#꒰ 美術。 ꒱ㅤㅤ⛶ㅤㅤ﹫ 静けさㅤ 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ don't get it twisted ୨ৎ ( myg. )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after their late-night studio hookup, yoongi wakes up still feeling her — under his skin, in his mouth, everywhere. she’s not his, not officially, but she’s everywhere. and when he sees her again at work, dodging his eyes and pretending nothing happened, he starts to realize just how badly he wants more than just her body. when she shows up with food, teasing smiles, and that fucking scent that doesn’t belong to him… it spirals. there’s jealousy, confessions whispered into lips, and a whole lot of filthy, possessive sex that tastes suspiciously like love.

featuring⠀idol!yoongi x producer!f!reader⠀・ themes⠀friends with benefits turned into messy feelings ending in emotional smut fest, heavy tention, angst, smut, fluff ・ wc⠀11.4k⠀・ lu's note⠀part two is finally here and it’s filthy and tender all at the same time. brace yourself, bc this is basically porn with a little bit of plot at the beginning. it took me forever to decide whether to just write this as a quick follow-up or stretch it into two more parts, but honestly? i think i love the way it turned out like this. likes, comments or anything to let me know you’re enjoying the content i make are so very appreciated. so pls pls pls let me know how you liked this follow-up to “too good at pretending.” your support means the world⠀・ navi

warnings⠀・explicit sexual content, oral sex (f + m receiving), unprotected penetrative sex (she's on the pill but still risky behavior), cum play / cum on skin (thighs), cum eating kink, facial / swallowing kink (reader shows him before swallowing), dirty talk, vocal yoongi, praising + slight degradation, public-ish sex (after-hours at hybe), overstimulation, grinding, soft edging, eye contact kink, intense intimacy, possessiveness, jealousy, soft dom!yoongi energy, subtle sub!reader moments (begging, obedience, oral fixation, emotional conflict in the form of "is this still casual?" (spoiler: is not), confessions masked as dirty talk, mutual longing, soft aftercare, gentle teasing, fwb arrangement falling apart in the most delicious way

he wakes up with the taste of her still on his tongue.

the early morning light cuts sharp through the blinds in his apartment, painting pale, angular lines across the rumpled sheets tangled around his legs. it’s quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty, like it’s carrying all the things left unsaid from the night before. yoongi blinks against the brightness, one arm slung over his forehead, already aware that sleep’s long gone.

she’s not in his bed. she never was.

he’s alone, and it’s fine. it’s normal. this is how it works.

but his brain is still playing it all back like a track stuck on loop — the way she whimpered into that blanket, how her hands trembled against his chest, how her voice cracked when she said his name like it meant something. the lace still bunched around her thighs. her hoodie barely covering the flushed skin underneath. the mess she made of him — in more ways than one.

he shifts onto his side with a quiet exhale, staring at nothing, jaw ticking slightly. she’s not yours, he reminds himself. not really. never was. but last night?

last night, she felt like it.

it wasn’t supposed to be like that. not with her half-sprawled over the couch, face pressed to the cushions, sweat cooling against her spine while he held her like something he’d miss in the morning. not with the way her voice got all soft and half-sweet when she mumbled “that’s gonna be hard to top,” and he pretended to roll his eyes even though his chest felt too tight.

yoongi sighs and drags a hand over his face. his phone’s somewhere on the floor, probably dead, and he knows he should get up. shower. check in with the team. respond to emails. exist. but all he can think about is her — how calm she looked when he zipped up his hoodie over her bare skin, how easily she smiled like none of it complicated things.

he gets up eventually. shuffles to the kitchen, makes coffee he doesn’t really want. leans against the counter in just his sweats and scratches at the back of his neck like it’ll do something about the heaviness sitting between his ribs.

it wasn’t just the sex. it never is with her. it’s the way she moves, the quiet moments in between, the way she’s the only person who can pull a fucking laugh out of him when his head’s a mess. she’s loud and chaotic and takes up so much space — and still, he always wants more of her. even when it drives him insane.

he doesn’t know what he expected. that she’d call? text? pretend they didn’t spend half the night wrapped around each other trying to pretend it wasn’t emotional?

maybe.

instead, there’s nothing.

and that’s fine. it’s how they operate. no strings. no promises.

except now she’s everywhere in his head — her voice, her breath, her body, the way she looked back at him with that glassy, wrecked expression like he’d ruined her. like she wanted him to.

he leans over the sink, watching steam curl from the mug in his hand, and exhales slowly.

this is dangerous.

he knows it.

he always did.

but something about last night — the way she let him hold her afterward, the way she curled into him like she trusted him with the quiet — it hit somewhere deeper than it was supposed to.

yoongi presses the mug to his lips and doesn’t drink.

just stares out the window, wondering if she’s awake.

wondering if she’s thinking about him too.

probably not.

she’s got deadlines. demos. an inbox full of producers waiting to work with her. he’s just the guy who showed up when she was stressed. who made her come so hard she couldn’t speak. who left handprints on her hips and walked out like it didn’t change everything.

he should shake it off. he will.

eventually.

he finds his phone under the edge of the bed after returning to the room, face-down and clinging to life with 7% battery. the screen lights up with a soft buzz as it registers movement, a handful of unread messages — none of them from her. he tells himself that’s a good thing. a relief. means they’re both on the same page. detached. unaffected. not thinking about the way her voice cracked when she came apart in his hands.

his thumb hovers over her contact anyway. he doesn’t even have her saved under her name — just a nickname from a stupid inside joke they made when she first started working at the label, something only she would understand. something that feels a little too fond now.

what would he even say?

“how’s the mix coming along?” “good seeing you last night.” “you okay?”

no. too obvious. too boyfriend.

and yoongi — god, he’s not her boyfriend. not even close. he’s the guy she calls when she needs to let go. when her brain’s too loud and her body’s too tense and she needs someone who won’t ask questions. he’s the guy who knows what kind of wine she likes but not who she was before she came to seoul. he’s the guy who kisses her like he means it but never stays past 3am.

except he did stay. last night. or at least long enough to make it complicated.

he locks the phone screen with a sigh and tosses it onto the bed.

his hand runs through his hair as he stands in the hallway, eyes unfocused, still half-stuck in memory. she had her hoodie halfway on, hair a tangled mess, skin flushed, panties ruined. she was leaning over the couch, eyes glassy, mouth open — her fingers clutching the cushion like she was holding on for dear life. he was buried in her, hips snapping forward, sweat dripping down his neck, and she was looking back at him like she fucking owned him.

and maybe she did. maybe she still does.

yoongi huffs out a breath through his nose and heads toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to fuck’s sake. the moment the cold water hits his skin, it shocks his system, draws a sharp inhale from between clenched teeth — but it’s better than the alternative.

because his dick? yeah. still hard. again.

it’s been like this since the friends with benefits deal started — this recurring morning wood that feels more like a symptom of her than anything physiological. it’s her voice in his ear. her hands under his shirt. her scent still lingering on his fingers hours later. it’s her.

and sure, yeah, he could jerk off. he has. he does. but it never hits the same. because his body doesn’t just want release — it wants her. her warmth. her weight. her voice when she says his name like it’s a secret.

he stands under the water longer than he needs to, hands braced against the tile, jaw clenched like he’s trying to ground himself in anything but the feel of her nails dragging down his spine. pathetic, he thinks. this isn’t what you signed up for.

but it’s already too late.

because yoongi — quiet, guarded, impossibly private yoongi — is starting to want things. dangerous things. like the sound of her laugh when she’s tired. like the way she hums when she’s deep into a track. like waking up to her beside him instead of a memory.

he shuts off the water, the silence hitting heavy around him again.

maybe she’s not thinking about him at all. maybe she’s already buried in her work, earbuds in, sipping iced coffee and dissecting vocal layers like last night never happened. like she didn’t fall apart on his lap, whispering yes against his mouth like it wasn’t just about the high.

he dries off in silence, towel slung low on his hips, steam still curling in the mirror.

he won’t text her. not yet.

he’ll wait. he always does.besides — she’s not his.

he’s just the one who keeps pretending that doesn’t hurt.

yoongi sees her before she sees him.

he’s walking down the hall on autopilot, barely paying attention to anything around him — not the interns rushing past, not the sound of muffled bass leaking out of a rehearsal room down the corridor, not the endless buzz of HYBE in its usual quiet chaos. but the second his eyes catch on her frame — leaned slightly against the wall outside one of the smaller editing suites — his body tenses like it knows. like it’s already reacting before his brain can fully catch up.

and she looks… different.

not bad. never that. but off. not in the way her hoodie hangs half-off one shoulder, or in how her sweatpants are cuffed unevenly like she dressed in a rush. no — it’s something in her face. her posture. the way her arms are crossed too tightly over her chest, phone clutched in one hand like she forgot she was even holding it. she’s not scrolling. not listening to anything. just… standing there.

thinking. spiraling, maybe. exactly like he was this morning.

yoongi slows his pace, considers walking past like he didn’t see her, like he’s busy or distracted or actually trying to stick to the five things he said he needed to get done today. but then she shifts — leans her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed for just a second — and the urge to go to her overrides whatever pride he has left.

he clears his throat gently as he approaches, hands stuffed in his pockets, expression calm. detached. casual.

don’t act weird. don’t ask anything you don’t want the answer to.

“yo.” his voice comes out low and steady, like he hadn’t spent all morning overthinking her moans. “you alive?”

her eyes snap open, and for a split second — just one beat — he sees it.

the flicker of panic, or maybe surprise, something unguarded in her face before she pastes on a quick, sheepish smile.

“barely,” she says, shifting her weight, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “you know how it is. deadlines, caffeine dependency, existential dread.”

yoongi lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, but he doesn’t miss the way she fidgets — the way she avoids looking directly at him at first, eyes darting back to her phone even though it hasn’t lit up once.

he doesn’t ask. doesn’t press. but he notices.

and that alone is enough to twist something tight in his chest.

“you waiting on a studio?” he asks instead, nodding toward the door beside her.

she shrugs. “yeah. i think there’s a mixing session still going on. should be out any minute.”

a pause stretches between them — not awkward exactly, but not easy either. and yoongi hates that. hates how he can feel the difference, how something unspoken hangs between them like a draft neither of them wants to acknowledge.

but then — just like that — she softens.

maybe it’s the way he’s watching her. maybe it’s the way his tone never changes, never pushes. or maybe she just missed him too.

because she lets out a quiet breath, eyes finally meeting his, and says, “by the way… you still owe me for the trauma of almost getting caught by some poor intern last night.”

yoongi blinks, caught off guard for a second — then he huffs a soft laugh through his nose.

“you mean you owe me,” he counters, tilting his head slightly. “i had to walk out with your fingerprints all over me. i looked like i’d been jumped by a very determined groupie.”

she bites back a grin, eyes twinkling just a little. there she is.

“well,” she says, voice lilting now, flirtation curling at the edges of her words, “i am pretty determined.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow at that, his smirk sharp but slow, blooming like smoke across his face. his heart’s doing something annoying in his chest, but he plays it cool, lets the silence settle a beat before he leans in just slightly — not too close, but enough to make her breathe a little slower.

“yeah?” he murmurs, eyes flicking from her lips back up. “i noticed.”

she looks away, laughing under her breath, and it’s subtle, it’s small — but it’s there. that shift. the thaw. her arms uncross, her body leans just a fraction closer to his without realizing.

and yoongi — well. he still doesn’t know what’s going on with her. why she was so dodgy at first. why her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes until just now.

but he knows this:

whatever she’s avoiding, it’s not him.

not yet.

and for now, that’s enough to make him stay a little longer.

yoongi leans his shoulder against the wall beside her, his posture easy but his eyes anything but. he’s studying her — not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she’s never really needed the full weight of his stare to feel it. it’s in the way he turns slightly toward her, how his fingers drum lightly against his thigh like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t. he glances down the hallway, then back at her, voice smooth, unbothered.

“you end up doing anything with the track?”

she pauses. and he notices that, too — the half-second delay before she answers. like she’s sorting through all the possible ways to respond before landing on the one that gives away the least.

“uh…” she exhales a small laugh, tilting her head. “not really. i was kinda distracted yesterday.” her mouth twitches like she might smile, but she doesn’t let it land fully. “haven’t had the time to change anything else.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips twitching just slightly. “distracted, huh?”

she shoots him a side glance — quick, but not defensive — the kind of look that says don’t start. but her cheeks give her away, that faint flush just beneath her skin that she pretends doesn’t exist. she shifts again, now more relaxed, fingers brushing through her hair like she’s trying to give her hands something to do.

“yeah, you know,” she says, voice a little too casual. “just… things.”

yoongi hums. it’s low, amused, maybe just a little smug. he can still hear her voice in his head — soft and breathless, whispering yes, right there like it was meant only for him. the idea that she couldn’t finish the track because she was too busy falling apart in his lap makes something dark and satisfied curl in his gut.

but he doesn’t push it.

not directly, anyway.

“well,” he says, glancing at the closed door beside them like it owes him an answer, “let me know if you need help finishing it. i’ve got a few... ideas.”

the way he says ideas — slow, a little rough, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth — it’s not exactly appropriate for a hallway conversation. but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t roll her eyes or walk away or pretend she doesn’t know what he’s implying.

instead, she presses her lips together, like she’s fighting a grin, and leans just slightly closer.

“do your ideas come with another fire hazard warning?” she asks, tilting her head like she’s teasing — but her voice is lower now, softer, the flirtation deliberately buried beneath layers of fake innocence. “because that couch might still be drying, min yoongi.”

yoongi exhales a laugh, not loud, but real. it catches him off guard a little, how easily she can do that — drag him out of his head, make him forget he spent the morning trying not to miss her.

you’re not supposed to miss her, he reminds himself again. this isn’t that kind of thing.

but it’s hard to remember that when she looks up at him with those eyes, when she says shit like that with a straight face, when she acts like she’s not dragging him deeper into something they never named.

and still — he doesn’t say anything else.

not about the night before.

not about how quiet she looked when he found her.

not about how good it feels to make her laugh.

he just pushes off the wall, hands back in his pockets, head tilting slightly.

“just saying,” he murmurs, eyes still on her, “you could probably sample some of those sounds you made. turn it into a synth line or something.”

she scoffs, but it’s breathless — and her smile this time? yeah. it lands.and yoongi walks away with the ghost of it still clinging to him.

yoongi’s studio is cold when he steps in — not in temperature, but in that still, slightly hollow kind of way that lingers when it’s been empty too long. the air’s stale from last night, a faint echo of synths still ringing in the silence. he doesn’t bother turning on the main lights. the blue LEDs lining his monitors are enough, casting the room in that familiar low glow that always made it feel like a world apart. separate from reality. quiet enough to breathe in.

he drops into his chair with a sigh, spinning slowly once before leaning forward, elbows on the desk. the song on the screen isn’t new. not even close. it’s one he started months ago, maybe longer — moody and slow and layered with too many half-formed ideas. it’s got no destination, just a vibe. it reminds him of rainy nights and restless fingers and things left unsaid. basically, it reminds him of her.

he doesn’t say that out loud, of course. wouldn’t even say it to himself if it weren’t already a fact clawing at the edge of his thoughts.

he queues the project up anyway and starts fine-tuning a few synth patches. adjusts the EQ. nudges a vocal sample an eighth note forward. it’s all mechanical, methodical — a distraction. a half-hearted one.

and then the door opens with a soft knock that’s already halfway pushed open, because only one person enters like that.

“yo,” hoseok calls, his voice the same warm, light tone it always is — like sunshine pouring into a dim room. “you alive in here?”

yoongi barely glances back. “physically.”

hoseok lets out a chuckle and steps inside, already dropping into the second chair like he owns it. his hair’s messy, face fresh, dressed down in sweats and a too-expensive hoodie that only looks effortless. days like this — in between releases, tour planning still months off — they get to breathe. kind of. stretch their limbs, catch up, check in on old projects and worse habits.

“working on anything new?” hoseok asks, peering at the screen.

yoongi shrugs, clicking aimlessly through the stems. “just polishing old shit.”

“gonna release it?”

yoongi hums. “probably not. just… filling space.”

hoseok’s quiet for a moment, just watching him. the air shifts slightly — not tense, not heavy, but perceptive. yoongi knows that silence. knows hoseok’s thinking something but giving him time to get there first.

he doesn’t. so hoseok does it for him.

“so… you and (y/n), huh?”

yoongi pauses. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look over. just drags the waveform a little to the left and hits play.

a low synth hums through the room, heavy with bass. atmospheric. slow burn. just like him.

“what about us?”

“don’t play dumb, hyung. i saw you two in the hallway earlier. i’ve heard you two. you think walls here are soundproof? please.”

yoongi exhales through his nose, lips twitching. “should’ve worn headphones.”

“should’ve kept it in your pants,” hoseok says, grinning.

that earns a full laugh — low and brief, but real — and yoongi leans back, finally meeting his eyes.

“it’s not like that,” he says.

“yeah?” hoseok quirks an eyebrow. “looked a lot like something.”

yoongi goes quiet again, eyes flicking back to the screen. the waveform’s looping now, the beat repeating every few seconds. he doesn’t hear it.

he hears her.

“yeah, well… i was kinda distracted yesterday.”

he presses his thumb into his lower lip, jaw tight.

“it’s complicated.”

hoseok nods slowly, more serious now. “you like her.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

yoongi doesn’t answer. because he does. more than he wants to admit. and it’s not just the sex. it’s her voice in the booth. the way she fights for her mixes. the way she can go from shouting across the room to whispering something filthy against his throat in the span of ten minutes. it’s how she always makes things harder — and somehow easier, too.

“you’re not exactly good at hiding shit,” hoseok says after a beat. “not with her. you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

yoongi’s heart lurches, but his face doesn’t move.

“and what if i am?”

hoseok shrugs. “then maybe stop pretending it’s casual before she walks away for real.”

that gets him.

yoongi swallows thickly and doesn’t answer.

just stares at the screen again.

like the waveform might give him a reason to do something before it’s too late.

the music’s long stopped, but he’s still sitting there — hunched slightly in his chair, eyes fixed on the screen like it’ll offer up an answer he hasn’t already dissected a thousand different ways in his head. the studio has sunk into that kind of deep stillness only late hours can create. no voices in the halls. no random knocks. even the building’s subtle mechanical hum feels distant, dulled under the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

yoongi doesn’t realize how much time has passed until his stomach lets out a low, sharp growl that physically pulls him out of his spiral. it echoes in the silence, ridiculous and needy, and he exhales a dry laugh through his nose, rubbing his face with both hands. fuck. how long has it been? eight hours? ten?

he glances at the time and winces. of course.

he pushes back from the desk slowly, spine stiff, legs numb from being curled under him too long. everything feels a little off-kilter — his body, his thoughts, even the way the air sits in the room. it’s like time’s been suspended in here, and the second he steps out that door, it’s going to catch up to him all at once.

his stomach growls again and he grumbles under his breath, rummaging half-heartedly through the snack drawer he always forgets to restock. nothing decent. just a crushed protein bar and gum that’s long expired. he considers ordering food, but even that feels like a decision he’s not ready to make. like his brain’s too preoccupied chewing on something else.

hoseok’s words won’t stop looping.

“you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

he thinks about the way she looked in that hallway earlier. how she tried not to meet his eyes at first. how her voice dipped low when she flirted. how her smile faltered for half a second when she thought he wasn’t looking. and he thinks about the night before — how natural it felt to be around her, even when her moans were echoing off the studio walls. even when he was saying shit he wouldn’t say to anyone else. even when he kissed her hair like he meant it.

because he did. and he’s not sure how long he’s been meaning it, but now that he’s realized it, there’s no unknowing it.

yoongi leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the floor but not really seeing it. would it really be that bad if he wanted something for himself, just this once? if he stopped pretending that whatever the fuck is happening between him and her isn’t turning into something real?

it’s a dangerous question. he knows the answer already. it’s yes. it’s always yes.

because this thing they’ve got? it was built on boundaries they both agreed to. no labels. no expectations. just fun, she had said, eyes lit and smile mischievous the night it started. and he had nodded, quick to agree. because why the hell would someone like her — loud and electric and alive in all the places he’s muted — ever want someone like him?

but still. there are moments. fleeting ones. like the way she lingers after they fuck, half-tucked against him, eyes glassy and unreadable. or how she always plays him the real version of her demos, even the unfinished ones. or the time she reached for his hand in a crowded elevator and didn’t let go until they hit the lobby.

yoongi drags a hand through his hair and lets out a low, frustrated sound.

she’s not in love with you, he tells himself. she would’ve said something by now. ended it. laughed in your face.

except… maybe she wouldn’t. maybe she’s just as scared of ruining it as he is.

and suddenly everything starts to feel confusing. like the lines are blurring faster than either of them can keep up with. like they’ve both been balancing on a wire stretched too thin, pretending not to look down.

he swallows, throat dry. maybe it’s the hunger. maybe it’s the exhaustion. or maybe he’s finally just sick of lying to himself. but right now — in this empty room, with his heart pounding harder than it should — all he can think is:

what if i already lost her and didn’t even realize it?

and worse —

what if i haven’t lost her yet, but i will… if i don’t do something soon?

he grabs his phone. his fingers hesitate over her name again.

but this time — this time, maybe he doesn’t want to wait.

the knock is soft at first — more of a tap, really — but in the silence of the studio, it sounds almost like thunder. yoongi’s head lifts, eyebrows tugging together, not expecting anyone this late. he sets his phone down, heart in his throat for no good reason, and crosses the studio in slow, measured steps. when he opens the door, it takes everything in him not to let that sharp, startled smile break too wide across his face.

she’s standing there, hoodie zipped up halfway, a takeout bag dangling from one hand, and that familiar, irritatingly smug smirk playing on her lips like she already knows what he’s thinking.

“look at you,” she says, brushing past him before he can even get a word out, “alive but barely, i assume.”

he doesn’t stop her — never does — just closes the door and watches as she makes herself at home like always. she drops the bag on the tiny coffee table he’s never used for actual coffee and then turns to face him, hands on her hips.

“you didn’t answer your texts, you haven’t eaten, and you look like you’ve been brooding about god-knows-what for at least eight hours straight. so,” she says, lifting the bag with a flourish, “your savior has arrived. congratulations. your digestive system won’t fail you today.”

yoongi lets out a laugh, low and genuine, dragging a hand over his face as he moves to join her. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and you’re one stomach cramp away from passing out,” she shoots back, already unpacking the containers. “i should start charging you for emotional labor.”

he raises an eyebrow. “this is emotional labor?”

“you have the social awareness of a houseplant,” she says, grinning. “yes. it is.”

they settle onto the floor, knees bumping as they sit side by side in that unintentional kind of closeness that always seems to happen between them. like no matter how big the room is, they always end up in each other’s orbit. he watches her unbox his favorite dish without needing to ask what he wants — like she knows. like she’s wired to know.

and for a moment, it’s easy. too easy. the jokes, the way their arms graze, the way her voice softens a little when she hands him chopsticks. it should be mundane, but it isn’t. it never is with her.

but then it hits him.

a scent — subtle but undeniable. something unfamiliar. it cuts through the usual notes of soy and ginger and her shampoo, and it’s not hers. it’s cologne. a man’s.

yoongi goes still for a second, eyes narrowing just slightly as he breathes it in again, trying not to overreact but already spiraling. it’s not strong, but it clings to her — on the sleeve of her hoodie, near her neck. and it’s not his.

she doesn’t miss the way he stiffens. she never misses anything about him. her eyes flick to his face, then down to her own clothes like she already knows what he’s picked up on.

“oh — that?” she says, nudging his knee gently with hers, tone light but cautious. “it’s not what you think.”

he looks at her, expression unreadable, but the jealousy’s already burning somewhere low and sharp inside him, like a slow boil he doesn’t know what to do with.

“been working with yeonjun,” she continues, fingers playing with the edge of the takeout lid. “on one of the tracks i told you about. you know how he is. touchy, all over the place, dramatic as hell. hugged me like four times in an hour and spilled coffee on my hoodie, so i borrowed one of his. it’s nothing.”

she’s watching him now — carefully. like she’s waiting for a verdict. like she’s not entirely sure he believes her.

yoongi doesn’t say anything at first. he looks down at the food in front of him, then at the edge of the sleeve she’s tugging at absentmindedly. it’s stupid. he knows it. it’s ridiculous how fast the thought of her with someone else can unravel him.

but still — that voice in his head won’t shut up.

you’re not her boyfriend. you don’t get to care.

except he does. even if he shouldn’t. even if it hurts.

“he’s loud,” yoongi mutters finally, picking at the edge of the takeout container. “and he wears too much cologne.”

her lips twitch, just a little. “yeah,” she says. “i like yours better.”

he looks up then, eyes catching hers in that heavy, too-long way they always do when things start to slip between the cracks. she’s smiling, but her gaze is steady. honest. and maybe a little nervous.

she nudges his knee again.

“don’t get weird about it.”

yoongi exhales slowly, something unspoken loosening in his chest.

“not weird,” he says, voice soft. “just hungry.”

but they both know what he really means.

they eat mostly in silence, the kind that isn’t awkward — more like lived-in quiet, something gentle that exists between people who know each other too well to need constant talking. the food is warm, comforting, grounding in a way that makes the chaos in yoongi’s head slow to a manageable hum. for a while, the only sounds are the rustle of containers, the soft clink of chopsticks, and the occasional, lazy sip from shared soda cans.

she’s cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, her wrist brushing against his every time she reaches for something near the middle. she’s focused, for the most part, but her eyes keep flicking toward him — little glances that say she’s thinking something, maybe a lot of things, but doesn’t know how to start saying them.

yoongi’s sitting back against the couch now, long legs stretched out, one arm resting across the seat cushions behind him. he’s not touching her, technically — but it would take the slightest movement for his fingers to find her shoulder, or her hair, or her hoodie collar. and he’s watching her, openly, a lazy half-smile playing on his lips that he doesn’t bother hiding. because she said something stupid. ridiculous, really. something about how the drums in her demo sounded like “a washing machine having a panic attack” and how she was going to “maybe rebrand as an experimental laundromat composer.”

“what the fuck does that even mean?” he asks, still grinning.

“don’t act like you wouldn’t stream it,” she says, chewing the last bite of dumpling. “i know your niche little taste.”

he scoffs lightly. “i’d stream it just to clown on you in the comments.”

“exactly,” she says, pointing a chopstick at him like she’s proved a point. “engagement.”

he snorts, shakes his head, leans a little heavier against the couch. “so the demo?”

she shrugs, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “i mean... it’s still a mess. but kind of a beautiful one? i think i needed last night, actually. i was stuck. in my head. needed to… get out of it.”

he hums at that, a quiet acknowledgment, but his eyes flick away for a second. because yeah, she did get out of it. she got under him, over him, and inside his fucking brain. and now they’re here again, sitting close, joking like nothing about it cracked anything open. but it did. he knows it. and maybe — maybe she does too.

he opens his mouth to say something — maybe another joke, maybe something a little more honest — but he never gets the chance.

she kisses him.

not in that frantic, breathless way that usually comes after too much tension and too little distance. not the way she does when she’s climbing into his lap or tugging at his hoodie, all teeth and heat. this is... different.

it’s soft. casual, almost. like a pause in a conversation, like punctuation. like she just wanted to shut him up for a second — or maybe just needed to feel him without all the buildup.

her lips press gently against his, warm and slow. her hand settles on his thigh, thumb brushing absently against the fabric of his sweats, not suggestive, not teasing — just there. grounding. familiar. and it catches him off guard because there’s no real hunger in it, not yet. just intimacy. quiet affection disguised as a throwaway moment.

he doesn’t move, not right away. just lets it happen. lets her kiss him like it’s normal. like it means nothing. like it means everything.

when she pulls back, barely, her face hovers close — her breath still mingling with his. her fingers still resting on his leg. and for a second, neither of them says anything.

yoongi just looks at her, the smile slow to return this time, eyes soft and half-lidded.

“that was random,” he murmurs.

she shrugs like it’s nothing, like her heart isn’t beating out of her chest. “you looked too smug. it was annoying.”

he chuckles, eyes still on her lips. “sure.”

“don’t get ideas,” she adds, reaching for another dumpling like she didn’t just change the temperature of the whole room.

but he does.

he has.

and now he’s stuck with them.

she's licking soy sauce off her thumb when she asks, too casually, “do you have plans when you go home?”

yoongi’s mid-chew, eyes flicking up at her like he’s trying to decide whether she’s joking or baiting him — both, probably. always both with her. he swallows slowly, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and leans back again against the couch, stretching out like a cat settling into warm sun. his arm slides higher along the cushion, closer to her shoulder now, and he smirks, head tilted just slightly.

“you know it’s late, right?”

she shrugs, unbothered, lips twitching as she looks sideways at him. “best things happen when it’s late,” she says. “yesterday’s a good example.”

the words hit like a loaded trigger, pulling a visible shift in the air between them. the quiet settles differently now — thicker, slower. her voice has that edge again, that deliberate softness that sounds like innocence but hides all kinds of trouble beneath it. and yoongi? yeah, he’s already moving closer.

he props one elbow on the back of the couch now, turning fully toward her. his knees bend just a little, thighs open. the way he looks at her is heavy, something simmering behind his lashes as a slow grin stretches across his face — a smile that says i know what you're doing. and i’m not stopping you.

“so what,” he says, voice roughening just a notch, “you bring me dinner, make me laugh a little, kiss me like that, and now i’m just supposed to fuck you again?”

she giggles — that little gasp-hiccup sound she only makes when she’s been caught red-handed but still refuses to play innocent. her eyes flick down to his mouth, her hand trailing back to rest on his thigh again, fingertips just barely digging in through the fabric of his sweats. she’s not answering. doesn’t have to.

yoongi leans in — lips ghosting just over her cheek, the shell of her ear — close enough to make her skin prickle.

“you get needy when the sun goes down, huh?” he murmurs, breath hot. “always showing up with excuses. food. fake concern. pretending you’re here to babysit me when you know damn well you just want me to lay you out again.”

her breath hitches, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

his mouth finds hers again, but this time there’s no hesitation — none of that soft in-between from earlier. it’s hungrier now, like they’re picking up where they left off last night. like he’s been thinking about this since he watched her walk away, sweat-stained and glowing and satisfied. his hand moves instinctively, resting on her hip, thumb dragging just under the hem of her hoodie, lazy and unhurried.

he breaks the kiss to murmur against her lips, “you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

her eyes flutter, but she nods, biting her bottom lip just to keep from moaning at how good his voice sounds when it dips like that — low and secret, like a promise.

“what part are you stuck on?” he asks, eyes heavy, his free hand now dragging up her thigh with just enough pressure to make her shift. “me pulling your hair? or when you came all over my fingers before i even got inside you?”

she exhales hard, laughing through it, but she’s flushed now, knees turned inward like she’s trying to contain the heat blooming low in her belly. it’s no use. he already knows. he can read her like a language he’s memorized in every form.

he kisses her again, slower this time, then pulls back just enough to whisper:

“say please, baby. i’m still full from dinner — but if you ask real nice... maybe i’ll still have you for dessert.”

and just like that —

yoongi’s night is no longer his.

it’s hers. always has been.

“please,” she breathes, voice smaller than before — not playful, not sarcastic. real. the kind of soft that only surfaces when the guard drops, when want curls up from her belly and takes the reins of her mouth. “yoongi, please. i’ve been thinking about you all day… couldn’t stop. couldn’t—” she exhales, eyes fluttering, “i can’t wait anymore.”

and that—god, that—does something to him.

yoongi’s breath stutters, his fingers tightening where they rest on her thigh. there’s a fire building slow and low in his stomach, the kind that doesn’t rush — the kind that simmers, burns, because it’s not just about lust. it’s about the way she looks at him when she says things like that. like he’s the only one who’s ever been able to pull her apart in just the right way. like she needs him to be the one to get her there, every time. like she’s already unraveling from the idea alone.

he shifts as she climbs between his legs, her hands working slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact — her gaze warm, serious, a little bit mischievous. she presses a kiss to his jaw first, featherlight, then down to his throat, her lips brushing his pulse point.

“you always take care of me,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “let me take care of you.”

yoongi groans low in his chest, head dropping back against the couch with a dull thud, already undone by the idea before she’s even touched him. his hoodie bunches slightly as she tugs at the hem of his shirt, her fingers grazing over his skin in teasing strokes. she moves lower, slower — kisses trailing down like breadcrumbs, soft and hot, until she settles where he needs her most.

and then—

then, her mouth is on him, slow and warm and devastating, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of him. like she’s saying thank you with every breath, every drag of her tongue. she wraps one hand around the base of him, the other braced lightly on his thigh, grounding herself as she works. the sounds she makes are quiet, eager, reverent. she takes her time. she wants to. because yoongi’s always been so careful with her — always patient, always knowing exactly how to touch her, how to ruin her in all the right ways.

and now it’s her turn.

yoongi’s hands bury in her hair, not rough — more like he’s anchoring himself. his lips part around a curse he doesn’t finish, his whole body going taut with restraint. because she knows what she’s doing, knows exactly how to undo him. and she does it with intention. with purpose.

with care.

and maybe that’s what breaks him most —

not the pleasure, not the heat, not the slick sounds and the pressure building too fast to hold —

but the fact that it means something.

even when they’re pretending it doesn’t.

his fingers slide through her hair, gentle at first — reverent, almost — before curling tighter at the nape of her neck. he brushes the strands back from her face so he can see her, the way her lips stretch around him, eyes glossy and half-lidded, her cheeks flushed with heat and want. she looks wrecked already, mouth full of him, but still so fucking pretty it almost hurts.

yoongi bites down on a groan, hips twitching the slightest bit, restraint clawing at every muscle in his body. fuck, she looks good like this. like she belongs there, between his legs, sinking deeper into whatever quiet madness they’ve been building for months.

“look at you,” he mutters, voice a slow drag of smoke, deep and rough in the back of his throat. “fuck, baby… always so eager for it.”

her eyes flick up at him, and that’s when he knows—knows—she’s loving this just as much. he can feel it in the way she shifts, subtly squeezing her thighs together, in the soft, messy sounds she’s making around him. muffled whimpers that melt against his skin. she’s getting off on it. on the way he talks to her. on the way she knows he’s watching every movement, every hollow of her cheeks, every trembling inhale.

“you like being my good girl, huh?” he breathes, thumb grazing her jaw, the corner of her lips as she bobs her head slowly. “bet you’re soaked already. fuck—are you?”

she whines low in her throat, the sound vibrating through him, and yoongi’s eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed. he’s not gonna last if she keeps making noises like that. but god, he loves it. he loves knowing she needs the filth just as much as the touch. that she’s getting wet just from his voice, from the weight of his hands in her hair, from the control he gives and takes in the same breath.

“wish you could see yourself,” he grits out, voice low and hungry. “so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth. like you were made for it.”

her rhythm falters slightly, a soft shiver coursing through her as she presses closer, takes him deeper — because of what he said. and yoongi groans again, the sound ragged now, falling apart.

“yeah… that’s it. just like that, baby. just like that.”

and somewhere deep in his chest, it twists — not just lust but something else, something more dangerous. something that says this is more than what we said it would be.

but he doesn’t say that.

he just watches her fall apart for him, mouth full, eyes glazed, and knows —

she’s his.

even if neither of them has dared to say it yet.

she doesn’t move right away when he finishes — just stays there for a moment, breathing through her nose, eyelashes trembling, lips parted around him like she’s trying to leave a mark that’s more than just physical. and when she does finally pull back, it’s slow, teasing, her tongue dragging along the head of him like she’s savoring the last taste.

then she looks up — really looks up — and opens her mouth slightly, showing him what he gave her, a wicked little smile curling at the corners of her lips before she swallows without breaking eye contact.

it’s filthy. it’s devastating. it’s so her.

yoongi feels his whole body jolt at the sight, like the tension that’s been coiling up inside him has found a new place to spark. he lets out a rough, breathless laugh — low and disbelieving — before pulling her up by the jaw, not roughly but with a kind of urgency that surprises even him.

he kisses her. hard.

no hesitation, no space between them. he kisses her like he wants to memorize the taste on her tongue. like he wants to remind her that it’s not just about what she did, but how she did it — the way she gave it to him, the way she always does, without asking for anything back but still deserving everything.

and he gives it.

his hands are already sliding beneath her hoodie, palms warm and greedy against her back. the fabric rides up as she shifts closer, climbing into his lap without a word. he doesn’t ask — he doesn’t need to. she’s already moving how he wants her, like she knows. like she feels it.

he tugs the hoodie over her head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind them, forgotten. her bra’s simple — soft black cotton, no lace, no shine — but fuck, it fits her perfectly. the kind of thing that isn’t made to seduce but ends up doing exactly that anyway.

his hands pause for a second. he just… looks.

she’s straddling him, bare above the waist except for that small piece of fabric, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. her fingers are in his hair now, slow, thoughtful, threading at the roots like she’s not sure if she wants to ground herself or pull him closer.

and her eyes — they’re searching his face. not teasing, not playful. serious. soft. like she’s trying to memorize him too.

yoongi swallows thickly, his hands sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the underwire.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, quiet, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

she doesn’t say anything. doesn’t have to.

the way she leans in to kiss him again, slower this time — deeper — says it all.

yoongi’s hands are all over her now — slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to map her body from memory even though he already knows it better than his own. he palms the curve of her ass through her sweats, fingers spreading, squeezing, grounding her onto his lap. her body responds instantly, instinctively — hips rolling once, twice, like her muscles remember the rhythm before her mind can catch up.

he groans into her mouth when she does it again, this soft grind that presses her right against where he’s growing hard all over again. his fingers dip lower, sneaking beneath the waistband of her sweats, and it’s like she melts right into his hands. like her body wants to be held there.

"fuck," he mutters into her mouth, "you know what you do to me, don’t you?"

she breathes a shaky little laugh, forehead pressed to his, her hands still in his hair, nails grazing his scalp just right. “you sound surprised.”

he doesn’t answer — not out loud. instead, he helps her shift back just enough for him to start tugging her sweats down. she lifts herself slightly, letting him ease them over her hips, down her thighs. her underwear’s a delicate scrap of fabric, damp and clinging and completely in his way. he doesn’t waste time — peels them off with a practiced ease, sliding both pieces down her legs, letting them get tangled around one ankle like they always do when they get too impatient to bother properly.

she sits back on his lap, now bare from the waist down, still in that soft black bra, and he exhales hard through his nose — not even trying to hide the way his eyes drag down her body.

“jesus, you’re—” he starts, then just groans, pulling her into him again like he needs her closer, like even skin to skin isn’t enough.

he kisses her deep — messier now, open-mouthed, hungry. one hand cups the back of her neck while the other returns to her ass, squeezing hard as he rocks her against him, making her gasp into his mouth.

it’s not rushed. it’s not frantic. it’s just them — steady and knowing and hot with everything they haven’t said yet.

and god, he could lose himself in it.

maybe he already is.

their bodies are flushed, sweat starting to gather in the small spaces where skin meets skin — under her thighs, his hands gripping the back of them, her chest pressed to his, her breath warm against his jaw. she’s moving in slow circles on his lap, bare and wet and leaving a mess on him, that slick, sticky evidence of how much she wants him — how long she’s wanted him.

yoongi can’t stop watching her face.

she’s breathing heavy, lips parted, eyes locked on his like she’s balancing between control and surrender. and she’s doing this thing — this fucking thing — where she grinds just right and then pulls back the second he thinks he might slide into her. the tip of him keeps slipping through her folds, catching for a second, teasing that sweet ache of friction, and then she rolls her hips up and away again, dragging a whimper from both of them.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” he grits out, voice dark, jaw tense.

her nails trail up his shoulders, one hand slipping around the back of his neck, the other flat on his chest, steadying herself. she leans in close, close enough that her lips brush his, her breath shaky. “i want you to need me,” she whispers, barely audible. “like i do.”

and that sentence? that one sentence nearly undoes him. because fuck does he.

he's needed her in every version she’s shown him — loud and teasing, quiet and wrecked, undone in his hands or breaking him apart with just a glance. he’s needed her since the first time she kissed him and acted like it didn’t mean anything.

his hands move instinctively — one sliding up her back, the other unclasping her bra like he’s done it a hundred times before (because he has). he tosses it aside without looking, eyes never leaving hers.

and then he kisses her again.

not like before — not teasing, not playful. this kiss hurts. it’s full of things neither of them are brave enough to say. it’s heavy with the weight of all the feelings they’ve kept buried under sweat and moans and half-laughed excuses.

his tongue slides against hers, and she gasps, moving faster now, grinding harder. he grabs her hips and guides her, dragging her down against him, and they both groan — heads tipping back for a second before they look at each other again.

and fuck, the eye contact. it’s too much.

their foreheads touch, noses brushing, panting into each other’s mouths. they’re so close to breaking. so close to letting it all spill out.

but neither says it.

not yet.

not out loud.

so instead, they stay here — teetering on the edge, breathless and desperate, wrapped in each other’s silence.

pretending it’s still just physical.

pretending they’re not both already in too deep.

her fingers wrap around him, slow and sure, and it’s like the room holds its breath.

yoongi’s chest stutters as she lines him up, her forehead pressing to his, and for a second they’re still — just breathing, both of them trembling with restraint. she doesn’t look at his face. not right away. her eyes are locked down, staring between them, watching how he disappears into her inch by inch, slick and hot and so fucking close it sends a shudder through her entire body.

her brows twitch upward in a soft, desperate kind of pain — not from discomfort, but from overwhelm. her mouth falls open around a quiet, strangled sound, something raw and completely real that slips out before she can stop it. it’s not the first time he’s been inside her — not even close — but something about this time feels different. maybe it’s the silence. the eye contact. the tension they've been choking on for weeks. months. maybe it’s the way neither of them’s bothering to pretend anymore.

because she’s shaking, and he’s gripping her hips like a lifeline, and then—

then she says it.

“i don’t want anyone else to have you like this,” she whispers, voice thin and cracking at the edges. her breath ghosts over his lips as she moves, the words punctuated by the slow rise and fall of her body. “i’m done pretending, yoongi. i don’t—fuck, i can’t.”

the confession splinters through him, sharp and blinding.

his hands slide up her back as she moves — slow at first, then faster, her hips snapping down in short, messy bursts. there’s nothing graceful about it. it’s frantic. possessive. like she’s trying to stake her claim on him with every wet slap of skin against skin. like she’s branding him with her body, letting him feel what she hasn’t had the nerve to say until now.

yoongi groans — guttural, broken — and digs his fingers into her waist as she starts to ride him harder, pace faltering with every moan she swallows back. her eyes flicker to his then, glassy and dark, and he can barely hold her gaze without falling apart.

“mine,” she says again, almost like a warning, like a plea. “you’re mine.”

he nods — fuck, he’d do anything for her right now — and brings his forehead to hers, their noses brushing as they move together in this messy, electric rhythm. every push, every drag, every breath feels like a vow neither of them has the guts to say out loud in plain language.

but it doesn’t matter.

because her body says it for her.

and his, god help him, answers back like it’s been waiting this whole time.

yoongi’s mouth finds the curve of her neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses dragging along her pulse as he pants against her skin. she’s still moving on him, slower now, deeper. every roll of her hips making his breath catch, making his hands grip tighter at her waist like he’s scared she might slip away despite what she just said.

he groans against her skin, the sound raw and low in his throat. needy, in a way he hasn’t let himself be — not until now. his teeth catch her earlobe, a soft bite that makes her shudder, and then he says it:

“fuck—i’ve been wanting to hear you say that.” his voice is wrecked, voice box vibrating against her neck, and his arms wrap tighter around her like he’s trying to fold himself into her, bury all the things he’s never admitted. “for so long, baby… you have no idea.”

she breathes in sharply, head tipping back, and he uses the opportunity to kiss down her throat, to press his lips to the hollow of her collarbone, to feel the way she trembles from the inside out.

and then he pulls back — just enough to look at her.

really look at her.

his hands slide up her back, fingertips tracing her spine, and their eyes lock again in that heavy, charged silence. her hips keep moving — slower now, drawn-out, grinding deep like she wants him to feel all of her. like she’s memorizing the way he fills her. her chest brushes his with every shift, and she’s still watching him. like he’s the only thing anchoring her.

“say it again,” he whispers, voice low but clear.

she leans in, mouth brushing his as she moves, as she grinds with purpose now, deliberate, claiming every inch of him.

“you’re mine,” she breathes, barely audible.

“all yours,” he answers without thinking.

and fuck, the way they move after that?

it’s not about getting off anymore.

it’s about knowing.owning.

holding each other in the most vulnerable way they ever have — naked and honest and right on the edge of something they can’t undo.

her forehead presses to his, and she doesn’t stop moving — slow, grinding, so deep it’s like she’s trying to carve him into herself, like she wants to memorize every ridge and throb, the way his breath catches, the way his lashes flutter when she tightens around him just right.

and then she whispers it.

into his lips.

into his soul.

“say i’m the only one,” she pleads, voice trembling. “please.”

and she is. she is. he doesn’t even hesitate.

his mouth crashes into hers — desperate and full of heat, his hands splaying across her back like he doesn’t want to let a single part of her go. he kisses her like it’s the only way he can say what he’s feeling without unraveling. not soft, not teasing. hungry. raw.

and then he moves — not away, never away — but with her.

he shifts, gently guiding her down onto the rug that cushions the floor below them, the tiny coffee table shoved just far enough to give them space. she’s blinking up at him, wide-eyed, lips swollen from his kisses, chest rising and falling like she’s about to break. he strips off the last of her clothes — her bra already gone, but her socks, her hoodie tangled around her arms, still in the way. and his — his shirt’s gone in a second, and his sweats follow, tossed somewhere into the growing pile around them.

“you’re the only one,” he says against her skin, voice thick, reverent. “the only one i think of. when i touch myself. when i wake up. when i hear a fucking melody that sounds like you.”

he grabs her ankle, lips brushing over the thin skin there, and starts kissing his way up — slow and reverent at first, then hungry when he reaches the bend of her knee, the inside of her thigh. she gasps, her legs twitching around him, and he hooks his arms under them, pulling her closer like she belongs wrapped around him.

“you’re it, baby,” he murmurs, kissing higher, closer, nearly to her core. “no one else. no one fucking touches me like you do. no one knows me like you do.”

and maybe it’s the way she trembles when he says it. maybe it’s the way she looks at him now, like she believes him.

maybe it’s the truth in his voice that finally makes her body let go of the tension she’s been carrying since the moment they met.

because now?

it’s not about pretending.

it’s about claiming.and he’s more than willing to let her do the same.

he doesn't rush it—no, not at first. he hovers there, above her, between her legs, one hand splayed across her waist like it’s anchoring him to the present, to her. their eyes meet, and there’s a beat of stillness, thick and charged and warm, where neither of them says a word. their bodies are flushed, skin tacky with heat, but it’s the emotion in the air that makes it almost unbearable.

then, with a soft breath and a quiet, reverent kind of groan, he sinks into her again.

and it’s everything.

she gasps, arching up to meet him, her hands flying to his back, her nails dragging across his shoulder blades, not to hurt—but to hold. to keep him right there. and yoongi… yoongi moves. faster than before, a little harder, but still tender. every thrust is measured but needy, like he’s trying to burn this version of her into memory.

his mouth finds her ear again, his breath hot and uneven. “you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice cracked and low. “like you were made for me.”

and then his hips snap forward, deeper this time, dragging a strangled moan out of her lips that has his head spinning.

“so fucking tight,” he growls, one hand slipping up her ribs to cup her breast, thumb grazing over her nipple. “you always take me so good… no one else gets this. no one gets this from me but you.”

she cries out at that, clinging tighter, and he kisses her—open-mouthed, messy, not even pretending to be composed anymore. she’s unraveling beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in like she needs him to stay, like she doesn’t want to risk even a second of separation.

his forehead falls to hers again, noses brushing, sweat dripping at the temple. “you’re it for me, baby,” he murmurs. “you hear me? all this—" he rolls his hips again, and she keens, "—only for you. only ever been for you.”

and there’s a truth in it that tastes like something permanent.

like something they've both been too afraid to say.

her hands cradle his face now, and he kisses her again. again. like it’s the only language that’ll carry everything he means.

and as their bodies move in sync, as the rhythm builds and the heat coils, the words he keeps spilling into her skin blur—between filthy and loving, between “you’re so fucking wet” and “you’re everything,” between want and need.

because for yoongi, with her, there’s never been a line.

just her. only her.

she comes undone with his name on her lips — not yelled, not screamed, but breathed out like a secret, like a confession she’s been carrying in her chest for weeks. her back arches, fingers digging into his biceps, eyes squeezing shut as her thighs tremble around his hips.

yoongi watches her fall apart, watches the way her body stutters and spasms, the way her mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. and that’s it for him — the breaking point. the way she looks when she finishes, all flushed and ruined and clenching around him like she doesn’t want to let go.

he pulls out just in time, jaw tight, breath shallow, barely choking out a curse before he releases thick and hot across her inner thigh, hips still twitching as he grinds against her skin. he could’ve come inside — he knows she’s on the pill, they’ve had that conversation — but there’s something so primal about this. about seeing her messy and wrecked, painted in him, like he marked her.

he stares at the mess for a beat — her legs trembling, her chest heaving, the slick between them sticky and raw — before leaning down without a word, mouth open, tongue dragging slow across her thigh to clean it.

and fuck, she jolts.

her eyes snap open, still hazy with the aftershocks, only to find him there, on his knees, licking himself off her like it’s nothing. like it’s everything.

the sight alone makes her throb all over again.

yoongi finishes what he started, kisses up her thigh, across her hip, then her stomach. and when he makes it back to her mouth, she’s already reaching for him, already tugging him closer.

and when she kisses him this time, it’s dirty and sweet all at once, her hand sneaking between them to wrap around both of them — his length, still slick, still sensitive, and hers, her arousal still warm on his skin.

she kisses him again, deeper now, still catching her breath — and her hand moves between their bodies, slipping down to wrap around him, slow and deliberate. he twitches under her touch, still sensitive, still slick from everything. and then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she slides her fingers lower, brushing through her own arousal, their mess mixing on her skin.

yoongi watches, breath caught in his throat, as she lifts her hand between them. her fingers glisten, coated in both of them, and then—

then she brings them to her mouth.

her tongue flicks out, slow and purposeful, licking across her fingers like she’s savoring every bit. tasting them both. tasting this — whatever they just crossed into.

his groan is instant, guttural, completely wrecked.

and she just grins, lips slick and eyes wild, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him.

“we’re fucking insane,” she whispers, lips brushing his.

and they both crack then, laughing — not hard, not loud — just breathless and loose and wrecked, tangled up in something that feels like relief.

like they finally let something out they didn’t even know they were holding.

he kisses her again, grinning against her lips. “yeah,” he murmurs. “but that was so worth it.”

and it was.

god, it was.

he doesn’t let her go. not after that.

his arms wrap around her again, pulling her flushed against his chest like he's afraid she’ll evaporate if he loosens his grip. his lips brush her temple, his breath still uneven, but his voice—his voice—comes out soft. low. vulnerable in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to be in so long it almost feels foreign.

“say that you meant it,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the curve of her spine. “please.”

he swallows, presses his nose to her hair. “because i don’t think i could take it if that was just… a weird kink. or some fucked-up moment of too much intimacy.”

she’s quiet at first. her fingers are tracing slow circles over his ribs, and then she shifts just enough to look up at him — really look. her cheeks are flushed, lashes damp, eyes so sincere it knocks the wind out of him.

“i do,” she says, voice steady but soft. “i have for a while.”

yoongi's breath catches.

and then he’s kissing her. everywhere. her cheeks, her nose, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. all of it. frantic, relieved, grinning. like he just found out the universe wasn’t playing a joke on him after all. like it’s real now. and she’s just laughing softly, tangled in his lap, letting him love on her without saying anything else.

until she leans her head on his shoulder, still kind of sticky and disheveled, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, and mumbles—

“so… what now?”

he exhales a breath of a laugh, kisses the side of her head again.

“now,” he starts, glancing at the door like it might fly open at any second, “we clean up before someone like hoseok comes through that door and finds us like this—” he gestures vaguely to the pile of clothes, the mess, them on the floor, still glowing like a pair of sinners caught in the sun.

she groans, face burying into his neck, giggling like she knows it’s a close call.

“—then,” he continues, more seriously this time, “you let me take you out on a breakfast date tomorrow.”

that gets her. she lifts her head, blinking at him like he’s said something profound. “breakfast?”

he nods. “yeah. like pancakes, coffee, awkward first date questions we already know the answers to.”

her smile softens into something that makes his chest feel too small.

“okay,” she says. “yeah. i’d like that.”

and for once, yoongi’s not thinking ahead.

not worrying.

not pretending.

he just nods and holds her tighter, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀text me when you get lonely⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀knj⠀⠀)

pairing: non-celeb!ex!namjoon x f!ex!reader

genre: exes-to-lovers, angst, bit of romance, slow-burn, smut

warnings: explicit consensual sex, graphic oral sex (fem receiving), face ridding implied, overstimulation, rough sex, hair pulling, fingering, slight breath control (hand on throat, not choking), cum on body, praise & degradation mix (if you squit your eyes), possessive behavior, size kink, deep penetration, leg on shoulder position, wet/messy sex, begging, post-orgasm sensitivity, soft dom!namjoon, desperation and emotional vulnerability during sex, unprotected sex , aggressive kissing, marking (bites), mild semi-public sexual tension, emphasis in mutual pleasure and yearning (let me know if i'm forgetting something)

word count: 14.3 k

summary: after a night out stirs old feelings, a late-night text opens a door (y/n) swore she’d locked for good. when fate brings them face-to-face at a packed underground gig, sparks fly, wounds reopen, and the line between anger and desire blurs. one reckless night later, they confront what’s left between them—no promises, just raw truth and the fragile hope of second chances.

lu's note: this is officially my longest one-shot ever—and i loved every messy, tender, smut-filled second of writing it. 🖤

i’ll be shifting focus to finish chapter 3 of opposites don’t attract, they destroy (finally, i know lmao) so if content slows down a little, that’s why!! thank you for always being patient with me and letting me take my time with these chaotic little love stories

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

the music was loud, someone had spilled beer on the floor, and (y/n) was clutching a half-warm drink like it was her lifeline. she was supposed to be having fun. that had been the plan—get dressed up, laugh too hard, maybe flirt with someone cute and harmless just to feel something again.

but then steph, all glitter lids and tipsy honesty, leaned over and tilted her head like a curious cat.

“hey... didn’t you used to come here with namjoon?”

and just like that, it was over.

it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way the energy shifted. the air changed. the people around them—friends, old classmates, acquaintances that still followed her on instagram out of habit—went quiet in that careful way. like everyone expected her to shatter.

(y/n) smiled. it wasn’t fake, exactly. just... practiced.

“we’re not together anymore,” she said, tipping her cup back. the alcohol went down rough. “it’s been a while.”

steph’s eyes widened. “shit, sorry—i didn’t mean to—”

“it’s fine,” (y/n) cut in, voice light. too light. “i mean, you didn’t know.”

there was a beat of silence. one of her friends, amara, looked like she wanted to say something comforting, but thought better of it. someone else cleared their throat. the music kept playing but it felt like it had gotten quieter.

no one asked anything else.

the hallway outside the bar was dim, lit only by a flickering exit sign and the vague hum of someone’s vape cloud still hanging in the air. (y/n) leaned back against the peeling brick wall, cold seeping into her spine through her thin shirt, and took a slow breath in.

not to cry.

just to breathe.

the night buzzed behind her—voices, basslines, laughter. it all felt far away now, like she was watching it from underwater. her buzz had dulled. or maybe soured. she couldn't tell anymore.

she hated that a name—just a name—could still change the temperature of her blood.

a year. it had been a year. she’d dyed her hair, moved apartments, started journaling again like she was a teenager with a heartbreak playlist. she’d told everyone she was fine. and she was. mostly. enough.

but the way steph had said his name…

namjoon. like he was still hers. like it hadn’t ended in the kind of silence that made her doubt the entire thing ever happened.

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing at her arms. the night was cooler than she expected. or maybe that was just what regret felt like.

she checked her phone—reflex. no messages.

she shouldn’t text him. not now. not like this.

her fingers hovered. it was so stupid. she knew it was stupid. but the truth was—

she did miss having him around.

not just the sex, not the shared playlists or the stupid way he folded her laundry like a librarian shelving books. she missed the quiet. the safety. the way he’d always known when she needed to be held without being asked.

and before she could talk herself out of it, her thumbs were moving.

i miss having you around.

she stares at her phone just a moment before locking the screen. “this is so stupid” mumbling under her breath.

the bass was still pounding when she walked back in, like nothing had happened. like her stomach wasn’t twisted and her throat didn’t feel like it had been scraped raw from the inside. someone handed her another drink—she didn’t even catch who. she nodded her thanks, forced another smile, and knocked it back too fast.

the warmth never hit her chest. it just sank.

she hovered at the edge of the circle, letting her friends’ chatter wash over her like static. the laughter felt too loud. the neon lights too bright. she wasn’t in it anymore—just floating above, watching herself nod, sip, grin. a ghost in her own skin.

steph tried to meet her eyes once or twice. (y/n) didn’t let her.

after another drink, she checked the time. 3:08 a.m. perfect excuse.

“hey,” she said, interrupting a story she wasn’t listening to, “i’ve got things to do in the morning, so… i’m gonna head out.”

a couple of her friends blinked. amara pouted. someone offered her a ride.

“nah,” she smiled. “i’m good. thanks.”

steph didn’t say anything. just looked at her like she knew.

(y/n) ignored it, squeezed a few arms goodbye, and slipped out before anyone could stop her.

the night air hit her like a slap—cold, sharp, honest.

she pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. her unsent message was still open on the screen.

i miss having you around.

still there. still blinking.

she didn’t delete it.

but she didn’t send it either.

by the time she stepped into her apartment, the quiet almost made her flinch. no voices, no music, no bass crawling under her skin. just the soft hum of the fridge and the dull echo of her own steps against the floor. 

she toed off her shoes in the dark, letting them fall sideways by the door. her makeup still clung to her skin, smudged slightly under one eye, and her jacket was slipping off her shoulder, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. everything felt too heavy. her arms. her chest. even her thoughts.

she didn’t bother changing out of her clothes. didn’t brush her teeth. didn’t even check her phone again. she just dropped her bag somewhere near the couch and made the short, autopilot walk to her bed, collapsing onto the mattress like something hollowed out. the city buzzed faintly through the window, a distant lullaby of car horns and wind, and within seconds, sleep took her like a blackout.

when she opened her eyes again, the light was harsh.

her head ached in that familiar, dehydrated way. her throat was dry, and her limbs felt tangled in fabric she couldn’t remember putting on. the sun was too bright. the room smelled faintly like whatever perfume she’d sprayed hours before and the remnants of sweat and bar smoke.

she groaned, dragging her arm over her face. reached blindly for her phone.

6 unread messages. none from him.

she was halfway through a notification from a food delivery app when she noticed the chat still open behind it. his name. his thread.

and there it was.

the text she swore she didn’t send.

i miss having you around.

right beneath it:

read 4:17 am.

she blinked at it. once. twice. waiting for something—anything—to change. maybe a reply would pop up. maybe it had glitched. maybe this was a dream and she hadn’t hit send after all.

but no.

he’d read it.

and that was it.

no typing bubble. no three dots. no follow-up. no you too. not even a dry hope you’re good.

just silence.

the kind that wrapped around her like cold water.

her stomach twisted, hot with humiliation. god, had she really sent it? like that? no punctuation, no explanation, just—that? a drunk confession disguised as a throwaway text?

she dropped the phone onto her sheets and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. she wasn’t going to cry. this wasn’t something to cry about.

it was just a text.

just a ghost.

just another reminder that he was still good at walking away.

she didn’t even get out of bed until noon.

and even then, it wasn’t because she wanted to—it was because her bladder forced her to. the sun spilling through the curtains made her wince, and every part of her mouth felt like sandpaper. she moved like she was made of rust, each step slow, dragging, her thoughts heavier than her body.

she didn’t check her phone again.

not right away.

instead, she wandered to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter in that hunched-over way she only ever did when she was hungover or emotionally bruised. this morning, she was both.

by the time she sat down at her desk and opened her laptop, her phone was right there next to it—staring at her. taunting her. the temptation was unbearable. not to look at his message—she already knew what was (and wasn’t) there—but to do something about it.

like text him again.

maybe something casual. ironic. a recovery joke.

lol sorry drunk me got sentimental ignore that, rough night lol forget it

but what was the point? he read it. read it. and said nothing.

what the hell else was she supposed to do? follow it up with an apology? beg him to talk to her? no—no, fuck that. she’d already handed him a piece of her vulnerability on a silver platter. she wasn’t about to keep spoon-feeding it to him.

still…

she thought about it.

the entire day, it circled her like a mosquito—tiny, buzzing, impossible to swat away. every time she opened another tab, washed another dish, tied her hair up, the thought came creeping back in: what if he’s waiting for me to say more?

what if he wants her to chase him?

what if he’s just being cautious?

what if he read it and regretted not answering, but didn’t know how?

what if.

what if.

what if.

she typed at least five different drafts of a follow-up. none of them made it past the keyboard. each one felt weaker than the last. some were angry. some were sarcastic. one was just a string of question marks she didn’t even remember typing.

eventually, she just set her phone screen-down and pushed it to the far corner of the table. opened a new document. tried to work. but even her words—normally her safe place, her breath—betrayed her.

every sentence reminded her of him. or worse, of herself with him.

she was halfway through pretending to write an email when the memory of the message hit her again like a slap: i miss having you around.

how pathetic. how raw.

and he hadn’t said a thing.

the knock came just after seven.

soft at first, then impatient. then followed by the sound of a key in the lock.

(y/n) didn’t move from the couch.

she was still in the same hoodie she threw on after her shower, the sleeves tugged over her hands, one leg curled beneath her and the other hanging off the edge like a question mark. a half-eaten banana and a cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table, next to her phone, which she hadn’t touched in hours. not since the last time she opened their thread. not since she stared at the word read until it blurred.

the door creaked open, and the scent of bulgogi and rice and something fried cut through the stale air of her apartment.

“i swear to god if you’re dead in here i’m going to bring you back just to slap you,” amara called out.

a beat.

then: “...oh.”

(y/n) didn’t look up. just mumbled, “hi.”

amara’s boots clicked across the floor, and then she was dropping two plastic bags onto the coffee table and kneeling in front of her like some kind of holy intervention.

“jesus christ, you look like a sad victorian ghost. have you even eaten?”

“kinda.”

amara narrowed her eyes. “do fridge grapes and ibuprofen count?”

(y/n) cracked the ghost of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

amara sighed and sat beside her, her presence immediate and grounding. she unpacked the food with practiced ease, muttering something about “soy sauce therapy” and “emergency carbs.” they ate in silence for a few minutes, chopsticks scraping against containers, the only soundtrack a soft playlist humming from (y/n)’s laptop.

then amara said, casually, “so… how bad is it?”

(y/n) didn’t answer at first.

she took another bite of kimchi, chewed slowly. tried to pretend it didn’t taste like regret.

then, finally: “i texted him.”

amara didn’t blink. “namjoon?”

(y/n) nodded.

“when?”

“last night.”

“what’d you say?”

(y/n) swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. “i miss having you around.”

amara’s eyebrows shot up. “oh damn. straight to the throat, huh?”

“i didn’t mean to send it. i thought i didn’t. but i did.”

“...and?”

“he read it.” her voice cracked, just slightly. “and he didn’t reply.”

amara leaned back against the couch, exhaling through her nose. she didn’t look surprised. but she did look like she was calculating something in her head.

“bitch,” she finally said, “i love you, so i need to ask—what were you hoping he’d say?”

(y/n) blinked. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i didn’t expect anything, i just—”

amara gave her a look.

(y/n) sighed, letting her head fall against the couch cushion. “i guess… maybe i wanted him to say he missed me too. or that he’d been thinking about me. or that it sucked for him, too.”

amara nodded slowly, eyes soft but steady. “and instead, he gave you silence.”

a beat.

“again.”

that last word landed hard. (y/n) flinched, just a little. but she didn’t argue.

she hated how familiar this feeling was. the waiting. the not-knowing. the pretending not to care while dying inside.

amara nudged her with her foot. “you know this doesn’t mean you’re pathetic, right?”

“sure feels like it.”

“you were vulnerable. that’s brave. and it doesn’t make you desperate, it makes you human. but let’s also not pretend that this isn’t who he’s always been—someone who disappears when you hand him something fragile.”

(y/n)’s throat tightened.

amara continued, voice gentler now. “you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart. it’s not your job to teach him how to hold it.”

that was when the tears finally came.

not loud. not many. just a couple that slipped down her cheeks quietly, like they’d been waiting all day for permission.

amara didn’t make a big deal out of it. she just scooted closer, wrapped an arm around (y/n)’s shoulders, and pulled her into her side like they’d done this a hundred times before.

and maybe they had.

you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart.

the words hung in the air like incense smoke—sweet, heavy, lingering long after they were said. (y/n) didn’t answer. she couldn’t. her throat was too tight. so she just leaned into amara’s shoulder, blinking up at the ceiling like if she stared hard enough, the tears would slide back in.

amara let her sit there in silence for a moment, fingers tracing idle circles on (y/n)’s back.

then, gently: “you know this won’t be forever, right?”

(y/n) made a soft, scoffing noise. “what won’t?”

“this feeling. the ache. the shame. you won’t always be this girl who sent the text and got ignored.”

she didn’t believe that. not yet. but hearing someone say it out loud made it hurt a little less.

amara sat up a little straighter, nudging her side. “wanna hear something stupid?”

(y/n) wiped under her eyes. “always.”

“i’ve been holding onto this for three weeks.”

“holding onto what?”

amara reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out two crumpled, slightly bent paper tickets.

“you remember Still Moss?”

(y/n)’s head jerked up. “no fucking way.”

amara grinned. “they’re playing saturday. small set. underground venue in itaewon. i saw the flyer on some niche subreddit and snatched the tickets before they were even posted officially.”

(y/n) blinked. “amar—what the hell, why didn’t you tell me?”

“because you were doing better,” amara said, voice soft but honest. “you weren’t thinking about him every day. you were flirting with the guy at your gym. you were laughing again. and i didn’t want to pull you back into memories of the past just because one of our old favorites decided to crawl out of their indie cave.”

(y/n) took the ticket with both hands, staring at it like it might bite.

“but,” amara added, “now? i think you need something real. something alive. not a text thread. not a read receipt. not silence in a chat that used to be your whole world.”

(y/n)’s lips parted, but no words came out.

amara shrugged. “you don’t have to go for me. but you should go for you. for the part of you that wasn’t just his. the part of you that screamed lyrics and danced like a lunatic in your kitchen and wore that ugly green beanie just because they mentioned it in a b-side.”

“that beanie was iconic.”

“it was moldy avocado vomit and you loved it.”

(y/n) laughed. just once. and it cracked something open.

the grief didn’t vanish. but it shifted. made space for something else. not quite joy. not even hope. just a sliver of maybe.

“you really think it’ll help?” she whispered, still clutching the ticket.

“i think it’ll remind you that you’re more than what he didn’t say.”

(y/n) looked down at the printed text again. the date. the time. the name of a band that once meant everything.

she wasn’t sure if she could face it. but something in her chest fluttered anyway.

“okay,” she said. “i’ll go.”

amara raised her brow. “with me?”

“obviously with you.”

amara grinned and tossed a napkin at her. “cool. you’ve got two days to get your shit together, wash your hair, and remember who the fuck you are.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered this time.

-----

she stared at her closet like it had offended her.

clothes were already strewn across the bed—black mesh tops, a beat-up denim jacket with a fading patch on the back, her favorite pants that somehow always made her feel like she was too much and not enough all at once. she had half a mind to cancel. text amara and say she got sick. or had work. or—fuck it—just ghost the entire thing.

because this was his band.

not officially, obviously. not legally. but still—he was the one who found them. the one who burned their first EP onto a cheap CD and played it in his car at full volume while they drove through the city with the windows down and their hands out like wings. he was the one who paused every other song to say “listen to this part, wait, right here—this is the line that wrecked me.”

they used to talk about seeing Still Moss live like it was some bucket list item. one day. someday. a future tense wrapped in shared laughter and tangled limbs.

and now she was going without him.

(y/n) sank down onto the bed, the air suddenly thick, her fingers trembling as they pulled at the edge of her comforter.

what was she doing?

what the fuck was she trying to do? prove something? distract herself? reclaim something that maybe never really belonged to her alone?

she reached for her phone, scrolled back to his name—again. the message still sat there like a bruise on the screen.

i miss having you around.

read. still no reply.

and now she was going to the show they used to dream about, pretending it didn’t mean anything?

who was she kidding?

she dropped the phone face-down on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

it felt like treason. like stepping into that venue without him was rewriting history, erasing the version of herself that once existed in his arms. she’d be surrounded by music they once called theirs, lyrics that felt like inside jokes, moments only they knew how to hold. what if they played that song? the one he always hummed when he kissed her shoulder half-asleep?

how could she stand in that crowd and not feel his absence like a blade?

still.

not going would mean something, too. it would mean he still owned that part of her.

and maybe—just maybe—going would be her way of saying: you don’t get to have it all.

her reflection caught in the mirror across the room. she looked tired. haunted. but underneath the exhaustion was something steadier. the shadow of resolve.

she stood up.

grabbed the mesh top.

and started getting ready.

the street outside the venue was already humming with life—groups of twenty-somethings crowding the sidewalk, passing around half-smoked cigarettes and cheap convenience store beers, the faint thrum of bass leaking through the brick walls like the night had a pulse.

(y/n) tugged her jacket tighter around her body, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

no sign of amara yet.

she checked her phone for the third time in five minutes. 7:48 p.m. she’d said they’d meet a little before eight, but amara was always early. always waiting on the curb with snacks shoved in her bag and a too-loud story to fill the silence.

and then her phone buzzed.

a text.

[amara :] babe i’m so sorry. something came up. i can’t make it tonight. pls don’t kill me ily :(

(y/n) stared at the message.

read it again.

then once more, just to make sure she hadn’t misread it. but there it was. soft. apologetic. and devastating in its own casual way.

for a second, everything felt like static. the noise around her, the lights, the laughter—it all flattened into white.

she looked up at the venue entrance.

the line was shorter now. people were already filtering inside. the music inside was getting louder, familiar bass lines testing the sound system. Still Moss. she could already picture the setlist in her head.

she hesitated.

every cell in her body told her to leave. to turn around. take the train home. crawl into bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

because now it wasn’t just a gig. it was a battlefield.

but the thing was—she’d already fought this fight with herself earlier.

in the mirror, while deciding on her top. while wiping mascara smudges from under her eyes. while whispering to her reflection, you’re allowed to have things that used to belong to both of you.

and now, standing in front of the venue alone, she realized something else: leaving would feel too much like surrender.

to namjoon.

to the past.

to the version of herself that thought rejection meant she had to disappear.

no fucking way.

she took a breath.

pushed her phone back into her bag.

and stepped into the venue.

it was dim and loud and crowded, the floor sticky under her boots and the air thick with anticipation. the lights were still up. people milling around, drinks in hand, conversations half-shouted. she squeezed through the crowd toward a spot near the back—not close enough to feel suffocated, but just enough to see the stage, to feel the throb of the speakers in her chest.

and despite everything—the anxiety still clawing at her ribs, the faint echo of read 4:17 am playing on a loop in her head—she felt it.

a flicker of excitement.

this was her night.

and she wasn’t going to let the ghost of a man who couldn’t even text her back take that from her.

the venue had that familiar, half-feral energy only places like this could hold—dim ceiling lights hanging from exposed pipes, old show flyers layered on the walls like bark, the faint hum of something spilled and sticky in the air. voices rose and fell around her, half-drunk excitement wrapped around slurred words and laughter. no one here knew her. no one looked twice.

it helped.

for a second, it helped.

(y/n) found a spot near a worn pillar toward the left side of the room, far enough from the stage to breathe, close enough to see the instruments already arranged—drum set lit in soft red, mic stands waiting like they knew secrets. she crossed her arms and let herself sink into the pulse of the crowd. the subtle rhythm of people shuffling, talking, sipping, swaying.

Still Moss would go on soon.

she could feel it.

and beneath her nerves—below the tension stitched into her shoulders, below the phantom sting of rejection still lodged in her chest—there was something else. something familiar.

want.

not for him. not for the past.

for the music. for this night. for this version of herself that had always existed under the hurt.

someone brushed past her and muttered an apology. she nodded. took a slow sip of her drink. let the noise rush around her like static. the pre-show playlist crackled overhead, layered with old demos and deep cuts, and when the familiar intro of one of their early tracks started up—their song, the one from their first EP—her throat tightened.

but she stayed.

she didn’t flinch.

the lights overhead flickered once. twice.

and then they dimmed.

a hush spread through the crowd—not silence, but reverence. anticipation. the kind that hit you low in the gut.

she smiled.

just a little.

and for a moment, she forgot about the message. the rejection. the ache.

for a moment, she was just a girl in a crowd, heart beating in sync with the rest of them.

the stage lights snapped on—white-hot and gold—and the band filed out one by one to the kind of roar that felt earned. the guitarist adjusted his strap. the drummer spun his sticks once, twice, like ritual. the lead singer stepped up to the mic, tugged his cap low, and said—

“you guys ready for a loud fucking night or what?”

the room answered with a scream.

(y/n) screamed with them.

and for those first few songs, she let go.

she danced. not like she used to—not wild and fearless—but she moved. she let the bass hit her ribs and the guitar wrap around her neck and the lyrics pull her mouth into half-remembered shapes. her hands were in the air by the second chorus. her voice raw by the third.

she was alive.

she was alive.

and that’s exactly when it happened.

a shift in the air. not dramatic. not cinematic. just something off. like the static changed frequencies.

she turned her head.

and there he was.

namjoon.

standing maybe twenty feet away, half in shadow, eyes already locked on her like he hadn’t stopped looking since she walked in.

her pulse stuttered.

she didn’t look again. wouldn’t. she turned back to the stage with the kind of sharp, practiced movement that screamed I didn’t see you and I don’t care, even though her lungs had forgotten how to work and her drink suddenly tasted like regret.

the crowd surged forward with the start of another song, and she let herself be pulled along, like if she just moved fast enough, she could outrun the sudden roar of thoughts in her head. she focused on the band—on the flicker of stage lights slicing through fog, on the way the lead singer’s voice cracked in the chorus like a prayer, on the guy next to her who was already elbowing into her space trying to get closer. she focused on anything but him.

but she could feel it.

his stare.

like heat at the back of her neck, heavy and deliberate, digging in like he was trying to memorize the way she stood now. the way she danced without him. the way she still came, still claimed this night as her own. it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t tender. it was invasive. unbearable.

she swallowed hard and lifted her hands, let herself sway with the rhythm, kept her body in motion just to give her mind something to anchor to. the crowd was louder now, rougher—people pushing forward, eager, half-drunk on adrenaline and cheap whiskey. someone brushed up against her, a hand catching too low at her waist before slipping off. another person stumbled into her back, barely catching themselves with a muttered apology and a laugh that didn’t reach their eyes.

the unintended groping, the crush of sweat and sound and strangers—it was a lot. too much. normally she’d lean into it, lose herself. but now every brush of skin felt like static. like him. like memory bleeding into muscle.

she didn’t dare look back.

but she knew.

he was still watching.

maybe trying to figure out if it was really her. maybe trying to decide if he should come over. maybe just… feeling it. the pull. the hurt. the consequence of silence.

her heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to break out.

stay cool. that’s what she kept telling herself. over and over, like a mantra between lyrics. stay cool. stay cool. he doesn’t get to ruin this for you. not again.

and god, she almost believed it.

almost.

but beneath it all, there was still that other voice—small, traitorous, terrified—asking: why is he here? did he know you’d come? is this some kind of joke? or is it fate, sick and stupid, dragging you both back together just to watch you fall apart again?

the lights flashed. the bass hit. the song climbed to its peak.

and she danced.

not for him.

but in spite of him.

she didn’t notice how thick the crowd had gotten until she tried to move.

one song bled into another, and suddenly the bodies pressing in around her weren’t dancing—they were shoving. climbing. surging toward the stage like it was salvation. someone behind her yelled something she couldn’t make out, and the girl to her left kept pushing her elbow into (y/n)’s ribs, eyes locked on the front like she’d sooner break bone than give up her view.

she tried to shift, just enough to step back, maybe slide toward the edge of the crowd—but there was nowhere to go. her foot caught on someone’s bag, someone else’s arm tangled with hers, and in the chaos she realized—fuck—she was stuck.

her breath hitched.

it wasn’t panic. not yet. but it was close.

the air was getting tighter, hotter. the music roared in her chest like thunder, no longer comforting, just loud. she ducked her head, tried to wedge her way sideways—but the wave of bodies moved again, and this time it nearly knocked her off balance. her shoulder clipped someone’s back. her hands went up instinctively, useless.

and then—

a hand.

fingers wrapping around her wrist—firm, familiar, undeniable.

she froze.

looked up.

and there he was.

namjoon.

right in front of her now, eyes wide, mouth tight, brows drawn in that exact expression she remembered from every argument they never really finished—worry twisted into anger. or maybe it was the other way around. either way, it hit her like a punch to the ribs.

his hand was warm.

his grip steady.

and his face—

god, his face.

he didn’t look surprised. not exactly. more like—rattled. like seeing her here was something he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head, but the reality of it still threw him off balance. his jaw clenched. his eyes scanned her face like he was checking for damage, like he expected her to be bruised and broken just from being here.

she didn’t know what to say.

she couldn’t say anything.

the crowd pushed again, and this time he pulled her toward him—closer, instinctively protective, his body shielding hers like it was second nature. and maybe it was.

he leaned in, voice low but urgent in her ear. “you okay?”

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

because all she could think was: you left. and I still wanted to marry you.

and now here he was, dragging her out of the storm like nothing had ever broken between them.

the crowd didn’t care who they were or what cracked, fragile history hung between them—it just kept pressing in, louder, harder, all elbows and shouted lyrics and spilled drinks. someone bumped into her back, hard enough to make her stumble, and she felt namjoon’s grip tighten around her wrist immediately. not rough, not possessive—just instinctive. like his body was answering a question before his brain could form the words.

he pulled her closer, chest brushing against her shoulder now, his other hand moving to the small of her back without thinking, guiding her through the tide like muscle memory. even after all this time, he still moved like someone who wanted to shield her from the world, still held her like she was precious and breakable—even if he had been the one to shatter her last.

“we should move,” he said, close enough that she felt the shape of the words more than heard them. his voice was low, almost calm, but the tension in his jaw told a different story. his eyes—those warm, unreadable eyes—searched her face in the flickering stage light, darting over her skin like he was looking for bruises, for signs that she’d been hurt. not just by the crowd.

by anything.

and she hated that it still made her want to cry.

she nodded, or maybe she didn’t. maybe her body just leaned into the pull of him, because the next thing she knew he was gently—gently—pressing her ahead of him through the crush of people, using his frame to carve a path through the chaos. every time someone got too close, he shifted, stepping between her and the noise, that quiet, seething frustration radiating off him like heat—not at her. never at her. just the situation. the pushing. the closeness. the way she’d been caught in all of it, small and alone and so vulnerable.

and she could feel it—how hard he was trying not to let it show. the anger simmering under his skin. the fear, maybe, buried somewhere beneath it. but it was there, plain as breath: he cared. he still fucking cared.

and that—more than the hands or the eyes or the words—was the most dangerous thing of all.

the bathroom corridor was narrow and dim, lined with peeling posters and flickering overhead lights that buzzed like flies. the smell of stale beer clung to the walls, and the occasional echo of the concert leaked through the cracked door down the hall, muffled now. distant. the adrenaline from the crowd hadn’t faded, not fully, but out here, in the quiet, everything felt sharper. more dangerous.

namjoon turned to face her the second they stepped into the space. he didn’t let go of her wrist until he was sure she was steady on her feet, and even then, his fingers lingered for a moment longer than they should have. like he didn’t want to. like maybe part of him still remembered what it felt like to hold her like this for no reason at all.

he stepped back then, ran a hand through his hair, and started in before she could even catch her breath.

“you shouldn’t have been in there alone,” he said, voice low but tight, like he was trying not to snap. “you know how packed these places get. it’s not safe, not when you’re by yourself. what if I hadn’t been there? you could’ve gotten hurt, trampled, or—”

she blinked, still catching up, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

namjoon’s eyes stayed locked on hers, jaw clenched like he was still trying to hold the anger in his mouth, but it was starting to fracture—splinters showing through the edges. the fluorescent light above them flickered once, casting shadows across his face, and she hated how familiar he still looked in this lighting. like every too-late night in their old apartment, like every fight that ended with her curled up in his hoodie and his hands in her hair whispering, we’re okay, aren’t we? we’re okay.

but they weren’t okay now.

they hadn’t been in a long time.

“i wasn’t alone by choice,” she said, arms folded tight across her chest. “amara was supposed to come with me.”

namjoon’s mouth parted slightly.

she didn’t wait for him to speak.

“she bought the tickets. said i needed to get out of my head for once. i was going to cancel when she bailed but—” she swallowed hard. “i told myself i’d be fine.”

his expression shifted. not dramatically. not in that open-book way most people’s faces moved. but in the subtle ways she still remembered—his brows pulling in just enough, the set of his mouth softening like it suddenly hurt to keep it closed.

“seriously, what were you thinking? you don’t even like crowds like that. and if amara was supposed to be with you, why didn’t you just leave when she bailed? jesus, you could’ve—”

“you’re such an asshole,” she muttered.

the words slipped out before she could stop them. not loud. but loud enough to cut through him.

he froze.

the silence between them was immediate, electric.

she shook her head, chest tight, throat burning. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to show up out of nowhere and act like you’re worried about me when you left me on read.”

he stared at her, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt.

“you don’t get to act like it’s still your job to take care of me,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to piss her off. “i sent you one fucking message. one. and you couldn’t even be bothered to answer. and now you’re here lecturing me like you give a shit?”

his eyes darkened. “what was I supposed to say, huh?” he snapped, stepping forward. “you text me in the middle of the night after we haven’t spoken in over a year. what the fuck was I supposed to do with that?”

her mouth opened. then closed.

namjoon kept going, voice rising like he was finally letting himself feel the thing he’d been pushing down. “you think that didn’t mess with my head? you think I haven’t spent the last few nights wondering if I should’ve said something? if I was allowed to say something? because for a second I thought—fuck, I thought you were drunk, or lonely, or both, and if I said the wrong thing, I’d make it worse.”

she laughed, bitter and breathless. “so you decided saying nothing was the better choice.”

“it was a dick move, on both ends” he said, quieter now. not denying it. just... laying it out.

they stared at each other.

her back against the wall. his shoulders drawn tight like he was holding something back with both hands. and the air between them? thick with everything they didn’t say after they broke up. everything they still don’t know how to explain.

the silence after his last words stretched taut between them, like the air was waiting for one of them to break it. (y/n) felt her breath coming fast, too fast, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. her heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons—rage, confusion, grief. want. all tangled together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

namjoon was standing barely a foot away, his jaw clenched, arms stiff at his sides like if he moved even a little he’d reach for her, and he didn’t trust himself to do it.

and fuck, she hated how familiar he still felt.

the heat between them was unbearable. it had nothing to do with the venue. nothing to do with the crowd they’d escaped. it was just them, trapped in this too-small hallway, skin prickling, hearts racing, eyes locked.

his gaze flicked down—her lips. then back up.

hers did the same.

and it was like time held its breath.

her mouth parted just slightly, and he leaned in a fraction of an inch, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him needed to be closer. and for a second—one long, shattering second—it felt inevitable. like their mouths were going to meet, and this whole night would collapse into something hot and reckless and full of everything they’d been avoiding.

but they didn’t kiss.

neither of them moved.

and the restraint hurt worse than any breakup ever could.

namjoon exhaled shakily, his voice suddenly quiet. “i should walk you home.”

just like that, the fire between them shifted. cooled at the edges. but didn’t go out.

she blinked, throat thick. “what?”

he met her eyes. no anger there now. just something raw. something so tender it made her chest ache.

“it’s late,” he said. “and i don’t want you going alone.”

her lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say.

because she should say no.

she should tell him to go to hell. to let her be. to stop doing these stupid, soft things that made it so hard to hate him.

but the part of her that sent that text? the part that never really stopped missing him? that part wanted to say yes.

god, it wanted to say yes.

the walk back to her place unfolded like a dream they weren’t sure they were awake for—quiet, disorienting, charged with too much everything. neither of them said a word, not at first. not when they left the venue. not when they crossed the street or turned down the familiar blocks of her neighborhood, shadows stretching long under the streetlights, the faint pulse of the city flickering somewhere behind them.

they didn’t have to speak to feel it.

every step buzzed with unsaid things. every brush of his arm near hers felt like an accident that wasn’t. she could feel his body heat like a second skin. like he was walking too close, not quite touching her, but there—solid, steady, present in a way he hadn’t been in over a year.

and she hated how natural it felt.

hated that her body still remembered the rhythm of him. the pace. the weight. the subtle, invisible pull like gravity still worked differently when he was near.

she didn’t know how they got to her building so fast. one second she was replaying their argument in her head like a song stuck on loop, and the next—she was unlocking the front door, his hand hovering behind her like it used to when she fumbled for her keys, like he still had the instinct to catch her if she dropped anything at all.

they stepped inside.

dim hallway. elevator out of service. and then the climb—three floors of quiet tension, every footfall like punctuation. they didn’t speak, not even as she led him to her door, not even as she stood there with the key halfway into the lock, heartbeat thudding in her throat.

and when she turned to face him again, everything came rushing back.

the fight.

the guilt.

the aching, unbearable want.

“you’re still mad,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers like he couldn’t bear to look away.

she scoffed, soft and tired. “of course i’m mad.”

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“yeah?” she said, voice tight, bitter. “then why did you act like i didn’t exist?”

his face twitched, jaw clenching. “because i didn’t know how to handle it, okay? you don’t get to show up in my messages like that and expect me to be fine.”

“i didn’t expect you to be fine,” she shot back, stepping toward him now, all the space between them collapsing. “i didn’t expect anything, namjoon. i was drunk and stupid and—god, i just missed you. i wasn’t trying to trap you or make some kind of fucking dramatic statement—i just… i don’t know. i didn’t think. but you did. you saw it. and you chose nothing.”

he was breathing harder now. so was she. neither of them looked away.

“do you know how much it hurt?” she whispered, voice breaking. “after everything? to be left on read by the one person i thought would at least… at least say something?”

his mouth parted. something crumpled behind his eyes. but he didn’t speak.

they were so close now that she could feel the edge of his breath against her cheek, smell the faintest trace of something warm and familiar clinging to his collar. the scent of him broke her more than anything he could’ve said.

she wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly they were standing toe to toe, barely a breath apart, the keys in her hand forgotten, her back nearly brushing the door. his hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t trust himself. her fingers curled around the hem of her jacket like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

the silence between them? it wasn’t empty.

it was full. heavy. breaking at the seams.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

namjoon’s eyes searched hers like he was looking for an opening, like if he could just name the thing between them, maybe it would make sense. but it didn’t. it never had. and now, standing inches from her door, with his chest rising and falling like he’d just run here barefoot, all he could manage was, “i didn’t want to make it worse.”

she blinked. slow. disbelieving.

“worse?” she echoed, voice low and razor-sharp. “you think ignoring me made it better?”

he flinched, just a little. his gaze dropped to the floor, like the tile pattern suddenly held the answers. “i thought if i said something, it would… reopen everything. and i didn’t think you wanted that.”

“so instead you just pretended i didn’t exist?” her voice cracked, raw now, too open. “you were the one person who knew how hard that year was for me and you—god, you didn’t even ask if i was okay. you just watched me bleed.”

he took a step back, not far, just enough to pace, to get his bearings—but even that small distance made her feel cold.

“you think it was easy for me?” he said, louder now, no longer calm. “you think i’ve just been—what—fine? do you know how many times i almost called you? how many fucking nights i picked up the phone just to hear your voice and had to put it back down because i didn’t trust myself not to fuck everything up even more?”

“then why didn’t you?” she snapped, stepping toward him again. “why didn’t you call? or text? or do anything?”

“because i loved you too much to hurt you again!” he said it like it burned coming out, like it wasn’t meant to be said at all, not now, not here. but it was out there now. between them. sizzling like an exposed wire.

her breath hitched.

he stared at her, wild-eyed and wrecked. “i still fucking love you, okay? even when i shouldn’t. even when it’s a terrible idea. even when i know you deserve someone who doesn’t keep you waiting at two a.m. for a message that never comes.”

her hand went to the doorknob, like she needed something to hold on to. like if she didn’t, she might collapse under the weight of his words.

“you don’t get to say that now,” she said, barely above a whisper. “you don’t get to stand here and tell me you still love me when you spent the last year pretending i was nothing.”

“i never pretended you were nothing,” he said, voice breaking, “i’ve been pretending you were everything, and that i could live without it.”

and just like that—the thread snapped.

they didn’t move toward each other so much as fall into the space between them, mouths colliding not with grace but with desperation. her back hit the door with a soft thud, his hands finally finding her waist like they were made for it, her fingers tangling in his hair like no time had passed at all. it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t sweet. it was feral—the kind of kiss that tasted like every word they didn’t say, every night spent apart, every second of missing wrapped up in heat and teeth and breathless curses.

there was no going back now.

not after this.

his mouth tasted like all her worst decisions and all her best memories.

they didn’t stop kissing when they left the hallway. they didn’t even pretend to. his hands stayed glued to her hips, dragging her closer with every step like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go. and she couldn’t let go, not when every inch of him felt like muscle memory, not when her hands had minds of their own, sliding under his jacket, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt like she needed to feel the warmth of him to believe this was real.

her keys fumbled in the lock, hands shaking too much to find the hole, her mouth still locked on his, lips bruising against his, his teeth catching her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp and drop the keys entirely.

“fuck,” she breathed, laughing against his mouth, frustrated and drunk on him.

he reached around her, growling low under his breath, picked up the keys, found the lock like it was his apartment and not hers, and shoved the door open.

they stumbled in, mouths never parting. she kicked off her shoes without looking, dragging him inside by the collar. his jacket hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by hers. the air in the room was warmer than it should’ve been. or maybe it was just them. heat radiating from every inch of skin, every frantic touch, every groan pressed into a mouth too busy to stop.

they didn’t bother turning on the lights. didn’t need them.

his hands were everywhere—fisting the fabric at her sides, sliding up her ribs, down her back, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. like he was still angry, still caught in the argument, and this was the only way to speak now. she didn’t mind. she wanted it. wanted to be touched like this. wanted him like this—desperate and undone, like he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her either.

they reached the bedroom door, breath ragged, foreheads touching, lips still grazing each other’s in frantic, broken passes. her hand was on his chest, nails dragging lightly down muscle, his fingers pressing bruises into her waist like punctuation marks.

“this is a stupid idea,” he whispered, voice strained, wrecked, like the words hurt to say.

she grabbed his face, pulled him in again, kissed him like she could erase the thought.

“i don’t care,” she whispered against his lips. “stay. just tonight.”

the way she said it—soft, cracked, a little too close to pleading—broke something in him.

he didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

his mouth was back on hers before she could take another breath, rough, needy, starving, like he was trying to carve his name into her all over again. their bodies collided in the doorway, hands fighting with layers of clothing, mouths locking again and again, each kiss more desperate than the last.

they were already past the point of no return.

and neither of them gave a damn.

they didn’t make it to the bed right away.

he had her pinned to the wall just outside the doorway, their mouths crashing again like every kiss was a bite, a battle. namjoon’s hands gripped her hips hard, dragging her against him, and the low groan he let out when their bodies collided was guttural, like something primal had been knocked loose.

his lips broke from hers only to move down her jaw, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. “fuck—do you know what you did to me?” he muttered, voice rough, gravel-thick. “a year, and you text me like that... then just disappear again?”

her fingers scrambled at the hem of his shirt, yanking it upward, her breath hot against his throat. “you think i didn’t suffer too?” she snapped, dragging the shirt over his head. “you think it didn’t kill me to say nothing when you didn’t reply?”

he stepped forward, forcing her back again, until her shoulder blades hit the hallway wall. his bare chest pressed against hers, skin to skin, and he didn’t pause—just dipped down and pulled her shirt up with both hands, ripping it off in one quick, frustrated motion. his palms roamed her sides, rough and urgent, fingers curling around the waistband of her jeans like he couldn’t stand one more second of fabric between them.

“then why’d you do it?” he growled, mouth crashing to hers again. “why’d you send that message if you didn’t want me to come back?”

she gasped into the kiss, nails dragging down his spine, her jeans already half undone by his fingers, tugging hard, yanking them past her hips. “i didn’t know what i wanted,” she breathed, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “i just—i missed you.”

something in him snapped at that.

his hands locked under her thighs, lifting her with an easy, angry grip. she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her into the bedroom. their mouths never parted—just shifted, hungrier, rougher, teeth clashing in the dark. he dropped her on the bed like he couldn’t stand not having her underneath him any longer, following her down with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and fuck, finally.

her bra was gone next, pulled off with a practiced twist, his hands covering her like he was making up for lost time. he kissed down her neck, over her chest, marking her with lips and teeth, every touch bruising, claiming. her moans were breathy and desperate, her body arching into him like it remembered every time he’d touched her before.

“you should hate me,” he murmured against her skin, voice strained, like the words were choking him.

“maybe i do,” she whispered, dragging his belt open with shaking fingers, “but not tonight.”

he kissed her again, harder this time—his hips grinding against hers, both of them still half-dressed, bodies slick with heat and hunger.

“then don’t stop me,” he whispered, teeth on her jaw, one hand gripping her thigh so tight it made her gasp. “because i don’t think i can.”

his mouth found her neck first—hot, open kisses dragged along her skin like he was starving for it, tongue tasting, teeth grazing. she tilted her head back with a breathy gasp, giving him more, and he took it like a man possessed. he sucked hard just under her jaw, the kind of kiss meant to leave a mark, and she arched beneath him, hands threading into his hair, tugging as if that would tether her to the moment.

he groaned low in his throat, one hand already sliding between their bodies, palming her over her underwear—rough, slow circles of pressure that made her gasp again, hips twitching up against his touch. the fabric was already damp, and he swore under his breath like that fact physically wrecked him.

“fuck, you’re soaked already,” he muttered against her throat, voice dark and hoarse, almost angry about it. “you miss me that bad, huh?”

her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin. she didn’t answer—not with words. just a moan that caught in her throat, a roll of her hips into his palm that said everything.

his mouth trailed lower, dragging over her collarbones, down the center of her chest, pausing only to breathe her in like she was the last clean thing in a filthy world. and then he was on her breast, hot mouth closing around her nipple with an obscene sound, tongue flicking before he sucked hard, making her back arch off the mattress. her breath hitched. her thighs tightened around his hips.

his other hand gripped the other breast, rough fingers toying with the sensitive peak, thumb brushing, pinching lightly, just enough to make her whine. he switched sides without warning, lips wrapping around the other nipple like he’d been starving for it, groaning into her skin as if he could get drunk off the taste alone.

his mouth never stopped moving—sucking, kissing, biting gently—while his hand between her legs kept working her over the thin cotton barrier, dragging slow, cruel circles over her clit that made her legs tremble.

he pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth slick, chest heaving.

“you think about me when you touch yourself?” he rasped, fingers curling against her cunt through her panties. “you still moan my name when it gets too much?”

her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting with a shuddered breath, and god—he wanted to hear her say yes. wanted her to admit that she’d been ruined for anyone else.

and he hadn’t even gotten his mouth between her legs yet.

his mouth trailed lower, leaving a hot, open path down the center of her stomach. her skin jumped under his tongue, her body twitching as he nipped along her waist, his hands spreading her thighs wider, slower, like he wanted to savor the shape of her more than the act itself. like being between her legs again was holy ground—and he was a man at the altar, worshiping through gritted teeth.

he looked up, caught the way she was already squirming beneath him, her chest heaving, lips parted as if every breath was costing her something. and fuck, she was beautiful like this—undone and trying so hard to hold it together.

then he got to her underwear.

he pressed a kiss just above the fabric, then let his eyes drop to the soft elastic hugging her hips. he hooked one finger under the band, tugged it lightly—just enough to make her feel the tension of it. a quiet, predatory smile played on his lips as he murmured, “you look so pretty in these.”

his voice was low, dark, velvet-drenched and filthy. he snapped the band gently against her skin, then ran his thumb along the curve of her pelvis, dipping dangerously close to where she was already soaking through the cotton. he let his mouth follow, mouthing her through the thin fabric, slow, wet drags of his tongue that made her hips buck up off the mattress.

and then—rip.

one swift motion. the fabric gave with a sharp tear, and her gasp echoed off the walls, eyes snapping open just in time to see him toss the ruined panties aside like he didn’t give a damn what they cost.

“i’ll buy you new ones,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. “but fuck, i couldn’t wait. not with how wet you are.”

and then he was between her legs.

not teasing. not easing in.

devouring.

his tongue licked a long, slow stripe from the bottom of her slit all the way to her clit, ending with a soft suck that made her choke on a moan. his hands gripped her thighs hard, thumbs digging into her skin, keeping her spread open as he buried his face in her like a man possessed.

he groaned into her, the sound low and almost pained, like tasting her again physically undid him.

“missed this,” he growled between licks, one hand sliding under her ass to pull her closer, his mouth working her over like it was his job. “missed how you taste. fuck.”

her hands found his hair, tugging, anchoring herself. her hips rolled, helpless, chasing the pressure of his tongue as he sucked her clit into his mouth again, harder this time, relentless now. his tongue moved fast, slick, filthy strokes while he moaned into her like he was getting off on the sound of her falling apart.

“joon—” she whimpered, voice cracked, fingers curling tight in his hair.

he didn’t stop.

if anything, he smiled against her cunt.

and then—two fingers slid inside her. slow at first. deliberate. crooking up, finding that spot that made her eyes roll back as his mouth never left her clit, his tongue flicking faster, filthy, precise, focused. like he was making up for every second they’d lost.

she was close. so close. and he knew it. he could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her moans got higher, tighter, more desperate. he pressed his hand against her stomach with his free hand, holding her down like he wanted to feel her break from the inside out.

“cum for me,” he murmured against her, voice dark and hungry, “right on my fucking mouth, baby. let me taste you fall apart.”

her orgasm hit hard, sharp and fast, like her body had been waiting for his mouth for too damn long. her back arched, her thighs clamped around his head, and a broken, high-pitched moan tore out of her throat as his fingers kept moving inside her and his tongue never stopped. he held her through it, firm hands pressing her down like he needed to feel her shake apart against his mouth, like he didn’t trust her to stay grounded otherwise.

she whimpered his name like a prayer, like a curse, like she didn’t know what else to hold onto—and still, still, his mouth was on her, tongue dragging through her, catching every twitch, every pulse, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her climax.

only when her body gave out, slumping into the mattress with a wrecked, gasping breath, did he pull back—slow, deliberate.

he licked his lips once.

his chin was glistening. soaked in her.

his mouth was swollen, cheeks flushed, and there was a wild, wrecked look in his eyes as he hovered over her—something between pride and hunger, like tasting her had only made him more desperate, not less.

“fuck,” she breathed, staring at him like he was a hallucination.

and then she dragged him down.

no hesitation. no time to breathe.

her hands curled into his hair, and she kissed him—hard, filthy, open-mouthed, tongue tasting herself on him, moaning into his mouth like she was trying to suck the soul back out of him. his weight pressed down on her, solid and heavy, but it wasn’t enough. she needed more.

“please,” she whispered into the kiss, nails digging into his back, hips lifting up against the weight of his still-clothed cock pressing into her thigh. “joon—please. keep going. i need you inside me. now.”

he groaned into her mouth, like her begging physically hurt him. his hands fumbled at his pants, pulling them down far enough to free himself, the sound of his zipper and her ragged breath the only thing between them. her hands went to her own thighs, spreading them wide beneath him in an offering, desperate, ready—wrecked.

“you sure?” he panted against her lips, forehead pressed to hers, cock in hand, lining himself up with a grip that looked almost painful. “you say the word, i’ll stop.”

she looked him in the eye, voice shaking but certain.

“don’t you fucking dare.”

he slammed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

his hips slammed into her with one long, deep thrust that knocked the air clean out of her lungs. the stretch burned so good she cried out, legs shaking around his waist, hands fisting the sheets as her head dropped back in utter shock.

“fuck—joon,” she gasped, voice raw, almost stunned at how full she felt, at how much she’d missed this. missed him.

he groaned like the sound of her voice broke something in him. his hands grabbed her thighs, yanked her even closer, then pulled out almost all the way just to slam back in again—harder, sharper, each snap of his hips making the bed creak under the weight of it all. her body jolted with every thrust, his cock thick and heavy inside her, dragging against every spot that made her legs tremble and her breath hitch in real time.

“you feel so fucking good,” he growled, leaning over her, teeth gritted as he fucked her like he meant it. “so fucking tight. fuck—i forgot how tight you get when you’re losing it.”

his hand reached up, tangled into her hair, pulled just enough to tilt her head back. she moaned for it—loved it—the little edge of pain sharp enough to drive her crazier, her back arching up into his chest. his mouth was on hers again before she could speak, all tongue and teeth and gasping moans, swallowing every breath like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

their mouths clashed, messy and open and hungry, like kissing had turned into its own kind of fight.

she clawed at his back, dragging nails down muscle, digging in every time his hips snapped forward and buried himself to the hilt inside her again. each thrust hit so deep she swore she saw stars, his pace fast, merciless, like he was punishing both of them for every second of distance they’d ever had.

“you missed this?” he panted into her mouth, voice low, almost mocking, like he knew. “missed getting fucked like this? stretched out on my cock like you were made for it?”

she choked on a moan, nails raking down his spine. “yes—yes, joon—fuck—don’t stop.”

“wasn’t gonna,” he growled, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head with one hand. “not until you’re screaming.”

and then he really let go.

hips slamming into her, deep and fast, skin slapping skin, her whole body sliding up the mattress from the force of it. his free hand went to her waist, holding her down, keeping her steady as he wrecked her, thrust after thrust after thrust—her mouth open, no sounds coming out at all for a second, just wrecked gasps and the kind of expression that would stay burned in his memory forever.

he dropped his forehead to hers again, breathing heavy, fucking her so deep and so hard that tears prickled at the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from relief. from the way everything in her finally broke under the weight of him.

he pulled out just long enough to manhandle her into a new position—grabbing her thigh, lifting one of her legs and pressing it high onto his shoulder, folding her open for him like a fucking gift. the angle changed everything. he slid back in slow just to feel it, to watch the way her mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back the moment he bottomed out again, deeper now, better.

her moan broke open the silence like a scream, one hand gripping the sheets, the other clawing at his forearm as he started fucking into her again—hard, relentless, that new angle making her feel everything more. every thrust hit home, punching a whimper from her lips, her cunt wet and hot and clenching around him so tight he nearly lost control.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, leaning over her just enough to bring his hand to her jaw, gripping it, thumb pressed under her chin to tilt her head back so she looked at him. “you look so fucking good like this. making a mess on my cock. soaked all the way down my thighs—shit.”

she couldn’t answer. not really. just breathless, broken sounds, tears threatening to fall because it was too much—not just the sex, but the feeling of it. the heat of his skin, the grip of his hand, the filthy way he was watching her like she was something he’d been dying to touch again.

he leaned in, close enough that their faces almost touched, still pounding into her like he needed to fuck the memory of her into the walls.

“you missed this?” he whispered, voice rough, dark, mean. “missed me splitting you open like this? filling you like no one else can?”

her hands grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, nodding frantically, eyes wild and desperate. “yes—fuck, yes, namjoon—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

he growled, pure animal, his grip tightening on her jaw as he kissed her again—messy, filthy, tongue and teeth and moans—his other hand sliding down to where they were joined, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles while he thrust into her like he was chasing a high he couldn’t come down from.

“gonna cum again for me?” he murmured against her mouth, thrusting harder now, faster, body slamming into hers like he meant to break the bed. “you gonna make a mess all over me, baby?”

she was already there. legs shaking. body locking up. her breath caught in her throat and she whimpered, choking on his name like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

“cum for me,” he growled again, voice raw, mouth at her ear now. “fuck—cum on my cock. i missed this so fucking much—missed you.”

and then she shattered.

again.

her body convulsed beneath him, legs trembling, thighs twitching around his hips as she came again—louder this time, back arched, mouth open in a soundless gasp that broke into a moan when he kept thrusting through it. her nails raked down his back, her whole body pulling him in, tighter, deeper, like she wanted to keep him buried inside her forever.

he couldn’t hold it anymore.

the way she clenched around him, the heat, the mess of her under him, the way she looked when she came—completely ruined, all soft and raw and his—it tore the last thread of restraint out of him.

“fuck, i’m—shit, i’m gonna—” his voice cracked, low and hoarse and wrecked, his thrusts stuttering as his body locked up.

he pulled out fast, just in time, his hand wrapped around himself once, twice, and then he came with a broken, strangled whimper right into her ear, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and fast. thick ropes of his cum landed across her stomach, slick and warm, and he let out a shaky breath as he collapsed halfway over her, chest heaving, fingers still gripping her thigh like he couldn’t let go.

for a moment, neither of them moved. just the sound of their breathing—heavy, ragged, in sync.

but then—he kissed her again.

soft this time.

just under her jaw, then across her throat, right where her pulse still fluttered like a drum. his hand smoothed down her side, his lips slow and deliberate as he pressed them into the soft spot under her ear—the place that used to make her shiver when he loved her gently.

and then—he slid back in.

slow.

gentle.

soothing the ache he’d left behind.

his cock was still hard, still thick, but now every roll of his hips was tender, like he was apologizing with his body. like he couldn’t bear to stop touching her just yet. he buried his face in her neck, groaning quietly as her walls fluttered around him, warm and slick and still so damn tight.

“could stay like this all night,” he whispered, voice barely a breath. “just like this. fuck, you feel so good. like you were made for me.”

her fingers found his hair again, gentler now too, stroking through the sweat-damp strands, her own breath shaky but steadying.

“then don’t go,” she murmured, barely audible.

and he kissed her again.

not fast. not hard.

just full of everything they’d said without words.

the shift was almost too much. like the weight of it all finally sank in once the sweat cooled and the urgency dulled into something deeper. something unbearably tender.

he was still inside her—moving, slow and careful, like he wanted her to feel every inch, like he was afraid to lose the warmth of her if he stopped. their bodies rocked together, hips moving in soft, deliberate rolls, his hands planted beside her head, his chest pressed to hers, their foreheads touching.

he kissed her again, slow and deep, tongues brushing with the kind of hunger that had turned gentle, reverent. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, clutching him close like she was scared he’d vanish. she moaned softly into his mouth, breath hot and broken, each little sound spilling into his throat like a secret.

“you feel so good,” she whispered, voice tight, shaking, almost tearful.

and he felt it. every syllable. the way her voice cracked, the way her body clung to his like she couldn’t let go.

he kissed her harder, but not rough. not anymore.

his hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw as he pulled back just enough to look at her. his eyes were heavy, glazed with lust and something aching behind it—something close to regret, or maybe grief, for everything they’d lost between then and now.

“i missed this,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to hers, the rhythm of his hips slow and steady, still buried deep inside her. “missed you.”

her breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed as her legs tightened around his waist. she didn’t say anything for a moment, couldn’t—not when her throat was closing up, not when every slow thrust made her feel everything she’d spent the last year pretending didn’t still live under her skin.

“me too,” she finally whispered, brushing her nose against his. “so much.”

he kissed her again. deeper. longer. her lips trembled against his, but she didn’t cry—not yet. just held him tighter, her soft moans landing in his ear like confessions, her hands running down his back, memorizing every ridge of him like he might slip away again.

he moved inside her like they had all the time in the world.

and for a moment, they did.

he was still buried inside her, hips moving in those slow, shallow rolls like he never wanted to stop. but the urgency had passed. the storm had calmed. and when she brushed her fingers gently along the nape of his neck, murmuring his name soft and low, he sighed against her mouth, like her touch was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

he pulled out with a soft groan, breath catching as he left her warmth. but before the space between them could feel too wide, she reached down and wrapped her hand around him—slow, smooth, and intentional.

he hissed, his body jolting from the sudden touch, already so close from everything they’d done that he twitched in her palm, leaking for her.

“shh,” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “just let me take care of you.”

her hand moved slow at first, slick and steady, her thumb brushing the tip every so often in a way that made his hips jerk and his breath come harder. her other hand rested on his hip, anchoring him as she stroked him with a rhythm that was both loving and filthy. his eyes fluttered shut, forehead falling to her shoulder, chest rising and falling fast as she murmured to him—sweet nothings and soft gasps of filth.

“you’re so fucking perfect like this,” she breathed, kissing his temple, “so hard for me still. you liked fucking me that much, huh?”

he groaned—whimpered—a quiet, broken sound that made her clench around nothing. she could feel him tensing, his muscles twitching under her hand, his moans getting tighter, shorter, more desperate.

“gonna cum for me, baby?” she whispered, lips dragging along his jaw now, her pace quickening just a little. “all over my hand? let me feel you lose it, joon.”

his hips stuttered once—twice—and then he did, cumming hard, hot, thick spurts painting her hand and her stomach again, his mouth open in a soft, wrecked sound that died against her throat. he trembled, completely spent, and she held him close, kissing the corner of his mouth as he shuddered through the aftershock.

he collapsed on top of her a moment later, body heavy and boneless, his breath loud in the quiet room, mouth still parted against her skin.

she didn’t mind the weight. not one bit.

her clean hand slid into his hair, damp with sweat, fingers gently massaging his scalp, nails lightly grazing as she whispered soothing little circles into his crown. he hummed against her chest, nuzzling in deeper, her heartbeat loud and steady beneath his cheek.

neither of them spoke for a long while.

but in that silence, her hand never left his hair. and he never moved from the curve of her body.

he stayed on her chest for a moment longer, breathing deep, eyes closed like he could hold back the tide if he just didn’t look up. but even with her fingers carding through his hair, even with her heartbeat steady beneath his ear, the weight in his chest kept growing.

he lifted his head slowly, and even that felt like too much. the air shifted. the warmth between them cooled by a breath.

“what are we doing, (y/n)?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice already frayed. his eyes searched hers—deep, dark, desperate. looking for something. for regret, maybe. a sign that she wanted to take it back, that this had just been a moment of weakness, a one-night undoing they’d sweep under the rug come morning.

but there wasn’t any.

not in her eyes. not in her touch.

she blinked, then gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “well,” she said, breathless, trying for lightness, “you  fucked the shit out of me just now. so… i’d say we’re about four orgasms past asking that question.”

he let out a short, breathy laugh—but it didn’t last. not really.

his eyes didn’t leave hers. and hers… started to falter.

because she could see it. that flicker behind his gaze. the one that said he was trying not to feel too much, not to fall too hard all over again when the edge of her skin still felt like home.

and god—she could feel herself starting to unravel.

“joon,” she whispered, softer now. her clean hand cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing along the line of his cheekbone. “it’s okay.”

“is it?” he asked, the words sharp but the tone anything but. it wasn’t anger. it was fear. “because it doesn’t feel like it should be. it feels like I just—like we just opened a wound we spent a year trying to close.”

she bit her bottom lip. looked up at the ceiling for a second like she was searching for the courage not to let the sting in her eyes turn into tears.

“i’m not sorry,” she said eventually. quietly. “not for a second.”

he looked at her for a long time, as if her answer both soothed and destroyed him.

his hand found her waist under the sheets, gentle now, grounding. like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold her—but he couldn’t not.

“me either,” he said.

and yet… the silence said everything else.

“we should probably clean up,” she murmured, voice husky but gentle as she traced lazy fingers down the line of his spine. “we’re both covered in sweat and cum.”

he let out a low, sleepy laugh, forehead still resting against her collarbone. “mmm, that we are.”

it took them a minute to untangle. not because they were too tired, but because every time they shifted, one of them stole another kiss—slow, unhurried, more lips than tongue now. soft breaths, forehead touches, the kind of kisses that meant stay without ever needing to say it.

they padded to the bathroom in silence, limbs heavy, hands brushing. and once inside, under the dim overhead light, the intimacy only deepened.

he turned on the shower and stepped in first, then held out his hand for her without a word. she followed, the water pouring down over both of them, steam curling around their skin as he reached for the shampoo like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he moved slowly, fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp with gentle care. her eyes fluttered shut, arms resting around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest. and when it was her turn, she did the same—dragged her fingers through his hair with a touch that made his knees weak, washed his shoulders and his neck with the pads of her fingers like she was memorizing him all over again.

there was no hunger in it. no spark of lust.

just something closer.

every few moments, one of them would lean in to kiss the other—wet, slow kisses that tasted like water and exhaustion. a kiss to the shoulder. one to the temple. one on the mouth that lingered longer than it should’ve.

they dried off together, standing close, sharing a towel, her eyes following the slope of his back like she was afraid it’d disappear.

he pulled on the shirt she handed him. it was one of his, left behind long ago—somehow still folded in the back of her dresser drawer. she didn’t say anything when he smiled at it. didn’t have to.

and when they were standing in her bedroom again, the air thick with the scent of clean skin and old memory, he moved toward the door almost instinctively—like he should go.

like this had been enough.

“you don’t have to leave,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a thread pulled loose.

he turned slowly, met her eyes.

and god, she looked so bare. not just physically—wrapped in nothing but a towel and damp hair—but emotionally. open. honest. a little afraid.

“stay,” she added, quieter this time. “please.”

his throat worked. like the word caught there.

and then, finally—he nodded.

not dramatic. not with a speech. just a quiet, yes written into the way he came back to her, climbed into her bed, and pulled her into his arms like she belonged there.

because maybe she still did.

they slipped under the sheets like they’d done it a thousand times before—because they had. the weight of the covers settled over them like a secret, like something sacred. her head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curved tightly around her waist, the other splayed across her ribs, his thumb brushing gentle lines over her skin like he had to keep reminding himself she was real.

his breathing was steady against her hair, his legs tangled with hers, the kind of closeness that was impossible to fake. and for the first time in over a year, they weren’t bracing for the next blow. no accusations. no fear.

just truth. in its rawest, sleepiest form.

“i thought you hated me,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

his hand tightened around her waist, just a little. “never,” he said, almost immediately. “i just… didn’t know how to stop missing you without falling apart.”

she closed her eyes, felt that break something in her. a soft exhale left her mouth. “i never stopped missing you,” she admitted. “even when i said i was fine. even when i laughed with my friends and told them i was over it.”

he didn’t answer right away. just pressed his lips to her forehead, long and warm. like he was apologizing for the space that had stretched between them.

“every time i passed that coffee place you loved,” he said, voice low, “i had to walk the other way.”

she blinked hard, tears threatening. “i deleted your number like three times. memorized it anyway.”

he let out a soft laugh through his nose. not happy, not sad. just knowing.

the silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. full of everything they’d carried in their chests for twelve long months. full of what-ifs and why-nots. full of the ache of having loved each other and the even deeper ache of still loving each other now.

she turned in his arms, nose brushing his, their eyes meeting in the dark. “i didn’t mean to send that message,” she said. “not really. i was drunk, and sad, and tired of pretending i didn’t still—”

“i’m glad you did,” he interrupted softly. “i’ve read it at least a dozen times. didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t ruin us all over again.”

she reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you didn’t ruin anything, joon. we just… broke. but we never stopped meaning something.”

he kissed her then.

slow. deep. different.

like he heard her.

when they pulled apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, their breath tangled, hearts pounding in quiet sync.

“can we stay like this?” he murmured, not quite a question, not quite a plea.

“for as long as we want,” she whispered back.

and they stayed.

no promises.

just warmth, and weight, and the hope that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.

he stayed quiet for a moment longer, just watching her, the way her eyes blinked slowly up at him in the dark. the way her breath steadied when he touched her like that—gently, reverently, like touching something breakable but beloved. his thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the curve of her lip, and when she kissed the pad of it—just a light brush, soft and sure—something inside him settled.

“okay,” he said at last, the word nearly swallowed by the stillness.

her brows furrowed, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty before he caught her chin between his fingers and smiled, just a little.

“we can try,” he said, clearer this time. “if you want to… really try. no more running. no more pretending we’re fine when we’re not.”

her lips parted—surprised, maybe—but she nodded almost immediately. like she’d been waiting to hear that exact thing from the moment he walked into that bathroom corridor and looked at her like she still mattered.

“i do,” she said. no hesitation. “i want to.”

he exhaled then, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that made his whole chest sink into hers.

“me too,” he murmured. “so much.”

they kissed again. slower now, but full. full of things they hadn’t said. full of the ache and the years and the breathless kind of hope that blooms when you stop lying to yourself.

his arms wrapped tighter around her. hers curled beneath his. their legs tangled like they’d never been untangled in the first place.

and this time, when the silence settled around them, it wasn’t heavy.

it was safe.

the kind of quiet you only get when the worst part is over, and something better is starting.

they’d hurt. they’d healed. they’d found their way back through the noise and the hurt and the time.

and now—together, in the dark, skin warm, bodies still humming with memory—they were choosing it.

again.

and this time, they meant it.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀caught like this ୨ৎ ( bangtan )

summary in which they get caught by another member while having sex with you⠀/ genre smut warnings explicit sexual content, accidental voyeurism, mentions of exhibitionism, oral sex (f. receiving), interrupted sexual acts, semi-public settings (some scenes), possessive language, use of pet names, soft dom tendencies, embarrassment/shock responses, aftercare and checking in (varies per member)

request: Hello there how are you today?? Just discovered your page 🤭🤭, please could I request a reaction (0t7) where another member walks in on a member and s/o having sex, or where all the other guys can hear them being super loud.. thanks 🙏:)

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀៹⠀ his hand is pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent over the desk as he rocks into you—slow, hard, possessive. his other hand holds your hip with bruising force, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “you always do this,” he pants into your neck. “act like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.” your response is just a whimper, breath caught in your throat as your cheek scrapes the cool wood beneath you. everything feels heavy, hot, like he’s claiming you one stroke at a time. the room’s dim, quiet except for skin meeting skin and the frantic way you breathe his name.

the door clicks open before either of you hears the footsteps. “hey, joon, did you see—” yoongi stops. freezes. your eyes go wide. namjoon jerks halfway out of you, shielding your body with his. “fuck, hyung—get out.” yoongi doesn’t say anything. just stares, blank-faced, unreadable, before stepping back out and closing the door with a soft click. namjoon doesn’t speak for a long second. just pants quietly against your back. “you okay?” he asks eventually, brushing his hand down your spine. and then quieter, darker—“you think he saw everything?” your body trembles. namjoon drags you back onto him and hisses, “let him.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he has you straddling his lap, your shirt half-off, head tossed back as he mouths at your chest. the way his hips roll up into you is rhythmic, controlled, but his eyes—oh, his eyes are ruined. like you’ve got him unraveling under the weight of you. “ride me slow, baby,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “just like that.” your fingers dig into his shoulders, pace faltering every time he bites your skin. you’re so close, so wound up from the way he keeps whispering praise and dragging his hands up your thighs, that you barely register the knock before it’s too late.

the door opens. hoseok’s voice—light, casual, mid-sentence—“jin-hyung, you said we could use your—” he freezes. you freeze. jin turns his head like someone just stabbed him in the spine. “hobba.” his voice cracks. hoseok stammers out an apology, hands flying up, eyes wide. “oh shit, shit, sorry—fuck, i didn’t mean—” he’s already gone by the time jin exhales. you’re trembling in his lap. “well,” he says after a moment, flushed and still deep inside you, “that’s gonna be awkward forever.” but then his hands grip your hips again, harder. “unless… you want to give him a real show next time.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀៹⠀

your legs are over his shoulders, his mouth buried between your thighs, hands holding your hips in place like you might float away. yoongi’s never rushed about pleasure—he treats it like it’s holy. like he’s starving and you’re the last thing on earth that tastes good. you’re crying out his name, fingers clutching the sheets, the room hot with sweat and the smell of skin and lust. he moans into you when you buck up, dragging his tongue over your clit slow and cruel. “taste so fucking sweet,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “could stay here forever.”

you don’t hear the footsteps until jungkook’s already standing in the doorway. his eyes go wide, cheeks flushed the color of sin. “oh my god—” he blurts, backing up like he just walked into traffic. yoongi lifts his head, mouth shiny, eyes dark. “get the fuck out, kid,” he says, not even bothering to hide you. jungkook disappears. the door slams. and for a second, all you hear is the pounding of your own heart. “you okay?” yoongi asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. you nod. he smirks. “good.” and then he drags you down the bed and starts over, slower this time. “let’s make it louder.”

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s on top of you, foreheads pressed together, hips rocking steady as your fingers claw at his back. he keeps whispering your name, a mantra, like it’s the only word he knows. “you feel so good,” he groans, kissing your nose, your lips, your throat. “fuck, baby, i’m not gonna last.” his rhythm gets rougher, more desperate, chasing release and holding on to you like an anchor. your legs wrap tighter around him, moaning into his mouth as you spiral higher. the world disappears, narrows down to the rhythm of his body against yours.

until the door cracks open and taehyung steps into view. hoseok doesn’t see him at first—you do. “hobi—” you gasp. he pauses, lifts his head, and turns. taehyung stares. jaw slack. “holy—i’m—i didn’t mean to—” he backs out with wide eyes. hoseok groans, rests his forehead on your chest. “great.” he pulls out slowly, still hard, still flushed and aching. “you okay?” you nod, blinking through the shock. he kisses your temple, breath still shaky. “guess we should lock the door next time.” and then, voice low and wrecked: “...unless you liked that.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he has you bent over the bathroom counter, mirror fogged, the sound of skin against skin loud over the hum of the extractor fan. “look at yourself,” he pants, hand wrapped tight in your hair. “look at what i do to you.” your mouth is open, breathless, moaning his name with every stroke. jimin’s sweat-slicked, flushed, whispering filthy praise in your ear. “so good, baby. taking me so well. fuck, i missed this—” and he means it. he missed you. and he’s making sure your body remembers it. every thrust hits deep, sharp, intentional.

the bathroom door opens with a soft creak. seokjin’s voice follows, casual. “you left your phone—” then silence. jimin meets your eyes in the mirror. stops moving. “hyung—get out,” he says, firm but not angry. jin stares a beat longer than necessary. then clears his throat and shuts the door. the silence that follows is thick. jimin strokes your back once, then kisses your shoulder. “you okay?” when you nod, he drags himself back into you, slower this time. “don’t look at the mirror,” he whispers. “just feel me. only me.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀៹ ⠀ his fingers are in your hair, your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock grinding into you with a slow, hypnotic rhythm that leaves you shaking. he’s kissing your chest, your throat, whispering things only you get to hear. “you’re mine,” he says against your ear. “always mine. no one gets to see you like this.” you whimper, head thrown back, gasping as he rolls his hips deeper. the room is dim, full of soft moans and the sounds of the sheets rustling under your bodies. everything feels safe. closed off. yours.

until namjoon pushes open the door, phone in hand, and stops in the doorway with wide eyes. “tae—” he starts, then sees you. your flushed body. your legs around him. the moment freezes. taehyung doesn’t move at first. doesn’t even blink. he stares namjoon down, steady, possessive. “out,” he says simply. joon nods, mouth slightly open, and leaves. the door shuts. taehyung kisses you slow, hand cupping your jaw. “you’re mine,” he says again, voice deeper this time. and when he starts moving again—harder, slower—you know he means every word.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀៹⠀he’s fucking you into the mattress, strong arms caging you in, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. “you feel so fucking good,” he groans, voice wrecked, breath ragged. “missed this—missed you.” your fingers grip his back, nails digging in, pulling him closer. he’s moaning into your skin, whispering your name between kisses, hips moving faster, harder. you’re seconds away, mouth open in a silent gasp, legs trembling from the way he owns you.

and then the door opens. yoongi stares. doesn’t speak. jungkook freezes mid-thrust. “…hyung?” he chokes. yoongi just sighs, backs out, and shuts the door. silence falls. jungkook hides his face in your neck, groaning. “fuckfuckfuck.” you laugh, breathless. he growls. “don’t laugh at me.” then pulls back and thrusts deep. “guess i gotta fuck you harder now—make you forget he ever saw.” and oh, he does.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14 @belleilichil @sunsetnamjin

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀closer than this ୨ৎ ( myg )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after a charged first meeting, yoongi doesn’t expect to text her — or end up tangled in her sheets after a quiet rooftop dinner that feels more intimate than it should. but some things are too good to leave behind, even when they don’t make sense.

featuring⠀idol!min yoongi x actress!fem!reader genre strangers to lovers, slow burn, smut with emotions™, romantic tension so thick you could chew it wc⠀12.3 k warnings explicit sexual content (fingering, protected sex, oral fixation, teasing, praising, desperate pacing), intense sexual tension, breathy makeouts, soft dominance, mutual control, light pressure to jaw/throat (non-aggressive), mild marking (hip-grabbing/bruising), lots of kissing and emotional intimacy, post-sex cuddling, internal monologue-heavy navi

lu's note⠀i’m so happy to finally share part two of charitable causes — it’s tender, it’s filthy, and it’s a little dangerous. life’s been hectic lately so updates might slow down a bit, but i’m still writing when i can. also: there’s a scene where oc talks about working with a popular actor — i didn’t name anyone ‘cause i don’t really watch dramas and didn’t wanna pick someone who’s suddenly problematic 😭 just pretend it’s your fave lol.

as always, my asks are open & your love keeps me going 𖹭𖹭

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

yoongi woke up like he’d been dreaming with his eyes open — hazy, limbs heavy, warmth pooled in his chest that didn’t belong to sleep. his room was too quiet. the sunlight crawling across the floor was too soft. he blinked slowly, one arm flung across his stomach, the other half-buried under his pillow.

it took him a second to recognize where he was. home. the ache in his jaw from clenching during sleep grounded him. so did the faint taste of wine still lingering on his tongue.

he turned his head toward the nightstand.

his phone was there, screen black, plugged in. he didn’t remember doing that. didn’t remember coming in, brushing his teeth, changing clothes — the whole night had slipped through his fingers like water the moment the door closed behind him.

but the piece of paper underneath the phone?

that he remembered.

crisp, folded, barely visible — just the corner peeking out like it was daring him to acknowledge it. her handwriting small and confident. her name and number, sitting there like a secret only he knew how to keep.

he stared at it without touching it.

hadn’t texted her. not yet. hadn’t even typed out a draft and deleted it — though he’d thought about it. several times. thumb hovering over the messages app, brows furrowed, heart punching slow and hard in his ribs like it wanted to be consulted.

his mouth was dry. he brought his hand up and dragged it over his face, palm pressing against his eyes until the darkness turned red.

“what am i doing,” he mumbled into his skin.

he exhaled. slow. rough.

he wasn’t like this. he didn’t do this.

he didn’t slip away from events to kiss strangers in deserted hallways. didn’t flirt with actresses he barely knew just because they looked at him like he was something worth unwrapping. didn’t let his guard down just because someone touched his elbow and whispered something sharp into his ear like a line written for him.

he was careful. calculated. controlled.

but last night?

he hadn’t felt controlled at all. he’d felt seen. and wanted. and a little reckless in a way that hadn’t scared him — not in the moment, anyway.

the worst part?

he couldn’t stop replaying it. her breath against his jaw. the way her body arched into him like they were built to fit. the sound of her voice curling into his ear just before she disappeared again — to be continued?

fuck.

he scrubbed a hand over his hair and rolled onto his side, staring at the number again like it might answer all the questions in his chest.

he didn’t move to text her.

not yet.

but he didn’t put the paper away either.

he stayed in bed longer than he should have.

his body wasn’t tired, not really, but his thoughts felt heavy — dense in the back of his skull, turning over and over like laundry caught on repeat. he stared at the ceiling. listened to the silence. blinked slow, trying not to let his brain go there again.

but it did anyway.

to her.

he told himself not to overthink it. it was fun. harmless. she was beautiful, sure. interesting too. quick with her words, sharp with her looks — the kind of woman who carried herself like she didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but might give you one just to see how you handled it.

he should be able to let that go.

just… let it exist in a vacuum. one stolen night, one breathless kiss, one private moment that didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t let it.

but his mind — traitorous, persistent — kept leading him back.

to the press of her lips against his. the smell of her skin. the way she’d looked at him like they were sharing an inside joke no one else in the room could read. how she’d flirted like it was second nature, like her words were laced with static — subtle but charged, casual but undeniable. enough to make him second-guess his own memory.

did it really happen like that?

was she really that close?

he shifted under the sheets and let out a low sigh. rubbed at his eyes. cursed softly.

a part of him felt misplaced now. out of sync with his own skin. maybe it was the solitude — the rest of the guys all enlisted, the dorms too quiet, his name suddenly carrying the weight of seven. maybe it was guilt. not for the kiss itself, but for wanting more. for thinking about her mouth while sitting in a studio chair or brushing his teeth or trying to answer emails.

what would the others say? he wondered. not in a shameful way, just… curious. would they tease him? tell him to text her already? would they think it’s weird? would jimin have noticed before anyone else that something was off?

the phone buzzed sharply.

yoongi flinched.

just for a second. barely a movement — but enough to make him painfully aware of everything around him. the weight of the blanket. the cut of light through the curtains. the silence he’d been stewing in. the tiny folded paper still tucked beneath his phone like a match pressed against gasoline.

he reached for the device, thumb swiping across the screen. not her.

[manager] yoongi-ssi, just a reminder you’ve got a photoshoot today @ 3. did you eat already? want me to grab you an americano on the way in?

he stared at the message.

normal. routine. the same kind of check-in he always got on busy days.

he typed back one-handed:

[yoongi] americano’s fine. haven’t eaten yet.

he hit send. stared at the blinking cursor in the chat a second longer than necessary. like maybe the screen would change. like maybe her name would appear right underneath.

but it didn’t.

and he still didn’t text her.

not yet.

yoongi dressed slow, like his body hadn’t quite synced up to the day yet. cotton shirt, loose jeans, something easy and familiar — he wasn’t staying in them long anyway. stylists would tear him out of this and layer him into something tailored and intentional by the hour.

his phone went in his pocket. and so did the paper.

he didn’t fold it again. didn’t look at it. just slid it into his jeans like it wasn’t whispering her name against his thigh the whole way there. like it wasn’t a brand searing quietly through denim and skin and pretense.

the drive to the label was quiet, even with traffic. his manager talked — something about the shoot setup, lighting, a quick reminder of the concept. yoongi nodded. didn’t really absorb. just stared out the window with one arm propped against the door, fingers tapping against his leg like they wanted to move. like they missed her waist. her neck. the sound she made when his mouth dragged over the hollow of her throat.

the rest of the day blurred.

he knew the steps. say hello. get ushered into hair and makeup. sit under bright lights while someone primped and shaped and added shine where the tired lines used to be. change into the first outfit. pose. tilt your chin. don’t blink. switch angles. smile like it’s not practiced.

he did all of it.

but his mind wasn’t in the room.

it was on her — the way her lips had curled around that last kiss, the heat in her voice when she whispered against his ear. the way her eyes had tracked him across the ballroom like she already knew the shape of his mouth from a past life.

he was back in the makeup chair when it finally happened.

his resolve cracked in the smallest way — just a tiny fracture — and he gave in.

unlocked his phone. typed her name into search like it was harmless.

no one would see. no one would know.

the results came fast — clips, interviews, red carpet photos. he chose a video, something recent. a panel, maybe. she was sitting on the far end, wearing something black and minimal. smiling just enough. her voice was steady, but warm. teasing.

he watched. tried not to react.

but his lips twitched at something she said — some smartass remark delivered with a little tilt of her head and that same look she’d given him in the hallway. like she was daring someone to flirt back.

a soft snort sounded behind him.

yoongi startled slightly, glancing up at the stylist behind him.

“she’s nice,” they said, still running product through his hair. “i worked with her once. sweet with the whole crew. brought coffee for the interns. that kind of person.”

yoongi nodded. neutral. not too quick.

“yeah,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to the screen. “met her at the event last night. she’s a natural under the spotlight.”

the stylist hummed. “she’s got that thing, right?”

yoongi smiled faintly — more to himself than anything. yeah. she had that thing.

he didn’t say anything else. just watched her on his screen until the video ended, heart heavier than he expected.

and the number in his pocket burned a little hotter.

he kept it together for the rest of the shoot.

he posed. changed. nodded at directions, half-listened to compliments, let the stylists fuss over the details. when someone asked him to look more intense, he just thought about her mouth on his and delivered it in a single blink. when they said softer, more thoughtful, he let the image of her laughing against his lips soften the corners of his mouth. easy. efficient. no one noticed how detached he felt.

but the moment he walked through his front door, the quiet hit him like a wave.

no music. no voices. just the hush of the apartment swallowing his footsteps as he toed off his shoes and dropped his keys on the counter.

he didn’t turn the lights on right away.

just moved through the soft shadows of his living room, fingers grazing the wall out of habit. he tugged his jacket off with one hand and let it hang over the back of a chair, already heading to the bedroom like his body knew the path by instinct.

the silence felt louder now. thick. intimate.

too much room to think.

he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed — the usual post-schedule slump. but this time, his hand drifted into his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edge of that damn paper like it was a nervous tick he couldn’t break.

he pulled it out.

held it between two fingers. stared at it.

no fanfare. no revelation. just him, alone in the dark, heart tapping against his ribs in a rhythm that didn’t match the stillness around him.

what’s the worst that could happen?

that she doesn’t answer? that she regrets it? that he looks desperate? that he wants something from her and she doesn’t want it back?

his lips pressed into a thin line.

he ran a thumb over the fold crease.

and then — before his brain could catch up, before the second-guessing could wrap both hands around his throat — he grabbed his phone. punched in the number. stared at the blinking cursor at the bottom of the screen for a long, long beat.

he typed out a message before he could talk himself out of it. nothing clever. nothing planned.

just:

[yoongi] so… should i pretend we imagined that night?

he stared at it for a second.

his thumb hovered. and then—

send.

just like that.

the message slid into the chat. final. weightless. loud in the quiet.

yoongi didn’t breathe for a moment. just stared. unread. no reply. but his chest felt like it had cracked open anyway.

he leaned back, sinking into the mattress with a slow exhale, one arm slung over his eyes like it might block out the part of him that suddenly felt twelve kinds of stupid.

too late now.

the paper still sat on the nightstand. but he wouldn’t need it again.

the reply came faster than he expected.

less than two minutes. just long enough to make him stare at his screen and consider if he’d overplayed it.

then:

[y/n] color me surprised… i thought you weren’t gonna text at all.

he let out a soft breath through his nose. one corner of his mouth twitching up.

he didn’t answer right away. fingers hovering, thumbs flexing, debating what to send back without sounding too eager.

then:

[yoongi] i don’t usually text people who get me lost in hotel hallways [yoongi] you’re a little out of my routine [y/n] you say that like it’s a bad thing.

he laughed. short, surprised.

and that was it — the shift. the weight in his chest turned warm instead of heavy. he didn’t mean to, but soon enough, he was fully reclined against his pillows, phone lit up in one hand, face tilted toward the screen like he couldn’t look away.

the chat filled itself slowly. one line at a time. nothing direct. no mention of the kiss. no "so about last night."

instead, it was:

[y/n] what’d you end up wearing for that photoshoot? don’t say leather. [yoongi] was leather ever on the table?? [y/n] i don’t know your life [yoongi] you knew it well enough to pin me to a wall [y/n] are you complaining? [yoongi] still deciding.

his cheeks ached. he barely noticed until he shifted and felt the stretch of the smile again. god. he wasn’t even that into texting. usually short, efficient, dry. and yet here he was, lying in bed like some teenager with a crush, scrolling back to reread what she said just to feel it again.

and under it all — the current kept rising. a breathlessness he could taste, even through a screen. like they were both building to something but neither wanted to break it too fast.

until he did.

maybe because he had to.

maybe because the longer they joked, the heavier it sat between his ribs — what she’d said. what she’d left him with.

so he finally typed:

[yoongi] so… [yoongi] about that “to be continued” thing

he watched the little gray dots appear. disappear. come back.

gone again.

a full minute passed. his pulse ticked harder.

finally, her message came in:

[y/n] depends.

another pause. then a second message.

[y/n] you like dinner under the stars?

his heart stuttered.

he blinked.

then the third message arrived, and it felt like a dare.

[y/n] my rooftop. tomorrow night. i’ll cook. unless you’re scared of heights.

he didn’t smile this time. not exactly.

he just bit his lip and exhaled slowly — chest full of something he wasn’t ready to name.

[yoongi] what time?

he didn’t call it a date.

not out loud. not even to himself.

just dinner. on a rooftop. with a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

he told himself he wasn’t overthinking it.

he picked out a shirt and changed it twice. but that didn’t mean anything. it wasn’t nerves—it was weather. comfort. fit. totally normal to swap black for white, then back to black because the first one felt too clean and the second one felt more like him.

he didn’t style his hair. barely touched it, in fact. let it fall into his eyes and swept it back once with his fingers, like that would make it look accidental enough to not seem intentional. he wore something casual. comfortable. sneakers. a jacket, even though the air was barely cool.

no cologne. just his skin. a little lotion. done.

not a date.

not like that.

but when he checked the clock again, his foot started tapping against the floor.

he wasn’t expecting anything. not exactly. yeah, if she leaned in close—if her hand found his leg under the table or her lips brushed his again—he wouldn’t stop her.

but that wasn’t the point.

the point was… her.

the woman under the smirk. behind the quick lines and confident eyes. he wanted to know how she took her coffee. if she sang in the shower. if she hated being alone or if she loved it so much she carved silence out of busy days just to feel it on her skin.

he wanted to hear her voice without the music playing. just talk.

and maybe kiss her again, yeah. if she was in the mood.

he grabbed a bottle of wine before heading out. not because it was romantic—just polite. adult. decent.

he kept his hands in his pockets the whole drive there.

and told himself—again—it wasn’t a date.

at exactly 8:03 p.m., yoongi texted her.

[yoongi] should i ask for the address or are you gonna make me guess which rooftop belongs to you

her reply came back almost immediately.

[y/n] hold on let me adjust the spotlight and roll out the carpet [y/n] i’ll send it. don’t be late.

his lips twitched. he didn’t smile much when he texted, not in a way anyone would notice, but she had a way of pulling it out of him like it was nothing.

he typed “on my way” but didn’t send it yet. instead, he checked the location, scanned the route. familiar. one of those luxury complexes you didn’t even look at unless you were someone—or trying very hard to look like someone.

of course she lived there.

he grabbed his keys. then hesitated.

her voice echoed in his mind—something she’d said the night of the event. half-laughed over wine and dim lights. a throwaway line about how she hated most wines but had a soft spot for this one brand, some mid-shelf label that reminded her of home or old friends or maybe just something she’d stolen once from a set party.

he wasn’t even sure why he remembered it.

but now he was standing in the wine aisle at a convenience store on the way to her place, holding that exact bottle in his hand like it had always been part of the plan.

he stared at it. sighed. wondered if it was too much.

then bought it anyway.

when he finally pulled into the underground garage, the nerves hit in a slow, strange wave. not sharp, not loud—just enough to tighten his chest a little. his hand hovered over his phone. a few breaths later, he typed:

[yoongi] just parked. heading up.

her reply was short. clean. cool.

[y/n] use elevator 3. code’s 0112.

he repeated the numbers under his breath as he walked. zero one one two. like a song lyric. or a prayer.

the place was quiet. exclusive. the kind of building where everything echoed in the right way and smelled like clean money and eucalyptus diffusers.

he stepped into the elevator. punched in the code. the doors slid shut.

and just like that—it was happening.

no stylists. no cameras. no people pulling him in four directions. just him, a bottle of wine, and the echo of her kiss still lingering somewhere behind his teeth.

the numbers on the panel ticked up slow.

his fingers twitched at his sides.

not a date, he told himself again.

and then the elevator stopped.

the doors opened.

and her door—just ten feet ahead—was already cracked open, golden light spilling into the hallway like it had been waiting for him.

she didn’t dress up.

he could tell the second she opened the door. and god—he was grateful for it.

no heels. no makeup that looked like a mask. just jeans, low on her hips and snug around her thighs in a way that made his mouth go a little dry. a black spaghetti strap tank, the kind that clung in all the right places, skin glowing under soft light. she wore a button-up shirt over it—open, sleeves rolled—and it only made her look more effortless. like this wasn’t a date. like this was just her. unfiltered. untouchable.

her eyes flicked down, landed on the wine bottle in his hand.

a smile pulled at her mouth, slow and knowing. that kind of smile. the kind that said “i see you.”

“you remembered,” she said, voice soft, amused.

he almost said i’m not the type to forget, but it felt too revealing.

so he just gave a tiny shrug. “figured you wouldn’t want to fake liking something else.”

she laughed under her breath, then reached for his hand—cool fingers wrapping around his wrist like it was natural to touch him, like there hadn’t been a week of silence between their last kiss and this moment.

“come in,” she murmured, tugging him gently across the threshold.

he followed without hesitation.

and instantly, everything about the apartment knocked the air out of his lungs.

he’d expected… something polished. minimalist. luxury sheen and matching neutrals. maybe a little too clean, too curated, like a magazine spread waiting to be photographed.

but what he walked into was something else entirely.

low, warm lighting pooled in the corners of the space. mismatched lamps. candles that had clearly been lit, their wax spilled over dishes and holders like a crime scene of comfort. books stacked in uneven towers on the floor, on shelves, on the wide arm of a velvet chair that didn’t match the couch but somehow belonged. art everywhere—walls splashed with color, linework, frames that leaned instead of hanging, pieces that pulled your eyes and made you wonder what kind of soul lived here.

there was music playing faintly from a speaker somewhere—vinyl crackle and a woman’s voice, soft jazz vocals that kissed the air like an afterthought.

and above all of it—her scent. subtle. familiar now. some blend of citrus and warmth and something he couldn’t name but already missed.

he turned in place slowly, eyes scanning.

it looked lived in.

it looked like her.

the kind of apartment that told stories even when she was silent. full of surprises, personality, contradictions. no sharp edges. no pretense.

“didn’t expect this,” he said after a moment, voice low.

her hand was still in his. she squeezed it once, then let go to take the wine from him.

“what, you thought i lived in a k-drama set?” she teased.

he smiled—real this time. “a little.”

she shrugged, glancing around like she hadn’t already known exactly what she was showing him. “most people do.”

then she walked ahead, barefoot and easy, calling over her shoulder—

“make yourself at home. i just need a sec to grab glasses and check the food.”

he stood there for another beat, just… looking. breathing her in.

and then he let out a slow exhale, shoulders dropping, tension loosening with every second.

maybe it wasn’t a date. maybe it was something else entirely.

but either way—he was here.

and he wasn’t going anywhere.

he drifted toward the record player without thinking.

the vinyls were stacked neatly beside it—some in sleeves, some not, the edges worn like they’d been loved, not just collected. there were classics in there. jazz, mostly. soul, funk, old movie soundtracks. a few foreign titles he didn’t recognize, and more than a couple that made him blink because he didn’t expect her to own those. it made sense, though. the more he stood in her space, the more he realized it wasn’t about expectations. it was about layers.

he knelt slightly, fingers brushing the corners of a few records.

he didn’t plan on snooping. just looking. listening.

her apartment was quiet in a way that felt... intentional. like every soft surface had been placed there to catch sound and hold it gently. the only thing he could hear was the low croon of the vinyl still playing in the background and his own breath.

but then he glanced toward the far side of the apartment—

and his breath caught.

the space curved gently, rooms branching off like arms curling inward, and all of them led to her terrace. glass sliding doors opened onto a wood deck bathed in amber light. fairy lights hung overhead, swaying a little, the breeze soft and warm like it belonged in another city. the table was already set, simple and beautiful, the glow from the lights pooling around the plates like the scene had been carved out of a dream.

and further back—

a sitting area. outdoor sofa. pergola heavy with hanging plants. candlelight flickering against terracotta pots and dark green leaves, like the flames knew they were part of something quiet and sacred.

it didn’t look like a rooftop.

it looked like a world.

private. alive. waiting.

his lips parted slightly, gaze softening as he took it all in. he didn’t hear her footsteps. didn’t register the air shift behind him.

not until her hand slid under the hem of his shirt—slow, warm, the barest touch against the small of his back.

he startled only slightly, but didn’t move. didn’t speak.

her voice came next, right by his ear, soft enough that he could feel the words before he processed them.

“view’s pretty good, huh?” she whispered, her breath ghosting the edge of his jaw. “dinner’s almost ready.”

his spine straightened a little. not stiff—alert. like his whole body had tuned to the frequency of her.

he didn’t turn around.

just nodded, voice low. “it’s… not what i expected.”

he could hear the smile in hers. “you keep saying that.”

her hand slipped out from under his shirt, but she stayed close. too close. the stem of the wine glasses clinked gently in her other hand as she tilted her head to look past him toward the terrace.

“you hungry?”

he swallowed, eyes still on the deck.

“yeah,” he said. and it wasn’t just about food.

she nudged his side with her hip—playful, easy. “good. c’mon.”

and then she was walking again. barefoot. light on the wooden floors like she belonged to them.

he followed, fingers still tingling from where she’d touched him.

“you want help with anything?” he asked, voice soft, already halfway to the kitchen.

she glanced at him over her shoulder, a smile curling on her lips like she’d been expecting him to say that.

“sure,” she said, passing him a couple of plates without hesitation. “you can carry these out while i grab the wine and salad.”

he nodded and took them from her hands — careful, the ceramic warm to the touch, still radiating the scent of roasted herbs and garlic.

he didn’t mean to notice the way her fingers brushed his when she let go. didn’t mean to hold that feeling for longer than he should’ve. but he did. and it stayed with him as he walked out onto the deck.

the evening air was mild, kissed with the scent of jasmine from the corner planters and something rich and buttery from the kitchen. fairy lights flickered overhead like lazy stars, and the city spread out in front of them like a painting—han river glinting in the distance, buildings lit like a quiet celebration.

he placed the plates down and stepped back just as she came out with the rest. wine bottle in one hand, salad bowl in the other, and a little sway in her step like this wasn’t the first time she’d carried dinner for two out to the rooftop.

she caught him watching.

“you’re staring,” she said.

“you look like you’ve done this before,” he replied, pulling a chair out for her without thinking.

“what, dinner on rooftops with quiet men who don’t talk about themselves?” she teased, raising a brow.

he smirked. “sure. that.”

she sat with a graceful drop, skin catching golden light. “maybe i have.”

he poured the wine, not too much. the clink of glass against wood sounded louder in the stillness between them. a beat passed, then two.

“so,” she said, leaning on her elbow. “you’re not gonna ask me about my last project or what it’s like working with [insert big name actor here]?”

yoongi shook his head, taking a slow sip. “no interest.”

she blinked. a little amused. a little surprised. “no?”

“not really,” he said. “i mean—i could google all that. find interviews. soundbites. but i don’t want your press tour answers.”

her gaze flicked down to her glass, then back to him.

“what do you want?”

he exhaled slowly, staring at the way the candlelight caught her features. soft shadows under her cheekbones, a shimmer against her collarbone.

“i wanna know where you’d go if you disappeared for a week,” he said, voice low. “no cameras. no phone. just… gone.”

she stared at him for a moment. still. the corner of her mouth lifted.

“that’s a good question.”

“i’ve got a list,” he added, like it was a confession.

“yeah?” she leaned in, elbow on the table now. “what’s at the top?”

he smiled, eyes dropping to his plate for a second. “somewhere cold. quiet. maybe a cabin in japan. snowed in. nothing but books and music and someone who knows how to keep a fire going.”

“sounds romantic,” she said, tone unreadable.

“i didn’t say i’d go alone.”

that made her laugh. soft and surprised.

and just like that—it started. the shift. away from the noise. into the space where names didn’t matter and fame didn’t reach.

they talked.

about how she ended up in this apartment. how the plants were from her old place and she still didn’t know the name of half of them. about how he used to be afraid of swimming. about how she writes poetry when she can’t sleep but never reads it back. about family. about loneliness. about the kind of silence that feels like home, and the kind that feels like a trap.

they never once said idol. never once said actress.

it was deeper than that. heavier. lighter. real.

and yoongi couldn’t remember the last time a conversation made him feel full.

the dinner had passed in slow waves of wine and laughter.

conversation drifting from deep to dumb and back again — favorite childhood snacks, dreams about disappearing, people they’d outgrown, things they weren’t proud of but couldn’t quite regret. she made him laugh in a way that felt rare. surprised out of him. like he hadn’t done it in a while and forgot how good it felt in his chest.

and when the food was gone — plates scraped clean, wine glasses half-full — neither of them moved to clear anything. there was no urgency. the night wasn’t over, not even close.

she shifted first.

pulled one foot up onto her chair, knee bent. her arm draped across the back of the seat, glass resting lazily in her other hand, gaze warm and slow as she looked at him. like she was memorizing something. or maybe already knew it by heart.

he moved without thinking.

his hand found her thigh — the one propped up, stretched toward him. his fingers resting near her knee, then slowly sliding down. up. back again. just barely pressing. like a tide testing the shore.

her skin was warm under his touch.

her eyes flicked down briefly, but she didn’t stop him. didn’t comment. just took another sip of wine and exhaled through her nose like the silence between them had thickened into something sweet.

her free hand — the one not holding the glass — reached out. lightly, her nails grazed his wrist. then the back of his hand. then up, just a little. a soft, absent drag of touch. casual, if it hadn’t made his pulse jump.

he looked at her. really looked.

and maybe that was why it happened. why the question formed. why the wine and the quiet and the low hum of everything unspoken finally pushed the words to his mouth.

“you think about that night?” he asked, voice low. quiet enough that it could’ve been lost in the rustle of leaves if she hadn’t already been looking at him like she knew it was coming.

her gaze didn’t waver.

“yeah,” she said, just as soft.

he nodded, thumb tracing a slow line over her skin. “me too.”

she tilted her head slightly, the kind of movement that invited honesty. the candlelight licked the sharp line of her jaw, her mouth parted just slightly.

“you regret it?” she asked.

he let out a breath through his nose. “not for a second.”

a pause.

he leaned in a little more, eyes flickering down to her lips, then back up. “but it didn’t feel like me.”

“what part?”

“all of it,” he said. “being there. feeling that pulled in. touching someone like that when i didn’t even know their last name.”

she didn’t flinch. didn’t take offense. just kept watching him, like she understood exactly what he meant.

“was it a bad thing?” she asked, voice lower now.

he shook his head. “no. just… new.”

“you didn’t seem new at it.”

he let out a breathy laugh. “i’m a fast learner.”

that made her smile — slow and crooked.

her hand slid higher, palm over the back of his, warm and sure.

“you wanna know something?”

he hummed.

“i wanted to kiss you the second i saw you across the room. before you looked at me. before you even knew i was there.”

yoongi’s hand stilled on her thigh. heat licked up his spine like a match had been struck just beneath his skin.

“i felt it,” he murmured. “like static.”

she nodded once, slow. “me too.”

the silence returned. but it didn’t feel empty. it felt full. dense with the things they didn’t have to explain anymore.

his fingers curled gently into her leg. her thumb traced a soft circle over his knuckles.

and whatever had been hanging in the air between them all night — that quiet tension, the thread pulled tight — was starting to unravel into something softer. deeper.

real.

she leaned in like the night had called her to do it — slow and deliberate, mouth soft and parted, eyes half-lidded as she closed the distance between them inch by inch. not a question. not a warning. just a shift in gravity that he didn’t try to fight.

yoongi didn’t wait.

his hand slid higher on her thigh, fingers curling as he leaned forward and met her mouth with his.

it wasn’t gentle.

it wasn’t rough either — it was slow, like tasting something forbidden, like drawing out the first bite of something he’d been craving for too long. their lips pressed together in steady, measured rhythm, mouths moving with a kind of practiced hunger neither of them had to rehearse. it was instinct. it was need. it was built from the heat of everything unsaid.

she made a soft sound against him — a quiet, satisfied hum — and he drank it in like it was poured just for him. her hand cupped the side of his neck, thumb grazing just beneath his ear, and the shiver it sent down his spine made his grip tighten.

she kissed him like she had all the time in the world.

and when she bit his bottom lip — a sharp, playful little nip that made him groan low in his throat — she pulled back just enough to laugh against his mouth. breathless. amused. her eyes fluttered open, and she murmured against his lips, still close enough to steal another kiss if either of them so much as breathed too deep.

“your manager better not interrupt this time,” she whispered, her voice soft and stained with heat.

yoongi let out a low laugh, nose brushing hers.

“if he does,” he said, his lips barely brushing hers between the words, “i’m quitting.”

that made her smile — that slow, wicked curl that tugged at the corner of her mouth like she already knew she had him. like she knew he meant it, too.

her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails grazing his scalp lightly, dragging another quiet exhale out of him.

yoongi kissed her again — slower this time, deeper.

no rush. no noise. just the quiet crackle of candlelight and the taste of red wine on her tongue.

his other hand found her waist, pulled her closer.

and the night shifted again — this time into something heavier.

her shift came with no warning — just the subtle tightening of her fingers around his shoulders, and then the slow, deliberate sweep of one leg over his lap.

yoongi let out a quiet breath against her mouth, hands instinctively tightening at her waist as she settled onto him — not rushed, not needy, just there, confident and warm and so close it made his pulse stutter.

she moved like she’d done it a hundred times before — not with him, but like she’d always known she would. like her body had already mapped out this moment in some half-forgotten dream. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, draped loosely, wine glass abandoned somewhere behind her. his hands stayed low, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips, thumbs tracing soft lines over the thin fabric of her shirt.

their mouths moved together again, deeper now — more heat, less air.

yoongi kissed her like the wine was still on her tongue and he was trying to drink the last drop.

her breath caught when his hand slipped under her shirt. not rushed — just slow, steady curiosity, palm sliding over warm skin, tracing the curve of her waist before dipping higher, under the second layer — that tight black top she’d worn beneath. the contrast of cotton and silk against his knuckles made his skin feel too tight.

her back arched ever so slightly into his touch. he felt it — the way she pressed into his palm, her breath stuttering in the back of her throat.

and still, they didn’t speak.

not really.

just shared air and heat and quiet, involuntary sounds.

until her lips parted, barely lifting from his — and she said something.

soft. hushed. her voice like smoke against his mouth.

he didn’t catch all of it — too far gone, too focused on her body, her taste, the way his name would probably sound if she moaned it.

but he caught enough.

“…risky out here…” she whispered, a faint trace of laughter coloring her tone, like she wasn’t that worried.

and then she kissed him again — not full, just the ghost of it, barely touching — before pulling back enough to meet his eyes.

“you wanna continue in my room?” she asked.

not a flirtation. not a challenge.

just a quiet, open door.

and all he had to do was walk through.

he nodded before his brain could even make sense of the question.

not that it mattered. his body had already leaned in. already decided. already chosen her.

her smile came easy — that slow, knowing curve of her lips that made him feel like she’d just won a bet he didn’t know they were playing. she pressed a kiss to his cheek, light and quick, like punctuation. then stood, holding out her hand.

yoongi took it without a word, let her pull him to his feet — her fingers warm in his, steady. she didn’t let go.

they didn’t have to go far — just a few quiet steps across the rooftop, toward the sliding glass doors tucked in the corner. she slid them open with one hand, pulling him gently inside, and just like that, the night closed around them.

her bedroom smelled like her — floral and something deeper, muskier, like the skin just under her jaw. warm light spilled from a small lamp on the bedside table, casting everything in soft gold. it felt private. quiet in a way the rooftop wasn’t. no candle flicker, no city hum. just breath and heartbeat and bare feet on hardwood.

he didn’t have time to look around.

because the moment they were inside, she turned to him again — both hands sliding up his chest, then around the back of his neck. she leaned in close, and he was already chasing her mouth again when she stopped short — just barely.

her forehead touched his.

a pause.

she exhaled slowly, lips hovering over his, eyes closed for a moment.

“you wanna stop?” she whispered.

yoongi blinked. not because he didn’t hear her — but because he hadn’t expected her to ask. not now. not when they were this close, when his hands already itched to slide under her clothes again.

but the fact that she did — that she still wanted the choice to be his — it hit him deeper than he expected.

he laughed, low and quiet, tilting his head slightly so their noses brushed.

“you ask like you don’t already know the answer,” he murmured.

she pulled back just enough to open her eyes. her gaze met his, all soft edges and flickering heat.

“maybe i just like hearing you say it,” she teased.

his mouth quirked, one brow lifting. “you’re trouble.”

“mm. and you’re slow,” she shot back, fingers already finding the hem of his shirt.

her eyes lit up — mischief glowing like a secret behind them.

and just like that, the air changed again.

no rush.

but no hesitations either.

they were doing this.

his shirt was the first to go — not yanked, not pulled, but eased up over his head, inch by inch, as her fingers curled beneath the hem. she wasn’t watching his eyes. she was watching his skin. the way it flexed under her touch, the slow reveal of his torso beneath the fabric. he let her, arms lifting lazily, and when the shirt slipped over his head, he shook his hair back into place without looking away from her.

she didn’t comment. didn’t need to.

the way her gaze dragged down and lingered said everything.

yoongi smirked, just a little. barely there. his hands drifted to her waist, fingers brushing over the hem of her top — and then lower, skimming over the edge of her jeans like he was thinking about it.

but instead of undressing her, he stepped closer. pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, light and maddening, his hands sliding under her shirt but leaving it on. just the warmth of skin to skin. a thumb brushing over the edge of her ribs. teasing himself more than her, but he didn’t care. he liked how she inhaled sharply, like she wasn’t expecting the restraint.

her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. just raised an eyebrow — as if to say your move, then.

he took the challenge in stride.

his hands slipped around to her back, slow and sure, and when his fingers found the hem again, she lifted her arms without needing to be asked. he pulled the shirt off carefully, watching her the whole time. she stood there in her black top, skin glowing under the soft light, chest rising a little faster than before.

he kissed her shoulder.

she tilted her head, letting him. then smiled.

“you’re dragging it out on purpose,” she said.

“so are you.”

“only because you are.”

he chuckled against her skin, then let his lips trail a little lower — collarbone, then just above the swell of her chest. when his fingers dipped below the hem of her top, she grabbed his wrist gently and shook her head.

“not yet.”

yoongi looked up, heat flickering behind his eyes. “tease.”

“takes one to know one.”

and then — she moved.

her hands went to the button of his jeans.

he didn’t stop her. just watched.

but she didn’t rush.

her fingers worked slowly, almost cruelly, undoing the button, dragging the zipper down with a sound that sliced through the silence like a sigh.

she didn’t push them down though. just left them like that. undone. dangerous.

her fingers slid beneath the waistband, resting against the line of his hips.

yoongi exhaled hard through his nose, eyes darkening.

he didn’t speak.

neither did she.

but her smile said checkmate’s getting close.

yoongi broke first.

he didn’t mean to. didn’t plan it. one second he was holding still, watching her like she was a flame he could study forever — and the next, he was grabbing, kissing, reaching like he’d been starved of her for days instead of minutes.

his mouth crashed into hers — no finesse, no teasing this time. it was desperate. heated. too much tongue, not enough breath. and the sound she made — soft, muffled, almost surprised — hit him square in the chest. like he hadn’t even realized how much he needed to hear her fall apart under his mouth.

his hands slid to her hips, grip firm but careful, guiding her backward until her thighs met the edge of the mattress. she let him — smiling against his lips, hands still tangled in his hair as he pushed her down onto the sheets.

and fuck, she looked unreal like this.

her hair fanned out across the pillow, her top rumpled just slightly, one hand tracing along her bottom lip like she was waiting to be devoured. her legs still hooked loosely around his waist, her breath coming in slow, shallow waves. waiting. watching.

yoongi knelt onto the bed — one knee sinking into the mattress beside her, the other still planted on the floor as he leaned over her. his gaze dragged over every inch, hungry, reverent. his fingers found the hem of her top again, slower this time, sliding it up inch by inch — revealing skin like a secret, until her bra was finally in view.

he exhaled.

it fit her perfectly — hugged her in all the right places, soft and dark against the warm tones of her skin. his gaze lingered. not out of hesitation — but out of awe. like he needed a second to catch up to the fact that she was real and here and letting him see her like this.

he didn’t kiss her again.

not yet.

instead, his hand slid lower — teasing fingers brushing just above the waistband of her jeans, then curling around the button. he didn’t undo it right away. just played with it. thumb dragging lightly over the metal, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

she stared back at him — pupils blown, lips parted, one hand still ghosting over her mouth like she wasn’t sure if she was holding back or just baiting him.

yoongi smirked — barely there, but sharp.

“this still feel risky to you?” he murmured, fingers now toying with the zipper.

she laughed under her breath — breathless, soft, dangerous.

“only if you stop.”

his fingers worked slowly — one hook of the button, a lazy tug of the zipper — until her jeans eased open, denim gaping just enough to show a sliver of her underwear. he didn’t peel them off yet. didn’t dive in. instead, he dragged his palms back up her sides, under her top, and finally pulled it over her head completely, revealing her in that black bra, all curves and candlelit skin and a mouth that looked like sin just breathed into it.

yoongi swallowed hard.

his jeans were tight now — uncomfortably so — but he ignored the ache. filed it away. because this? this was better. her laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling like she already knew what was coming, hands fisting lightly in the sheets.

he leaned down — not to kiss her lips, but to mouth at the edge of her bra. the soft swell just above the cup. skin he could taste without removing anything. and he did — slow, deliberate presses of his mouth. lips, tongue, the faintest graze of teeth. his hand slid between her back and the bed, unclasping the bra with practiced ease. he watched the fabric part like he was being let in on a secret.

and god, she was beautiful.

his mouth dropped to the top of her chest again — kisses pressed like punctuation across her sternum, then lower. he took his time. praised her without words — just the low sound of his breath catching, the soft hums that spilled into her skin, the way his hands never stopped moving. across her ribs. her hips. her thighs.

she let out a shaky breath when his lips finally wrapped around her nipple, warm and wet and so slow it made her hips lift just slightly. he groaned against her when she moved like that — not loud, but deep, like it slipped out without permission.

“fuck…” he whispered, more to himself than her. “you’re unreal.”

his teeth grazed lightly. his tongue soothed the spot. and when she let out another breathy sound, her hand curling into his hair, he didn’t stop — just shifted to the other side, giving it the same attention. licking. sucking. kissing like he was memorizing her heartbeat through his mouth.

and all the while, his jeans throbbed with every grind of her hips against his thigh.

but he didn’t move for relief.

not yet.

she was already breathing like she was close — and he hadn’t even touched her properly.

that was the point.

he wanted her to feel him for days.

he looked up at her from where his mouth had lingered on her chest — lips parted, breath warm, hair slightly mussed from her fingers. but his eyes were sharp now. intense. like something inside him had shifted — flipped — and now he was moving with purpose instead of curiosity.

like he’d found his rhythm and it was her.

yoongi pushed himself up, hand braced beside her ribs as he leaned in again — straight to her mouth. his lips met hers in a kiss that was wetter this time, deeper, the kind that sent heat straight down her spine. his free hand slid up, fingers curving under her jaw to tilt her face to him. it wasn’t rough. it was firm. like he wanted her attention, and every inch of it.

and when he pulled back, just barely — her lips slick, parted, breath caught — he didn’t say a word. just let his thumb drag slowly across her bottom lip, watching it bounce slightly under the pressure.

then he pushed his fingers into her mouth.

slow.

intentional.

not deep — just enough to feel the heat of her tongue, to let her wet them herself. his fingers curled slightly, and she didn’t resist. didn’t flinch. just looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes like the moment had cracked her wide open and she had no idea what to do with the flood.

fuck, she was dangerous.

he slid his fingers out of her mouth slowly, coated with her spit. his hand drifted down, and he pressed another kiss to the soft curve of her neck — right where her pulse throbbed. she tilted her head slightly, breath catching again as his lips lingered.

“god, you’re good at that,” he murmured — not asking, just noting, like it was a fact she should’ve already known.

his hand didn’t stop moving.

it slipped lower, dragging along her skin — down her stomach, between her hips — until it found the heat still hidden by her underwear. he brushed his fingers over the thin fabric, just barely pressing, and even that made her hips twitch.

yoongi exhaled, low and steady. kissed her collarbone. then kissed lower — just once — before dragging his fingers slowly up the center of her, feeling the heat, the wetness even through the fabric.

“fuck…” he breathed again, mouth close to her ear now.

his thumb circled. one finger traced the edge of her underwear, like he was considering moving it. but he didn’t yet.

instead, he looked up again — gaze dark and focused, as if he was memorizing the way her mouth parted and her thighs tensed and her chest heaved, all at once.

“say it,” he murmured, voice low, just for her. “you still want this?”

not because he doubted.

because he wanted to hear her say yes.

she barely said it.

just a whisper — hoarse, trembling, thick with want. a single syllable soaked in breath and need, like it had fought its way out from somewhere deep in her chest.

“yes…”

yoongi didn’t wait.

couldn’t.

not after that.

his fingers slid beneath the band of her underwear, slow but sure, until he found the heat he’d only been teasing before. and fuck — she was already so wet for him. slick and warm and ready, like her body had been begging for this since the moment their eyes met in that crowded room.

he exhaled harshly through his nose — not a groan, not a word — just the kind of sound that broke free when restraint finally snapped its thread.

and then he pushed his fingers in.

slow, deep, perfect pressure — and the way she gasped, sharp and ragged, made his head drop against her shoulder. he stayed there for a second, buried in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, the perfume that clung to her hair and collarbones. but more than that — her sounds.

small, breathy moans caught between parted lips. the stutter of her breath when he curled his fingers just right. the quiet, involuntary way her hips lifted into his hand like her body couldn’t help but chase the high he was coaxing out of her.

“that’s it,” he whispered, voice low and rough against her ear. “just like that.”

his free hand braced beside her ribs, steadying himself, while his fingers moved deeper — curling, pressing, finding the rhythm that made her thighs shake.

she was already falling apart.

and he hadn’t even kissed her again.

her hand grabbed at his arm, nails dragging across his skin as her other fisted the sheets, mouth open and trembling. every sound she made was his now. every gasp, every breathy whimper — all of it branded in his mind like a verse he’d never forget.

he lifted his head, just to watch her.

hair fanned across the pillow, her chest rising in shallow waves, lips bitten pink and trembling.

“look at me,” he murmured — soft, commanding.

she did.

barely.

but it was enough.

the moment their eyes locked, she moaned again — louder this time, messier, one leg wrapping tighter around his hip like she was trying to pull him into her completely.

yoongi kissed her then.

hard. deep. swallowing the sound she made as his fingers thrust deeper, curling just right.

and he thought — god, she’s gonna come like this.

just from this.

and he was going to let her.

watch her.

feel her.

every trembling second of it.

her hand moved like she couldn’t stop herself.

one still wrapped around his wrist — gripping, guiding, hips twitching beneath his touch as she pressed him deeper, faster, chasing the pressure that had her breath hitching with every curl of his fingers. she wasn’t just letting him touch her. she was showing him how. claiming the rhythm. dragging it out. her thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

and the other hand — fuck.

the other slid down, across his stomach, slow and shaking, until it found the hard outline of him beneath his jeans.

yoongi’s whole body stuttered.

his breath caught somewhere between his throat and chest, a low groan vibrating in his ribs as her palm pressed down — tentative at first, then with more purpose. like she wanted to feel the way she was ruining him. like she knew he’d been holding back and couldn’t stand it anymore.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges.

her eyes met his — dazed and dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed — and when she pressed just a little harder, her fingers shifting over him, he thrust into her hand, involuntary, his fingers deep inside her still.

it was messy. desperate. their bodies moving in tandem now, hips rocking against hands, like they couldn’t get close enough.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to hers.

she let out a breathless laugh — the kind that barely made it past her throat — and squeezed him again, slow. teasing. fucking lethal.

his fingers didn’t stop. he’d found the spot inside her that made her breath break, and he curled into it with intention now, matching the pace to the way her thighs were tightening, how her nails were digging into his skin, her mouth dragging open in a silent gasp.

“that’s it,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “you’re close.”

she nodded — barely — but it was the sound she made next that wrecked him. that high, cracked moan as her hips lifted to meet his hand again, her rhythm starting to falter.

yoongi groaned deep in his throat.

because she was palming him harder now, her grip losing finesse, and he knew — knew — she was right on the edge.

so he kept going.

curling his fingers just right, his mouth pressed to her jaw, his other hand sliding to her ass to anchor her down.

“let go,” he breathed, voice shaking. “i’ve got you.”

she fell apart in his hands — breath caught, back arching, her hips grinding helplessly into his palm like her body was chasing the aftershocks. her thighs trembled, muscles fluttering beneath his touch, and her mouth dropped open on a moan that sounded dangerously close to his name.

yoongi felt it everywhere.

in his chest. in his spine. in the way his cock throbbed against the denim, painfully hard, caught in a limbo between control and the kind of need that bordered on reckless.

but it was her voice — the way it broke as she pulled him closer — that did it.

"please," she whispered, raw and aching, “i need to feel you.”

and fuck.

he swore he could’ve come right then — just from the look in her eyes. wide, hazy, flushed and blown out, still shaking, and yet so focused on him. her hands dragging down to his hips, grasping, pulling like she couldn’t bear to wait another second.

his fingers slipped from between her thighs — soaked and trembling — and he exhaled, sharp, eyes closing for just a beat.

then he moved.

with the last shred of resolve in his body, yoongi reached down, hand digging into the pocket of his jeans, fumbling just slightly. there. the foil packet brushed his fingers, and he let out a low breath, almost a laugh, something wild flickering in his chest.

he sat back on his knees, tearing the packet open fast with his teeth, his other hand already dragging the denim and briefs down his thighs.

her eyes dropped.

watched.

and stayed there.

he could feel her gaze — heavy, hungry, wide with anticipation — locked on his hands as he slid the condom on. her mouth parted slightly, breath shallow, fingers still gripping his hips as though trying to anchor herself to the moment.

yoongi looked up, caught her staring, and smiled — not cocky, not smug, just… wrecked. overwhelmed. full of something soft and dark and unspeakably fond.

“you’re really watching that close, huh?” he said, voice rough.

she nodded once, slow. lips brushing open. eyes full of fire.

“can’t help it,” she whispered.

he leaned forward, dragging his mouth across hers — a kiss that tasted like heat and hunger and too many almosts.

“good,” he murmured, hand sliding to her thigh as he lined himself up.

“’cause i want you to remember this.”

yoongi lined himself up — just the tip brushing against her, slick and hot and so tempting — and stopped.

his breath hitched.

his hands dug into the curve of her hips, holding her steady. his jaw clenched so tight it ached. because if he moved — if he let himself go that last inch — it’d be over. the moment would swallow them whole. and he wasn’t ready to lose it yet. not when she looked like this.

spread out beneath him. flushed and flushed and wrecked. the afterglow of her orgasm still softening the edges of her face, her hair stuck to her forehead in delicate strands, her thighs twitching open and ready for him.

but most of all — her eyes.

those wide, dazed eyes watching him like he was some kind of answer. lips parted, chest rising in short, sharp bursts, hands skimming down his arms like she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

yoongi looked down between them, eyes locked on where their bodies almost met — his tip just barely pressing into her folds, catching slightly as he shifted his hips.

he groaned under his breath.

it took everything in him not to slam forward.

instead, he gave her a slow rock — just enough to drag the head of his cock through her heat, the tip slipping in a little more with each movement. her breath stuttered. her nails sank into his biceps, leaving trails of heat behind.

“yoongi—” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the second syllable.

and fuck, that did something to him.

he leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, their noses brushing. his breath was hot against her mouth, voice low and dangerous.

“you want more?” he rasped.

her fingers tightened — nails biting into his skin, legs wrapping higher around his waist.

“please,” she whispered, breathless. barely a sound. but her eyes said it all.

and still — he didn’t move.

just nudged forward, inching in a little deeper. not enough. not nearly enough. he watched the way her mouth dropped open, how her brows pinched, the sound she made — like she was about to cry or scream or combust.

“i just wanna remember this,” he muttered, his own voice fraying now, hands trembling slightly as they slid up her sides. “how fucking good you feel already. and i’m not even in yet.”

she whimpered — straight-up whimpered — and it shot straight through him like lightning.

his hips rolled again, teasing another inch, and her whole body arched into him.

“yoongi,” she gasped, finally breaking.

“mm?” he teased, mouth on her cheek now. “what’s that, baby?”

her hands cupped his face so gently it nearly broke him.

fingers threading into his hair, thumbs brushing along his jaw — and then her mouth, god, her mouth — soft and urgent against his. not a kiss so much as a plea, her breath catching on the word he’d been teasing from her for what felt like hours.

“please,” she whispered, kissing him again, lips wet and trembling. “please, yoongi—”

her hips lifted as she spoke, slow and sure, coaxing him deeper — finally sinking him in, inch by inch, her body clenching around him like it had been waiting forever.

his breath hitched so sharp he gasped into her mouth.

then he groaned — low and raw, buried into the crook of her neck as her walls fluttered around him, pulling him in like gravity itself had been redefined.

“fuck,” he breathed against her skin, his voice wrecked. “fuck, you feel—”

but he couldn’t finish. the words died in his throat because she was already moving again — hips rolling, fingers still in his hair, her legs hooked around his waist like she needed him closer. like even being buried inside her wasn’t enough.

she held him there.

whispered into his ear — sweet and desperate.

“don’t stop.”

his hips stuttered, pushed deeper.

“you feel so good, baby. so good.”

yoongi groaned again, his hand fisting in the sheets beside her head. her voice was everything — warm, wrecked, coaxing him through each slow thrust like she wanted to memorize him now.

“just like that,” she murmured, her mouth dragging over his jaw, her teeth grazing his skin. “don’t stop—fuck—please, i need you to—”

and he did.

he moved — not fast, not yet — but deep. every inch deliberate. every sound she made drawing him further into her until there was nothing else.

only her.

her hands in his hair.

her mouth against his cheek.

her thighs trembling around his waist as he started to fuck her like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

he couldn’t think straight anymore.

his mind was static — white noise between thrusts — her breath, her nails, her skin, the wet sounds where their bodies met. and her voice. god, her voice.

soft and ruined, telling him more, right there, kiss me, don’t stop, and he was following every command like it was instinct.

like he didn’t know how to say no to her.

and maybe he didn’t want to.

maybe there was something in the way she said his name — not just gasped, not just moaned — but called for him. like she knew he’d come. like she knew he was hers the second she touched his face and kissed him between pleads.

he had her pinned under him now — body flush to hers, chest to chest, hips grinding deeper with every roll. the mattress creaked beneath them, sheets tangled at their waists. he was in her in every sense, and still it didn’t feel close enough.

yoongi moaned into her ear — couldn’t stop himself — and her body clenched so tight around him that his rhythm stuttered, jaw falling slack as he swore under his breath.

she whimpered when he hit deep.

he groaned when she tightened.

his mouth found her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone — kissing every inch she asked for, biting gently when her nails sank into his back. one of his hands slid up, grasping the back of her thigh, pulling her leg higher over his hip to get deeper, stay deeper.

the sweat between them made it all feel primal. feverish. real in a way that didn’t make sense, like he wasn’t sure if this was the best sex of his life or a goddamn religious experience.

and he hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

not just the heat. not just the high.

the connection.

the way her hands still held onto him even as her voice broke. the way her body moved with his like it knew him already. like it had been waiting for him to come back to life.

and he was.

piece by piece. kiss by kiss. thrust by thrust.

yoongi pressed his forehead to hers again, panting, hips rolling steady and deep as her breath caught and she whispered his name like a prayer. her nails curled into his shoulder blades.

he groaned again — low, helpless.

“fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against her mouth.

she smiled — crooked and breathless — and kissed him hard, teeth grazing his bottom lip before she said, “good.”

he laughed.

not loud. not amused. wrecked.

it cracked out of his chest like disbelief — like she’d just dared him to snap — and she fucking had.

yoongi leaned back, separating from her chest, chest heaving. and the second she started to reach for him — eyes hazy, lips parting in protest — his hand locked around her hip, tight. rough. possessive.

she gasped, and fuck, he felt it.

the way her body jolted. the way her breath hitched. the way her legs trembled around his waist.

he pressed his thumb into the meat of her hip, slow and deep — not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. he knew it would leave a bruise. wanted it to. wanted her to find it tomorrow and remember the way she asked for this with nothing but a smirk and a dare.

his other hand rose to her jaw — fingers spread, palm warm and solid, thumb dragging across her bottom lip before his grip shifted. just enough pressure to ground her. not choking. not rough. just right. enough to make her pupils blow wide, lips fall open, breath break again.

and then he moved.

his hips snapped forward — hard. deeper than before. rougher. the kind of thrust that rattled her body against the mattress.

she whined. moaned. arched. all at once.

“yeah?” he rasped, eyes locked on hers. “you like that?”

her mouth dropped open — desperate, dazed — and she nodded, voice nearly gone.

“tell me,” he muttered, fucking into her harder now. “tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

she gasped — a jagged inhale, her fingers clawing at his shoulders.

and then, through breathless, broken confessions, she told him.

about the way she thought of him the night they met — how she imagined this. him. the way she touched herself thinking about how he’d sound, how he’d moan. how she'd imagined his mouth, his hands, his weight pressing her down into her mattress, just like now.

yoongi groaned — deep, guttural, shaking through his whole chest. his grip tightened on her hip. his pace faltered for just a second before he snapped back into it — rougher, deeper, his cock dragging against the spot inside her that made her voice crack when she tried to keep talking.

“fuck, baby—” he gasped, mouth finding her neck again, kissing it hard. “you’re gonna make me come.”

and she gasped at that. her whole body reacting — fluttering around him, her legs shaking, arms locking around his back like she was trying to trap him there.

and yoongi?

he let her.

because fuck it — he wasn’t going anywhere.

he couldn’t hold back anymore.

his hips snapped into her again — deep, ragged — and this time he didn’t try to quiet the sounds that came out of him. couldn’t. not with the way she gripped him, her hands dragging down to his ass, pulling him in, guiding each thrust like she wasn’t even close to finished with him.

yoongi groaned — sharp and guttural, the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, from the place that was losing her already even as she was still wrapped around him.

he dropped his weight slightly — elbows pressing into the mattress on either side of her head, chest to chest, his face buried against her cheek. and then, just before he shattered completely, he turned and left a kiss on her forehead.

so gentle.

so quiet.

like the softest thank you he'd never say aloud.

his hair was soaked, sweat dripping down his neck, his whole body trembling with the force of it as he came — hips stuttering, breath catching, buried so deep in her it almost didn’t feel real. a moan ripped from his throat — her name barely audible against her skin.

but she didn’t stop.

her hands coaxed him through it, fingers digging into his skin, soft, desperate whimpers pushing past her lips as her hips tilted up again. chasing hers. so close.

“don’t stop,” she gasped. “yoongi—please—i’m—”

and fuck.

his body was wrecked, but his heart was still punching through his ribs for her, so he kept moving. slower now, but still deep, rolling into her just the way she liked — groaning as he felt her clench again, tighter this time, like her whole body was pulling him in to come with her.

she shattered with a gasp. a long, aching sound that cracked in the middle as her thighs trembled and her hands fisted into his skin.

and yoongi?

he felt it.

deep.

full-body.

because this wasn’t just release — it was connection. her body shaking beneath him, lips brushing his jaw, her moans quiet now but still there, like they were part of the rhythm of his own breath.

they stayed like that.

pressed together.

sweat-slick and shivering, heartbeat to heartbeat, breath syncing as the silence finally returned — not empty, not awkward.

just real.

just them.

he didn’t move.

couldn’t.

his body was still thrumming — nerves fried, lungs stuttering against hers, every part of him soaked in the weight of her. sweat on his skin, her scent in his nose, her heartbeat steadying underneath his chest like she was trying to bring him back to earth.

her arms stayed locked around him.

tight.

one hand resting flat against his spine, the other tracing slow, mindless shapes into the space between his shoulder blades. he could feel her nails, just barely — not scratching, just reminding. like she didn’t want him to slip away. like she was holding him there on purpose.

yoongi exhaled.

his face still pressed against the side of her neck, breath ghosting over her skin as he tried to find his voice. but nothing came yet. didn’t need to. the silence between them wasn’t awkward. it was full. stretched soft like a blanket. like a memory.

finally, after a minute — maybe two — he lifted his head.

just enough to look at her.

and fuck.

she was a vision.

lips red and bitten. cheeks flushed. pupils still dark and wide and glassy. there was sweat along her collarbones and a dreamy kind of haze in her gaze, like she was still floating somewhere between now and the stars.

her hand reached up — slow and sure — and gently brushed the hair from his forehead, fingers dragging soft against his skin. a quiet, instinctive gesture. so casual and so intimate he felt it in his chest like a bruise.

yoongi leaned in and kissed her.

not rushed. not hungry.

just soft. like he meant it.

when he pulled back, he let his forehead rest against hers for a beat longer before he whispered, voice low and rough, “where should i...?”

he didn’t even finish the sentence.

she understood.

she nodded toward the bathroom door, lips parting slightly, too spent to smile but too sated not to.

he pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth — then carefully pulled out of her, a soft hiss caught in his throat as the warmth of her slipped away. he moved slow, quiet, disappearing down the hall just long enough to take care of it.

when he came back, she was still there.

bare and beautiful in the soft light.

one hand outstretched — waiting for him.

yoongi didn’t even think.

he climbed back into bed, under the light blanket she’d tugged over herself, and let her pull him back into her arms. his head on her chest now, ear pressed to her heartbeat, fingers ghosting over her ribs like she might vanish if he didn’t touch her.

neither of them said a word.

they didn’t need to.

her fingers were still in his hair, slow and lazy, threading through the damp strands like she had all the time in the world.

yoongi’s arm was draped low around her waist, hand curled under the curve of her spine. their bodies had stopped moving, but his mind hadn’t — it buzzed, still full of her. the sound of her voice. the look in her eyes. the feeling of her skin under his hands, her legs around his hips, her breath right there at his mouth.

he felt wrecked. in the most peaceful way.

her lips brushed the top of his head, a kiss that was more like a breath. and then, soft — almost teasing, but not really — her voice reached through the quiet.

“you’re gonna be a problem for me,” she murmured, half-lidded eyes blinking slow, like she was already falling under sleep’s weight.

yoongi huffed a laugh against her chest.

“good,” he whispered back. “i want to be.”

she smiled — he could feel it. the way her ribs shifted slightly beneath his cheek.

a beat passed.

the kind that invited more, the kind that asked without asking.

and then she did — so quiet he almost thought he dreamed it.

“are you staying?”

he stilled.

not from fear. not from panic.

just from the sheer gravity of it.

because she wasn’t asking about just tonight. he could hear it in her voice, feel it in the soft curl of her fingers around his neck. it wasn’t about falling asleep together. it was about after. about what they did with this — with whatever the fuck this was becoming.

yoongi closed his eyes. breathed her in. his hand splayed against her lower back like it had always known how to fit there.

“yeah,” he said, eventually. just above a whisper. “i think i am.”

and she didn’t say anything after that.

she didn’t need to.

she just kissed the top of his head again, her lips barely brushing his skin, and held him tighter.

and for the first time in a long, long while — yoongi let himself be held.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14 @belleilichil @busanbby-jjk @sunsetnamjin @vonvi-blog

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀pretty little mess Ꮺ bangtan

summary in which you ride their thigh and they watch you come undone ⠀/⠀nsfw, tension relief, body worship, desperation, established relationship or fwb (up to interpretation). minors do not interact !!!

masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s not even touching her. not really. just sitting back against the headboard, shirtless and patient, watching her rock against the thick muscle of his thigh like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. her fingers clutch his shoulders, knuckles white, while her hips grind down in slow, sloppy circles. her breath catches every time the friction hits just right, and namjoon just watches. eyes dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’s the one unraveling. “go on,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “use me, baby.” she whimpers — broken and soft — and his hands move only to steady her waist, not to help, not to rush. “you’re so close,” he murmurs, head tilting as he kisses her temple. “come for me like this.” and she does — thighs trembling, a strangled moan caught in her throat as she soaks his skin. he doesn’t flinch. just holds her through it, proud and wrecked and in love.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he hadn’t meant for it to get this far. it started as a tease, his thigh offered half-jokingly while he leaned back on the couch, shirt bunched around his elbows, eyes glinting. “if you’re that needy, then show me,” he’d said, expecting a pout. instead, she climbed onto his lap, kissed him hard, and now— her panties are soaked through, leaving a wet patch on his sweats as she grinds over and over, chasing friction like a drug. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, the humor long gone. her fingers grip his shoulders, breath stuttering, head bowed against his neck. “jin—” she gasps, voice all tremble and urgency. and he snaps — one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other sliding between them to press against her clit, just once. she breaks apart in his arms, moaning against his skin. “so impatient,” he murmurs, but his voice is wrecked. he’s hard as hell, and he’s already thinking about round two.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he told her to take what she needed. that’s all. no instructions, no teasing — just a quiet, “come here, baby” as he spread his legs and let her settle into his lap, the denim of his jeans rough and perfect against her core. now she’s moving, slow and rhythmic, grinding herself down until she’s shaking, her forehead pressed against his shoulder, lips parted in breathless little gasps. yoongi’s hands are on her hips, not guiding, just steady. like a grounding wire, keeping her together while she comes apart. “just like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “you’re doing so good.” he can feel how wet she is, how much she wants it. and he wants to give her more — his cock, his mouth, his everything — but for now, this is enough. watching her ruin herself on him, all flushed cheeks and desperate whines, he knows: she was made for this kind of pleasure. made to be worshipped.

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s losing his mind. she’s in nothing but a t-shirt, thighs spread over one of his, panties long gone, slick coating his skin every time she moves. he’s leaned back, hands behind him on the mattress, eyes locked on her face as she grinds down harder, her body chasing friction like a prayer. “fuck, hobi,” she gasps, and his name sounds like salvation. he nods, breath caught in his throat, pupils blown wide. “that’s it, baby—ride it. show me how bad you need it.” he wants to touch her so bad it hurts. wants to flip her over and sink into her until she forgets her own name. but he doesn’t. he lets her lead. watches her fall apart, crying out as her orgasm hits, trembling so hard she nearly collapses. he catches her, of course. kisses her shoulder. presses a hand to her heart. “you’re incredible,” he says like it’s the truth (because it is), and he means it with every breath.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s underneath her, shirtless and smug, watching her grind on his thigh like it’s a game he’s already won. her face is flushed, lips swollen from all the biting, her movements stuttery and desperate. “baby…” he breathes, voice dripping with sweetness and sin, “you’re really gonna come like this?” she nods — barely — too far gone to speak. and jimin groans, low and filthy, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “you’re so pretty when you’re messy.” he kisses her like she’s falling apart, like he can taste her pleasure on his tongue, and her hands clutch at his shoulders as her body tenses. when she finally comes, he watches every second — eyes locked on her expression like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “god, you’re everything,” he whispers, and then flips her underneath him, already grinning. “now let me take care of the rest.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀៹ ⠀ he doesn’t even blink. just sits back in the velvet armchair like a king, legs spread, letting her work herself against the solid press of his thigh while his hands rest lazily on the arms of the chair. the only giveaway is his jaw — tense, tight — and the flicker of his tongue across his bottom lip. she’s panting already, body trembling as she drags her soaked pussy along the muscle of his thigh, clinging to his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her from slipping under. “look at you,” he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates through the floor. “fuckin’ yourself on me like you were made for it.” he leans forward just enough to catch her chin, tilt her face up. “you wanna come, baby?” her nod is immediate, breathless. “then come for me,” he says. and she does, with a broken cry, body convulsing in his lap. he kisses her forehead. “good girl.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀៹⠀he’s trying so hard to stay still, but fuck—she’s not making it easy. straddling his thigh, panties soaked through, her hips moving in frantic little circles as she chases the high like it’s her last breath. his hands are on her ass, gripping tight, grounding her. his eyes don’t leave her face — wide, dazed, mouth open with a soft chant of his name. “kook… please…” she whines, and he groans, low and ruined. “you can do it,” he rasps. “come on, baby, make a mess on me.” and she does — hard, shaking, grinding through it while he holds her steady and kisses her shoulder through every wave. when she finally collapses against his chest, trembling and boneless, he whispers against her hair, “fuck, that was so hot… you feel what you did to me?” and yeah, he’s hard as hell — but he doesn’t even care. her pleasure’s already wrecked him.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[cigarettesuga]

꒰ 貧しい ꒱ 𝗺𝗮𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𓂃𝜗𝜚

and suddenlyִ, i'm see through whenever I see you, it's true ──── ( 玻璃 ） . . .

𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 this is a collection of my softest thoughts and dirtiest dreams. i write about things that ache, blush, and sometimes bite. minors, don’t linger where you’re not meant to be.

( look through ) about me ✸ taglist ✸ asks ✸ disclaimers ✸ ko-fi ✸ wips

𓂃 𝜗ৎ ꒰ 第一章 ꒱ : : DRABBLES & SHORT PIECES

⊂ knj ⊃

O1. | the only one who knows. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!namjoon x f!reader / slice of life, soft angst, domestic intimacy, based on 'look after you' by the fray.

O2. | text me when you get lonely. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀non-celeb!ex!namjoon x f!ex!reader / angst, exes-to-lovers, slight romance, slow burn, smut.

⊂ ksj ⊃

O1. | mind if i stay?⠀⠀➜⠀⠀ ͏ ͏͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ roommate!seokjin × f!reader / college au, roommates to lovers, smut, fluff, comfort, tiny bit of angst (barely).

O2. | hearts in crayon. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀ ͏ ͏͏ ͏͏single dad!seokjin x f!teacher!reader / fluff, slow-burn potential, slice of life, slight comedy

⊂ myg ⊃

O1. | the way he loves her.⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!yoongi x non-celebrity!fem!reader / fluff drabble, domestic softness, unspoken love.

O2. | too good at pretending.⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!fwb!yoongi x producer!fem!reader / smut, slow-burn tension, hidden feelings, late-night studio rendezvous, slice of chaotic intimacy, mutual pining masked as indifference.

O3. | charitable causes. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!yoongi x actress!f! reader / strangers to lovers, slow burn, social event tension, emotional isolation, suggestive/flirty atmosphere

O4. | don't get it twisted. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!fwb!yoongi x producer!f! reader / too good at pretending pt 2 / angst, smut, fluff, emotional turmoil, hurt&comfort

O5. | closer than this. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!yoongi x actress!f! reader / strangers to lovers, slow burn, emotionally charged smut⠀/charitable causes pt. 2

⊂ jhs ⊃

O1. | i think im gonna marry you. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀ jung hoseok x f!reader / soft fluff, introspective love, slice of life

⊂ pjm ⊃

coming soon.

⊂ kth ⊃

O1. | dating apps and recklessness.⠀⠀➜⠀⠀non idol!taehyung x f!reader / modern romance, smut, hookup-to-something-more, online dating, strangers-to-lovers (or something like it), late-night intimacy, kinktinted realism, emotional undercurrents beneath lust.

⊂ jjk ⊃

O1. | somewhere, quietly. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!jungkook x non-celebrity!fem!reader / drabble, fluff, slice of life, soft romance, domestic yearning

O2. | new territory.⠀⠀➜⠀⠀idol!jungkook × f!girlfriend / smut, fluff, experimental firsts, soft filth, boyfriend!jungkook supremacy

O3. | ctrl + you. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀streamer!jungkook × f!girlfriend / fluff, slice of life, comedy, dommestic chaos

𓂃 𝜗ৎ ( 第二章 ) : : REACTIONS & SCENARIOS

O1. | falling asleep on their chest while they're rambling about something⠀⠀ ➜⠀⠀all members / fluff, comfort, established relationship, soft domesticity, quiet intimacy

O2. | riding their thigh and they watch you come undone⠀⠀ ➜⠀⠀all members / nsfw, tension relief, body worship, desperation, established relationship or fwb (up to interpretation). minors do not interact !!!

O3. | they kiss you to shut you up mid-argument⠀⠀ ➜⠀⠀all members ⠀/⠀angst, established relationship, heated tension, emotional intimacy, nsfw-leaning suggestion

O4. | flinching in the middle of an argument ⠀⠀ ➜⠀⠀all members ⠀/⠀angst, established relationship, hurt/comfort, heavy themes, emotional intimacy, soft nsfw or implied intimacy (in some cases)

O5.| tae is the type of bf. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀bf!taehyung x f!reader / fluff, slice of life, mature content discussed, headcanons

O6.| getting caught while having sex. ⠀⠀ ➜⠀⠀all members ⠀/⠀explicit sexual content, accidental voyeurism, mentions of exhibitionism, oral sex (f. receiving), interrupted sexual acts, semi-public settings (some scenes), possessive language, use of pet names, soft dom tendencies, embarrassment/shock responses, aftercare and checking in (varies per member)

𓂃 𝜗ৎ ( 第三章 ) : : SERIES

⊂ pjm ⊃

O1. | opposites don't attract, they destroy. ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀fuckboy!jimin x proud, stubborn!reader / jimin flirts like it’s his full-time job. (y/n) acts like she’s immune. but after one reckless night, their enemies-to-something tension explodes into a secret, no-strings hookup. the problem? feelings get messy fast—and while she’s trying to move on with someone steady and safe, jimin can’t stop pulling her back into the fire. / smut, angst, college au, enemies to something

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a safe place to dream Ꮺ bangtan

summary in which you fall asleep on their chest while they're rambling about something.⠀/⠀fluff, comfort, established relationship, soft domesticity, quiet intimacy

masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until the sentence he’s mid-way through meets silence. not the listening kind, not the nodding, hum-here-and-there kind she usually gives him when he rambles — just soft, steady breathing. she’s curled into his chest, warm and still, and something about the weight of her against him makes his throat close up. he blinks down, eyes tracing her features like they’re poetry. the rise and fall of her breath, the way her lips part slightly in sleep. “oh,” he whispers, a little helplessly. like she’s given him something sacred. he adjusts his arm, gently tucking her closer without waking her. his voice comes back in a softer tone, more like narration now. just for her. “you always know how to shut me up in the nicest ways.” he keeps talking, not needing her to respond. she doesn’t have to. she’s already here.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ the story had been absurd, dramatic — something about a restaurant mishap and a broken plate and him saving the day with the flourish of a prince. but she didn’t make it to the end. her head dipped gently onto his chest halfway through and stayed there, unmoving. jin paused, staring down at her like she’d just done something scandalous, and then — a slow smile broke across his face. “are you kidding me?” he mumbled under his breath. but there was no annoyance in it. just wonder. warmth. the kind of affection that settles deep in the ribs. carefully, he brings his hand to her back, palm pressed flat against the fabric of her shirt. his thumb strokes her spine once, twice. “you couldn’t even wait for the punchline,” he whispers, amused. he’ll save the story for later. she’s the only plot twist he really cares about.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s talking quietly, more to himself than anything. the kind of tired monologue that happens in dim light, when the rest of the world is asleep and it finally feels safe to unravel. she’s pressed against him, warm and close, and he doesn’t expect a response anymore — he just likes the feeling of her beside him. but then he feels it: her breath evening out, the subtle weight of her body relaxing fully into his. asleep. it makes him smile, just a little. that kind of smile that’s barely there, but real. he looks down at her, the soft slope of her nose, her lashes fluttering in a dream. “you’re ridiculous,” he whispers. but his voice is all fondness, no bite. he brings a hand to the back of her head, fingers sliding gently through her hair. he lets the silence stretch. lets it become a song of its own. she’s asleep, and he feels more grounded than he has in days.

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀៹⠀ she had been giggling along with him not five minutes ago, tucked into his side while he recounted something embarrassing from trainee days. but somewhere between the third laugh and the second yawn, she slipped under. her head found his chest, and her body softened into sleep like it was second nature. hoseok’s mouth opened to say something — probably a joke — but he caught himself before the words came. instead, he just stared at her. blinked once. then slowly, a smile broke out so big it made his eyes crinkle. “yah…” he whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair off her face. “you really trust me, huh?” he shifts slightly to hold her better, one arm wrapping around her back, the other resting over her waist. he stays like that, not daring to move. the room feels quieter now, more tender. she’s asleep, and all he wants to do is protect that peace.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he notices the stillness before anything else. the way her hand, once tracing circles on his chest, had gone slack. how her breathing had synced with the rhythm of his own. he tilts his head to glance down, only to find her completely out. fast asleep, lips parted, cheek squished slightly against him. “oh…” his voice catches in his throat. he wraps an arm tighter around her, like instinct, like he was made for this exact moment. it floors him every time — how easily she turns him soft. he brings a hand up to cradle her head, fingers threading gently through her hair. “i didn’t even get to the good part,” he whispers, teasing, though his eyes are glassy with something else. he presses a kiss to her forehead and closes his own eyes. he doesn’t need to talk anymore. she already knows everything.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀៹ ⠀ his voice trails off, slow and deep, as he watches her body melt into his side. she’s already halfway gone when her hand curls against his stomach, nose nudging just beneath his collarbone. taehyung blinks once, then exhales, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he doesn’t say anything right away. just watches. studies. commits the image to memory. “you always do this,” he says softly, fingers finding her hair and stroking through it with a gentleness he never quite shows the world. “always know when to rest.” he keeps talking, but it’s more of a lullaby now. quiet, soothing nonsense. words meant to protect her dreams. and when he finally goes quiet, his hand never stops moving. like if he stays still, she’ll stay with him forever.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀៹⠀he’s animated, talking with his hands even though she can’t see them — eyes wide, voice full of that fast, excited rhythm he gets when he’s explaining something he loves. but then she shifts, presses in a little closer, and stays still. completely still. he pauses, mid-sentence, and glances down. her cheek is squished against his chest, arms loosely curled around him, lips parted in the sweetest kind of sleep. jungkook swallows, heart tripping over itself. “oh no…” he mutters, stunned. “you really—” he doesn’t even finish. just laughs softly, full of disbelief and love. he tightens his arms around her, kisses the top of her head once, twice, like punctuation. he’s already made the decision without realizing: he’s not moving. not even if the world ends. he’ll stay like this — holding her — forever, if she lets him.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ctrl + you ୨ৎ ( jjk )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ jungkook might be a popular streamer, but you’re the one who really knows how to keep things running smoothly—especially when it comes to surviving the world’s most chaotic co-op kitchen. between failed dishes, bossy instructions, and nail polish updates, you and your very loud, very pink-thumbed boyfriend rediscover just how fun losing can be when you're doing it together.

featuring⠀streamer!jungkook x f!reader genre fluff, slice of life, domestic chaos wc⠀3.26k warnings mild swearing, excessive yelling (mostly about digital food) navi

lu's note⠀this one flew by so fast and i honestly had so much fun writing it—i really hope you enjoy reading it just as much <3

⠀⠀

the sound of his voice travels down the hallway before she even makes it to the door.

a low, familiar hum that rises and falls in rhythm with his laughter, overlapping with the click of his mouse and the occasional alert sound of a new subscriber. his room glows like a spaceship in the dark—soft blues and violets from the LED strips along the shelves, the faint reflection of his monitor flickering across the floor. she pauses outside the door for just a second, fingertips brushing the edge of her hoodie pocket, wondering if her being there would feel like an interruption.

it’s not the first time she’s been on one of his streams. far from it. over the years she’s wandered in with a bowl of ramen, dropped off bubble tea, or popped in just long enough to lean into frame and mutter something about him needing to sleep. jungkook's fans had grown used to her presence like a rare easter egg—unexpected, unscheduled, but highly anticipated. it was never official, never a whole “hey, meet my girlfriend” kind of moment. just little slices of reality tucked between frames.

tonight, though, was different. he’d invited her to play.

“you don’t have to,” he’d said earlier, sprawled across the couch with his cheek pressed against her thigh, his phone forgotten on his chest. “i just thought it’d be fun. you know, like old times.”

she did know. back before he started streaming regularly, back when gaming nights meant her legs in his lap and his headset half on, half off because he wanted to hear her laugh while he played. they’d played everything together—overcooked, stardew, phasmo, smash—and lost most of it. neither of them were particularly good at co-op games, but they made a hell of a team in all the ways that mattered.

still, the idea of actually joining the stream, live, with his whole chaotic chat watching, made her stomach flutter. not in a bad way, just in that i-hope-i-don’t-do-anything-stupid kind of way.

four years in, and it still made her heart beat a little faster, hearing him talk like that—animated, playful, completely unaware of how many people were hanging on every word. and how many of them lit up whenever she appeared.

“no, no, i swear i didn’t rage quit—i got disconnected,” jungkook’s voice pipes through the open crack of the door, scandalized. “i don’t quit games. i finish them. with honor.”

his chat, as always, has other ideas.

sunnybun89: sure jungkook. "disconnected" milkthief97: someone clip the controller toss yoongsminnie: y’all remember when he screamed at the lettuce?? we know this man quits taenylights: 💀💀💀

she stifles a laugh, her hand finally wrapping around the doorknob. pushing it open just enough to peer inside, she finds him leaned back in his chair, headset slightly askew, eyes crinkled from laughing too hard at whatever meme someone just sent him. his knee’s bouncing restlessly under the desk, like it always does when he’s excited. he hasn’t even touched a game tonight.

maybe that’s why she’s nervous. this wasn’t her usual kind of drop-in, some stealthy delivery of snacks with a quick kiss to the top of his head before slipping back out. he’d asked her to stay for a bit tonight, casually. said something about a chill stream, no pressure, no games—just him talking to chat and maybe them doing “something dumb together” if she felt like it.

"hold on—guys, i think i heard something," jungkook says, craning his neck theatrically toward the door like he’s in a horror movie.

his chat instantly floods with drama.

meowmori: oh god is it THE girlfriend y/ntruthers: 👀👀👀👀 lettucelover420: if she’s bringing snacks i’m gonna cry jiminnycricket: protect her at all costs

"babe?" he calls out, voice tilting up with an expectant smile. "you creeping around or you gonna come say hi?"

caught.

she steps inside, cheeks warm despite herself. he swivels in his chair just a little, just enough to meet her with that look he always gives her when she walks into the room—like he still can't believe she exists. like she’s more interesting than anything else currently happening in the world, chat be damned.

"wasn't creeping," she mumbles, coming over to perch on the edge of the armrest, knees bumping his. "was deciding if i wanted to deal with your fan club tonight."

he laughs, low and amused, one hand coming to rest on her thigh without thinking. chat loses it immediately.

yeonjunz_leftsock: THE HAND???? saranghaseyo_bye: stop it this is TOO much paintedjk: look at them 😭😭😭 namuplantmom: i need someone to touch my leg like that rn

“you okay?” he asks, quietly, his voice dipping a little lower now that she’s closer.

she nods, tucking her legs up so she’s curled toward him, one hand drifting over to toy with the edge of his sleeve. “just nervous.”

he tilts his head. “why?”

she shrugs. “i dunno. feels different when it’s not, like... just passing through.”

he smiles, soft and open, brushing a thumb over the hem of her hoodie. “you don’t have to do anything. just be here. they like you more than me anyway.”

chat agrees. loudly.

user3495: SHE’S THE MAIN CHARACTER meowmori: this stream peaked the second she walked in namjoonielover: THE CHAOS DUO RETURNS milkthief97: PEEP THE NAILS GUYS HE’S WHIPPED milkthief97: JK LOOKS SO SOFT RN I’M GONNA COMBUST

she snorts, “they’re too observant,” she muttered, plopping into the chair next to him. “how do they notice your nails from that angle?”

he lifted his hands dramatically, flashing the chipped pink polish proudly. “i told you we needed a touch-up.” he turned to her with a mock-serious expression. “what color next? i’m thinking... could you free-hand some sick sponge bob nail art?.”

“absolutely not.”

more screaming from chat. he looked delighted.

she adjusted her mic and settled in as he launched the game. overcooked 2. of course.

“just remember,” he said as the kitchen screen loaded. “we’re a team. we communicate. we don’t panic.”

the level started and he immediately ran headfirst into a wall.

she sighed. “off to a strong start.”

the first round ended with three stars and a high-five so dramatic it nearly knocked over the can of sparkling water perched beside his keyboard.

“okay—okay but did you see that coordination?” jungkook spun in his chair like they’d just won an esports championship, his headset cord twisting with him. “chef (y/n) in the building. gordon ramsay is shaking.”

she raised an eyebrow at him. “we made soup.”

“but it was a very good soup.”

“it was tomato and onion. that’s literally the tutorial.”

“i stand by my praise.”

she smiled despite herself, letting the corners of her mouth tug upward as he restarted the level screen and queued up the next one. the chat had slowed just enough to catch their breath before igniting again with rapid-fire commentary.

user777: she’s better than him i’m crying saranghaseyo_bye: JK U DIDN’T EVEN CHOP THE MUSHROOM jiminnycricket: did you guys practice before stream?? this is too smooth milkthief97: they’re flirting i’m gonna bite something

it was going a little too smoothly. the first couple of levels were basically structured chaos—easy recipes, short counters, plenty of time. and jungkook, bless him, was taking it so seriously. he was calling out orders, setting timers out loud like it was a real kitchen, and praising her like she’d just saved their digital restaurant from a Gordon Ramsay-induced shutdown.

“babe, that lettuce toss? so clean. olympic-grade.”

“you say that like it’s hard to throw a lettuce.”

“it is when the stakes are this high,” he said, eyes wide with mock urgency.

she laughed, soft and bright, but not before glancing directly at the camera like she was on The Office. it was the third time he’d praised her for something he was supposed to be doing. a few rounds ago, she was the designated chopper, he the runner. then mid-round, he’d randomly grabbed a pan, stood in the way, then tossed a tomato onto the floor with no explanation.

she gave him a look, then looked at the chat. the betrayal was gentle, but it was happening.

“you said you’d do dishes,” she murmured, half-laughing.

“i got distracted by the fire extinguisher.”

“there was no fire.”

“exactly. because i was ready.”

another eye-roll. another glance at the chat, which was now fully descending into chaos with her.

taenylights: he’s SUCH a menace omg namjoonielover: she’s trying not to break on camera i’m dead user777: the way she looked at us like ‘see what i deal with’ jiminnycricket: this is domestic bliss i can’t breathe

“next level’s got conveyor belts,” she said, shifting in her chair and cracking her knuckles. “are you ready for real teamwork?”

he scoffed, cracking his neck with the exaggerated flair of someone about to run a triathlon. “born ready.”

he was not, in fact, ready.

thirty seconds into the level, he had launched three buns into the trash by accident and was trying to plate a burger with no patty. she handed him a cooked meat and he placed it directly on the floor. then he stepped on it. then tried to serve it.

she paused. turned to the camera. stared.

it was the exact moment she knew everything was about to go straight into the fryer—literally.

“thank god this game is not ranked,” she muttered, handing him the correct plate.

he blinked. “wait— is not?”

chat exploded. she held in her laugh so hard she started hiccuping.

taenylights: THIS IS SO MUCH jiminnycricket: he stepped on the meat taenylights: SHE’S DOING HER BEST namjoonielover: jk please sir what are you doing

“i’m not bad at this game,” he defended, even as he ran full speed into a wall.

she said nothing. just calmly placed a sliced tomato on the plate and walked around him, like a woman used to surviving a daily disaster.

“you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” he added.

she passed him the fire extinguisher.

“i know.”

“okay,” she said, exhaling through her nose like she was about to go into battle. “this is attempt number five. five, jungkook.”

he nodded solemnly, barely hiding his grin. “fifth time’s the charm.”

“that’s not even the phrase.”

“no, but it feels right.”

she rolled her shoulders back, then pointed at him with the spatula icon hovering over her character. “this time, you’re doing exactly what I say. exactly. no freestyling. no creative liberties. no ‘let me just see what this button does’ moments. understood?”

he saluted. “yes, chef.”

“i swear to god, if you throw another bun into the trash—”

“won’t happen again.”

“—you’ll be on dish duty for the rest of the week. with a toothbrush.”

“ma’am, yes ma’am.”

chat was losing their minds.

saranghaseyo_bye: SHE’S TAKING NO BULLSHIT BEHAVIOR jiminnycricket: i need a sitcom of this dynamic sunnybun89: this is the most romantic threat i’ve ever heard taenylights: JK is just here for the vibes

the round started, and she immediately took charge.

“buns top left. patties in the middle. chop, cook, plate. rotate.”

“say less,” he said, already grabbing a tomato. wrong. already wrong.

“what did i just—jungkoooook.” she dragged his character back to the chopping board with her own. “we need buns.”

“i was getting ahead,” he explained, completely unbothered.

“you’re getting in the way.”

“teamwork makes the dream work,” he offered, accidentally pushing her off the ledge into the in-game river.

she went silent. very still. her character respawned. she walked straight to him and stood in front of his avatar.

“you’re testing me.”

“i would never,” he said brightly.

“if we don’t three-star this round, you’re meal-prepping for the next month.”

“but—”

“with broccoli.”

he gasped. “low blow.”

they made it almost halfway through the level in tense, glorious coordination. she was hyper-focused, calling out tasks with military precision, barking out instructions like they were about to be judged by gordon ramsay in person.

“plate that. plate it! no—why would you put the lettuce first?”

“i panicked!”

“you panic every round!”

“it’s part of my charm!”

she ran to grab a cooked patty, pivoted on the conveyor belt—and missed. her character fell off the ledge. again.

“this game is stupid!” she shouted, slamming the controller on her thigh. “this is the dumbest kitchen in existence! who builds a restaurant on a floating platform with moving walkways?! i’m suing.”

jungkook was wheezing, full-on folding in his chair, headset slipping sideways.

“you wanna take a break?” he choked out, covering his mouth, trying and failing to hold in his laughter.

“no.” she adjusted her mic. “i want to burn this kitchen to the ground.”

“that’s the spirit.”

saranghaseyo_bye: SHE’S GONE FERAL sunnybun89: JK IS WHEEZING user777: this is the most realistic couple content ever jiminnycricket: she needs a stress nap milkthief97: someone bring her cookies rn

he reached over and handed her the bag of gummy bears like it was an emergency kit. she took one silently, chewing with vengeance.

“i’m calm,” she said, flatly.

“you’re so calm,” he said, patting her knee like she was a soldier coming back from war.

the round ended. two stars. she blinked at the screen.

he grinned. “hey—better than last time.”

she stared at him. “don’t talk to me.”

he laughed again, leaned over, and kissed the top of her head.

“still love me?”

she sighed, pretended to debate it. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

chat agreed. very loudly.

milkthief97: we are all lucky he’s cute user777: she deserves an award saranghaseyo_bye: please tell me they’re still playing sunnybun89: THIS STREAM IS GOLD

the kitchen was quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the sharp click of the water filter finishing its cycle. she leaned against the counter while the bottle filled, pressing the chilled condensation against one cheek with a soft hiss of relief. her face hurt from how much she’d been smiling. cheeks aching, eyes still damp from laughing too hard over a virtual kitchen fire. jungkook had managed to knock over an entire pan of cooked meat in the last round—on purpose, if she had to guess—and then claimed it was “a strategic sacrifice.”

she hadn’t stopped cackling since.

the whole night had unraveled into the kind of chaos that made her feel light. like the stress of the week had peeled off her skin and melted into the background, replaced by gummy bears, screaming, and the stupid clink of virtual dishes hitting cartoon countertops. she'd forgotten how much fun this was with him. not just the gaming—him. them. being together in this tiny bubble of nonsense where nothing was perfect but everything still felt right.

the bottle clicked softly as it filled. she capped it, rolling it between her palms on her way back down the hall, bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. jungkook’s voice drifted out before she turned the corner.

quieter now. not his usual animated stream voice. gentler. almost shy.

“she’s gonna kill me when she finds out i tanked that last round.”

her steps faltered, just outside the door.

he laughed to himself, low and sheepish. “i mean, not totally tanked. i just... maybe i missed a few plates on purpose. just wanted to play a little longer.”

she blinked. her fingers tightened on the bottle.

“also,” he added, with a softness she hadn’t heard all night, “she gets this look when she’s bossy. like, serious serious. all focused and mad but still smiling. it’s kinda hot.”

her stomach did a slow somersault.

“don’t tell her i said that.”

she leaned into the doorframe, out of frame but fully visible to herself now—cheeks flushed not just from laughter anymore, but from the quiet ache in her chest that bloomed whenever he did this. whenever he forgot anyone else existed. whenever he spoke about her like she wasn’t listening.

like loving her was easy. obvious.

she let the silence settle a beat longer, not wanting to break it too soon. he was still facing the screen, legs tucked under the desk, the edge of her pink polish peeking off his thumb where it had chipped. he was smiling softly, not to anyone in particular.

just to himself.

just about her.

she smiled too. something fond. something full.

“you talking shit?” she called lightly.

he jumped in his seat, flinching so hard his chair squeaked.

“you heard none of that,” he said quickly.

she stepped into frame, biting back a grin. “heard all of it.”

“...damn.”

she sat down beside him again, dragging the mic a little closer, brushing her hand over his as she got settled. his fingers curled against hers instantly, almost like it was reflex. like they were magnets.

“so,” she said, casual, teasing. “you think i’m hot when i yell at you?”

he made a face. “no comment.”

“you wanna play another round?”

he nodded, still pink at the tips of his ears. “only if you yell at me again.”

she laughed, leaning back in her seat with a fresh wave of warmth behind her ribs. her cheeks still hurt.

but now, for a slightly different reason.

the next round never launched.

the controller stayed on her lap, untouched. the chaos had quieted into something else now—something slow and steady, warm as the lamp light pooling over the desk and the static buzz of his monitor humming into the background.

he was still mid-sentence about something—probably teasing her for that last kitchen meltdown—but she didn’t respond. instead, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

not loud or performative. not for the chat. just… for him.

he blinked, surprised, then tilted his head slightly toward her like he was trying to make the moment last a little longer.

her hand found his next, the one resting by the mouse. her thumb brushed over the chipped pink polish on his nail. it was fading now, mostly from his bad habit of picking at the edges when he got distracted or flustered. there was a smudge on his pinky that looked like a heart if you squinted. she'd painted them while watching a movie two nights ago, both of them wrapped in one blanket and trying not to spill polish on the couch cushions.

she stared at the mess of it now like it meant something more.

“it’s coming off,” she murmured, almost absent.

“yeah,” he said, glancing down at their hands. “next week?”

she nodded. then, before he could offer a color, he added, “you should do it on stream.”

her eyes flicked up. “you want me to paint your nails on stream?”

he shrugged, grinning. “why not? you’re basically part of the channel now. might as well make it official.”

she looked back down at the chip on his thumbnail, running her finger over it once more.

“i was kinda thinking of lavender,” she said quietly.

his fingers curled around hers in response—gentle, sure, like he was anchoring her there.

he smiled that smile. the one only she ever really got to see.

“lavender it is, babe.”

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14 @belleilichil @poetryforthesad @sunsetnamjin @vonvi-blog @kitteekook @poppiesforjk

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀opposites don't attract, they destroy.⠀✸⠀(⠀ pjm ⠀)

pairing: fuckboy!jimin x too-proud, stubborn, social butterfly!f!reader

genre: college au, "angst" (barely), smut, enemies-to-lovers vibes / slow-burn tension, emotionally repressed idiots falling into obsession, messy hookups that feel like something more, hints of possessiveness and power play , eventual emotional unraveling.

warnings: very explicit sexual content, oral, unprotected sex (pls be careful), power dynamics, semi-public setting, degradation and dirty talk, possessive behavior and rough handling, overstimulation, crying during sex (pleasure), fluid exchange, spit/cum play, minor choking/hair pulling, emotionally toxic / casual hookup dynamic, reader is sexually confident and dominant at times, language and graphic imagery

word count: 5.3 k

summary: after a shitty college house party, she ends up in the backseat of jimin’s car — wet, stubborn, and riding the line between pride and desperation. she’s always brushed off his flirting, but tonight she uses him, teases him, and wrecks him without mercy. he thinks he’s in control until she flips the script, soaked and shameless, taking everything but giving nothing back. until he snaps. and when he finally fucks her? it’s messy, raw, and way too good to mean nothing.

m.list | latest

jimin doesn’t really know how it happened.

one minute, the music at the house party was grating on his nerves, the beer warm and flat, someone trying to freestyle battle him in the kitchen, and the next — he was outside in the suffocating silence of his car, his hands tangled in her hair, her lips bruising his like she wanted to shut him up for good.

and maybe she did. maybe that’s what this was. punishment for all the times he flirted with her in the quad, in the library, at the shitty overpriced café across from campus — only to be met with rolled eyes, fake yawns, and a scoff so condescending it had to be rehearsed.

but she kissed him first.

that’s the part that has his head spinning the most. she kissed him.

and not the shy, tipsy kind of kiss — no, she leaned in like she had something to prove, like she'd been holding it back just to keep her upper hand, and now? now her pride had slipped, and jimin was right there to catch it between his teeth.

her fingers were gripping the hem of his shirt like it had personally offended her, and god, he knew he shouldn’t be enjoying this. shouldn’t be this turned on by the way her mini skirt kept riding up, by how her thighs bracketed his hips like they belonged there.

but what was he supposed to do? she’d been looking at him all night like he was something to eat — like she hated herself for wanting him.

and jimin? jimin was wearing his favorite low-rise jeans, the ones that dipped a little too low on his hips, the ones he’d worn because he knew they made people stare. his shirt clung to him in the heat of the car, slightly cropped from being tugged at, showing off just enough of his v-line to feel intentional. he looked like trouble — and she looked like she was finally ready to get her hands dirty.

“you sure this is what you want?” he asked, voice low, breath warm against her neck.

she didn’t answer right away — just tugged him closer with a sharp pull of his belt loop, like the question offended her. like how dare he ask when she was already this far gone.

“shut up, park,” she muttered, nails digging into his shoulder. “you talk too much.”

but he could feel the way her breath stuttered, how her lips lingered on his jaw longer than necessary.

and in that moment, jimin knew — this wasn’t just about tonight. this was about everything they weren’t saying. every stolen glance. every dare in her eyes when she walked past him in that hallway with her chin held high like he didn’t even exist.

and maybe tomorrow she’d pretend like it never happened. maybe she’d walk right past him again, sunglasses on, sipping her iced americano like her lips hadn’t been on his throat hours before.

but tonight? tonight, she was his.

and he was so, so screwed.

the belt comes undone with a sharp metallic click, loud in the quiet car. her fingers, too quick, too sure for someone who always played so cool around him, pop the button of his jeans like it’s nothing — like they’ve done this before in some dream she’d never admit to having.

but she doesn't go further. doesn’t peel the denim down or reach for anything else. no — instead, she straddles him, thighs flexing on either side of his hips as she settles into his lap like she owns the damn place.

his breath catches.

fuck.

she’s warm through the thin cotton of her panties, the heat of her pressed down on the bulge in his jeans like a dare — like she wants to see how far she can take this before he cracks. and maybe it’s not just about him cracking. maybe it’s about her, too — how she’s already coming undone in the seams, how her pride is fraying like the hem of that tiny, sinful skirt.

her hands are in his hair before he can even speak. fingers tangled, nails scraping his scalp just enough to make his eyes flutter shut, his mouth fall open. and then she kisses him again — really kisses him.

wet. hot. tongue and teeth and frustration all rolled into one sinful drag of her mouth against his.

he groans into it, his hands instinctively finding her hips — thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, then sliding lower, under the skirt, until they’re cupping her ass, guiding her movements. grinding her down against him in slow, dizzying circles.

she gasps into his mouth, a sharp inhale that turns into a needy whimper, and jimin feels it — feels the way she’s already soaked through, how that damp patch presses against the front of his jeans like a brand.

he pulls back, barely, just to look at her.

her lips are swollen, her eyes half-lidded, glazed over with lust and something more dangerous — something that looks a lot like regret already trying to claw its way in.

"jesus christ," he whispers, voice hoarse. “you’re so wet.”

she doesn’t deny it. doesn’t tease him or roll her eyes like she usually would. instead, she leans in closer, breath hot against his lips, hips grinding harder — like she’s trying to chase something, punish herself with the friction.

"don’t make it a thing," she murmurs, but her voice is breaking at the edges. "this doesn’t mean anything."

but jimin’s already losing it. his heart's punching at his ribs, and his brain is screaming at him not to believe her — because no one kisses like that for nothing.

still, he nods.

"yeah," he lies. "nothing.”

and he lets her move against him like that, lets her use him like this is all she wants — all she needs — while his hands clutch her tighter, pressing her down, memorizing the shape of her thighs and the heat of her.

because he knows when the sun comes up, she’ll walk away.

and he'll still be here, sitting in the wreckage of every almost they never let themselves have.

her hips keep moving, steady and slow at first — but gaining urgency, like she’s chasing something just out of reach. like if she grinds down on him hard enough, long enough, it’ll silence everything else in her head.

jimin's fingers flex on her thighs, his touch reverent and greedy at the same time. he watches her like he’s half-possessed — dark eyes trailing up from the slick grind of her body to the mess of her lips, red and wet and parted like a prayer.

then he sees it.

her hand — sliding up her own torso, fingers slipping under the edge of her too-tight top, then higher. cupping her chest, teasing herself through the thin fabric like she’s forgotten he’s even there. like she doesn’t care that he’s watching, mouth open, breath ragged.

her fingers roll over a nipple, slow, dragging a shiver down her spine, and she gasps — not soft and sweet, but broken, desperate, like her body is betraying her.

and she’s still kissing him.

those kisses — messy, dripping with spit and ego and hunger. she doesn’t care how it looks, how her mouth smears across his like it’s the only way she knows how to ask for more. it’s too wet, too sloppy — her tongue slipping past his lips like she owns them. she pulls back just slightly, watching the spit string stretch between them and snap as she exhales.

she moans at the sight.

moans.

like it’s her favorite part — seeing him ruined and wrecked beneath her, those pouty lips glistening and kiss-swollen, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with something that hurts in the best way.

"fuck," she whispers, almost laughing, voice husky and teasing. "you look so pretty like that."

jimin’s head drops back against the headrest, a low groan ripping from his throat, hips twitching up into hers like he can’t help it — like she’s lit him on fire and he doesn’t even want to put it out.

“you're gonna kill me,” he breathes, hands gripping her ass tighter, helping her move — faster now, chasing friction, chasing chaos.

her smile is slow and wicked, proud even as her thighs tremble. "good," she says, breath stuttering. "die pretty."

and she kisses him again — harder, wetter, dirtier — her hand still teasing her chest while her body moves like it’s already at the edge of something sharp.

they’re both soaked with it now — sweat, spit, the ache of something dangerous and unsustainable.

because this?

this isn’t love. it’s not even lust.

it’s survival.

two people who should know better, making a goddamn mess in the dark — because pride can’t save you when your body’s already confessed everything your mouth never would.

her top slips down like it was begging to be forgotten.

the thin straps fall off her shoulders without a fight, and jimin’s hands waste no time — rough and reverent all at once, sliding the fabric down her arms and tossing it somewhere into the chaos of the car without even looking.

he pauses — just a heartbeat, just long enough to see her.

and then his mouth is on her.

lips wrapping around a nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her back arch and a whimper claw its way out of her throat.

"fuck—jimin," she gasps, thighs tightening around his hips as she rocks against him, unable to stay still. her voice is raw, the kind of vocal that comes from someone who’s been holding back way too long and is finally letting go — loud, unashamed, the kind of sounds that make his cock twitch in anticipation.

he moans around her, hands slipping under her skirt again — god, that skirt — pushing it up around her waist as he keeps his mouth busy, sucking and playing until she’s panting, a string of breathy curses falling from her lips like prayer.

then her hand’s on him.

just like that.

bold. fast. sliding past the open waistband of his jeans and down into his boxers.

he hisses, hips jerking up into her palm, muscles tensing as her fingers wrap around him — finally.

“shit—” his voice cracks, forehead dropping against her chest as he breathes through it, hands gripping her hips like if he doesn’t hold on, he’s going to fall apart entirely.

and she smiles.

it’s wicked and wild, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him — like she wants to wreck him, ruin him, break every rule she set for herself.

“so hard already?” she teases, stroking him with slow, practiced ease, her thumb brushing over the tip with a devilish softness that makes him groan — low, guttural, bitten off between clenched teeth.

"you're evil," he says against her skin, lips brushing her collarbone. "you're gonna make me come before i even get to fuck you."

“then behave,” she purrs, hips grinding down a little rougher, chasing that spot that makes her thighs shake. “and maybe i’ll let you.”

she’s a mess now — skin flushed, lips swollen, hair sticking to her temple. and yet somehow, she’s in control. her moans keep slipping out, loud and wrecked and real, like she can’t stop even if she tried — like she wants him to hear every bit of how much she needs it, how far she’s letting herself fall.

and jimin? he’s drowning in her.

in her scent, her sounds, the tight heat of her palm around him. the feel of her wetness through her panties as she rubs herself against him like she knows he’s not gonna last.

because this isn’t slow-burn. this is the fire after the match has already been struck.

no patience. no second thoughts.

just heat and hunger and the sharp edge of what the hell are we doing? hanging over their heads like a blade.

jimin thinks she’s going to let him have it.

the way she’s moaning, the way her hand is still wrapped around him, slicking him up with the lazy strokes of someone who knows she holds the leash. her panties are soaked, a dark patch smeared across the front where she’s been rubbing against him — messy and hot and so blatantly needy that he thinks, just for a second, she’s about to guide him inside her and end the torture.

but she doesn’t.

instead, she shifts her hips — tilts them just so — and drags the soaked fabric of her underwear against his length, slow and devastating, sliding her folds along the length of him without letting him in.

his head slams back against the window with a dull thunk.

“fuck—baby, please—”

but she just hums, almost sweet, biting down on her bottom lip as she keeps up the slow, aching grind. her slick coats him, hot and wet and maddening, and she lets out a breathy moan when the head of his cock brushes over her clit, the contact sharp and perfect.

her eyes flutter, thighs trembling, but she doesn’t let up — keeps using him like that, like a toy, like a means to her end. not his.

“you feel that?” she whispers, barely audible over the sound of their heavy breathing, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “so close. so fucking close.”

he groans, loud and wrecked, hands gripping her hips like he’s trying to ground himself, but it’s no use. she’s not letting him do anything.

he’s at her mercy.

and she’s cruel — but in the best way.

“you wanna be inside me, huh?” she says, voice teasing and breathy, her hand moving to cup her own breast again, fingers pinching. “wanna fill me up, make me come on your cock?”

his whole body twitches. "yes—fuck, yes."

she rolls her hips again, dragging his length through her folds, soaking him with every stroke. his cock is throbbing, flushed and slick and aching, the tip gliding over her clit again and again until her breath hitches and her hands scramble for balance against his shoulders.

“too bad,” she pants, licking her lips, riding the friction like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. “not yet.”

jimin swears, loud and helpless, hips bucking up into her as he tries to find more pressure, more friction, more anything, but she only pulls back — just enough to keep him whining. just enough to drive him insane.

and she loves it.

she’s soaked, throbbing, so close — and all of it is from using him. the way his cock slips through her folds, the way he looks up at her like she’s everything he’s ever wanted and he still can’t have it.

"fuck—you're evil," he grits out, voice raw.

and she smirks through a moan, hips faltering just a little as the pleasure builds to something sharp and dangerous.

"i know," she gasps, breath hitching, her body trembling with it. “and you fucking love it.”

she’s close.

too close.

her moans are climbing higher, breaking at the edges now — no more teasing in her voice, no more play. her hips stutter, losing rhythm as her thighs shake around his, and her slick’s just everywhere — wet and hot and sliding over him with every agonizing drag.

he feels it.

every pulse. every twitch. every moment she uses his cock to get off without ever giving him the satisfaction of being inside her.

and it’s killing him.

he’s rock hard, throbbing, tip flushed and angry against his stomach where it’s half-pulled out of his boxers, soaked in her. the front of his jeans is a fucking disaster — her arousal leaking through the ruined lace of her panties and smearing against the fabric, warm and sticky and completely out of his control.

“shit—fuck, just like that—” she gasps, grinding down harder, chasing it now. “don’t move—don’t you fucking move—”

and he doesn’t.

he can’t.

he’s frozen, mouth open, eyes glued to her face as she tips her head back, lips parted, chest heaving — and then it hits.

her whole body goes taut for a second — still and shaking all at once.

then she moans, sharp and broken, long and loud, hips rocking fast and messy as the orgasm rolls through her like a storm.

she gushes —

right on him.

it’s not delicate. it’s not cute. it’s raw.

a hot, sticky rush floods between her legs, soaking straight through her panties, making a damn mess all over his cock, his stomach, the waistband of his jeans.

“oh my god—fuckfuckfuck—” she’s shaking, legs trembling on either side of him, hands braced on his shoulders like she’s trying not to float away.

jimin’s jaw drops.

he can feel it — the wet heat of her dripping all over him, the way her cunt keeps pulsing even after the worst of it crashes over her. it’s obscene, the way she soaks him without even letting him inside, without giving him anything except the honor of being used.

“jesus christ,” he breathes, stunned, staring down at the mess she made of him. “you— you just—”

“yeah,” she pants, laughing breathlessly, a little too proud. she leans in, brushing her lips against his, her voice low and smug and wrecked. “i came. hard.”

he groans, deep and broken, bucking his hips up instinctively, desperate for anything, but she just hums and lifts herself slightly — enough to rob him of even that delicious friction.

“you look like you might cry,” she teases, lips brushing his, breath still shaking. “didn’t get what you wanted, huh?”

he glares, but it’s weak. ruined. "fuck, you’re gonna kill me."

she smiles sweetly, licking her lips — tasting her own orgasm off his mouth — then kisses his cheek like it’s nothing.

“good.”

and just like that, she climbs off his lap, legs still wobbly, thighs glistening in the low light. she pulls her ruined panties back into place with a hiss, reaches for her forgotten top, and leaves him there — cock hard, jeans soaked, and absolutely fucking wrecked.

she's smug at first.

still glowing, still flushed from the orgasm she rode out on him, not even with him.

she leans down between his legs with that same wicked smile, eyes glinting under the hazy car light, hand sliding down his thigh like she's doing him a favor.

“let me clean up my mess,” she whispers, voice breathy, velvet-soft and venomous.

her lips ghost over the sticky skin of his lower stomach, tongue darting out — tasting the mess she made of him, slow and unhurried, almost worshipful. her mouth is warm, her kisses trailing lower, dragging through the slick sheen she left behind.

but the moment her lips wrap around the tip of his cock — just a teasing flick of her tongue over the slit, one hand curling around the base — his hand shoots into her hair.

tight.

not cruel, not rough — but firm, decisive. a grip that says enough.

her eyes lift, and for the first time tonight, there’s no smugness in her expression.

just heat.

curiosity.

maybe a little nervous thrill under her lashes.

“don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low, hoarse, wrecked. “not unless you’re ready for me to fuck the attitude out of you.”

she freezes, but her lips curl into something darker.

“who says i’m not?”

his jaw ticks.

his hips roll up just enough to brush against her lips, still parted over the head of his cock.

“then open your mouth, baby,” he growls, his grip tightening in her hair, guiding her gently but surely down. “since you’re so good at making a mess, let’s see how well you can take it.”

she moans around him — not just because of the pressure, but because of the shift. the power she gave up without even realizing it. he’s not asking anymore.

he’s giving it.

and she’s going to receive it.

he keeps her hair pulled back, watching every little twitch of her mouth, every flutter of her lashes. she’s taking him in slow at first — dragging her tongue along the underside, letting her spit mix with what she left behind. sloppy, wet, perfect.

"fuck, just like that," he groans, tilting his head back, eyes fluttering shut for a second. "you feel how wet you got me, baby? how badly i wanted you?"

she hums, the vibration making his thighs tense.

his hips move again, just a little sharper this time, pushing further into her mouth, and she lets him. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t gag. just takes it, tears forming in the corners of her eyes from the pressure and the heat — and god, he looks down at her like she’s holy.

"look at you," he breathes, thumb brushing a damp strand of hair from her temple. “finally using that mouth for something useful.”

and when she whimpers — ruined, needy, still turned on — it’s all the invitation he needs.

he starts to fuck her mouth properly.

not fast, not brutal — but controlled. precise. hips rolling slow and deep, hand in her hair guiding her like he’s playing a song only she can hear.

she’s gagging a little now, nose pressed against the base, spit running down her chin — and he loves it.

loves the tears in her lashes, the flush in her cheeks, the soft desperation building in her eyes.

and she loves it too.

because this?

this is what she wanted.

consequences.

he can’t take it anymore.

she’s gasping around him, lips stretched wide, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth. her chin’s already slick, flushed cheeks streaked with tears, and she’s still looking up at him with those same wicked lashes — hungry for the way he’s unraveling above her.

and jimin?

he’s gone.

his grip in her hair tightens, not cruel, just needy, like he’s anchoring himself to her.

“shit—baby, i’m—fuck—”

his hips stutter, a sharp little jerk he tries to hold back but fails — and then he’s coming, hard, deep in her mouth, voice cracking into a low, broken groan.

her eyes flutter, and she tries to keep up — tries to swallow, to take him down like she means it, but there’s just so much. it spills out past her lips, sticky and hot, painting her tongue, her chin, sliding down the sides of her mouth in a way that’s filthy enough to make even him shudder.

his hand finally eases in her hair, like he's just now realizing how tightly he’d been holding her there. her lips slip off him with a soft, wet pop, and she gasps — lungs greedy for air, cheeks blotched pink, her face a fucking mess.

and the worst part?

she loves it.

her lips curl, lazy and satisfied, even with his release dripping down her chin, a thick string clinging to her bottom lip before it falls to her chest.

she wipes it with the back of her hand — smears it, really — and then glances up at him like a goddamn siren, still flushed and panting, pupils blown wide.

“you’re disgusting,” she murmurs, breathless and a little smug.

“you’re worse,” he fires back, his voice hoarse, still recovering. “you fucking like this.”

she hums. doesn’t deny it. how could she, with her panties still soaked, her thighs pressed together like she’s trying to hold in the ache?

“what can i say?” she shrugs, eyes gleaming. “your mouth might’ve been busy, but your dick? that thing knows how to beg.”

he groans — part frustration, part worship — and leans forward, grabbing her jaw gently, thumb smearing a bit of his own cum across her lips.

“say that again,” he breathes, kissing her, slow and wet and still hungry. “and i’ll fuck that smirk right off your face.”

she smiles against his mouth, tasting him there too.

“please do.”

she doesn’t say a word.

just moves.

cool as hell, like it’s routine, like wrecking a man and then crawling right back for more is just something she does.

she shifts her weight, climbing into the backseat fully this time, back arched like a dream—like a threat—as she slips her soaked panties down her thighs. not all the way off, of course. they stay tangled around one ankle, delicate lace clinging to her skin, a quiet reminder of what she did to him just minutes ago.

jimin’s still sitting there, shirt pushed up, jeans half-undone and ruined, his cock already twitching again at the sight of her.

her hands slide between her legs as she gets on her knees, chest low against the seat, hips tilted up toward him—offered to him.

but instead of waiting for him to do anything, she starts rubbing against herself. slow, messy, deliberate.

the mix of slick and spit and him makes it easy.

he watches, entranced, as two fingers slip between her folds and circle her clit, already slick and swollen and glistening.

she’s whimpering again. soft and breathy, like she’s too far gone to care. her knees tremble a little, thighs sticky, back arching further as she chases it—again.

“fuck—” he breathes. “you’re doing it again?”

“mm-hmm,” she moans, glancing back over her shoulder, eyes dark and glossy. “don’t tell me you’re tired, jimin.”

he clenches his jaw.

and that’s it.

he’s done playing nice.

he moves fast, his jeans barely pulled down enough, but it doesn't matter—he’s already hard again, already aching. he drops behind her, hand on her hip, the other dragging her fingers away from her clit to replace them with his own.

she gasps, hips jerking forward, the sound high and needy.

"you don't get to finish by yourself again," he growls against her ear, breath hot, palm splayed across her lower back. “you started this. now i’m gonna end it.”

he lines himself up—bare, because fuck, there’s no patience left in him—and slides in all at once.

a low, broken cry tears from her throat.

he’s so deep, thick and hot and still a little slick from her mouth, from her mess, from everything. the angle has her folding forward into the seat, fingers gripping the upholstery like it’s the only thing anchoring her to earth.

“jesus fuck, jimin—” she sobs, pushing back into him, greedy for more.

he grips her hips tighter, starts to thrust — slow at first, deep and steady, letting her feel every inch.

"this what you wanted?" he pants. "gonna use me now?"

she nods, frantically, tears threatening to slip again—not from pain, but from how good it feels.

"too bad," he snarls, pulling her back roughly onto him, matching the snap of his hips. "i’m using you."

she's soaked.

like, embarrassingly wet, except there’s not a single ounce of shame in her.

her cunt clenches around him the second he sinks in—so warm, so slippery, too perfect—and jimin groans, loud and guttural, like he wasn’t ready for how wet she really was, how she grips him like she’s trying to milk the soul right out of him.

“fuck—jesus, you’re—”

he doesn’t even finish the sentence.

he can’t.

because her hips are already pushing back against his, greedy and frantic, meeting his thrusts like she needs it, like she’s been wet and aching since the moment she got in the car with him.

the way she squeezes around him every time he pulls out—it’s criminal.

tight and wet and messy, like she was made just to break him.

and the sound—god, the sound.

sloppy, slick, echoing in the backseat with every sharp thrust. the obscene smack of skin against skin, the wet suck of her cunt dragging along his cock. and over it all, her voice—

those moans.

desperate, high-pitched, loud enough someone might hear outside the car but she doesn’t care.

“right there—fuck, jimin—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

and he doesn’t.

his hands are digging into her waist, dragging her back into him, guiding the angle just right—hitting that spot deep inside her that makes her gush around him, again and again, soaking his thighs, his jeans, the leather seat beneath them.

"shit, baby," he groans, breath hitching as he watches himself disappear into her over and over, shiny and dripping. “you’re making a fucking mess—”

"your fault," she moans, wrecked and proud of it. “you fuck me like this and then act surprised?”

he loses it for a second—one hand reaching up, tugging her back against his chest so he can whisper right in her ear.

“you like that you’re dripping all over me, don’t you?”

she nods, frantically, mouth parted, eyes rolling back.

“say it.”

“i love it,” she gasps, clenching around him hard. “i love how you fuck me, jimin—i love how you fill me up—”

he groans like it hurts, hips stuttering for a second.

“fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me come again—”

and she wants it.

wants to feel him twitch inside her, wants to be so soaked it doesn’t even matter where he finishes, just that he does, just that he gives in to the same chaos she’s drowning in.

because that’s what this is now.

ruin.

delirious, sweaty, too-loud ruin.

and neither of them’s ever going to be the same after this.

the windows are fogged.

the car smells like sweat and sex and overpriced cologne. her panties are still somewhere around one ankle, and jimin’s shirt is hanging off one arm like it gave up halfway through the night.

there’s a heavy pause, the kind that settles after something explosive—like the silence after a firework that makes your ears ring.

she’s sitting up now, smoothing her skirt back over her thighs, still breathing hard, lips puffy and chin tacky with dried spit and smudged lip gloss. her hair’s a mess, wild and sticking to the sweat along her neck. she glances at him, then looks away too fast.

"so," she starts, voice hoarse as hell, “that was fun.”

jimin huffs a laugh, running a hand through his tangled hair. “fun, huh?”

“don’t get cocky.”

he grins. “too late.”

she rolls her eyes, but it’s a little softer this time. she's rummaging for her top in the dark backseat, awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact while putting herself back together. her fingers are shaking just a little—not enough for him to comment on, but he notices.

“just to be clear,” she adds, tugging on her shirt, “we don’t gotta make this a thing. like, it doesn’t have to be anything.”

“sure,” he says easily, even though she’s not looking at him. “one-time car sex. totally normal. very chill.”

“exactly.” she nods, mostly to herself.

jimin stretches, bones cracking, then leans back against the window like he’s king of the world’s most confusing situationship. he watches her a beat longer than necessary, then smirks.

“you good to go back to your dorm, or you wanna smoke and spiral about your life decisions first?”

she scoffs, but it comes out as a laugh. “drop me off, asshole.”

he makes a show of zipping up his jeans. “yes, ma’am. your wish is my command.”

“don’t make it weird.”

“i never do.”

he starts the car, and the engine stutters like it’s also recovering from what just happened. the seats are still damp, the air thick, but he flicks the AC on like it’ll erase any of it.

she sits in silence for a minute, legs crossed, lips still pink and swollen. he glances at her while reversing out of the driveway.

“you’re gonna think about it later, though,” he says casually.

“what?”

“this.” he gestures vaguely at the backseat, smirk curling his lips. “me. the mess you made.”

“get over yourself.”

he laughs, low and cocky. “never.”

-quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀i didn't mean to Ꮺ bangtan

summary in which you flinch in the middle of an argument⠀/⠀angst, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy, heavy themes, soft nsfw or implied intimacy (in some cases)

requested: Hello! This a head-cannon request kind of inspired by your “they kiss you to shut you up mid-argument.” I was wondering if you could do a “you flinch in the middle of an argument” and their reactions to that. If not that’s fine! I’m a huge fan of your fic’s and I love the way you write! Please continue to do your amazing work. 💗💗💗

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s not yelling. he doesn’t yell. but his voice is firm, clipped—his hands moving while he talks, frustrated, pacing. he’s trying to make a point. you’re trying to hold it together. and then he turns a little too fast, and your body reacts before your brain does. you flinch. just barely. but he sees it. everything inside him stops.

“…wait.” his voice goes quiet. “did you just—”

you won’t meet his eyes.

“fuck,” he breathes. like the word was punched out of him. his hands go up, palms out, like you’re a frightened animal. “baby. no. i would never.” he takes a step back, chest rising like he’s about to cry. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to scare you.” his voice shakes. “i don’t want to be someone who makes you feel unsafe.”

you whisper, “i know.”

he crosses the space slow, wraps his arms around you like armor, like prayer. holds you until the tremble leaves your shoulders. until you let yourself be held.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s upset, voice raised more than usual, hands moving fast because that’s how he talks when he’s emotional. and you—on edge from a long day, from older scars—flinch when he lifts his hand too quickly to rub his forehead. it’s barely a twitch. but he sees it. his breath catches. “oh my god.”

his hand drops. his face crumples. “no, no, baby—did you think—?” he doesn’t finish. just steps back, face pale, like someone poured cold water over him. “i didn’t mean to…” he shakes his head. “i would never. i swear.”

you say nothing. not yet.

he’s already crying before you speak.

“jin,” you whisper.

he kneels in front of you. places your hand on his chest. “feel that? that’s yours. i’m yours. please believe me.”

you nod. barely. he kisses your knuckles, your wrist, your trembling palm. doesn’t ask for forgiveness. just offers you his whole, cracked-open heart.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s quiet when he fights. low and sharp and devastating. but he’s upset. really upset. and when he turns too fast—shoulders tense, hands clenched—you instinctively flinch. not away from him. just back.

and he freezes.

eyes wide.

“…did you just…”

he doesn’t finish. can’t.

he backs away like he touched something burning. “fuck,” he whispers. “fuck. i scared you.”

you try to explain. “yoongi, i’m just tired, i—”

“no,” he cuts in. not angry anymore. wrecked. “you flinched. i never want to see that look on your face again. not because of me.” he rubs his face like it hurts. “i’ll leave. give you space. i can’t believe—”

you pull him back. softly. hold his hand to your chest.

“don’t go,” you whisper.

his eyes shine. he kisses the top of your head, your temple, your shoulder. and whispers, over and over, “i’d never hurt you. never. not ever.”

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s loud when he’s passionate, when he’s emotional. voice rising like a storm, pacing fast, energy everywhere. he’s not mad at you. not really. but when he throws his hands up in frustration and you flinch, his world caves in.

“what—what just happened?” he asks, breathless. his voice goes from 100 to nothing. he steps back immediately, hands up, face full of panic. “did you think—?” he stares at you like he’s seeing something he never wanted to.

“baby. no. i’d never… oh my god.”

he kneels right there on the carpet. looks up at you with tears in his eyes. “i scared you. i scared the person i love most.” his voice cracks. “how can i fix that?”

you sink to the floor with him. his arms come around you instantly. trembling. tight.

you cry first. then he does.

and after, he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. kisses your shoulders. your hands. whispers: “you’re safe. with me. always.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he doesn’t notice it at first. doesn’t see the way you tense when he moves too quickly. not until he catches the flicker of fear in your eyes—just for a second, just long enough to undo him.

his mouth opens. nothing comes out.

then—“baby?”

you freeze. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—”

“don’t say sorry,” he breathes. “please. don’t.”

he steps back. slow. hands shaking. “i didn’t yell. i didn’t touch you. but you…” his voice breaks. “something in me scared you.” he wipes at his face. “i never want to be someone you flinch from.”

you whisper his name. he comes back to you instantly, kneels, takes your face in his hands like it’s made of silk. “you know i’d never—right?”

you nod.

he kisses you. soft. careful. holds you like he’s remaking a promise. later, when you let him pull you into bed, he holds you all night, kissing your shoulder, whispering, “you’re safe. you’re mine. i’ve got you.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀៹ ⠀ he’s angry. hurt. voice low but biting, pacing like he can’t stand still. and then he says something sharp—something he doesn't mean—and steps closer without thinking.

and you flinch.

his entire body stops.

“…did i just scare you?”

he says it like he already knows the answer.

your silence answers for you.

his eyes go soft. wet. he backs away like you burned him. “fuck.” his voice is hollow. “fuck, i—i don’t know what to say.” he turns his face like he can’t even look at himself. “i love you more than anyone. i would never hurt you.”

you walk to him. take his hand. press it to your heart. “i know. it’s not you. it’s… before.”

he nods. tears down his cheeks. “but i reminded you of him. didn’t i.”

you nod.

taehyung sinks to the floor. pulls you with him. wraps himself around you like a shield. “never again,” he promises. “i’ll be softer. slower. i’ll never let you feel afraid again.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀៹⠀ the argument’s heated. his voice is loud. too loud. he’s pacing, running hands through his hair, spiraling. and then—he says your name. sharply.

you flinch.

it’s instinctive. barely visible. but he sees it. and everything crashes to a halt.

he stares at you, wide-eyed, lips parted. “wait.”

you turn your face away, ashamed.

“wait, no—no, no,” he says, voice cracking. “did i scare you?”

you shake your head. he doesn’t believe you. “baby.” he crosses the room fast, but gentle, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch. “i would never.”

you whisper, “i know.”

he drops to his knees. head in your lap. “i’m so fucking sorry.” he looks up at you, teary. “you matter more to me than anything. i don’t care if we fight. i don’t care if you’re mad. just… don’t be afraid of me. please.”

he kisses your hand. your stomach. your thighs. holds you like he needs you to forgive himself.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ CHARITABLE CAUSES Ꮺ myg

request: Hi!! Im just discovered your blog and your writing is genuinely moving it's so beautiful 🥹 with that being said I would love to request a yoongi x reader fic maybe idol yoongi with actress reader. Maybe they're at a charity event or something and they meet and it's basically love I dunno. Potentially Smutty 👀👀👀

Anyway continue your absolutely beautiful writing pookie <3

pairing: idol!yoongi x actress!fem!reader

genre: strangers to lovers, slow burn, social event tension, emotional isolation, suggestive/flirty atmosphere

warnings: mature themes, strong sexual tension, making out in semi-public setting, suggestive language, swearing, mutual thirst with a side of pining, power plays in eye contact form

word count: 5.6 k

summary: yoongi doesn’t want to be at the charity gala — not when he is the only one doing the promotions, not when all he’s expected to do is smile and survive conversations that mean nothing. but then she walks in: the actress with sharp eyes, a reputation for blunt honesty, and a look that makes him forget how to breathe. what starts as a few shared glances turns into something neither of them can deny — tension thick enough to choke on, every moment charged, quiet, dangerous. and when she dares him to follow her, he doesn't hesitate.

lu's note: hi!! instead of making this one-shot smutty, i decided to make it charged with sexual tension between these two (it definitely has potential for a part two with smut if you guys are interested 👀). alsooo my requests are open atm if you want to send something in!! i think that was all i had to say lmao, thanks for reading

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

Yoongi didn’t want to be here.

He was already itching under the collar of his suit, his tie too tight no matter how many times he subtly tugged at it. He shifted his weight, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored slacks as his manager chatted with some executive he didn’t recognize — or care to. The lights were too soft, the music too polished, and everyone around him wore the same polite smile that screamed networking opportunity rather than actual interest.

He’d done the red carpet, posed for photos with the sponsors, nodded through two glassy interviews, and now he was trying to disappear into a dark corner of the ballroom with a half-glass of something amber and sharp. It wasn’t bad. Just... not enough.

This was what his life looked like now — solo appearances, solo press runs, solo dinners. The other members had gone off to fulfill their service, and though they kept in touch, the silence in the dorms had started to feel louder than any crowd.

He could hear Jin’s voice in his head: just show face, say thank you, and get the hell out before someone asks for karaoke.

Yoongi almost smiled.

And then —

She walked in.

He noticed her before the crowd did. Or maybe they did too, but didn’t quite react the same way.

She wasn’t flashy, not in the usual way actresses made entrances. She wasn’t dripping in jewels or batting her lashes at the cameras. But there was a quiet kind of magnetism to her, like the kind of song that doesn’t hit you until the third listen — and then it won’t leave you alone.

Her dress hugged her body just enough to command attention, but it was the way she moved — unhurried, confident — that made Yoongi straighten subtly, gaze tracking her as she crossed the room like she’d rehearsed it in heels and hardwood a thousand times.

She didn’t look at him.

He told himself he was only watching because she looked vaguely familiar. An actress. He’d probably seen her in something, but he couldn’t place it. And still — he watched.

His manager leaned in. “That’s the girl presenting the grant award later. She’s the face of that new indie film with the Venice buzz. She’s kind of everywhere right now.”

Yoongi just hummed, eyes still on her. She laughed at something someone said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled her nose and tipped her head back slightly. She had no idea he was staring.

But god, she was pretty.

And Yoongi, who had been perfectly content with fading into the wallpaper tonight, suddenly didn’t feel like hiding anymore.

The first time her eyes met his, it was an accident. Probably.

She was in conversation with someone — a producer or a director by the looks of it — her hand delicately holding the stem of a wine glass, one shoulder tilted back in that practiced red carpet way, when her gaze skimmed the room and snagged on his.

Yoongi felt it like a pinprick. Just a flick of her eyes, a pass-through. Except... she didn’t keep moving.

She held it.

Not long. A second, maybe two. Enough for him to feel the soft, subtle shift in the air around him — the moment going still. She didn’t smile, didn’t look away immediately, and Yoongi? He didn’t either.

Her eyes glinted — there was no better word for it — something playful or curious or maybe even amused. Like she knew exactly who he was and wasn’t all that impressed. Like she’d been watching him first.

And then, as if remembering herself, she blinked and turned her attention back to her glass, laughing at something the man beside her said. Not a hair out of place.

But Yoongi stood there, unmoving, with a ghost of heat still crawling up the back of his neck.

He told himself not to look again.

He looked again.

She didn’t glance his way this time — not that he caught — but she shifted in her stance, exposing more of her neck, brushing her fingers along her collarbone. Deliberate or not, it made his mouth go dry.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, bringing his drink to his lips like it might hide the way his jaw had subtly tightened. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention. Or maybe he was, once — when the seven of them would work a room with a mix of chaos and charm — but this? This slow burn stare across a sea of designer suits and string quartets? This wasn’t his usual arena.

And yet...

He couldn’t bring himself to look away for too long.

She caught him watching again twenty minutes later.

This time, she did smile. Brief. Coy. Not even directed at him, not technically — but her lips curled just as her eyes passed over his, like a secret shared under breathless silence.

He swore she was enjoying it.

And still — neither of them moved. Not toward each other. Not yet.

He wondered if she was waiting for him to crack first.

He wondered how long he could stand this game.

The third time he glanced in her direction, it hit him.

Not all at once — more like a slow bleed. A flicker of her profile, the curve of her smirk as she nodded through a compliment, the way her hands moved when she talked — expressive, graceful, like someone used to taking up space on camera — and something in his brain clicked.

He’d seen her before.

Not just here. Not just tonight.

A clip.

Yoongi blinked, tilted his head just slightly, trying to chase it down.

It wasn’t anything dramatic — no scene-stealing performance, no scandal. Just a moment from some variety show that’d passed through his feed a year or two back. She was in a sleek black dress, hair shorter than it was now, legs crossed confidently as a flustered host asked her the million-won question: what’s your ideal type?

She didn’t name anyone. Played coy, the way they all did when management told them to avoid specifics.

But the way she said, “i like quiet people. mysterious. the kind who don’t need to be the loudest in the room to pull attention,” had lit the internet on fire for a hot second.

Fans clipped the moment to death, pairing it with every idol imaginable. But the top comments had mostly been the same:

 “girl just described min yoongi and dipped.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Just another clip. Another game. And he didn’t watch those kinds of shows unless someone forced him to.

But now? Standing here, watching her command the room with none of the desperation he was so used to seeing at these things, it landed different. It lingered.

She hadn’t approached him.

Neither had he.

And maybe that made it worse.

Because now he knew she knew who he was. Or at least… he suspected. And there was something in her eyes that told him she’d seen the clip too — or heard about it. Something about the way she’d looked at him. Measured. Steady. A slow blink, not surprised — prepared.

He didn’t know much else about her.

Her name, yeah. He’d seen it on posters for a coming-of-age high school drama, the kind stylized in soft lighting and pink overlays. He remembered the interviews after — her deadpan delivery as she confessed she only took the role because her agent guilt-tripped her into it, how she hated how they styled her hair, how she cringed at her own delivery of the “i like you, oppa” line.

He’d chuckled at that interview. She’d been honest. Blunt. Something about that had stuck with him, too.

And now, here she was. Real. Tall. Quietly devastating. And watching him like she knew something he didn’t.

Yoongi finished his drink.

Maybe it was time to stop playing polite.

Or maybe it was time to let her come to him.

Either way, something was happening — slow and certain — and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it.

Yoongi slipped away without much thought, half-finished drink abandoned on some linen-covered table, the chatter of the ballroom dissolving behind him like steam off hot glass. His manager didn’t notice — or pretended not to — which he appreciated. One less question to shrug off.

He followed the curve of the corridor, deeper into the venue, where the light dimmed and the press of bodies thinned out. A hall lined with mirrors and floral arrangements led to the back terrace — not quite hidden, but quiet enough to breathe.

He stepped outside.

It was colder than he expected, the Seoul night curling cool fingers into the stiff collar of his shirt. He exhaled hard, hands bracing on the stone railing, the silence settling like a weight in his chest — heavy, but better than all that polite conversation.

This wasn’t his thing.

Never had been.

The constant smiling. The small talk with people who only knew him in keywords. The way the music never really drowned out the static in his head.

It was like being trapped in a room where the walls were made of glass — everyone looking in, and no one ever seeing past the reflection.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching at the base of his neck where sweat had started to cling. He needed ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Just to be alone.

And then—

He heard it. The soft, unhurried click of heels.

He didn’t turn. Not right away. But he stilled.

The sound grew closer — not close enough to be bold, but deliberate. Slow. Intentional. When he finally looked, she was there.

Not right beside him. Not even within touching distance.

A few paces away, arms loosely crossed, the wind tugging playfully at the fabric of her dress. She stood there like she’d been looking for him — or maybe not. Maybe this was her spot, too.

Her gaze met his. Not shy. Not smug either.

Just... level.

Like they were picking up a conversation they hadn’t started yet.

Neither of them spoke.

She stepped a little closer, not closing the space entirely, just enough to share the moment without asking for anything. Her perfume reached him before her voice did — soft jasmine, something warm beneath it. He didn’t recognize it, but somehow it made his stomach tighten.

Finally, she said, “it’s loud in there.”

Yoongi’s lips curled at the edge.

That was the understatement of the year.

“you don’t seem the type to hate the spotlight,” he murmured, low.

“i don’t,” she replied, coolly. “but sometimes it feels like it’s hating me.”

That surprised a small breath of laughter out of him. Quiet. Real.

She tilted her head. “you always this elusive, or is it just tonight?”

Yoongi finally turned to face her fully, elbow still braced on the railing.

“depends,” he said. “you always this direct?”

She smirked. “depends.”

That hung there between them — easy, almost lazy — and yet the air was taut, like a string drawn back and waiting to snap.

They didn’t move.

They didn’t need to.

Something had shifted. Just enough.

Yoongi wasn’t tired anymore.

The conversation slipped in the same way she had — smooth, unannounced, strangely welcome.

They talked about nothing at first.

Weather. The view. The brand of wine being passed around inside — neither of them liked it, which felt like a strange kind of agreement. She mentioned the ridiculous sponsor gift bags, and Yoongi snorted when she admitted she’d already lost hers somewhere between the coat check and the champagne tower.

He found himself answering her without thinking. Letting his shoulders drop. Saying more than he usually would.

It wasn’t the way she spoke — though she was eloquent, wry, and more clever than most. It was the way she listened. How she let silence hang without rushing to fill it. How her eyes tracked his like she wanted to hear what he thought — not because of who he was, but because of how he said it.

And somewhere along the way, the lines between idle banter and flirtation started to blur.

When he said something dry and slightly cynical about award shows, she grinned and said, “careful, people might mistake you for charming.”

He raised a brow. “you mistaking me for charming?”

She hummed, tilting her head like she was weighing it. “maybe.”

Later, when he told her he didn’t remember the last time he willingly stayed at one of these things longer than he had to, she leaned a little closer and said, “guess I should feel special then.”

And maybe it was the moonlight catching on her skin. Or maybe it was the faint flush of wine on her cheeks. But Yoongi found himself looking at her differently — not just as the girl from the clip or the actress with the sharp tongue, but as someone he wanted to keep talking to.

Someone who surprised him.

Because this wasn’t him.

He wasn’t the type to flirt casually. To linger on someone’s lips when they weren’t speaking. To trace a fingertip over the condensation on the railing just because she had done the same a moment earlier. He didn’t do this.

And yet, here he was.

“I should go back in,” she said eventually, her voice soft, almost reluctant.

Yoongi nodded, suddenly a little too aware of how long they’d been standing out here.

She didn’t move right away. Her eyes held his for a beat longer — unreadable, steady — then she stepped back.

No fanfare. No goodbye.

Just: “don’t disappear completely.”

Then she turned and walked back through the glass doors, her silhouette catching the light for one last flicker before slipping out of sight.

Yoongi stayed where he was, heart beating a little harder than it should’ve been.

He didn’t disappear.

But he didn’t follow either.

Not yet.

Yoongi reentered the ballroom ten minutes later.

He wasn’t even sure what he expected — maybe the same static atmosphere he’d left behind. But things had shifted. Or he had.

She wasn’t looking at him when he stepped back in. She was standing near a circular table, deep in conversation with someone he vaguely recognized from a recent Netflix project. She was laughing, but her posture was loose now, less stiff than earlier. Like the edge had worn down.

He moved toward a small group clustered near the far end — an artist he'd collaborated with once, an old producer, someone from a fashion house — and for the first time all evening, Yoongi stayed in the conversation.

Not fully. Not with his whole attention.

But enough to nod, add in a comment here and there, even offer a small smile.

Because every few minutes, he’d catch her watching him.

Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice.

But her eyes would drift — over a glass rim, past someone’s shoulder — and settle on him. For a second. Two. Long enough for him to feel it.

And when she caught him looking back, she didn’t look away like before.

She held it.

Once, when they crossed paths between clusters of mingling guests, her fingers brushed against his — just barely — like a ripple in silk. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t an accident.

Another time, she leaned in while passing behind him and whispered, “i swear, if one more man over fifty tells me he loved me in that high school drama, i’m gonna fake a fainting spell.”

Her breath skimmed his ear. He had to bite back a laugh.

“do it,” he murmured, without turning his head. “i’ll catch you.”

That made her pause. Just slightly. Enough to send a spark up both their spines.

Later, she found herself standing beside him again. Close enough to smell the warm cedar of his cologne. Not close enough to touch — but the kind of closeness that crackles.

“you’re smiling more,” she said, casually.

“you’re imagining things,” he replied.

She tilted her head. “sure i am.”

And then she did something he didn’t expect.

She leaned in again — not to whisper something snarky, not to tease — just to look at him fully. To see him.

“you look like someone who’s finally letting themselves enjoy the night,” she said, softer this time.

Yoongi didn’t respond right away.

But something shifted behind his eyes. Something open. Bare.

“maybe i am.”

The lights dimmed slightly as the final round of speeches began — polite applause, practiced smiles, a rotation of figures taking the stage one by one. Yoongi had tucked himself toward the side of the room again, half-listening, swirling the remnants of his drink, mostly watching her.

She hadn’t looked at him in a while.

Not directly.

But he felt her everywhere — in the way his pulse tripped every time she laughed, in the ghost of her perfume still lingering near his collar, in the phantom brush of her hand across his an hour ago that he hadn’t stopped thinking about since.

He didn’t expect much when her name was called.

Just the usual — a poised thank you, something light about the cause, maybe a rehearsed joke about the indie film industry. But then she stepped up to the mic in a fitted satin gown that caught the stage lights like molten silver, and Yoongi forgot to breathe.

She was magnetic.

Poised, sure. But loose in her skin. Her smile curved with intention. Her voice rang out, rich and playful, dancing between sincerity and charm so naturally that the whole room leaned in.

She opened with a quip about actor egos. The crowd laughed.

She thanked the organizers, cracked a joke about one of the directors being too handsome to trust with funding decisions, made a subtle nod to the importance of art in lonely times. Yoongi caught her saying something like “art is how we look at each other without saying it out loud.”

That one hit a little too close.

And still — still — she looked at him.

Not every second. But enough.

Between lines. Between pauses. Her eyes would wander the room, always land on him like they’d just remembered where they wanted to be. Like he was the safe place in a room full of pretty strangers.

She wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Not the lingering glance. Not the barely-there smirk when she said something cheeky. Not the way her fingers curled just slightly around the microphone when her gaze dropped to his mouth for half a second too long.

Yoongi leaned back in his seat, elbow resting on the table, and let her look.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch.

But his eyes burned right back.

If anyone was watching closely, they’d see it — the kind of tension that wasn’t meant to be public but had no choice anymore. Like the room had melted away and there were only two people left, pretending to keep their distance while undressing each other with their eyes.

She wrapped her speech with a coy, “thank you for letting me steal your attention, even if just for a little while.”

The applause was thunderous.

But Yoongi didn’t clap.

He was too busy watching her step down, composure intact, but her eyes flicking to him one last time — and that was the moment he knew.

This wasn’t just harmless flirting anymore.

This was a spark waiting to be set on fire.

She excused herself somewhere between the end of a speech and the announcement of dessert, murmured something to the person beside her and slipped from the circle with the same effortless grace she’d had all night. Yoongi didn’t watch her go — not directly. But he saw the way her fingers ghosted along the curve of her clutch, the way her heels tapped against the marble, the way she passed by his side without a word and let her hand — barely — brush the bend of his elbow.

It wasn’t an accident.

Not after the look she gave him — not bold, not obvious — but expectant. Daring. As if to say, you coming, or are we pretending we’re done?

She didn’t look back once.

Yoongi waited two full minutes. Long enough to not make it obvious. Long enough to convince himself he wasn’t being impulsive. And then he stood up, excused himself with a nod, and slipped into the hallway like a shadow.

The corridors were quieter now — muted laughter and the clatter of glassware bleeding faintly from the ballroom behind him. He walked slowly at first, fingers adjusting his jacket sleeve, eyes scanning for her.

He caught a glimpse of her at the end of the corridor — a swish of silver, a turn of her head just before she disappeared right around the corner. Definitely not toward the bathrooms.

Yoongi’s mouth curved slightly, the weight in his chest heavier now — not stress, not exhaustion, but curiosity. Want.

He followed.

She led him through one turn, then another. Past the staff doors, past a roped-off staircase, deeper into the quiet hum of the hotel’s back corridors. They didn’t speak. Didn’t call each other’s names. There was no need. Every step she took was permission.

By the time she stopped, they were somewhere off the map. A tucked-away lounge maybe, or a service hallway that hadn’t seen a crowd in hours. Soft golden light spilled from a wall sconce, bathing her skin in something too tender for a woman who’d spent the whole evening mastering poise. Here, alone, her edges softened. Her back remained to him for a moment longer than necessary, like she was catching her breath.

She turned around just as he reached her.

Neither of them spoke.

They stood there, only feet apart but thick with everything that hadn’t been said. She watched him like she’d been waiting for this — not impatient, just ready.

Yoongi’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back up to her eyes.

And then he exhaled — a dry laugh, quiet and a little self-conscious — and said, “you sure do know how to make a simple guy feel like the main character.”

Her lips curled, slow and knowing, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t a smile meant for a camera or a room full of people.

It was for him.

She took a step closer, the heels silent now against the carpet, and tilted her head just enough for the light to catch in her eyes.

“there’s nothing simple about you,” she said, voice low.

And Yoongi believed her.

Because right now, with the quiet pressing in around them, with her looking at him like he was the answer to a question she hadn’t known how to ask — he didn’t feel tired. Or distant. Or guarded.

He felt seen.

And if he leaned in now, just slightly — if her hand brushed his chest in return — they both knew exactly what would happen next.

Yoongi didn’t move at first.

He just stood there, still held in her gaze, like some invisible string had been pulled tight between them. But then she took another step. A quiet one. Not enough to close the distance, but enough to change it — the kind of step that said, your turn.

And he answered without a word.

One step.

Then another.

Her eyes never left his. Neither of them smiled, not really, but there was something dangerously close curled at the corner of her mouth — playful, knowing, like she was already writing the next five seconds in her head and daring him to catch up.

“you always this good at slipping away from crowds?” she murmured, voice softer now, just for him.

“you make it easier,” he replied, a little rougher, each word grazing the space between them like a touch.

Another step.

Close enough now that the soft scent of her perfume found him again — jasmine and warm skin and something deeper beneath it that made his breath catch low in his throat.

“i wasn’t sure you’d follow,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to his lips, then back to his eyes like she wanted him to notice.

“you touched me,” he said simply, like that explained everything. and it kind of did.

Her laugh was breathy now, barely a sound. “bold of me.”

“stupid, really,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly — teasing, sharp.

“i’m an actress,” she whispered, voice like silk sliding over stone. “i do stupid things for tension.”

And fuck, that pulled a real grin from him — crooked and short-lived, but there.

Their steps slowed. They were barely a breath apart now.

Yoongi leaned in just slightly, his head tilted like he was listening for something she hadn’t said yet.

“you flirting?” he asked, low.

“what gave it away?” she breathed.

“the way you looked at me like you already had a scene in mind.”

Her breath hitched, just a little, the space between them crackling.

“and what do you think happens in that scene, yoongi?”

His hand brushed the wall beside her — not touching, just close. His voice dipped.

“depends on how long we keep pretending we’re not already in it.”

She didn’t answer him right away.

Her gaze flicked between his eyes and his mouth, lashes low, lips parted just barely — like she was already tasting what would come next. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward, wasn’t hesitant. It pulsed. It breathed. The kind of silence that thrums with every unsaid thing they’d been building toward since the first glance across the ballroom.

And then, she reached for him.

Not dramatically — no sharp grab or desperate lunge. Just her fingers curling softly into the lapel of his blazer, tugging him forward with a quiet surety that made his pulse jackknife in his throat. Her other hand came up to ghost over the line of his jaw, her touch featherlight, like she needed to confirm he was real. Yoongi didn’t resist. He leaned in, his breath brushing hers now, every part of him humming with how close she was.

“You gonna keep talking,” she whispered, voice low and velvet-wrapped, “or are you finally gonna shut up and kiss me?”

Yoongi didn’t smile, but something shifted in his expression — a flicker of surrender, of heat curling behind his eyes like a storm finally breaking. She’d won. But it wasn’t a victory. It was a truce, a mutual unraveling. And when he moved, it was like a thread snapping loose from both of them.

He kissed her like they were already in the middle of something — no hesitation, no testing the waters. Just lips colliding like a secret finally exhaled. Her mouth was soft but insistent, tasting like wine and want, and Yoongi lost track of his breath instantly. She tilted her head to deepen it, fingers twisting tighter in his jacket as her body arched toward his, like they’d been waiting to fit together like this all night.

He groaned — quiet, buried — and his hand finally found her waist, pulling her in flush. No one was around to see. No cameras, no curious glances. Just them, hidden behind a dozen turns and a door left slightly ajar, lost in a kiss that had been begging to happen since she first caught him staring.

Her lips broke from his just enough to breathe, but they didn’t pull apart.

“so,” she murmured, breath skimming his lips, “still think you’re just a simple guy?”

Yoongi chuckled, low and rough and completely undone. His thumb brushed along the small of her back, anchoring her there.

“no,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth like he couldn’t help it, “not when you look at me like that.”

She didn’t give him time to say anything more after that — didn’t need to. Her mouth was already claiming his in a way that left nothing open to interpretation. This wasn’t a kiss built on curiosity anymore. It was hunger. Permission. Weeks, maybe months, of imagining what it would be like to let go with someone who could match them.

Yoongi melted into it, no — gave into it, let her guide him backwards with one hand curled tightly in his jacket and the other sliding into his hair like she’d been aching to touch it all night. His spine met the wall with a dull thud, but he didn’t care. Her body followed, pressing flush against his, and he made a sound into her mouth that was far too low, far too honest for someone usually so composed.

He wasn’t composed now.

Her lips were hot and eager, tongue teasing at his in a way that had his hands roaming on instinct. One gripped her waist, pulling her closer, while the other flattened against the back of her neck, fingers spread wide like he needed to anchor himself to her or risk falling through the floor. She kissed him deeper — not gentler, not sweeter — just more. Like she wanted to know how far he’d let this go before breaking.

Spoiler: not far. He was already halfway there.

When her teeth tugged on his bottom lip, Yoongi swore under his breath — a low, bitten-off curse — and surged forward, spinning her gently but firmly so she was the one pressed against the wall now. His mouth didn’t leave hers. If anything, it got rougher — not careless, just real. All tongue and heat and breath caught between gritted teeth. She moaned softly, and the sound went straight to his gut, coiling low and tight.

Their bodies moved together like they’d done this before in a dream they’d both forgotten. Her fingers were in his hair, tugging just enough to make his jaw clench. His hands were sliding down her back, settling at the curve of her ass with a grip that was possessive in a way neither of them were ready to name out loud. She gasped when he ground against her — fully, deliberately — and her head tipped back just enough for him to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck.

"fuck," she breathed, barely more than a sound.

He smiled against her throat. "yeah," he murmured, voice rough and uneven. "that makes two of us."

Her hand slid under the lapel of his jacket, nails dragging lightly along the crisp shirt beneath, and he could feel her trembling — not from nerves, but restraint. It was mutual. They were both right on the edge, poised in that dangerous place where want turns into need, and everything rational starts to fade beneath the weight of it.

She pulled him back in with a hand on his tie, lips crashing into his again — messier now, swollen, open, desperate. Their breaths tangled, their hips pressed, and time stopped existing. All Yoongi could feel was her. All she could think about was him.

And god, if someone didn’t walk down this hallway soon...

They were going to do something they wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

Yoongi’s hand had just slipped beneath the open side of her dress — palm skating the bare skin of her waist, hungry for more — when his phone vibrated sharply in his pocket. The sound was muffled, but the moment they both stilled, it may as well have been a siren.

He didn’t move at first. His forehead rested against hers, both of them catching their breath, their lips kiss-swollen and parted, panting into each other’s silence.

“don’t,” she whispered, fingers fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt. “just let it ring.”

He almost listened.

God, he wanted to.

But reality creeped in like a cold breeze — a reminder of where they were, what this was, who he was. The text buzzed again. Reluctantly, Yoongi eased back a few inches and dug into his pocket, checking the screen with a muttered curse under his breath.

[manager] yoongi-ssi, they’re asking for you. where did you go?

He didn’t respond. Just stared at the message like it had yanked him out of something he wasn’t ready to leave behind.

“I have to go back,” he said, the words landing heavy. Apologetic.

She didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, her hand smoothed over the lapel of his blazer, brushing down the fabric until it slipped into the inside pocket. When her fingers withdrew, there was a small folded piece of paper tucked neatly where only he would find it later. Her eyes never left his.

And then she was kissing him again.

Hard. Decisive. Like she was stamping her name into his memory before letting him go. Her mouth moved against his like she’d never doubted they’d meet again — tongue slipping past his lips with one last claim, hands curling in the collar of his jacket to hold him there, to brand him.

When she pulled away, it wasn’t clean. Her mouth lingered, brushing over his one last time, slower now, like she was memorizing the shape of it.

Then she leaned in, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, her nose brushing along his jaw in a featherlight stroke that made him shudder.

“to be continued?” she whispered.

It wasn’t a question.

Not really.

She stepped back before he could answer — before he could do anything. Her eyes glittered with something wicked and unfinished, her mouth swollen, hair slightly mussed, and she still looked like she owned the room even from a dark hallway no one was supposed to see.

By the time Yoongi made it back inside, cheeks still flushed, heart still pounding, the weight of her number pressed against his chest like a loaded gun... he knew exactly how this story was going to continue.

And he couldn’t wait to turn the page.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀shut up & kiss me Ꮺ bangtan

summary in which they kiss you to shut you up mid-argument⠀/⠀angst, established relationship, heated tension, emotional intimacy, nsfw-leaning suggestion

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀៹⠀ it’s the third time she cuts him off and he can feel it — that hot, helpless frustration crawling up his spine. they’re not yelling, not yet, but their words are sharp, fast, not really listening. “you’re not even hearing me—” she says, voice trembling, and that’s what does it. because she’s hurt. and he hates that he’s the reason. “i am hearing you,” he snaps, stepping closer. “you just won’t let me say it.” her lips part like she’s going to argue again, eyes flashing— and then his hands are on her face, sudden and certain, and he kisses her hard. not to win. not to dismiss. but to pause it. everything. it’s messy, desperate, his mouth moving over hers like he’s trying to say everything words failed to. when they break apart, breathless, he rests his forehead against hers. “i’m trying,” he says softly. and this time, she hears him.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he doesn’t like fighting. hates how his voice sounds when it’s raised, how her eyes go glassy when she’s frustrated. but they’re in it now — pacing the kitchen, cutlery still clinking in the sink, tension so thick it’s suffocating. “why don’t you ever just say what you mean?” she bites out. “why do you make me guess all the time?” he opens his mouth to respond but she keeps going, a stream of hurt and confusion and truth, and suddenly he can’t take it. he steps forward, grabs her waist, and crashes their mouths together mid-sentence. it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet. it’s raw, almost angry with how badly he wants to calm her down and pull her close and take it all back. her fists bunch in his shirt. she kisses back like she’s furious too. when they break apart, breathing hard, he whispers, “i’m not good at saying things. but i’m good at this.” she nods. he kisses her again.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀៹⠀ she’s talking too fast and too sharp, and he’s clenching his jaw, trying not to say something he’ll regret. “yoongi, you’re shutting down again—this is exactly what i meant,” she says, hands flying, eyes wide. he turns his head, jaw tight. he hates when she’s right. hates how it makes him feel cornered. “because i don’t know what to say,” he snaps. “and you’re not giving me time to fucking breathe.” her mouth opens, mid-retort, but he steps forward so fast they both freeze. then his hand is in her hair, and he kisses her like a man trying to dig his way out. it’s rough. clumsy. full of teeth. her breath catches, her hands grabbing his arms like she doesn’t know whether to shove him or keep him close. when they part, eyes dazed and lips swollen, he whispers, “i’m not good with words. but don’t ever think i don’t feel everything.” and this time, she believes him.

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀៹⠀ it starts with a misunderstanding. something small, stupid. a missed text. a joke taken the wrong way. now her voice is rising, sharp with hurt, and hoseok feels his heart breaking in real time. “do you even care how that made me feel?” she says, arms crossed tight over her chest. “of course i do,” he says, louder than he means to. “why the fuck do you think i’m standing here?” the air crackles. her lips part to throw something else at him— but he’s done. he surges forward, hands cupping her cheeks, and kisses her like she’s air and he’s been choking. it’s messy. it’s wild. it shuts her up completely. when they break apart, her mascara’s smudged and his hands are still trembling. “i hate when we fight,” he breathes. “but i’d rather fight with you than be quiet with anyone else.” she exhales, finally, and kisses him back like a truce.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s standing across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight, and she’s pacing — throwing words like sparks. “you always do this,” she says. “you act like everything’s fine until it’s not and then you implode.” he doesn’t answer. just watches her. every word hurts more than he’ll admit. “say something,” she pleads. “anything.” and he does — but it’s not a word. it’s a step forward, a hand behind her neck, and his mouth on hers in a kiss that knocks the wind out of her. it’s not sweet. it’s not careful. it’s needy. like if he doesn’t kiss her right now, he’ll lose something vital. she melts into him before she can stop herself. fists curled in his hoodie. when they pull apart, her voice cracks. “that’s not fair.” “i know,” he says. “but i love you too much to fight with you. i’d rather fight for you.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀៹ ⠀ he’s leaning against the wall, eyes dark, letting her yell because he thinks she needs to. he stays quiet too long — too taehyung about it — and when she notices, she explodes. “you just gonna stand there?” she snaps. “say something, tae. be here with me.” he blinks, slow. then he pushes off the wall, strides over, and kisses her. hard. fast. like gravity gave up. she gasps into it, body stiff for half a second, then melts. he cups her face with both hands, breathing her in like it’s the only language he knows. when he finally pulls back, he says, “i don’t fight fair. but i love hard.” and then kisses her again, softer. longer. like he’s choosing her even in the middle of the storm.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀៹⠀he’s pacing. hands on his hips. flushed and furious and so confused. “you act like i don’t care—how could you think that?” he shouts. she flinches. that’s what does him in. he crosses the room in two strides, eyes still burning, and cups her face in his hands. “don’t say i don’t care,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “i show up every damn time.” she opens her mouth to argue— and he kisses her. hard. like a collision. like a line being drawn. her hands grab his hoodie, eyes wide, chest heaving. they break apart for a second, and she whispers, “that’s not how you solve things.” “i know,” he says, forehead pressed to hers. “but it’s how i remind you i’m still here. and always will be.” he kisses her again, slower this time. more true. the argument fizzles out like smoke.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀opposites don’t attract, they destroy⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀masterlist⠀⠀)

pairing: fuckboy!park jimin x proud & stubborn!reader

genre: college!au, situationship, enemies to lovers, angst, smut, emotional slow burn

warnings: explicit sexual content, casual sex dynamics, emotionally confusing relationships, jealousy, profanity, angst, emotionally unavailable characters, mild possessiveness, mentions of alcohol, miscommunication, toxic attachment

word count: 40 k (up to last update)

summary: he flirts. she rolls her eyes. everyone on campus knows they hate each other—or at least, that’s the story they sell. until one night after a party changes everything. what was supposed to be a one-time thing turns into a messy, addictive routine neither of them can shake. they keep telling themselves it’s not a thing… but feelings don’t listen. and when someone new enters the picture—someone who actually sees her—it all starts to unravel. jimin should’ve known: opposites don’t attract. they destroy.

status: ongoing

₍ links ⁾ 

main m.list⠀ | ⠀moodboard⠀ |⠀ playlist⠀ |⠀ taglist

₍ chapters ⁾

O1 | the backseat never happened ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀after a house party gone wrong, she ends up in jimin’s backseat—needy, reckless, and pretending it means nothing. she takes control, he loses it, and neither of them will forget it.⠀/⠀ 5.3 k

O2 | we're not a thing ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀(y/n) tries to pretend that night never happened, but jimin isn’t making it easy. what starts with a closet confrontation turns into a routine of stolen moments and unspoken rules: this isn’t a thing. they aren’t anything. until someone from his past shows up at the worst possible time, and suddenly it feels a lot like something.⠀/⠀11.5 k

O3 | he feels safe ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀things spiral after an unexpected interruption. (y/n) starts questioning everything with jimin — what it is, what it isn’t. but just when she tries to pull away, he makes it nearly impossible — especially when he knows exactly how to pull her back in. still, a part of her wants more, or at least different, and when sora introduces her to someone who’s everything jimin isn’t… she starts to wonder if maybe she’s been settling for chaos all along. ⠀/⠀14.1k

O4 | you don't even want me ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀(y/n) tries to focus on namjoon — soft, warm, and easy — but jimin’s presence lingers. after weeks of avoidance, everything comes to a head: confessions, tension, a kiss she didn’t expect, and a choice she’s not ready to make. namjoon wants clarity. jimin wants her. and (y/n)? she’s still caught in the in-between. ⠀/⠀9.97k

O5 | don't look at me like that ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀coming soon

Bonus | locked 🔒

Bonus | locked 🔒

© cigarettesuga, all rights reserved.

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀opposites don’t attract, they destroy⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀pjm⠀⠀) chpt. O2

pairing: fuckboy!jimin x too-proud, stubborn, social butterfly!f!reader

genre: college!au, frenemies to lovers, smut, angst, comedy (sorta), slow-ish burn, emotional damage with a side of flirtatious banter, bad decisions galore.

warnings: explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, oral f and m receiving, protected p in v, switch dynamics), language, light angst, emotionally immature behavior, casual hookup history, mentions of possessiveness/jealousy, one angry ex-fling banging at the door mid-orgasm. reader is horny and confused. jimin is horny and emotionally stunted. everyone is very much down bad.

word count: 11.5 k (got a little carried away)

summary: (y/n) tries to pretend that night never happened, but jimin isn’t making it easy. what starts with a closet confrontation turns into a routine of stolen moments and unspoken rules: this isn’t a thing. they aren’t anything. until someone from his past shows up at the worst possible time, and suddenly it feels a lot like something.

taglist | m.list | prev.

"we're not a thing"

monday came too soon.

the party fog had barely lifted and already (y/n) was back in lecture halls pretending she hadn’t made life-altering decisions in the backseat of a very questionably clean car. her mini skirt was folded neatly in her laundry basket. her phone was muted. and her pride? hanging on by a thread, but still kicking.

she didn’t look for jimin. not on campus, not in her messages, not even in the periphery of the quad where he usually lurked like a lazy predator in low-rise jeans. she told herself it meant nothing. it was nothing. a moment of weakness, tequila, and bad judgment wrapped up in messy kisses and louder-than-necessary moans. it wasn’t who she was.

but denial didn’t stop the nausea from curling in her stomach when she walked into the café and spotted sora already waiting with two iced americanos and that look. the one that said i know something you don’t want me to know.

(y/n) slid into the seat across from her, sunglasses on even though they were indoors. “don’t start.”

sora raised a brow, positively glowing with suspicion. “i didn’t say anything.”

“yet,” (y/n) muttered.

sora smiled, sipping from her straw like she had all the time in the world. “so… you disappeared the other night. at the party.”

(y/n) hummed in response, scrolling through her phone with all the enthusiasm of a corpse.

“you know what’s funny?” sora leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice laced with that teasing lilt that meant nothing good was coming. “park jimin was nowhere to be found either.”

that got a twitch out of her. barely. but enough for sora to pounce.

“i was in the kitchen looking for you when his cute friend—jungkook, i believe—came up looking for park too. said he ‘lost’ him,” she added, air-quoting. “hilarious, i know.”

(y/n) took a long, very unnecessary sip of coffee. “maybe they went to get food.”

sora blinked. “at midnight? during a house party? in his car?”

silence.

“you’re not even gonna try?” sora asked, sounding offended at the lack of effort. “come on. lie to me with some conviction.”

“i didn’t ask for this interrogation,” (y/n) mumbled, pushing her sunglasses up higher. “it was a stupid night, okay? that’s it.”

sora's smile faltered, just a bit. “so it was jimin.”

(y/n) sighed. loud. “sora.”

“you slept with park jimin and didn’t tell me. i’m not mad, just... disappointed. mostly in your taste.”

“it wasn’t like that.” she crossed her arms. “we didn’t—i mean, it was just—fuck, okay, i don’t know what it was. but it’s over.”

“mmhm,” sora said, entirely unconvinced. “tell that to the regret dripping off you like sweat.”

(y/n) groaned and slammed her head lightly onto the table. the iced americano wobbled in warning.

—

the lecture hall felt way too bright for 9 a.m.

(y/n) sat in the back like always, one AirPod in, pretending her iced coffee would bring her peace. it didn’t. everything felt loud—the scratch of pens, the shuffle of backpacks, the tinny buzz of someone’s forgotten phone. her nerves were tap dancing on her spine.

no one was staring at her, but it felt like everyone could be.

what if someone saw her leave the party with him? what if someone heard?

she shifted in her seat, tugging her oversized hoodie lower like that would erase the ghost of his hands on her thighs. the lecture started. something about political theory or the rise of late capitalism—she couldn’t focus. she could barely keep herself from checking the door.

and then it opened.

“sorry, sorry,” came a voice she knew too well now. low, lazy, not even trying to sound sincere.

park jimin strolled in like he owned the air. like he hadn’t made her lose her goddamn mind in the back of his car. like she hadn’t made herself finish all over him and then ghosted the moment she regained lucidity.

he didn’t look at the professor. didn’t apologize again. didn’t even hesitate.

his eyes landed straight on her. and she felt it—like a sucker punch through her spine.

he walked up the stairs of the lecture hall without shame, slipping into the empty seat next to her like this was totally normal and they hadn’t just completely annihilated the “i cannot stand you” consensus within 72 hours.

“morning,” he said under his breath, pulling out a pen he clearly wasn’t going to use.

she stared ahead like she was carved out of salt. “do i know you?”

jimin snorted. “wow. cold.”

“please. i’m trying to learn about... whatever this is.” she gestured vaguely toward the professor.

“capitalist propaganda. riveting.”

“why are you here?” she hissed.

“it’s a class we both take,” he pointed out, barely hiding his smile.

“you don’t even come to this class!”

“i do now.” he leaned in slightly. “you’re very... motivating.”

she kicked him under the table. not hard enough. he just grinned wider.

“you’re really going to act like that night didn’t happen?” he asked, voice dipped just enough to make her clench her jaw.

“what night?” she replied, blinking at him like he was a stranger asking for directions.

his laugh was low, soft, dangerous. “god, you’re mean. no wonder i can’t get enough.”

she hated how warm her cheeks felt. hated it more that he noticed.

“are you going to flirt with me the whole semester now?” she hissed.

“wasn’t planning on it.” he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. “but now? absolutely.” 

he was still looking at her. like class wasn’t happening. like she wasn’t actively trying to pretend she hadn’t cried after that orgasm, freaked out, and ghosted him before he could even zip up properly.

she sighed, still facing forward, whispering sharp. “listen, buddy.”

his grin was immediate. oh no.

“oh, i’m ‘buddy’ now?” he whispered back, elbow propped on the desk, body angled toward her like they were in on some hilarious secret.

“whatever you think this is,” she hissed, ignoring the flutter in her chest, “don’t. matter of fact, let’s stop talking to each other. like… ever.”

“aw,” he murmured, leaning a little closer, his breath warm against her shoulder. “so dramatic. and after we shared such a magical night together.”

her eyes snapped to his. “i’m serious.”

“so am i,” he said, smirking. “i was deeply moved. spiritually even. you, on top of me, moaning like—”

“shut up.”

“i’m just saying,” he shrugged, voice maddeningly casual, “for someone who wants to forget, you’re really intense about the details.”

“jimin.”

“you didn’t even take your underwear all the way off,” he said, tone dropping, eyes shameless. “left ‘em hanging off your ankle like a cute little ribbon. drove me crazy.”

she inhaled, sharp and shallow, heart tripping over itself. “god, you’re such a—”

“brat,” he finished for her, tilting his head like he’d just named a constellation. “you were such a brat that night. acting like you were doing me a favor while dripping all over me.”

her jaw clenched. “you’re disgusting.”

“you’re welcome.”

“you’re delusional.”

“mmm, maybe.” he tapped his pen against her notebook just to be annoying. “but you came. hard. and you’ll probably do it again.”

“in your dreams.”

he leaned even closer. “nah. that was real. trust me, babe—I dream dirtier.”

she stared at the board like it held the secrets to teleportation. he smelled like fabric softener and recklessness, and god, he was radiating satisfaction like a fucking smug heater.

“let’s stop talking,” she muttered, finally writing a nonsense sentence just to look busy.

he chuckled, low. “we can stop talking. but if you think i’m not gonna keep looking at your mouth and remembering exactly how you tasted—”

her pencil snapped. 

he was still smirking. like he could see the tiny crack forming in her armor. the way her thighs pressed together. the way her fingers twitched like they remembered being tangled in his hair.

she refused to look at him.

refused to let her face betray anything but exasperation.

her pulse, however, was another story.

she leaned just slightly toward him, keeping her tone low and dismissive but sharp enough to pierce. “you know what i think, park?”

his brows lifted lazily, chin resting on his hand, clearly entertained. “can’t wait to hear it.”

she glanced at him now—just a flash, just enough to deliver it like a challenge.

“i think you’re the one who can’t get enough.”

his eyes flicked to her mouth again. she could feel it.

“of what?” he asked, feigning innocence. “your sparkling personality?”

“of me.” she said, too calm. too collected. “i think you’ve spent so much time getting easy girls to fall over themselves for you that you don’t know how to handle someone who makes you work for it.”

jimin blinked, then let out a soft laugh, sitting back in his seat like she’d just told him a bedtime story.

“that’s cute,” he said, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip. “but if i remember correctly…” he glanced down meaningfully, just once, “you were the one on top, baby.”

she crossed her legs tightly. don’t react. don’t fidget. don’t bite your lip like you always do when you’re flustered—

“must’ve been exhausting,” he added. “doing all that work.”

“you’re disgusting,” she muttered again, cheeks hot, throat tight.

“and you keep telling me that.” his voice dropped, warm and slow and honey-thick. “but you’re still thinking about it. you’re still letting yourself remember it.”

her jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the front of the room even though the lecture had long since become background noise.

he leaned in one last time, his whisper a lazy breath against her cheek.

“it’s okay. i do too.”

the class ended with the sharp scrape of chairs and the dull hum of chatter. she was out of her seat before the professor even capped their marker.

“wait up,” jimin said behind her, casual as ever.

“no.”

“you don’t even know what i was gonna say—”

“i don’t care,” she cut in, picking up her pace.

he followed anyway. of course he did. sneakers squeaking faintly with every obnoxious step as he trailed her like some smug, ridiculously hot shadow. they were almost to the courtyard when the worst possible thing happened.

“yo,” came a voice to her right.

they both turned to see taemin, one of those mutual-ish friends that orbited in and out of their shared social scenes—enough to know the dynamics, not enough to know the details.

taemin looked between them slowly, brows drawn together in mild suspicion. “aren’t you guys like… natural enemies or something?”

she opened her mouth to respond but jimin beat her to it, already slinging his arm over her shoulders like they were dating or whatever the hell this was.

“she’s finally being cool,” he said, grinning. “we’re getting to know each other.”

her stomach flipped. heat flooded her face.

“ew,” she deadpanned, ducking out from under his arm. “god, no.”

taemin blinked. “…are you guys okay?”

“do we look okay?” she snapped, forcing a laugh. “he’s just being weird.”

jimin clicked his tongue, hands shoved into his pockets now, watching her like she was an unfolding drama and he had popcorn in his brain.

“i’m not being weird,” he shrugged. “you just can’t handle someone being nice to you for once.”

“you call that nice?”

taemin looked positively lost, glancing between the two like he was watching an improv bit spiral out of control.

“what is this energy?” he muttered, stepping back. “are you two like… flirting?”

“no.”

“yes.”

they said it at the same time.

she glared at jimin. he winked.

taemin made a face. “okayyy. i’m gonna go.”

“great,” she said.

“say hi to jungkook for me,” jimin added absently, already falling into step beside her again once taemin left.

“why are you still following me?”

“why are you still pretending you don’t like it?”

“because i don’t.”

he hummed, low and teasing. “you do. but it’s okay. i’ve got time.”

“well i don’t,” she snapped. “so go flirt with someone else. someone easier.”

he stopped walking then. just for a second. and when she turned to look at him—against her better judgment—he was staring at her like he knew she wasn’t going to say that again.

“but where’s the fun in easy?”

—

the door clicked shut behind her and she barely made it to her bed before letting out a full-body groan, throwing herself face-first into a pillow.

sora, sitting cross-legged on her own bed with a snack in hand and a suspicious glint in her eye, didn’t even blink. “so… how was class?”

“don’t,” she grumbled into the sheets. “don’t do that.”

“do what?” sora asked sweetly, popping a piece of dried mango into her mouth.

(y/n) turned her head just enough to breathe. “act like you don’t already know exactly what i’m about to say.”

sora smiled. “i mean, i did see you storming down the quad with park jimin hot on your heels looking like he just got denied a second round of something scandalous.”

(y/n) groaned again. louder. more dramatic.

“he’s such an idiot,” she declared, sitting up and tossing the pillow like it had personally wronged her. “he literally tried to sit next to me in class, like nothing happened.”

“uh-huh.”

“and then followed me outside like we were in a rom-com. like this is some sort of friends with benefits arc.”

“sounds like someone’s a fan,” sora said, half-smirking.

“can you believe him?”

“oh, absolutely. but babes,” she leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, “can you believe yourself?”

(y/n) blinked. “excuse me?”

sora raised a brow, popping another mango slice. “you’re really out here acting like this is brand new. like you haven’t been side-eyeing him all semester like he’s an off-limits dessert on a cheat day.”

(y/n)’s jaw dropped. “i have not—”

“you have. and don’t get me wrong, i respect the effort. the whole ‘he’s annoying and gross and i hate him’ routine was very convincing.” sora tilted her head, grinning. “but, like… you disappeared at that party. he disappeared. and now you’re doing a fake lovers-to-enemies-to-lover-again speedrun? baby. be serious.”

“we’re not lovers.” she hissed.

“sure,” sora nodded. “and i don’t binge-watch kdramas at 2am. tell me another lie.”

(y/n) flopped back on the bed, covering her eyes with her arm. “it was just… one time. a mistake.”

“was it mind-blowing though?”

“sora—”

“okay okay fine. not important.” she stood up and stretched, already heading toward the fridge. “but, for the record, he’s been into you since like week three.”

(y/n)’s breath caught. “no, he hasn’t.”

“please,” sora scoffed, grabbing a can of sparkling water. “he literally asked me about you once. like out of nowhere. said, and i quote, ‘what’s her deal?’ with this stupid little smile.”

“…you’re lying.”

“why would i lie for him? i’m team hot girl. always.” she plopped back down. “but also, maybe consider why you haven’t told anyone yet. like… not even me.”

silence.

(y/n) stared at the ceiling.

“because it’s nothing,” she said finally. “it’s not real.”

sora’s voice softened. “doesn’t mean it didn’t feel real.”

(y/n) was still on her back, staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe—or at least the answers to why her life was currently a mess tangled in low-rise jeans and cocky smirks.

sora didn’t let the silence linger too long.

“okay, fine,” she said, dusting off her hands like she was concluding a business meeting. “we’re calling it: not a thing. whatever happened in the back of that car, totally irrelevant. meaningless. an oopsie.”

(y/n) sighed in relief, eyes still closed. “thank you. sanity has returned to the chat.”

“mm-hmm.” sora took a sip of her drink, then casually added, “just do me a favor and give me a heads up whenever you guys are raw-dogging it in here. i don’t need to walk in and be emotionally scarred.”

(y/n) bolted upright. “i’m not giving you a heads up because i’m not sleeping with him again!”

sora didn’t even flinch. “right. right. of course not.” she stood up and made a show of walking over to crack the window open. “just make sure to air the room out after. i don’t want it to smell like jimin’s cologne and bad decisions.”

“can you fucking not?!” (y/n) shrieked, hurling a pillow across the room. it hit sora square in the back, but she didn’t even turn around—just calmly fluffed the curtain and let the spring breeze roll in like she was a sage preparing the room for spiritual cleansing.

“i’m just being proactive,” sora replied serenely. “your future self will thank me.”

“my future self is going to murder you.”

“only if you survive the next round with your mortal enemy slash backseat boyfriend.”

“he’s not—” (y/n) groaned so loud it could’ve summoned the dead. “you know what? never mind. i’m not even dignifying this with more words.”

“sure, babe. bottle it all up. healthy coping is overrated anyway.”

(y/n) let herself fall back dramatically again, dragging her comforter over her head. “this is my villain origin story.”

“better make it hot. people root for messy girls who look good in mini skirts.”

—

the parking lot, early evening

the parking lot behind the arts building still smelled faintly of cigarettes and burnt espresso from the campus café. jimin leaned against his car, sunglasses on despite the fading light, arms crossed like he wasn’t hiding from the aftermath of the day.

“you’re not slick,” jungkook said, tossing his water bottle into the backseat of tae’s beat-up old jeep. “you keep checking your phone like someone’s gonna text you first. we know you. she doesn’t.”

taehyung snorted, slapping a hand on jimin’s shoulder with dramatic flair. “our boy’s in denial. look at him. he’s twitching like a divorced man waiting on a custody ruling.”

jimin rolled his eyes. “you two need hobbies.”

“don’t dodge,” jungkook said, pointing. “you disappeared after the party. like, fully vanished. poof. i checked the upstairs bathroom, the deck, the kitchen—and you were not making out with that blonde girl from econ like you said you would.”

taehyung raised his eyebrows. “wanna try again, romeo?”

“you wouldn’t believe me even if i told you,” jimin muttered, and immediately regretted it.

“oh?” taehyung leaned in, shark-grinning. “so it is good.”

jungkook’s eyes lit up. “wait, wait—don’t tell me—”

“(y/n),” jimin said, looking off into the distance like it physically pained him to admit it. “the backseat of my car.”

dead silence.

jungkook let out a single, disbelieving laugh. “you’re lying.”

taehyung choked on air. “you got her in the car?!” he pointed at the vehicle behind them. “that car?!”

“hey,” jimin defended, “that car’s iconic.”

“bro,” jungkook said, hands on his hips, “you’ve been flirting with her for what—two semesters? three? she used to pretend you didn’t exist.”

“she still pretends i don’t,” jimin muttered.

taehyung narrowed his eyes. “so let me get this straight. miss ‘you’re disgusting, park jimin,’ climbed into your car, made out with you, and you—what? just let it happen?”

jimin finally smiled. smug, slow. “she undid my belt. i didn’t have to let anything happen.”

“jesus christ,” jk muttered, throwing his hoodie over his head. “he’s so far gone.”

“i’m not gone,” jimin said, too quickly. “we agreed it was a one-time thing. we’re not doing it again.”

tae raised both brows. “and you believed that?”

“yeah.” jimin shrugged. “she said it with her whole chest.”

jungkook rolled his eyes. “okay but like… was her mouth saying one thing and her body saying something else?”

jimin just smiled, and that was answer enough.

taehyung groaned. “you’re doomed. like emotionally wrecked by midterms doomed.”

“nah,” jimin said, reaching for his keys and trying to act like it didn’t matter. “we’re fine. i’m chill. she’s chill. it’s whatever.”

jungkook leaned against the car next to him. “you’re so chill that you nearly murdered a sophomore for asking her what lip gloss she was wearing two days ago.”

“it was a weird question!”

“he was gay!”

“he said it like he was curious,” jimin argued, unlocking his car with a dramatic beep.

taehyung and jungkook exchanged a look. that look said yep. this is gonna crash and burn in HD.

“just promise you won’t write poetry about her when she ghosts you,” taehyung said.

“i don’t write poetry.”

“not yet.”

—

the lights in his apartment were dimmed low that night, nothing but the soft hum of a playlist filling the silence between breaths. 

jimin leaned back against his couch, hands resting lazily on either side of him while rowan's perched in his lap, skin warm and familiar, her thighs bracketing his hips like muscle memory. the kind of closeness that’s supposed to feel easy. automatic. 

she smells like jasmine and wine coolers, a little breathless from their earlier kissing, her lips dragging slowly down his neck. the TV’s on mute, flickering some stupid action movie he’s not watching.

but his mind’s not here. it’s stuck somewhere in the backseat of his car, under the tight grip of her thighs, the taste of her tongue, the sound she made when—

rowan rolls her hips slightly, grounding him, dragging his focus back with a practiced tug at his belt. “you’re quiet,” she says, low. “cat got your tongue?”

his breath catches, but not in the way she wants. “just tired.”

“you never used to be too tired for this.” she leans in again, hand sliding under his shirt, up the plane of his stomach. she knows what he likes. knows how to unravel him, usually.

but he grabs her wrist—not rough, just firm. “not tonight.”

“what?” she pulls back, confusion quickly hardening into something else. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not,” he says, sitting up straighter, adjusting the hem of his shirt like it matters now. “i’m not really in the mood.”

rowan stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “you—jimin. you’re not in the mood? since when?”

he doesn’t answer, jaw ticking once, eyes refusing to meet hers.

she lets out a short, humorless laugh. “wow. okay.”

he tries to soften it. “it’s not about you—”

“oh, of course not,” she cuts in, climbing off his lap, pacing the room like she’s trying to burn off something. “because god forbid you ever talk about your feelings like a real person. no, we just... play house until you decide you’re over it.”

“rowan, come on—”

“don’t ‘rowan’ me.” her eyes are sharp now, arms crossed over her chest. “you think I don’t know? that it’s not me you’re thinking about when I’m right here trying to give a shit?”

he opens his mouth, but there’s nothing worth saying. and she knows it.

“i used to think i didn’t care,” she says finally. “hooking up, no strings... whatever. but somewhere along the way i got sick of pretending that i don’t notice when you disappear into your head every time some new girl starts orbiting.”

his silence is answer enough.

rowan grabs her jacket from the chair, slinging it over her shoulder. “whoever she is, congrats. she’s the first one you’ve ever looked miserable about.”

he flinches.

“text me if you ever figure it out,” she adds, voice flatter now. “but don’t bother if you’re just gonna keep using people like placeholders.”

the door shuts harder than it needs to.

jimin exhales, sinking into the couch, staring blankly at the space she left behind.

fuck.

thursday, campus café, mid-afternoon

the dynamic doesn’t shift much. not on the surface.

jimin still winks when she passes him near the quad. still finds her in every lecture like he’s magnetized to her seat. still leans over her desk to ask if she’s “missed him,” even when she’s actively ignoring his entire existence. still flirts like the backseat of his car never happened—or maybe, worse, like it happened and he knows exactly what it did to her.

and (y/n)? she plays her role to perfection. still rolls her eyes like it doesn’t fluster her. still pretends like she’s busy on her phone every time he enters the room. still cuts him off mid-sentence with a deadpan “get a job” or “you talk too much.”

but it’s wearing on her.

like a pebble in her shoe she refuses to take off, the ache builds. he laughs too loud. sits too close. she hears his voice when she’s not even near him and feels her skin tighten. every encounter leaves a trace—of warmth, of tension, of fucking want—and she hates it. hates him.

hates herself more for still dreaming about the way he groaned her name like it meant something.

they’re at the café when it really starts to get under her skin. he’s already sitting with their shared group of friends when she arrives—oversized hoodie, backwards cap, sipping an iced americano like he didn’t just have two girls giggling at his side moments ago.

she tries not to care. really, she does.

but the second he spots her, his smirk shifts into something too smug, too direct.

“hey, trouble,” he calls.

she freezes only for a second. “do I owe you rent now? you’ve been in my business all week.”

he grins like she said something sweet. like he’s proud to be under her skin.

she takes the seat across from him with the most dramatic sigh she can muster.

he just leans forward, voice low so the others don’t hear. “you look tired, babe. been dreaming about me?”

she stares at him. dead in the eyes. “only in my worst nightmares.”

“still counts.”

and god, it does count. because the problem isn’t just the flirting. it’s the way her body reacts to it. the way her skin still remembers his touch. the way her brain short-circuits every time he calls her babe, like it doesn’t make her stomach flip in a way that’s entirely, pathetically real.

she excuses herself early. says she’s got class.

but really, she just needs to breathe.

because no one warns you that the worst part of a one-time thing isn’t the silence after.

it’s the noise that follows.

that night — dorm room, nearly 2 a.m.

the room is too quiet without sora's commentary in the background. no half-watched drama on low volume, no clinking of skincare bottles or gummy candy wrappers rustling. just the dim glow of her phone on the desk across the room and the hum of the mini fridge.

(y/n) sighs.

she’s already flipped her pillow twice. Her sheets feel like they're suffocating her. everything’s too hot and not hot enough. and she can’t stop thinking.

not about him.

not at first.

she groans and throws her comforter off with too much force, sits up with hair falling into her face, that kind of exasperated energy that only comes when you’ve been avoiding yourself all day.

“fuck it,” she mumbles into the dark.

she knows where everything is. bottom drawer. tucked beneath a t-shirt she doesn’t wear anymore. essentials she tells herself are for “emergencies” but deep down she knows that’s code for nights like this—when the ache is sharper than the pride, when her mind won’t stop spinning and the silence gets a little too honest.

condoms. lube. and the toy she’d never admit she owns, let alone uses.

she settles back into the sheets, legs shifting restlessly. not expecting much. just trying to ease something—tension, maybe. frustration. the emptiness that always hits harder when the world slows down.

she doesn't think of him.

not right away.

she pictures something vague, faceless—hands, lips, warm breath down her neck.

but her mind is a traitor.

because suddenly, it is him.

the tilt of jimin’s smirk. the way his voice dropped when he called her brat. the burn of his hands on her thighs. his tongue tracing the rim of her lower lip before pulling back, that damn string of spit, how ruined he looked watching her come undone.

her breath stutters.

and now it’s impossible not to think of him. her hand moves faster. her body knows. remembers. betrays her with every pulse of pleasure that edges in faster than she expects. she bites her lip to stay quiet, frustrated with herself more than anything.

because he’s not here.

but it feels like he is.

and when she comes, it’s with his name almost on her tongue—so close she can taste it, can feel it scraping the inside of her chest as she gasps, her body arching off the mattress in spite of herself.

silence returns.

heavier now.

god, she thinks, one arm flung over her face.

she wishes she could forget the backseat. wishes her skin didn’t still tingle from the memory. wishes he wasn’t the only one who could crawl into her head and take up space like this.

she hates that she let herself go there. hates that it helped.

but most of all, she hates the part of herself that wants it again.

and so the next morning comes along like a blur.

the kind that clings to your skin and gums up your thoughts.

(y/n) wakes up tangled in sheets that feel more like a trap than comfort, body warm and limbs sore, not from anything real—just tension, that pulling-apart-inside-herself kind of tension. her eyes feel tired even though she slept, which feels like a cosmic joke.

she barely touches her breakfast. everything tastes off. her coffee goes cold on the desk while she tries to not think about last night. about her hand. about the way she couldn't stop thinking about his mouth. his voice. how her own body betrayed her for the millionth time.

and now, here she is, wandering campus like a ghost with twenty minutes to kill before her next class. and, of course—of course—she stumbles right into the one person she’s not in the emotional or hormonal headspace to deal with:

park fucking jimin.

leaning casually against a vending machine like it's a prop in some high-budget music video. his hair looks too good for someone who probably just rolled out of bed, silver chain glinting in the hallway lights, eyes scanning her like he's been waiting.

he straightens when he sees her, lips already curling into that shit-eating grin.

“hey, stranger,” he says, voice all syrup and suggestion. “miss me?”

she clenches her jaw. not today, satan.

he starts walking alongside her like they planned it, like they always walk to class together now, matching step for step with that annoying swagger of his, and it’s so casual, so persistent, it makes her want to scream.

“you know, if you’re gonna keep pretending nothing happened, at least try to not look like you’ve been thinking about me all morning,” he says under his breath, tone light, cocky.

“what the fuck is your deal?” she snaps.

and then—god help her—without even realizing it, her hand closes around his wrist, yanking him forward toward the janitor’s closet just a few feet ahead. the hallway’s not empty, but no one’s really looking, so she drags him inside, slamming the door shut behind them, fluorescent light flickering dim and dramatic above.

jimin blinks, more intrigued than surprised.

“wow,” he breathes, leaning against the shelves with one brow raised. “aggressive.”

“you’re insufferable, park,” she hisses, one hand still fisted in the front of his hoodie.

he tilts his head, smug, eyes glinting.

“and yet you’re the one who pulled me into this closet, naughty girl.”

their faces are just inches apart now. the air thick between them. her pulse flares in her throat, louder than the distant sound of footsteps outside.

he leans forward just a little more, enough for his breath to ghost against her cheek.

“starting to think you like me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, infuriatingly gentle.

“in your dreams,” she mutters, though her hand still hasn’t let go.

“oh, baby,” he grins, “you have no idea.”

her brain shuts off before her pride can catch up.

the only thing she registers is heat—white-hot, no-logic, reckless heat—and her fingers knotting in his hair, tugging hard like she wants to punish him and claim him in the same breath. jimin doesn’t even flinch; in fact, he groans like he’s been waiting for this, starving for it, and then they’re colliding like a match to gasoline.

their lips crash—messy, furious, desperate.

it’s not sweet. it’s not romantic. it’s teeth and tongue and frustration, all those near-touch moments exploding into something they can’t take back.

his hands are everywhere, greedy on her waist, thumbs pressing bruises into her hips through her clothes as he backs her up. one quick motion and he flips their positions, and suddenly it’s her back hitting the wall with a quiet thud—his thigh nudging between hers, his lips dragging down to her jaw like he wants to ruin her, here and now.

“fuck,” he breathes, nose brushing her skin. “you taste like trouble.”

she bites back a moan, hands sliding beneath the hem of his hoodie, fingers skating over hot skin. this wasn’t supposed to happen again. she told herself that. swore it.

but now his mouth is back on hers and she’s arching into him like he’s oxygen.

when they finally pull apart, panting, lips swollen, his fingers still curled around her hipbone like he’s anchoring himself, she’s the first to speak—voice low and wrecked.

“we said we weren’t doing this again.”

“you said that,” he grins, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. “i never agreed.”

she’s silent for a beat, pulse thunderous in her ears.

“…we can’t keep doing this, jimin.”

he leans back just a fraction, cocky as ever but something softer flickering beneath it.

“then stop pulling me into closets.”

she rolls her eyes but doesn’t push him away.

not yet.

“so, tell me baby girl…” his voice is a rasp, low and sinful against the curve of her throat, the breath of it ghosting over her skin like a brand. “what’s it gonna be?”

her will? shattered. dignity? already hanging by a thread since the moment she tugged him into this cramped supply closet with fluorescent lights buzzing above like a warning. she should’ve stopped this. should’ve walked away.

but her thighs are clenching around his, hips tilting helplessly into the friction he’s giving her with barely any effort, and his hand is sliding up her back under her shirt like he already knows she’s done fighting.

her fingers twist in the collar of his hoodie, dragging him impossibly closer until his body’s flush against hers, chest to chest, breath mingling.

“just…” she breathes, the word hitching when he shifts his thigh just right, “…don’t try to make it a thing. it’s not.”

he laughs, laughs, that smug, infuriating chuckle vibrating against her collarbone like he’s absolutely thriving off her unraveling.

“baby, you’re grinding on my thigh and telling me this isn’t a thing?” he teases, one hand slipping down to grab a fistful of her ass, rocking her just a little harder against him.

a soft sound escapes her throat—half moan, half curse—and she glares at him, nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

“you’re such an asshole.”

he leans in, lips brushing her jaw, smug and warm and terrible.

“and yet, here you are. again.”

her mouth opens, maybe to argue, maybe to deny, maybe to call him something worse—but then he moves his leg just right again and whatever thought she had dies on her tongue.

her head tips back, hand fisting in his hoodie like she hates how good this feels.

she tells herself one more time. just this once. she’ll indulge the ache, let him give her the relief she swears she doesn’t need. and then she’ll get out before it means anything.

easy.

except they both know there’s nothing easy about the way they can’t seem to stay away.

they move in sync like they’ve done this a thousand times before—like their bodies have memorized each other already, which is insane because technically this is only the second time, and yet… the way they stumble together, mouths still tangled, hands feverishly tugging at fabric and skin, you'd think they’d been dancing around this fire for years.

he walks her backward blindly, bumping into a half-dead mop and an abandoned box of old test tubes before her back hits the edge of the desk shoved into the far corner. his hands grip her thighs, warm and certain, and with barely a word he lifts her with ease, seating her on top like she belongs there.

her skirt has ridden up from the motion, flowy and far too tempting, his palms ghosting up her bare thighs beneath it like he’s approaching something holy.

she hisses a breath between her teeth, spine arching slightly when his thumbs press into the sensitive skin just above her knees, gliding higher with every second.

"you're gonna ruin me in this stupid closet," she mutters, half-dazed, looking at him like she hates him, like she wants him, like she might let him ruin her all over again anyway.

he smirks, standing between her legs, his chest rising with a breathless kind of hunger, lips swollen, eyes impossibly dark.

“baby girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth against hers, “you already look ruined.”

her nails dig into his shoulders and she kisses him again, like she’s punishing him for being right.

his hands finally slip under her skirt properly this time, finding the place she needs him most. she bites back a sound, burying her face into the crook of his neck, and he swears under his breath, voice gritty with want.

they’re reckless and messy and completely doomed, but right now? right now, nothing else matters but the way her legs wrap around his hips and the heat pooling between them.

"just be quick, i have class next period," she breathes out, fingers already at the button of his jeans like she’s been waiting for this moment way longer than she’ll ever admit.

"mm, yeah?" he murmurs, voice rough, hands sliding beneath her skirt with no pretense this time. "gonna let me fuck the attitude out of you before you go learn about... whatever it is you pretend to care about in that lecture?"

"shut up," she snaps, but her voice lacks bite—too breathy, too desperate. her thighs twitch as his fingers graze over the soaked fabric between her legs. he huffs out a laugh, low and triumphant, pushing her underwear aside like they’re a mere formality.

“god, you're so wet,” he mumbles, more to himself than to her, dragging a finger along her center just to feel how soaked she already is for him.

she closes her eyes for a second, jaw tight, cursing herself internally. this was supposed to be a one-time mistake. it wasn’t supposed to live in her skin, under her fingernails, replaying itself in the silence of her dorm and in the middle of lectures.

he presses in closer, one hand bracing beside her, the other freeing himself without hesitation. her breath catches when she feels him—hot and hard against her inner thigh.

“wait—wait,” he mumbles, one hand flying down to his pocket, fishing around in the chaos of his denim until he pulls out the telltale foil packet. he holds it up between two fingers, brows raised, chest still heaving. "we really doing this?" he asks, a teasing edge to his voice but his eyes are serious, locked onto hers.

she’s already leaning back on her hands, legs parted just enough to answer that for him. “clearly,” she mutters, half breathless, half annoyed at herself. 

he tears the packet open with his teeth, all while smirking like the cocky bastard he is. “god, you’re hot when you pretend to hate me,” he says, rolling the condom on with practiced ease, low and slow and watching her eyes flicker down and back up like she’s not affected.

“i don’t pretend,” she throws back, but the way she shifts closer, needy and impatient, betrays her completely.

“sure,” he says, stepping in, one hand sliding behind her knee, the other helping her tilt her hips forward. “keep telling yourself that, baby girl.”

“just shut up and—”

and he’s already pushing into her, swallowing her words with a kiss so deep it leaves her dizzy.

he moves quick, like he’s got something to prove—hips snapping forward as his mouth drags a hot line down her jaw to her ear, voice smug and breathless all at once.

“told you you missed me,” he murmurs, right into the shell of her ear, grinning when she lets out a choked sound that definitely isn’t a denial. “you’re so fucking loud, baby… you want everyone out there to know you’re getting fucked by park jimin?”

her nails dig into his back instantly, eyes blown wide as she glares at him with half-lidded fury. “shut up,” she hisses, but it’s weak, pathetic, and ruined by the moan she barely manages to bite back when he thrusts deeper.

his teeth graze her earlobe, tongue flicking before he whispers again, voice darker now. “then you better be quiet,” he says, smug and slow like he’s savoring every second of her unraveling. “unless you want someone walking by to hear how wet you are for me. shit, you’re gonna get us caught.”

her hand flies to his mouth on instinct when he hits that one spot that makes her clench around him, her other grabbing the edge of the desk behind her like she’s holding on for dear life. he groans against her palm, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he pulls back just enough to watch her crumble.

outside, footsteps echo faintly, the muffled sounds of campus life continuing on while she’s stuck in her own personal chaos—hips jerking against his, skirt bunched around her waist, teeth sinking into her bottom lip just to keep from making another sound.

he leans in again, lips brushing over her cheek, whispering with that stupid grin still in place, “bet you’re gonna be thinking about this all lecture. squirming in your seat like a little brat.”

she doesn’t respond. not with words.

just with another needy roll of her hips that says she hates him almost as much as she wants him.

their foreheads press together, breaths tangled and shallow, like they’re trying to find some rhythm that isn’t just pure chaos. it’s dizzying—the tension, the friction, the way her fingers drag down the back of his neck and how his hand is anchored firm on her hip, grounding them both in the whirlwind they created.

her lip is caught between her teeth, eyes fluttering half-closed, lashes casting soft shadows against flushed cheeks as she tilts her head just enough to meet his gaze. it’s the kind of look that shouldn't be allowed this close—something intimate in all the wrong ways, almost too honest for a hookup they keep swearing means nothing.

her hand moves between them, delicate and intentional, guiding him deeper, pulling herself closer to the edge of the desk, the edge of whatever the hell this is.

he curses under his breath, his hands flexing on her thighs like he’s barely keeping it together. “fuck, baby,” he rasps, voice strained. “you trying to ruin me?”

she breathes out a laugh that turns into a moan, her forehead still against his, lips barely brushing like she might kiss him again—or maybe just needs the contact to stay grounded. “thought you already were,” she whispers, hips rising to meet his with each push, each grind that sends another ripple of heat down her spine.

he pulls back just enough to look at her, their noses brushing, pupils blown. there’s a hint of something in his eyes—cocky, sure, but maybe a little too tender for a boy who swears this is nothing.

but she doesn’t let herself look too long. instead, she rolls her hips again, biting back a gasp, tugging at his shirt like it’s going to keep her from falling apart completely.

outside, the world keeps spinning. but inside the janitor’s closet, it’s just them, breathing each other in like they’re both trying to pretend this doesn’t mean everything.

the warning bell blares down the hallway just as she tightens around him, her face buried in the crook of his neck, teeth pressing into her bottom lip to muffle the sound that still manages to escape as a broken moan. her whole body shudders, her grip on his back turning bruising, and he’s right behind her—biting out her name like a curse and a confession as he comes, buried deep, the condom catching everything, thankfully—though neither of them had said a word about it when he put it on, the motion all muscle memory in the dark rush of it all.

his forehead drops to her shoulder, chest heaving, arms trembling slightly from holding himself upright, both of them clinging to each other like they’ve got anything figured out. there’s only the sound of their panting breaths now, mingled and shallow, a silence filled with nothing and everything.

“jesus christ,” she exhales, blinking up at the ceiling, still half-dazed, still trying to remember what the hell she was thinking pulling him in here in the first place.

“you say that like you didn’t just make me see god,” he mutters against her skin, lips brushing her shoulder, the cockiness dulled only by how out of breath he still is.

she laughs, more incredulous than amused, hand sliding into his hair to push him off her shoulder. “get off,” she says, not even really mad, just… done.

he groans dramatically but obliges, stepping back just enough to carefully dispose of the condom—because for all his chaos, park jimin is still annoyingly responsible. she fixes her skirt quickly, cheeks still hot, her whole body feeling wrung out.

outside, they can hear voices—students rushing to class, lockers slamming shut, someone shouting about being late.

he looks at her with that maddening glint again, like they didn’t just almost get caught mid-thrust on top of a dusty desk. “same time next week?” he teases, tilting his head.

“you’re disgusting,” she mutters, shouldering past him to crack open the door.

“you didn’t say no, though,” he calls after her, voice smug.

she doesn’t turn around. doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

but her smirk is undeniable.

—

and so it becomes a thing—no, not a thing, god forbid anyone ever call it that—but a routine. chaotic, impulsive, and entirely unsustainable, but a routine nonetheless.

monday? janitor closet.

wednesday? a suspiciously long "coffee break" at a near-empty study room on the second floor of the library.

friday nights? depending on the chaos of the week, she’s either pressed up against the backseat window of jimin’s car again or slipping out of her dorm after sora falls asleep to end up at his apartment—hood up, hair messy, pretending she’s just out for snacks if anyone asks.

and it should feel transactional by now—detached. like just bodies moving the way they know how to. but the truth is, they’ve gotten good at this. too good.

they know what makes the other crumble. what to whisper. what to bite. how to push until the other snaps.

and the worst part? the more they do this, the harder it is to pretend they don’t care.

especially when he texts her again on a thursday night.

[park jimin 🐣]: you up? don’t make me beg, baby. i got that playlist you like on repeat.

she rolls her eyes. groans into her pillow. she's alone again—sora is sleeping at her boyfriend’s place for the second night in a row—and the silence of the room is taunting her. she looks at her phone, thumbs hovering, trying not to grin at the stupid little "🐣" next to his name.

she doesn’t need to go. she shouldn't. it’ll only make things worse. the longer this goes, the more tangled it gets. but god—her chest clenches a little at the idea of being near him again. and her body? her body is already making the decision for her, warmth pooling in her stomach, anticipation prickling under her skin.

she bites her lip, taps out a reply, and then erases it.

then writes a new one.

[you]: you literally have a girl on speed dial. why me.

a pause.

[park jimin 🐣]: ’cause you’re the only one who knows how to ruin me right. doors unlocked. i’ll be waiting. don’t wear underwear.

her mouth drops open a bit at the last message, heat flaring up her neck. "fuck you," she mumbles under her breath, already slipping off the bed to grab her keys, hoodie, and curse the way her heart races just thinking of seeing him again.

and the worst part?

she's smiling.

and so she goes.

grumbling under her breath the whole time, hoodie tugged low, hands buried in her pockets like she isn’t marching right into the lion’s den. like her whole body isn’t already thrumming with anticipation, that annoying flutter in her chest doing acrobatics the closer she gets to his place.

the walk is short, way too short.

her feet should’ve turned in the other direction.

but they don’t.

by the time she’s climbing the stairs to his apartment, it’s not even nerves—just electricity. tension. that unspoken thread that's been pulling her toward him for weeks now, winding tighter with every look, every smirk, every shared breath between lectures.

she doesn’t knock.

he told her not to.

when she opens the door, it’s warm inside, soft music already playing—something moody and sultry, like he’s trying to be subtle about how badly he wants her. he’s shirtless, sprawled across the couch, sweatpants hanging too low, remote in one hand and a cocky smile blooming on his lips the moment he sees her.

“you listened,” he says like it’s a victory, head tilting lazily. “you’re not wearing any, are you?”

she shrugs, locking the door behind her, pretending she doesn’t feel that heat creeping up the back of her neck. “guess you’ll have to find out.”

he sits up slowly, eyes raking over her like she’s a gift, like he’s been counting the minutes since her last text. “so generous tonight.”

“shut up,” she says, crossing the room in steady steps. “this isn’t a date.”

“never said it was,” he grins, legs already parting so she can slot herself between them, his hands tugging at the hem of her hoodie. “but if it was… you’d be the hottest date i’ve ever had.”

“you’re such a dick, park.”

he leans in, voice husky against her jaw. “you’re here though, aren’t you?”

and just like that, she’s folding into him, his mouth already trailing heat down her neck, her hands tangling in his hair.

there’s no pretending here. not tonight.

the tension snaps, and the rest of the night unravels exactly how they both wanted it to. raw. messy. addictive.

and neither of them says it, but this feels dangerously close to something.

and god does that terrify her.

but there’s something different tonight. something unspoken in the way his mouth lingers at her neck—not just desperate, not just needy. softer. slower. like he’s trying to remember her skin. like he wants her to remember this.

her breath catches before she can stop it.

she hates how easy it is for him to read her.

"don’t start acting like you care,” she whispers, almost to herself, but his hands are already cupping her waist under the hoodie, thumbs stroking slow circles like he’s trying to soothe something he can’t name.

he doesn’t respond. not with words.

just lets himself be pushed back into the couch, lets her take control—because she always does when she wants to forget. wants to remind herself that this is about lust, not him. that her fingers shaking at the hem of his sweatpants are just nerves, not longing.

she sinks to her knees between his legs, hoodie sliding up her thighs. her fingers hook around his waistband like muscle memory, and god, the way he’s looking at her—eyes heavy, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s already got him undone—it makes her heart stutter.

“you sure you don’t wanna call this a date?” he murmurs, voice a little wrecked.

she glares up at him, face flushed, fingers pausing at his waistband.

“say that again and i’ll bite.”

he smirks—broad and smug, head tilting back against the couch like he’s already picturing it.

“tempting.”

and she hates how it makes her grin.

hates that he notices.

hates that he's the one person who can make her feel like this—wanting and wanted at the same time.

but for now, she lets herself fall.

lets the heat in her gut take over.

lets his breathy curses and eager fingers write the rest of the night.

and tells herself, again, this doesn’t mean anything.

even though every part of her already knows it does.

so she takes her time—god, too much time.

her hand moving with that slow, torturous rhythm, dragging along the length of him like she’s sculpting him from memory. delicate, deliberate. she watches him like she’s trying to memorize every reaction, every twitch of muscle, every breath that stutters in his throat.

“baby,” he rasps, voice already ruined, “you’re gonna kill me.”

she hums, feigning innocence, lips ghosting along his inner thigh.

“what, this?” her grip tightens just slightly. one slow pull that makes his head fall back and his hips jerk up involuntarily.

“i’m just being nice.”

“that’s your definition of nice?” he pants, half-laughing, half-desperate. he’s gripping the cushions now like they’ve done something to him, thighs tense, trying not to just grab her and make her move already.

she grins, pleased with herself, dragging her thumb over the head of his cock, circling there with a featherlight touch that makes his hips twitch again.

“mhmm. trust me,” she purrs, eyes locked on his, “i could be way meaner.”

and he believes her.

god, he knows it.

because every time he thinks he has the upper hand, she flips the table with a look, a sound, a move that ruins him completely. and right now? with her on her knees, her lashes low, her touch calculated and slow and addictive?

he’s already gone.

“you’re the fucking devil,” he breathes out, hand twitching like he wants to bury it in her hair. but he doesn’t—not yet. not while she’s looking up at him like that, in control and thriving.

she leans in, kisses the inside of his thigh, teeth grazing skin—just enough to make him curse.

“maybe,” she whispers, lips brushing over him now. “but you’re the one who keeps coming back to hell.”

she takes him—slow, sinfully slow—like she’s savoring something rare, something expensive. the flat of her tongue slides along him first, warm and slick and mean in the way it doesn’t linger. he gasps, his whole body tightening under her like a taut wire, his head tipping back into the couch with a groan that punches straight out of his chest.

“fuck—”

it leaves him hoarse, almost breathless, hands gripping the edge of the cushion like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

she doesn’t even flinch, lips parting around him, teasing the tip before sinking lower, letting him in with a depth that makes his thighs shake.

his hips twitch once, reflexive—like his body’s begging without his permission—and she hums in warning, nails dragging lightly down the outside of his thigh. don’t test me, it says.

he knows better. he really, really does.

but she’s being wicked. she’s being wicked, and it’s driving him insane. her mouth is warm, too warm, her pace maddeningly slow, suction deliberate and just shy of messy. the sounds she makes around him have his breath hitching in his throat, and the way she looks—eyelids heavy, one hand curling around the base of him, the other pressing gently into his hip to keep him grounded—is too much and not enough all at once.

he lets his head loll to the side, one hand twitching like he wants to reach for her. maybe he wants to push her hair out of the way just to see better. maybe he wants to hold her there, not out of force, but because he needs to hold something.

his voice breaks the silence, low and ragged:

“jesus christ, you’re gonna ruin me.”

and when she pulls back just far enough to lick her lips and say, “that’s kinda the point, baby,”

he knows he’s already wrecked.

he pulls her up with a grip that borders on desperate, hands digging into her waist like he’s been starving for her. she giggles breathlessly, about to make some clever remark, but he cuts her off by crashing his mouth to hers—tongue greedy, tasting her, tasting himself, and not giving a damn about it.

it’s messy. it’s hot. it’s the kind of kiss that steals reason.

her arms wrap around his neck instinctively, pulling him closer like she wants to crawl inside him, and he moves with her, backing toward his bedroom in a stumbling, heated mess.

they don’t break apart, not for a second.

her shirt get tugged off over her head, as he kicks the door open. socks are discarded like an afterthought, one of them flying god knows where. his fingers fumble with the clasp of her bra, finally managing it with a muttered “fuckin’ finally,” and she laughs into his mouth before tugging his bottom lip between her teeth.

his knees hit the edge of the bed first, and they go down together, her landing on top of him with a gasp that turns into a moan when his hands slip under the curve of her ass.

the room is dim, painted in shadows and the heat radiating off them like static. they’re both flushed, half-naked, panting into each other’s mouths with every kiss, and when he flips them suddenly—pressing her into the mattress, his body fitting perfectly between her thighs—it doesn’t feel like a fuckboy thing anymore.

it feels like want.

raw.

real.

and almost dangerous in how much it’s starting to mean.

and the worst part?

neither of them’s ready to admit it.

his hand fumbles inside the nightstand drawer, already so used to the motion it’s second nature by now—pull, tear, roll—but before he can even unwrap it, she plucks the condom from his hand with a look in her eyes that makes his pulse stutter. a quiet little smirk curves her lips, all confidence and silent challenge.

“let me,” she says, not really asking.

his breath catches when her fingers brush against him—slow, teasing, maddening. the wrapper is discarded in a blink and her touch is precise, practiced, sliding the condom down over him with torturous ease. he curses under his breath, head tipping back against the pillow, fingers gripping at the sheets like he might lose his mind if she doesn’t—

—and then she moves.

shifting on her knees, she turns, giving him her back as she settles over him. her skirt rides up further, and her bare thighs bracket his hips, flushed and glowing in the low light. she doesn’t sink down immediately—no, of course not. she takes her time. dragging it out. one hand behind her for balance on his thigh, the other guiding him as she slowly, slowly lowers herself onto him.

his hands shoot to her hips, jaw slack, an incredulous sound caught in his throat.

“fuck,” he groans, voice strained like it’s being torn out of him. “you’re gonna kill me.”

and maybe she is—because the view is insane, and the way she moves? deliberate, fluid, her back arching just enough to drive him wild.

she glances over her shoulder, her eyes lidded and lips parted.

“shut up,” she breathes, hips starting to roll. “you’ll survive.”

but god—will he?

his mouth goes dry watching her—completely, devastatingly, ruined by the sight. her hair spills down her back in soft waves, swaying with every precise roll of her hips. her spine curves beautifully, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, like she planned this.

and she probably did.

her head turns just enough for her to look at him over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lips parted with a breathless little moan. that smirk is still there—smeared now with something darker, needier—and it’s so smug he could lose it.

“like that?” she asks, voice airy and knowing, one brow raised. she already knows the answer, obviously. she’s just making him say it.

his grip tightens on her hips, barely hanging on, knuckles white. “you’re evil,” he pants, his voice strained and rough, “so evil.”

she laughs—a soft, wicked thing—and moans again, dragging her hips in a slow, taunting circle that makes both of them shudder. she’s so warm, gripping him just right, fluttering every time she sinks down to the base, like her body’s as into this as she pretends not to be.

“then why do you keep calling me over?” she throws back at him, another roll, another moan, one hand sliding up to push her hair over her shoulder again.

“because i’m stupid,” he groans, “and you’re—fuck—insane.”

“mm,” she hums, tipping her head back now, lips parted wider. “glad we’re on the same page.”

and then she drops down harder, hips smacking against him with a loud slap and he chokes, his nails digging into her skin like a silent prayer. and the worst part? her laugh that follows.

because she knows—she knows he’s already gone.

her leg slides up slowly, foot planting on the mattress for better leverage, and god—he feels it. deep. the new angle makes her gasp, her back arching just slightly as her fingers dig into the sheets on either side of her thighs for balance.

“oh—” she breathes out, surprised, satisfied, smug all at once, “there it is.”

jimin curses under his breath, hands flying to her hips again as she rocks down, grinding right where it makes her whimper. she rolls her hips in that angle again, a little slower this time, testing the friction, and she shudders when it hits perfectly again.

he watches her from below, fully wrecked, completely mesmerized by the way her body moves—like she’s trying to ruin him on purpose. which… she probably is.

"you like that?" he manages, his voice low, a rasp barely holding on. "mm, of course you do. look at you."

she shoots him a look over her shoulder, smug and flushed, sweat already beading at her temples. “don’t talk,” she murmurs, breath hitching as she does it again, deeper this time, the sound of her skin on his echoing softly through the room. “just… take it.”

“god,” he growls, hands sliding up her back like he’s not sure where to touch first, “you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

she smiles, that wicked little smile again, completely in control.

“that’s the idea.”

she doesn’t even mean to let go like that—doesn’t plan on it, doesn’t brace herself—but it hits so suddenly, so completely, that all she can do is ride the wave.

jimin’s name falls from her lips like a prayer and a curse, drawn-out and broken as her thighs tighten around him, trembling hard enough that it makes her hips stutter. she grips the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring her to earth, forehead dropping forward with a choked breath.

her walls pulse around him, soaking and snug, and he feels it all.

“fuck—baby…” he hisses through clenched teeth, jaw tightening as he bucks up into her, losing his rhythm and any remaining sanity.

she’s still moving, slow and instinctive, chasing the last traces of pleasure. the slick sound between them only gets wetter, more shameless, her thighs trembling with each little shift of his hips that makes her twitch.

and then he’s gone too.

he lets out a strained groan, hands locked around her waist, holding her in place as he thrusts up once, twice—deep and desperate—before he stills completely, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as he finishes, unraveling beneath her with a helpless growl.

they stay like that for a second. wrecked. breathless. the only sounds left are the heavy inhales, the soft creak of the bed springs, and the messy heartbeat in both of their ears.

she leans forward just slightly, back still arched, hair clinging to her skin.

“…well,” she pants, eyes still half-closed but lips curling faintly, “that was—”

“don’t say it,” he warns, voice gravelled and wrecked.

she snorts, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “—educational.”

he groans like she’s stabbed him, but his hands don’t leave her waist. not yet.

his tongue moves with a kind of practiced cruelty—confident and devastating, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and loves watching her squirm because of it. every flick, every slow circle, every sudden dip has her gasping, thighs twitching around his head.

the obscene wet sounds echo off the walls of his room, loud and shameless in the quiet aftermath of their earlier frenzy. it’s filthy, the way he licks into her—slurping noises paired with the soft, involuntary please she breathes out without realizing.

her hand flies to his hair, gripping tight, anchoring herself. “fuck,” she hisses when he flattens his tongue and drags it slowly upward, his hands now firm on her hips, holding her still even as she tries to ride his face with every roll of her pelvis.

his groan vibrates against her, and she feels it everywhere.

“so loud for me,” he says with a smug sort of murmur, his voice muffled against her, breath hot and humid. “you’re gonna make me think you like me or something.”

she throws her head back with a frustrated laugh, the kind that comes right before another moan slips out. she hates how good he is at this—hates how her body gives away everything she refuses to say.

“shut up,” she pants, yanking gently at his hair, but she doesn’t push him away. not even close.

in fact, she pulls him closer.

the knocking turns into pounding—loud, insistent, angry.

“what the fuck,” she mutters breathlessly, sitting up and scrambling to grab her clothes from where they’d been haphazardly discarded on the floor. her legs are still shaky, her head still spinning, and now she’s trying to pull her shirt over her head while catching her breath and not thinking about how close she was. again.

jimin curses low under his breath, dragging on a pair of sweats and tossing her the hoodie closest to him, which smells like him in the most annoying way possible. he runs a hand through his hair, already halfway to the door, jaw clenched.

“stay here,” he says, not even looking back as he walks down the hall.

“yeah, that’ll go well,” she mutters, fixing her hair in the reflection of his TV screen, still flustered and pissed off.

he opens the door with that casual swagger he always has—like he’s too cool to be surprised—but the smirk dies instantly when he sees Rowan standing there, arms crossed, face thunderous.

“oh,” jimin says flatly, blocking the entrance with his body. “rowan. didn’t know you were stopping by.”

“clearly,” she snaps, eyes narrowing. “who’s here?”

“no one,” he lies without flinching, but his eyes betray a flicker of guilt.

rowan tries to push past him but he stays firm in the doorway.

“move, jimin.”

“no.”

“why not?”

“because I don’t owe you that anymore.”

that makes her pause—just for a second—but then her jaw tightens. “so you are screwing around. you could’ve just said you weren’t interested anymore instead of ghosting me like a child.”

meanwhile, from down the hall, (y/n) tiptoes closer, barefoot, hoodie too big on her, peeking around the corner just as she hears the tone of rowan’s voice rise.

“wow,” she mutters under her breath, biting her lip. she knows she shouldn’t be listening. she knows. but something about hearing another girl refer to him like he was hers stings.

jimin sighs, running a hand down his face. “i wasn’t trying to ghost you, i was trying to avoid this—you showing up uninvited, assuming there’s still something going on.”

“so there isn’t?”

he hesitates. the worst possible moment to hesitate.

rowan scoffs. “you know what? save it, park. i hope she’s worth it.”

and she storms off, letting the door swing shut behind her.

jimin leans against it for a second, exhaling slowly. “fuck.”

he turns—and sees (y/n) standing in the hallway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

she doesn’t look mad exactly. but she does look... disappointed.

“so that’s your usual type, huh?” she says quietly, no venom in it. just curiosity wrapped in sarcasm.

he blinks. “i didn’t ask her to come.”

“yeah, but you didn’t tell her to stop, either.”

and with that, she turns around, heading back toward the bedroom—grabbing her bag off the floor.

“(y/n),” he calls after her.

“don’t,” she cuts him off, voice calm but distant. “you don’t owe me anything, right? just like you told her.”

he swallows hard, watching her leave, and for the first time in a while, jimin isn’t sure what to say.

quietly, always. cigarettesuga

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀sweet like home ୨ৎ ( bangtan )

・summary in which they fall for someone short, soft, and full of fire—an american girl with trinidad & tobago roots who teaches them joy, rhythm, and the kind of love that feels like celebration.・genre fluff / slice of life / domestic daydreams

✸⠀⠀REQUEST⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ Hello my friend, I hope that you are having a good day! 😊 Well, For my first request, I wanted to see if you could do a headcanon with BTS x short black!reader (Short meaning like 5’2 in height and who’s from America with Trinidad and Tobago Caribbean roots/culture which includes the accent,food and of course Soca Carnival) who they date, want to marry and have children with in the future? ( You can choose how many kids each of them should have!)🐦‍🔥🌺🏝️🍹

masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he noticed her before she noticed him. not because of her height—though the contrast between their sizes was comically cute—but because of her presence. she had that thing he could never quite describe. she’d walk into a room and hold it without effort, confidence in her step, fire in her eyes, that Caribbean lilt in her voice like a verse he wanted to memorize. she said his name once—“namjoon”—drawn out, playful, a little teasing, and he thought about it for days. he didn’t know it yet, but his whole soul had already leaned in.

៹⠀he respected her roots with quiet devotion. he asked questions, but only after listening. he read about Carnival, watched documentaries on Trinidadian independence, tried to understand the complex legacy behind her joy. when she cooked for him—callaloo, pelau, or her family's version of mac pie—he ate like it was sacred. he loved watching her cook, music playing, hips swaying, voice humming along to soca. he’d press kisses to her shoulder while asking, “can you teach me that one?” Not just the recipes—the meanings.

៹⠀he was weak for how small she was next to him. he’d wrap his arms around her and cover her completely, chin on top of her head, hands always moving—stroking her curls, tracing patterns on her back, gripping her waist when she teased him for being too soft. she’d pull him onto the couch during storms and narrate her favorite Carnival memories, eyes sparkling, voice animated, feet in his lap. he loved that she was fire and comfort all at once. he once called her his “favorite contradiction.” she rolled her eyes but kissed him anyway.

៹⠀he brought up marriage like it was a mutual idea they’d always had but hadn’t said out loud yet. “if we got married, would you want to do it here or back home?” he asked one night while folding laundry, and when she said “home, always,” he just nodded. he wanted the whole thing—the music, the steelpan, the feathers, the street dancing, the sweat and the color and the soul. he said they could write their own vows in a mix of patois and Korean, and she laughed, teasing, “you better pronounce mine right.” he promised to practice.

៹⠀he wanted two kids. maybe three, if they had her energy. he said he wanted his kids to feel anchored—to their culture, their language, their rhythm. he wanted them to grow up with loud music, loud laughter, and two parents who danced in the kitchen like no one was watching. sometimes he’d watch her braid her niece’s hair, fingers quick and gentle, and he’d imagine a daughter with her eyes asking him about poetry. “i’d be useless,” he joked. “she’d have me wrapped around her finger.” she already had him wrapped, if he was honest.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he fell fast. like, embarrassingly fast. she was tiny, bold, all cheekbones and heat, her accent smooth as honey and twice as addictive. she called him “sweet face” in passing once, and he short-circuited. from that day on, he was hopeless—following her around with that wide, dopey smile and throwing his worst pick-up lines just to hear her laugh. he’d bend down dramatically to match her height, hand over his heart, saying, “how does someone so small take up so much of my brain?”

៹⠀he was obsessed with her culture. he took doubles so seriously, he made a whole rating system in the Notes app. he'd beg her to cook bake and shark like it was a national emergency. she made fun of him for crying over pepper sauce, but he insisted it was “emotional tears.” he loved watching her talk about Trinidad—voice animated, hands moving, stories flowing. he swore that watching her dance to soca was better than any concert he’d ever performed in. she teased him for being too stiff, but he got better with time. (he practiced in secret.)

៹⠀he couldn’t get over how perfectly she fit under his chin. he made it a thing—hugging her from behind when she cooked, tucking her under his arm on the couch, insisting she sit in his lap in crowded spaces. he was annoyingly in love with her attitude, her snark, the way she’d pop off at him in patois when he got on her nerves. she’d mutter “this tall man really playing games today” under her breath and he’d be delighted. he said being yelled at by her was an honor.

៹⠀he proposed on a beach in Tobago after Carnival. not during the event—after, when the crowds were gone and the air was still heavy with music. it was private, just the two of them, feet in the sand, leftover glitter in her hair. he pulled out the ring without a speech, just a soft, “I don’t want a life without you.” he insisted on a wedding that was half traditional, half vibes. he wanted a big party. he wanted music that made people cry. he wanted to wear pink. she said he was insane. she still said yes.

៹⠀he wanted two kids. a boy and a girl. “you name the first one, I name the second,” he said like it was a fair deal. he imagined family trips to Trinidad for Carnival, his daughter in sparkly wings, his son banging on steel drums. he wanted to raise them loud and confident, like their mother. sometimes he stared at her while she braided her hair, tiny gold hoops catching the light, and thought: this is the kind of beauty that deserves to be passed down. and god, he wanted to help her do it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he didn’t fall for her all at once. it happened slowly—first in the way her laugh rang out across a room, unfiltered and magnetic, then in the way she moved through the world like she belonged to every space she entered. she was small, barely reaching his shoulder, but she had presence. power. she’d look up at him with that knowing smirk and call him “sweet boy,” and it made something tighten in his chest every time. he’d pretend it didn’t get to him. it always did.

៹⠀he couldn’t get enough of the way she sounded. her accent made the most ordinary words feel charged, wrapped in a warmth he hadn’t known he needed. she’d talk about home while stirring a pot of pelau or prepping saltfish buljol, and he’d listen with his chin in his hand, nodding like he understood even when he didn’t. he’d hover near her in the kitchen, stealing tastes with his fingers, letting her scold him in Trini lingo he made her repeat so he could memorize it. he started carrying pepper sauce in his bag like it was nothing.

៹⠀he wasn’t big on public affection, but he’d always have a hand on her—pressed to her lower back, fingers hooked through hers, brushing over her thigh while she scrolled on her phone. he loved watching her dance when she thought he wasn’t looking—hips rolling to soca in the living room, oversized tee sliding off one shoulder, curls bouncing with every sway. she once taught him how to wine, laughing breathlessly when he got it all wrong, and he’d never been so in love with another human being in his life.

៹⠀he brought up marriage quietly. no fanfare, no big moment. just a soft “you ever think about getting married?” while they lay in bed one night, her ankle hooked over his thigh and his arm wrapped around her middle. he didn’t want a huge wedding. he wanted something that felt like them. he said he’d follow her to Trinidad in a heartbeat if she wanted to get married on the island, barefoot on the sand or lost in the crowd on Carnival Monday. he wanted to feel her joy like sunlight on his skin.

៹⠀he only wanted one kid, maybe two. something about the idea of being a dad scared him a little—but when he imagined them with her eyes and her laugh and her sharp tongue, it stopped being scary. he said he wanted a daughter first. someone small and fearless like her mother. he already knew what songs he’d play when rocking her to sleep, what camera he’d use to take her first photos. sometimes he watched his girl holding a baby at a family party, cheeks flushed, gold hoops catching the light, and he just knew. this was it. this was his whole future.

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he fell in love with her energy first. she was short, yes—barely reaching his shoulder—but she moved like a giant. loud, warm, expressive, always talking with her hands, always pulling people in like gravity. he watched her light up a room the way most people dream of doing. and when she looked up at him, all teasing and gold hoops and mischief, and called him “pretty boy,” he knew he was in trouble. in the best, most irreversible way.

៹⠀he threw himself into her culture the way he did everything—with full heart, full joy, full curiosity. he memorized the names of dishes after one bite: pelau, macaroni pie, bake and shark, corn soup after a long night out. he started adding hot sauce to things he definitely shouldn’t. he let her guide his hips at parties, taught himself to wine properly, even if it took a while. “i’m a dancer, but this is different,” he’d say, flushed and laughing, and she’d shake her head like he didn’t even know how good he looked moving with her.

៹⠀he teased her about her height constantly—picking her up just because he could, using her as his personal armrest, calling her “fun-sized” in the most loving voice imaginable. but he also treated her like royalty. opened every jar, kissed every inch of exposed thigh, pulled her into his lap in public like she belonged there. and she did. she’d fall asleep in the car and wake up with his jacket around her and her favorite soca song playing quietly through the speakers. he noticed everything.

៹⠀he talked about marriage like it was a given. not if, but when. he wanted the ceremony to be true to her—rooted, beautiful, full of soul. he said he’d wear whatever she wanted. “let it be yours,” he told her. and after? after, he wanted to follow her through the streets of Port of Spain, jumping up with her during Carnival, both of them glittered and laughing, dancing for no one but each other. it wasn’t the wedding—it was the after-party of their lives.

៹⠀he wanted four kids. loud ones. wild ones. kids that danced in the grocery store aisles and sang off-key and talked over each other at dinner. he wanted them to have her laugh, her fire, her sense of rhythm. he wanted them to grow up with soca in their blood and Korean lullabies in their ears. he practiced baby talk with strangers’ toddlers in public just to make her laugh. and when she caught him staring at a little girl once with soft eyes and a full smile, he just shrugged. “i want all of it. with you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he fell for her the way most people fall into rhythm—naturally, instinctively, before he even realized it. she was tiny, just a little thing, 5’2” on a good day, but she had energy that made her feel larger than life. he couldn’t stop staring the first time they met—her skin glowing under the sun, her voice all lilting vowels and playful edge. the way she moved when she laughed, the way she’d say “boy, behave yourself” when he flirted too hard. it undid him every time.

៹⠀he was enchanted by her roots. he asked so many questions, genuinely curious, always eager to learn—“what’s that dish called again?” “wait, how do you pronounce that?” he loved watching her cook, especially when she moved like her kitchen was a stage, hips swaying while she stirred bubbling pots of callaloo or fried up bake and saltfish with her bonnet on and music blaring. and god, the soca. she taught him how to dance with his hands on her hips and her voice in his ear whispering, “don’t fight the music, feel it.” he felt it everywhere.

៹⠀he was obsessed with the contrast between her softness and her fire. how she’d kiss him slow one minute, then roast him the next for being dramatic. how she’d stand on her toes and flick his forehead for teasing her about her height, only for him to melt when she nuzzled into his neck a second later. he’d let her fall asleep on his chest while they watched movies, one arm under her back, the other playing with her curls. he’d press a kiss to her temple and whisper, “you’re the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.”

៹⠀he talked about marriage all the time. in casual, dreamy hypotheticals. “what if we had our wedding in Tobago?” “do you think my mom would survive Carnival?” he didn’t want a wedding that felt cold or stiff—he wanted joy. he said the ceremony could be simple, quiet even, but afterward? he wanted a celebration. music in the streets, soca blaring, her dancing in full costume while he followed behind with glitter on his face and no shame in his heart. not part of the wedding—just part of their love.

៹⠀he said he wanted three kids. maybe four. he wanted them to speak both languages—Korean and English—with bits of patois sprinkled in just to drive him crazy. he wanted them to grow up knowing rhythm, knowing history, knowing love. he already had a lullaby playlist saved in his phone. he already talked to your belly even when there was nothing there yet. and when he held your niece in his arms, cradling her like she was something sacred, his voice softened into something only you would recognize. “one day,” he whispered. “one day, that’ll be ours.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he said she looked like a goddess the first time he saw her. not because of some grand outfit or perfect lighting—just the way she carried herself. short, yeah, but powerful. her voice had that smooth, musical cadence that made everything sound richer, like she was always mid-story. she laughed with her whole body, flirted with her eyes, and when she teased him in patois, he didn’t understand a word but felt every syllable. she touched his wrist when she said “you sweet, you know that?” and he knew he’d follow her anywhere.

៹⠀he was fascinated by everything she came from. he wanted to know it all—the names of her favorite street vendors, the songs she danced to growing up, the way her grandmother made callaloo. he’d sit in the kitchen and sketch her while she cooked pelau barefoot in one of his shirts, or record her explaining the meaning behind Carnival traditions like he was archiving magic. he learned to wine from watching her, copying her hips, then getting all flustered when she joined him, laughing, “boy, what you doing?”

៹⠀he was obsessed with her height. not in a teasing way—more in a devotional way. he’d kneel just to be eye level, wrap himself around her like a blanket, call her “pocket-sized storm” when she got mad. he carried her all the time—threw her over his shoulder, picked her up mid-kiss, spun her around the living room during slow songs. sometimes he’d just stare at her, chin on her shoulder, murmuring things like “you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen” until she’d whine for him to stop. he never did.

៹⠀he said he wanted to get married somewhere warm, somewhere alive. “Tobago,” she said, and he swore he saw sunlight in her eyes. he didn’t care how the ceremony looked—as long as it was hers. he wanted something soft, meaningful, surrounded by family. but when Carnival came, he said he’d match her costume for costume. feathers, color, gold on his skin, her hand in his. not a wedding outfit—just celebration. just joy. he said, “that’s how i want to love you. out loud.”

៹⠀he wanted one kid. maybe two, but definitely one. he said it like a wish—“i just want a little version of you.” he imagined lullabies sung in two languages, bedtime stories that blended Korean fables and Caribbean folklore, little hands learning to paint, to dance, to speak in rhythm. he wanted their child to know their history, to hear steelpan and feel it in their chest. he said their family would be a blend of art and joy and legacy. he already called her “home.” a baby was just the natural next verse in their love song.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀

៹⠀he noticed her the moment she walked in—not just because she was short (though her height made her adorably easy to spot in a crowd), but because she moved like someone who knew joy. there was something in the way she laughed, chest-deep and without apology, that made something shift in him. and when she spoke, her voice—warm and lilting with that unmistakable Caribbean cadence—wrapped around his senses like a melody. he was hooked before he even knew her name.

៹⠀he became obsessed with her food, almost embarrassingly so. the first time she made him curry goat with buss up shut, he actually moaned, mouth full and eyes wide like she’d cast a spell on him. from that day on, he followed her around the kitchen like a shadow, asking a million questions in a mix of half-English, half-Korean—“what’s that spice?” “why it smell like heaven?”—and when she taught him how to wine to soca music in their living room, he was bashful but determined. she caught him practicing in the mirror more than once, biting back laughter while he took it dead seriously.

៹⠀he never stopped teasing her about her height, especially when she was trying to reach something off the top shelf. he’d hold it out of reach just long enough to hear her curse under her breath, then hand it over with a smug smile and a kiss to the top of her head. in the mornings, he’d pull her into his lap while she drank coffee and hummed old calypso songs under her breath, pressing his face to her shoulder and murmuring that this—this—was his favorite part of the day.

៹⠀he brought up marriage one night when they were both tipsy, tangled together in bed with music playing low from her phone speaker. “you know I wanna marry you, right?” he said, voice low and sleepy, more truth than question. it wasn’t a proposal—not yet—but it was a promise. he let her take the lead with wedding talk, always nodding when she said, “it has to feel like home.” he wanted the carnival bands, the feathers and glitter, the sound of steelpan and the taste of sorrel wine on their tongues. he just wanted her—loud, laughing, radiant—on that road with him.

៹⠀he said he wanted two kids, maybe three. he imagined them bold like her, full of rhythm and mischief, tiny hands beating on pots and pans in the kitchen. he talked about teaching them to draw, to drum, to love loudly. he called her mama playfully before they were even trying, resting his palm on her belly after sex and whispering nonsense in her accent just to make her laugh. when he watched her cuddle his niece on video calls, something clicked into place. he didn’t just want that life—he needed it.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

lu's note heyyy just wanna say—i’m not black, and i’ve never had the honor of visiting beautiful trinidad & tobago. i did my best to research and be respectful with how i portrayed things, but i know that no amount of googling or youtube deep-diving can capture the full heart of a culture. so if anything felt off, i’m truly sorry. it’s never my intention to be insensitive—on the contrary, i loved this request so much and really wanted to make a little space where more of my readers feel seen and celebrated

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14 @belleilichil @poetryforthesad @lelewright1234

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀opposites don’t attract, they destroy⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀pjm⠀⠀) chpt. O3

pairing: fuckboy!park jimin x proud & stubborn!reader, slow-burn potential with softboy!namjoon x reader

genre: college!au, smut, angst, slow-burn romance, love triangle, situationship mess, emotional repression, she fell first/he’s falling harder

warnings: explicit sexual content — protected sex (condom mentioned but still be safe irl), brat taming kink, fingering (public-ish space), oral sex (f receiving), use of toys, dom!jimin energy, light degradation, a little rough, slight overstimulation, consensual power play, possessiveness, jealousy, emotionally confusing hookups, mentions of casual sex outside the situationship. also: toxic patterns, emotional whiplash, unresolved tension, and rowan being the obsessed hookup™.

word count: 14.1k

summary: things spiral after an unexpected interruption. (y/n) starts questioning everything with jimin — what it is, what it isn’t. but just when she tries to pull away, he makes it nearly impossible — especially when he knows exactly how to pull her back in. still, a part of her wants more, or at least different, and when sora introduces her to someone who’s everything jimin isn’t… she starts to wonder if maybe she’s been settling for chaos all along.

lu's note: chapter 3 is finally hereeeee after a while!! these two need to get their shit together for real. anyway, this chapter is long bc i wanted to make up for the time i left y’all without an update — i seriously got way too deep into their dynamic and couldn’t stop writing. things are spiraling, there’s angst, there's heat, and a certain dimpled man may just start shifting the game 👀 enjoy!!

masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀ ⠀ "he feels safe"

the next morning creeps in slowly, grey and uninvited, leaking through the blinds like a secret. (y/n) doesn’t get out of bed. not right away. she just lies there under her covers, eyes on the ceiling like it might offer her an answer she’s too tired to find herself. her phone buzzes somewhere on the nightstand. again.

she doesn’t look at it. she knows who it is.

jimin’s name has lit up her screen half a dozen times since last night—calls she didn’t answer, texts she left unread. she saw the last one pop up around two in the morning:

[park jimin 🐣]: are you okay?

like he had the right to ask.

and maybe he did. maybe she’s being dramatic. maybe it wasn’t what it looked like, some girl from his past showing up in the middle of their moment—but the thing is… there’s no their. there’s no us. there never was. she told herself that from the start.

so why does it sting so fucking much?

she rolls onto her side, tucking her hands under her cheek like it might keep her together. her throat feels tight. her stomach’s been turning since last night. she’d left without saying a word—no yelling, no scene. just grabbed her bag, shoved on her hoodie, and walked out of his apartment barefoot with her shoes in hand. she didn’t even slam the door.

maybe that’s what makes it worse. that she didn’t ask. didn’t demand an explanation. just left. because what would she have been fighting for, anyway?

she’s not his girlfriend. she’s not even someone he talks about out loud.

just a girl he calls over. a distraction. a routine. a body, warm and convenient and quiet.

and the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes—god, she’s been so dumb.

it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t some twisted, angsty, almost-love situation like she used to write stories about in high school. it was messy and addictive and full of every red flag she chose to ignore.

he flirted with other girls in front of her. he never looked at her like she was his. and she?

she kept acting like she didn’t care. laughing it off. letting it slide. climbing into his bed anyway.

was the sex good? yes. but sex doesn’t mean someone’s gonna hold your hand the next morning. it doesn’t mean they’ll choose you in front of other people. it doesn’t mean they’ll stop answering the door for old flames.

and she’s sick of pretending it does.

the phone buzzes again. she sighs. pulls the covers over her head like she’s sixteen again and wants the world to disappear.

maybe she romanticized it because she was lonely. maybe jimin made it easy. maybe she let herself want something more in all the empty spaces he wouldn’t fill.

and now she’s left with silence. and an ache in her chest she doesn’t know what to call. but she sure as hell isn’t calling him.

the door creaks open like it’s got something to say too, and (y/n) doesn’t even move.

“damn,” sora’s voice cuts through the fog of the room, bright and teasing, like usual. “somebody didn’t sleep well.”

(y/n) stays facedown on her pillow, groaning softly. “can you not.”

sora pauses by the door, toeing her sneakers off, and yeah—she knows. not the details, but enough. she’s been watching this slow-motion crash for a while now. best friends always do.

she sets a coffee down on the desk without asking if it’s wanted. “so. you wanna talk about it?”

there’s a beat. just the hum of the mini fridge and the click of sora’s rings against the plastic lid.

(y/n) doesn’t cry. not because it doesn’t hurt, but because she’s not even sure what she feels. it’s not heartbreak—it never got the chance to be that. it’s not betrayal, not technically. it’s more like… disappointment. in him. in herself. and a creeping kind of embarrassment that makes her want to peel off her skin and start fresh somewhere else.

she shifts slowly, pulling herself up to sit against the headboard, hoodie swallowing her frame. “yeah,” she finally says, voice rough. “yeah, I probably should.”

sora doesn’t push. she just pulls the desk chair around to face her, knees tucked up, eyes soft but steady.

and so (y/n) tells her. everything.

starting with the closet.

“it was two months ago,” she mutters, avoiding eye contact, eyes fixed on the swirling condensation of her coffee cup. “that day I was all pissed at him for messing around in class? I pulled him into the janitor’s room.”

sora blinks. “wait, you initiated?”

“don’t start,” she groans, but the smallest flicker of a smile curls at the edge of her mouth, already crumbling under the weight of her own choices. “I don’t even know what came over me. we were arguing and then I just… grabbed him. it spiraled after that.”

sora listens, quiet but alert, and (y/n) keeps going. the backseat. the texts. the way it became a routine, something unspoken, like a second language only they knew how to speak. how every time she tried to act unaffected, he’d crawl deeper under her skin—his stupid smirk, the way he touched her like she was his, even though he never said it out loud.

“it wasn’t just sex,” she admits softly. “i mean—it was, but it wasn’t. we had these… moments. you know? and I let it mean something. even though we both said it didn’t.”

sora sighs gently, shaking her head like she’s been waiting for this to come out.

“and then last night,” (y/n) swallows, “we were at his place, and it was like, actually good, soft almost. and then someone showed up.”

sora lifts a brow. “someone?”

“an ex-hookup. walked up to the door like she still had keys to his life.”

“ouch.”

“yeah,” she says, voice flat. “I didn’t ask questions. I just left.”

“and he’s been calling you?”

“nonstop.” she picks at her sleeve. “i haven’t answered. i don’t even know what I’d say. like… what do you even say when you realize you were just a filler between someone’s options?”

“you weren’t just that,” sora says firmly, but she doesn’t argue the facts. she knows (y/n) wouldn’t feel this way if jimin had made her feel chosen.and he never did.

“i think,” (y/n) says, quieter now, “i think I let myself believe we were something. and maybe i liked the idea of it more than what it really was.”

and that’s the part that hurts the most. not losing jimin. but losing the story she built around him in her head.

“so what now?” sora asks softly, the question sitting between them like a dare and a lifeline. she’s sipping her coffee, one leg crossed over the other, as if pretending this is just another morning. but they both know it’s not. it never is when it comes to jimin.

(y/n) exhales slowly through her nose, sinking further into the pillows behind her. “nothing,” she answers after a pause, voice even. maybe too even. “there’s nothing to do. he made it clear what this was from the beginning. and if that’s how he wants to keep playing it, then I’ll match his energy.”

she says it like it’s simple. like it doesn’t feel like peeling skin off bone to distance herself, even just a little. but she’s not going to let him have the satisfaction of thinking she’s spiraling. he might’ve gotten under her skin—fine. but she’s not about to let him know he stayed there.

“so you’re not gonna talk to him?” sora asks carefully, reading her like a book with the spine cracked wide open.

“no,” she replies, then amends, “well, not really.”

because she already has. already sent him one text—dry, short, boring as hell. sorry, was tired. fell asleep.a lie, of course. she’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling and the other half convincing herself not to cry about someone who never even promised her anything. but he didn’t need to know that.

she wants him to squirm a little. to overthink the silence. he’s used to girls crawling back. texting first. asking what they are. she won’t be that girl. even if it kills her, she’ll make him believe she’s over it. that she could drop him like a bad habit if she really wanted to.

“i’m not gonna be soft about this anymore,” she says, mostly to herself. “i was letting him in too much. giving him space he didn’t earn.”

sora hums. “you do have a pretty mean side. he’s not ready.”

“he doesn’t get nice girl me anymore,” she smirks without humor. “he gets bitchy, distant, unbothered me. if he wanted closeness, he should’ve acted like I was more than a convenience.”

it’s not a new game. she knows how to play cold. how to side-eye his flirting like it’s beneath her. how to brush past him in hallways like he’s just another warm body. it’s the version of her he fell for, ironically. now he gets it again—just with fewer orgasms and more emotional whiplash.

but beneath it all, there’s this tiny, gnawing truth: she still likes him. maybe more than she wants to admit. maybe more than she should. but she can’t tell him that. can’t give him the power to decide whether or not she’s worth more.

so instead, she tightens the grip on her own pride and puts her armor back on—lipgloss, smugness, silence.

she’ll make him miss her. not just her body, not just the mess they made together—but the way she laughed when she forgot to be guarded. the way she looked at him when she thought he might actually care. he’ll miss that softness once it’s gone.

and she’ll let him.

—----

monday’s breeze is too soft to matter, brushing through the quad like it’s trying not to disturb anyone. the campus is buzzing, students passing by with earbuds in and backpacks slung low, rushing toward lectures or dragging their feet toward midterms.

sora and (y/n) stroll somewhere in the middle of it all, iced coffees in hand, jackets barely zipped. the mood is easy—comfortable, even. sora’s talking about her boyfriend again, something about him nearly burning down his kitchen trying to “infuse” oil like some kind of youtube chef.

“i swear to god,” sora says, laughing, “he’s got the humor of a divorced forty-year-old and the culinary instincts of a frat bro.”

“and yet,” (y/n) teases, sipping her drink, “you’re still letting him reorganize your bookshelves and take you out for pasta.”

“listen, seokjin is hot and employed. those are rare resources in college ecosystems.”

(y/n) chuckles. she doesn’t hate hearing about them, honestly. they’re a weird pair on paper—sora’s chaotic brilliance and jin’s dry dad jokes—but they work. they’re affectionate without being clingy, stable without being boring. (y/n) has only had a handful of conversations with seokjin, but he’s always nice. warm. and most importantly, he shows up for sora without ever being asked.

she wonders, briefly, what that might feel like. to be wanted in the open.

but before she can spiral too deep into that question, a familiar voice slices through the crowd like a blade.

“hey…”

her spine stiffens.

jimin.

he appears out of nowhere, like he materialized out of her bad decisions, hoodie half-zipped, eyes locked on her and only her. he’s not even trying to look casual.

“um—can we talk?”

(y/n) blinks at him, eyebrows raised like he’s just said something in klingon. she glances at sora, then back at jimin, letting the silence drag for effect before deadpanning, “i was literally in the middle of a conversation.”

jimin doesn’t budge. “please. just for a second.”

he looks… off. like her coldness is finally hitting him somewhere he didn’t expect. good.

she steps closer, not in a flirty way—more like she’s examining something unfortunate she stepped on. she lifts her finger and presses it to his forehead, barely touching him.

“are you sick?”

he pulls back, brows furrowing. “what?”

“you’re acting weird.” she tilts her head, voice flat. “why would I want to talk to you?”

jimin looks genuinely confused now, caught between frustration and something softer he’s trying not to show. “because… we usually do.”

“do what?” she asks, tilting her head again, mock-sweet. “hook up? you can just say it, park.”

he flinches—just barely, but she sees it. and it’s satisfying in a low, petty way that she won’t apologize for.

“what do we even have to talk about?” she adds, stepping back beside sora, who’s sipping her drink like this is the best episode of a drama she didn’t know she was starring in. “seriously.”

“(y/n),” jimin starts, but there’s no follow-up. no smooth line. no apology. just her name sitting heavy in the air like maybe that’s supposed to mean something on its own.

but it doesn’t.

not anymore.

she gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and turns away. “have a good day, park.”

and she walks off with sora without looking back, her pulse ticking at her throat like a warning.

“okay but like,” sora says the moment they’re out of earshot, voice halfway between impressed and genuinely worried, “you didn’t just shut him down. you obliterated him. that was… art. i mean it. textbook.”

(y/n) just sips her coffee, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “he deserved it.”

“oh, totally. i’m just saying…” sora eyes her sideways, tone softening, “you okay?”

“yeah.”

“you sure?”

(y/n) shrugs. “I’m fine.”

sora hums. the kind of hum people make when they know you’re full of shit but they love you too much to call you on it directly. “because I know you,” she adds carefully, “and when you act like you don’t care, it usually means you care so much it’s physically painful.”

(y/n) stops walking just long enough to whip around and blink at her. “wow. did you take a psych elective this semester or something?”

“communication major, babe. i’ve been reading between your lines since freshman year.”

(y/n) rolls her eyes, and they start walking again, slower this time. she opens her mouth, probably to deflect again with some sarcastic retort about being totally unaffected by Park Fucking Jimin when she sees her.

across the hallway. shoulders squared. jaw set like she’s walking into a fight she’s been mentally rehearsing since last night.

rowan.

her heart drops somewhere behind her ribcage.

she looks just like she did standing in jimin’s doorway: annoyed, maybe a little defensive, like she has something to say and it’s only a matter of time before she finds the audience.

(y/n) falters mid-step, instinctively grabbing sora’s arm, leaning in close to whisper, “it’s her. the ex.”

sora’s eyes follow her line of sight, landing squarely on the girl striding past a bulletin board full of club flyers, hair tied up, expression tight.

“oh.” she straightens. “she looks… intense.”

“she showed up at his place last night. in the middle of everything.”

sora’s brows rise. “everything-everything?”

“everything.”

they both glance again. rowan hasn’t noticed them yet—or if she has, she’s pretending not to.

“think she’s gonna say something?”

“no clue,” (y/n) mutters, pulse ticking again. “but if she does, I’m not doing this. I’m not playing that game.”

“i believe you,” sora says, then gently adds, “even though you’re clearly losing your mind.”

(y/n) takes a deep breath through her nose, chin lifting. “not losing it. just momentarily misplacing it.”

but even as she says it, she can feel the crack forming in her façade.

because it’s one thing to pretend you’re over it when he’s the only one around to fool. it’s another thing entirely when the girl from his past is now walking the same halls, brushing past the same walls, maybe still carrying pieces of him that (y/n) thought she was starting to understand.

and it’s suddenly very, very clear: whatever this is between her and jimin— it’s nowhere near finished. but it might be about to unravel.

“ugh, i gotta run,” sora says, glancing at her phone with a sigh, the schedule app glowing with judgment. “ta’s gonna take attendance and i already used my fake sickness last week.”

“you and your tragic academic career,” (y/n) deadpans, pulling her hoodie sleeve over her hand and lightly smacking her arm. “go. be mediocre.”

sora smirks, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulder. “you sure you’re good?”

“i’m golden,” (y/n) lies with a smile.

sora doesn’t press further. just gives her a final look that says be careful, then jogs off into the slow-moving tide of students.

and then it’s just her. standing by herself under the wide-open quad sky. sipping her coffee. pretending she’s not emotionally bruised.

until she’s not alone anymore.

a presence sidles up beside her, calculated and cold like a shadow you don’t want to acknowledge. (y/n) doesn’t turn her head. not at first.

but the voice is unmistakable.

“so you’re the reason he’s been acting different.”

(y/n)’s lips curl before she even looks. slow, practiced, unbothered. she turns toward the voice, gaze gliding down and back up with pointed disinterest. rowan stands there with her arms crossed over her chest, lips pursed, like she’s already decided she’s got the moral high ground.

“you’re gonna have to be more specific,” (y/n) says calmly, eyebrow lifting. “a lot of people act weird around me.”

rowan doesn’t smile. “i’m talking about jimin.”

“oh.” she sips her drink, shrugs. “you could’ve just said that.”

“don’t play dumb with me. i know what’s going on between you two.”

“yeah?” (y/n) tilts her head, giving a once-over like she’s trying to decide whether she’s impressed or bored. “then you probably also know how it ended last night.”

that flickers something in rowan’s expression—tightens it, sharpens it.

“you really think this means something to him?” she snaps, taking a step closer.

(y/n) doesn’t flinch. if anything, she leans in a little, a cruel sort of softness in her voice now. “if it doesn’t, then why’d he ask you to leave?”

rowan opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

“look,” (y/n) continues, smiling now but it’s all teeth, “i don’t do the whole ‘mark your territory’ thing. if he’s yours, go ahead and claim him. tattoo your name on his forehead. but as long as he keeps calling me at night—well…” she steps past her, brushing her shoulder as she turns, “i’m just gonna keep having fun for a little longer.”

rowan stares after her, stunned into silence.

(y/n) doesn’t stop walking. doesn’t look back. her coffee’s almost empty, her heart’s pounding in her chest, but her face is unreadable.

and god, if she doesn’t love being the one who gets under everyone’s skin— even when she’s bleeding just beneath her own.

she makes it to class five minutes late, breath shallow from speed walking across campus, still slightly warm from her run-in with the ex. her hair’s a little messy, her coffee’s long gone, and her tolerance for bullshit is basically at zero.

and of course—of course—the only open seat is next to him.

park jimin sits there like he owns the row. sprawled out in that casual, cocky way of his, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, one knee bouncing like he’s got too much energy and nowhere appropriate to put it.

she slides into the chair without a word, slams her bag down harder than necessary, and doesn’t even look at him.

but she feels him smirk the second she’s close.

“you’re late,” he whispers.

“and you’re still talking,” she shoots back.

he chuckles under his breath, leaning just a little closer. “you missed the part where the prof said our midterm is online. you’re welcome.”

“oh, so now you’re doing public service?”

his lips part like he’s about to come back with something smug, but she cuts in before he can:

“by the way,” she whispers, still facing forward, eyes on the projector, “you should really keep your girlfriend in check.”

his body stills beside her. “rowan’s not my girlfriend.”

his voice is too quick, too sharp. too defensive.

she lets it simmer for a beat before letting the smirk curl at her mouth.

“yeah, well,” she says, keeping her voice low and biting, “i don’t think she got the memo. she looked about two seconds away from keying my face.”

he groans quietly, scrubbing a hand down his face. “i didn’t ask her to come over. she just showed up.”

“so did I,” she mutters. “difference is you actually wanted me there.”

that earns her a glance. one of those slow, heavy looks from the corner of his eye that lingers longer than it should.

she doesn’t return it. she can’t. not when she’s still pissed at herself for wanting this at all.

but god, she wants it. even now—especially now.

the professor’s voice drones on, something about behavioral economics and social theory, but she leans in just enough for only him to hear.

“hey…” she whispers like she’s asking something innocent.

he hums in reply, still staring at the screen.

“do you wanna hang out later?” she asks, so casually it could be mistaken for small talk. “you still owe me something.”

his head snaps slightly in her direction, and this time she does meet his eyes. deadpan. unreadable. but her gaze is heated.

he swallows hard, tongue running along the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to react. trying not to smile.

she hates herself a little in that moment. for wanting him. for wanting to be wanted by him. for feeling it in the pit of her stomach already, the tension pulling tight again like a rubber band ready to snap.

but if she’s going to let herself spiral, she’s at least going to look good doing it.

—----

they don’t even bother heading to their next period.

the air’s still cool and quiet, campus only half-awake, and they’re walking fast without saying anything. (y/n)’s a solid two feet ahead of him, arms crossed, jaw set, sunglasses on even though it’s barely 9 a.m.

jimin follows like he’s tethered to her, fingers twitching at his sides. his hair’s still a little tousled from class, and his hoodie’s too loose on him—but the tension rolling off him is tight. he’s not speaking, because he knows her. knows silence pisses her off more than flirting ever could.

they hit the edge of the parking lot, gravel crunching underfoot, the weight of everything unsaid between them suddenly too much.

the second they reach his car, he snaps.

one hand slams the door shut behind her before she can open it, the other catches her waist, spinning her around and shoving her up against the passenger side with a thud. the sunroof glass rattles with the impact.

his mouth crashes onto hers, bruising and breathless, all tongue and teeth and rage barely hidden under lust.

she gasps against him but doesn’t resist—no, she leans in, arms looping loosely around his neck like she’s bored of the whole thing already.

“i know you’re mad at me,” he breathes into her mouth, eyes flicking between hers. “you don’t have to pretend.”

“i’m not pretending,” she mutters, dragging her nails up the back of his neck, “you’re just not that interesting.”

he laughs. low. dark. the sound of someone who loves getting slapped and kissed in the same breath.

his hands slide up her sides, under her top, palms burning against her ribs. “you want me to fuck the little attitude out of you?” he murmurs, nose brushing hers.

“you think you can?” she shoots back, tone dry as hell, lips barely brushing his. “please.”

that has him grinning—something unhinged and gleaming with teeth. “you are such a brat.”

“and you’re obsessed with it,” she replies coolly, but her body’s already betraying her. she shifts against him, hips brushing his. “you like when I give you a hard time.”

“i like when you shut up.”

“then make me.”

his hand moves down to grip her thigh, hoisting it up against his hip, grinding in just enough to make her inhale sharply. but her face? her face stays unimpressed. lips parted, eyes heavy, a smirk tugging at the corners like she knows she’s got him wrapped around her finger—even now.

he looks wrecked already, forehead pressing against hers.

“get in the car,” he growls. “before I fuck you against the window.”

she slides off him like silk, flicks her sunglasses up to rest on her head, and opens the door without saying another word—her smirk doing all the talking.

the car hums low beneath them, tires rolling steady down the road, early morning sun creeping higher as the rest of the city slowly wakes. but inside jimin’s car? it’s anything but quiet.

the music is low, bass thumping soft under the dashboard. one of those moody R&B playlists he pretends he doesn’t keep just for this kind of thing. the windows are cracked. the air’s warm. and his hand is on her thigh.

(y/n) sits pointedly still in the passenger seat, staring out the window, arms crossed like she’s not burning from the inside out.

but his hand? his hand is deliberate. casual, almost. just resting there at first, fingertips lazily tapping along the bare skin just beneath the hem of her denim shorts. thumb brushing back and forth, light and slow.

he doesn’t look at her. doesn’t have to.

she shifts her weight a little, like she’s trying to create space without making it obvious.

he notices.

of course he does.

his hand slides up. just a little. inching higher with every red light. knuckles skimming higher on her inner thigh like he’s testing her patience—testing her restraint.

she breathes deep. doesn’t move. doesn’t react. not visibly anyway.

that’s when he grins. because she’s playing the game again.

he palms her. flat over her shorts. firm, deliberate pressure where he knows she’s starting to feel it. just enough friction to make her thighs twitch together. and god, the denim is making it worse—coarse and tight and hiding nothing.

“you’re quiet,” he says, glancing at her with that smug, slow-lidded look.

“you’re annoying,” she replies, voice thin, every syllable laced with tension.

his fingers shift, pressing down harder. his palm rolls slightly, a subtle grind right where she’s most reactive.

“mhm,” he hums, “but you’re wet.”

she turns her head slowly, jaw tight, eyes practically daring him to keep going.

“i will bite you, park.”

he laughs—soft and cocky, pulling up at a red light, letting the car idle as he turns slightly in his seat to face her more.

“promise?”

she swallows, blinking down at where his hand still rests between her thighs. then back at him.

cool. unaffected. absolutely lying.

“i’m not giving you the satisfaction.”

“baby, you already did.” he smirks. “like five minutes ago when you clenched your thighs.”

her lips part, but she has no comeback—just a soft little breath of indignation and the flush crawling up her neck.

she doesn’t say anything.

doesn’t spit out some clever one-liner or roll her eyes like usual. instead, she just slowly parts her legs—barely an inch. just enough.

enough to say: fine. try me.

his breath hitches, quiet and shallow.

his hand moves immediately, like muscle memory, sliding just under the edge of her shorts with practiced ease. she’s still facing the window, jaw clenched, brows tight like she’s bored with him—but he can feel the tension humming under her skin. she’s wired tight, her pulse racing just under her thigh, her breath carefully measured, like she’s fighting not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react.

his fingertips move slow. teasing. tracing up and down the soft skin of her inner thigh, skimming maddeningly close but never quite touching where she wants him. his fingers are warm and sure, featherlight, dragging slow little circles as if they’re not parked in broad daylight in front of a campus dorm.

“still annoying?” he murmurs, voice low, barely audible over the thrum of the engine.

she swallows hard. doesn’t look at him. “you’re a joke.”

he laughs under his breath. “yeah? you gonna keep pretending this doesn’t feel good?”

he dips his fingers higher, the pads of them brushing over the edge of her panties. his grin only grows when he finds the damp spot already soaking through the cotton, evidence of her undoing, even if she won’t give him a single word.

“fuck,” he whispers more to himself than her, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “you’re soaked.”

she exhales, slow and tight, her back pressing deeper into the seat like she’s trying to melt into it. her thighs twitch, hips subtly shifting toward him, betraying her every attempt at aloofness.

he leans in, voice like honey and fire all at once.

“say it,” he whispers, sliding a single finger over the wet fabric. slow. purposeful. “say you missed this.”

she doesn’t. won’t. can’t.

but she tilts her hips again.

and that’s all he needs.

his fingertip slips just beneath the damp fabric, barely grazing her, enough to make her knees tense and a soft breath escape her lips. not a moan, not even a gasp—just air, tight in her throat, caught between pride and want.

he moves again. slower this time. dragging his finger up and down the center of her, collecting slick and spreading it deliberately, like he has all the time in the world.

she grips the edge of her seat, knuckles pale.

he’s grinning like he’s won. like she’s his favorite game and this is the part he never gets tired of.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs, teasing now, daring her.

she turns, just enough to meet his eyes, her face impassive but her pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed.

“i’ll let you know when i feel something,” she says coolly, voice like smoke.

and that is when he slides a second finger against her—more pressure this time, more confidence, watching her mouth twitch just slightly, just enough to know it’s getting to her.

“yeah?” he murmurs with a grin. “you’ll feel it in two seconds. promise.”

she doesn't flinch when he slides his fingers in.

not outwardly, at least.

her legs stay relaxed, parted just enough. her hands stay in her lap, nails lightly pressing into the fabric of her shorts, knuckles taut—but her face? still unreadable. no fluttering lashes. no bitten lip. no dramatic sigh of surrender. just that same neutral expression as before, eyes fixed somewhere past the windshield like she’s thinking about class or lunch or literally anything but the two fingers knuckle-deep inside her.

but he feels it.

the way she clenches around him, tighter than before, like her body didn’t get the memo her mind’s trying to stick to. the tension in her thighs. the sharp, shaky breath she tries to hide by coughing into her sleeve.

his smile is cruel.

“you’re so full of shit,” he mutters, watching her face carefully, his thumb brushing the edge of her shorts where they’ve ridden up.

her only response is a soft scoff. not quite a laugh. not quite denial.

he curls his fingers just slightly, testing her, grazing that spot inside that always makes her suck in air like she’s drowning on dry land. and there it is—just the tiniest hitch in her breath, the subtle roll of her hips forward, so slight it could’ve been nothing… but he knows it wasn’t.

his voice drops, barely audible beneath the soft click of the turn signal as the car idles on the curb

“you gonna keep pretending?” he whispers, fingers moving slowly inside her, more deliberate now, dragging along every wet, pulsing inch.

still, she doesn’t give him much. just a long, quiet exhale through her nose, lips slightly parted now but her eyes don’t waver. don’t look at him. not yet.

“you’re shaking,” he adds, cocky and amused, pressing in a little deeper, his palm dragging against the curve of her thigh as he moves. “that little attitude’s slipping, baby.”

finally, finally, she turns to him—face flushed now, the tiniest sheen on her brow, but her mouth still curved in that stubborn little smirk he wants to ruin.

“drive,” she says lowly, lashes fluttering once like a warning.

he raises an eyebrow. “drive?”

“yeah,” she murmurs, voice thick and strained, “or i’ll make you fall apart next.”

and he swears under his breath, biting his lip because fuck, he’s obsessed with this girl. even now. especially now.

but he pulls his hand back anyway, slowly, dragging every second out like a punishment. and when his fingers slip out of her, glistening, he watches the way her thighs twitch from the loss.

he doesn’t say a word. just turns the key in the ignition.

and the ride the rest of the way?

silent. tense. electric.

every red light feels like a countdown to something neither of them are ready to admit they need.

the hallway is quiet when they get to her floor, just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional muffled door slam somewhere behind them. she walks ahead with her keys in hand, eyes fixed on the door to her dorm. doesn’t check if he’s following—she knows he is.

jimin’s just a step behind, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from doing something reckless. like sliding them under her shorts again. or yanking her flush against him right there in the stairwell.

but he waits.

waits until she unlocks the door, pushes it open, walks in without a word. he steps in after her, kicks the door closed behind him, and the second the latch clicks shut—

she peels off her hoodie.

not in a dramatic, attention-seeking way. not even trying to look sexy.

just—matter-of-fact. like she’s tossing off the weight of the morning. like she’s tired of pretending she’s not already aching from the ride over.

her tank top clings to her, a sliver of skin peeking out above the waistband of her shorts as she tosses the hoodie to the side. she still hasn’t looked at him. hasn’t said a single word since they left the car. but her body speaks for her: shoulders tense, movements sharp, hair falling loose over one shoulder as she reaches down to untie her shoes.

she’s done pretending. and they both know exactly what this is.

jimin’s eyes trail the line of her spine beneath her tank, the slight curve of her waist, the way her shorts barely cling to her hips. he licks his lips and swallows hard, staying by the door for half a second longer than necessary—like he’s bracing for something.

she tosses her shoes toward the corner, stands straight, finally looks over her shoulder at him.

just one look.

blank. unapologetic. devastating.

then she turns back and walks toward the bed, slowly sliding the strap of her tank off her shoulder like it’s just another thing in the way.

and that’s all the invitation he needs.

he’s moving before he knows it, already toeing off his sneakers, pulling his hoodie over his head, eyes locked on her like she’s gravity and he’s just something caught in orbit.

no words. not yet.

just clothes shedding to the floor, tension thick in the air, and the silent understanding between two people who are too far gone to stop.

she doesn’t say a word—just climbs up onto the bed, slow and unfazed, like she’s stretching, not seducing. her knees sink into the mattress first, then her elbows, chest folding down with a soft exhale as she settles near the edge. her hair spills over her shoulder, cascading messily down her back, catching on the soft glow of the lamp on her desk.

her shorts ride up just enough to leave nothing to the imagination.

and then she looks over her shoulder. face half-lit, brow arched in that way.

she doesn’t blink. doesn’t even tilt her head.

just stares at him with that expression like: are you going to do something or just stand there gawking?

jimin’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. his jaw tightens as he exhales through his nose—low, deep, amused. he’s already shirtless, belt undone, standing a few feet away like he’s trying to commit the view to memory.

“you always this bossy when you’re needy?” he mutters, voice low and warm, filled with quiet laughter.

she doesn’t answer. just shifts her hips back slightly, an unsubtle reminder that she’s waiting. that he’s the one wasting time now.

so he steps closer.

his hands come to her waist, one sliding around her hip, fingers splaying across her stomach while the other glides down to the curve of her ass. he squeezes lightly—like he’s testing, admiring, owning.

"you really think that little attitude makes you less obvious?” he murmurs, leaning down until his mouth hovers near the shell of her ear. “you’re dripping through these shorts, baby.”

she rolls her eyes. “you talk too much.”

“and you never shut up until my hand’s over your mouth,” he counters, grinning into her skin, brushing his lips just beneath her ear. “but please, keep pretending I don’t have you exactly where you want to be.”

his hand slides under the waistband of her shorts, slow, almost lazy—like he has all day to take her apart.

and from her silence, her stillness, the faint hitch in her breath?

he knows she’ll let him.

but she’ll never admit it.

and fuck if that isn’t his favorite part.

he presses into her slowly, his chest brushing her back, hips pushing against the swell of her ass still wrapped tight in her shorts. they’re both still half dressed, but the friction feels criminal—the rough fabric of his jeans grinding against her in a way that makes her thighs tense, breath catching somewhere in her throat.

her hands fist in the sheets beneath her, jaw clenched, still pretending this doesn’t do anything to her. still trying to play the unbothered girl even with the weight of him bearing down on her.

but jimin knows better.

he slides one hand around her waist again, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband like he owns the space there. his other hand? the one on her ass—lingering, affectionate at first. his thumb traces a slow, lazy arc on her skin, dipping under the hem of her shorts.

and then—

crack.

his palm lands with a sharp sting against her ass, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room.

she jerks forward instinctively, her breath knocked short by the sudden slap. not hard enough to hurt—just enough to leave heat. a bloom of sensation that burns and tingles, the echo of it painting fire beneath her skin.

“there she is,” he murmurs, his voice smug and low and so satisfied.

she huffs out a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. her face turns against the mattress, muffling the sound. still refusing to give him the reaction he wants.

but her body gives her away. it always does.

he feels the way she pushes back into him, subtly but certainly. the way her thighs spread just a little wider. the way her hips stay lifted, waiting.

“still annoyed?” he asks, rocking forward again, dragging his clothed length against the seam of her shorts. “or finally admitting you need me?”

she tilts her head just enough to glare at him over her shoulder. her lips are parted, cheeks flushed, a single strand of hair caught in her lashes.

“touch me again,” she says, voice dry, “and don’t waste time talking about it.”

and jimin? fuck, he loves her like this.

headstrong. infuriating. soaked.

he grins, already reaching for the button of her shorts, mouthing along her shoulder as he mutters—

“anything for you, baby girl.”

her shorts hit the floor in a rush of fabric, and still—still—she’s got that expression on her face. like she’s unimpressed. like she’s bored. like she’s not clenching around nothing and biting down on her own tongue to keep from whimpering the second his hand touched her.

and jimin notices. he sees all of it.

the fake eye roll. the smug smirk. the feigned indifference. she’s baiting him—again.

and this time? he’s taking it.

“oh?” he hums, dragging his hand up the back of her thigh again, warm palm skimming the curve of her now-bare ass. “you’re still gonna act like you’re not begging for it? really?”

she shrugs. shrugs. as if he isn’t kneeling behind her, half-hard and starving.

“it’s not that deep, park.”

oh, she wants to be punished.

he lets out a low laugh—one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “got it,” he says quietly, reaching for the bottom drawer of her nightstand like he knows exactly where everything is now. he finds what he needs in two seconds flat. the bottle of lube. a fresh condom. and just for good measure—her toy, the one she thought he didn’t know about.

her head snaps around. “what are you—”

he cuts her off with a sharp look, one hand already ghosting over the back of her neck, gently but firmly guiding her face back down into the mattress.

“don’t play dumb. you wanna be a brat?” his voice is calm now, cool and measured in a way that makes her pulse jump. “then you’re gonna learn what happens when you act like one.”

and she should say something snarky—she always does—but there’s something different in his tone. something dangerous. delicious.

she stays silent.

“good girl,” he murmurs, almost mockingly, letting the words drip over her like syrup as he trails a line of open-mouthed kisses down her spine. “see? already learning.”

he presses her thighs apart further, kneeling between them. she’s soaked already—of course she is. and now she’s quiet. breath shaky. head turned into the mattress. her hands curled into the sheets.

jimin leans in, whispering just beside her ear, his voice low and cruel and addicting.

“you’re not gonna come until i say so. and if you do? i’m gonna edge you until you’re crying.”

she shivers.

he grins.

and when he finally presses inside her, deep and slow and devastating—one hand gripping her hip, the other wrapping around the back of her neck—she doesn’t say a single word.

but god, she feels everything.

he pushes in deep—inch by inch, like he’s got nowhere to be. like the clock doesn’t exist. like the only thing that matters is dragging out the moment just long enough to make her beg.

and she hates that it’s working.

her body reacts before she can even try to stop it—hips twitching back to meet him, thighs tightening, her hands already white-knuckling the sheets beneath her. but he’s not picking up the pace. at all. if anything, he’s slowing down further, grinding into her with a slow, punishing rhythm that’s more pressure than thrust—just deep enough to leave her breathless, but not enough to tip her over the edge.

“mm,” he hums, voice almost playful, breath hitting the side of her neck as he leans in, so fucking composed. “what happened to that mouth, huh?”

she doesn't answer. she can’t—not with the way he’s moving, rolling his hips in slow circles, deliberately avoiding that perfect angle. not with the way her body is already trembling, so sensitive she could cry if he just moved a little faster.

“not so mouthy now,” he murmurs, smiling against her skin as he trails a kiss down her spine, his fingers pressing into her hips like they’re sculpting her into submission. “what, baby? all that attitude gone the second i touched you?”

still, she says nothing. won’t give him the satisfaction.

but her legs are shaking.

her back arches on instinct.

and when he pulls all the way out and doesn’t move for a full beat—just leaves her there, empty, clenching around nothing—her breath catches like a hiccup and her hips buck without her permission.

that’s when he laughs. low, dark, mean.

“yeah,” he whispers, dragging his fingers along the mess between her thighs. “you’re fuckin’ ruined for me.”

he pushes back in hard this time—not fast, just deep—pressing flush to the base, holding there, stretching her until she whimpers into the mattress.

“you wanna come?” he asks, casual. too casual.

she nods, but it’s barely a twitch. like even moving her head might set her off.

he tsks. “use your words.”

she forces them out through clenched teeth, her voice wrecked and hoarse. “yes. fuck, please.”

but he only pulls out again, slow as ever, and she nearly sobs at the loss.

“not yet,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across her shoulder, breath hot, smirk cruel. “you’re not sorry enough.”

and oh, he’s loving this. the tension. the way she’s twitching underneath him. the way she’s desperate now—no more smartass remarks, no more fake eye rolls. just panting. trembling. waiting.

and jimin?

he’s going to take his time. she wanted to be a brat?

now she gets to be his favorite toy.

her voice is thin, already frayed around the edges, dragged raw from holding everything back. but eventually, it breaks—shattering into the thick air between them like glass under pressure.

“jimin,” she gasps, voice barely audible, cheek pressed against the mattress. “please. please, i—I can’t…”

his grin is slow, predatory. he hums like he’s considering it, even though he always intended to make her beg. always wanted to hear it roll off her tongue like that—wrecked and reluctant.

“can’t what?” he asks, maddeningly calm, hips still moving in that same, slow grind. deep. aching. controlled. “can’t handle it? can’t admit you need me?”

she makes a noise in the back of her throat—something between a whimper and a curse, fingers clawing at the bedsheets like they can save her.

he finally gives her a little more—just a little. his pace picks up barely, enough to make the heat swirl tighter in her belly, enough to give her a flicker of hope.

and then he’s reaching for the bottle on the nightstand without stopping, popping the cap with one hand like he’s done this before—because he has. a hundred times in his head, every time she walked past him on campus, every time she rolled her eyes at something he said like he wasn’t the only one who could get her to come undone.

his other hand slides beneath her stomach, lifting her hips slightly, giving him a better angle as he shifts behind her. she whimpers again—almost instinctively now—and he leans forward to kiss between her shoulders.

“don’t worry,” he says, and there’s actual softness there, threaded beneath the smugness, barely-there but present. “not gonna hurt you.”

then she feels it—the cool slickness of the lube hitting his cock, dripping down where their bodies meet, mixing with the mess already between her thighs. his thrusts don’t stop—still deep, still slow—but the slide becomes smoother, easier, sending a ripple through her that makes her curse into the sheets.

her body jerks forward, her thighs trying to close around him—he stops that instantly, one hand pressing her knees apart.

“no, baby,” he says, low in her ear. “you asked for it. now you take it.”

and she does—biting her lip, panting, begging again under her breath because it’s still not enough, not yet. he’s making sure she’s comfortable, taken care of—and still fucking denying her at the same time.

it’s cruel.

it’s maddening.

and it’s making her obsessed.

he’s got her pinned—head turned to the side, one hand heavy at the back of her neck, not squeezing, just holding. Keeping. she’s got no choice but to look at him, her cheek flattened against the mattress, lashes wet, mouth parted as she gasps around every thrust.

he’s still moving slow, goddamn meticulous, hips rolling deep and deliberate like he's got something to prove. like he wants to fuck the shape of himself into her and take his time doing it.

but she’s trembling now, legs barely holding her up, her voice falling into these broken little sounds that aren’t words anymore. every time he pushes in, she lets out a soft, breathless moan—punctuated by frustration, desperation, need.

“jimin,” she pleads, again and again, tone dipping just enough to soften his name into a whimper. “please—”

he leans over her, mouth hovering next to her ear, his breath hot and smug and fucking infuriating.

“please what, baby? use your words,” he murmurs, a hand slipping between her legs for just a second, two fingers brushing where she needs it most—barely. “you want me to keep going? want me to fuck you like the needy little brat you are?”

she squeezes her eyes shut, too embarrassed, too ruined. but her body answers for her—hips pushing back, thighs twitching.

he lets out a low, rough chuckle.

“you love it when I make you beg, don’t you?” he presses, voice darker now, but still calm—too calm. “look at you. always pretending you don’t want this. but I’ve never seen you so wet. so fucking desperate.”

she chokes on a moan, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, mascara smudging under the strain.

“say it,” he demands, tone sharp now, that cocky edge turning into something that bites. “say you want it.”

and she finally breaks.

“i want it—i want you—fuck, please, jimin—just fuck me already!”

and that’s it.

he snaps.

the hand on her neck tightens just a little—not enough to scare her, just enough to ground her—as his hips pull back and slam into her hard, the sound obscene, skin meeting skin with a wet crack. she yelps, mouth falling open in a gasp that pitches too loud to be controlled.

“oh, now you’re ready?” he snarls, thrusting again, hard and fast this time, his body crashing into hers like a fucking wave. “you wanna be a brat, and then cry when you don’t get what you want? this is what you’ve been begging for?”

she can’t answer. there are no words. only sounds—breathless, frantic, ruined sounds as he fucks her into the mattress, rough and unrelenting, every snap of his hips making the headboard knock into the wall.

he’s not going slow anymore. he’s feral.

and her moans? they turn to cries.

not of pain.

of relief.

he’s panting now, but still relentless. sweat slicking his back, hair stuck to his forehead, his grip on her hips bruising as he drives into her with every ounce of control he has left. she’s shaking under him—crying out, trying to breathe, trying to hold herself together.

and then he slows just slightly, only to lean over her again and reach toward the nightstand, dragging open the drawer like he knows exactly where it is.

she doesn’t even register it at first. not until she hears the soft buzz—low and steady and unmistakable.

her head snaps up weakly, eyes wide as she watches him turn around with her toy in hand, smirking like the devil.

“thought you said this wasn’t a thing,” he murmurs, voice low, mocking, dark. “but you keep all the essentials ready for me, don’t you, baby?”

her lips part, but no words come out. she’s trembling now, thighs twitching from overstimulation, slick everywhere, muscles sore, her brain trying to catch up with her body.

and jimin? he’s enjoying every second.

he reaches out, takes her hand gently but firmly, and places the toy in her palm.

“go ahead,” he says softly, a breath against her ear. “hold it there for me.”

she looks back at him, breathless, still trying to figure out if he’s serious.

he just raises an eyebrow, cock still deep inside her, rolling his hips slow to make her feel it.

“what?” he taunts. “too much for you now, baby girl? thought you liked being a brat.”

her grip tightens around the toy, and slowly, trembling, she brings it between her thighs, pressing it right there—right where she needs it.

her whole body jolts.

“fuck—” she gasps, and immediately bites down on her bottom lip to keep herself from moaning too loud.

he grins.

“good girl. now keep it there.”

he starts moving again, steady and deep, every thrust pressing her harder against the toy, every movement making her legs twitch uncontrollably.

“but you don’t get to cum,” he adds, almost too casually. “not until i say. and if you do? i’ll make sure the next time you come is on my tongue, after hours of begging.”

her fingers tighten around the toy, and she sobs out something wordless. he’s not going easy. every thrust now is measured for torment. the sound of wet skin, the low buzz of the toy, her wrecked little whines—it all fills the room like a symphony of her downfall.

she’s close.

so close.

and he knows it.

“don’t you fucking dare,” he growls behind her, voice sharp, hips pounding. “you better hold it. i’ll know if you cum.”

and the worst part?

he would

her legs are shaking uncontrollably, the toy still buzzing in her hand, every nerve in her body screaming. she’s biting down on a moan so hard her jaw aches, fingers white-knuckling the sheets beneath her, desperate not to fall apart. because if she does—if she lets go without permission—she already knows what’s coming.

but she can’t take it anymore.

“please,” she gasps, voice cracked and wrecked, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. “jimin—please, i can’t—i’m trying, i swear—”

and he’s still behind her, hips rolling into hers with that cruel, deep rhythm that keeps pressing her harder into the toy. she’s right there. dangling. one more thrust, one more second—

“i need to come—please—please, i can’t—”

and then her body betrays her.

she doesn’t even mean to do it—she’s not trying to disobey. but it hits her all at once, like her body just gives out, like her muscles snap and melt and twist all at once. she cries out, her voice shattering like glass, her thighs locking tight as she—

doesn’t.

not yet.

but jimin does.

with a sharp groan through gritted teeth, his pace stutters—finally losing it—burying himself deep one last time as he spills into the condom, his forehead pressing between her shoulder blades, hand gripping her hip like a vice. his groans are low, guttural, breathless—completely undone.

but it’s her broken sob that brings him back down.

he pulls out slowly, careful, still panting. the toy is slipping from her hand now, barely buzzing, and she’s collapsed onto the mattress, thighs twitching, body begging for release.

“baby,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as he kneels behind her. “i told you… if you came without asking…”

“i didn’t,” she whimpers, voice wrecked and trembling. “i didn’t. please—just—please—”

he pulls the toy from her weak hand, tosses it aside, and doesn’t say anything else. just spreads her thighs gently and leans in.

she gasps when his tongue makes contact.

a long, flat lick from the base of her folds all the way up to her clit, slow and mean, like he’s savoring her. and then he does it again. and again. until she’s crying—literal, choked sobs against the mattress, hips bucking, thighs locking around his head but he doesn’t stop.

he eats her out like he’s starving. like her pleasure is his revenge. his hands slide beneath her thighs to keep her in place, and he buries his face deeper, tongue flicking, sucking, moving in maddening circles.

her fingers claw at the mattress.

“jimin—fuck, please, i’m gonna—i can’t—”

and then he says it, voice muffled against her soaked skin:

“come for me.”

and she does.

like she’s never come before. her whole body arches off the bed, thighs squeezing around his head, a strangled, high-pitched cry ripping from her chest as she finally lets go—everything breaking at once. pleasure crashing through her in endless waves, tears slipping down her cheeks, her vision blurring as she rides it out, trembling violently under his mouth.

and he doesn’t stop.

not until she’s twitching too hard to handle it, not until she’s begging him to stop through hiccupped gasps and aftershocks, her body collapsing into the sheets—completely wrecked.

he finally pulls back, chin glossy, lips pink and swollen, looking up at her with a smug little smile and a rawness in his eyes that almost—almost—looks like something more.

“told you you’d be sorry,” he whispers, kissing the inside of her thigh.

the room is quiet now. heavy and thick with the remnants of everything they just did—sweat cooling on skin, the low hum of the AC in the corner, the rustle of her adjusting the sheets under her stomach like she can somehow make herself disappear into them.

he's sitting at the edge of her bed, trying to catch his breath, head bowed, hands braced on his knees. she hasn't looked at him since he licked her clean. not once. her back is turned, and her face is unreadable.

“you okay?” he asks after a beat. voice rough but low. soft, even.

she nods. too quick. too practiced.

“fine.”

he looks at her, sees how her mouth pulls tight like she’s trying to seal something in. like she’s already rebuilding that damn wall she always hides behind. and the worst part is—it stings. more than it should.

he runs a hand through his hair, frustration starting to bubble. “you’re not, though.”

(y/n) doesn’t answer. instead, she grabs her hoodie from the floor, slipping it on with her back still facing him. casual. distant. like they didn’t just share something that had her sobbing into the mattress.

he exhales sharply. “you always do this.”

“do what?” she mutters, tugging the zipper up.

“this whiplash shit,” he snaps, standing now, pacing a little like he can’t stay still. “one second you're climbing on top of me like you need me, and the next you're acting like i'm just some guy you tolerate because you're bored.”

she opens her mouth to respond but her phone rings—perfect timing. she glances at the screen and sighs, answering it with a tired voice.

“hey.”

it's sora.

“where the hell are you? you didn’t show for lunch, are you okay?”

(y/n)’s eyes flick toward jimin like she forgot he was still standing there. her voice switches to casual, cool, detached.

“yeah, i'm fine. just had a headache. i’m at the dorm. you coming?”

“yeah, i’ll be there in like ten. just checking in, babe.”

they hang up and the silence creeps back in. she turns to jimin, not even trying to sugarcoat it.

“you have to go.”

he blinks. “seriously?”

“sora’s on her way,” she says simply, tugging her hair into a messy bun. “you don’t need to be here anymore.”

and it hits him like a slap—how final she sounds. like he was a transaction, not a person. like he did his job and can clock out now.

he hesitates. there's something in his eyes—not casual, not cocky. just… confused. raw.

“when can I see you again?” he asks, and there’s a weight behind it. a tone that implies he doesn’t mean it like before. that maybe, for once, he’s not just asking to get laid.

but she hears what she wants.

she scoffs, already turned away from him again. “jesus, park. already thinking about round two?”

his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. he just watches her for a second—searching. then nods.

“right.”

and as he reaches the door, she doesn’t stop him. doesn’t look at him. just drops back onto the bed like it’s already erased.

“i don’t know,” she mutters, voice muffled into her pillow. “i’ll text you.”

he leaves without another word.

and the second the door clicks shut behind him—she closes her eyes, jaw clenched tight like if she keeps her face neutral long enough, she won't cry.

(y/n) had barely cracked the window open, letting in the early afternoon air, stale and cold and not nearly strong enough to clear the weight in the room, when the door clicked open.

“a headache, huh?”

sora didn’t even drop her bag, arms crossed over her chest, a perfectly sculpted brow raised as she looked (y/n) over with that older-sister energy only best friends know how to master.

“yup,” (y/n) replied flatly, voice muffled from where she stood near the window like she was considering just jumping out of it and vanishing into a new identity.

sora hummed. “right, right…”

she kicked her sneakers off, took her sweet time walking in like she wasn’t about to drop a bomb, then glanced toward the window again.

“you wanna tell me what was park jimin doing leaving this building looking like he wanted to break every surface between here and the quad?”

(y/n) didn’t even flinch. she shrugged, eyes heavy-lidded and distant as she dropped onto her bed, pulling her hoodie over her head like it might hide the truth.

“i don’t know,” she mumbled. “he’s probably having sex with that blonde girl down the hallway. wouldn’t put it past him.”

sora paused.

then—chuckled.

not sweetly. not kindly. it was that you’re unbelievable but I love you anyway kind of laugh that only best friends can manage without it sounding mean.

“if you’re gonna lie,” sora said, stepping forward with the confidence of someone ready to be annoying, “at least try.”

she pointed, very pointedly, at the bottle of lube still sitting half-tucked behind the lamp on the desk and the unmistakable glint of a silver foil wrapper tossed into the corner of the trash can. the lube was still half uncapped. the wrapper hadn’t even been shoved all the way down. clearly, damage control was not (y/n)’s strong suit.

(y/n) groaned. long and loud.

and flopped face-first into her pillow, arms stretched out like she was about to be taken by the void.

sora waited.

and then, from under the pillow:

“i’m so stupid.”

it was quiet. muffled and slightly wet-sounding like her voice had cracked on the way out.

sora sat at the edge of the bed. didn’t touch her. didn’t crowd her. just breathed out softly.

“no, you’re not.”

silence.

“you’re just—” sora paused, searching for the right word. “emotionally constipated. and dating a walking hormone.”

“we’re not dating.”

“mhm. you’re just accidentally raw dogging and crying over him.���

“we’re not—crying—” (y/n)’s voice cracked again.

sora smiled to herself.

“look, you don’t have to say it. but you’re not fine. and i think you’re finally starting to realize that wanting him doesn’t mean you like how he makes you feel.”

(y/n) didn’t answer. not right away.

she just curled tighter into herself, fingers gripping the corner of her blanket, lips pressed shut like if she let anything else out, she might not be able to hold the rest in.

the silence that filled the room wasn’t uncomfortable. not really. just full. full of the weight (y/n) didn’t want to unpack and the affection sora didn’t quite know how to hand over without making her best friend flinch.

sora stared down at her hands, fiddling with the charm on her bracelet, debating.

and then—softly, almost hesitant:

“actually… i was wondering if you’d be down to meet someone.”

(y/n) didn’t move. didn’t even lift her face from the pillow.

“…what?” came her voice, muffled, dry with sarcasm. “are you playing cupid now? that desperate to get rid of me?”

“obviously,” sora quipped, but the smile in her voice was warm. teasing. “i already have the wedding planned. you’re going to wear that one dress you hate just to spite me.”

“cute. can’t wait to be emotionally destroyed by someone new.”

sora rolled her eyes and leaned back on her hands.

“no, seriously. jin and i… we kind of—well. he has this friend.”

that made (y/n)’s ear twitch against the pillow. not enough to give away her interest, but sora caught it anyway.

“he’s, um… nice,” she said, like it was a confession. “and hot. but not like ‘jimin hot,’ you know? not, like, slutty hot. like… handsome.”

“wow, love that for me,” (y/n) muttered. “maybe i can trauma-dump over coffee and he can write a sad indie song about me.”

sora snorted. “honestly? he probably would. he’s kinda deep and stuff. he reads. like, actual books. not just quotes on tumblr.”

“does he own a tote bag and drink overpriced black coffee too?”

“probably. and he’d remember your birthday without having to check instagram.”

(y/n) finally turned her head, face half-squished by the pillow, one brow raised.

“this is sounding suspiciously like you’re describing your dream man and just trying to pass him off to me.”

“hey, i already have one golden retriever boyfriend. i don’t need two. jin’s enough work as it is.”

that made (y/n) crack a tiny smile. just barely. but it was there. fragile and fleeting and stitched together with exhaustion—but real.

“you don’t have to say yes,” sora added gently, nudging (y/n)’s foot with her own. “i just thought… maybe it wouldn’t hurt. talking to someone who’s not gonna fuck with your head.”

another pause.

then—

“what’s his name?” (y/n) asked, like she didn’t care. like it didn’t matter. like she wasn’t secretly trying to memorize it in case she decided to google him later.

sora smiled.

“namjoon.”

sora pulled her phone from her back pocket, tapping quickly through her gallery like she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to break this out. (y/n) was still lying face-down on the mattress, now with her cheek smooshed against her pillow, eyes barely open and squinting in the sunlight slipping through the blinds.

“okay. you have to see this,” sora said, her voice laced with a mischievous kind of warmth.

“if it’s another video of jin falling off a couch, i’ve already seen it.”

“nope,” she grinned. “better.”

she leaned over, holding the screen out so (y/n) could see. and there he was—namjoon. laughing so hard he was practically doubled over, his face pink and scrunched, clearly tipsy, a half-empty beer in one hand and the other braced against seokjin’s shoulder. the older boy was mid-rant about something ridiculous—something to do with sock conspiracies and IKEA furniture—but namjoon wasn’t even listening anymore. he was just laughing, full and loud and unfiltered. the kind of laugh that made other people want to laugh, too.

(y/n) didn’t smile. not really. but something shifted in her chest.

“he already thinks you’re beautiful, by the way,” sora added, casual but not. like it was a secret she’d been sitting on and couldn’t hold in anymore.

“you showed him my insta?” (y/n) asked, but her voice wasn’t angry. more like tired curiosity.

sora shrugged. “he asked. i said you were out of his league, but that didn’t seem to stop him from wanting to meet you.”

(y/n) rolled onto her back, lips pursing as she stared up at the ceiling again. “doesn’t know me, then.”

“no,” sora said softly. “but he’s willing to. and that counts for something.”

she hesitated.

then: “we could totally arrange a double date that’s not really a double date, if you don’t want to be alone. it doesn’t even have to be dinner. we could just do coffee or a bookstore or something stupid. zero pressure. i promise.”

(y/n) was quiet for a long moment.

she didn’t say it aloud—didn’t even shift her expression much. but in the corner of her mind, something uncurled. a tiny flicker of vindication. of pettiness, even.

it’s fair, she told herself.

if jimin was still out here sleeping with whoever the hell he wanted—acting like what they had was just a routine, nothing serious—then what was stopping her from at least meeting someone who might actually give a shit?

she bit the inside of her cheek.

“he reads actual books?” she asked, almost like it was a joke.

sora smiled, sensing the change, the small fracture in her resistance.

“and he volunteers at the campus library on weekends. he knows the dewey decimal system.”

“wow,” (y/n) said dryly. “that’s hot.”

but there was a quiet sort of consideration in her voice now. something that wasn’t there before.

“fine,” (y/n) said, her voice soft. a little hoarse from everything, from him, from the morning. “i’ll go.”

sora blinked. froze for a second like she wasn’t sure she heard right.

“…wait—you’ll go?”

(y/n) nodded once, still flat on her back. “i mean, it’s not a date, right?”

“not a date,” sora agreed immediately, practically vibrating. “just four very attractive people grabbing coffee while two of them try to emotionally salvage their best friend’s love life—nothing suspicious at all.”

(y/n) let out a huff that almost sounded like a laugh. barely. her eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but a faint smile curled at the corners of her mouth before she pressed her phone to her chest.

“i have to tell jin,” sora squealed, grabbing her phone like it was a matter of national importance. “we’ve been waiting for this moment. you are not ready for namjoon’s quiet man rizz. he’s like… polite but intense. like he’s always three sentences ahead of the conversation and still listening to every word.”

“okay, calm down,” (y/n) muttered, rolling onto her side, eyes flicking to her own phone again.

still no messages.

not even a double text. not even a shitty meme.

she swallowed hard, thumb tapping aimlessly at her screen. locked it. unlocked it. then locked it again.

figures, she thought. maybe that was the whole point. maybe this was the moment she finally started playing the game the way he did—cool, distant, unreachable.

“coffee’s on wednesday,” sora said from across the room, already texting, cheeks flushed with the thrill of matchmaking. “just after class. no pressure. and i’ll be there the whole time.”

(y/n) nodded again, still curled under her blanket.

her phone buzzed once.

her heart jumped.

it wasn’t him.

and so she sank deeper into the mattress, wrapped in silence and resolve, whispering to herself in the quietest voice:

just coffee.

just coffee.

just a start.

—---

she had managed to avoid him like the plague for the past two days.

not that it was particularly difficult—jimin had apparently found new places to stick his tongue down rowan’s throat all over campus. the student center. the quad. even the hallway leading to the library, where anyone with a pulse could see them pressed against the lockers like a poorly scripted indie film.

(y/n) had simply kept walking. shoulders squared. expression blank. her heart? a mess. pounding. bruised. aching in the worst kind of private way.

today, she had a free period—one he used to know by memory. the one where they’d usually disappear into some forgotten corner of the campus: a storage closet, an empty lecture hall, the back seat of his car.

not today.

today, she locked herself inside the cleanest, quietest bathroom on the top floor of the liberal arts building. she stayed longer than necessary, pretending to check her makeup, her messages, her nonexistent emails. anything to kill the time. anything to not remember.

but the second she stepped outside—there he was.

leaning against the tiled wall like he belonged there. black hoodie half-zipped, head tilted like he wasn’t trying to look casual. hands in his pockets. smirk already cocked like a loaded gun.

her jaw tightened. she didn’t slow down.

“did you get bored of your girlfriend?” she asked, not even glancing at him as she walked past.

his smirk widened. the kind that made her want to slap it off and kiss it in the same breath.

“don’t act jealous now, princess.”

she scoffed. not even dignifying him with a full-body reaction.

“you wish.”

he pushed off the wall, falling into step beside her. their shoulders close but not touching, his steps a half-beat too synced with hers.

“you said you’d text.”

“i lied,” she said simply. her voice light, sarcastic, but the bitterness beneath it hung heavy in the air.

he chuckled. low, smug, infuriating.

“what, you got separation anxiety, park?” she murmured, casting him a quick side glance, venom sweet on her tongue.

“only when you ghost me.”

her laugh was sharp, humorless. “you’re fine. you’ve got a perfectly capable tongue warmer already.”

he didn’t answer that.

not immediately.

just looked at her. really looked. and for a second she could feel it—like the way he used to stare at her when she was on top of him, hair sticking to her temples, lip caught between her teeth, like she was the only girl in the goddamn world.

“what are we even doing?” he asked under his breath.

her chest squeezed tight, but her face didn’t budge.

“nothing,” she said. “we’re doing nothing.”

and she didn’t let herself look back as she walked away.

he was still following her.

his footsteps weren’t loud, but they were steady. like he hadn’t gotten the very clear message that she wanted nothing to do with him. or maybe he had—and just didn’t care.

“hey, um…” his voice came low from behind her, casual, like the conversation from two minutes ago hadn’t been a punch to the gut. “wanna come over? around lunch?”

she didn’t stop walking. not for a second. the answer was already on her lips before he could even finish the question.

“can’t. i’m going on a date.”

that stopped him. completely.

she didn’t have to look back to know it. she felt the hesitation in his pace, the way his silence caught like a sudden storm break—his breath, audible in the way it halted, like she’d just sucked all the air out of his lungs with one clean swing. and god, it made something twist in her gut. vicious satisfaction. a petty kind of pride.

because finally, she’d managed to land a hit.

she kept walking. eyes straight ahead, hands tucked in her pockets, her expression unreadable even as her heart thundered in her chest. she didn’t want to admit how much it cost her to say that. to make it real. to push the words out like they didn’t mean anything when they meant everything.

a date.

not with jimin.

not with someone who used her like a stress relief valve between other girls and then pretended it didn’t matter. no—someone who might actually see her as more than a warm body and a bratty smirk. someone who might mean safety instead of destruction.

he caught up with her again a few seconds later, but his voice was different now. tighter. still trying to sound amused, but his ego had definitely just taken a hit.

“you?” he asked, that little scoff laced into the back of his throat. “a date?”

she didn’t look at him. didn’t blink. just nodded once.

“yup.”

it was almost cruel, how nonchalant she sounded. how she delivered it like the weather—just another fact, another shift in atmosphere.

he laughed then. forced. hollow. more confused than anything else.

“so… who’s the unlucky bastard?”

he meant it as a joke, but she heard the tension underneath. the need to know. the fact that he couldn’t handle the idea of her giving even a fraction of what she gave him to someone else.

and that?

that was enough to fuel her for days.

she glanced at him then. Just a flick of her eyes, like an afterthought.

“none of your goddamn business, park.”

he opened his mouth again, like he had something else to say, but she was already walking faster. already turning the corner. already gone.

and for the first time in weeks, she left him standing there speechless.

—---

she wasn’t expecting much, really.

namjoon was handsome, sure. tall, broad-shouldered, and the kind of naturally put-together that made him look good in a plain t-shirt and worn sneakers. his vibe—at least from what sora told her—was chill, maybe a little philosophical. smart, funny in a dry way, emotionally aware. the complete opposite of what she was used to.

the complete opposite of jimin.

so, she walked toward the coffee shop with her expectations set somewhere below hopeful. this wasn’t a real date anyway. just coffee. just a distraction. a lifeline, maybe, if she let herself think dramatically. which she always did. the air was warm, sun flickering through the trees lining the street. her shoes hit the pavement in slow, reluctant steps.

when she saw the terrace, she spotted them instantly—sora and jin already seated, their heads tilted in laughter, and across from them—

him.

namjoon.

he was leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the table, listening intently to whatever jin was saying. his fingers wrapped loosely around a coffee cup, and there was this ease to him. like he fit in every room he walked into without trying. the kind of calm that settled into the space instead of rearranging it.

she was halfway through apologizing as she reached the table—something about running late, something about traffic—when he turned to look at her.

and smiled.

not wide. not flashy.

just a dimpled, polite, heart-achingly sweet smile that made her lose the rest of her sentence entirely.

her mouth stayed open for a beat too long. her chest tightened, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. and for the first time in a long time, she felt something soft unfold in her belly. not lust. not adrenaline. just... warmth.

“hi,” he said, quiet but clear. his voice deep, gentle. smooth like good coffee and rainy sunday mornings.

she blinked.

closed her mouth.

“hi,” she said back, quieter than she meant to.

sora shot her a knowing look, barely hiding her grin. jin covered his chuckle behind a sip of his drink.

(y/n) sat down slowly, the cushion cool beneath her. she tugged at the hem of her sleeves to hide how her palms had started to sweat. get it together, she told herself. this wasn’t anything. not really. but her mind was already whirling, catching on dimples and calm eyes and the way he hadn't even looked at her body—just her face.

she couldn’t remember the last time that happened.

namjoon offered her a soft "glad you could make it," and the way he said it? like he meant it. like it wasn't just something polite people said.

and just like that, something shifted.

she didn’t know if it would last, if it meant anything, if she’d let it mean anything.

but she knew one thing for sure.

this coffee was already different.

it started slow, like most things that turn out to matter.

small comments. shared glances. little pauses where their eyes lingered a second too long, just enough for someone paying attention to notice. sora and jin definitely noticed.

they’d all been talking for a while now, easy chatter over lattes and croissants on the coffee shop’s sun-drenched terrace. sora had her arm hooked casually around jin’s, legs crossed under the table as she tossed in commentary like a pro. jin had taken to teasing (y/n) mercilessly, half about her general attitude and half about things sora clearly told him in confidence—like how she refused to use dating apps because “if the universe wants me in love it’ll drop it in my lap, not on a screen.”

namjoon laughed when jin said that. not a mocking laugh, but a soft one. amused, kind of impressed.

“you really said that?” he asked, tilting his head at her.

(y/n) rolled her eyes, cheeks warm despite herself. “don’t believe everything sora says.”

“but i want to believe it,” namjoon replied, chin resting in his hand, eyes flickering over her face like he was trying to memorize it. “it’s very poetic. delusional, but poetic.”

sora snorted into her drink. jin pretended to fall off his chair. and just like that, the tension drained out of (y/n)’s shoulders. she was smiling before she realized it. something about namjoon just let her relax.

he wasn’t trying to impress her.

he wasn’t trying to seduce her.

he was just there. present. thoughtful. funny in a quiet way that made her want to lean in and ask questions just to hear how he’d answer.

and he did lean in.

more than once.

at first it was to joke about jin and sora, something low and quick and conspiratorial like: “are they always like this? because I’m both amazed and concerned.”

she laughed. loud enough for sora to glance over and raise an eyebrow.

then it happened again. namjoon leaning close, his voice low near her ear, his fingers brushing the table between them like he was trying not to move too much but couldn’t help it. she said something sarcastic and he deadpanned right back, his words clever and dry and so perfectly timed it made her laugh again.

a real laugh. unguarded.

and suddenly, for those small, glittering moments, it felt like the world narrowed down to just the two of them.

jin noticed first. he sipped his drink, quirking a brow at sora across the table.

“oh god,” he mouthed dramatically. “we created a monster.”

sora barely fought back her grin. “they’re cute,” she mouthed back.

(y/n) didn’t notice. neither did namjoon.

he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth focusing on. not in a possessive way. not in a you’re mine kind of way. just—genuine. curious. gentle.

she didn’t remember the last time she felt that seen.

the air was mellow, the sun beginning its lazy descent behind the campus rooftops, casting soft orange light across the quad as the four of them walked. sora and jin hung back, wrapped up in their own bubble of teasing laughter and inside jokes, while (y/n) and namjoon walked a few paces ahead. it felt natural—unforced—the way their strides matched without thinking, their conversation floating easily from music to professors to jin’s obnoxious collection of novelty mugs that sora had apparently been trying to “accidentally break” since they started dating.

she was laughing, genuinely. not the kind of laugh she gave at parties, polite and performative, but the kind that came from somewhere loose and unguarded in her chest. namjoon’s voice was easy to listen to, deep but soft around the edges, the kind of voice that made every observation feel like a secret. he was funny in a subtle way, clever without trying too hard, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth whenever she threw sarcasm back at him.

it felt... peaceful.

she liked the pace of it. how no one was trying to impress anyone. how she didn’t feel the need to armor herself in sharp edges and cold glances just to keep control.

until her phone buzzed.

she felt it before she looked. that familiar little twist of anticipation and irritation curling low in her stomach. she glanced down.

[jimin.] “so... how’s the date, princess?”

cocky. smug. he probably sent it leaning back in his chair, that stupid grin on his face, fingers loose around his phone like none of this meant anything to him.

her smile faltered just slightly. she didn’t stop walking, but she exhaled through her nose—sharp, annoyed—and locked the screen before namjoon could see what it said.

but he already had.

not the contents, but the name. she saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. he didn’t react with surprise or judgment—just a calm, thoughtful blink.

“you and jimin, huh?” he asked casually, his tone laced with curiosity but nothing sharp. just genuine interest.

she gave him a dry laugh, pushing her hair back from her face. “it’s nothing but a headache, really.”

and he nodded. no need for more.

“wanna change the subject?”

she looked at him, smiled. “desperately.”

so they did.

they spent the next few minutes talking about a book he’d been meaning to finish and the worst professor she’d ever had. when they finally reached her dorm building, the sky had deepened to gold, and the air had that quiet kind of stillness reserved for the late afternoon—the in-between of day and night.

he slowed to a stop in front of the steps. she did too, her hand hovering near the strap of her bag.

“this was nice,” he said, and meant it. his voice had a different weight now—not heavy, but intentional.

she nodded, already tugging at her lip with her teeth before she could stop herself. “it was.”

there was a beat of silence, not awkward, but tentative. like they were both standing at the edge of something just slightly out of view.

“can I get your number?” he asked then, tone light. “no pressure or anything. just thought it might be cool to hang out again sometime.”

she hesitated—not because she didn’t want to—but because she did. and deep down, she wanted him to be enough to make her forget jimin. to stop wanting things that hurt.

but she didn’t say that.

instead, she smiled, reached for his phone when he offered it, and typed in her number.

“i’d like that,” she said, handing it back.

and she meant it.

even if jimin’s message still lingered in her pocket like a ghost.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

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