after some party with chanyeol in his car>>>... then again at home in the kitchen counter or bent over the couch.... then the GRAND FINAL in the bed or in the shower (i will just ignore the fact that zzar probably would be around the house all the time)
pcy in the shower, holding you against his body, your back pressed on his chest as he pounds into you sloppily. the water runs down your body, and you feel like your legs will give in at any moment.
"babe... i can't anymore...", you tell him, voice weak.
"just one more", he whines in your ear, feeling his release close. "for me, please."
pairing: sub!park chanyeol x reader
word count: 3748
genre: smutty
warnings: description of sexual activies, fingering/anal play (male receiving), blowjob, handjob, nipple play, swearing, reader is a producer, chanyeol is really sensitive
a/n: can you imagine this huge, giant baby being a sub? cause i do! happy birthday, yeollie, i love you to death <3
once again, you sighed as the inspiration did not come your way.
it’s been days since you started working on this new song, but somehow you got stuck in this part of the melody and it just didn’t flow anymore, your mind didn’t function when you tried to decide what should come next - even the lyrics felt somewhat wrong now.
as you heard a soft chuckle coming from behind you, you turned your chair around to meet chanyeol on the couch, legs spread wide as he smiled at his phone. his eyes met yours when he heard your chair, and suddenly his eyebrows were shot up almost to his hairline.
“did i disturb you? i’m sorry, i’ll be-”
“no, no. it wasn’t you, babe.”
chanyeol watched for a few seconds as you threw your head back, staring at the studio ceiling and once again sighing.
“what’s wrong?”, he asked.
you pouted, and he had to hold back a laugh. weren’t you the cutest thing ever?
“i can’t get past this part of the song. don’t know what should come next.”
chanyeol blocked his phone, putting away and paying close attention to you now. as your boyfriend (and a musician himself), it was his duty to try and help you.
“you have the lyrics, right?”
“yeah.”
“and the melody? ad libs?"
“i thought the melody and lyrics were alright, but now i don’t know anymore. i feel like it’s missing something, maybe it is the ad libs i recorded, but i didn’t actually like them. i don’t know… i don’t know.”
you two stayed that way for a moment, you staring at the ceiling and chanyeol staring at you. when he finally spoke again, you scoffed.
“can i hear it so far?”
“of course not!”, you exclaimed, shooting your eyes at him and making him laugh.
“come on, baby! i just wanna help!”
“yeah? so find another way”, you said, trying not to laugh too.
chanyeol knew how much you hated showing unfinished stuff to people, how you always tried finishing your projects on your own if that’s how you started.
well, at least he made you almost laugh.
“okay, so why don’t you come to rest with me for a bit? maybe it will help you ease your thoughts.”
he spread his arms in your direction, his comfortable aura calling out for you. his dark hair was kinda messed up, his gray jumper making him seem soft and warm. there was no way you could resist that.
you got up from your chair, smiling when chanyeol let out a little “yes!”. you sat next to him on the couch, feeling his big body embracing you and pulling you down with him as he laid down on top of you. chanyeol rested his head on your chest, intertwining your legs and taking a deep breath. you, on the other hand, closed your eyes at the amazing sensation of your boyfriend’s weight on top of you, his long arms involving you and his fluffy hair against your chin.
“you can sleep for a bit if you want to”, chanyeol calmly said. “i’ll wake you up.”
“nah, i don’t feel like sleeping.”
you slipped your hands under chanyeol’s jumper, thumbs caressing his back and slowly going up to his ribs. he hummed against your skin, melting at your touch and closing his eyes too.
it was all too comfortable, too soft. the perfect cozy moment you were longing for.
until you grabbed his flesh a bit tighter.
chanyeol’s soft moan didn’t go unnoticed. you opened your eyes, still feeling how relaxed he was against your body. you did it again, like you were trying to massage his skin - and, once again, chanyeol moaned.
“baby…”, he said against your skin.
“yeah?”
chanyeol looked at you then, resting his chin on your chest.
“what are you doing?”
“nothing”, you shrugged. “you’re the one who’s moaning at my bare touch.”
he smirked, gaze falling at your lips now and, in a split of seconds, his lips were on yours. chanyeol kissed you softly, taking all the time in the world to do so. his lips danced on top of yours, tongue slipping inside your mouth as he let go of your body and rested his arms on each side of your head on the couch, supporting his weight on his elbows now.
your hands kept wandering under his jumper, caressing his skin and making him sigh into your kiss. you pulled him a bit closer, palms spread on his back as his chest now rested on top of your torso, pressing just enough his skin to yours. your fingertips grabbed his flesh one more time, but not too gentle now, and chanyeol moaned on your lips.
the sound made you open your eyes once again, wide in realization. your lips stopped moving, and scared that something might have happened, chanyeol broke the kiss and looked at you.
“what’s wrong?”, he asked, curious about your reaction.
you looked at him, first taking in the sight - a light shade of red burning on his cheeks all up to his ears, lips parted and also red, plumped from the kiss. your hand left his back and went to his face, caressing his cheek. chanyeol leaned on your touch, eyes never leaving you.
“what are you thinking about?”, he asked.
“you’re so beautiful”, and you meant it.
“um… that’s not why you stopped though, i know you.”
you smiled, then so did he. you pecked his lips again, and again, and again; until you had him humming against you.
“can you… can you moan to me again?”
chanyeol smirked, shooting his eyebrows up.
“i didn’t know that got you going so much, baby.”
“that’s not it…”, you said, as chanyeol started to slowly kiss your neck and jaw. “i think i got it.”
“got what?”
you caressed chanyeol’s skin again as he sucked on your sweet spot. you licked your lips too, gathering the courage to spill your words.
“what i need for the song”, you started. another brief moment went by before you finished your thought. “i think… i think it’s your moaning.”
chanyeol stopped what he was doing. damn it, was he offended? i mean, not too many people would be comfortable getting their most private moment sounds recorded, let alone to be put on something that half the world would hear.
would he snap at you? would he think that was crossing the line?
your mind raced a million miles a minute, all into the seconds it took for chanyeol to finally look at you again. his eyes were narrowed, although there was no sign of anger on his beautiful face.
“you wanna… you wanna record me moaning to put on your song?”, he questioned.
you nodded, imagining exactly where his moans would sound better mixed to the melody. it would even increase the lyrics, as you sang about wanting something so badly but not being able to have it, the beat giving off the sexy vibes you wanted.
that was it. the thing that was missing, why the ad libs you recorded didn’t work and why you couldn’t get that song finished. it was begging for chanyeol’s moaning. that’s what it needed.
chanyeol looked away for a moment. shit, how would you apologize? your mind started writing a few apology notes so you would already know what to say in case chanyeol started an argument - but when it took him too long to react, you decided to push that idea away and just hope for the best.
“chanyeol, i-”
“okay”, he said, cutting you off. chanyeol looked at you, a playful smile on his lips. “let’s do it.”
you stared at him, confused.
“wait… like, for real? you ain’t mad i even suggested that?”
“not a bit”, it was his time to shrug. “if it will help you, then let’s do it. i won’t even ask for the credits.”
your smile got bigger and bigger as he spoke, cheeks hurting in happiness for how good your boyfriend was to you. suddenly, you attacked chanyeol with kisses all over his face - his lips, his nose, eyes, cheeks, forehead. it made him giggle and rest his face on the crook of your neck.
“thank you, babe! thank you, thank you, thank you! i promise i won’t tell anyone it’s you.”
“it’s okay”, he said, laughing. “but i will need some stimulation to moan just right for you…”
you rolled your eyes, smirking right away. chanyeol kissed your neck again, lifting his head to look at you. he was smirking too, a devilish look on his eyes.
“yeah? and what do you want me to do to you?”
“anything you’d like”, chanyeol whispered. “if you want me to moan, you’ll have to work for it.”
“that’s not too hard to get, yeol…”
chanyeol shivered at how you used his nickname but, mostly, at how your hands went back under his jumper, nails sinking on his skin. he closed his eyes, damning you for knowing his tastes almost better than himself.
it was your time to kiss his neck and jaw, lips and tongue leaving no piece of skin untouched. chanyeol groaned when you bit him, sure that that would leave a red mark on his throat; he didn’t care though.
chanyeol used one of his hands to grab your face and pull you to kiss your lips. this time, his kiss was intense and passionate, fingers holding you still while he started to build you up. your hands started working too, going up and down his back until you instinctively let them slip inside chanyeol’s sweatpants, grabbing his butt and making him moan once again.
“fuck…”, he said against your lips, and you smirked again.
“hold that thought.”
gently, you pushed chanyeol up so you could have some space to get up. you went to your desk, pressing a few buttons, trying not to seem too excited about that.
“you’re gonna record the whole thing?”, chanyeol spoke. you looked at him, now seated on the couch again with legs spread open and a bulge inside his pants. “naughty…”
you chuckled, going back to your boyfriend and straddling him, sitting on his lap. you helped chanyeol get out of his jumper, his chest now fully exposed to you and at your mercy. you took a deep breath before going in, decided to make his skin your white canvas. you heard him sigh as your lips connected to his collarbone, sliding across his chest and leaving a trace of open mouthed kisses. reaching lower, your tongue danced around his chest, tracing random figures and making chanyeol rest his head on the couch.
he was so lost in your actions that he didn’t actually feel how your hand made its way from his waist to his chest, the tip of your fingers grabbing his right nipple and pinching it hard. chanyeol moaned out loud, squeezing his eyes shut. yeah, that’s exactly the sound you wanted him to make.
you decided to take it further so you dragged your tongue to his left nipple, circulating it and sucking on it. chanyeol’s hands found the way to your waist, holding you so hard you could feel a bit of pain.
“fuck, fuck, fuck…”
“stop it”, you said, tone switching to something more… bossy. “you don’t get to touch me unless i say so. understood?”
chanyeol didn’t answer, he just nodded furiously. so you pinched his nipple harder, and the way his dick twitched below you made it pretty clear you were on the right track.
“i made you a question. words, yeol.”
“yes, yes!”, he desperately said, looking at you. “i understand. just, please… don’t stop…”
“then why are you still touching me?”, as soon as the words left your mouth, his hands dropped from your waist and into the couch. you smiled at him. “good boy.”
you started once again to suck on his nipple, this time the one you had pinched. chanyeol moaned once again, bucking his hips up in a try to have some friction. so you complied, starting to dry hump him as your tongue made wet, naughty noises around his nipple. your lips started to move up as chanyeol moaned once again, this time a bit louder. you took a special time to work on his throat, sucking on the sensitive skin while your hips didn’t stop moving, not even for a second.
your hands roamed north too, caressing chanyeol’s chest and also scratching it, leaving red marks behind. one of your hands then rested around his neck, fingers digging into the skin and putting just the right amount of pressure.
“harder”, he moaned to you. “please… harder…”
“color?”, you whispered in his ear.
“green.”
so once again, you complied. your hand choked chanyeol a little bit harder, making him gasp and hold onto the couch cushion for dear life. he could feel your breathing on his ear and your hips moving against his clothed dick, and it just made him feel like he was welcomed into heaven. chanyeol licked his lips, opening his eyes and finally looking at you - he had to watch that scene with his own eyes.
he moaned again when you looked at him too, lips so plumped from sucking his skin. as the sound let out his mouth, you choked him harder once again, and instead of interrupting his sweet little noise it only made him moan louder out of pleasure.
“good boy”, you praised him, index finger reaching to touch his lips. chanyeol didn’t hesitate to put it in his mouth and suck it, making you moan with him.
“baby, please…”, he whined.
“what? what do you want?”
“finger me”, chanyeol moaned, sucking your finger again.
you shook your head, letting go of his neck and, consequently, taking your finger out of his mouth.
“i don’t have lube here, love.”
“it’s okay, i trust you”, he said. “just… fuck, please… i wanna sound good to you.”
you shot an eyebrow up, challengingly looking at chanyeol. he nodded, blinking fast and hard as he bucked his hips up once again, knuckles getting white from how hard he was holding onto the couch’s cushion. chanyeol mumbled a few incomprehensible things, eyes closing when you squeezed his throat again.
he let out a breath as he felt you getting up from his lap. chanyeol was ready to complain, to whine, to beg you not to stop - he choked on his own words though as you kneeled in front of him, hands resting on both sides of his hips and tapping on his skin, a silent signal for him to move up so you could pull his sweatpants down. he did it then, a sigh leaving his lips as he finally felt himself getting free of those suddenly tight boxers.
chanyeol didn’t say a word as you also took off his shoes, pulling his pants from both his legs so he was entirely naked in front of you now. he gasped when he felt your hands on his knees, pushing them and making enough room for you to be between his legs. your eyes finally looked away from his face and focused on his dick now, rock hard and begging for attention.
“please”, chanyeol whispered, voice melting in desperation.
“shhh…”, you shushed him, reaching two fingers to his lips and stuffing them into his mouth. “get them wet for me, baby”.
so as chanyeol sucked both your middle and ring finger, your other hand found its way to his member, slowly starting to pump it. he moaned around your digits, legs instinctively getting wider for you when he felt your thumb playing with his tip. you gathered all the precum you could possibly get, using it to make it easier for your hand to slide from the base to the top, and then repeat the movement over and over again.
the moment chanyeol watched you gathering more of his fluids and using it to tease just the tip of his hole was when he lost it. he whimpered loudly, almost like he wasn’t still sucking on your fingers - and sucking it good. you circulated his entrance with your thumb mostly, making it just wet enough to push through it.
“use your safe words, okay?”, you asked, taking your fingers from his mouth with a pop.
“okay!”
chanyeol closed his eyes, already knowing what would follow. he felt, with tensed abs, as you slowly pushed your middle finger into him, a long and heavenly moan being let out from the back of his throat - or of his soul, you weren’t sure. you mirrored him and moaned too, just from how hot that whole scene was.
“color?”, you asked him, as soon as your whole finger was inside him.
“so fucking green”, he groaned. “more… please, more…”
you smirked, loving the way he licked his lips in anticipation. slowly, almost teasingly now, you pulled your middle finger out of him just so you could push it into again, now with your ring finger followed by it. chanyeol moaned once again, his voice getting deeper as he clenched around you when you were knuckles deep inside him.
your other hand went back to pumping his dick, which now was bright red and leaking. your fingers started to thrust into him, not too hard so you wouldn’t hurt him, but definitely not too soft so he could still feel you.
“does it feel good, yeol?”
he nodded, and screamed when you squeezed the tip of his dick.
“use your words or i’ll stop.”
“yes!”, he immediately said. “yes, i-it does feel good! it feels so good, fuck, baby…”
“what’s the color?”
“green, green, green! just… just keep going, please. don’t stop.”
“i’m gonna suck you off now”, you told him, and smirked again as he quickly opened his eyes and looked down at you. “i don’t want you to hold back, okay? moan all you want, let it out. this is your show, baby.”
before he could answer it, you were already with your lips around his dick, sucking on his tip before taking all of him into your mouth and feeling him hitting the back of your throat. and chanyeol really obeyed you, because the scream he let out was sinful. the combination of your lips on him, your hot and soft mouth, and your fingers thrusting into the pace you knew he loved was all too much for him - there was no way he could hold back his moans, not even if he wanted to.
chanyeol cursed a little bit, nonsense words spilling out of his mouth and sometimes getting cut by another moan, sometimes by the calling of your name. surprisingly, his hands were still on each side of him, almost tearing the cushion into pieces as his nails were sinked into it. you loved how chanyeol could never disobey you, how he would always listen and obliged what you said.
his long moans echoed through the whole room, loud and smoothly. his voice was like velvet, and even when it cracked or he gasped, sighed instead of being vocal, it still sounded like the hottest song you’ve ever heard - well, it would sound like a song afterwards. there was particularly one moan he let out, when he felt you too moaning around his dick, that just made your heart skip a beat because, firstly, you were so in love with him and being the reason why he felt so good, being the only one who could pleasure him like that was priceless; and second, it would sound so fucking good to the beat of your song.
when chanyeol started to buck his hips up and clench around your fingers again though, you knew he was close. looking up at him, you saw his chest covered in a thin layer of sweat, as well as the red marks of your nails on his stomach and around his nipples, from your sucking. his eyes met yours, and with the tiniest smirk he could form, he moaned again.
oh, no. you don’t get to be cocky now, chanyeol.
he choked on whatever sound he was about to make when you twisted your fingers inside him, reaching his sweet spot for the first time that day and making him shut his eyes. you also pulled him out of your mouth, thumb caressing his tip - it still felt good, but it wasn’t your throat though.
“now what were you smiling for?”
“i’m sorry!”, chanyeol answered right on the spot. “i w-wasn’t, i swear i wasn’t! please, let me cum, baby. please…”
“liar”, you laughed, but still wrapped your lips around him again, pushing him to the back of your throat.
your goal was to make him cum now, and so you did. your fingers started to thrust him a little faster, each time twisting so they could reach where he wanted them the most. your tongue, skillful and hot, came in touch with all of his dick, hand paying some attention to the base of it.
it didn’t take too long. his moans got familiarly louder and squeaky, so you weren’t surprised when you felt him coming inside your mouth - in fact, you did your best to swallow everything. chanyeol dropped his head to the back of the couch, chest raising and dropping as he tried to catch his breath. still sensitive, still high from his release, he whined when he felt you pulling both his dick out of your mouth and your fingers out of him, suddenly feeling empty and exposed. when you opened your eyes though, it was your time to gasp.
“yeol”, you whispered, quickly getting up and sitting beside him. “are you crying?”
one of your hands instinctively found its way to his face, wiping the silent tears from the corner of his eyes. chanyeol slightly chuckled as he leaned into your touch - your hand smelled like him, and he very much enjoyed that.
“yeah, that was… that was just intense”, he whispered back, finally touching you and holding your wrist, so you couldn’t let go of his face. “one of the best orgasms i had lately.”
you chuckled, pulling him in for a soft, long kiss. his sweaty forehead came in touch with yours, one resting against the other while he sincerely smiled at you.
“you were so good, love”, you praised him, kissing him again. “such a good boy.”
His voice is adoring, face awed as he stares down at you, waiting for your response. His hands are on your waist, touch gentle. He’s not holding you down, but you know he could, he does, he likes to. Not tonight, though. You are always fragile under his touch, and he loves to watch you shatter, but tonight you will not be broken.
As soon as you nod, his lips crash against your neck, licking and sucking desperately at the tender skin. You feel the bruises forming, but they’re tender and loving and careful, like an artist’s signature, and as he marks you he places soft kisses on each one. You can’t quite decipher his whispered praises but you know what they are. You're so good. So perfect. And you’re all his.
A hand moves between your thighs, gently forcing your legs apart as his face moves down your stomach until he’s eye level with your heat. He presses a kiss to your clit and you whimper desperately.
“Please,” you gasp. “Please.”
He grins and strokes your thighs while he attaches himself to your folds. He eases his tongue inside you and you whine, instinctively closing your legs but his broad shoulders hold you open to him, at his mercy, where you belong.
He pulls away, flipping you over without a word and landing a strong hit against your ass. You gasp into the pillow and he hears you, lifts you by your chin, pulling your head back until your eyes are staring into his.
“Don’t hold it back,” he murmurs. “I just want to have you. Let me have you.”
He doesn’t wait for your reply, just presses a kiss to your swollen lips and releases you. Your head flops back down, dazed, and he chuckles fondly. He loves how you come undone. And he loves that it’s only for him.
His mouth comes back to your pussy, tongue swirling around your clit while his hands rest on the backs of your thighs, anchoring himself and you. You try to stay still, just focus on the feeling, but you let yourself be loud. You let yourself cry and moan and whimper and beg, because that’s what he wants. Because it’s what you need.
“Flip me back over,” you plead. “I want to see your face.”
“Okay,” he whispers and flips you gently, hands running up and down your thighs. “Gonna fuck you now,” he says and you whimper, lifting hips closer to him.
He enters you slowly, not fast and rough like he sometimes does, and his eyes never wander from yours. He swallows your cries with his mouth attached to yours, stroking your cheeks as he slowly starts to move.
His pace is leisurely, like the thrusts are almost absent-minded while he focuses on you. You push yourself up again and he takes the hand, reaching under you to pull you up into him, grip firm but gentle on your ass and hips. You press your face into his neck, trying to mark it as he did yours. His pace gets a bit faster but they’re controlled, timed, focused, and with each one he pulls you up to him so he can go deeper, can take you further.
He whispers ‘I love you’ as he comes, over and over like a prayer, and he’s still kissing you as he pulls out. You don’t bother cleaning up tonight. You just stay close. You stay together. You stay adored.
———
A/n ; one of the cheesiest things I’ve written and possibly the sloppiest too because I’m not used to the slow and gentle stuff but I’m working on it as you can see. Let me know if you want more fics like this, and pls comment, reblog whatever, and send requests !! Whatever you want to read, let me make it for you. Love xx
pairing: kim jongin x reader
word count: 417
genre: take a guess
warnings: description of sexual activities, thigh riding, swearing, jongin being a menace to society
a/n: i feel dirty (this ain't a complaint)
jongin moaned as he felt the first stroke of your hips against his bare thigh. he instinctively held your waist, pushing you down further and harder enough so he could feel how soaking wet you were through your panties.
"fuck...", you moaned, throwing your head back. it felt great, but that wasn't enough.
you put yourself up a little bit, just so you could push your panties aside, and then lowered yourself against his thigh again - the feeling of skin to skin feeling so, so much better.
"come on, baby", you heard jongin half groan, half whisper to you, when you didn't move. his hands were on your waist again, and he pushed you back and forth.
the sound both of you made was sinful.
you suddenly grabbed his shoulders for support, fingers tangling on his blue navy shirt. jongin looked at you and smirked at the sight: closed eyes, lips parted, neck shining covered with a thin layer of sweat. your hips didn't stop stroking his thigh since he set it off the action, and for the expression on your face, he knew you were feeling good.
the only sounds to be heard were your moans, jongin's heavy sighs, and the slippery noise of your wetness spreading on him, making it easier to slide back and forth on his now tensed up muscle. the friction felt so good, the way his hands held your waist for dear life felt so good.
he felt so good.
being your lover for such a long time now, jongin knew you; so it was easy for him to see that you were reaching your orgasm when your tug on his shirt got tighter and your movements sloppier.
"don't stop", jongin whispered, hands now taking control of your actions as you clearly couldn't think straight anymore. "keep going. that's it."
you moaned loudly when you felt your body tensing up. you buried your face on the crook of his neck, his amazing cologne mixed with the natural scent of his skin doing nothing to help you hold back your climax.
"let go, baby. cum for me."
"jongin..."
and with that, you came all over his thigh, his tanned skin covered in you.
jongin smiled, despite the growing pain he felt inside his underwear. he felt your body relax against his chest, breathing pace as messed up as your hair and clothes.
"mind helping me out too?", jongin asked you, just before you felt him guiding your hand to inside his boxers.
warnings: smut, biting, caught (but not in the way you think)
Word count: 0.8k
author’s note: …horny reader, whiny Nini, what more does one really need???
“Kiss me.” You whispered and Jongin smiled with a playful shake of his head.
“No, everyone is right there.” He giggled, and you smiled.
“What’s the problem?” You said, bringing his face closer to yours.
“THE PROBLEM IS YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING!” Sehun shouted from the living room.
You both had somehow forgotten that the kitchen was right across from there and you weren’t hidden very well.
“Fuck off.” You said, flipping him off and sneaking a kiss on Jongin’s cheek.
You both finally rejoined the others with the popcorn and tried to continue watching the movie. But unfortunately, your boyfriend’s neck looked much too ravishing for you not to kiss.
“Baby, stop.” He whispered, but didn’t actually make any effort to stop you.
“I’m bored…wanna do something with you.” You said, hand traveling up his sweater and caressing his hardening nipple.
“Please don’t do this right now, literally everyone is here.” He whined in your ear.
“Mmm, but don’t you wanna? Weren’t you talking about having someone watching you?” You said, hands roaming across his abs and tracing his v line.
“One. Stranger. Not all my fucking members.” He said, trying to hold your hand away.
“Please baby boy.” You begged and Jongin looked into your eyes before analyzing the room.
Everyone seemed to be pretty focused on the movie, except for maybe Chanyeol, who was on his phone.
You both were in a pretty dark corner of the room, and you were covering most of him.
“Sehunnie, can you pass me that blanket please.” You asked and Sehun threw it at you before turning back to the movie.
Jongin looked at you with shock, it was almost as if you could read his mind.
You started back up at him, expectantly waiting for his okay.
“Fine.” He said and you smiled widely before kissing his shoulder.
Jongin didn’t expect you to go slowly, but he didn’t think you would just go for it immediately.
The squeak he let out was so loud he had to mask it as a “surprise coughing fit” when Junmyeon asked.
He could feel you shaking with silent laughter.
“Too much?” You said after a bit, and he shook his head.
“Just don’t surprise me like that again.” He said, and you nodded.
“I’m moving now.” You said, thumb swiping over the head of his dick.
It was only now when you both realized how risky this really was. Because, contrary to popular belief, Jongin was loud as hell. And not in a Baekhyun way, more like in a whiny way.
But you continued anyhow, I mean, you couldn’t just leave him like this. The poor baby was already grinding against your hand.
“Calm down baby, I’ll take care of it.” You whispered and Jongin nodded, trying to take control of his movements again.
You started moving your hands again and Jongin had to hide his face in the crook of your neck.
There were definitely gonna be hickeys there in the morning.
“Baby, faster. Please go faster.” He whispered and you smiled before kissing his forehead.
“Are you sure love? You’re getting awfully loud.” You said, and Jongin only shook his head.
“I swear I’ll be quiet, please baby, it hurts.” He said, and you complied.
As soon as you started moving though, Jongin bit down hard in your shoulder, and it took all your power not to yelp.
“Does that help?” You whispered and Jongin looked up at you apologetically.
“It does, I’m sorry.” He said with a kiss to the place he almost mauled.
“Okay…just warn me next time.” You said and continued your movements.
Your boyfriend was suffering at this point, tears streaming out of his eyes to compensate for the moans he would’ve been letting out by now.
You on the other hand were just worried about the full teeth marks on your neck and shoulders. Geez, he could be so aggressive.
“I’m close, p-please I’m so close.” He whispered.
“Can you go a little longer?” You teased, but a whole new stream of tears came to shower your shirt even more.
“Please no…I really can’t.” He said, and you were shocked.
“Baby, I’m kidding, of course you can come.” You said, and with a few quick strokes, Jongin was biting you again. He came so hard, you’re almost 100% sure that he stained through his sweatpants.
As you removed your hand from his pants, Jongin patiently waited for your fingers to reach his mouth.
He sucked your fingers clean, and all without anybody looking.
“You did so well baby boy, I’m so proud of you.” You whispered with kisses on his neck and cheek.
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to treat you back, once we get rid of these guys.” He said, and you giggled.
“I’ll be waiting.” You said, kissing his lips.
The sudden vibration in your pocket made you jump, and when checking, you saw it was a text from Chanyeol.
‘Don’t be so fucking loud next time.’
Both you and Jongin looked across the couch to see his eyes watching the movie like everyone else, but apparently his ears were tuned to something else.
—————————————————————————
I wrote this forever ago, I just didn’t post it. Hope you enjoyed tho.
After reading that ending I kinda wanna write poly hcs, but maybe later.
✧✦ quiet love ✦✧
jongin x fem!reader
700 words
kinks & warnings: sweet lazy sex, established relationship, unprotected sex, creampie.
Jongin’s fingers dance lightly down your side and you shiver, goosebumps prickling your skin although you’re nice and warm cuddled together under the comforter. It was your boyfriend’s idea to have a day where the both of you do nothing but laze around in bed and occasionally get up to eat. Jongin presses a kiss to the back of your neck and you silently commend him for coming up with such an amazing plan.
No warnings... unless losing your phone gives you bad vibes (then I sincerely apologize friend)
Word Count: 563
----------------------------
Your doorbell rings. You weren’t expecting company and you really aren’t in the mood for it either. You just spent the last two hours trying to retrace your steps to find your phone– in the pouring rain. Your sister came to town for a week. Today, she insisted on dragging you to some fan meeting for whatever kpop boy group she is currently fixated on. You truly could care less about a bunch of pretty boys but she tossed in promises of a massage, mani-pedi and bottle of wine the next time she comes to visit. So you caved. It was only after she hopped in her cab to the airport that you realized your phone was missing.
The doorbell rings again but this time more persistently. Whoever it is, does not want to go away. Annoyed and drenched, you walk towards the door and peek through the peephole. A handsome blond man, in a dark blazer and jeans is standing on your doorstep. You have no idea who he is. He vaguely looks familiar but you’re not very good with faces or names. He keeps looking down at something in his hands.
“Who is it?” you ask, watching him through the peephole.
“Byun Baekhyun. I found your phone at the fan meeting–” he says, holding it up. You slowly open your door. He smiles politely. “Your sister kept calling it. She seemed worried so… I answered it. At first, she didn’t believe me. She made me sing. Then she started screaming and crying– well, anyway… She finally calmed down enough to give me your address.”
“Yep. That sounds like her.” You roll your eyes. “I appreciate it. Thank you. You’ve saved me a lot of time and money getting a new one.”
He holds out your phone so that it’s just within reach. As you reach for it, he pulls it back a little. “So… no reward?” He teases, giving a little smile. You raise your eyebrow as you reach out to snatch it from him. He gives it up but not without feigning shock.
“A ‘thank you’ should suffice. But I’ll also tell her you’re a good dude or whatever.” This makes him laugh, a deep laugh. You weren’t expecting it. “Okaaay, well. Goodbye Bacon.” You go back into your house and close the door. My sister and her taste in men, I swear to God. Looking at your phone, you see multiple missed calls and texts from your sister, worried that you weren’t responding. You also see a long, ranting text from her about how you are the luckiest human being on the face of the earth to meet her ult bias Baekhyun without even trying. Then she threatens–only half jokingly, you’re sure– that if you ruin her chance to marry him, she will kill you. You shake your head and toss your phone on your bed before heading for the shower.
Later that evening, you’re sitting on your couch, catching up on your favorite show. Your phone rings and you assume it’s your sister wanting to talk about that guy so you don’t even bother to look before you pick up. Might as well let her get it all out of her system now.
“Yo.” you answer, eyes still glued to the TV.
“Hellooo. It’s Baekhyun– the “good dude” that returned your phone. I was still thinking about my reward. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
— genre: angst, romance, implied smut, established relationship!au.
— rating: R
— warnings: angst; implied smut; mentions of food, anxiety, divorce, separations, and eating disorders.
— summary: quietude was a collective truth you shared with kyungsoo, but when that becomes the one thing that overpowers everything else in your marriage, you decide that there are changes to be made, new roads to be taken—with or without him.
— word count: 12k
— author’s note: a very happy new year to everyone! i'm not sure how and what to say for this one. sometime back i was in a conversation with @yeoldontknow and @j-pping about mundane marital angst, and then cried for like six hours after it and this idea would not leave me alone unless i outlined it and so here we are. go thank these women (or blame them idk lol) for inspiring me with this piece! happy birthday to the moon of my heart, doh kyungsoo! <3
It is unfortunate, you think, the way the sun wakes you up all on its own.
Even with the sleep that threatens to pull your eyes back shut, you watch the light filtering in, a serpentine shade of gold streaming through the curtains and the silhouette of the persimmon tree outside. Watching the dust motes that freckle the daylight makes you oddly thoughtful, an attitude that usually eludes you before the first crucial sip of your coffee, but their delicate dance is an impetus to your mind. Is it fulfilling to be abreast with the flow of things without a true choice, or do they have their ways of deflection as well? It hardly seems that way to your observations, the flecks of matter spinning to their endless, unheard rhythm. Minute by minute, the rest of the world gets your attention, strokes of colour and reality coming together to fit into your consciousness in the departure of your repose—the end of your blanket against the floor, the blinking light of your phone, the two pairs of glasses on the nightstand. The last one makes you pause.
He's turned away, tucked into the other end of the bed, stubborn and small against the sun as he sleeps, curled closely around the side pillow that helped with his chronic backaches. It brings back the prelude to his last session—your insistence to accompany him and his vehement refusal to let you waste the day in the waiting room. You'd fought for your catharsis in the kitchen, with his eyes awaiting your argument in the wake of his disagreement, but the band of gold on your left hand had made you settle for a whisper instead of a warcry.
“Maybe if you didn't shoulder life all by yourself, your trips to the clinic will end.”
It'd been a joke, but you've never been one to leave your humour devoid of your truth. He knew it just as well, and had graced you with a noncommittal hm before grabbing his coat and leaving. He'd not returned until late in the evening, and has asked if you'd had your dinner. When you said no, he'd made an attempt at chiding you, veiling it with banter.
“Sometimes I feel more like your habit than your husband.”
You'd not replied, finding yourself staring into the cold light of the fridge, your task of serving out the side dishes almost forgotten—not because he's said what he had, but because now you were made to consider if you had reduced into one of his many patterns as well. A routine, a bent of mind, a neural pathway that was established but not eternal.
His end of the duvet has ridden up, leaving the length of his calf open to your view. Fine wisps of hair lace his skin, as does the pale scar at the back of his heel, incurred from years and years of insoles and dress shoes that leave little room for comfort. The scattered stars of his moles peek from the edge of his sleepshirt, making you sigh. Something glints out of focus, and you spot it beneath the edge of his pillow—his ring. You find your own scrunchie nearby, a red bruise against the white of the sheets, having come off your hair while you did the countless turns you always do in your sleep. "Just leave your hair open when you sleep", he'd chuckled one day, barely two bites into his breakfast. "They always end up on the floor, and I pick them up." The immediate frisson of irritation had been strange, and the guilt that had shown up right after had felt even worse, but you'd settled into a "thank you" quicker than you had expected to. You wonder when you'd started suppressing the strength of your words, but more than that, you realise that he'd never noticed this retrograde of yours. Or maybe he had, letting the circumstance settle into the backdrop of his life like an overplayed song or a dated newspaper. They exist, but just beyond his priorities, bereft of his regard.
Pushing the blanket off, you take to your feet, pocketing your phone into your sleepwear, and out of habit, make an attempt at pulling the covers back over him, but the hesitance in your empty hands is jarring, so you settle for closing the blinds on his side of the room. I love you, you think, and every time you say that to yourself, you're taken back to the countless times you've texted him those three words and ended up with i live you because that is your truth. Your existence is an echo of his own, you'd be lost without his voice—and you think you are, because when he vowed himself to you, in sound and in silence, three years ago, you didn't quite realise how quiet he can become. But you love him, you tell yourself. You live him. You'll do whatever you can to preserve his peace, even if it meant staying out of his way.
“You changed your lockscreen” is the first set of words you hear from him that day.
It takes you a few seconds, maybe a few too many, to leave the line you were reading in your book, to meet the question behind his bespectacled gaze—it'd been a good line, a great few pages, and you'd been effectively lost, but now you can barely remember what it was. Something about two lovers and a room, something about Paris and its many hidden affairs; something about an unsaid lament about one never giving up, and the other never giving in. Something about loving, and something else about losing.
“I... think I did?” You wonder if he meant it as a question or a passing observation, then you realise you wanted him to mean it as a request. What happened to the photo we took in Taipei? We both wore red, and I kissed snowflakes off your nose. What happened to us? Please bring it back. All those things, those pinpricks of pain that you come up with, all on your own, remain with you, because the only thing that escapes your mouth is “Were you on my phone?”
There is no bigger truth than the fact that you hadn't meant it to sound the way it did, but the longer you live in his silence, the nuances of your language become endangered. Anxiety camouflages into shades of anger, and concerns slip into that box to the left called conceit. You try to swallow your regrets with a sip of coffee, and the liquid torches your tongue immediately. Penance comes in so many shapes, you're surprised every day.
“Is that what husbands do?”, he fires back, but stitches a lopsided laugh to its ends, taking off his glasses and tossing them onto the newspaper unravelled before him. “I think I failed, then.” His neck looks frail, you notice now, the angle of it not unlike a knife against the sun that sieves itself through the window and meets his skin, settling onto him like a sheen of mist. Without the refuge of his spectacles, his eyes look ancient, withdrawn, consumed, and you almost inquire about his sleep, almost apologise for your tactless question, almost needle into everything that has reduced your marriage to this perpetual oscillation between doubt and distress.
You take another drink of your coffee. It doesn't burn you this time, but you wish it did. “What is it right now? I can't remember.”
“The moon.” He sips from his own cup, then flips the page on the newspaper. “Your mom texted while you were in the washroom, and the screen lit up.”
You despise the way you have now handed him an excuse to explain himself, posed a threat to his understanding of how you see him. If regret was a rope, you'd try to hang yourself, your mother often tells you. It translates terribly into any language that isn't your native tongue, but you get it now. He's staring at the ceiling, you're not sure why, but you keep seeing a lasso of your mistakes looming over his head. What would it take for you to lean over the counter and pull him into a kiss? Nothing, everything. Every movement he makes, conscious or otherwise, you find pieces of him that tug at the forest of your bones, threads of tenderness and temptation alike. He'd trimmed his hair again, not anywhere close to his former buzzcut but nothing like how he'd keep it when you were dating.
“It's inconvenient.”
In the golden cathedral of your bedroom, you chuckle as you watch him rush around, limping on one foot as he puts on his sock. Your thighs complain when you rise from the sheets and pull him in by his belt loops.
“If you grow it out”, you coax him into surrender with your lips, “I'll write my next story about you.”
“That's what you always say”, he retorts, leaning into your kiss despite the ticking clock on the wall and the nondescript car that will be waiting outside your building in about ten minutes. “But I'm yet to see any of them.”
You don't speak of the three open tabs on your computer or the scribbled lines in your journal. To love another person is to see the face of God, you'd learnt from Victor Hugo, but you had only ever lived its truth with Kyungsoo. Every word you write now is an ode to him, every line a hymn in his honour, but there's no coherent way to ever tell him that without the fear of what he will think of it. “Keep the hair and we'll talk.” He laughs into your open mouth, and you eat the sound of it like you swallowed the sun, your jubilance making an Icarus of you. “I already miss you.”
Kyungsoo pulls you off the bed and onto his lap as he takes to the floor, and the daylight becomes his mistress, clinging to him like she wishes to scorch you off his skin. “Two weeks. I'll call everyday and you will tell me what you wrote and ate all day.”
Those last words makes you shrink away a little, the blanket around your bare skin suddenly feeling short and sparse, but his grip refuses to waver. There had been... erratic incidents you'd endured by yourself in the past—sharp, subconscious shifts that would take over your diet and make you collapse if left unchecked. He'd unfortunately witnessed the tail end of one of them shortly after meeting you, finding you in the ER when you'd had a predetermined outing with him that evening, and had made a personal ritual out of this knowledge thereafter—a complete awareness of your meals if he wasn't around in some capacity. You glance at the Casio watch on his wrist, he's down to six minutes.
“Dulzura”, he pleads, bringing out the name he used as an ace, a weapon against your every misgiving, and you look away in defeat, only for him to caress the ends of your lips until you gave into a smile that stretches across your mouth and into his own. “Take care of my heart. I'm leaving it here.”
“I will”, you'd kissed back in reply, “I'll try my best.”
Watching him fold the newspaper and take it with him when he walks out of the kitchen, you think you're still trying. You're still holding it, carrying it, looking after it. Why must your hands feel so empty, then?
Three days later, he's folding clothes into a bag, while you are in bed, trying to read the same single paragraph for the past half hour and wanting to feel anything but the tightness in your chest as you watch him pack. He takes a tentative glance in your direction, which you pretend to forego in favour of your book, and from the corner of your eye, you can tell he's stuck with choosing between neckties. He doesn't ask for help, though, so you don't offer any. Upon blindly reaching out for the glass of wine on your nightstand and bringing it your lips, you remember it's empty. Ugh.
“Quote me something from that book.”
You almost drop the glass from your hand, barely depositing it back onto its previous place without any mishaps. “What?”
“You've been rereading”, he says, eyes and hands busy with folding that one shirt he never travels without, you've never quite understood why. It's not the best shade of blue, the stripes around the cuffs are strange, and it looks equally dull beneath a suit and a jacket. Quietly shifting on your side, you peer into the open wardrobe in search of the maroon one—you'd always toss that one in whenever he had to fly out for an event. It hangs in the corner, pristine and perfect, right next to his array of turtlenecks. You sigh and look away, only to find him staring at you. “You've had that book for years. Read me a line.”
It's a thin book, about a hundred and fifty pages, and you've perhaps memorised it during the ten years that you've owned the copy. The ends of the cover have yellowed, like a promise of autumnal comfort, and you flip through the coloured tabs of annotation to find something that ceases his awaiting gaze. It is a terrible thrill, to ache for his awareness but never know how to wordlessly endure the unbridled strength of it, much like the sea that longs for the night, but is whelmed every time the moon arrives upon her. Nowadays, you expect his nonchalance, maybe his impatience, but not his curiosity, and it's taking you a while to relearn the ropes of being on the receiving end of such a situation. While you choose a significant line amongst the several that swarm the story, he turns around and combs through his closet. You watch the back of his head, the resilience of his shoulders, the curve of his right ear, and realise that you're a coward. The rug on the bedroom floor is an ocean of your anxious making, and you never learnt how to swim. It is the only thing that keeps the chambers of your chest from crumbling, and reins in the fearful need you suddenly feel to glue yourself to his frame and atone for whatever has made him withdraw from your existence. You hear him exhale aloud, pulling out more ties and holding them against his suit.
I can help, you almost scream. I am running out of reasons to be here. Make me stay. Let me help.
“Found one.” The ties drop from his hands almost immediately, as if you scorched him with your demand for his attention, and you forget the lines you were about to read. A different pink tab rushes into your aid, pleading for you to not give up on the first thing, the only thing, he has asked of you in forever, but just as you go over the words, your voice collapses into a void of fear. The fucking pink tab has ruined you. It has handed you a mirror.
“What are you doing all the time? And why do you say nothing?”, you begin, severely regretting your chronic inability to refuse anything to him. This is terrible, the way you can see his eyes falter. “You are evil, you know, and sometimes when you smiled at me I hated you. I wanted to strike you. I wanted to make you bleed. You smiled at me the way you smiled at everyone, you told me what you told everyone—and you tell nothing but lies.” You try to breathe through the final words, and the room seems to reek of entropy. “I am nothing to you, nothing, and you bring me fever but no delight.”
You take off your glasses right after, craving as much incoherence and ambiguity as you can grasp with your two full fists, and you toss the book behind your pillow. He's yet to move, and as has been established already, you're a featherweight in the face of friction—his silhouette is blurred chaos to your impaired vision, and you wipe at your face, thinking that you'd somehow started crying. Tonight, with your unintended honesty, this only shred of candour that you have openly expressed to him in a long time, you've given him, and yourself, several reasons to give up. Either that, or there was never any ground to hold onto in the first place, and you'd both cohabited a castle in the air that has now ceased to exist.
Leaving the empty wine glass in the kitchen sink, you rush into the bathroom and stay there until you're convinced that he's in bed. The faucet makes for good white noise, but only for a while, because the floor is cold and so is the counter and you only have a t-shirt on and he's flying to Madrid in less than eight hours and you're not allowed to tell him you will miss him, not tonight. Not after you watched him splinter beneath every word you read from that book. Maybe this is why you hold back, why you've never cleaved the restraints off your diction. You're vicious, and the only path to peace is your surrender into silence.
When you finally return to the bedroom, he's lying on his left side, pretending to be asleep, his glasses beside your own that you'd left behind in your haste to not be subjected to your own cruelty. Tonight, you become a ghost in your own home to preserve his little performance, and you come to bed with your hair open so he doesn't have to kneel and pick up after you. You sleep, and yet, you don't, because you're up before the sun and you watch it stream onto the quiet world in reds and golds. The persimmons hang from the branches like clusters of fire.
He's awake when the coffee percolates, and he's in the kitchen, freshly showered, when there are eggs on his plate and rice in his bowl. You stare out through the window while he eats, wearing that blue shirt you despise, even though on him it looks no less than a shattered piece of the sky that he had claimed for himself. “Are you not eating?”, he asks through his first mouthful, a subliminal request of a shared meal, but you don't encourage yourself to believe it.
“Maybe later”, you reply, pouring yourself some more coffee. “It's still early.” When you've done the dishes, you find him standing in the doorway with his tie undone, and you had to clench your jaw to hold back a sob. He keeps his hands in his pocket, and you don't look anywhere besides the job you've been gracefully given.
“Anything you want me to get you from the trip?”
Yes. You. The man I wanted as my husband since the day I first met him. My ability to call you by your name again because it is an unquenched desert in my chest. My capacity to stomach the fact that I love you despite your silence and you love me despite my futility. My will to live despite the dawning truth that we've changed beyond repair. My desire to not feel like we were fine only when we weren't vowed to each other until death do us part.
“Not really.” This time, you smile at him, and your heart remains in your throat the entire time he stares at you while you fix his tie. “I think I'll go to my place for a bit”, you tell him, carefully, with caution. Every word you utter after last night feels like a weapon. “To write.”
He tilts his head in genuine inquisition, and you almost laugh, hopelessly endeared. Will you ever be over the affection that stems from his very existence? Or is it all an elaborate lie you've wrapped yourself in to hold onto his last name? “Is it not quiet enough here?”, he asks.
“No, it is.” You try to hold back on what you say next, but you're exhausted and so are your inhibitions. If there is something you can send him off with, it should be a kernel of your truth. “It's always quiet. When you're not here.”
It's quieter when you're with me, and I don't know what to do about it. I thought I was scared when you shattered a plate after an argument that one night. But I think I can live with broken porcelain as long as it's not our hearts on the floor. All of my sounds have always been for you, but they're wounded from your silence. They will have to find a home that isn't you, and I will help them. The first time someone ever asked me why I write, despite my austere degree in medicine, I'd said I wish for my words to be no different from the doctor's scalpel. They must rip through skin and sinew, they must rescue lives. This time, I think, I must save my own, and yours in the process.
When you hand him his glasses at the door, he pockets them, then kisses you goodbye, missing in a way that only lets him peck at your cupid's bow. He watches your eyes flutter open, taking a swift hold of your hopes that he has something specific to convey, something that doesn't make you writhe in doubt, but then he's gone. You watch him disappear into the car that waits for him countless floors below, wondering if he'd worn his ring back on before he left, then you realise you never told him that you will wait for his call when he lands. By the time you reach his closet, you're crying, and you find the maroon shirt gone along with the black tie. It should make you smile, but it doesn't. You pull out an overnight bag, throw in some clothes, for work and for sleep, and call for a cab that will take you to your apartment on the other end of the city. Looking for your faithful red scrunchie to pull your hair together, you find it missing, settling for an old blue one that drops to the floor alongside your own two knees when you cross over the threshold of your destination. It's empty, colder than you remembered it being three winters ago, and the quietude that gnaws at the seams of your skin is just on the right side of bearable because it is one that you chose, one that you can cultivate into a renewed relationship with yourself. You spend fifteen minutes on the living room floor, choosing the right music, coming to the understanding that you can never play Sinatra again without the memory of the refrigerator light and his hands at your waist, and when Nat King Cole sings Solamente Una Vez into the glaring silence of your bathroom, you turn on the shower so you don't have to hear the lyrics, but can still hum along to the tune and veil the sounds of your heart as it withers into oblivion.
Hours later, you're in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee as you stare at your laptop screen, the cursor blinking at you like an open wound. For all the poetic renditions of the search for a muse, there is a severe void in the premises of what happens when it has been lost. While you pray for a thought untouched by him to come home to you, it dawns on you that you never asked him when he's returning. Swooping your phone off the counter, you open your messages, fully ready to fire out your quick question about his arrival because it's easier to present your thoughts to him when he's not looking at you and pretending that he isn't privy to all of your truths already. Out of habit, you scroll through some previous texts you'd shared with him—a Spotify link to an old song your mother still sings for your dad, a voice note of him after five drinks from a hotel room in Tokyo, a picture of the claret cup cactus on the balcony when it flowered for the first time. It hadn't always been so quiet, and what invites itself into the joints of your fingers is this helpless scream of i love you, what have we done to us, so you let the device drop from your touch in favour of your coffee mug. Snow fills the outer eaves of your kitchen window, and you throw it open, a wave of cold air rushing over you like a benediction as you watch people walking the street below, knots of hats and coats disappearing into the night. You wonder how many of them are married, and how many are just trying to stay that way.
“2.1 in every thousand people”, Jae says through a mouthful of pancakes. “Over a hundred thousand cases, annually.”
You're not quite certain how you arrived at this point of the conversation, but that's mostly your fault because you had subconsciously favoured the hurricane in your head over the lucid voice of the family law attorney sitting across from you. January has never been your favourite month, even with the snow and the lilting festivities riding the wave of the new year, but your friend being in town to see her in-laws was enough incentive to pull you out of your hermit cave. The maple syrup smelled sweet enough for you to feel a migraine close in upon your head, and every time she mentioned your husband's name it was like taking a bullet to the heart. You manage a smile at the ring that has eventfully returned onto her left hand, imitating the sun that peeks through the restaurant window.
"That's a lot of divorces for one year", you finally say.
"I mean, me and Sehun added to it", she snorts, and you swat at her arm before she can proceed with her regularly scheduled husband-bullying programme. "Until we didn't."
"And we're all grateful for it", you chuckle. "Every party we had until you both started with marriage counselling was like watching a rigged game with one of two stupid outcomes—you arguing with him or going home with him."
"Enemies-to-lovers is the hot trend, after all", she smirks. "Not like you'd ever know. You and Soo have always been the beacon of hope for the squad, as Jongin liked to put it after Sehun and I dropped the ball."
"More like you took a break from holding it all the time", you grin reassuringly, taking a sip off your espresso and letting the moontide of your husband's name ebb away from the grip of your chest. "For someone who was so confident about the divorce being the only right choice, you sure do make a lot of jokes about it now."
"We were both such fraidy-cats about it." Propping her face onto her arms against the table, she shrugs. "The hardships that came despite the love we had were unexpected, so we just convinced ourselves that we'll be better without each other. It hit us quite hard, the fact that love isn't always enough."
Throughout the rest of the breakfast, you don't look at Jae for anything longer than a moment, because you're afraid that you will spill into tears before she's even had the chance to ask you anything. You watch her munch on a slice of peach from the stone fruit salad, and when she forks into another one and raises it up, you shake your head in a gentle decline.
"You didn't even touch the pancakes", she worries. "Won't you eat something?"
"Maybe later." You carefully turn the morsel back towards her mouth, and she frowns but eventually relents, humming into her bite. "It's still early."
"You're writing again." She pauses before taking a sip of her latte, looking excited. "How's that going?"
It's at this point when you almost tell her, let your angst scatter out like the sugar from the torn packet in the serving tray, but you don't. When you were fifteen, you would write poems into little papers and wrap them into roses, a twofold manner of affection because nothing singular had ever felt enough to carry the love that lived in your chest. At twenty-five, in this very diner but two tables away, you'd picked out a napkin from the holder and written llévame a casa, mi amor, folded it into a star, and watched his ears catch colour when he'd read it and all but dragged you home. Loving in secrecy was never something you'd been good at, but there was a delicate volume to it that you had always maintained. Taking a serviette from the table, you try for a rose, then a star, and realise you have forgotten how to make both, so you build a crane instead, a silent wish for everything you have found, and yet lost, somewhere along the way. It's neither as good nor as sharp as it'd be with origami paper, but it's enough.
"Slow." You put the finished crane onto the tray, right beside the spilt sugar, and pull yourself into a smile. "Difficult."
When you leave the diner to walk Jae home, the bird remains on the table, as if trying to remember how to fly.
"And how long is he gone for?"
Not looking up from your sliced carrots, you reply, loud enough to reach the person on the screen. It is a thorn to your conscious memory, the fact that you never did send that text that night, never quite quenched your curiosity with regards to his return, never gave yourself an exit out of your constant cowardice. "A week, I think. Probably more."
"You're not sure?", she says, frowning, and you chuckle at the creases that appear on her face as she leans further into the screen. "He'll miss his birthday, then?"
"Ma", you scoff, hoping that an impromptu virtual luncheon with your mother and her endless curiosity can serve as a good distraction from, well, everything—currently, though, she's not being helpful. "We already discussed this earlier."
"I don't trust you when you talk about important things with your little tippy tappy texts." She frowns some more when you snort, looking severely unconvinced. "You've been like this for months."
"I have a job, you know? I know writing doesn't count as one to you but still." I also have a husband. And a home. Or so I think. "I get busy sometimes. Calls with you can take hours, so I just message instead." When she's silent, you assume she bought it, and smile to yourself as you slice into a tomato.
"Are you okay?"
You pause halfway into the incision you made, and thin, red juice trickles onto the chopping board. No. I don't know. I want to be. I'm trying to be a lot of things, mother, but there's always stuff I turn out to be bad at. Mortgages. Meditation. Marriage. I never learnt how to make peace with moderation. Neither did my ways of love.
"Of course", you fake a grin. "You sure you didn't call me to complain about dad watching late-night football without his hearing aids?"
"No, but it's a tempting idea", she huffs. "I was going to ask you and Kyungsoo to visit us old people sometime soon, but he's away."
"What if I visited alone?"
"Didn't you say you have work?"
"Oh, to favour a man you've known for five years", you snicker, "over the daughter you've had for almost thirty."
"Y/n." This time, she sounds serious, somewhere between imperative and implorative, closer to the stringent parentage you had as a child, especially with the full soundbite of your first name. "Birds don't stop building nests just because storms exist."
With a sigh, you toss the knife into the sink. You never quite finished slicing the tomato, but you don't think you want to, not anymore. "The older you get, the vaguer your proverbs become."
"And the older you get, the more stubborn you seem to me."
"Ma", you're the one imploring at this point, because this is yet another thing you're terrible at—signing into sources of support. It isn't as much of a surprise that she's picking up on and cutting to the heart of things that have been thorning into you, but it's an added ache in your chest that the one choice you'd made with unrivalled faith has still somehow brought you here, back to where you were some years ago—alone, in your apartment, with someone trying to euphemize your failures to you. "I'm fine. It's not the first birthday he'll be missing."
"Is he okay, too?", she challenges, and even through the screen, you can tell that she's aware of the unease she's reeled you into. "Did you ask him that?"
"We're used to it."
"If you settle for silence", she advises, leaning away from the screen, a signal that she's done with everything she could've said, "you'll forget how to make a sound when you need to."
You decide there's no real way you could win this conversation, no certain alternative into establishing the lie that there is indeed nothing wrong, that you're not the blunt edge of a knife that yearns to be honed back into happiness, but are fearful of the clamour it shall bring along. It has always been a sore standpoint for you—the careful emotional distance you've eternally kept from your mother, but it has never impeded the way she easefully unravels your secrets, and while you continue to be hesitant with sharing entire truths with her in fear of her unfiltered judgement, you've come to accept the way she shows care, irrespective of how unpleasant it can often be.
"I just miss him", you relent, coming up with a roundabout version of your truth. "And myself."
Your mother hums on the other side, followed by a clink of dinner plates—a signal that she's serving herself a meal. She then turns back to the screen, shaking her head in resignation. "You remember the time I left your dad? You’d been sleeping over at a friend's place and I just walked out after a fight, no explanation whatsoever. I took the train to your aunt's house, stayed there for a week, wondering when he'll beg for me to come home."
It's been more than a decade, almost two, and details have never been your strong suit, but you have a memory from sixth grade when you'd called for your mother, hair undone with half an hour to go before school, and your father had just looked away—the only time you've seen him openly steeped in a shadow of shame. You'd remained worried about her, but had refused to ask again, never wanting to see him so vulnerable before you, and had then been effectively whisked off your feet by a week of cafeteria snacks instead of the lunches your mother would pack for you. Being eleven was simpler than it had seemed back then.
"When he finally called me, I was incensed", she continues, "naturally so. I went to war against my family to marry him, and he wouldn't even leave his own pride to keep me with him. He sounded like he'd aged up ten years in all of ten days, and I said I would only return if he convinced me that we'll never be so cruel to each other again. He told me that he can promise me the world in a heartbeat, but he can't persuade me because he loves me. He loves me, so he wanted me to choose him with all of our uncertainty. All over again."
"But", you bite out, your jaw taut in anguish, "if you were hurt enough to leave him, that meant something."
"So did the fact that every silent second away from him was louder than any of my screams at him", she sighs, looking wistful in the aftermath of her remembrance. "I left him to find my peace, only to realise that I left my soul behind. I could exist, but I couldn't live."
You turn back to quietly shove the food back into the fridge, the gust of frozen air a balm to the trail of tears that mark their way across your face. The carrots look like strips of cold fire in the blue light.
"You didn't even make your dinner, Y/n", she yells out from behind you. "When will you eat?"
The wall clock in the kitchen clicks into eight pm and you think of him, a mirage in the Spanish sunscape, settling into lunch as noon rolls in on his side of the world. You think of his hands breaking bread and his lips smiling at people, his silver pen in his breastpocket—the one you bought him on your first anniversary, the only thing you could afford then—and his tie around his neck. You didn't do it for him this time, you wonder how long it took him in front of the mirror. You wonder if he turned around, ready to wait in the doorway until you put your fingers to use, but was met with silence and misery. You wonder if you haunt him every time someone speaks in Spanish, every time there is paella on his plate, every time Maye sings on the radio.
"Maybe later", you press your lips into a thin smile at your mother on the screen. The inside of your head feels like being six feet underwater. "It's still early."
Two days before his birthday, when you're two bites into some strawberries and your hair is halfway into turning an adventurous shade of red, you get his call, and end up kicking the fruit bowl in the wake of your surprise. You put it on speaker so the cream on your scalp doesn't smear onto the phone—an act of cowardice, to be honest, because that's hardly the only reason.
"Still writing?"
Six. There were six strawberries, and now they've left six bloodless stains on the rug. You drop them back into the bowl, along with the fork that you'd been using. The cursor on your laptop screen is three pages into the document, a relentless blink. "Kinda. How's work?"
"Slow. Difficult." You hear the squawk of a seagull somewhere behind him, and a rush of water. "You sound far away."
Four simple words shouldn't be allowed to hurt as much as they do, despite the logic that he's on speaker and you're cleaning up a mess you made minutes ago. At least scrunchies didn't leave stains, or you'd never hear the end of it. "I'm supposed to."
"Because I'm here?"
No. Because we're unhappy. "Maybe."
Then there's silence, the one eternal metonym of your marriage, followed by a burst of static and a sigh. "I'm in Palma."
"I heard the gulls." You check the time on the clock, it's a little past four pm, making a quick surge of worry take hold of your breath. "It's barely dawn there, why are you awake?"
"Couldn't sleep." There's a dull ache in your chest now, and you press your lips together to repress the concerns that wish to tumble out and paint you vulnerable. You could cry, ask him to go to bed, request him to leave it all and fly back home to you if it's keeping him up at night. You don't. "It used to be bright by this time. When we were here before."
Together, you finish—not for him, but for your own hopeless heart. "It was summer, then. You should go to bed."
"When will you be home?"
For a moment, just for a sliver of a second, you feel rebellious. Righteous. Resilient against the wind of his voice that swims through space and saltwater to reach your ears. "I am home."
"Are you?" He sounds genuinely confused, but the intonation of it flattens out sooner than you’d wanted it to. You have always favoured curiosity over calm. "Our home, I mean."
"No.” Unwittingly, a quote returns to your memory, somewhere in the pages of the book that you had read to him that night and watched the light in his eyes collapse into a vacuum of your vicious making. You will go home and then you will find that home is not home anymore. Then you will really be in trouble. As long as you stay here, you can always think: One day I will go home. Four years ago, you found yourself in a sprawling apartment in the melee of Seoulite effervescence and were immediately met with the dawn of a homecoming, even before you’d felt his arms around your waist and his mouth at your ear saying welcome home, love—it had hardly been about the minimal decor or the five bookshelves in the study he’d added for you. It was him and his heart and the way it skipped over its own rhythm whenever your hands found him. It was the way you could convince yourself that you’d stitched the sun to the goddamn sky, just from the way he looked at you. Now, you find yourself quite lost, yet again, because do you truly belong to a place where you must walk on eggshells at all times? “I don't know. Why?"
"It'll be silent." A new rush of the ocean almost drowns out the sleepless lull of his words, and it is a bolstered wave of heartache, the way you can see the water that laps at his feet, can taste the salt that mists against his cheekbones. "Without you."
“It’s always that way.” Finding no good ruse to withhold the angst unfurling across your blood like an ominous red flag, you give in—to the grainy honesty in his voice, to your longing for his eyes that hold the sun and the stars, to the truth that has become impossible to ignore. "It's always the same when we're together.”
"No, it's not."
"Kyungsoo", you argue, his name the blunt edge of a knife, a shrapnel of vehemence against your tongue, and yet, somehow, the holiest of hymns. "You should sleep."
It is silent again after that, save for the breathing on either side, paired with the distant undulations of water and the occasional squawk of seagulls beneath the Spanish sunrise. It scares you, all over again, the insistence in your chest to end all of this unsaid violence with a simple i miss you, but all that threatens to show up is several, severe renditions of we can’t keep doing this. He's your husband, the man you’ve loved beyond your every expectation, and every night you tell yourself you’re going to wake up knowing when to end this, but the sun arrives with the indelible knowledge that a departure from him would make a spectre of you—there will never be a moment in time when you will not be haunted by the gravity of him. He is the one you love, in stillness and in sound, but this unvoiced discord is killing you, slowly but certainly.
"Say that again."
“What?” You wring through your brain for the memory of what you said last, and a few moments later, thankfully, are able to return to where you were before the stretch of mutual silence. "Right. Get some sleep."
"No." You can hear him struggle, his mouth heavy with the evident strain of insomnia and something else—something foreign that lives in a house up the hills between regret and resentment. "My name."
It'd been an impassioned slip of yours, birthed from your concerns about the insomnia he’s taken to, but now he asks for a reprise of the one word he hasn’t heard from you in weeks, and it is a spark of fire in the woodland of your ribs, waiting to set your existence up in flames. “You have work in less than three hours.”
“My name.” This can’t do, this subtle surge of his stubbornness when you’ve got a story to finish and he has rest to catch up on. You have a dinner to make (if you feel like it, and you don’t), a new book to read, and a deadline in four days. He has a meeting, probably a lunch with some bigshot clients, and overpriced room service that will hopefully be enough to rescue him of his tedium. You could ask him to talk about his disquiet, and he could follow through on it; you know neither of the two will happen. “Say it.”
You keep count as the needle carves a path around the face of the wall clock—one full lap of the twelve numbers that mark the constraints of time and tenacity. There were nightmares you used to have a few years ago—hardly uncommon, but with your lifelong fear of heights, the dissociated dreams of your body dropping off the edge of a building and meeting its demise used to equate to days of fear and fatigue thereafter. The feeling of your deliberate detention of his name reminds you of those nocturnal misfortunes, your divorced mind watching yourself cling to this flimsy strand of pride from across an estranged distance. Fully expecting yourself to give up if he persists through another painful cycle of sixty seconds, you mentally relearn the weight of his first name, a perilous prayer coming alive in your mouth; you reacquaint yourself with the rounded tenderness in the syllables, the gaps and breaths that come before and after it has been spoken into the universe. But just as you tuck the first whisper of it into the press of your lips, he’s the one who relents.
"You were quiet before." This time, the water that floods his feet holds nothing against the tide of his voice, and somehow, you feel the crash of it in your chest, tremors of it ebbing across your fingers. "You're silent now. That's the difference."
Then, he hangs up. Six specks of strawberry syrup dry on the rug as you rinse off the hair dye, letting the shower go on long enough to prune your fingertips. Two hours later, when you meet the bedroom mirror, you console yourself that you're now wearing the red that colours the mornings in Mallorca because it’s the only way you can touch him without leaving a bruise on his heart.
“Kyungsoo”, you utter, quiet enough for the winter outside the window and the 5:12am on the fluorescent table clock across the room, even though the distant echoes of metropolitan traffic persist even at this hour of dawn.
There is a dull thud you hear on the other end of the call, followed by a fumble of his breath that makes your heart squeeze in on your blatant lie, but there is a half-packed suitcase on the floor, one end of something blue falling out onto the rug, and the leathered plaque of your new postgraduate degree gleams in the early daylight. You’re already letting the words spill, there is nowhere to return now. “We keep trying. To love each other, to make it work, to let all of this mean something more than the hours we get to spend together.”
“But I don’t think this is working.” He didn’t say a word, not yet. The subsequent sounds of a running faucet and a shutting slam of a door makes your predetermined speech trip over the tangled wires that line your aching chest. You wish to ask him to say something, anything, but you’d taken off that badge of privilege the moment you decided to do what you are currently in the thick of. “It hasn’t worked, this thing we have, for a while. ”
The clock says 5:16, and you wonder if the next sixty seconds will pull a protest out of him, if 5:17 will make you change your own mind and return you to the alcove of his arms. The dim blue outside your window has begun to give in to the auburn gold of the upcoming day, their tryst showing up as a clouded sheet of pink, and you imagine him looking at the same skies from his balcony. The cadence of your voice had been careful throughout the call, you realise now, probably making him hope for you to take it all back, to divulge the reasons that made you attempt at this unbearable severing, to tell him you love him and this was a terrible mistake to even try for.
“I love you. I have to let you go before I begin to resent us.”
The click of the disconnected call is the only response you get from him, rightfully so. 5:35 arrives with a resolute shade of red across the skyline, and the one-way ticket to Madrid burns in the nascent morning. It creases under your hands while you cry. A familiar buzz echoes in the room, and you scramble for your phone, regretful and ready to atone for your earlier misgivings, but only if you can manage to grasp it, and you can’t. The device continues to alert you, always somehow out of your reach, and then you’re falling.
It’s the hardwood leg of your sofa against your head that wakes you up, and you can already feel a bruise forming. The disorientation only furthers itself, from the roots of your dream into the reality of your living room floor, because you can still hear that damned buzz of your phone, but it’s nowhere to be found. When you finally locate it, it is face down beneath the couch cushions, and the screen has just gone back to black in the aftermath of a lost attempt at communication.
Six missed calls from him. There were six separate instances when he picked up the phone with an intention to hear from you, and you had failed to meet him halfway for all of them. No messages await you, though, so you assume whatever surge of interest he had felt had now passed. Your laptop sleeps on the coffee table, dark and inanimate, plugged in after the hours you’d spent writing until your body had forced you into some rest. Deciding on firing it up soon after you’ve gotten some caffeine in your system, you leave the cold support of the floor in favour of a trip to the kitchen, but are taken aback by the chime of your door as it unlocks from the passcode someone uses on the other side, and then you see him. It’s him. Of course it’s him. Why is it him?
“I called you”, he says, holding up his phone as if it were a weapon against the disbelief he thinks you’re going to send his way. “So many times.”
“Six times.” The lost sleep still weighs heavy over your language, like an entrapment that makes your words sound and insinuate differently from what they’re meant to. “You’re here.”
He rushes past you, socked feet trudging into the kitchen, his shoulders set in a stony manner of suspicion that is unlike him. His facemask meets the floor on the way there, and you pick it up, letting your fingertips find the innumerable breaths that live in it, the ones that you couldn’t see or taste or witness in their making. You see him run his hands through the faucet, then move through shelves and bowls and the refrigerator. The contents are tragic—a bottle of water, an orange, two store-bought cupcakes, the last of a milk carton, and the carrots from that dinner with your mother that never quite happened, embers in the bloodless blue light.
“You didn’t go home”, you repeat, barely coherent in your surprise to see him in your apartment, still getting used to his gaunt frame beneath the tousled turtleneck. “Why?”
The fridge falls shut when he lets go of the door, and you hear the bottled water tumble off its shelf as it closes. He takes off when you reach his side, marching into the living room as you sigh into the cold smoke of the fridge, putting the bottle back in its place, then taking out the orange and shutting the door. Your hands hold rings of bitter peel when he returns, arms holding brown supermarket bags and his phone blinking from a corner of his backpocket. It is ridiculous, you think, the clinical immediacy with which he can throw himself into whatever garners his attention, brow clenched as he flicks on the unused stovetop and sets a frying pan onto it. It is the closest thing to noise you’ve heard in a while and it leaves its music in the roots of your nerves.
“The company car wouldn’t drive to an address called wherever my wife is, so I took a cab and came here.”
Your fingers smell like a winter afternoon as you unwrap the orange and scale off the white veins that line the cloves of pulpy fruit, and you dare not look at him yet. He’s frustrated, you can tell—a storm lives in the spot behind his neck where he keeps touching, an anxious tick he’s always had, and he swallows the ghosts of words you know are fighting their way up his throat.
“It’s not been a week yet.” That was a stupid thing to say, and you scorn your undying need to fill every wordless breath that extends beyond a minute. This continued apprehension of silence was never a part of your internal making, and you’re so frazzled by this unwelcome change in you. He pulls the abandoned carrots from the fridge, rinsing them under the tap for a moment to get rid of the cold that clings to them, and then tosses them into the steaming pan. The blades of orange announce themselves with a sizzle of smoke and the faintest scent of sweetness. “You’re always gone for longer.”
“Things happen.”
A gentle broth ripples in the pot over the adjacent flame, with half-cooked sheets of kelp and slices of radish, and you would’ve walked up to his side to switch it off and help him with everything thereafter, but you’re warned against it with an outward hand and a shake of his head. “Maybe later”, he mumbles, never looking away from the stove as he reduces the flame and adds some soybean sprouts and dried anchovies to the mix. “It’s still early.”
“You weren’t sleeping well.”
“I deserved it.”
The orange peels slip from your hand when you look up to meet the bizarre reply he’d given you, finding him bent over the counter with knuckles that match the snow on the windowsill, and a hurricane locked into his jaw that could burn you a lot more than the pot of soup he refused to let you touch.
“Kyungsoo—”
“I asked you.” He looks entirely consumed now, his eyes dilated into a bleakness that snatches your breath from your chest like a string of pearls torn off a neck. His spine holds steel in the length of its heart when he stands back upright, a shuddering sigh leaving the open wound of his mouth. “I—I have just let things happen. Disappointments are a constant, and I wasn’t ready to face this one. But that day, I asked—I almost begged. I could have. I wanted to. I needed to hear you say my name, needed to know I hadn’t lost you.”
“You heard it now.” Your head is shaking in immediate vehemence, the pressure behind your eyes ready to give way to salt and sorrow. “You didn’t lose me.”
“Maybe not yet”, he looks away, switching off the roaring boil of the pot. “But I think I am starting to.”
Kyungsoo slices through several reds and greens—some broccoli and bok choy, then bell peppers and some chillies, and the sound is a jarring comfort that settles onto your skin like morning mist. The scent of orange hits you in the face as you muffle a sob into the back of your clothed wrist, afraid to break the spell he’s cast with his unexpected appearance. He’s always been a seamless fit into your house, into your heart, a natural ease held in the joints of his hands as he touches onto every surface and leaves a memory of his existence, a knowledge of his permanence in your lifetime, and you’ve felt the dawn of this current crisis for months, but never has there ever lived a doubt in your head, since that very first time, years and years ago, that he is the one you will love in your every tomorrow.
“The entire time I was in Madrid”, he lets out a wry laugh, “I kept remembering how you once left me for that place. To write, to get away from that degree and that offer letter and those years you’d spent ensuring the happiness of everyone except yourself, and I didn’t think I had a right to stop you. I always—I keep letting you leave me without a sound. I let you break until it is loud enough for me to hear, while I only give you silence.”
Already, you can taste the blood that will seep from your lip beneath your teeth, and already, your hands ache to clutch at his skin and welcome him home, the prolonged hesitation in your muscles asking to be released. You’d dreamt of the same self-made catastrophe earlier, and he’d been timezones away, fearing a repeat of the same thing. He’s the man you love, he always will be, but he’s still just a man—one who is capable of tremendous tenderness and violence and a maddening mix of both that testifies for the truth of his humanity. He’s the one you love, the only love you struggle to sustain because every confession of it feels like a conquest of your entire soul, even after all this time, all these years of marriage. It is a terrifying act of bravery, you now think, to have your heart set on someone who only exists to test the limits of it.
“I couldn’t even text you today, when I was in the car.” He speaks every word like it is going to shatter beneath his slipper the moment it hits the ground. “I saw that picture you’d sent me, the one from Taipei, and I remembered that you used to have it on your lockscreen. And now you don’t.”
“Kyungsoo, I’m sorry.” It comes all at once, an apologetic eruption that should have happened weeks ago. “I hadn’t meant the way I’d said it, then.”
“I know you didn’t. We’ve been so quiet we don’t know how to make our words sound right anymore.” He flicks off the stove, then sets two earthenware bowls, piling in layers of food—rice, greens, kimchi, and finally the soup, with a sprinkle of green onions and sesame powder. “I watched you fall apart in that chair, and I ran. I am always running. It’s like a lifelong penance you go through for leaving me that one time.”
“I love you.” It is an undoing of every square inch of your heartache, that one push of your tongue against your teeth to spell the word love because every great truth is birthed of sharp objects, that one breath of saying it out loud while he’s in the room and not on the other end of the world. “It’s too late to change that, if that’s what you’re trying for.”
The spoon clangs into the bowl he’s serving into, his forearms clenched below the sleeves that he has rolled up while cooking. “I’m selfish”, he whispers, “I love you, I can’t think straight without you. I’m greedy and hopeless and if I wasn’t, that’s exactly what I’d be trying for.”
Broken bits of orange peel litter the floor below your seat, and you feel them beneath your toes when you stand up, your feet pulling you to his side. Kyungsoo edges away, out of instinct, when you reach him. You’ve been hiding for so long he’s forgotten how to respond to your presence. His wrist trembles when you take it in your hand, an earthquake concealed in every moment of your touch.
“We’ve changed”, you sob, earnest and eager for his understanding, “so much, but still not enough to give each other up.”
He cries too, then, head hunched over the hardwood counter as the tears leave his body in a havoc of wordless breaths, but he doesn’t let go of you, turning his wrist so your fingers can meet his own. It’s fearful, his first moment of impact against your skin, as if your bones would give way to empty air if he tried too hard, too much, for too long, and yet, it is the most courage either of you have shown in a while. Your hands feel cold as they meet the warmth of his shoulder, rubbing in slow circles.
“The food’s getting cold”, he sniffles into an observation. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know”, you say, somehow managing the most brittle of smiles, “when was the last time you slept through the night?”
The humour lingers in the air, despite how dry and desperate of an attempt it is at having a normal conversation after a confrontation that had been seething in your mutual silence for ages, and you still await a smile, maybe a laugh, a lopsided pursuit of reciprocating the faintest of baby steps you’d taken towards him. You expect it all, just about everything, but not a worded request.
“I’m going to hold you”, he whispers, finally meeting your eyes, and it is helpless, the way your blood soars beneath the totality of his attention. “For however long it takes for us to forget that we ever considered a life without each other, I’ll hold you.” He tries to smile then, a lilt of a curve appearing at the ends of his lips but it splinters almost immediately. “If it’s too much too soon, you should tell me now.”
It is despicable, the surge of fear in your chest when you are handed the affection you’ve yearned for. He’s afraid, too, because his eyes keep flitting between the vision of your twined hands and your faltering mouth as you grasp at stray words, looking for anything that would make sense amidst the magnitude of this moment. “I—I don’t know”, you blurt, immediately regretting the way it sounded. “I don’t remember.”
“What have you forgotten?” He steps into you, the air in your lungs a sunflower hooked to his soul, and when he drags a hand across your cheek, you realise you’ve been crying again. “What is it?”
“Being yours”, you whisper, feeling small and spellbound in his extraction of your truth, like a bud unbloomed but attuned to the sun even before its birth. “It’s been so long, your hands feel like history.”
Almost immediately, you’re swathed in a wreath of his arms, draping around your midriff as he quietly pulls you into him, his broken sigh cradled into the top of your head as he tethers himself to your scent, inhaling deeply as his touch tightens around you, a miniscule but radical shift in your twin hearts. You stay like that, for minutes that feel like millennia, and while your sobs find your absolution in the fleece of his sweater, he relearns the circumference of your spirit with his fingertips, your skin urged into a homecoming while the rest of you follows.
“You have to eat”, he mumbles, the ends of his words tearstained as he faces you again. “You’ve lost your belly. Your wrists look like chopsticks.”
“I love you” is all you can manage. You’ve missed saying it so emphatically, so unapologetically, with your entire chest, because every time you did, it’d feel like a wound you’d unearthed from the archives of your mistakes. “I’m sorry I let it get this far. Every time I tried to say something, it’d feel like living under a guillotine. I had you, all of you, and I still wasn’t happy. I felt like an ingrate.”
“I love you more.” Urging you to take a seat beside him on the kitchen chairs, he takes your bowl, a spoonful of soup suspended in the space that separates you from him. “Eat. That empty fridge looks sadder than the two of us combined.”
You wrap your lips around the morsel, your stomach relaxing into the first helping of food that isn’t cold fruit or convenience store carbs. Wiping the end of your runny nose into your sleeve, you smile. “That tastes familiar.”
He presses his lips into quiet confirmation. “I’d made it for you”, he offers, watching you pull in the plate of stir fry, holding up a floret of broccoli that he accepts gratefully. “When I came back from that work trip and found you in the ER.”
You look away then, but he tugs your face back up to him for a piece of soy glazed mushroom. “I should’ve known. I knew things were spiralling when you found a way to do everything on your own. You’d even refuse to let me help with dinner, and would then spend the entire time pushing your food around your plate. You stopped writing, stayed up late reading old books or old movies, looking for familiarity everywhere other than me.”
“Work has been stressful for you”, you quip, the excuse tasting sour on your tongue. “I didn’t want to waste the little time you have at home by bringing up my personal crisis.”
“Personal?”, he says, a little louder than all of what he’d said from the moment he’d crossed the threshold of your apartment. “We’re too old to let things like this remain personal.”
You barely hold back a scoff, amused at his new attempt at humour. “It felt personal when I could see you trying to find out what’s wrong and I’d just deflect. I just”, you pause, your body slowly being lulled into a candid comfort from his touch and the gift of a warm meal in your belly. “I see the world in you, and I didn’t think I had the right to ask for more. But every time you’d leave, I’d feel like an echo of the door falling shut behind you.”
Kyungsoo stiffens then, and you see the stony set of his jaw as he withholds a fresh wave of tears, so you take another baby step of bravery, pushing the twin bowls to the side and leaning into him, head against his heartbeat, the one sound you’ve missed so much. His hands find the dip of your back, clutching at your sweater as the air in his body stops being an upheaval. “I’m sorry”, he says, quiet resolution filling his words. “You’ll have to teach me. The art of leaving you alone, but never lonely.”
You snuggle further into his chest, feeling your own heart settle into the subtle sounds of his blood and breath. “I have to learn, too. Giving in, instead of giving up.”
A gentle nudge at your chin makes you look up, and you’re put in the face of a gaze so magnified it robs you of whatever you were planning on saying next. He thumbs at your cheek, careful caresses threatening to pull your eyes shut but also carving a chasm of need into your belly that is only ever sated under the regard of his own desire. You feel like a stranger to this sentiment, this appetite that hasn’t been a part of your marriage in a while. His other hand pulls itself into a fist against the back of your sweater, and you keep from exhaling audibly. It’s unfair, this incurable chemistry despite the miles of wasteland that precede this moment right now.
“I know”, he whispers, as quiet as the night that has brought him to your door. “We will learn again. When it’s time.”
“We don’t need time.” An evident shiver runs through him when you press your forehead to the shadow of his jaw, your skin meeting his daylong stubble, the tremble beneath his bones a profound temptation. “We’ve never had enough of it, anyway. We just need reminders.”
His eyes are twin obsidians when they find you again, both of you on either side of a tightrope that stands to test your faith. He’s the man you love, but he’s just a man—scarred, bruised, and prone to fear and flight, just like yourself.
“I meant it when I said I’ll just hold you until you’re ready.”
“I know”, you smile, leaning a hand up to rest at his cheek as he unveils every possible consequence of what you’re asking of him. “It’s why I’m still here. You’ve never not meant it when you said you love me.”
He looks down at his hands that rest against you, looking immensely thoughtful, almost reverent of the way they can encompass your entire existence. You notice the way his teeth have found his nails too much too often, the ends bitten down into thin slivers. Taking his left hand, you hold the back of it against your lips, the taste of gold meeting the parted wetness of your mouth in a kiss.
“Llévame a casa”, you plead, holding hands with the fear that warns you of his possible rejection, “mi amor.”
Tugging his hand away from the temptation of your mouth, he finds home in the curve of your nape, a choice of entanglement that burns from the fervid heat of his palm to the reverent focus in his pupils. “When people unearth history”, he whispers, looking at where his skin meets your own, his wrist angled against your neck, not unlike a blade held up to the sun, “they’re seeking a challenge. They’re looking to get lost.”
“Then we’re a step ahead”, you reply, leaning into the fulcrum of his touch, unable to help the hope on your face. He’s the man you love, but he’s just a man, and you both wear the burns of all the times you’ve thrown your love into the fire to see how long it takes until you’re jumping into saving it. You’re the one he wants, and he wears every farewell you’ve sent his way, medallions of the countless chances you’ve given to him and yourself. There is no greater warzone than a marriage of people who are bewildered, every day, by the immensity of their loves. “We’ve been lost for too long, it’s time we came home.”
When Kyungsoo joins his forehead to your own, there is a void veiled beneath your sternum that clenches into a closure unlike any hello or farewell you’ve exchanged with him. This is neither a renaissance of your marriage, nor a reset button on the grief you’ve caused upon each other. What it is, or at least could be, is an avenue of faith where, no matter how far the world spins away from its orbit, you’re yet to know a life that isn’t encompassed by him. You could grasp through the dead heart of a tunnel and find him, you could be underwater for an eternity, and yet, the first breath of air in your chest would know his name—you’d know him, always, even on the coattails of your every lifetime.
Moving back from the embrace, you take in the smile that laces his lips, pressing your mouth to the corner of his own. “Happy birthday. You’re officially an old man now.”
“I love you.” The first streaks of daylight greet you through the kitchen window, and you feel his fingers against your scalp. “That morning, when I called you. The dawn looked like your hair.”
He’s the man you love, your full moon, and you’d be the sky, and every last star, just for him, as long as it brought him back home to you. Pulling at the seam of his sweater, you give him another kiss. Kyungsoo laughs when you shove a cold hand into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around an unknown piece of satin. When it meets the light, it turns out to be your lost red scrunchie.
"I took it with me and kept it on the bedside table." He looks away, overcome by the whelm of his own confession. "Pretended that you'd wear it to bed with me and I'd get to pick it up in the morning."
"I love you." Wrapping the regained red slip around your hair, you smile. The snow on the windowsill looks like crushed gold, and you could already hear birdsong and the occasional car drive by. It was quiet, but nowhere near silent. You were ready. "Let’s go home."
The quotes in italics that are read and mentioned by the reader throughout the fic are taken from Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin.
The line llévame a casa, mi amor that the reader says twice in the fic translates from Spanish to English as "take me home, my love".
I am in pain, and it's the pain I've longed to feel for a while now. I missed watching movies like this and it's comforting. Thank you so much and your writing style is so commendable! I'm curious to know what books you read.
It’s 1:35 in the morning, and the want in sleep finds itself being at zero. This forces Y/N to leave her bed and enjoy a nice cup of warm tea under the stars.
Word Count: 585
Masterlist
If she had to put a dollar into a jar for each night were tossing and turning seemed to be better than sleep, she’d have to throw the covers off and put a dollar into that jar. Unfortunately for her, she found herself in an unfortunate situation.
The warmth from her dear boyfriend that usually brought her comfort and helped lull her to sleep did nothing of the sort this time. As she laid there eyes glued to the ceiling, she could only realize how awake she was.
Turning on her side allowed her to come face to face with him. For some time, she allowed herself to study his features, how he looked more at peace when he was asleep. Like the world didn't matter. It made her smile to herself. So innocent, not a single thing seemed to disturb him.
She knew the longer she stayed in bed the higher the chance was in waking him up. Slipping out of bed carefully, she slowly removed the limp arm that was around her waist. She glanced back at him to make sure such action didn't wake him but upon hearing the soft snore that emitted from him gave her the answer she wanted. She smiled to herself and made her way over to the closet that was in their bedroom, grabbing a blanket and wrapped it around herself.
After making her way downstairs she walked into the kitchen and quickly made some tea for herself. She grabbed the warm cup and made her way to the balcony. Sliding the door open, she slipped onto the balcony and made her way over to the swinging bench that was tucked away in the corner.
She sat down, adjusting the blanket around her, mug firm in her hands keeping her fingers warm. The breeze that greeted the calming air was bearable for the late night. But that wasn’t going to be her focus. What she wanted to do was stare up at the beautiful dark starry night.
And that’s what she did.
A smile found its way onto her face as she took a sip of her drink. The commotion coming from the night owls down below was silent and calming. Cars that passed by her building remained silent, almost wanting to be unheard. The situation was perfect. A perfect night to stargaze.
"Another sleepless night huh?" A husky voice asked from beside her. Sleep was laced within his voice, and when she went to meet his gaze, a smile was held for her as he sat beside her joining her under the soft covers. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"I didn't want to, you looked so peaceful." She told him. She knew her excuse wasn't good enough. He had told her countless times to wake him up if she had a sleepless night. Tonight, amongst the many others, she found herself not able to take him from his sleep.
"You look beautiful in the moonlight." He mumbled to her, kissing her forehead lovingly. "Just know you can wake me up at any point, even if I'm gonna be busy the next day I'll make it work. You're more important than sleep, you're worth every second of my time."
She tore her gaze to glance back up at the starry sky, a smile still on her face as she took in each of his words.
"How about we go inside, I don't want you catching a cold." He suggested, hoping for an answer.
Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual content ; light bondage, blindfolds, body worship, oral (m. receiving), edging, unprotected sex
A/N; plz this was supposed to be a birthday post for soo but I’m so late it’s not even funny. but blindfolded soo is too hot not to write so here you go lovers, enjoy!!
Lace looks good on him, you decided then, admiring the masterpiece laid out beneath you with a satisfied smirk. Black lace and black silk, a perfect combination. The lace, tied securely around your boyfriend’s beautiful eyes. The silk, around his slim wrists.
It was the third time this day when he caught you staring. It was just a moment, shorter than you could proceed – definitely not enough time to look away. On the first time, you pretended that your eyes were just randomly wondering around the room. On the second, you brushed it off with an awkward cough. On the third, however, you found yourself just carrying on with the blunt stare, way too tired to even realize that you’ve been staring at him for the last few minutes.
The librarian stared back at you for a few seconds, before smirking and looking back to his work, and only then had you realized what you’ve been doing. Except for it was too late to actually brush it off, and your mind instantly started to exaggerate the whole thing.
Did he think you’re crazy? You wouldn’t be surprised. You were sitting there with your third coffee, trying to work on your project, but said project had been forgotten around a quarter ago, because you were just too worn out to continue it. You found yourself trying to rest by leaning your chin on your hand and staring at the most stare-able thing in your sight, which happened to be said librarian.
He was handsome, but you’ve seen handsome men before and yet you weren’t one to salivate at their sight. He dressed well, but you’ve seen well-dressed people on daily basis, for example that accountancy professor your friend showed you the other day, he wore it better than most of the girls around him, which kinda struck you that he was so creative as for someone who sacrificed his life to numbers.
