floor. The music still turning away.

Yoongi takes it and hits pause, wipes his eyes, and shuts off the porch light.

~-~

Notes:

It’s interesting to talk about Jimin’s story when it’s not Jimin’s story to me. it’s the story of my cousin Wes. He lives very far from me now and I miss him a lot. I think about the cruelty I witnessed and underwent from the hands of his brothers often, even though I see one of them very very frequently and he’s like a doctor now. You can only see a 14-year-old hold an 5 year old’s throat until his face turns purple once before you can’t ever forget that. A lot of this section is based off of the summer that Weston moved from Tennessee up to where I live in New York one house away and then eventually to the Boston area where bily takes place. The summer where he earned the nickname ‘maggot’ and I got the nickname ‘blob from hell’ because I got so round. That was the summer they tried to bury me alive and our other cousin who I will only call ‘Swedish meat ball’ almost got killed by a crushing accident. The parents put an end to a lot of it after that, but it wasn't enough to spare us in the end. to this day weston is 8 inches shorter than the rest of his family because he was so malnourished he never grew. in my mind, this is why jimin is so short in bily.

Also feels weird to canonically call jimin’s eyes blue, obviously given jimin’s natural eye color. But I do have to make bily not about bts at one point- and jimin and tae are not going to be two characters that are Korean (tae is gonna be Pennsylvania dutch, jimin very slavic, idk I’ve been picturing him as Connor Storie lately for obvious reasons)

I think the 'dead things don’t eat' line might be the best and most well written part of this chapter and also the part that hits me so hard. I can’t remember if it’s an edit for the life of me- ie if this is from bily or something I added in early on in the editing process. 

If it wasn’t clear- the m/c is an unreliable narrator, and yoongi is sort insinuating that tae is into the m/c’s appearance, which she is- but we know from the story that it’s also for a different reason (at first) than yoongi assumes. 

The fact that hoseok is the only one in love with the house at first glance…I love him so much. I love what he’s become in this story. Him and the m/c are such foils for each other. 

I wrote the part where hoseok is talking to yoongi like I was talking to someone I want to confront about betraying me. It felt very cathartic to write it in here. i still wish i could shake her and tell her that i wouldn't do to her what she did to me.

Tae would fight back against them on Jimin’s behalf. But he’s weaker than Jimin and shorter than him still, both of them are very used to bruised cheeks and scuffed palms. To rug burn and bend back knuckles. Tae has never been a fighter but has always been a dreamer. Tae still remembers the first time that Jimin’s oldest brother picked him up and shook him like a bag of bread and laughed said, “God you fags are skinnier than a fucking pencil. I could pick my teeth with you.”

But it’s alright, everything’s alright so long as Jimin has Tae and Tae has Jimin.

Jimin easily has the worse  homelife. In the kitchen there is no box of snacks or easily accessible fruit like there is over at Taehyung’s house. Everything is eaten and nothing is saved. They both might be poor but Tae is educated poor. His parents have empty 401k’s and passible healthcare. There isn’t even a bookshelf in Jimin’s house (Jimin just tells Tae that why would he need books when he has Tae to read them too him or better yet, can just tell the stories). Jimin’s parent’s got food stamps last year, but Jimin’s mother can only go to the grocery store once a month because she just can’t seem to find the time. Filling her cart with non-perishables and instant meals and enough alcohol to sedate her until church on Sunday.

If Jimin doesn’t fill up that first week or the second, the rest of the month goes lean. He ends up eating dry rice before the 30th. Tae has gotten used to sneaking an extra granola bar or portion of dinner into his Lego lunchbox. Tae's mother asks him where he puts it all, since Tae is still thin as a wire. He’s not sure if she’s put it together yet where it all goes. She doesn’t invite Jimin over for dinner ever, unless Jimin is already here.

Taehyung’s father probably wouldn’t approve. Taehyung’s father doesn’t like Jimin. Never has and never will.

Jimin shares the big attic bedroom with three of his older brothers in his decrepit old farmhouse. Rented since they moved out of the trailer park a year ago after his father made Forman. It’s hardly got enough space for the four of them even with the bunkbeds. And Jimin isn’t allowed on the top bunk since his eldest brother yanked him down and bruised his skull bad last month. The attic is sweltering in the summer time and okay in the winter. He sneaks out to Tae just as much for the company as he does the relief of a cool breeze.

His eldest brother has only just left the house and gone into the military at 18. He’d left the space a little lonelier, but it’s only going to get worse, because unlike Tae's father, Jimin’s alpha raises all his sons with whip like discipline. Favoriting endless lists of chores and long hours at the old karate studio in town to try and hone their anger and aggression into something worthwhile. Somehow, there’s always money for violence.

Tae doesn’t have to wonder why his brothers harass Jimin so endlessly- it’s very very clear whenever Tae goes to watch Jimin at the studio. It’s because Jimin, half their size and half their age, is more talented than many of the instructors there. Jimin can fight back and win most of the time, and it’s only going to get worse the bigger he gets. There is a certain awareness of his body that Tae has yet to see in anyone else. the way that Jimin can feel his skin press into the fabric, the tell of a sloping floor beneath his feet. The places in the attic where the floorboards go squeaky and the vibration transfers from floor to ceiling.

Jimin has absolute control of his body even at 12, can hurl himself off the edge of the cliff at the quarry without fear, carving a perfect circle through the air, head tucked into a flip, eyes closed. Steady with the absolute faith that Jimin has in his body or God. It doesn’t make much difference to Jimin but to Tae-

Tae always catches himself watching Jimin at church. Can never quite tare his eyes away.

Tae doesn’t like Jimin’s father. He always looks at Tae a little too long when he comes by to knock at their door. Beady dark eyes that seem to find Tae's seems and pull them apart. Eyeing his new light up sneakers or his lunch box with an air of blue-collar derision. A few weeks ago, when Tae stopped by mid-morning on a Saturday, Jimin’s father shut the door in his face and told him to wait outside. And Tae heard them talk through the door.

“I don’t want you getting any ideas hanging around that one.”

“I won’t sir.”

“He’s not your brother, and men shouldn’t keep close relationships with other men outside their family. God says it isn’t right.”

“I know sir.”

All three of Jimin’s older brothers have presented as alpha’s by now and there’s very little to guess about what Jimin will present as. Cut from the same cloth as them, the same as them down to the curl in his hair.

Tae is a bit more of a mystery. Both of them have the classic parental structure, female omega mother, male alpha father. The picture of gender conforming bliss. But Tae is an only child, and his parents hadn’t been able to pay for the fancy genetic testing that would tell if Tae, as a male, carries the omega gene let alone if it’s dominant. (He is a carrier, but that won’t change anything about how he’ll present).

Jimin is not his brother. Tae is only just beginning to realize the line between friend and soulmate. Between brother and stranger. Neither of them has any sisters, they only have mother to understand the other side of gender. Maybe it’s a shame that they didn’t, then it wouldn’t have taken Tae so long to understand, to know. But if brothers treat each other the way that Jimin’s brother’s treat him- then Taehyung wouldn’t want to be a brother to him anyway.

Jimin doesn’t live far, if Tae sticks his head out the side of his window, he can see the yellow lights of Jimin’s house peaking up over the hill and the thick trees, more the impression of a house than anything else. Tae knows that if he ran the distance, he could be there in less than a minute.

His mother calls, it takes several iterations of his name before Tae looks up from his book in the yellow light, the walls all rough shades of the same knotty pine, pinned with posters from books turned movies, harry potter and Eragon. Tae's room even now is full of books in a million colors, an old stained-glass lamp turned on that Tae reads by, and a worn desk filled with deep gashes.

Everything is old and nothing is new in this house, the worn Corelle cups and the old speed queen washer that thwacks against the side of Tae's bedroom wall and luls him into an easy sleep when it’s not too fucking hot to close his eyes.

But Tae would leave his window open anyway. It’s only because of the hour, too early in the evening for Tae's parents to be asleep, for him to come through the window. At least Tae's mother likes Jimin. Otherwise, they might have been doomed from the start.

Jimin is only wearing shorts probably because nothing else is clean. The summers are like this often. One day blending into another. Reading down by the creek and waiting for Jimin to be done with chores, hiding in the thicket at the very bottom of the mountain where Jimin’s brothers rarely ever look for them. Their giggles and laughs hidden by the roar of the waterfall. Where no one can see if Tae tucks the small pink flowers that grow in the brush behind his ears and Jimin picks him a whole bouquet.

Making eye contact with each other at church every afternoon and hoping until Jimin eventually works up the courage to ask Tae's mom if he can get a ride back with them. Never mind that on the way there Tae's father has said once again that he doesn’t like the look of those boys. That the bible says that a violent person entices their neighbor, and Tae very very carefully reminds him that that’s not in the bible but some other book. Tae's father quotes it back and forth, a professor of religious studies and ethics at a college two towns away.

Tae's mom always tells him that Jimin is a good friend, making eye contact with her son in the back seat. Eyes heavy and cautioning to shut up before he starts to yell.

Sometimes at night, Tae hears…strange bad noises from his parents’ bedroom. He always clamps his hands over his ears when that happens. It sounds like his mother crying, like begging.

Tae scuttles through the house, passed his father drinking whisky in the lazyboy  and his mother cleaning up after dinner in the kitchen. The worn linoleum floor and the crumbling parquet hallway. He smiles when he sees Jimin sitting on the porch through the grain of the screen door. Pushing into his slides as a second thought. Jimin isn’t wearing shoes at all, and if he wants to come inside, he’ll have to wash his feet. “Why didn’t you come through the window?”

“Saw you reading and I didn’t want to bug you.”

He turns, face catching the light finally  and Tae's book drops onto the floor, spot lost as the cover lands closed. Jimin’s whole eye looks like it’s going to swell closed, the spot where his cheekbone sits puffy and red. Black on the bone. A bruise bad enough to break to break skin..

Tae cups his cheek before he can think better of it and Jimin grins up at him. One of his teeth is chipped, just a little. If Tae wasn’t so familiar with Jimin’s smile he might not have noticed. “Got me good this time. I know.”

This is not from his brothers, no- this mark Tae knows is from either Jimin’s mother or father.

“I got in trouble with the pastor again.” Jimin says, after Tae has gone inside to retrive both a cool cloth and an icepop for each of them. His mother grins, hands it too him without a word, lifting a finger to her mouth for Tae not to alert his father with a ‘thank you mama’ he mouths it instead.

“Ah” Tae says. Because Tae doesn’t know what to say. His heart aches, they’ve been here before. When Jimin gets in trouble with the pastor things tend to go a little bit worse for him with his mom.

He holds the cloth to Jimin’s cheek, dabbing. It smells a bit too much like onions and dinner for it to be totally comforting or sanitary. Tae has no doubt in his mind where the slap on his cheek came from or the black eye.  

There is little that sugar won’t fix. Tae hugs a leg to his chest, Jimin’s knee is close enough to his foot that Tae can feel the heat from him. They watch the fireflies burst into being in the grass. Watch the forest, the line where the porchlight fades. Where the shadows blur the bushes. Same as always. Jimin slurps at his ice pop, and Tae watches his melt, turning his fingers sticky.

“So, what did you say? What made him tell your mom?”

“He was talking about gay alpha’s again.” Tae licks his ice pop slow. Jimin’s eyes flicker from it and then to his face. “I talked back.” Tae can sense Jimin isn’t finished, but he watches, waits. Tae has no doubt that Jimin was just asking questions again. Those questions. The same ones they talk about down by the creek where no one can find them. “He said that it was unnatural, that alpha’s mating alpha’s isn’t what god wants.”

If there is a god it’s in the trees and stories. Tae doesn’t say, but even at 12 Tae is several steps into deconstructing his faith. Jimin isn’t there yet. But everyone in their little town goes to church on Sunday, Tae included. Not believing in God feels like not believing in wishes on stars or his parents. Both of which Tae and Jimin will not believe in by the end of their lives.

Tae has been thinking recently that the bible is printed on paper just like any other story. If it really were the word of God, why did it not come to him in some other fantastical way? Written on flowers, in the trees and dirt and bugs. In Jimin’s eyes, so dark that you almost don’t notice that they’re blue not brown.

Jimin tilts his head, chin and blonde hair catching the light. Finishing his icepop with one final lick. “I asked him that if it was so wrong, then why does it stick you know? Like why can omega’s bite omega’s, and why can alpha’s bite alpha’s. Why do the mating marks stick if it’s not supposed to happen? If it’s not right?”

Tae watches his popsicle melt and drip into the dust. One drop after green drop.

“If God controls everything and makes everything in his image, then why did he make that happen?”

Tae doesn’t have any answers for Jimin, at least not one that he’ll like. Temptation, love, dishonesty. Or maybe all three. So instead, Tae asks. “Can you sleep over tonight?”

“Yeah, but I should probably ask.” Tae watches him, standing there on the edge of where porchlight becomes dark, and driveway becomes woods. Jimin is already sinking into it. popsicle stick clutched in his little hand. Tae knows he’s still a little afraid of the dark. That he’ll run the whole way home and whole way back.

“I can walk with you.” Tae offers.

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back in like 3 minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Jimin grins, and breaks out into a run. Tae listens until the sound of his feet against the gravel disappears into the lull of cicadas and spring peepers.

Jimin doesn’t come back.

Taehyung waits on the porch until his mom tells him it’s his bed time and he comes inside. And then Taehyung waits in his bedroom. The window open just in case. Staring at the ceiling listening to the washer and hoping for the sound of footsteps outside and a knock against the window frame.

He falls asleep still thinking about Jimin. Still thinking about the mating marks. Still dreaming.

~-~

(You and Yoongi, 3 days later).

The pack is not going to know about your mating marks any time soon, Yoongi decides, not if he can help it.

There is too much to explain about the circumstances. Geumjae. The family. The stakes. There is simply too much to justify on Yoongi’s part. Yoongi will not guilt them into forgiving him. To use you as justification is only half the battle. The week has been busy enough that he’s not immediately alarmed that the pack don’t contact him over the weekend, regardless of Jimin’s promise regarding the flooring and siding.

Yoongi has other things to worry about.

You’d both read that mating marks from a beta go too deep but the reality of Yoongi’s mating mark is something else entirely. The mating mark is a creeping a tingle, a sense that someone somewhere is watching him or that there is something else in the room. A feeling like you’ve forgotten something very very important, déjà vu but for a person.

Yoongi hadn’t anticipated how much he’d feel it. But it’s real, it’s really there, a string under his skin that sometimes pulls tight enough to sting. Not like a bee or like pins and needles from sitting on a limb too long. Something deeper, something fuzzy at the edge of where Yoongi ends and the world begins. You. A silver lining.

He’d thought that like the rest of his bad decisions- you’d bear the brunt of it. But every time he leaves the house it’s like someone’s hooked a finger over his shoulder and is trying to pull him back. And there’s this dis-ease that builds with every meter until his heart pounds with fear and it feels like he can’t take another step or else risk befalling to some unseen harm. A tingle in his hands and in his shoulder. A pain that hits like lighting through his mating mark.

Yoongi doesn’t know if it’s worse for you. Because you won’t talk about it.

Yoongi doesn’t like the paranoia, even if his paranoia did keep both of you alive this last year. He lets it be most of the time, dismisses it as less of a mental condition and more of a simple cost. It’s not like he could do anything to change it anyways, he can only get used to it.

He revolves back to you like some sort of comet or planetary body. Here and back again. In orbit. On your worst days, that’s all you tell yourself that it is. On the good days- it’s harder to restrain your overactive heart:

Yoongi sits on the edge of the bed, not nest, because you don’t nest like another omega might. There is no careful border or elegant border comprised of fluffed pillows. Your bed in the house is just a bed. Because omega’s only nest when they feel safe- and you’ve never felt safe a day in your fucking life. Not even with Yoongi. Not even here. You are coming to the conclusion that there are likely many things that separate you and them. That make you different from the pack. You are not like the other omega’s, not like Seokjin and Jungkook.

You’re just waiting for Yoongi to notice.

You sit in the bed buried under a thick blanket so heavy that your body underneath it hardly matters. You imagine it might be able to press you thin and translucent like a pressed flower and turn you into a good decoration. You imagine it while you watch Yoongi get ready in the bathroom. Running a bit of water through his hair to make it less fluffy, and a bit of watered-down conditioner so that his ends don’t look so split.

You’re having a hard time remembering if he’s ever put that kind of effort in for you. You don’t wonder why he puts that effort in for Seokjin. You can hardly blame him for any of it when you’re like this. You don’t know if he’ll come over today, but probably someday soon. Yoongi might not get any warning, which is why he puts the effort in every morning.

Just in case.

You imagine your bedroom must have been something of an office in the house’s previous life. If the dark blue green of the walls and ceiling and chair marks in the carpet have anything to say for it. It’s at the back of the house where the windows get the least natural sunlight. Quiet and cozy and compact.

You did at least try to nest last night. You piled every available blanket in a haphazard little mountain (Most of them are folded on the floor now). Half of the blankets were unscented (no need to taint them with your unhappy scent) and most of them where the wrong color (why should you worry about being pretty here? Yoongi doesn't love you because he wants too- love is what the mating mark demands. The affection must just feel like scratching the itch).

But Yoongi had elected to keep it that way, told you it was very very comfy until you covered his mouth with your hand. His smile pressed to your skin, his hand on your waist, and you too shy to meet his gaze. It had felt almost alright with you both warm and cozy and still, curled up in  the center. Especially once he’d shut of the lights and your brain decided that there was nothing to see here.

Nothing to see if his hands stay on your waist and your face stays buried in the front of his shirt, head tucked to collarbones and his chin resting over the crown of your head. You like to sleep this way, his every breath nudging the front of your face, a reminder that he is here. That he’s still breathing. You are a delicate yolk within a fragile egg cage. Yoongi’s pale hands eggshells that crack with your every breath.

Sometimes in the darkness, when you both can’t sleep, you lift Yoongi’s hands to the ceiling to look at them. The scars across his knuckles, your fingers wrapped around his wrist, tracing the familiar lines. Hooking into the silk scarf of yours he still keeps tied around his wrist although it’s gotten progressively darker over the last few months. Stained from cooking, from paint, from life. You’ll tug at it almost playfully, aware that if you just look across the pillow, you’ll find him watching you with just as much intent.

You and Yoongi still haven’t’ broken the habit of sharing a single pillow. One day soon you might have too. Pretty soon he’s probably going to want to spend nights over at the pack’s apartment. You should have never let yourself get used to this.  

You try not to look, but sometimes when you do, he leans across the pillow and presses his lips to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, and then properly. His hands don’t stay on your waist for long after that, and yours can’t stay on his wrist, not when they tremble so. The first time he’d ever asked, “is this alright? Can I-” You’d covered his mouth until he’d just shut up. But now he rarely verbally asks anymore. It’s easier when the two of you leave the uncomfortable reality on the other side of the shadow, there’s very little good that comes out of it. Very little good that exists on the other edge of the light.

But if you didn’t want it, Yoongi would be able to feel it. If you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t pull him in or mouth at the column of his throat.

The mating mark is very hard to ignore. Insistent at times, with how it demands you two remain close. Sometimes, no amount of distance is small enough.

Your feet stretch now, a little like a cat, nudging the big blue duvet piled up at the bottom of the bed. There are a pair of fuzzy socks placed on top, because your feet get cold easily (your hands too) and Yoongi doesn’t like it when you get cold.

The blackout curtains make your room feel like a soft cave. His work flannel hangs on the bathroom door, neither clean nor dirty. You made a noise when he tried to turn on the light, as you often do in the morning (Or is it afternoon?) You remain covered, first by the blue blanket, and then by the shadows, watching his pale body move through the dark, looking at the freckles on his back when he rifles through the closet. The way his muscles move below his skin.

As if he can feel your gaze, he turns, and smiles.

Your mate’s presence even makes the room feel a little safe. Just a little. Not enough to matter.

Without Yoongi in the bed, it’s hard for you to feel warm at all. There is a full plate of breakfast on the bedside table. You know Yoongi won’t beg you to eat any of it. But it stays there, placed by him and taunting you. Gooey egg and tomato with fried brown green onions crispy and burnt. It’s the first meal he ever made you in this house, the first one you’d ever devoured fully, and Yoongi makes it for you every morning. Hoping that just like the first time, you’ll swallow it down with ease.

It's been several days since you’ve touched it.

Maybe when he leaves the bedroom, you’ll carry it to the cramped ensuite and flush it down the toilet. Maybe you’ll open up the window and dump it out the side of the house. He caught you doing that one morning a few weeks ago. And sometimes you hear his soft footsteps outside, checking to see if you’ve done it again. The betrayal on his face was almost worse than the thought of eating.

Almost.

But dead things don’t eat, and if you’re going to keep him happy, not eating is hardly the worst thing you can do. You cannot get Yoongi to understand this (not that you’re any good at explaining these days, your brain is as scrambled as the eggs on the side table).

Geumjae liked you skinny. Men like you when you’re skinny and there are very very many men around these days, some more dangerous than others.

You are very aware that other girls get this and more, they get food and they get love too, they get to be safe and eat and lick their fingers with it. But you do not get any of those things without giving others up. You are safer this way. You are safer small. Even before Geumjae you’d been too weird, too dumb, too much. To get any love, to get anything good at all you have to be perfect. You’ve known this for years, and the rules don’t change even if the man you love does.

And selfishly you’d like to keep Yoongi with you just a little bit longer. Without the mating mark he’d already be gone. Although it will probably all go poorly anyway if the sight of the pack’s omegas had anything to say for it…

Why did both of them have to be pretty?

It's inevitable and yet, you still cling to this. To him.

You couldn’t articulate why you won’t eat even if words came easy to you. Some days are better than others, and when you are having a good day it’s hardly the first thing on his mind to interrogate you about the why. Maybe he already knows.

On the good days, Yoongi only appreciates the hours he has you here and waits for the good to fade like midwinter sunlight. He waits for you to go still and quiet and silent. Like the last of the snow that melted just a few short weeks ago. First mist- then nothing at all.

You stare blankly into space, pushing at the blanket on the end of the bed. The socks, pushing them just to the edge, teetering.

Yoongi catches them before they hit the floor, smiling at you with his red toothbrush hanging half out of his mouth, and putting them on your feet, tugging them a little until you lay a little more sprawled. Grinning behind toothpaste. Hands moving slow up your calves, warm and appreciative.

You’re getting used to it, Yoongi hardly ever touches you without that same kind of hesitant warmth. Watching your face for every movement, accepted or eschewed.

That same appreciation often takes its form in devious ways. Ways that feel selfish and entitled. Yoongi is your mate; it shouldn’t feel so selfish to want to touch him. You’re used to that appreciation ending with you bare on the edge of the bed, Yoongi on his knees before you panting damp breaths against the thin hair on the inside of your thighs.

Or pressed together in the tiny shower with your forehead against his sternum or wrapped up with him on the couch under a thick blanket with the blinds drawn and the heat turned up. All your clothes folded neatly to the side.

Or once on the floor with nothing but a sheet to keep you from getting splinters in your ass from the freshly sanded floor. You’d gotten them anyway. And had barely restrained your blush while he helped you pick them out, bent over his lap in more than a compromising position that Yoongi had not at all taken advantage of in the slightest.

Other than to touch.

When alpha’s and omega’s mate it almost always triggers a heat or rut, or an increased feeling of sexual appetite that lasts for several days. Ruts and heats have only one purpose; to get the omega bred and pupped. Claimed. Without a mating mark- heats hit yearly, Usually in the spring for omega’s, and ruts in the fall for alphas. Although ruts are generally more random and alpha’s often have more than one in a given year. There are other symptoms to a fever for omega’s and what Jin would call ‘an era of dumbness’ in the alpha’s where instincts to protect and provide reach a fevers pitch and aggression becomes a need rather than just a general inclination. 

It's sort of fun most of the time. Jimin, Taehyung, Hoseok, and Namjoon do make quite the picture when they all try to wrestle and pin each other.

A mating mark triggers a biological impulse to breed and fuck until something comes of it- most of the time a pup. And while Yoongi isn’t an alpha obviously- and beta’s don’t have heats or ruts at all (and Yoongi thanks god for that every single time one of his packmates goes into rut or heat). You’re still an omega. Your instincts and needs bleed across your bond.

Maybe it’s just because you haven’t had your heat yet, Yoongi doubts you will, as the season treads closer and closer to summer.

You like it when Yoongi touches you. It feels nice in the moment even if it always makes you feel selfish and yucky later. It’s the only nice feeling you have most of the time. He’s been doing a lot of it as if he knows, casual little brushes of his fingers over your shoulders and across your face, a gentle pet over the top of your head. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to being touched with such gentleness. Sometimes you don’t know why he does it since things like you, creatures like you are generally undeserving of that type of affection (thus the yuckiness). Sometimes you see his hand coming and flinch before it even meets you. Out of instinct and necessity.

(The months and years that Geumjae trained you are sticking around despite Yoongi’s best efforts).

It’s hard for you to reciprocate without it feeling scary but you’re getting used to it. Sometimes when you really can’t resist your impulses like when you shuffle up behind him in the morning and press your body against his. Cheek against his shoulder, arms around his waist. And his answering smile is worth all the fear in the world.

And that’s not to mention all the kissing. 

It’s so much easier not to move in winter, to stay frozen as you are. To ignore the thaw. You hold your cup of coffee which is safe enough for you even if Yoongi does make it very very sweet. It tastes different today, and you can’t put your finger on why. You lie there, anxiously awaiting the spring and the end of all this. You don’t know why the churn of grass going from gold to green makes you feel so nauseous.

The change in season makes you feel like you’re running out of time. And now that the pack are here, you feel every second. You shouldn’t really care and deep down you don’t care about anything.

You’ve always known about the pack; you have never been under any illusion where Yoongi’s heart lay or how this was going to go. You don’t mind the idea of him having a place to go and get comfort when you’re finally gone. Which could be soon, or has it happened already? You’re not sure, maybe you should ask him.

When you lift your hand to your chest to feel you find a heartbeat after a moment. Very slow, too sluggish. Not yet then. (The mating mark works in devious ways. Geumjae hurts you, even dead. Even gone.)

That’s one of the reasons why you don’t really react when Yoongi pauses in the doorway. You lift your head in his direction. Aware that he’s been working up to saying something all morning.

“I don’t think we should tell them about the marks yet.”

You stir softly. Looking at him directly after a moment, he’s standing at the foot of the bed, in his flannel now. You don’t remember watching him put it on. And the light might be different too. It’s not that bad of a day today but you’re still losing time. Minutes and seconds bleed freely from you.

But after you clear your throat and banish the near constant feeling like you’re choking on something, you’re actually able to muster up a reply.

“Alright.”

Yoongi looks away then back at you. “I’ll tell them when it’s right, when you’re-” 

Gone. Dead. Better. You don’t care how he wants to finish that sentence, so you cut him off. “I understand, don’t have to say it.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, and you get the sense that you’re losing something, time or meaning behind his words. You pull your knees up to your chest reflexively but he doesn’t let you get far, leaning forward to rest his chin against your knees. “Come on, you know it’s not that.”

“It’s okay.” Yoongi looks at you like it’s anything but. “Really, I don’t care.” He leans over and you duck just in time, his arm depresses your pillow and his lips press to your forehead and not your cheek. It makes you feel warm at least, but Yoongi doesn’t look pleased when he pulls away. It’s hard for you to read his expression. Less hard for you to feel down the bond.  Although the feelings you get from it are rarely clearcut.

Whatever Yoongi’s feeling- it’s the sensory equivalent of running your hand through cold water and feeling something slimy at the bottom of a shallow pool.

He leans over again, hand on one side of your cheek, and although you pull away Yoongi’s lips land true. It takes several pecks in quick secession to get you to smile. Until you’re pushing at his chest and saying, “Stop! Tickles!”

A soft croon of “there you are” is easily dismissed into the lingering shadows and his hand that combs through your hair can almost be called a daydream. Your eyelashes flutter. Half bent over his lap with him above you. The touch of his knees hidden only by the blanket. Resting against your cheek.

He did not open the blinds, because Yoongi knows better than that. But a small shaft of sunlight cuts across the floor and almost reaches the two of you where you’re curled.

The pads of his fingers rub over the curve of your jaw, you don’t know how he knows it hurts there- but it does. Probably from you clenching in your sleep. You think about the pack, the three of them standing in the door, one black head, one brown, one blonde.

Yoongi must know you're thinking about them, because he asks, “What did you think of them?”

You close your eyes so that Yoongi won’t be able to see your emotions quite as easily. “The pretty one. Stares.”

“Jungkook?” You shake your head, tilting it to the side, pretty and omega yes. But not who you’re talking about.

“Jimin.” You pout, glaring up at him.

“Ah, Taehyung huh?” Yoongi’s voice is smooth and calm, he gives nothing away easily. But even he cannot help what you can feel through the mating mark. There’s a tell-tale twinge of longing, of pain. It's still bad but not as visceral as when he talks about Seokjin. Taehyung makes Yoongi feel like the airs been plucked out of his lungs. But Seokjin feels like being buried alive. Suffocating slowly. Something scrambling and frantic.

At least that’s the image the mating mark gives you.

You kind of wish that Seokjin had done something back to you. Something worse than only hissed. You don’t know why you want the vindication of that. It’s strange, without any violence to occupy your body- you don’t know what to do with your emotions.

“Yeah, I noticed that. The staring. Taehyung’s not usually that way.” You turn your face into Yoongi’s stomach, soft and squishy. Yoongi’s legs kick wider, and he holds you gently by the waist and back of the head, fingers threading through your hair almost without thought. Thumb and pinky rubbing behind each ear.

Even with just one meeting. You’re pretty sure that this Taehyung is hiding something. You’re just not sure if it’s only from you- or the rest of the pack. His eyes lingered on you too long, not interested, just fixated. But it was his scent that gave him away, cinnamon but with an undercurrent of something floral, fighting but failing to give out. A secret if ever you’ve scented one.

You’ve never had a particularly good sense of smell. If no one else had picked up on it, that must mean that Taehyung’s been keeping it for a while.

Yoongi’s voice is rougher when he says, “Taehyung has always been more… aesthetically inclined than the average alpha.”

You peek up at him, and you forget everything about secrets that may or may not exist. there’s humor playing on the edge of his lips, a shy excited smile. So it must be from just you then. You turn over quick enough that the room spins. “No!? Explain?!”

Speaking in one-word sentences and monosyllabic questions is hard for you even on a good day, and today is not a good day. You squirm closer but Yoongi just tips his hip to the side and sighs. A pinch of distress between his eyebrows the way someone might squint at the sun and guess at how many hours of daylight might be left, like he’s judging what you can handle or what will send you spiraling. The expression dissipates as quickly as it comes.

Sometimes the intent at which he studies you intimidates you. You can hardly meet his eyes.

You don’t blame Yoongi for treating you like you’re too fragile to speak the truth, because you just might be. He settles for ruffling your hair. Effectively steering you into another topic. Covering your forehead with hair so that you can’t see when he bends over your body and presses his lips to your forehead, your nose. Your lips. Several in quick succession. Your muscles hurt from the unfamiliar reaction of smiling.

“Will you come and sit by me while I work today?” he asks instead. Once  your giggling has calmed down and your body has gone lax again.

Your fingers trail along his knee. “Library room?”

“Yes, the library room is for Taehyung. But I was thinking the kitchen, you know how that one cabinet needs to be rehung before the backsplash? And the waterproofing needs another coat-”

You sigh out a big breath and let Yoongi’s usual spiel on everything that needs to happen with the house melt into the background noise. Concentrating on the feel of him below you, the harsh jut of his knees against the too sharp edge of your ribs in his lap. The vague hurt there as his body presses too close to yours.

There have been many days where you have stayed in bed and have only left when Yoongi decided to get into it. It’s scary sometimes, to share a bed with a man again. If it wasn’t Yoongi you don’t think you could manage it. But he rarely lets you sleep the whole day away inside this room, moving you to the couch, the kitchen, the window, the porch. Anywhere where he can keep an eye on you.

You peek up at him and find him watching you with such an intent look of focus that you have to look away, your lips puff out, mumbling through it. Your cheek squished against his knee as you ask. “Window seat?”

“Yes. It should be sunny. I’ll open the window so you can look outside.”

You trace a circle around his hip, around where you know the mating mark is. You could find it in the dark, some part of you always aware of that inch. It’s so strange to be aware of something like a limb, especially something that is so separate from your body.

“Music?” You ask, voice a pitch quieter. Yoongi’s smile is very very loud, you almost want to cover your ears from it. You can hear the smile in his voice. The mating mark feels like those cat tails, like running your fingers through something soft, like grass or fur or goose down.

“I can play the playlist. Yeah.”

“Okay.” Yoongi continues his rubbing and hardly moves an inch in the direction of the doorway, but still you have to ask.  “Stay? Till I’m ready?”

Yoongi’s hands continue to pet over your jaw, the movement endless and looping. “However long you need.”

You close your eyes; Yoongi continues to rub. And the thought of sunlight, despite everything, sounds nice.

~-~

One of your favorite spots in the house is the bay window that opens out onto the garden. It was one of the only seats or things left in the house when you moved in, the wide-open window drops about 6 feet to the garden. Where the crickets hum and the sunlight pools. Where you can watch the people in your cul-de-sac come and go, the trio of alphas on the corner, the big vacant white house and the yard that sometimes has little rabbits. The people with pups across the way, the youngest one and the oldest and how they fight and play basketball and chase each other round and round and round.

But you never linger there where there are workmen around. Never ever do. Because the idea of other people in the house besides you and Yoongi never fails to make you run for your room. The closet if you’re particularly afraid. And once, the bathtub.

But Yoongi looked at you weirdly when you did that, an odd look of disproportionate terror on his face. He shouldn’t be so afraid. But you care about him, so you try not to hide there.

The seat in the window is wide enough for you to lie down on the thick cushion and rest your cheek against a pillow when you don’t feel brave enough to cross the threshold of the house. The porch is fine most days, but sometimes, the only sunlight you get is in this window. It is midday, and the house is full of the quiet buzz of Yoongi’s radio. There is nothing in your body that wants to move from this spot. No feeling in you, no hunger or desire for anything else but this. The sun is warm, and since you are incapable of maintaining your own body heat these days, you close your eyes and lounge in it.

But when you open them, it’s night time. The window is still open, and there is an alpha in the yard.

You do not flinch, because you are very very aware of what it means to be prey to predator. The alpha is looking at you with beady eyes. He has red hair like a candle flame. Like the edge where darkness meets warm light. A strong nose and delicate birdlike features. A body that looks like it was made for movement. His eyebrows are wrinkled as he looks at you, smelling like something yellow but also ashy, like burning out suns or maybe comets. He came in Jimin’s car, but he’s not Jimin, Jimin never looks so angry, just disinterested. Jimin has no rage in him, and looks at you the way a god might look at someone undevout.

You are not very good at reading alpha’s expressions, everything that’s not threat slips by you without identification or acknowledgment.

He shuffles from foot to foot. Hands in his pockets, wearing an old sweatshirt with patches across the front, grungy but in that well kempt well-maintained way that designer clothes have.

You have been attempting to familiarize yourself with them. To remember all the little tidbits about the people that Yoongi loves. There are only two people you haven’t met yet. Hoseok. And the pack alpha. This man looks boyish. Looks like not a threat- at least not the same way that Jimin looked earlier.

Not Namjoon then.

There are no hello’s, no accusations, no pushing, or shouting. Your eyelashes flutter before they open truly. You lift yourself on shakey hands. Watching crouched. Loose hair falling over your shoulders.

The alpha takes a breath, but does not step back into the shadows. “I’m only here for him.” It takes you a moment, but you do lift yourself off of the cushion sliding on shaky legs and leave him there.

Hoseok has never known more than an apartment as home.

When he was little he thought of them as a collection of rooms and boxes. Suspended above the world. First this 4th floor, then the 6th, and then the pent house. Now the 22nd. But Yoongi’s house…

Hoseok can concede that Jimin was being a bit too harsh when he called it falling apart. The house is beautiful, even from the exterior. It stands narrow but large on it’s postage stamp. The trees grown in around it close and big, the way that they only do if the house is oldHalf a dozen yellow squares sit separated from incoming night, glowing soft and warm in the way that home only can.

Hoseok knows the ocean isn’t near, 5 miles away at best, but as the crickets in the grass squeak and the nearly salty air blows in from the shore Hoseok feels a terrible ache settle in him that he knows is only from the ocean. The air is blowing from the wrong direction- foretelling rain. Hoseok can’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu. This is the sort of house he’d always admired as a pup, the kind he'd always wished his parents had.

Hoseok spent several minutes watching it from the car, the path, and then the grass. Getting closer step by step, dream by dream.

By the time that Yoongi rushes to the door and flicks on the porch light, Hoseok is already sitting on the steps and facing the cul-de-sac. He can't stand to look at the house anymore. It’s a chilly night, the kind that borders on comfortable if only it weren’t damp. He’s thought about getting up and leaving a dozen times, he sat in Jimin’s car for 10 whole minutes while he worked up the courage to come inside. He’s not sure he would have come at all if he’d known the crumpled-up shadow in the window was a person.

Let alone if he’d known it was you.

Hoseok hears the sound of the front door opening and Yoongi behind him and doesn’t turn. Yoongi’s stands there behind him. He breathes, and Hoseok closes his eyes, turning his cheek so that it catches the light. Holding up his hand for it. “Well? Are you gonna give me the fucking playlist or what?”

“Hoseokie-”

Hoseok prepared himself for this, and yet it’s still too hard to be here. “I’m just here for the music and then I’m going to go.”

Yoongi knows he sounds needy, and he doesn’t fucking care, “Daisy-”

Alpha’s are quick on their feet, Hoseok moves through air like a wave through water, standing and gripping Yoongi by the collar of his flannel. Hoseok’s fingers slide to the nape of his neck slowly. And for a terrible hopeful moment Yoongi thinks he might just cup his cheeks, might give Yoongi what he needs, that Hoseok will press his bird bone hands. Elegant hands, to Yoongi’s face.

But the next second he pushes, shoves, and Yoongi reels catching himself against the banister. But Hoseok is still there, still so close that Yoongi wants to sag against him. Only to refrain at the harsh relief of Hoseok covering Yoongi’s mouth with his hand like a claw.

Yoongi’s lips press against Hoseok’s palm. Words swallowed up by all his anger. Yoongi closes his eyes for a second and luxuriates in the feeling. But opens them next to find Hoseok glaring at him, eyes so bloodshot and irritated that Yoongi knows he’s close to tears.

Breath against Hoseok’s palm, body bending towards him and not away. Hoseok is almost angry about how good he looks, long hair faintly curling against his nape, worn and homey if home could be a person- then Yoongi would be that for him.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. You forfeited the right to call me daisy when you walked out on me. On us. And you treated me like I was nothing to you.” Yoongi is staring at the floor, can’t meet Hoseok’s eyes. It pisses him off so bad that his hands go tight in Yoongi’s collar again. Shaking him a little. “Look. Fucking look at me.”

Yoongi does, tears welling in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

“Do you see what you did to me? What you made me? How you broke me? Do you understand that it was cruel to make those promises to me? Well do you?” Hoseok shoves Yoongi back, doesn’t give him time to answer. “Fuck you- you made me think I was everything to you. Fuck you for fucking leaving.” Hoseok needs to say it again, because he feels like Yoongi didn’t really get it that night when he came to the apartment. “I never would have done this to you. Not in a million years. You’re lucky I’m even fucking here.”

Hoseok’s words are viper quick. He takes his hand away from Yoongi’s lapel. Fingers sliding down and over his heart to feel it thud. He stands there in his warmth. And sees the goosebumps rising on Yoongi’s neck. Sees him sway. Lurching towards him in some way of bitter relief.

Yoongi’s voice warbles as he talks. This time he doesn’t look away. “I know. I know and I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t. I won’t tell you that I had to do it, even though it’s the truth. I know it won’t satisfy you. You deserve more than that, more than what I’ve done. I’m sorry for disappearing. You all deserve better than me. I wish I’d been able to do things differently. I wish I could be more than just sorry- I meant it, you have to know I mean it when I tell you I regret it.”

Hoseok shoves Yoongi back, he hits the wood with a satisfying thud. Because he hates that the words make him ache, that the words make him sag. But Yoongi doesn’t say I love you still. Because maybe he knows those are the words that Hoseok is waiting to hear. Yoongi isn’t manipulative. If he feels like certain words are too selfish, he just won’t say them. That’s one of the things that Hoseok had initially loved about him.

But now Hoseok just wishes that Yoongi would be selfish so that He didn’t have to be brave.

So instead of saying I love you, Yoongi wipes the tears from his mouth and says: “On the worst days, I missed you so bad I couldn’t fucking breathe. I couldn’t listen to music either without thinking of how I didn’t want to find a song I couldn’t show you.”

Hoseok’s eyes flicker from Yoongi’s face and then down. He shoves him again, one last time for good measure. But this time is so gentle it hardly has any weight behind it.

“Give me the playlist. I won’t ask again.”

Hoseok doesn’t know if he’s crying or not, he doesn’t say anything when he scuttles back inside. Hoseok doesn’t talk to him at all again. Just sits back on the step and holds his hand up for it when Yoongi comes back. It’s on a Walkman- fucking sentimental prick. (Hoseok says that like it wasn’t him who awoke Yoongi’s love for sentimental media, for records and mix tapes and doodled on cd’s. Playlists that are a dime a dozen when you have unlimited tracks to add. But these ones? These ones force you to really mean it. Yoongi only has 21 tracks to change Hoseok’s mind.

Hoseok takes the slim white headphones out of his pocket, puts them in his ears, and presses play.

Hoseok doesn’t get through all of it. The next time that Yoongi comes back, some ten minutes later the old Walkman is sitting on steps and the spring peepers buzz in the distance. His headphones loose and tangled sitting on the worn wooden floor. The music still turning away.

Yoongi takes it and hits pause, wipes his eyes, and shuts off the porch light.

~-~

Notes:

It’s interesting to talk about Jimin’s story when it’s not Jimin’s story to me. it’s the story of my cousin Wes. He lives very far from me now and I miss him a lot. I think about the cruelty I witnessed and underwent from the hands of his brothers often, even though I see one of them very very frequently and he’s like a doctor now. You can only see a 14-year-old hold an 5 year old’s throat until his face turns purple once before you can’t ever forget that. A lot of this section is based off of the summer that Weston moved from Tennessee up to where I live in New York one house away and then eventually to the Boston area where bily takes place. The summer where he earned the nickname ‘maggot’ and I got the nickname ‘blob from hell’ because I got so round. That was the summer they tried to bury me alive and our other cousin who I will only call ‘Swedish meat ball’ almost got killed by a crushing accident. The parents put an end to a lot of it after that, but it wasn't enough to spare us in the end. to this day weston is 8 inches shorter than the rest of his family because he was so malnourished he never grew. in my mind, this is why jimin is so short in bily.

Also feels weird to canonically call jimin’s eyes blue, obviously given jimin’s natural eye color. But I do have to make bily not about bts at one point- and jimin and tae are not going to be two characters that are Korean (tae is gonna be Pennsylvania dutch, jimin very slavic, idk I’ve been picturing him as Connor Storie lately for obvious reasons)

I think the 'dead things don’t eat' line might be the best and most well written part of this chapter and also the part that hits me so hard. I can’t remember if it’s an edit for the life of me- ie if this is from bily or something I added in early on in the editing process. 

If it wasn’t clear- the m/c is an unreliable narrator, and yoongi is sort insinuating that tae is into the m/c’s appearance, which she is- but we know from the story that it’s also for a different reason (at first) than yoongi assumes. 

The fact that hoseok is the only one in love with the house at first glance…I love him so much. I love what he’s become in this story. Him and the m/c are such foils for each other. 

I wrote the part where hoseok is talking to yoongi like I was talking to someone I want to confront about betraying me. It felt very cathartic to write it in here. i still wish i could shake her and tell her that i wouldn't do to her what she did to me.

Mina squeezed your shoulder gently, “We’ll wait outside.” Jungkook nodded toward the hallway, “Go.” You looked at both of them uncertainly, but they only offered encouraging smiles before disappearing toward the exit, leaving you alone.

The hallway felt impossibly long. You stared at the closed dressing room door, wondering how many times you had stood outside doors waiting for Yoongi. Outside his office. Outside his bedroom. Outside his apartment. Always waiting for him.

The door finally opened. Yoongi stepped into the hallway, still dressed in the clothes he’d worn on stage. The black dress pants paired with the navy blue dress shirt with just a touch of glitter really suited him well. His dark hair was damp from sweat, a towel draped loosely around his neck. He looked exhausted, emotionally wrung out, but when his eyes landed on you, he stopped so abruptly it was as if he’d forgotten how to move.

Neither of you spoke. You waited. After everything after the song after months apart after years of losing each other surely he would say something. Anything.

Instead, he only looked at you. His lips parted slightly before closing again. You could almost see the thoughts racing behind his eyes, but none of them ever became words. Your heart slowly began to sink. The silence stretched longer and longer until it became unbearable. A humorless laugh escaped you. Yoongi blinked almost like the sound had startled him. You shook your head, tears already burning behind your eyes. His expression crumbled, “Y/N…”

“No.”, your voice cracked before you could stop it, “I’ve spent years chasing you, Yoongi.” You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, “I chased you after you left the first time. I chased you to another country after you left the second time. I came back here because Mina and Jungkook said…I thought…I don’t know…” You laughed bitterly, wiping angrily at your eyes, “I thought maybe this time you’d finally stop letting me do all the work. Was that song complete bullshit?” His shoulders sagged, “I had something I wanted to say.” He opened his mouth again but nothing came out. You watched panic flicker across his face as if he could feel the words trapped somewhere inside him but couldn’t force them free.

It hurt in a way you hadn’t expected. Not because he didn’t love you. Deep down you knew he did. It hurt because even now, after everything, fear was still winning. You gave him a sad smile, “There he is.” Confusion crossed his face. You gave a sad smile, “The man who always lets me down. I knew he’d make an appearance.” His entire expression shattered.

You turned before he could see the fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. This time, he called your name. You heard it. You heard him take one step after you. Then…nothing. No footsteps. No hand catching your wrist. No desperate plea for you to stay. So you ran. You ran past security. You ran past Mina and Jungkook before they could even attempt to stop you. By the time you reached the street outside your apartment, you were crying so hard you could barely see where you were going. When your apartment door clicked shut behind you, the silence was deafening. You made it halfway to your bedroom before your legs gave out. You slid onto the floor and buried your face in your hands.

For years, you’d convinced yourself that if you could just get him to stay in one place long enough, if you could just make him talk, if you could just love him hard enough…everything would finally make sense. The sob that tore from you was loud and ugly. You cried until your ribs hurt. Until your throat burned. Until there were no tears left to cry.

Sometime after midnight while still wearing the same clothes from earlier, you crawled onto your bed without bothering to change. Exhaustion eventually won where peace never could. You didn’t know how long you’d been asleep when something soft brushed across your forehead. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming. Gentle fingers carefully tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You frowned slightly, your eyes fluttering open.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. Someone was sitting on the edge of your bed. Your heart nearly stopped and you prepared to scream or run but when your eyes finally adjusted and you saw who was sitting there. Yoongi looked just as exhausted as you felt.

His eyes were red like he had cried the whole way over. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Finally, he looked down at his hands and let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, “I never gave your apartment key back.” Slowly, he opened his palm. The small silver key you’d forgotten he even had. “I kept telling myself I’d mail it back.”, he admitted quietly, “Every time I packed it into an envelope…I took it back out again…just in case.” He rubbed his thumb across the worn metal before continuing, “I had this whole speech planned for you tonight.” He laughed bitterly, “I practiced it more than the actual performance.” His voice faltered, “But then I saw you standing there…and I got scared….Y/N I’ve spent half my life convincing myself that loving you meant walking away.” His eyes finally met yours, shining with tears he wasn’t trying to hide anymore, “I know now that it doesn’t.” He took a slow, shaky breath, “It means staying.”

You stared at him, unable to speak. “For the first time.”, he continued, “I’m not going to decide what’s best for you. I spent years convincing myself that leaving was loving you. That if I stayed away, eventually you’d find someone better, someone who wouldn’t keep hurting you the way I did.” He laughed quietly, but there wasn’t any humor in it, “But I was wrong.” His gaze dropped to the apartment key resting in his palm before he slowly closed his fingers around it, “I’ve been wrong for a very long time.” The room fell silent again, but this time he didn’t retreat into it, “I love you Y/N.” The words were so simple. So painfully overdue, “I’ve loved you since we were kids, before I even really knew what love was. I loved you when I ate until I almost got sick in that little noodle shop because it was the only excuse I could think of to spend another hour with you. I loved you when we graduated. I loved you each time you bring me a tangerine from the market just to see me smile. I loved you every time my mom told me about something you’d accomplished while I was too much of a coward to call you myself.” His eyes fully filled with tears, “I loved you while I was sitting in another country convincing myself you were happier without me. I loved you when I moved into that apartment and watched you laugh with Mina in the kitchen. I loved you the morning I made you pancakes. I loved you when you chose Jungkook to take you home from the wedding instead of me and I still loved you when you got on a plane and came looking for me.” His voice cracked completely, “I have never stopped loving you even though I tried.”

He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, shaking his head as another tear escaped anyway, “And I’m so sorry.” The words came out broken, “I’m sorry for leaving over and over. I’m sorry for making you question whether you were enough when you were always more than I deserved. I’m sorry I made you carry the weight of us by yourself. Every time you chased after me, every time you begged me to stay, every time you waited for a phone call that never came…” He swallowed hard, “You should never have had to do any of that.” You watched his shoulders shake as years of guilt finally caught up to him, “I can’t give you those years back. I can’t erase the birthdays I missed or the promotions or every night you cried because of me. If I could, I would. God, I would trade everything I have to go back and be the man you needed me to be.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper, “But I can’t. So all I have left is this...” He looked at you with an openness you’d never seen before. There were no walls left. No excuses. No fear hiding behind silence, “I’m asking you to let me spend the rest of my life being better than the man who walked away.” His lips trembled into the smallest, saddest smile, “I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight. I don’t deserve that. I’m asking if you’ll let me stay long enough to earn it.”

For the first time since you’d known him, he wasn’t trying to convince you that leaving was an act of love. He wasn’t asking you to chase him. He wasn’t deciding your future for you. He was simply standing in front of you, with every defense stripped away, trusting you with the answer he’d spent years running from. “I know I don’t deserve another chance.”, he said softly, “But if there’s even the smallest part of your heart that still has room for me…I swear to you, Y/N…you will never have to wonder where I am again.” He took a slow, shaky breath like years of extra weight had been removed from his shoulders. He continued, “I’m done leaving. I’m done running. I’m done pretending I don’t need you because God I need you in my like more than anything…I just…I want to come home.”

You held his gaze for a long moment before finally speaking, “I do still love you Yoongi.” Relief flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to watch, but before it could settle, you continued, “But loving you isn’t the problem.” His expression sobered immediately. “You broke my heart, Yoongi.”, your voice remained soft, but there was a firmness to it that hadn’t been there years ago, “You don’t get to come back into my life and expect everything to be okay just because you finally admitted how you feel and apologized.” He nodded before you had even finished, “I know.”

“If we’re going to do this…”, you swallowed hard, “We’re doing it slowly and you’re going to have to earn my trust again.” He nodded immediately, “I will.” You searched his face, looking for hesitation, for doubt, for even the smallest sign that he was already looking for the easiest way out. There wasn’t any.

You took a shaky breath, “If you ever pull any of this again…I’m done.” The words hung quietly between you. Yoongi didn’t try to bargain with you. He didn’t promise he’d never make another mistake. He simply nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. Something in your chest loosened.

Slowly before you could change your mind you shifted farther over on the mattress, creating space beside you, “You can stay here tonight.” He blinked in disbelief. You gave the empty side of the bed a small pat. For a second he looked almost afraid to move. Then he quietly slipped off his shoes and lay down beside you not touching. You were the one who closed the distance and rested your head on his shoulder.

The familiar scent of his cologne and the comforting warmth of his body wrapped around you and suddenly you weren’t in that bed any more.

You were barely eighteen. A mixtape Yoongi recorded in his basement was playing through the speakers. The hood of his old beat up car was still warm from the drive home. The whole town had been celebrating the win, his teammates blowing up his phone, begging him to meet them to celebrate after he had scored the winning basket in the championship basketball game. Instead, the two of you had stopped for fast-food, parked in his driveway, and climbed onto the hood to watch the stars until neither of you could keep your eyes open.

You smiled before you even realized you were smiling. “What?”, Yoongi asked quietly. You shook your head, “Nothing…just thinking.” He chuckled under his breath, “I was just thinking too…” He looked up at the ceiling his smile turning nostalgic, “Y/N…do you remember lying on the hood of my car after I won the championship game?” You lifted your head just enough to look at him, “I was literally thinking about that.” His eyebrows rose in surprise before a soft laugh escaped him, “I guess we’re still sharing the same brain cell.” He continued, “The guys were so annoyed with me that night. They kept calling because everyone was celebrating down by the lake.” You nodded, “I remember. They thought you were crazy for skipping it.”

He looked back at you, his expression impossibly gentle, “But I was already celebrating the only way I wanted to.” His fingers found yours beneath the blanket, intertwining them carefully, “I got to spend the night with my favorite person under the stars.” Your laugh came out watery around the fresh tears threatening to fall, “You are unbelievably cheesy you know that.” He smiled, “Yeah…maybe but there’s always been one thing I regretted not doing thst night.”

“Mmhmm what was that?”, you asked. He reached up and brushed his thumb lightly across your cheek before leaning in and pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours and smiled, a real gummy smile, the kind you hadn’t seen in far too long. This time you leaned in and closed the space responding with your own kiss.

“I’ve spent years trying to find a place I could finally call home but it turns out home has always been with you.”, he said before placing another kiss to your forehead. You snorted softly and gave his chest a light smack with your hand, “Yeah…well…it took you long enough.” He laughed quietly, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close as though he never planned to ever let go again.

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You run up into his arms; Taehyung lifts you effortlessly as you bring your legs up. In a flash you’re being carried down the soft sand and into the flowing tide.

“What else can I do to make my wife happy?” He asks, pupils blown wide with affection. There’s a sort of love only he can hold for you in his body language. “Hm? anything for the last day of our honeymoon?”

The saltwater kisses your ankles as Taehyung carries you deeper into the surf, the cool foam swirling around his thighs. Up close, the scent of jasmine from the flowers in his hair mingles with the salty tang of the ocean breeze, intoxicating and warm. His silk shirt has become damp, clinging to his chest and stomach. You can feel sea spray rain against the back of your neck.

"Anything?" you repeat, your voice breathy as you wind your arms tighter around his neck. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair.

“I think you’ve done everything you set out to do, Tae. It’s been nothing but perfect.”

"let's make this moment last forever, then" he murmurs, bringing himself closer to share a quick kiss. “Let’s stay a bit longer so I can show you how much you mean to me.”

“You know you can’t do that; I know you love me.” You correct him, raising your head to indicate you want more than just one kiss. He reciprocates with pride.

His eyes flutter closed, enjoying the taste of your lips and the heat of your skin. You carefully let go of him on one side so you can cup his face in your palm. Your thumb brushes over that beauty mark he has by his cheekbone. He savors the feeling, takes his time to burn the moment into his memory.

“I love you,” you remind him when he pulls away. “Im so lucky to call you my husband.”

Peter Parker:

•You snuggle up to his side and he has to hide his delight.

•"Oh, hey. Just... Make yourself comfortable."

•He'll pull you into his side and maybe kiss your forehead more than once

•His hands roam. Not because he's trying to escalate anything! He just... Does Not Know Where To Put Them.

•One's playing with your hair. The other's on your thigh. Then the one in your hair is on your hip and the other is screwing with your fingers.

•Eventually, you hold one and rest your palm over the other when it wraps around your waist. Just to keep him still.

•He talks a lot, but not in a Wade way.

•Funny stories from patrols, stupid nerd facts, goofy little anecdotes about the best places to get food in Queens.

•Eventually, he'll get quieter. Softer. He'll tell you secrets, little things no one else knows.

•"Sometimes I wonder if I was supposed to get bitten. If it was—god, this sounds lame—fate, or something. If I was supposed to become Spider-Man, or if I was just... In the right place at the right time. Makes me wonder if it would've led to you either way."

•He yawns like a cat; silent and adorable. When he gets quieter, he gets sleepy.

•This is your favorite version of him.

Kurt Wagner:

•If you're laying down, he's there, right on top of you, eyes glowing like a cat.

•"Care if I join you, schatzi?"

•Not that it really matters.

•You're stuck now. Better hope you don't have to pee or something. He'll pout.

•You called him your 'sexy weighted blanket' once. He found this absolutely hilarious.

•"I suppose I am very fuzzy. Just like a blanket, ya? Your favorite blanket."

•He'll nip at your neck, just because he likes doing it.

•If you play with his hair or scratch his back, he purrs.

•He almost always falls asleep.

•It's not his fault his partner is so comfy!

Steve Rogers:

•Oh my god.

•This is the safest you will ever feel.

•He likes holding you after particularly taxing days.

•Rubs your back or upper arm

•Acts like you're the one who needs the relaxation.

•Talks all sweet and quiet

•"You're so good for me. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm gonna keep doing it."

•He's warm-ish; just a little cold, like when you flip over a pillow mid-sleep.

•The serum made him the perfect soldier but it also made him the perfect cuddle buddy

•He smells like liberty and the best cologne you will ever smell. What is that? Pine? Bergamot?

•Even if you ask, you won't get a good answer.

•"Oh, my cologne? I don't know. I... I just bought what smelt the best."

•God, he's just ever-so-slightly ridiculous.

•You love him.

Johnny Storm:

•It is... Warm.

•Seriously. You may start sweating while spooning.

•He heats up more when he's happy, and, well... He's really happy when he's with you.

•If you try to get some distance from your warm-ass boyfriend, he will not be having it.

•"Hey, hey, hey, no. Where're you going, firefly?"

•You mumble about the heat, and he pouts, nuzzling into your neck like if a furnace were a puppy were a human.

•"You can't handle a little heat? Baby, it's what you sign up for when you date the Human Torch!"

•He'll roll you over onto your back just so he can lean over you and present his best puppy eyes.

•"Come on. Stay."

•It's unfair. He knows you're weak for him.

•So, you stay, and he lays down right on top of you, and you're still sweating.

•After a bit, he feels a little bad.

•"...I'll turn on the ceiling fan."

Matt Murdock:

•"Come here, please."

•It's soft, quiet, coming from the either the bedroom or the couch, depending on how lazy he's feeling.

•He waits until your footsteps pause in the doorway, and then he deploys his methods of manipulation.

•His arms go out, he offers his most adorable smile, and you're sold. He doesn't even need to ask out right.

•You lay down beside him, he pulls you close enough to drape over his chest.

•"Just... Stay. Like this. For a little while."

•Everything is quiet. You usually fall asleep, but not Matt.

•He counts heartbeats and breaths, he rubs your back, sometimes he'll give you a shoulder massage, if you stay awake long enough for it.

•He cherishes the fact that you feel safe enough with him to be like this.

•Sometimes he'll ask you to bring whatever book you've been reading. He loves listening to your voice.

•You play with his hair between page turns, all the other noises in the world go silent for once.

Peter Quill:

•There are three things Peter loves doing with you when it's quiet and nobody else is around.

•Dancing, you can probably guess the second, and... Cuddling.

•He loves it the most, honestly.

•He specifically likes pulling you into his side, ear buds shared, listening to music and eating whatever unhealthy space snacks are in the bulkhead.

•He'll attempt to feed you things you've already wrinkled your nose at.

•No, I swear, I know it looks gross, and it smells gross, but once you get past the first couple chews, it's great, baby!"

•He'll tell you stories about his adventures, movie plots that he's passing off as his adventures—you've seen every single one, but you don't call him out on it—and little memories he has with certain songs.

•His arm is around your shoulders or waist, and his fingers never quite stop tapping out beats on you.

•He's always fidgeting.

•He'll start singing to you, if there's a long pause in conversation

•...He's not good at singing.