Hello, Could You Make Yoongi Wallpapers? It Can Be With Any Photo. Thank You In Advance!

subtle intimacy is so soft!! knowing someone’s routine and slowly becoming a part of it. memorising favourite teas and soups and drink orders. good morning and good night texts and messy paragraphs of love written half asleep. nicknames only you know. just!!! small things that say “look how dear you are to me.”

SILENT NIGHT ‧͙*̩̩͙❅ CL16

pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader ( she/her )

summary: Loss doesn’t need to be lonely, grief doesn’t need to be an enemy.

warnings/info: hurt/comfort, mentions of death — loss of a loved one, grief, crying, hugs/cuddling, the internal conflict of loosing someone during the holidays.

word count: 1.2k words

note: the 27th of december has not been the happiest time of the year for me in a while, so yes, this is kind of self-indulgent. this is also for those who have lost someone during the holidays (or ever). i know how painful it can be to put on that fake smile, to force yourself, but please don’t. cry all you want, feel all you want, don’t destroy yourself for things out of your control or that are no longer under it. you are not alone, you are loved and cared for, always remember that. ♡

snowglobe, a holiday special

DECEMBER 27th.

Humans are not forever.

It’s evident, plain to see, to experience, but then why love so deeply we yearn for infinity? Care so strongly while knowing its definability? It’s what makes you human, everyone says—loving people who give so much to remember, getting your heart broken by them because, at some point, it’ll be your turn to break one, two, a hundred hearts. 

They say a heart that's broken is a heart that's been loved, so you’re glad your heart’s broken. Even when mom’s not here to swipe your tears, hold you close, or tell you how to fix it—when she's not here to argue, talk it out, or stay silent—you're thankful she got to see you grow, see you fall, stand up, and succeed. She saw you fall in love and loved the man who held your hand.

Said man must be near—Charles must be somewhere near; you can hear heavy breaths leaving his lips every now and then, something he does when he’s overthinking. It’s strange, you think. Perhaps he’s become such a recognizable character in your life that it’s instinct to hear it, or, more realistically, the small sound assumes spotlight because of the silence embracing your apartment. You don’t know, and you don’t think further about it. It’s just Charles.

You think about the time lost, not knowing how long you’ve been here, cuddled on the beige couch in your living room as memories of your mom submerge your mind. You stare at the half-drunk cup of hot chocolate settled on the coffee table; it seems cold now. That’s a way to ensure time has passed.

Your slight change of focus leaves the dissipation of heavy breaths unnoticed. Now you hear their replacement, gentle steps that grow louder until they stop before you, crouching until green eyes meet yours. Charles looks beautiful. The dim lights of the fake fireplace and Christmas tree caress his features. His eyes don’t look as green, but a warmer color. He smiles close-mouthed, taking your hand in his, and you let yourself smile back.

He doesn’t talk, understanding you well enough to know you don't want to talk at all. His thumb starts making shapes on your skin, memories taking you back to that night a year ago, when Charles drove you home from the hospital, his hand never leaving yours, doing the same shapes he’s doing now. You remember how, upon arriving, he stayed next to you until you finished one glass of water, then made sure you dined, how he helped you shower, and the moment he cuddled you in bed while you cried, muttering sweet nothings in your ear, his voice quivering because he had been crying too—he had known your mom for eight years by then. He called Andrea the following day, asking to be instructed in soup making and taking care of the two of you all day.

A lot of those days were faint, blurry memories, but if there's one thing you are certain of, it's that Charles never left.

Your eyes travel around the room, landing on a photo on the wall. It’s Christmas 2021, you and your family are all warped up in each other—it’s one of the pictures your dad lent you early this year, once hung up on your mother’s office. Next to it is one of a younger Charles with your mom and dad. It was taken a little over six years ago, the day you told them you were dating. It makes you smile. Your mom always loved Charles; even before you started dating, he was her favorite friend of yours, always so kind and funny. 

You’re about to travel back in time when there’s a small tug on your hand, turning your attention. Charles is moving around, sitting down on the floor. He looks up at you, then at the picture, he smiles saddened, the beautiful memory stinging as much as it does to you.

For the first time, you feel the need to say something, to explain yourself. But not knowing what to say, you say the simplest: “I miss her so much.”

He leans down to kiss your hand. “I know, baby, I know."

Silence falls over you once again, and the necessity to talk vanishes. You look back at the gallery, now focusing on the same type of picture as before, but it's a younger you with Charles, his mom, and brothers; there’s a bed between you and Charles, Hervé Leclerc smiling at the camera. There's writing on its frame: May 2017. You look at Charles, a small tear tempting to fall but a smile on his lips. You lean down to kiss his cheek, letting him know that it’s alright to cry. He brings you closer, kissing your lips—small pecks over and over again.

He stops, briefly glancing at the other two photos hanging on the wall, one of Charles' family and another of the two of you, promise rings on your hands, smiling at the camera. You think about your families, about you, and about how it's been a year since your mom left, and you still want to tear the world apart. A newfound feeling spreads across your body: guilt. Guilt of spending your night consumed by dread and grief, letting Charles fall into it.

You hate this feeling. 

Charles let’s go of your face, cupping your hands together with his. You know he sensed the change; his big green eyes are asking questions you don’t want to answer. You want everything to stop hurting, the memories to stay happy, and the bittersweet taste on your tongue to be eradicated.

He waits, and you break. “I want it to stop,” you mumble. “I want the pain to go away; I don’t want to think about it. I want to go back and not feel like I did on the 24th, like I wanted to run away and cry in my room for hours. I don’t know how to deal with this, Charles; this is too much. I can’t, can't do it.”

The buildup is too much, your breathing is heavy and fast. Charles hurries towards you, his hands hovering over your frame. “No, non, bébé, I’m here; you know I’m here, just like you are always here for me,” he hesitates, but charges through. “Someone once told me that it’s okay to feel sad, it’s okay to cry, to, to grieve. She told me: Grief is part of love, never hold back from loving.”

And you don’t know what to do or say. He’s cupping your face, looking at you so lovingly as he continues, “You told me that, chérie, so don’t hold back; even if she’s gone, keep loving her." He says, “You will slowly let go of the loss, I promise, I know how it is, just never feel guilty for loving her.”

It occurs to you at that moment that you haven’t cried in weeks, tears forbidden by a nonexistent rule, so when the first sob leaves your lips, there’s no regret over it. Tear after tear, sob after sob, your heart grieves.

Charles crawls up the sofa, bringing you to his arms, your head now on his chest, wetting the soft material of his shirt. You are about to care when his hand brushes your hair and back, and there’s no use in stopping it.

“Thank you,” you say between sobs.

“I love you,” he answers, knowing you do too.

i miss my mom so much

taglist — @smartstupyd @ziarah @nouvellevqgue @iloveyou3000morgan @carsgovroomm @goldenalbon @doofenshmirtzevil-inc . . . add yourself here

when you left us, part three | ksj

pairing: dad!seokjin x absent mom!reader (or not? ohoho) warnings: angst (of course); fluff; mentions of financial issues; allusions to su!cidal thoughts; mentions of sickness/illness (not serious); mentions of cigarettes and alcohol; a scene in a hospital/healthcare setting; pregnancy; mentions of the korean postal service written by someone who has never used the korean postal service word count: 7.0k note: this really just ended up being a love letter to the korean countryside… to which the resolution of this story is incidental, oops. this was originally just meant to be a two-shot; i had no plans to reconcile this couple at first, because i felt okay leaving their story open-ended. but by popular demand (i.e., the 2-3 of you who directly asked lol), i’ve brought them back! disclaimer: this ending may be a little too simple for some, but i literally could not put them through any more angst lmfao

part one | part two

— 

The letter arrives, and to Seokjin, it feels weightless in his hand, a hope waiting to be shattered—a delicate and fragile thing in an envelope no bigger than a paperback.

These days, this is what passes for a routine: He puts his daughter to bed, reads her to sleep with a bedtime story, then waits for the sitter to arrive. Sometimes Hyejin will stir before then, will demand his attention and presence a little longer, but these nights are becoming increasingly rare. She needs him less and less, something he tries not to take personally.

In the thirty minutes it takes the sitter to get to his apartment, he sits at the kitchen counter and takes care of things, the excruciatingly mindless tasks that make up adulthood. He pays his bills, renews his auto insurance, sorts through his credit card statements, orders toilet paper and hand soap. He saves the paper mail for last, pulling the catch-all basket across the counter and shoving his laptop aside.

He doesn’t know when checking the mail became such an unpleasant part of his evening. If he had to guess, it’s probably around the time you left. The mail delivered a lot of difficult things back then: automated alerts that your name had been removed from the joint bank account; boilerplate notifications from the police station that there were no updates on your case; school forms that asked for only one parent’s signature. 

The postman never brought missives from you. Any sign that you were still out there, any hint that you still cared for him and Hyejin.

But time heals wounds, and the ache has simmered down somewhat by the time he drops down tonight in his usual spot. He rubs a sore spot above his eyebrow. The day hasn’t been a good one—he had to postpone two important development meetings to pick up a feverish Hyejin from school in the middle of the day, and spent the better part of the afternoon convincing her to take cough syrup and calling the doctor. A dull headache pounds between his strained eyes as he sifts through the overflowing basket.

An ad for a new supermarket nearby, coupons for pizza delivery, a plea to subscribe to the local paper. He sets these aside. And then his eyes land on the letter.

It’s your handwriting. The same hand that filled out all of Hyejin’s school forms, left him love notes on the fridge and drafted personalized thank-you notes to your wedding guests. He marvels at the rounded, sloping curves and sharp corners in your characters. There’s no return address.

Before he can think about it any longer, he slips his finger under the flap, tears it open, and slides out the thin piece of paper inside. His hands shake as he unfolds it and presses it flat against the granite.

Dearest Seokjin,

I’m sorry.

Maybe you’ve moved on. Maybe this letter is unwelcome. But I have so many things to apologize for.

How are you? How is Hyejin? Is our little girl doing well? Are you healthy? Maybe it’s meaningless to ask these questions when I can’t ask you for a response.

I’m writing because I’ve missed you, and I am so sorry for leaving the way I did. I want you to know that it wasn’t easy for me to leave, and it didn’t feel like much of a choice. I know this means nothing to you now—in fact, reading this may hurt you more. But know that I continue to love you, forever, always. I think of you and Hyejin often.

I don’t know if or when I can return. I won’t ask you to wait for me. But please know that I didn’t leave easily. My heart remains with you.

It’s not signed—it doesn’t need to be. Seokjin would recognize your script anywhere.

A thousand emotions sear through his chest, all at once. Anger. Denial. Grief. Panic. Back to rage, and then just an immutable sorrow that lodges deep in his sternum and turns his mind to static.

He flips the envelope and letter around in his hands, unsure what he might be looking for. And then he sees it—a postal hub, crookedly printed into the corner. Nearly faded, but distinctly there—and legible.

The second the sitter arrives, he bolts out the door, keys in hand.

—

It only occurs to him once he’s well into the countryside that he has no idea where to start looking.

He has the name of the postal hub, yes, but this particular hub centers at least twenty spokes, at least twenty villages in this area. He can’t tell if it’s better or worse that it’s in the middle of the countryside. Fewer places to look, he supposes, but everything is so dispersed here, at least fifteen minutes of driving between each cluster of buildings, through narrow bridges over rice paddies, dirt roads cutting through patches of arable land. Even at night, the white humps of greenhouses breach the darkness.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He doesn’t play music to fill the silence.

He’ll stop at three villages tonight, he decides as he comes up on the first one, his tires crunching on the unpaved path. He sees a sign for a kalguksu restaurant, a worn-down convenience store, a handful of grizzled old men drinking and smoking on plastic chairs outside of it. This must be the equivalent of their town square, an intersection of two roads lit dimly by grimy street lamps and interior lights from the establishments surrounding it. The men look up as he approaches.

It occurs to him that he looks exactly like the type of person they wouldn’t welcome easily—broad-shouldered and scrubbed clean, still in his dress shirt and pants from work, emerging from a car that isn’t exorbitantly fancy but pricey nonetheless—but it’s too late now. He bows politely to them at a distance, and they incline their heads back, eyeing him warily.

“So sorry to bother you,” he begins, voice wavering. He pulls out the photo of you he’s kept in his wallet for years, worn around the edges but still clear. A solo shot of you on your wedding day, smiling brightly, so radiant that Seokjin’s heart still skips a beat at the sight. He hands it to the man nearest—the man puts it right up to his face, peers at it over the rims of his glasses. “I’m looking for my wife. Have you seen her?”

“Hey, Hyunjin-ah, doesn’t she look like….” The man pauses to think, puffing on his cigarette, and passes the photo to his friend on the left. “Ah, shit, why can’t I remember where I’ve seen her?”

Seokjin’s breath hitches as the photo gets passed around the circle of four, past the glowing ends of cigarettes and tanned knees hiked up to chests. A foolish lightness glimmers in the center of his sternum, one he fights like hell to tamp down. He doesn’t expect to find you tonight. Since when has life been that simple?

The man referred to as Hyunjin tips his chin down to his chest and grunts at the photo. “That girl... Youngja introduced her once. Can’t remember where she works.”

The lightness blooms a little brighter. Seokjin swallows the cool night air, fighting to keep his voice at a normal volume. “So… she’s here?”

The man sitting closest holds out the photo and brings his foot back down to the wooden plank below, sighing heavily. “Young man, come here.”

Seokjin does as asked, taking a tentative step forward, taking back your image. The man’s eyes grow unexpectedly tender, fond. This close, he can see the sunspots peppering the man’s face, deep grooves of exhaustion and stress parting his forehead. 

“Son, if she left you, she won’t return unless she wants to. There’s no use in bringing her home. She’ll just find a way to leave again.” The man pulls his mouth into a thin, knowing line, a joyless smile meant to placate. Seokjin closes his eyes in an attempt to stifle the protest swelling inside him.

The man doesn’t know, Seokjin tells himself. He doesn’t know you, doesn’t know him, doesn’t know anything. He’s just old, bored. Convinced he has wisdom to impart from his advanced age.

“Thank you,” Seokjin chokes out, turning on his heel and heading back to the car.

The old man might be right, he concedes to himself as he backs out of the narrow space, cutting the wheel with one hand, but Seokjin sure as hell won’t stop until he finds you.

Not when he’s this close.

—

At this hour, an impenetrable silence permeates the rest of the village. Seokjin’s headlights offer the only illumination on the roads. It’s not as if the town is stuck in the Joseon Dynasty—he spots flashes of smart TVs through open windows, newer-model cars parked with well-loved farming trucks flecked with rust. But it’s quiet, a kind of quiet he couldn’t find in Seoul even if he tried. He likes it: the sound of cicadas, the thick and earthy scent of irrigated dirt and fresh greenery. 

He’s not sure where he’s heading, just letting his car navigate the roads aimlessly. The few businesses he comes across have shuttered for the night: grocery stores, a small cafe, restaurants specializing in single dishes. As he drives, easing the car over a particularly rough patch, the man’s words ring in his ears.

She’ll just find a way to leave again.

He shakes his head, gripping the wheel.

You won’t, he’s convinced. Your letter lies open-faced on the passenger seat—he turns the wheel to the right, stopping in front of an old house, and parks, bumping on the overhead light so he can read your words again.

Know that I didn’t leave easily.

I don’t know if or when I can return.

All he has to do is find you, and you’ll come home with him, and his world will be righted again, placed back on its axis, continue to spin as it should. You won’t leave, because you love him too much to do it again.

He’s wondered about the reasons why you’ve left, of course, contemplating every possibility. There wasn’t much else to do on his long drives on Korea’s network of highways, in the dead of night with no one else on the road, no one buckled into his passenger seat. In the strained, muffled quiet of his softly humming car, he thought only of you.

He has his suspicions: a family matter seemed the most likely culprit. He thinks now he should have pried further, earlier, perhaps tried to get you to open up about your past. You only gave him the barest of details, just enough for him to know that they’d mistreated you and that you were thoroughly uninterested in reconciliation. Even now, the sight of your pained and watery eyes as you told him he’d never get to meet your family sends a knife twisting in his stomach. He wants to find the people who made you feel inadequate, unsupported, alone. He wants to make them pay.

He just can’t imagine what would be terrible enough to make you leave behind your daughter. 

He runs a distressed hand through his hair and traces the strokes of his own name at the top of the page. He sets the letter down. Perhaps, if he keeps driving—

Tap tap tap. He nearly jumps out of his skin, knocking his head against the ceiling of the car. Wincing, he turns to the right. 

An older woman—perhaps in her late fifties, early sixties—stares at him from the other side of the glass, wearing a floral nightdress and thick parka. She jabs a finger downward, indicating he should roll down his window.

Maybe he shouldn’t be interacting with so many total strangers tonight, people who could easily rob or dismember or maim him, but oddly enough, this serene and remote town inspires an indescribable trust. An ill-advised one, probably. But he cracks open the window anyway, rubbing at his throbbing scalp.

“Why are you parked in front of my house at this hour, you city slicker?” she demands. Her voice emerges loud, brash, but in a way that suggests stern affection, dry but fierce love. It reminds him of his mother.

Seokjin wordlessly hands the photo to her across the passenger seat. She takes it, squints down at it. “I was wondering if you’ve seen this woman.” 

The woman’s eyes flicker with something—something that sends another shot of light crackling through him, a feeling as blurry as a dream. “And what if I have? You’re going to get off my property? Stop crushing my plants under those tires of yours, hmm?” She snorts at the look on Seokjin’s face. “I can’t just give out information about people, kid. I don’t know who you are, what you might do to this woman—“

“She’s my wife.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Anyone could roll through here in their fancy little car and say that. You won’t get more out of me.”

Seokjin takes a deep breath—at once grateful for the woman’s discretion, relieved to know that at least someone around here cares about your safety, and frustrated that she won’t divulge anything. “The photo. It’s a wedding photo. Our wedding.” He thrusts the letter in her direction, too, for good measure. “She wrote me. She’s here, isn’t she?” He swallows, blinking back the tears that swell without warning. “Please. Please, I need to find her. I—I’m so close.”

The woman skims the letter, then looks up at him with an unreadable expression for a moment. “Why don’t you come inside, for some tea,” she says finally. “I think you’ll need to calm down a bit before going anywhere.”

—

The inside of the woman’s house glows golden from incandescent light bulbs, stuffed with items that remind him of his childhood—well-loved wooden tables low to the floor, seat cushions deflated from overuse, walls paneled in stained wood. He bows in gratitude as the woman offers him one of the cushions, right where the TV displays a rerun of a drama he’s already seen.

The living room opens up into the kitchen—Seokjin watches as the woman puts an electric kettle on. He's wondering why this woman trusts him enough to let him into her home, and then she says, so quietly he can barely hear it, “She is here. The woman you’re looking for.”

He sits up straighter, alerted by this admission, fingers curling against the edge of the table. “Where?”

Instead of answering him, she just keeps talking, hands moving briskly to tear open packets of barley and set out floral-print mugs. Her words come out soft, slurred, like she isn’t thinking very much about them at all. He hangs onto every one, nudging the volume down on the remote so he won’t miss a thing.

“She came a while ago. Small thing, pale. A little peaky, right?”

Thinking back, he had noticed you’d lost a lot of weight just before you left. He’d chalked it up to running around after Hyejin, not having enough time to eat while watching her—he’d always reminded you to eat breakfast before he had to leave for work, tried to cook for you as much as possible when he got home. He swallows back the belated guilt, jaw working.

“She wanted a job, and a place to stay. Those things aren’t easy to come by, around here. If you’re not a farmer, or related to one, not many empty beds, you know? Not many places to work, either. But I felt bad for her. I set her up at the cafe, found her an apartment.”

Seokjin can barely stand to hear the words, the history that he doesn’t know. Enough, he wants to shout. Does it matter why you left? Does it matter how you came to be here? 

It does, he realizes as the woman continues. Everything he’s missed in the intervening months—he needs to hear it. He needs to know what you’ve been through before he sees you again.

“How much do you know about the men who come around here?”

Seokjin freezes. “Men?”

The woman levels a stare at him, eyes swimming with something like pity, something like regret. Seokjin’s heart clenches. “I’ve lived here since I was born. I know everyone except the men who come knocking on her door. Do you know about them?” She takes in the look on his face, clicks her teeth. Turns her back to him to take the kettle off its base. “Your face tells me everything I need to know.”

Seokjin closes his mouth, unsure what to say next.

“I went over there once, to bring some misdelivered mail to her neighbor. Damn postal service. I don’t usually go to her place—she keeps to herself, you know, a very private person. But there were men at her door. Big guys.” She pauses to remove the steeper, frowning slightly. “Heard her call them oppa.”

Brother, or an older male friend. Seokjin realizes with a pang that he doesn’t know anyone that you would refer to as oppa. You used to call him that, actually. Then, once Hyejin was born, oppa became Hyejin-appa, became jagi-yah. 

He knows you have a cousin, one you used to contact once in a while, but the only time he saw her was to ask her if she knew where you’d gone. He’s never met a single other family member of yours. His heart contorts again.

At the time, he was too in love to press it. So enamored with your mere presence in his life, so determined to keep you safe and protected, that it didn’t matter to him how private you were. It didn’t matter that you kept parts of your life cordoned off and locked away, even from him. He told himself—at least back then—that he didn’t need to know. He accepted your judgment as best. He doesn’t overthink most things, and he chose not to overthink this.

Only now does it occur to him that protecting you, loving you, might have necessitated some honesty on your part. Some pressing on his part. 

Under the table, he rapidly taps out a Kakao to the sitter—he senses he’ll be here a while. The sitter agrees to stay overnight, and he lets out the breath he’s been holding. 

The woman brings over a plastic tray: two steaming mugs of tea, a small plate of cut persimmon and apple. He bows his head in thanks, accepts the mug, lets the warmth seep into his skin. The rich, sweet scent of the tea curls into his lungs, easing his ache just a bit.

“I only really heard them once,” the woman continues, crossing her legs under the table. “But they were asking for money, from what I could hear.”

Seokjin lets his eyes slide shut. “Money for what?”

The crunch of fruit between teeth. “I don’t know. Heard mentions of family, maybe. Family needing money. They mentioned a husband. Her husband. You, I’m guessing.”

Seokjin still doesn’t open his eyes. “They wanted my money.”

He didn’t grow up wealthy. They had just enough to get by, his parents running a series of street food stalls in a tourist-heavy part of Seoul. They weren’t poor, necessarily, but he does remember bundling up in the winter to cut down the heating bill, having to skip the occasional school trip when his parents couldn’t afford to send him, working part-time as a chicken delivery boy through high school and college. 

All of that changed once he graduated from college. A series of strokes of luck, some late nights sending off resumes at the library, and a few good sunbaes had landed him where he is now: an executive at a popular gaming company. He isn’t at the top of the food chain, but he certainly makes enough for Hyejin to have a sizable trust fund, to retire his parents, and to pay off the practically luxurious apartment he lives in now. He’s still careful with his purchases and hyper-conscious of his account balances, what with old habits dying hard and all. But he knows that he has more money than he knows what to do with.

No amount of money would have made him hesitate in the slightest, if paying it meant he could keep you safe forever. The air rushes out of his lungs at the thought of you not knowing this. At the idea that you could even doubt this.

The woman observes him with that mix of pity and regret again, then suddenly becomes stern again. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to see her. Not at this hour.” She nods at the ancient radio alarm clock on the end table—Seokjin realizes with a start that it’s almost eleven. “Do you have a place to stay for the evening?”

—

Seokjin doesn’t fall asleep until almost two in the morning.

His mind gnaws at Hyejin. Wonders whether she’ll be okay at home without him, wishes he could have explained to her before leaving her overnight. He’s told the sitter about Hyejin’s illness, trusts her to give Hyejin the right medication and feed her bland porridge, but regret washes through him anyway, and sleep evades him.

He’s grateful for Hyejin. She doesn’t have to be anything or do anything for Seokjin to love her—she just is, and for that, he loves her endlessly. But she also kept him together when you left, and without her, he isn’t sure he would have survived the worst of it.

The mornings when he woke up against his will, his chest searing with raw and unbridled pain when he realized that no, your departure wasn’t just some terrible nightmare, he got up anyway—Hyejin needed breakfast, needed someone to help her brush her teeth and drop her off at school. The afternoons he struggled to sit in his meetings, take phone calls and draft emails, proceed with business as usual—he only had to look at the framed photo of his daughter on his desk for a swift kick of motivation, a little extra push to get through it all. And the evenings he felt sorely tempted to sink into the couch with a bottle of whiskey and enough Ambien to put himself into a coma, he walked into Hyejin’s room instead—curled up on the rug beside her, one of her endless stuffed animals tucked under his head, and let the soft rise and fall of her breathing lull him to rest. She was his medicine, his therapy, a small pinprick of light at the end of the darkest tunnel. 

If he couldn’t stay alive for himself, he kept himself alive for her.

And then, of course, there is the promise of seeing you in the morning. The woman had offered to take him to see you when the cafe opened at dawn, handing him a set of pajamas her son had left behind on his last visit. He wriggles around in the well-worn fabric—they’re a bit too short on him, but feel soft on his skin nonetheless.

It was foolish—not to mention risky—to agree to sleep in a stranger’s house like this, and it occurs to him now that he should have insisted on staying at a motel nearby for the night, but at any rate he’s already buried three blankets deep on this woman’s living room floor, and it would be terribly rude for him to leave in the middle of the night. So he burrows deeper into the blankets, waiting for sleep to claim him.

He wonders how you’ve changed. Worry buzzes through him: Will it be like starting all over again, with you? Do you still love him, still remember all the little quirks about him that he remembers about you? Is there anything even left to salvage?

He shakes his head at no one in particular. It’s you, it’s him. He doesn’t care how long it takes—for you, he’d wait an infinite number of years.

—

By the time the woman emerges from her bedroom to take him to the cafe, Seokjin’s already dressed again, in his slightly wrinkled clothes from yesterday, blankets folded in a tidy stack by the couch. The woman glances at the clock—it’s only six in the morning.

“Let’s go,” she says simply.

The walk to the cafe is long by Seoul standards, easily at least three subway stops, but Seokjin’s too consumed by his own nerves to care, grateful for the half-hour of peace he’s been granted. The half-hour allows him to collect his thoughts, sort out his complex feelings. He’d offered to drive, but the woman had turned him down. 

You need time to calm down and think, she’d said. Seokjin knew she was right, but he was tiring quickly of that pitying look in her eyes. Like he had no idea what was ahead. 

Of course he’d come here to find you. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so fast.

The village hums with energy, the farmers having gotten up much earlier than he did to work the fields, well before the sun came up. The pair of them attract a number of curious glances on their way, some questions about where they’re headed, about the young man walking beside her. She just waves them off with a mild grin, says she’ll explain later—Seokjin bows his head obediently anyway, utters his greetings. His mother would kill him if he didn’t.

He tilts his head up to look at the silver sky, sucks in the humid air, takes in the bluish-green hue of the rolling hills around him. Dirt cakes his loafers as they pass over well-worn footbridges and narrow paths crowded by overgrown foliage, but he can’t bring himself to mind. Not when he’s this close. 

And then, all too quickly, the woman rests a hand on his upper arm and nudges him out of his head.

“She runs the place,” the woman says, nodding toward the building in front of them. It’s small, a bright blue house-like structure, so completely unlike the minimalist cafes peppering every street corner in Seoul that it takes a moment for him to recognize what it is. He reads its name from a small wooden sign above the door.

Café Moon.

Moon. You’d always loved looking at the moon. He swallows, looks at the woman for reassurance, unsure if he’s ready.

“Go on,” the woman snaps, that stern and dry affection making itself known again. She gives him a firm shove in his upper back. “I’ll wait out here.”

Seokjin nods gamely, clasps his hand around the handle, and yanks open the glass door, pushing himself through it before he can think about it any longer.

He sees you, and his world comes to a stop.

—

You see Seokjin, and everything around you slows—words, images, sounds.

Full lips, bright eyes, dark brows. Hair slightly mussed and pushed back from his forehead. Why is his dress shirt so wrinkled? Is that mud caked on his shoes? 

The cafe’s hit a lull. Most of the early-early risers have come and gone, and the next wave of regulars—employees from the local businesses, produce truck drivers, the retired women’s group that gathers to gossip and complain about their useless sons—won’t be in for another hour or two.

Which means you’re staring at your husband across an empty space, eyes rounded, lips parted. You have enough of your wits about you to not drop the glass carafe in your hand—you set it down gently on the wooden counter, not breaking eye contact the entire time.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He blinks, his entire face crinkling into it in a way that both feels utterly familiar and shatters your heart into a million pieces. 

“Hi,” he breathes back. His voice is the sweetest thing you’ve heard in months, and it’s like you never left.

—

“You wrote me.”

The woman who housed and walked Seokjin here is Youngja, the closest thing this town has to a village chief, and the closest thing you have to a friend here. Youngja putters around behind the counter now, serving the occasional customer and eyeing the pair of you from a distance. She doesn’t own the cafe, but she’s been around long enough that she can probably run it better than you do.

Meanwhile, you and Seokjin sit across from each other at a corner table with bated breath, hands wrapped around steaming mugs of coffee, unable to look away from each other.

You feel an odd tightness in your chest. You stopped crying ten minutes ago, and after running into his arms, you’d untangled yourself from his grasp with an overwhelming sense of shame. 

You don’t even know if he still loves you, cares for you, after what you’ve done to him. Now, your eyes drop to the table.

“I did write you,” you say slowly. “I didn’t expect you to be able to find me.”

“Ah, well. Mail goes through the postal hubs, you know.” His lips twitch a little, and it almost feels like you’re in college again, on your first date with the goofy but beautiful boy from your literature discussion, palms sweating and heart thumping with uncertainty.

“Right.” You say it quietly, and then you inhale. “Seokjin, I—“

“I’m sorry,” he says, interrupting you. 

You look up, eyes widening. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who left.”

Seokjin flinches a little, as if the reminder stings him. “Yes, but… I feel like I might have done a better job at… well. Being your husband, figuring out what was going on. And in case you forgot, I know you. I know you didn’t leave for no good reason.”

Your chest aches. What did you do to deserve him? You curl into yourself, still unable to look directly at him—if you do, you’ll cry again, and neither of you needs that now. “Please don’t apologize. I did this. To you. To us. To….” Your throat tightens. “Where’s Hyejin-ie?” Her name emerges broken, hoarse. It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud in over a year.

Seokjin makes a small noise, and you finally look up. His eyes are shining. “She’s with a sitter right now. She’s… wonderful, so smart and funny. We’re… we’re doing okay.”

“That’s good,” you murmur, but you’re not surprised—you’ve always trusted Seokjin, wholly and fully. You wouldn’t have left otherwise. 

But he’s here; he came to find you. You’d sent the letter with no intention of seeing him anytime soon, but maybe some part of you had hoped he’d find his way to you. That the letter would reopen the door, re-tie the invisible string, and bring him back.

You realize now, though, that he hasn't changed. He’s always been steady, ever-present like a heartbeat, or the moon. Of course he came to you. He never left.

You take a deep breath to ground yourself.

“I think you deserve an explanation.”

—

Epilogue

You feel like absolute death. 

You press your cheek to the blissfully cool porcelain of the toilet seat. You're vaguely disgusted by yourself—it's not the cleanest place to rest—but you're too wrung out to care, your entire body aching from bending over all morning. And not in a good way.

Your knees are starting to throb from pressing into the tile floor when you hear Seokjin calling for you, his voice growing closer as he wanders deeper into your bedroom.

“Jagi-yah, Hyejin-ie is calling for you, she says I don’t cut her sandwiches right—yah.” 

He rushes over and crouches beside you, brows knit with worry, one hand raised automatically to stroke your upper back. His touch feels nice, the warmth soothing you despite the residual ache pounding through your head and searing the back of your throat. “What’s wrong?” He doesn’t even wrinkle his nose at the smell of vomit lingering in the air—you make a mental note to reward him for that later.

You try to take a deep breath to calm the roaring in your ears, but it emerges shuddering, unsteady. Seokjin stiffens beside you, face going white. 

“Hey,” Seokjin says gently, pushing your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “I need you to tell me, please. What’s going on? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

“N-No,” you manage, closing your eyes. 

Your hand drops automatically to your stomach. You haven’t had your period in a while, you realize distantly. Seokjin doesn’t notice—he just waits patiently for you to come back to him, to find the words.

“Did you eat something bad?” He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, a gesture so tender and domestic that it threatens to flood your nose with tears. “Or feeling sick?”

“No,” you repeat softly. You take a deep breath and unstick your face from the toilet seat, then let yourself sink into his arms. He pulls you closer to him, presses your face into his broad chest, runs a hand up and down your arm.

Seokjin sighs, and you can hear the gears working in his head. “Okay. Why don’t you—“ 

“I think I might be pregnant.”

He freezes. “What?” Hushed, shocked.

“I said, I think—“

Seokjin doesn’t wait for you to say it a second time. He pulls back and holds your face in his hands, effectively shutting you up. But you smile, because the look on his face is the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen. Surprise, joy, delight, pure euphoria flicker across his soft features, his eyes flitting between your pupils.

“Pregnant,” he says quietly, bitten lips pulling into a small, disbelieving smile.

“I’m not sure, but I am late,” you say, just as quiet, just as elated. You’re afraid to shatter this moment, afraid to break the unadulterated joy settling over the two of you on your bathroom floor. “There’s a test under the counter.”

“Okay, I’m going to make sure our little monster isn’t cutting her own fingers off in the kitchen,” Seokjin whispers. He presses a kiss to your temple, long and deliberate, before getting to his feet with an old-man groan that makes you snort. “You take the test. I’ll be right back.”

You peel open the box, which does that annoying thing where the layers of cardboard separate, which leads to a few extra seconds of puncturing past the paper with your thumb before your hand finally closes on the plastic stick. You skim the instructions, pee on it, snap the cap on, and wait, taking deep breaths, pulling your pajama shorts back up. Maybe you should go see what your husband and daughter are up to while you’re waiting, you wonder, pacing back and forth over your bath mat with your arms crossed.

It wasn’t easy at first, working your way back into Hyejin’s life. Tying up the loose ends had been one thing—figuring out how much money would placate your family, having it wired, getting restraining orders in place to keep them away from you and Seokjin and Hyejin. Then it had been moving back to Seoul, saying goodbye to the people you’d come to know in the village, promising Youngja that you’d send pictures of your daughter, promising to return for visits. 

And then there was Hyejin. You learned quickly that she took after you, for better or for worse—hers was a trust that needed to be earned, not given over easily just because you bought her bungeoppang or took her to Lotte World. Both of which you’d done in the first week alone, in a pathetic attempt to win her affections.

You’re not certain you deserve to be bringing another child into the world. The guilt still eats at you, despite Seokjin’s (decidedly undeserved) reassurances that you had only been doing what you thought was best for her. That your leaving her had nothing to do with selfishness and everything to do with protecting your family. And it lasts even though Hyejin has warmed up to you, comfortable enough around you now to tease and blow kisses and throw tantrums the way she does with her father, putting her small and fragile heart in your hands again.

But it’s better now. Different. You run your fingers between your hips, almost without thinking about it. You know it is.

You glance at your phone—five minutes have gone by. You flip over the test.

Not pregnant.

Huh. Your lips twist into a rueful, joyless expression. Well, perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.

You hear your husband’s footsteps approaching again, and then he’s at the door, his wide shoulders brushing against the frame. “Well?” he asks, slightly breathless, eyes wide with anticipation.

You wordlessly hand the stick over, wet side toward you with the cap secured over it. “Nope.”

It’s almost comical how abruptly Seokjin’s face falls. But he’s your husband, so he composes himself quickly, and it only takes one deep breath to wipe the utter devastation off his face. “Oh. Well… how are we feeling about that?”

We. You feel like you’re on the most insane rollercoaster of emotions—going from feeling like shit to shaking with excitement to sinking with something that feels suspiciously like heartbreak, all in the span of ten minutes. You sigh. “Confused, I guess.” 

Seokjin wraps his arms around you again, resting his chin on top of your head like he likes to do, and you let your body heat meld with his, let this small gesture dissolve the lump in your throat. “Disappointed?” he murmurs. 

You’re grateful. You fell in love with him because of his simplicity, the ease with which he moved through life—his ability to make light of even the darkest moments. But you’re reminded now that he sees you, fully, completely. That he sees your pain and bears it with you, even if it’s not in his nature to sit with negative emotions.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “And maybe a little nauseated, still.”

He presses his hand flat against your lower back, and it feels nice there. Secure. “How about you visit the doctor, and I’ll take Hyejin to school? Could just be something you ate, but… just to be safe.”

You nod, pout a little. “But I love taking her to school.”

“I know,” he laughs, “but you can take her tomorrow, if you’re feeling better.”

So that’s how you end up sitting in an urgent care clinic alone on a Thursday morning, leg bouncing up and down nervously against a green plastic chair. The nausea persists—you step into the restroom a few times to vomit but just wind up dry-heaving, force yourself to breathe through it and take small sips of water, try not to inhale the powerful smell of antiseptic, shield your eyes against the blinding fluorescent lights. You’re far from the highest-priority patient, so it’s about two hours of stewing in your own thoughts before a physician finally sees you.

The doctor examines you briefly, asking you a few questions before taking your temperature and sending you for various tests—by the time the various physicians’ assistants and nurses are done poking and prodding and interrogating you, it’s nearly noon. As you idle in the patient room, waiting for your doctor to come back with results, you tap your phone awake to find about a dozen messages from Seokjin.

Seokjin [11:02 AM]: Any news? 

Seokjin [11:02 AM]: Hyejin pitched a fit this morning when she found out I was taking her, by the way

Seokjin [11:03 AM]: Trying not to take it personally. it’s not like i clothe and feed her or anything

Seokjin [11:03 AM]: Checked your location, you’re still at the hospital??

Seokjin [11:04 AM]: What do i even pay taxes for

Seokjin [11:05 AM]: Wait, are urgent cares publicly funded

Seokjin [11:06 AM]: I love you

Seokjin [11:06 AM]: Sorry I couldn’t be there with you, have to meet with Mr. Park today, that asshole, i swear he wants to run this business into the ground

Seokjin [11:07 AM]: I promise i don’t use that word in front of our daughter

Seokjin [11:15 AM]: Ok, I can’t stand the silence, I postponed my meeting, i’ll be there soon

Your eyes flicker to the corner of your screen—it’s 11:45 now. You quickly tap out a response.

Me [11:46 AM]: It's fine, take your meeting. I’m doing ok, doctor will be back with test results soon

Seokjin [11:47 AM]: Too late

There’s a knock at your door, and you look up.

It’s not Seokjin. It’s the doctor, grinning beatifically in a way that immediately puts you on edge. “Hi, ma’am, how are we doing this morning?”

“Fine,” you say tersely, too nervous to come up with a more polite response.

“Good!” If the doctor notices that you’re stiff, she doesn’t comment, wiggling the mouse to wake the computer in the room. “So, I have some news…. You’re pregnant!”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline; your hands twist into and tear the paper covering the vinyl bed under you. “But I took a test this morning. It was negative.”

“Well, that can sometimes happen, if you test too early on,” the doctor says knowingly, handing you a pile of pamphlets. You accept them, eyes roaming over them blankly. They all have unbearably corny titles, like What to Expect in Nine Months and Feeding You and Your Baby. You don’t know what to say—your brain is short-circuiting, feeding you nothing but static. 

“I take it this is good news?” the doctor asks, not unkindly.

“Yes,” you say quietly, tears belatedly springing to your eyes. “Yes, it is.”

She sends you off with information for scheduling prenatal appointments and tips on managing your morning sickness, but you can’t get out of there fast enough, and the second you step back into the waiting area, you see him, sitting on one of those stupid green chairs with his hair falling in soft waves across his forehead.

Seokjin. 

The father of both of your babies.

No thoughts, just this.

Imagine....

You had returned from your last mission, hurt. You had woken up to heavy footsteps, when you open your eyes Sanemi is standing next to your cot, his chest heaving from running all the way here after Shinobu told him you were injured. He's starring at you anxiously, though his gaze softens when you smile up at him. You reach your arms out, your hands making grabby motions in a silent plea for his touch. He embraces you carefully, before you weakly attempt to pull him onto the cot with you. He looks at you sternly, " no, you're hurt." His voice is flat as he tries to gently pull away from your embrace. You don't let go; Sanemi is forced to stay still, fearing that if he were to try and tug away any harder your sutures could bust. "Lay down with me 'Nemi", you mumble weakly, every word coming out strained and quiet. He shakes his head before once again trying gently to pull away, but your fingers dig into his haori, managing to pull him closer by barely a inch. " Let go, I don't wanna hurt you", he said, a small threat laced in his tone, adjacent of a mother telling her child to stop pulling things off the shelf in a supermarket. Your eyes begin to water as you look into his, begging-no- pleading for him to just lay with you and hold you close.

He cant seem to say no when the tears begin to roll down your cheeks, the pain he knew you must already be in with the additive of your glossy tears making his resolve crumble. He carefully nudges you over so he can slide into the cot with you. You quickly- or as quickly as you can manage- curl into him, basking in his touch. He holds you close to him, your head resting high on his chest while his own rests atop yours; he takes a moment, just breathing in your familiar presence. He feels tears roll down his own face, his body finally relaxing after the tension stressing over you caused. The relief overwhelming as he buries his face in your hair as he holds you, never wanting to let you go.

i just finished this and am currently in depression state day 3 out of 5 business days 

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disclaimer - I don’t make most of my lockscreens; they come from Pinterest! if one of them happens to be yours, just message me and i will give you credit :)

I don't see why not if I don't get good new sir pups you're done for ಠ_ಠ

Heyo! So I'm a new writer on this platform! I hope you enjoy my works! I write a lot of Kagehina but then again you can ask me what all fandoms I'm in 💖💖💖

⚠️ ⚠️

I'm a minor so I write SFW only NO NSFW

out of love | kth

pairing: idol!taehyung x reader

warnings: angst, mild smut

word count: 1.0k

note: my first time writing for this cursed website lol. enjoy ~

---

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me—we’re just too scared to say it.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because you stopped finishing the coffee I make for you in the morning. You leave at odd hours. The sun isn’t quite up, the air is still hazy with sleep, you roll out of bed dutifully anyway. I feel your side of the mattress dip and roll and it jolts me awake, too, but I keep my breathing even because I know how you hate it when you disturb my sleep. Or used to, anyway. So I roll out of bed, too, and while you’re in the shower or brushing your teeth, I boil water, hand-grind your favorite roast, pour over into the mug we bought in Jeju on that one trip we took last summer. Do you remember how the green tea farm smelled after a light August rain? I do. I remember walking through the fields and thinking no moment could be more perfect than this. I set the coffee out on the counter with a little note to wish you well for the day’s activities, and then I go back to bed and pretend to be asleep. You begged me not to go to such lengths for you on the first day, thanked me the second day, and then it became habit to down the mug on your way out by the fifth day. You start to drop a kiss on my forehead as you leave our shared bedroom because you know I’m awake, and you know I’ll feel it. It’s our exchange of love. Today, the coffee ran cold. Untouched.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because in the morning, when you leave for the studio or set or office or flight at 3 or 4 or 5 AM, you don’t try anymore to tiptoe through the room, turn the knob on the bathroom door so it doesn’t click shut, steal around like a thief in the night, in silence. Your feet land on the marble with a thump, you brush your door with the teeth open, you’ll let the light bleed openly over my sleeping form. You teased me once about being a light sleeper and held me while I drifted off, promising you’d never wake me up again unless I asked for it. Those days feel like a long gone memory, now. This morning, I woke to the sound of the dresser door slamming shut but I kept my eyes closed, as always, until you left. You ghosted your lips against my temple. You never even broke your stride as you walked out of the room.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because you’ve stopped finding ways for us to enjoy the world together. We used to love sneaking around in the open like that, all for just the smallest moment with nature. We slip on masks and bucket hats, oversized and nondescript track suits, take a late taxi to the Han River. I spread a picnic blanket on the patchy grass while you jog over to buy an obscenely large bowl of ramen from the nearby stand. We feed each other the steaming, coiled noodles and complain about how swollen we’ll be in the morning. It’s cold, but you rub my icy hands between yours, pull me under the flap of your parka, and suddenly the bitingly cold wind isn’t so biting anymore. We talk about everything that comes back to this river. Our first date, our first kiss—on that bench, over there, at 11 PM on a Wednesday, do you remember? We joke that we’ll have to get married here someday. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been there. The last time you took me there.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because when you spent late nights at the studio, out to drinks, or at midnight tapings, my phone used to light up with a message at 9 PM. Sometimes you’ll forget, or you can’t reach your phone because you’re busy, but it’ll come in before 10. You’re on that phone whenever you get a chance. You’ll take a selca in your makeup chair or dressing room. On top of a prop car, once—that made me laugh out loud. Just for me. I leap to my phone and tap the notification and I dwell on every character. I miss you. I love you. Home soon, my love. I’ve never felt as special as I do when I read those words from you. The last message you sent me was telling me that you were going to your parents’ for a few days. That was last week. You’re back now, but there’s nothing left to say.

I know you’ve fallen out of love with me because you used to revere my body. You whisper my name like the most desperate of prayers as you thrust into me, savoring every time our bodies connect. I always feel alight with you inside of me. I’ve never let anyone else in before—you were, you are, my first. You whisper chaste and dirty things all at the same time. I love you, angel. No one can fuck you like I do. Your heart-shaped lips press to my temple, my cheek, my jaw, my ear. You know exactly where your hands and your pianist’s fingers should land to ruin me. I’ve always admired what your hands can do. I unravel you, you unravel me. Afterwards, you reach to tuck the loose strands of hair behind my ear and look at me with those tender eyes, half-hidden by your fringe. You kiss me one last time like you’re sealing a letter. Like you’re branding me yours. The bed has been cold these days. When it’s not, it feels like a chore. Have you realized that you don’t even look at me anymore?

I don’t know exactly when it happened—I guess I was just forced to notice one day. The light has burned out. The stars have died. And yet we hold on because we’re too afraid of the alternative. Of holding a melting candle in the dark.

• HASHIRAS (MANGÁ) ICONS

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