Icb I'm 24 And Haven't Changed My Age In My Bio For 2 Whole Years??? Don't Do Medicine Kids, It Takes

Icb I'm 24 and haven't changed my age in my bio for 2 whole years??? Don't do medicine kids, it takes over your entire life

Honestly, mood.

Oh to have pirate gf :/

if you need us the missus and me will be in the other room having a duel with old flintlock pistols missing each other with every shot not only because we love each other but also because we both are dog shit at this

In my surprise, I literally told my dog that you had updated. He was very excited, but that might be because I told him so in my 'treat' voice. Can't wait to read it after work aaaa

i know you | ljn

plug!jeno x fem!reader — fwb to lovers

summary: jeno doesn't think he's ever felt this restless in his life. maybe he's been smoking a bad batch of flower, or maybe it's the fact that you haven't knocked on his door in over a month.

wc: 4.7k 18+ mdni

cw: dom!jeno, angst, smut, fluff yay, little weed/alcohol use, protected pinv sex, fingering, oral (receiving), heavy jealousy, emotional sex?, cursing, toxic-ish relationship/cycles, arguments, mean-ish jeno but also clumsy with feelings jeno, pet names: baby, my girl

you’re late.

saturday night has come once again, and jeno sits in his room, inhaling and exhaling the smoke until the air around him is heavy. he passes the time as he usually does, expecting a knock at his door any second now.

he doesn’t realize that your presence hasn’t made him just expect you—he actively waits for you, even if he doesn’t admit it.

but as the hours go on and no knock comes, he feels unsettled. perhaps he’s just annoyed that he might be going to sleep tonight without releasing the week’s pent up tension, but he knows deep down that’s not it.

where are you?

there hasn’t been a saturday in months without you, and he pulls out his phone subconsciously, scrolling through his contacts. only now does he realize that he doesn’t even have your number, not that he would be entirely willing to put aside his pride to contact you.

you’ve started to spend more time together, now even staying over at his suggestion. your weekly routine has spoiled him — why need your number when there’s a day, or night, of your week that belongs just to him?

you’ll be here, you always are.

but when he’s made his way through every joint he rolled for the night, including the two he packed for you, time on his phone reading well past 1 in the morning, he’s still. and when this continues on the next week, the week after, and it’s reached a month and a half since he’s seen you, he becomes restless.

jeno knows that the function his roommates throw every weekend is still in full blast downstairs, arguably just getting started. he’s never in attendance; he hates the crowds, the heat, the noise. but for once in his time living there, he debates leaving the comfort of his room tucked in the furthest corner of the house.

he shakes his head at the thought. why would you be here if not for him? he knows you’re not into these kinds of things. well, he thinks he knows. the first time you came you were dragged in by your roommate, one of his regular customers, and the rest goes from there.

that’s right, your roommate. you might not be the biggest party animal, but your roommate was who got you there in the first place. and she never resists bumming some weed.

he grabs an old pack of pre-rolls that he threw in a drawer a while ago. maybe he can at least get your number. he has no solid plan for how he’ll ask about you, but still continues on as if he’s possessed.

he knows this is way out of character for him, putting on a hoodie before walking out into the hallway and closing his door behind him. maybe it’s the weed coursing through his veins pushing him to do so, despite it being the same weed he smokes every day. who knows?

he comes down the stairs, passing by some randoms perched up in deep conversation over the loud music. it’s exactly like he thought it would be—hot, loud, and quite literally the last place he would want to be. nonetheless, he scans the crowd. before he can find any sign of your roommate, his find him first.

“jeno!” a clearly inebriated hyuck clings onto him, eyes wide as if he’s experiencing an alcohol-induced hallucination. “there’s no fucking way you came out of your little smoke hole for once,” he slurs out, alcohol on his breath.

“shut the fuck up,” jeno mumbles lowly, prying him off as another roommate approaches to help.

“dude, i really did not think i’d ever see you down here, though.” mark holds hyuck away from jeno, the drunk man scurrying away at the mention of another shot waiting for him in the kitchen.

“had to do something.” jeno keeps it short, not wanting to deal with anyone but someone who will get him to you. mark knows his roommate enough not to pry, and with a tired smile nods in understanding.

“got it, well if you need anything i—” jeno doesn’t hear the rest of mark’s sentence, eyes zeroing in on a scene over his roommate’s shoulder. there stood your roommate, laughing her ass off, but more importantly, there was you.

his surprise quickly turns into ire as he realizes you have additional company. male company standing behind you, arms draped around your waist as you both sway to the bumping music along with your roommate in front of you.

he sees red.

poor mark doesn’t know what’s gotten into his roommate as he pushes right past him, steps heavy and enraged.

you hadn’t expected any of it.

the last time few times you saw jeno, something shifted.

he was still quiet and spoke more with his actions than words, but these same actions had made you start to expect more. there was tenderness, yet it felt heartless. so sweet, yet at the same time so bitter.

there was this line you couldn’t cross—one he didn’t seem to want to cross either. yet you felt like you had done enough, given enough, and if he wanted to, he would.

so you stopped coming.

tonight was different, however. your close friend, shotaro, is visiting from out of town and your roommate had the bright idea of introducing him to the beloved parties hosted at this house, so she ended up dragging you there just like all those months ago. you didn’t have it in you to make excuses or flake on your longtime friend for a man.

your friends know nothing about the arrangement you have with jeno, and you have no intention of telling them. realistically, when making the plans you felt there was a good chance he wouldn’t even be bothered.

even if your consistency felt like an unspoken agreement, you didn’t know if it was just you who had that expectation. after all, he didn’t come looking for you all this time.

it’s another saturday without sex, and who knows if he would just go find it somewhere else. the thought stings, but you know he would be fine. you would be, too— at least you hope so.

you hold back a sigh as your drunk friend clings on to you, resting his chin on your shoulder and talking animatedly with your roommate. you lean back subconsciously, a few shots deep yourself.

while you had no intention of telling them about jeno, he had other ideas it seems. a strong hand grabs your arm with a tight grip, and you yelp and look up at your captor, eyes widening in surprise at who it is.

you were so sure he wouldn’t come down, even if it was his house. he hates these things.

“jeno?” you question, but the man doesn’t answer, burning holes into the friend behind you whose hands still ghost around your waist. jeno glares harshly as he makes eye contact, but shotaro pulls you back, protective instincts activated at the unknown man.

“who the fuck are you?” your friend spits out, meeting the man’s glare with as cold of a look as he can muster. you turn in his arms to try and explain.

jeno’s not having any of it—he should be the one asking that. his glance falls to your friend’s hands firmly gripping your waist—he should be the one in that position. the anger bubbling at his throat is spilling out and it’s taking everything in him to not start something he knows he’d regret.

he starts to hear some attention directed at your group, half buzzing about a potential fight and half in shock that jeno’s even down here, only a few of his regulars even knowing who he is. he hates it all— the looks, the whispers, the thought of himself in their heads.

yet he hates seeing you in someone else’s arms even more.

you manage to get out a “don’t worry about it,” before he yanks you out of your friend’s grasp, not even sparing him nor your roommate a second look. you look back at them apologetically as he leads you up the stairs, steps rushed and grip bruising.

the route flying past you is familiar as always, up the stairs, down the hall, last door on the right. jeno’s silent as he shuts the door behind you as usual, but you know it’s not the usual silence.

you study him carefully, noting his usually sharp features pulled into an even stonier expression. you can feel your heart pounding in your chest at his erratic behavior, yet you can’t deny a twinge of excitement running through you.

keeping your expectations low is a coping mechanism and you know it, but if you’re being completely honest, deep, deep down you had hoped this would happen.

though you’d like to have zero expectations for this obscure relationship as a means of protecting your heart, you’ve always hoped that jeno would prove that he cares about you more than you think.

through the cold exterior, moments of almost-affection had kept the hope alive, yet that same hope was always dashed when no further action would come from him.

you don’t know if what you had of him could satisfy you anymore. you want more, or nothing at all, and it’s looking like this night may bring the outcome of that choice.

you thought you were dreaming when he appeared in front of you, the idea of even getting a glimpse of him outside of his stuffy room something straight from your imagination.

coming to this house for the first time in a while, you convinced yourself tonight would be different. it is—just in a way you didn’t expect.

while you’re a bit sorry to your friends, it feels like a win. you always do what he wants, but who knew how exhilarating it would feel for him to be doing what you want for once, even if he didn’t know he was.

“who the fuck was that?” once in his room, his low voice growls in a way you’ve never heard him before. though he’s still seemingly as collected as ever, the irritation radiates off of him as he corners you roughly against his bedroom door.

“a friend,” you answer, doing your best to keep a strong face.

“a friend, huh?” his hands slide down to your waist, gripping tightly as if trying to replace the feeling of another with himself. “do you do this with all your friends?” he questions.

“it wasn’t anything crazy, jeno,” you defend, and in your eyes, it wasn’t. especially if there’s still this line between you two.

“i assume this friend is who you’ve been wasting your time with,” he mutters, and his angry tone actually starts to flare up some anger of your own. why can’t he just be honest and ask you where you’ve been? you push further.

“and what about it? it’s not a waste of my time, it’s my choice on how— or who i spend time with,” you can’t stop the pointed words from pouring out, and he just takes it with a darkening expression.

“why are you so angry about it? what’s it even to you? it’s not like you know anything about me outside of this room,” you bite. “you don’t know me.”

you don’t think you’ve ever talked to jeno this way in the time you’ve known him. you know what you’re saying isn’t 100% true.

you know you’ve gotten to know each other more in the time you started seeing him. you know you’ve held onto everything he’s revealed about himself, but who’s to say that he’s done the same? he doesn’t know you.

he responds with silence, and for a second you feel as though you’ve pushed a bit too far.

“you’re right,” he mutters.

that response was the last thing you could have predicted.

“i don’t know you.“ his hold tightens further, and you can already feel that it’ll leave marks. his dark eyes are focused straight on yours, and more than anger, there’s an emotion you don’t know you recognize in him. “but i know there’s no one in this fucking world who could make you feel better than me.”

a bold streak runs through your veins, and his face comes closer, lips hovering over yours as if waiting for a response. you barely breathe one out.

“prove it.”

his lips slam into yours immediately, kisses bruising and desperate. his tongue intertwines with yours, leaving no part of your mouth untouched as it feels like he tries to devour you whole. his hands move to the back of your ass, gripping as you gasp into his mouth.

you feel him smirk against your lips as he lifts one of your legs to wrap around him, grinding his raging member into you repeatedly, thudding noises against the door resonating in the room. your mind briefly jumps to the same noise being heard in the hallway, but the thought disappears as quickly as it comes.

his lips fall to your neck, nipping and undoubtedly painting the skin with his marks. “could just slip it in right now, baby, i know you’re fucking dripping down there,” he breathes against your neck, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

“let me see,” he says under his breath, leaving you with one last kiss as pulls off your dress, leaving you in just your underwear. he leaves marks trailing down to you soaking heat, keeping your legs spread with a firm grip.

his fingers trail up and down your slit, gathering the wetness and he slides your underwear to the side. the direct contact has you gasping and holding onto his shoulders as your knees buckle. his fingers leave your slit, and you feel his hands hook onto the back of your underwear.

a tearing noise accompanied by a brush of cold alert your senses, and you see jeno tossing your torn underwear to the side. “jeno!” you gasp.

“i’ll deal with it later,” he assures gruffly, his thumbs going to spread your lips apart, spreading your juices around as his eyes focus in. blood rushes to your head at the sight of him looking so intently at your cunt, as if it’s his next meal.

“that little boy toy of yours ever make you this wet?” he asks, holding you flush against the door as one of his thumbs dip into your entrance.

“h-huh?” you stutter, mind lost as you already start to feel fucked out just from his fingers and the sight of him on his knees for you.

“your friend from earlier, putting his hands all over my girl.” his other thumb brushes over your clit, circling as your mind tries to come up with a response. “answer me or i’ll stop,” he threatens with a press to your clit.

“no! no one does,” you gasp out, but jeno is not entirely satisfied with that answer.

“no one but who?” he digs his thumb harder.

“you! you, jeno..” you moan, hips thrusting forward seeking more friction.

“good answer, baby.” with that, you find yourself on your back, thrown onto his soft mattress. you look up to see jeno tugging his hoodie and shirt off, tossing them carelessly to the side before wrapping his strong arms around your thighs.

immediately he latches his mouth onto your sopping cunt, burying his tongue into your dripping hole and nose rubbing fiercely against your clit. he mouths at you like he’s starved, hands keeping your legs steady.

it’s all so much, and your hands move to grip his hair, unable to contain your hips as they move against his mouth desperately.

“oh, fuck, jeno! f-fuck,” you moan out, only being able to exclaim curses and his name. your cries only serve to keep him going even harder, the slurping sounds his mouth make on you filling the room alongside your cries.

as much as you’re loving this, and you’re already starting to lose yourself to this pleasure, you want nothing more but for him to fuck you senseless. the time apart has been a dry spell for you, too, and all self control you had for him disappeared the second your lips met.

“jeno, p-please. i need you to—” he shuts you up with two fingers snaking their way into your entrance, his lips shifting up to your clit, enveloping the bud before sucking harshly.

you gasp out at the pressure, your eyes fluttering shut as your leg released from his grip tightens around his head. he simply elbows it back to the side, other hand tightening around your other thigh as his mouth and fingers speed up.

you know you aren’t gonna last long. you force your eyes open, moving them from the ceiling back down to the man between your legs.

his tongue starts to flick back and forth, and when he opens his dark eyes to meet yours, you feel dizzy. with a curl of his fingers, you come undone, shrieking as he continues his ministrations to help you ride out your high.

he comes to a halt and you try to catch your breath, your grip on his hair releasing as he sits up. he seems to be admiring you for a second, all fucked out for him, back in his bed like you’ve always been.

except you haven’t been in over a month, and the thought sends jeno’s mind into a flurry again, wanting nothing more than to cool the burning sensation he feels in his chest at the thought of you with someone else. to remind you that making your body feel good is what he knows best.

he leans back down between your legs, about to wrap his arms around your thighs again when you stop him.

“j-jeno. please..” you needed him inside you forever ago, and you needed to let him know before he had you dazed on his tongue again. “no more, please.. need you inside.”

he sits back up again. you think he’ll say something, but he simply nods, pulling down his sweats as his member springs free from its confines. he grabs a condom, tearing the wrapper open before lowering it onto his member with a hiss.

the image before you is delicious. he’s still the most beautiful man you’ve ever met, and that along with everything you’ve been feeling about him stirs up your chest. if it wasn’t him, then who would it be?

you can’t stay in your thoughts for too long as he resumes his position between your legs. you’re already dripping for him, and with only a few low grunts he guides his member into your waiting entrance.

the stretch is just as good as it always is, and in no time he’s completely bottomed out. he’s still said nothing, dirty talk from earlier now completely absent. he’s not moving yet, just letting your walls adjust as you pulse around him.

as his hips start to move, his mouth does as well, finally breaking the silence.

“you think i don’t know you?” he asks. his voice is gruff, but the malice laced in his voice has been replaced with something softer. you can’t quite put your finger on what it is.

his hips move at a slow pace still, a stark contrast to all the other times you’ve fucked, where his hips piston into you relentlessly from the get-go.

“do you?” you ask quietly, the bite from your voice earlier also gone, and something flickers in those dark eyes of his.

his hips pick up just a bit. “i know you.”

he speeds up even more. “i fucking know you.”

your hands fist the pillow under you as his hips slap against you. “i know how sweet you are.” he moves to pull one of your hands from its place as he intertwines it with his own. "my sweet fucking girl," he mumbles, pressing you further into the bed. “but you should only be sweet for me," he bites out through grit teeth.

his hips pick up the pace with his words, pistoning into you now at the speed you know him best, slapping sounds of skin on skin now filling the room alongside your moans and the groans that leave his throat.

“i know you’re mine,” he asserts roughly, his voice quiet yet firm. his words strike a chord in you, and you clench around him at his claim over you, hoping to the universe that he actually means it. “s-shit,” he gasps out at the tightening around his cock.

his chest tightens, and his resolve crumbles by the second. he utters a quiet “say it, baby,” as his other hand moves now to grab yours, intertwining them as well. it feels like he’s enveloping your whole being with his.

you turn your head to the side, closing your eyes as you continue to cry out at the feeling of him gliding along your walls, hitting your deepest parts.

“f-fuck. ing. say. it. baby,” his words are punctuated with harsh thrusts, but come out almost like a plea. you’ve never heard him like this before. your eyes flit back up to really try and get a good look at him.

you now know the emotion in him you couldn’t recognize. all the anger and hate was replaced with pain.

“say you’re mine..” he heaves one more time, breathing hard. you’ve never seen him like this before.

he’s in pain over you.

just one last push.

“jeno… you say it,” you muster up as best as you can with your brain starting to fog from the combination of physical and mental stimulation. “say you’re m-mine, jeno,” you gasp out, keeping your eyes trained on his.

his hips falter just a bit, clearly not expecting that response, but he picks up the pace again. chewing hard on his bottom lip, he stays silent, and you could laugh. it seems he’s stubborn to the very end.

but like earlier, he doesn’t react the way you think he will. he doesn’t prove your low expectations to be true.

he leans down, kissing you softly at first, moving his hands from yours to hold you, one around at your hips and the other cradling the back of your head. his lips envelop yours deeper, and with shaky hands you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, lost in the warmth of his skin against yours.

you want this intimacy to last forever. in this moment, he truly feels like he’s yours, and it feels too good to be true. his lips disconnect from yours, moving down to kiss along the side of your head, down to your ear. his warm breath tells you it’s not a dream.

“i’m yours, baby. i’m yours,” he whispers tenderly, over and over again, almost as if it’s his own way of apologizing. your nose stings as your eyes well with tears, and your stomach does flips as you feel yourself nearing your peak.

all those nights filled with uncertainties on if he’d ever let you into his life, let alone his room, all those moments of disappointment when your efforts towards being something more felt shut down, all those excuses you made for yourself and for him to keep the cycle going—all of it feels worth it for this moment.

his hips move harshly as he continues his rambling into your ears, holding you as tightly as he can. you can feel yourself reaching your peak once more.

“i’m yours, jeno,” you finally get out alongside your moans, and his head shoots up. he meets your teary eyes, leaning down to give you one last deep, tender kiss as the band in your stomach finally snaps, cumming with a loud cry.

your mouths are unable to separate even as his hips stutter against yours. he groans into your mouth as he cums, filling the rubber and riding both your orgasms out before coming to a stop. you continue locking lips until both of you are out of breath.

you both catch your breath, and as you look up into jeno’s eyes, once dark and cold, filled with anger and pain, you can’t stop the tears from flowing once again.

maybe you’ve had a glimpse of this in your time together, but now you can see for certain that his eyes are full of untamed warmth and affection. your devotion was never in vain.

jeno gets up, separating from you reluctantly. the room is silent once again, but it’s not the suffocating silence you’d felt from him before.

he cleans himself up before pulling a fresh towel from his closet to clean you, helping your spent form into a t-shirt of his. he grabs a water bottle from his mini fridge, handing it to you and urging you to drink. once you’re all settled, he turns off the dim lamp he’d had on.

he climbs into his bed with you, wrapping the both of you in his comforter as you lie on his arm.

“where were you?” he asks carefully, perhaps a little unsure on how to initiate the conversation after what was basically your confessions. “were you really with him?” you’d have to thank taro for this later.

“no,” you respond, and his shoulders seem to relax a bit, his hand rubbing up and down your hip mindlessly. “i just thought we needed distance.” his hand stops at that.

“we don’t,” he refutes bluntly. “don't do that, come see me,” he continues. you chuckle a bit at how honest he’s being. he needs you just as much as you need him, and he’s finally showing and saying it.

“and not just on saturdays..” you raise your eyebrows at this, butterflies erupting in your stomach at where this whole conversation is going. “or, uh- i’ll come see you.”

you’re silent for a second, letting yourself relish in the feeling of your heart swelling with emotion. this is a scene straight out of your dreams, but he continues to prove that you’re wide awake. jeno doesn’t take your silence well, nervous as he awaits your answer. he continues.

“’s that okay?” he asks, trying to make out your expression in the moonlight. you take a second to take in his features illuminated by that same light.

“yeah, i’d love that,” you finally respond. snuggling into him, you feel sleep start to overtake you as you lie in his warm arms, but it seems he’s not done with the conversation yet.

“so, well..” he starts. his body starts to warm up, and he buries his face into the top of your head, holding you close.

“what’s your favorite restaurant?”

you’re shocked for a second before letting out a hearty laugh into his chest. he squeezes you tighter in a scolding way, but urges you to answer. you respond with your favorite and another question of your own, and he answers in turn.

you don’t think he knows you entirely, and the same is true for you, but you do know for certain it won’t stay that way for long.

a/n: same universe as stuffy, just actual closure to the fwb storyline? idk but jeno's been doing smth to me.... like his summer sonic looks... yeah..... this one's more for me to get back into the groove of writing, but i'm a sucker for a fwb to lovers story </3 anyways tysm for reading, trying to work on my johnny fic in the meantime but it is just nawwwt turning out how i want it to. maybe will write more plug!jeno or a different stoner!jeno au, but enjoy for now!! ty as always to my bb @wispyxjae for beta reading <3

shares and feedback always appreciated !!! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

-coco! ♡

"is this thing on?" *taps the mic* "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

fail-safe (2)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you've heard nothing about it, so you're thankful.

alternatively, yoongi reminds you of home in more ways than one.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, brother's best friend AND single dad au, eventual fluff, a lot of yearning but For What, they reunite but at what cost rlly, jealousy, self-loathing, unrequited love (initial), deja vu but in the worst possible form, eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: i am So sorry for this .

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even reading ur thoughts in the tags give me life :) | series masterlist

FIVE YEARS LATER

The trip back home wasn’t as rough as Yoongi expected it to be.

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between sitting in economy seats versus first-class seats, even if they’re situated on the same aircraft. When he left, Yoongi was irritable (amongst other things) to keep bumping elbows with everyone else; now that he’s back, he almost misses the ruckus in the cabin that’s far too cramped for everyone who could afford it.

Yoongi used to hate people like himself — atleast the version that he is now. He hated bastards sitting upfront in seats that reclined all the way back and ate off plates instead of noisy, flimsy plastic containers. Back then, deep down to his very core, he wanted that lifestyle for himself. To become bigger and better than he could ever imagine for the life ahead of him was always the goal.

Now that he’s at the peak, maybe even being the peak himself, he feels weirdly homesick.

“You need to bundle up all the way, Haneul. They’re gonna scold me if you’re not covered from head to toe,” Yoongi playfully chides his son, the insecurity and nervousness underneath his tone flying right over his head. It’s not even that cold, but still, a huge part of Yoongi worries.

He worries everyday if he’s a good dad to his four-year old. He worries if he’s good enough to be a solo parent because after all, he’s the one who has main custody of Haneul anyway. He worries and worries, but there’s nothing quite like the trepidation he feels being back home with everyone who has ever known him prior to all this success, suddenly seeing him come home.

It should be the opposite way around, that’s what everyone says to him. Yoongi had been queasy the whole flight back home despite the flight being one of the smoothest trips he’s ever been on in his life. He’s nervous to be back where he had been born and raised and he doesn’t know what’s that supposed to mean, except for the fact that he has an inkling of what the weight in his chest pertains to.

He’s back because it’s your mother’s 60th birthday. He’s back because her and Namjoon had asked him to, and he obliged without even thinking about it. Yoongi had offered numerous times to throw a party for the woman who had practically raised him alongside his closest friend, and even if Namjoon had backed him up on the grand idea for such a large milestone, she said no. All she wanted was for everyone to be back home, and Yoongi couldn’t say no.

Neither could you.

Yoongi is not the most modest person alive, but he is at his humblest when he drives the long way home just to delay the inevitable. He’s happy to the point he could be sick. He can’t tell if it’s the joy or the anxiety in his chest that makes it tighten, almost unbearably so, that he makes Haneul reach up to his forehead to check if he has a fever.

Yoongi’s home.

Not Los Angeles home, and not New York home. Not his home with a closet that’s the size of his childhood house’s living room, and not his space with the big windows and concierge downstairs.

Yoongi’s home — where the streets are narrow and the stairs are creaky; where this time, it’s all of him and none of you.

.

.

.

Enduring is different than working.

You’ve realized that the two concepts are drastically different as soon as Yoongi left, leaving you to survive the remaining years of your degree before you had to face the reality that you had to work to the bone for the rest of your life if you wanted a shot at living an average, food-stocked-in-the-fridge kind of life.

You didn’t know anyone who was connected to someone of importance one way or another, your family had zero ties, and you graduated from a university that raised more eyebrows in confusion than it tilted heads in awe. Your degree does havehigh promises as far as everyone in your town was concerned — it does and it should be, if only you were born and raised in different circumstances.

There’s not one acclaimed and high-profit company that would ever accept the likes of you. You worked hard and even if there were no exchange student agreements and Latin honors to show for it, you really did. You gave your best to graduate with a degree you never really liked and was only forced upon you, all for the promise of a future. It didn’t matter if it was extremely good or bad — everyone else just said you had to have one.

Your misfortune is what it is. It’s empty and haunting and the two weeks you had spent in the city right after graduating is truly something you never want to relive.

In hindsight, gambling the rest of your pocket money on a bus fare in your last day of job-hunting in the city at the time was a stupid decision. It was impulsive and irresponsible and everything your family scolded you for, what Yoongi hated you for, but it ended up being the single best gamble you’ve ever made, even above entry-level lottery tickets.

The same circumstances that held you back from where you’re supposed to head ended up propelling you to somewhere far, far different. Your degree became completely irrelevant, and the fact that you had nobody of significance in the city– no person to pass malice and gossip onto— made you a manager.

It had been a gamble to go work for an unknown entertainment company, much more a sinking one. It was an insult to have busted your ass back in your hometown, studying and working at the same time, only to work professionally in the city for a field that you didn’t even study about.

Your fate is what it is. You’ve endured and worked hard enough to the point that you had finally lucked out. Being the manager of someone who had later turned out to become the biggest actor in the industry, even in Hollywood, became your biggest break up to date.

Your way back home feels like an embrace you’ve denied yourself for far too long. You’ve mainly stayed in Seoul apart from the several hundred times you had to come with Jungkook for filming outside of the country, yet you could only count on one hand the amount of times you came home without anyone telling you to.

Coming home had become foreign to you as much as leaving it had become familiar.

“I’m near, Joon,” you hum to your phone, taking a quick glance at the cake you’ve strapped to your front seat. “It’s only us, right?”

“Yeah. Just us.”

Maybe it’s your fault for changing what us meant throughout the past five years, but Namjoon’s definition never changed. Maybe it’s your fault for not clarifying what he meant when you’re still kilometers away, when you can still leave, but nonetheless, you were cornered.

Us meant what it used to be when you were a kid in your childhood home — when Yoongi was still in the picture and you didn’t hate him for it.

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that Yoongi was right — nothing valuable was left for him in your hometown anymore. He was as right as you were wrong every time he went on a monologue of how he thinks there’s no problem in him admitting that he’s full of envy. He had been right for being bitter that there’s people who have and get much more than him, more than what they deserve, by not even putting a fourth of the effort that he does.

In the same way that he was right, you were wrong for thinking each time that Yoongi would soon outgrow his ambitions and instead, see things for what they are. You were wrong for thinking Yoongi would stoop down to your page, much less ever think of it.

Yoongi was right for saying that his stomach’s made of steel, and you were wrong for trying to convince him otherwise. He’s always had the appetite for more, the digestion of whatever life throws at him coming easy. Yoongi can choke down the reality of leaving Namjoon, your brother, who’s been buddies with him even before they could talk. He could forgo the only brother figure he’s ever had in his life if it means making something of himself.

He doesn’t get constipated from the reality of no longer having the homemade meals your mother would make that the younger, more innocent, and less ambitious version of him would literally jumps fences for. In fact, Yoongi’s palate craved something more foreign and sophisticated; not familiar, hearty meals served in dinnerware dulled from years of routine.

His stomach doesn’t turn thinking about how the skyline he said he’d never get tired of, wouldn’t appear in his new side of the world. The little, unassuming, and far too comfortable version of him who used to chase sunrises with his bike as a child and chase sunsets with his car as a teenager, doesn’t feel like he’d be poisoned if he were to see the sunlight in a high-rise instead of a run-down pavement.

Yoongi’s right when he said he had a tolerance because he doesn’t even get heartburn when you cry for him to no longer leave. You’re not in the position to beg him to stay (and you probably never will be) because as you’ve come to realize, he would only stay for the big things.

The only thing that would anchor Min Yoongi into place and dissuade him from chasing more is by being the most. One would have to be extremely significant, even bigger than Namjoon’s brotherhood, your mother’s impact, and what your hometown has to offer. You can’t even hold a candle to the aforementioned.

In Yoongi’s grand plan that’s as big as the galaxy, you’re merely a speck of dust that had the luck of hovering around him. You realized it back then when you blew over and fought with him right before his flight; right when Yoongi was clutching his one-way ticket, right when one foot was already out of the door.

“But the future that you want is not easy, Yoongi!” you gritted through your teeth, the grip you had on his suitcase too visceral that it bends under the pressure. Yoongi snatches his luggage from you in a blink, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course you’d be the first to say that,” he seethed, eyes wild and unforgiving. He drills his finger into his temple, inching towards you with an anger he had never shown before. “You don’t work as hard as I do, Y/N! You always settle. You always go for mediocre. You never put your head into anything because you’re too immature for any of this shit!”

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Yes you are, you dipshit!” Yoongi scoffed, throwing his head back. “You cave and you bend and you let the whole world fuck you over, then you come running to me whining. You don’t have a passion in life, Y/N! You’re begging me to stay in the same predicament that you’re in now, what’s not immature about that?”

“When you leave now and decide to come back one day, Yoongi,” you spat with resentment, the tears that pour down your cheeks no longer out of sadness but instead, out of promise. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that when Yoongi left five years ago, he also took the large chunk of your soul that had been shaped over and over again the entire time that he stood by you. He’d gotten his hands on the security and contentment you used to take pride in, weaponizing them against you.

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

When you visit your mother for her birthday and see Yoongi emerge from your childhood bedroom, hand-in-hand with a toddler that looks like an exact carbon copy of him, you’re unsure of what to do either.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“Y/N,” he says breathless, the lump in his throat even bigger than the tiny fist that grips his hand. “I… I-I didn’t-…” Yoongi tries again, his mouth dry at your appearance. “You came home.”

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

.

.

.

You’re numb if that’s the word for it.

Your chest buzzes emptily the same way your fingers clench around nothing. You look at everywhere and everyone but Yoongi and his son. It’s nauseating to even think that everyone’s eating dinner as if everything’s okay; what’s even more sickening is that somehow, you’re willing to settle for it.

Yoongi is your mom’s cross-stitch project of a teddy bear that she hung up in your room one day when you were in school that you never took off by the time you came home. He’s a dent at the corner of your gate that could’ve only been made by Namjoon when he was practicing his soccer skills. He’s a Snellen chart that nobody really uses, stuck to the side of the refrigerator that you walk past.

Yoongi’s here, there, and everywhere, but you don’t question it. He’s simply there in your orbit and even if he exists, you don’t follow up on him.

You stay quiet at the talks of the sleeping situation because it turns out that Yoongi’s family had long sold their house. You never knew that throughout the several times you came down to visit.

Frankly, you’re relieved to barely know anything about Yoongi these days.

“You and Haneul can take my room,” you half-heartedly offer, not because it’s Yoongi who tugs at your heartstrings and demands your pity, but his child instead. The two, three (?) year-old baby (read: you’re too hesitant to ask what his age is because if it’s anything higher, then that meant Yoongi had moved on earlier than you did) you didn’t even know existed because you’ve completely cut off Yoongi from your life and refused to listen to Namjoon every time he talked about him, will be sleeping in your room; it just happens that he’s with his dad.

Yoongi’s awed at your preposition but he’s even more worried. He can’t tell a single thought that’s going on behind your eyes nor a single hint behind your tone. You’re formal; neutral. You’re detached even when you utter Haneul’s name and gesture them to your bedroom as if he hasn’t spent years and years of his life in your home.

“Where will you sleep?” he furrows his brows, his hand that had been rubbing circles on Haneul’s back faltering.

He’s asking because he doesn’t know anything about you at this point. He can’t tell if it’s the indigestion he has from resisting to talk your ear off at the dining table (like he’s always did when you were young) because you barely even spoke to him, or if it’s the overwhelming feeling of being back home with everything feeling familiar but you — either way, Yoongi thinks he’s gonna be sick.

“I’ll sleep at my mom’s,” you purse your lips, leaving him at that.

Between the yearning, demanding looks you get from Yoongi, the nosy and concerned glances from Namjoon, and even the guilt that you get from keeping all of your emotions from your mom when you used to confide in her religiously when you were younger — you’re drained. The urge to wash off all your anxiety can’t be done in your childhood home’s small bathroom. You can’t with the faulty water heater (you have to keep one finger pressed on the button at all times to keep it running) because you can’t even cry in peace under the either scorching or freezing water.

You can’t evade everything by grabbing a drink from the fridge that runs loudly as if it’s excavating oil from underneath your floors. You can’t curl up on the couch that’s become worn with age because there’s dents of you and Yoongi, the only two people who had sat on it the most every late night for years on end. You can’t romanticize any of the things in your home that have brought you joy all your life at this point in time.

To sleep under the same roof with your mother and brother again after so long feels foreign. It’s a language you can perceive but can’t translate and the frustration that comes with it seeps into your bones. There must be some common ground between the three of you; it should be anything and everything. With Namjoon being a world-renowned football player and you being somewhat accomplished and decorated in your field, you’ve managed to retire your mom early.

The three of you are doing fine. Not one interaction in the past five years has ever felt this tense and unfamiliar, but if you could pick just the odd one out, the very reason why you feel like falling to the floor and crawling your way out of your own home because you feel like you don’t belong to it — it’s Yoongi.

You feel awkward in your own four walls, whereas Yoongi finds your nightlight that you keep tucked in your closet without breaking a sweat.

Namjoon tugs you right when you’re about to call it a day in your mom’s room, his hushed whispers taking you back to when he pleaded for you not to rat them out whenever he and Yoongi crashed at the couch drunk.

“Give them this,” he shoves the can of bug spray into your hands, your immediate reaction making him wrestle with you just to push you closer to your own bedroom.

“No, Joon. You give it.”

“Y/N, no. You give it,” he whines, purposely having given Yoongi extra sheets and blankets earlier without the bug spray so you’d have something to take to him.

“I don’t wanna see Yoongi,” you whisper, trying to pathetically regain your footing even if you know your attempts go futile against an athlete for a brother.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snarks, giving you one last shove with a stern finger. “We’re gonna talk about whatever the hell happened between you and him, but right now, you’re gonna offer him bug spray like the gracious hosts that we are!”

You crash too far to your door that it could be mistaken as a knock, making you hiss because you know you can’t retract it. You actually knock this time, being met with nothing but a quiet Yoongi behind your own door.

Even when he opens it fully, even when it’s your own room — you enter hesitantly.

Yoongi’s already made a home out of your room. He knew where your nightlight was, knew which good extension cord (that didn’t spark every time it shifted) to plug into the wall, and even knew where you kept the magazine that you had to wedge between your windows whenever they didn’t fully close.

“Namjoon told me to give you this,” you put your hand out, looking at everything but Yoongi. You could look at Haneul who’s sprawled in the middle of the bed, but it isn’t any different than looking at his dad himself.

Yoongi, on the other hand, can’t see anything but you. He feels like an intruder who just happened to know the confines of your life almost better than his own, holding bug spray and the remainder of whatever recognition you have left for him.

“Will we ever be alright?” he whispers, not for the sake of keeping Haneul asleep, but for the sake of his sanity. If he makes his voice any louder, he’ll spill all his grievances and question if he had ever meant anything to you.

“We’ve always been alright,” you smile tightly, wrapping your hands around your back.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he pleads, swallowing the lump in his throat. “When did you ever give me bug spray? When did you have to knock on my door, o-or when did you ever have to treat me like I’m some guest and not a huge part of your life?” Yoongi stumbles over his words, correcting himself with a huff. “Most of your life.”

The sarcasm that coats the last of his words makes you twitch, the clench in your jaw being unmistakeable. Yoongi almost forgot what you looked like whenever you argued with him — talked to him, even. “Why are you only bitching about this to me and not to Namjoon? He’s the one who told me to give you the bug spray.”

“This is not about the bug spray!”

“What is it about then? Is this, is this some sort of long-winded euphemism that involves bug spray? What is it Yoongi, are you gonna hound me for an essay about it?” you spit, exhaling heavily. Haneul twitches in his sleep from the corner of your eye. “You grew up and so did I.”

Yoongi flinches like you’ve shot him.

“Don’t do this to me, kid. Don’t do this to us.”

You flinch because anything is better than to have him dig up his old nickname for you as if he’s close; as if he’s still the Yoongi that you chased, as if you’re still the Y/N he looked out for.

“Don’t call me that.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi’s in the kitchen with your mom.

He looks domestic this way, hair tousled and pajamas loose. Even if you have unbridled internet access (courtesy of the high-speed package you split with Namjoon for your mom even if the most she does online is repost motivational quotes, reels of Namjoon and his team, and clips of Jungkook where you’re seen), you can’t muster the courage to search Yoongi’s name and what he’s made of himself.

You’re too scared to search up articles about his success as a producer because if you do, you’re terrified by the thought of accidentally clicking a link that leads you to a page of him and his ex-wife.

You’re too weak to search up the songs he’s had a hand in (that is if you hadn’t heard them before) because you fear that if you even listen for a single second, you might hear how perfect his life has been ever since he left behind everything that he’s ever known.

Even now, you’re too uneasy at the sight of him. He’s in your home and he looks like the version of himself that had never left. The Yoongi in front of you, sitting on your seat at the dining table and peeling tangerines with your mom, resembles the Yoongi that would top off your glass with water whenever you ate with him.

It’s as if you’ve always been in touch for the past five years; it’s as if Yoongi has never aged and you never drifted apart.

“You’re awake,” he remarks, greeting you first before your mom could even register your presence.

“You’re still here,” you reply, the exhale that leaves you making you deflate in reflection. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but Yoongi’s already slid over a plate to you.

“There. Just how you like them.”

There’s tangerines with barely any pith on them, and iced tea that had more ice cubes in them than there are in the freezer.

Yoongi smiles at you like you’re the old you again; the one who is more forgiving, and the one who is more hopeful.

( ♡ )

If it wasn’t for your brother guilt-tripping you into joining the impromptu road trip, you never would have come.

You didn’t want to come with them in the first place because the very thought of hanging out with Namjoon and Yoongi like old times, this time with the addition of the latter’s son, was too close; too familial. The three already knew each other and had kept in touch and you’re the odd one out. You’re the only planet out of the system and once you’ve come to think of it, that bit of their galaxy never failed. Whether you were in it or not didn’t matter — atleast that’s what you thought.

Yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you’ve heard nothing about it.

You blocked his number and on every social media account he had to his name. Even with Namjoon as a prominent variable, you’re amazed to how you’ve heard little to nothing about Yoongi ever since he left your hometown. You still talked to your brother, of course, but there was an obvious difference to how your conversations went because none of them ever went to Yoongi.

You didn’t tell him to not talk about Yoongi at all. You didn’t instruct him to never utter a single word about his closest friend whom you also grew up with. You never told Namjoon anything concerning Yoongi and what unfolded between the two of you before you left, and yet, it’s almost as if he had already been in your mind and knew exactly what to do.

You’ve come to realize that the prospect of growing up never used to be in your cards. The whole concept of it sat at the very back of your mind, the only times you used to pay attention to it being whenever Yoongi picked at your brain.

You thought your world would have ended when you were 19. You didn’t think you would grow up and see past high school. You didn’t think you would finish college, much less pick a degree to pursue in the first place. You didn’t think of having a future — you didn’t think you’d be living it now in this way.

“Joon,” you mutter, voice barely being heard at the expanse of the balcony you’re in. It’s his balcony in his vacation house he barely stays in, overlooking the waves by the beach he isn’t even that fond of to begin with.

Yoongi and Haneul are already asleep, the father-son duo knocking out way ahead than everyone else. They stayed with the two of you in the balcony hours ago, the bug spray in both the adult and kid edition being proof of it.

Tonight, alone, felt different. It’s as if the younger version of you was gazing out to what was supposed to be your future, except neither the past nor present variant of you could have ever had it for yourself.

“Hm?” he hums, sipping the last of his drink while he’s sat at the far end. You know about each other’s presence, and while years ago, the two of you would’ve been giddy staying in a house as grand as this whilst drinking behind your mom’s back, you and Namjoon grew up. You didn’t fight or anything — you simply grew up and grew apart.

“I never said it before, but thank you,” you exhale, clenching Haneul’s towel as you try to warm your hands. You may have spent the better part of the day not even acknowledging his dad, but you did fawn over him like you would with any other child. “Thank you for not telling me a thing about Yoongi.”

“You’re welcome,” Namjoon finally speaks as soon as he grasps what you were talking about, the smile on his face only lasting for a second. “If it were up to me though, I would have told you everything.”

“Good thing it’s not up to you, hm?” you laugh uneasily, running your hand through your hair. You didn’t know how much you had to be grateful for until Yoongi came back and reminded you of how little you knew about him.

Namjoon breathlessly laughs, looking up at the sky to try and condense everything that has happened through his words before you leave again. “I would have told you that he confessed what happened that time you ran away from home a couple years back, and I beat his ass. We didn’t talk for like, I don’t know, three months? Even when I was still training in the US that time.”

Your lack of a reply is what makes him take notice, the stunned look you have on your face making him snort.

“What?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed as he throws a stray bottle cap at you. “Why are you so shocked? I love him like a brother, but you’re my actual sister,” he confides his loyalty to you, yet you don’t even have a second to express your awe before he opens his mouth again. “I would have told you that I became the best man at his wedding. Even mom was there.”

“You can stop telling me these things now.”

Namjoon exhales, already feeling deep in his chest that you’re gearing up to leave. He wants to get the last word in, not to prove himself, but to try and vindicate you and the quiet suffering you endured without telling anyone.

“I would have told you that Yoongi kept trying to come back to you.”

( ♡ )

Haneul wakes up before Yoongi does.

You’re confused for a second because the moment you hear the lightest footsteps that you ever could pad along the kitchen, you become completely disoriented. There’s a child that looks like Yoongi, wandering off to where you are.

For the briefest second, your heart drops because the whole situation resembles a vignette. In another lifetime, it could’ve been your child, your Haneul, waking up before his dad, trudging to the kitchen where you are is if you’re his mom.

He’s an observant kid, far too trusting unlike his dad who used to scold you to hell and back for even entertaining strangers that asked you for directions. He’s friendly to you; to someone Yoongi had introduced as appa’s close friend. There isn’t even a single hint in how he introduced you to Haneul that the two of you stopped being close. Yoongi didn’t leave the faintest indicator to him that you most probably hated his guts and would probably choose a lifetime where he hadn’t even been in your life at all.

Haneul is innocent to yours and Yoongi’s history and it’s going to stay that way. You don’t meant to change whatever he introduced you as because by the time your mom’s birthday week is over, or by the time Yoongi takes the hint and leaves your hometown again, you would be a fleeting persona in Haneul’s life.

You’re not his mom. You’re not anyone of significance to either him and his dad.

“Good morning,” he greets shyly, his diction telling of how just attentive Yoongi is as a dad. You mostly listened to whatever Namjoon told you last night anyway, tuning out the parts where he rounded to how Yoongi had been miserable not having any contact with you (you don’t believe that at all), and instead zeroing in on the large details that you’ve missed. “Auntie.”

You smile tightly, patting the empty seat beside to you to which he climbs effortlessly.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you do know him. You know that his dad is a doting, slightly paranoid one whose current dilemma is whether or not enrolling him in kindergarten early or waiting for one more year. You know that Yoongi doesn’t want him to know about the existence of iPads for probably ever, so he spends almost every waking moment talking to him to the point that Haneul’s eloquent at speaking for his age. You also know that Namjoon’s his godfather, and that he had looked after him for a whole day by himself when Yoongi went to settle his divorce.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you know his parents. You know Yoongi is his dad, and more importantly, that Hyewon is his mom — the same Hyewon who had been with him in your room before, and the same woman Yoongi shared his success with when he made it big.

“Hi,” you greet him softly, handing him his bottle for him to drink from. It’s a warm, domestic vignette for a split second. You’ve watched Yoongi far too many times at the corner of your eye to know where he gets the distilled water. “Why are you up already?”

“Uncle Joonie promised yesterday we can watch the sunrise together,” he says in between sips, letting you comb his hair into order unconsciously. You didn’t even think of it before your hand sweeps the strands scattered on his forehead, the hum you have at the back of your throat pausing when you realized what you’ve done.

“He’s still sleeping right now. He had uh, a long night,” you mutter, at a loss for a child-friendly alternative word for hangover. You keep your hands to yourself because you fear falling into the domesticity that isn’t yours to relax into; if you think about it for a second longer, you’d think that Haneul is yours and Yoongi is the final piece to your puzzle.

“Oh. But I, I wanna watch,” Haneul frowns, brows softly furrowed at your revelation. He’s not close to throwing a tantrum, but the upset expression on his face keeps tugging at your heart to cave.

“You can take your dad with you,” you offer, willing to knock on Yoongi’s door if it meant his son smiling again.

Haneul shakes his head at that, looking up at the ceiling as he recalls the events of last night before being tucked in. “Nuh-uh. Appa had a long night too. He just kept crying.”

A part of you wishes that Haneul didn’t speak so clearly.

“What?” you clarify, heart skipping a beat the more you replay his words in your head.

“Crying?” Haneul repeats, tilting his head as he tries to figure you out. He says it again for a third time as if you needed any clarification of the word and not because of your disbelief that his dad was capable of it. “Like this,” he adds, pretending to bawl with his hands wiping at his eyes.

The scene before you is your brief moment of reprieve, making you chuckle breathlessly as you try to regain your senses. Whether or not Haneul was sure of what he was saying, if Yoongi had cried, it’s most probably not because of anything that has to do with you.

“Oh. So that’s what it means. Thank you, Haneul,” you laugh lowly, patting him on the head until you retract your hand again in realization.

Haneul thinks nothing of your trepidation; he thinks nothing of the yearning behind your eyes, and thinks nothing of the tremble in your voice.

“Can we watch the sunrise together?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as if doing so would be the equivalent of hanging the stars up for him in the sky.

(Read: it probably is, and in another lifetime, or in the far-shot that it happens in this one, you’d do it if he asks you to do so.)

You want to ask Haneul why it’s you who he wants to accompany him, but you don’t. You can wake up either Yoongi and Namjoon to go with him instead, but you won’t.

In another lifetime, this would have been your son, your Haneul asking to watch the sunrise with you. There’s a Yoongi-shaped hole and a Haneul-shaped vacancy in your chest, but you don’t prod about it further.

You don’t question what’s happening, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny part of you that wants to fully accept it instead of hesitating to do so.

“Okay.”

Haneul puts his hand in yours, but you don’t pull away. You just hold him tighter.

( ♡ )

A large part of you forgot that for as long as Yoongi’s here, he’ll treat every interaction you have with Namjoon as an open invitation for him. He had always been this way; for as long as you could remember, he’ll include himself even if he isn’t needed nor wanted.

You can’t count the amount of times your mom had berated Namjoon for something and oddly enough, Yoongi also happened to be there. Whether it was to rat out on his own best friend or being at the receiving end of said scolding, Yoongi jumped at every opportunity to come along as a package deal.

When you asked Namjoon to drink with you at the balcony two days ago, Yoongi butted in and asked what brand of alcohol he should buy you at the convenience store. When you were on the way home and asked your brother what he wanted from the rest stop, Yoongi said he wanted the biggest can of coffee you could find.

And when you asked Namjoon what time you should come to the stadium to watch him practice, Yoongi said he’ll pack you an extra cap while Haneul bonded with your mom.

Sometime long ago, you and Yoongi saw each other eye to eye. You can’t determine when and how exactly, but there was a point in your life where everything you had to say to each other was what the other was thinking all along. Nowadays, you can’t even look at Yoongi in the eye while all he wanted was for you to return his gaze.

If there’s just one thing though, one single variable that remained unchanged between the two of you, it would be Namjoon.

The way Yoongi engages you in conversation this time around is not to trap you and to ramp himself up to apologize again, but purely, it’s to talk about your brother. Namjoon’s a lot of things, and one thing you pray would remain unchanged is the love you have for each other.

“Who would have thought, right?” Yoongi nudges, asking you sincerely. “Who would have thought that the Namjoon who had knockoff cleats years ago would become this world-famous athlete?” he chuckles, shaking his head as he once again tries to digest the fact that this very stadium in your hometown had been built and refashioned in his honor.

You laugh genuinely, the sound being the first he’s ever heard in such a long time.

“Abibas.”

Yoongi has his lips parted, shocked that you were even answering him.

“Abibas. That was the brand of his knockoff cleats,” you chuckle, bowing your head as you try to contain your laughter. “He could’ve bought the original with his allowance and everything, but he split it so he could also buy me knockoffs.”

Yoongi laughs at the memory you jog up in his mind, remembering distinctly how Namjoon kept asking for his opinion repeatedly on which colorway of the knockoff pair he should gift you.

Even if things are still tense between you, even if Namjoon is the only salvation that Yoongi could bring up in a conversation to which you don’t run from, nothing from the past five years could ever take this moment away from you.

The three of you have grown up. Some faster than they’d like, and some because they had no choice but to — nonetheless, in this moment, it’s the three of you back at home like it used to be.

“Namjoon was always meant for greatness. Even from the start,” you murmur, your attention waiting on Yoongi’s response even if your eyes were on Namjoon in the field.

“You are too,” he interjects quickly, voice defensive at the lack of your name to your own sentence.

“No I’m not,” you snort, crossing your arms. You’re not angry when you say it; in fact, you’re calm as if you’ve always seen it coming. “You told me I’d amount to nothing.”

You’re calm, seemingly at peace with what you just said and what Yoongi had ingrained in your head before, but he’s the furthest thing from it. His mouth hangs open, chest tightening impossibly as he shakes his head eagerly.

“I never said that!”

You’re about to counter him when you hear a familiar holler reach you at the lower section of the bleachers, eyes perking to see a familiar figure who isn’t blood-related to you.

“Y/N!” Jimin runs up to you faster than to whenever he passes the ball to Namjoon, engulfing you in a massive hug that forces you up to your feet before you know it.

“Oh my god, Jimin! I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” you awe at the sight of him, unwilling to break away from the embrace until he does so. It’s been ages since you’ve seen him, the second-best player in the team (you’re biased because of course Namjoon had been the best player to you since you were kids) being the closest member to you out of everyone.

Jimin doesn’t care for Yoongi. He knows of the guy and he doesn’t want to know any more than he already does. He doesn’t even acknowledge the guy’s presence; all he does is squeeze you tighter and twirl you briefly in his arms.

“Fuck, me neither. Heaven must’ve healed my ankle quicker so I could come here and see you,” he flirts playfully, earning a well-deserved eye roll from you.

“And you know, play for Korea.”

“Eh. That too, I guess,” he shrugs, sitting at the seat beside you. He looks straight at you and only you — Jimin only pauses to snort to himself when he notices that Yoongi’s squirming in his seat, beyond annoyed and frustrated.

( ♡ )

On the fifth day of Yoongi staying over at your house, there’s a power outage.

The sound of everything shutting off together in sync makes you jolt, the collective groan you hear outside from the neighborhood comforting you in solidarity.

You can only make out a grunt from Namjoon and a gasp from your mom until you hear the trembling voice of Haneul, the sound of a cry that crawls up his throat putting everyone on their feet.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay! It’s just a little dark, that’s all,” Yoongi pipes up instantly, scooping him up in his arms without having to fumble for where he is because he could practically locate his son in his sleep.

You didn’t want for it to be a power outage, but oddly enough, you feel sorry that it happened while you’re here. “It’s okay, Haneul,” you whisper as consolation, the dark of the night shielding you from how Yoongi’s eyes widen at your cooing for his son. “Mom, where did you put that generator I got you?”

“About that,” she sheepishly shrugs, turning on her phone to illuminate her shyness. “I donated it last year to the public school nearby.”

“It’s gonna get so hot,” Namjoon groans, the sound of him clumsily feeling around for the lights alerting Haneul briefly. He comforts him instantly, finally turning on the torch in his phone instead of relying on his instincts. “Don’t cry, Haneul, alright? Uncle Joonie’s gonna get the candles and the flashlights.”

“I’ll go try to find a guy,” you get up as soon as Namjoon hands you a flashlight, your contribution to help instantly being shut down.

“You can’t just try to find a guy, Y/N. That’s dangerous,” Yoongi scoffs, putting a hand on your forearm to pull you.

“I meant on my phone, Yoongi,” you grit. “I was gonna go outside to try and look for a signal.”

“That’s still dangerous,” he narrows his eyes at you as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Give me a break,” you mutter, removing his hold from you. You’d save your pride and actually go outside if not for your mom interjecting that she knows an electrician from her contacts.

Namjoon comes back after his quest for battery-powered fans and flashlights, unaware of how Yoongi’s protective streak for you practically never disappeared; in fact, it came back twofold. “Whole neighborhood’s out. Must be a broken transformer or something.”

Your mom consoles Haneul in her arms.

Namjoon waits by the gate for the electrician.

You and Yoongi clean the fridge up before anything spoils.

In between getting food out and embracing Haneul every now and then who insisted on obediently sitting atop the counter so he’s closer to his dad, Yoongi holds your hand.

“That’s my hand that you’re holding,” you murmur, assuming that he had mistaken yours for Haneul’s as he’s always chuckled how yours always seemed to be small against his.

Yoongi only hums.

“I know.”

( ♡ )

You’re falling back into your old routine.

Maybe it’s how your mom has to shake you awake because otherwise, you’d sleep through the afternoon and would therefore be unable to sleep through the night. On the other hand, it could be Namjoon who either hounds you to hang out with him or tell you off for clinging to him too much.

Maybe, it’s just Yoongi. It’s him who’s tricking your brain into thinking that has nothing changed with the way he keeps peeling fruits for you and telling you to be safe even if you’re only buying ice cream from the convenience store.

It’s only been a week and a half of almost normalcy, save for the fact that there are certain things and connections you can neither reverse nor rekindle.

You’re convinced, almost fully convinced that history is repeating itself except for the bitter, ugly parts of it that you never want to pop in your head again.

Like the past, Namjoon blocks you for whatever reason in his head but this time he does it to you while you’re on the way to your room, on the quest to retrieve your charger for your phone that you barely even used for work purposes.

“It’s my room. Why can’t I go in my room?” you furrow your brows at him, your amusement turning into annoyance the more that Namjoon pushed you with actual strength instead of playfulness.

“Are you hungry? Let’s go out for dinner,” he changes the subject quickly, turning you towards the stairs.

You shouldn’t have questioned him further — you should’ve left it at that.

“I guess? I’ll just get my purse,” you concede, dodging his attempts to haul you downstairs.

“I’ll pay,” Namjoon insists and although it’s not out of the blue for him, his franticness is what keeps you on edge.

“I still need my-…” you counter, being interrupted when he holds you firmly as you attempt to walk towards your door. Namjoon grips you with a silent plead, one that you can’t even decipher. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You finally break off his grip at once, walking into your room with a renowned determination.

It’s not only your routine that falls back into place, but it’s your whole worldview that does.

Love is terribly human. It’s a loose thread on your shirt that gets snagged on your doorknob. It’s a coat in your closet waiting to be worn for the supposed perfect time, and when you do, you realize that it no longer fits you.

Love is terribly human, and it is terribly Yoongi, Hyewon, and Haneul.

Love is terribly human and fragile, and it’s Yoongi, Hyewon, and their son sleeping on your bed.

SO incredibly cute and we love a girlboss just girlbossing all over the place.

The Art of Climbing the Corporate Ladder Masterpost (San x Reader)

✅ Completed ✅

Original Release: 01/05/24 - 01/25/24

Trailer

Part I: Left alone in the aftermath of your devastating break-up, you dive head-first into the cutthroat world of corporate success. On your ascend to the top, you take on the challenge of training Choi San, a new hire who is not only irresistibly charming and attractive but also surprisingly endearing. But who exactly is he?

Part II: With the newfound information about who San really is, your relationship comes to a screeching halt. Situations at the office grow more and more awkward, and each interaction is laced with uncomfortable bitterness. It breaks San's heart, and he knows he has to win you back. But can he?

🎧 playlist 🎧: dean: die 4 you 🐈‍⬛ tabber: being 🐈‍⬛ yerin baek: interlude 🐈‍⬛ bibi: hongdae r&b 🐈‍⬛ OoOo: fuxxin' love 🐈‍⬛ so!yoon!: love (a secret visitor) 🐈‍⬛ sogumm & keumbee: salt rain