#i always find it... weird and uncomfortable | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

werezmastarbucks · 14 hours ago

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280 minutes

best friends! yoongi x f!reader au

in which you find an unorthodox way to deal with your best friend's crush on you

word count: 8922

warnings / tags my endless ramblings: some of the parts of this may or may not have been supplied from my dreams abt yoongi i am very normal about him. self-indulgent, almost no plot, just thirst lol. insomnia, pining, fluff, unreciprocated feelings kinda, yoongi is horny all the time, lots of touching and escalating. i have a rare mental disorder (joking) where i confuse WAIST and WASTE not because i don't know them, but because i type too fast and edit too lazily. super self-conscious about this one

"Yoongi behaved today. He patted me on the head even. Didn't kick or pinch"

The old notebook shakes in your hands because you're laughing. You were six and even then, already kept track of his misdemeanor. Yoongi has been such a menace in pre-school that his normal days earned special entries in your journals. Like, wow, he didn't kick me even a single time today. Time to write it down and keep the memory forever.

Your mom snickers when you show her the notebook, paper now feeling crusty because of how many years it's been kept in the drawer, safe from the daylight, under piles of postcards, pictures, and stacks of poems from childhood.

"Always had a thing for you, poor Yoongi".

You frown at her, for always ruining a sweet moment. Yoongi is neither poor nor dependent. He hasn't always had a thing for you... makes you uncomfortable, and more guilty.

273

When you have seasonal insomnia, only the true comfort helps. All June and the first ten days of July, you don't sleep. Then the same thing happens in November for a whole month again. It comes like allergy; or like with some people, seasonal decline. You don't feel any different; your brain just decides not to sleep.

Recently you discovered the solution to that, which makes you feel bad. You know Yoongi, the best friend you've known for the most of your life, has been in love with you. You know he deals with it mostly, sometimes with effort. You also find out you can only realistically fall asleep before the sun rises if he is in the same apartment as you. Something about his unwavering comfort around you, the safety he provides, something about the way he is trying to step really quietly, before crashing a floor lamp on the side by accident. You don't get butterflies; you don't like him like that. You love him as a human: the guy who was your company at algebra: two idiots just trying to survive. You've seen too much of him to fall in love: seen him brush his teeth and pee, roll on the floor wrapped in dirty sheets, seen him kiss your classmate during Spin the Bottle, seen him vomit when you were both teenagers, seen him pale with sickness, and sneering when he was angry and capricious and thirteen, and super annoying all the time.

He's seen all the same things, and he still manages to ogle at you, which is weird. But this honey boy with the light strawberry blond bob on his head is too important to you to feel uncomfortable about it anymore. Maybe it makes you a bad person. Maybe not. You need him. He needs you. You need each other on slightly different levels. You both hold on so far. You both made it to your third decade, Yoongi, having gone through the visceral tides of puberty without pushing you away.

You would love him to move on, but he seemingly refuses to do that. He blinks hard, standing in the door, looking at you in shrimp shape in his bed, clutching the edge of the blanket. You are so tired you wouldn't move even if a bulldozer ran through the wall. Every time his figure looms somewhere in the background, your eyelids become heavy, and you need to grab on that moment because you won't get a second chance.

"We need to set some ground rules", he says, and you don't like the way his voice sounds. You open one eye, ready to beg to leave this conversation for tomorrow. The little engines in your brain start again, slowly, with a grumble.

"Like maybe you text me before coming over at, like, one in the morning. And no perfume if you sleep in my bed".

You even raise your head, a crease on your face.

"What are you on about? Let me sleep, dammit".

It's a bit capricious, you know, but you are so used to him being mega agreeable with you, that you don't see the lines anymore. His hand, peeking out from the long sleeve, on the door frame. The same way as his eyes peek out from under the soft hair that looks dark-golden in the night-soaked room. He sniffs through his nose and makes the hard face, that provokes his chin to dimple. You know all that without looking at him. His mouth forms a left-tilting line. Dude's like a real cat: when he's angry, his eyes actually move, become more angular, like he gets into a hunter mode.

"Fine, but I'm sleeping with you then", he mutters in a final tone, like it can scare you. You open the blanket and very reluctantly move to the middle of the bed.

Light steps on the floor, he is trotting like a ghost. He is too light, too small to your liking; Yoongi isn't your type. He is your type of human, for sure, but every part of him as a male strikes just one degree off for you. Maybe you have developed an almost biological barrier against him, knowing him for so long, because your brain perceives him as a brother and tries to prevent incest.

He looks like a twenty-year old honey boy, but grunts like an old grandpa, getting into bed. Yoongi is always warm to lie against, just soft enough, but has these heavy arms; once he throws one hand over your ribs, you hum.

"Yoongi".

You move his hand up and down, trying to find a less fragile spot of yourself, to rest it. He won't budge.

"What day are you on?" his voice requests into the back of his head, and suddenly you realize his mouth is touching your hair.

"Period or insomnia?" you clarify, trying to move away from him slightly.

The hand tenses, restricting the movement.

"Insomnia".

"What day is it?"

"Seventeenth of May", he sighs, sensing sarcasm.

"Seventeenth day then".

You tskt, punch the pillow, try not to perk your butt. You spooned since you were both ten years old. When Yoongi finally overcame his street fighter phase and stopped giving you bruises. Now you think maybe it was the time he realized he liked you; created neuron connections in his brain and matured enough to transcend it not through violence, but through support.

You grew up together.

You can't shake off the habit of resting next to him.

His palm disregards the difference between peaceful, unassuming touch, and tenderness. It opens and then bends fingers, and he starts lightly scratching your stomach, where he thinks the period pain lives.

"Stop it".

He barely registers the motion.

"Sleep".

"Stop rubbing me".

"Shut up and sleep", Yoongi raises his hand and presses it lightly on the side of your head, to squash you deeper into the pillow.

"We talked about this, Yoongi".

He produces a shuddered sigh. He is a little more distressed than usual; moves his knees against yours, doing god knows what. He is generally a calm person, but once he is under the blanket, the first ten minutes he fidgets like he is planting his own spores to create an appropriate environment for himself.

You talked about it many times. There's friendly touch and there's romantic touch. And there's Yoongi touch. Uncalled for, unwelcome, painfully caring. You feel bad for shaking his hand off when he tucks hair away behind your ear. Sometimes it's like he thinks you won't notice, won't pay attention, that he keeps his hand on your back for too long, assisting. That before taking your hand, he traces your forearm with his finger, like a lunatic. That when spooning, he presses his face into the back of your head, like knocking on the locked door.

"You have bad days? I have bad days, too", he defends, with a sharp reproach in his voice. "You come over whenever you want, without bothering to ask, maybe I am having it harder today than the other days".

Your nostrils flare. It's fair, but you don't want to admit it. Instead, you raise yourself on the elbow. Sleep starts retreating again, you lose it, like a sunray that's almost reached your skin on a gloomy day, and then suddenly started drifting away.

"Fine, I'll-"

He pushes your down on the shoulder, again with an open palm.

"Didn't say I want you gone".

"Don't start it".

"Start..."

For a minute, you bicker into your respective pillows, which turns into barking, then you roll onto your back, only to meet his pale face glowing in the dark. Yoongi sleeps in everything and anything he wears that day; studies so much that sometimes he collapses on the bed in jeans, sweatshirts and sweaters. His beige home shirt is stained under the collar with tomato that burst onto him when he bit into it. A month ago.

You want to say something snappy but can't. You know how unfair this is. Yoongi is piercing you with his night stare, the look reserved only for darkness when he can let go a little bit. Not pleading, not asking for anything, but desperate. In the moments like this, you can actually see the beauty. He is pretty handsome; someone should pick him up. Instead of going out there and living life, dating, he keeps staring at you in silence, submerged in his bed.

"You know how you make me feel", he says finally, "just don't make it worse".

The guilt clutches you by the hips.

"That's why I want to leave. I'm sorry".

"Don't. I'll behave".

That's what Yoongi has been doing around you almost the whole time you've known him. Behave.

His eyes flicker, lashes cover them for a moment, then he closes them tiredly. He turns on his back, and his honey hair parts on his forehead revealing his arched, sharp eyebrows.

"Have you thought that maybe it's just... horny?" you ask suddenly. He opens his eyes, staring into the ceiling. His lips twitch.

"Or are you really in love with me?"

Since you can't sleep, you will rip.

"It's both", he says bluntly and sharp. Yoongi slurrs often, not bothering to open his mouth properly. They call it the lazy Daegu dialect. And a lot of people find it attractive; you always thought it's slightly annoying. Like he is lazy to even properly speak. But at least it gives you a signal when he is not to be pushed further. When words sound academically, Yoongi is on his last nerve.

Maybe you will lose him soon. Either something inappropriate, unpretty will happen, or he'll snap. You can't give him what he wants, and he can't stop wanting it. His monstrous patience makes no sense to you, but you never question it because you get his friendship out of it. Unhealthy symbiosis needs an intervention, because you're both inside it. Only someone outside can tell what the resolution is.

He doesn't date and hook up. Yoongi is what they call a demisexual: one person at a time, takes ages for him to warm up. This is loyalty wasted.

You stare at him for a while. Honey head on a grey pillow, a sight so habitual to you that you don't even register the softness it unlocks in you. His pouting pushes your buttons. His lower lip sticking out, jaws moving slightly: chewing on his own skin.

You sigh heavily. Then again.

"Okay".

He turns his head slightly, looking at you with his unimpressed eye. The corner of it, lips still lopsided.

"I have a proposition", you say, trying to look away. You punch your fingers into your eyes, trying to remove the shame from them. Rub so much that tears start coming out.

"What is it?" he asks. Impossible to tell what he thinks by his voice: you'd have to touch his throat. When you leave your eyes alone, and the vision returns after a snap of colourful noise, he is still looking at you, but less strictly. His hand is resting under the blanket, unmoving, but the heat of his body just a touch away.

"You need to release it? Go on then".

His face doesn't change at first, but on the opposite, the expression of caution cements deeper.

"Seven minutes in heaven. Do whatever you want", you sigh, watching his eyes grow wider. "I don't move. You..." you need to gulp all of a sudden. "But no genitalia touching".

His eyebrows relax with shock. He flaps his black eyes at you, the cheekbones go tense. Maybe you watch him more than you thought. Maybe you are going in the wrong direction.

Yoongi lifts himself up on the elbow.

"Is this a trap?"

His face is above you, studying hard, the fist of supporting arm right next to your ear. In one motion, he swirls in bed, still under the blanket, not like a human but like a wave.

"Are you for real?"

Maybe he is having a nut crisis, because he doesn't ask about the morality of it, only,

"You're not joking?"

His warm, mint-flavoured breath is on your face.

"No".

"No to what?"

"I'm not joking. I can't have you cling from me around people like it's been lately".

You see conversing is over; his eyes scanning your face, like he is far away from you, like you are locked in a glass box and he is admiring you without hearing your voice.

"Get the phone. Seven minutes".

He darts to the side immediately, grabbing his three-year old Samsung, and drops it next to your head.

"You sure?" he breathes out. "I will touch you".

You swallow some unease.

"I just want things to go back to normal between us. I don't want to-"

"I got it", he sets the timer, barely listening. The lizard brain and the human brain of his are both activated, and battling. You see the purple ring on white, glowing painfully in the dark. Before Yoongi lowers himself, he suddenly gets into your face again.

"Wait. Are tits genitalia?"

It's like you can play tennis in his head right now. Nothing there. You can see it in his glassy eyes. And this helplessness makes you feel for him even more. Out of body experience. This does feel wrong, and right at the same time. You can't hold back a snicker,

"No, they are secondary sexual characteristics".

Your words travel into his mouth directly, there's barely any space between you.

"I will pull your shirt up", it sounds like a threat. You nod to his phone half-way under your pillow.

"Your time is ticking".

Yoongi stops you with a kiss. Oh, it is weird weird. You feel like a subject in an experiment, lucky that the intern is gentle. This, you think, must be what your cat feels like. Constant unconsented love showering. Yoongi parts your lips with his flexible tongue, damn, he is a good, technical kisser. Where did he learn? You don't move. Don't respond. Don't push him away. You breathe through your nose and try to relax, matching your pace to his. The air leaves his nose like bullets, shooting hot. Yoongi's hands grip at your sides in a more familiar gesture, because you hug a lot. This gives you time to ruminate (you've never felt his round, puffy cheeks so close, it's kinda cute; Yoongi purrs into your mouth when his hand slides under your waist and clutches the lower hem of your sleeping tee): what's the difference between love and friendship? You know you feel love towards him. Yoongi is easily lovable, he is a really cool person, actually. Why can't you transfer this usual love, transit it into romantic? Where is the line between what's normal and what's taboo? You don't mind him, (his wet lips slip off your mouth finally and place a kiss on your cheek, then he lowers his head further and tickles your face with his hair. You rarely get kissed on the neck, if ever. Yoongi is determined not to leave a single centimeter of you unkissed), it doesn't disgust you. You don't put a lot of effort into enduring what's happening. It's a little curious, and maybe heavy because he stops controlling how much weight he puts on you, engaged in vampire kisses. So, why can't you date? You don't feel that spark (he doesn't take off earrings for the night, and the pleasant cold of the metal pressed under your chin encourages you to tilt your head back to open up a little. You close your eyes to help yourself think better. Your pulse is steady. The sound of kisses, the shape of his breathing next to your ear, is almost like lo-fi music Yoongi sometimes fidgets with, as a hobby. Damn, he's a great dude. He should find himself a girlfriend...). Is this how friends with benefits starts? What's the whole deal there? You always wondered. If you are friends, means you like each other as humans. AND you have sex, means you like each other physically. Why not date then? You will run yourself into the same puzzle. The glow of the phone next to the pillow blinds you a little, and you reach for it, catching the remaining time: three minutes left. You turn it upside down and dive into the comforting darkness again. Sometimes friends experiment with each other, and it doesn't leave a trace. Lots of teens do that (Yoongi's hand gets under your t-shirt, warm palm sliding up the stomach, and it makes you shiver out of surprise. He stops for a second, wrecked breaths falling on your collarbone. Are you okay? he asks. You say yes. His hair is so fluffy and smells like grapes).

"You are, like, criminally pretty", he mumbles, and his hand grabs your left breast, hungrily. You blink several times, adjusting your breathing like when a doctor shoves their finger in your ass. They usually say: just breathe, and you do.

"Thanks".

"The waist-hip ratio, y/n, you are perfect".

He is speaking his lazy dialect again, and you can admit, his voice is pretty. Yoongi is pretty. He reminds you of those late Medieval paintings, bordering on Renaissance period, where artists started to turn to light again and wanted to draw angels.

He rolls your shirt up carefully. Not to catch a stray eye contact, you keep your eyes closed, mind busy with philosophical rumination. The implications of what you've done and how it will affect your relationship; but most likely, little to nothing will change, because people do stranger things all of the time, and with worse intentions. You won't make a bit deal (Yoongi drops down and slides his teeth bluntly on top of your stomach with a sigh. You can feel his boner as he is perched on your knees, almost breaking your kneecaps, through the soft pants. Yoongi doesn't give you butterflies but leaves butterfly kisses, colourful, around the belly button. Your stomach hitches, sucks on itself out of sheer reflex when his lips cover your right nipple) out of it. Before his tongue makes one full circle, the phone under your pillow erupts in shrill ringing, which makes the both of you flinch. You even jump a little. Your eyes burst open to the reality of white ceiling above you.

You feel his shoulders fall. The hand keeping your shirt rolled up under your chin tenses. One second decides whether you can stay friends, or not, and Yoongi sighs into your skin, raising his head and leaving your nipple a bit colder.

He is angry?

He reaches for the phone and finally stops your wincing, turning the sound off. You push your shirt down while he does that, and the light from the phone shines on the vein pulsating in his throat.

"I gotta jerk off", he says, and jumps off the bed, then slides across the floor like a duckling. His home clothes are all oversize because he stole them from his older brother who inherited their father's height. The trouser legs cover the heels of his feet flapping quietly on the linoleum, a hand grabs the doorframe to control the rotation as he leaves the room. You turn back to your side, unbothered, slightly confused, and a little bit softer than before.

266

"You got tea?"

Seokjin's head snaps to you, and his finger points:

"In the kitchen".

"I mean normal tea, not the green shit".

He pulls up his nose the way only Jin can, starts looking like a llama.

"My mom got all tea".

"Can I drink it?"

He thrashes his head in the air, kept from an interesting conversation by your questions,

"Of course you can, y/n!"

You chuckle and get up, knees a little numb from sitting cross-legged.

Hobi throws his cards on the floor.

"If you had been a lil more patient, would've gotten all mine", he looks up at you. You shrug. His girlfriend mimics you with laughter. Yoongi is on the couch, only his cheeks visible from how low his head is: reading something off Namjoon's phone, together, their dark and honey-light hair clashing. Namjoon nudges him in the side as you turn away and get to the stairs. Jin's mom's house is big, two-storey; expensive orange pans in the kitchen displayed behind the glass proudly. Cute place. You drag a chair to the cupboard to look for tea; only second time around in here, since Jin decided to take a gap year and stay with his mom, and now lounges here all the time, organizing these softcore-student parties.

Someone pats you right on the butt. "Someone"; of course. Yoongi.

"It's in here".

Boys are as thick as thieves. Rarely have you seen boy companies so relatively large being very close: Yoongi has six close friends. You not included; you are his tear, as he explains. Something already in between. You're losing him.

You frown at him from your high spot to reprimand, and he accepts your gaze open-eyed. Doe-face, lips in a bowtie, chin dimpled. He's a little tipsy, but not enough to not understand things.

"Where?" you say finally. He points to a sliding drawer and walks over to help.

Together, you watch the kettle boil. You never tell him to go away; he isn't out of place. Trying to regulate your emotions is tiring. You wait, then tear the tea bag open and look at him:

"Do you need one?"

He shakes his head. Yoongi is a man of extremes: drinks either water or the strongest alcohol he can find around. As soon as your tea bag is inside the mug, he uses the moment when you get distracted by the photos on Jin's mom's fridge, and snatches the package from the table to throw it away.

"You're obsessed with order".

He doesn't reply, just moves his jaws like he is thinking.

"Can we do it again?"

You stall for a couple of seconds, pretending to not understand. Then look away at the kettle again.

"I knew it would happen".

"You should have. What kind of proposition is that? I can't stop thinking about you".

He says it so simply, because you two have the luxury of throwing the awkwardness out the window. So many things experienced together, sicknesses, summer camps, drowning in the local lake, - that sexual activities are but the only thing left unshared.

You pout and don't notice. Yoongi looks at you carefully, then his expression changes.

"No, seriously, what kind of proposition is that? Don't you feel violated?"

Your eyes flicker up at him, then the kettle clicks ready.

"By you? No. I know you won't hurt me".

"You were completely dead".

"I told you I don't move. I don't..." you swallow a tough lump down your throat, "don't like you like that".

You maintain eye contact instead of giving a hug. Thinking that if you hold him while saying it, it will be even more cruel. Yoongi doesn't look at you like he used to. You're both grown. It's funny, you're not the same people anymore, and it could almost be a clean slate. He looks at you the way a man looks at a woman: the gaze you've experienced from others, who also wanted you. From above, as he is taller. With the tilt of a head, instinctive, betraying intimacy. Eyes searching with intention. The difference between Yoongi and others - he will never lay his hand on you without permission. Or so you used to think. Lately he slips.

"Then why do it at all? You made it worse", his voice is hard although he still slurrs softly. Then he thinks, and his brows draw together,

"Do you... offer that to all guys who are into you?"

Your face distorts in outrage. For a moment, you can't even find words and look at the mug full of hot water, considering it.

"Fuck you", you finally spew, "you calling me a whore?"

He keeps up the stare like he is balancing a sword.

"No, I am asking you".

You huff, catching only air, and a grudge.

"How dare you. I am inventing twisted fucking ways to keep our friendship, and you're... uh", you can't even find words sharp enough to throw at him. He blinks in surrender.

"You don't have to do it to keep me", he utters. Even fighting, you step up to each other, forming a protection bubble around yourselves. Like you did at school. The whole place was always gossiping that you were dating, and you and Yoongi constantly laughed at it. Sincerely. You have no idea, maybe his laughter wasn't it.

"You just asked for another round", you remind him, dipping the tea bag desperately.

"I thought it's you giving me a chance, not... letting me use you. Like an animal".

For a moment, he seems disgusted. The hoodie Yoongi is wearing is a familiar hoodie; you're pretty sure it used to belong to you. You remember the signature-like sewn in name of the brand and the white ties.

"A chance?" you marvel, "a chance at what?"

"Winning you over", he says simply, "no?"

Your eyebrows shoot up.

How else can you explain it to him? You've said it at least a dozen times, during arguments and quiet conversations, and casual chats, and now, as well. You don't find him attractive. Not the honey hair covering eyebrows, soft strands tickling his ears (and he constantly moves it away with two fingers). Not the too-pink lips pressed together, not his wide stride, nothing. Not the hand covered half-way by the long sleeve. Not the eyes, not the knees, and definitely not his habit of speaking in pout. His desperate, hot kisses that night left no impression on you except for competitive respect for his passion. And awe, at being wanted like that.

"We did just about anything", he reads your mind, too, "except that. Give me seven more minutes. I will make you feel good".

"And if I say no?"

"Then I need to go to the bathroom".

You sip the tea, forgetting how hot it is, and burn your tongue. Yoongi winces in compassion. Every time you want to tell him to fuck off, he does something like that.

You go up the stairs again, together, and before he can make it to the living room, you tug him by the sleeve.

"That's my hoodie, isn't it?"

He nods.

"I don't remember. This room is off..."

You push the door open quietly, listening to the voices of your friends.

"It's his mum's-"

"Get your phone".

He shuts up. Closes the door while you stand in front of the bed of Jin's rich, gracious mother, and then look at her wardrobe.

He follows you like a shadow, the phone in his hand, then when he gets surprised, his brows disappear under the hair. His skin is glowing. Classic boy shit: he sometimes forgets to even brush his teeth in the morning, and yet he is pretty like a picture. Your hand lies on the open wardrobe door.

"There's too little space".

You shrug.

"Isn't that the whole point?"

Yoongi grows a tad darker, as his teeth press together. You see the exact moment his brains click and evaporate again, as he pushes you inside, after clocking the timer. You aren't ready this soon, so you gasp slightly, pressed against the narrow wall. You want to say that maybe yeah, it is a bad choice: some hangers with dresses are right in your face; something pokes painfully into your side. By the shape of it, behind your knees, a vacuum cleaner is tucked into the corner. Yoongi uses the space effectively, like he has been in this situation before. After closing the little door, he pushes the array of dresses behind himself, kicks something aside, keeping you at the wall. You try to say something about the vacuum cleaner and how unstable it makes you, that you knees need to cave in, to maintain balance. You get no chance. Yoongi crashes you with a kiss, requesting the tip of your tongue. You already forgot; and he didn't. He sucks it gently, making it feel like you're getting vacuumed yourself, soothing the burnt spot.

His hand goes to the small of your back, arching you towards him, and the other cradles your face like he is rehearsing for your wedding.

You don't really have time to discern if it makes you feel uncomfortable. Your feet are fighting for equilibrium against the damn vacuum, while Yoongi nudges the plastic hangers with the top of his head and ouches into your mouth. Your hands drop and hang by your sides like damp sleeves. Fists convulse, fingers curling, out of instinct. You want to feel the texture of his hair, for some reason deluded that if you touch it, it will feel sweet. But you don't want to encourage him; if this is his chance at winning you over, by all means. But it's his job. He slides his face to the side and sucks on the skin under your chin.

"Not the hickey!" you hiss.

He doesn't react, taking a fraction of a second more to finish it. Then his free hand grabs your wrist. What now. You did say he can do whatever he wants; he guides your hand to himself, and at first you tense your elbow, but when it crawls up, you relax. Yoongi pushes it under the hoodie and up his stomach, and plasters your palm on his side. He is breathing like an animal; you feel his ribs, moving up and down, lungs inflating. It makes you think of a horse: mute, durable companion, carrying you away, beautiful and full of grace.

Yoongi places his hands low on your back, tugging your jeans slightly down to find the dimples. He presses on them, just hard enough, to send a jolt of unexpected shock down your thighs.

"Crap", you gasp. You knees wobble for a second. "Do it again".

You try to take a breath to stabilize yourself, and instead inhale a bunch of his hair as he moves his head below your face. Honey boy. He smells sweet, like fresh pastry. Yoongi presses again, then grabs your butt softly, fingers getting dangerously low.

"No pussy touching", you remind him, surprised at the slight breathiness of your own voice.

"Through the clothes", he mutters.

"No".

His hand slides up the wall behind you, and he steps closer.

"I'll fall".

Yoongi grabs you around the waist. Your hand still on his ribs; fair's fair, so you keep it there, catching the beating of his mad heart. You rotate your palm for comfort, feeling what you know is a big birthmark that you call a cow. Always called a cow. Because it's shaped like a spot on a cow. He makes you step aside, and you have to cling on him, or you'll fall. The wardrobe is cluttered, it smells of plastic wrapping (perhaps from the vacuum cleaner) and clothes. Not old, not fresh, either. Your hand that flew by itself to Yoongi's neck as he moved you away from the corner, feels the moist under the hair, at the roots. He dives right back. Doesn't waste time, smothering you with kisses around your face.

"Open your mouth", he asks, huskily. His thighs are pressed against yours, out of restriction of the wardrobe. You chose it. You have no one else to blame for his hard boner pushing you in the leg. You take the air through your nose and obey, and Yoongi does something unexpected. Covering you in a kiss again, he plunges his fingers right under your ribs, under the shirt, and presses, like he's checking the lungs. Clinical, again, you lose control, ambushed from all sides. Suddenly it doesn't matter that you don't like him like that. The tiny goosebumps run amuck down your legs while his fingers press into the solar plexus. The contrast between slightly painful and the tenderness of his kiss sends your brain into a panic mode. It's Yoongi, god dammit, the brain screams, it's incest! You have to shove it down forcefully. The taste of grapes gets onto your tongue, and then the timer beeps.

Yoongi groans with an effort now. His fingers leave an impression on your stomach as he puts his forehead against your chin, panting, like he's been running. Your hand loses the friction against his body, and falls down, and Yoongi presses his arm sharply, to keep it inside for a little. He turns off the timer: ringing is much less deafening now.

You both listen to the room outside.

"Tell them I am shitting myself", he asks, once you get out, and into a blindingly light, uncomfortably big bedroom. Yoongi keeps your hand in his, without registering.

"I'll tell them you feel sick", you pivot with a frown, "why does it have to be shit?"

He shrugs and scratches his head, then his gaze drops to your clasped hands.

"You got subscription?"

Your eye twitches.

259

Subscription means he has to pay something for it.

Don't ask.

You don't know what this is. Yoongi now comes over and does the dishes and dusts the place because those are the two house chores you hate the most. It's like friendly prostitution, you feel. He does the dishes and makes the dinner for you, while you do your essays in the room, and then for seven minutes he French-kisses you and holds your butt. He requests 40 sessions. You gape your mouth open: that's 280 minutes in heaven. That's longer than a full movie. You decide to at least take out those three times that it already happened, and search for your calculator. Because you and him were two idiots at algebra, just trying to survive.

252

It gets to a point where you continue the conversation while he is taking off your pants. You notice things now; dammit. It makes you flustered. The birthmark on the side of his nose is actually cute. And the way he shortly bares his teeth in effort when the tight jeans get stuck on your hips because you're sitting.

"...but her actual boyfriend called her on that night and started screaming over the phone that he is having a stroke".

"You can't scream during a stroke", you muse.

"Well, it depends", Yoongi pours all his suppressed desire to touch you into these sessions now. Aside from that, he has become more than adequate. Friends stopped giving you weird glances. You don't have to scold him anymore, remind him. He doesn't reach out unnecessarily, and during family gatherings, which happen from time to time. So, this actually works. Only, is it worth it, really?

Now that he knows he has loads of time left, he takes it slowly, unnerving you to no end. You always have an option to back out. Bury it and never speak about it again. The catch is - you don't hate it. June is still dragging out, and you still can't sleep, unless you're with him. And the view of his collarbones below the worn-out white home tee is comforting, grounding. The way his arm muscles flex softly, when he pulls the jeans off you. You know he does it with safety. He lets his palm linger on your hip for a while, telling the story.

"But that dude definitely didn't have a stroke. He felt nauseous because he hadn't eaten for three days before. Get on your stomach".

You glare at him with a fraction of unease, then do as he says. Curiosity is what drives you. You stretch across bed, tits pressed into the blanket, a little self-conscious about being left in nothing but underwear. Because the lights are on, and because the earliest, most striking memories of Yoongi were the ones where he made fun of you and tried to poke your eye with a stick. You put your chin on the backs of your hands and stare into the window.

"So did she actually run to him?"

"She did, three streets away, at midnight", Yoongi mutters, and you hear the sweet, ultra-Daegu slurring. His palm rests on the cheek of your butt lightly, then squeezes. What is life, you think. What are you two. Friends with benefits now? You get no benefit out of it, and you don't get repulsed, you just feel weird. You start getting used to his attentive, focused touch. Before you can ask how it ended, and whether the idiot was transported into the hospital, his teeth bite exactly the right spot right under the butt, into the thigh. You have to press your face to the hands to not produce sounds. You're still stubbornly clinging to the 'no moving' rule you created yourself. He kisses the inside of the knee. So tender. Then gives you a proper massage, which is so good you approve of another seven minutes back to back in order to let him finish.

He doesn't have to go to the bathroom after this one.

182

You stare at the honey boy's uneven shoulder tilt as he is chatting with some auntie. Your hand wants to nervously tuck the hair behind your ear, and you don't let it. Yoongi has hands in the back pockets of his pants. He has to flinch his head from time to time, and make the light bangs move, because they get in the eyes. Next to them, a wide table with fruit and chocolates. Some plastic flowers in ugly vases letting the sunlight through, making it blue. He nods and walks away from her, and the lady presses a kerchief to her nose. Yoongi is wearing too loose of a sweater in your opinion, one shoulder almost slipping off; and as he turns towards you, you realize it's probably your old sweater, too. Only his shoes are white, and the hair seems much more honey with black outfit. He nods at you across the room, and you nod back. He takes it as a green light to approach.

"Who was that?"

He keeps looking around, slightly bored, handing you a peeled tangerine mindlessly. You don't take it - but break a segment away, and put it in your mouth.

"I forgot her name the second she spoke to me".

You hum in agreement. Always did everything together. School, together. Fights, together (it takes two to fight). College, together, too. Although in different places. But it feels together, as well. Same life, slightly torn and pulled to the sides, but staying one thread in the middle. Now you are connected at the shoulders, observing the room and judging quietly, undubitably, with the same expression.

You don't know how to tell him that you want to bend the rules further. That keeping it casual and transactional (he does your groceries and gets to touch your tits) is the best. And that you want him to get you off. You worry that if you bring up the genitalia part, especially during a wake for his aunt's father, it will be weird.

The ceremony drags out slowly. You're left alone because the adults are all mingled and speak to each other, and you just munch fruits in the corner, not speaking necessarily, but playing the remembering game, trying to recall as many relatives as you can. You know his immediate family; know a lot of his extended family, as well. This knowledge was absorbed over the years. A name here, a picture there. You remember a tall guy with square jaw and military haircut from the time when he drove you and Yoongi, both fifteen, to the lake to swim, and Yoongi burned his back so bad that he couldn't touch it for days. It was red like meat. It was only five years ago. You have never been interested in what he has in his pants, before.

"This is fucking boring", he drops. There's nothing to do here, and he has nothing to say about that old dead bloke whatsoever. You don't breathe, hoping not to hear what you think he is about to say.

"Have shame, the man is dead", you murmur. Your fingers smell like tangerine now. Bright orange, almost acid, in the boring plain room. Yoongi smells like that, too. His mouth moves slowly, chewing, he sucks in his cheek and pouts. He pouts about everything.

"What was his name?" he looks at you, bringing his chin down. You dimple your cheeks in a non-smile. You exhale, and he notices. His eyelids cover his eyes only half-way like he is studying you. Sometimes you think his eyes look like those alien half-moon insects from that X-Files movie. They have the same glint and vitality.

"Can we go do the thing?"

"At a wake?" you hiss.

You want nothing more that to get felt up by him at the wake. The atmosphere is slow, like thick liquid. And Yoongi looks edible in black, wearing your sweater, and staring at you with those challenging and soft eyes. He always gropes you a little too hard. He always knows his limits, too.

"It's just seven minutes".

He takes out his phone, and the most terrible thing happens: your brain has learned by now that when he does that, you're about to be kissed. And you get excited. It has, in fact, unlearned that Yoongi is your brother. He never has been. His old Samsung has trained you to get agitated. You look at it, then raise his eyes and understand he most definitely knows what he's doing.

You slide against the wall into the hall of the building and look for a toilet.

It's white. Smells like water, and the tiles are too cold. The space is too big, tired paper towel hanging from the dispenser. You place your own phone on the sink area because you have no pockets on the dress, and wash your hands to clean off the citrus smell. Yoongi usually puts anything citrus directly in between your teeth, without you having to touch it, because you get anxious about the clingy smell on your fingers. But he figured it would be strange to hand feed you fruit in front of everybody. You rub your fingers with soap, again and again, and continue rubbing when he comes in, having waited a couple of minutes. You hope he didn't tell anybody that he's about to shit himself. This is the default excuse for ANYTHING at all installed in his stupid fluffy head.

He looks at you, sensually. That means something changes in his gaze. The demeanor. He tilts his head forward and keeps his mouth pressed together, his throat still. His hand reaches for your hip: you see fingers, pale, cunning, almost touching the hem of your dress.

"You haven't started the timer yet!" you cut him off. And he didn't lock the door. He says nothing; places the Samsung on the edge of the sink, and you see the numbers running down: twenty minutes left. Your gaze returns to him:

"Not that long", you can have an orgasm in that time. Yoongi clicks the lock. The welcoming throb starts in between your legs. Shhhhit.

There's not a single place in this bathroom to sit, or even stand, comfortably; everything seems dirty even though looks clean. The mirror is too big, catching every movement you two produce.

He takes your wrists and places them on the sink, covers your hands with his, calming down the citrus frenzy. The hallucination of the smell in your nostrils slowly fades away.

"I don't want to face the mirror", you hum meekly, and he glances into it at you, over your shoulder. For the first time, you see how you look together, interlocked. Pressed. In a hug. While the timer runs, his touch is obscenely gentle, arm snaking across your stomach, making sure to let you feel the fingers through the dress. He turns you around and kisses your ear through the hair. And you forget to be still; before you know it, one hand grabs at the sweater you now remember all too well. You discarded it into the depths of your wardrobe at home, deeming it too worn out for yourself. Yoongi must have fished it out on one of the occasions. And he makes it look vintage. The thick knit in curious tie-lumps under your fingers, warmed up by his body. If he is surprised by your touch, he doesn't let it show; takes your other hand and places a kiss inside the palm, then returns it where it was. The hot, wet breath a smudge on your wrist.

He doesn't try to violate you, but every time he persistently tests the waters; and every time, you shake him off. It's a ritual: his hand crawls across your waist to the hip, then makes a turn in a pivot, and slides to the inner thigh. Close enough to feel the temperature. Close enough to be able to imagine. When you remind him to back off, he brings it away, deepening the kiss.

Now, he isn't in a hurry. Don't know since when he decided it's okay to squash sessions together like that; you don't notice your own jaw moving while you think. You don't register it at all: that for the second time in a row, you return the kiss. Yoongi keeps very still, as if afraid to startle you, while your brain is playing tricks on you.

Black mourning dress with semi-transparent mesh hem has the tag on the inside, under the collar, that constantly scratches your back. From time to time, you have to wiggle to get it to rest flatly.

Yoongi sneaks up along your back, fingers going tip-toe one by one up your spine (it makes you shiver), and unzip the top of your dress slightly. Before you can protest, he leaves it, the tip of his finger touching the tiniest hairs just below your neck, getting them up. He tugs on the stubborn, rough square patch, and tears it off without a sound, yanking his hand down.

"You're gonna tear a hole in a-" he shuts you up again, throwing the tag on the sink, or inside it, one hand under your arm, caressing the thinner skin on the inside with one finger. The kiss is sloppy; it's harder to hide the palpilations in your chest in a dress that's hugging the body neatly. You breathe through your nose. He has eaten about a hundred tangerines and tastes like one. Summery, sweet, round. His finger hooks the skirt of your dress, brushing over your thigh through the tights. He pinches them, testing for fragility. His hand just lingers, the same way Yoongi himself sometimes seems to stand around, without a cause, turning his head left and right, while, in fact, calculating something atrocious. It's just there, hanging, touching, testing the fabric, until you sniff, frustrated, and have to throw your head back with overstimulation of your patience. He's done it all: kissed every little spot of your back, counted all your birthmarks; massaged your arms; licked your stomach, twisted your breasts, bruised your throat; he can go on, driving in circles, the same places again, the same little purr he produces when he gets too dizzy looking at your joint move. You can't. You buck your hips, throwing a rogue glance at the timer. Ten minutes.

Over the little experiment, Yoongi has found a new equilibrium; for him, he maybe is already in a relationship, it must be. Well, he does your dishes. Sometimes makes breakfasts when you spoon in one of your beds, even though it's way past July now. He helps you out around the house and drives you from university, goes to parties with you and also kisses your neck. What else is there to be named. He doesn't yearn anymore, he has become calm, happier, even a little too charming. Easy in everyday motions, maybe more loose than you've seen him in years. He barely ever speaks clearly anymore.

You have lost everything. The peace with which you used to pinch his side when he got on your nerves. And the pride, perhaps. Also, understanding of what's happening, at all. You threw him a rope, he grabbed the end of it and rotated you to his side, where the storms were brewing.

He leans away a little bit, keeping the hand on the side of your thigh.

"Third base?" he mutters. Stray lock stands aside on his ear; he is made of honey and rustle of clean sheets. Sharp eyes, on the opposite, are taking in your complete undoing, without any shame.

"Isn't it the second?"

The eyes crawl up in musing.

"We never fucking know anything, do we", he mutters. His hand dives in between your legs, clutching you through the clothes, and you jump, gripping the cold edge of the sink.

∞

You keep rubbing your temple, picking at the skin, and Yoongi slaps your hand lightly, a couple of times, shaking you out of the daze.

The place hums with people's coffee-soaked conversations; spoons clink, machines roar in muffled behind the counter. You perch your lower lip up, looking at the page.

"Why did I choose this..." you whisper.

"Cause you wanted to help people", he says, without looking up. Happy with his psychology assignments, he could fuck his major if that were possible, loves this so much. Maybe pulling such a weird stunt with someone who is doing so well in clinical profiling was stupid of you.

"I meant the colours", you respond, your finger tapping a highlighter, "I never liked yellow".

Yoongi looks from behind his laptop, mouth pointy, because he's exploring.

"Take mine", he pushes a pink one towards you.

You keep your eyes on him while he returns to work.

"I am thirsty, too".

He blinks rapidly, trying to keep his brain working while registering your words. And shoves his glass of bubble tea towards you, slowly.

"And I need your pen".

Yoongi looks up, wide-open and ready to pout you off to the gates of heaven with one curse, then stops.

"What are we?" you ask. He licks his lips with just the tip of his tongue, neatly, unwilling still to get out of the thinking mode.

"Who cares? You rationalize things too much".

You pick on your upper lip now, keeping your finger on the philtrum. Yoongi's looks like a little swallow with its wings spread.

"You remember that one time uncle took us to the lake? When we were fifteen?"

"When I burned my back?"

You nod.

"When you tried to catch a duck and nearly drowned".

He repeats your motion, his square teeth biting on his lower lip. Eyes on the screen. Year started. Lots of work. You feel jealous like you used to, at school.

"And you went under the water because your foot got caught on coontail?"

"I think it was eelgrass".

Since he has given it up to you, you drink his tea in small sips. He doesn't even ogle anymore, when you wrap your mouth around something.

"And I jumped after you and you started drowning me?"

"I was grabbing cause I was scared", Yoongi winces. His hand taps the table emptily, before he notices that you, in fact, have his tea now.

"I thought to myself then, while you were pushing on my shoulders, that if we die together, it's okay. I think I was ready to drown with you".

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

"Why don't we date?" you ask, lingering on the straw like it's a buoy. Panicking. Yours is just one of the mundane coffeeshop conversations, betraying your ordinary lives. He parts his lips slightly, and his face becomes too cute. Some people at school bullied Yoongi because of how pretty he was. Those lips sure deprived a lot of people of peace.

"We do everything together. Which means we like each other as humans. And we jerked each other off", you shrug, trying to make it casual. Like a clinical observation. But of the two of you, only Yoongi is calm. His face gets warmer though; it radiates that honey glow, calming your nerves a little.

"You wanna date?"

"Yeah. Whatever. If you want to".

You rub your eye. Yoongi rakes his hair, then dimples his chin. His brown sweatshirt belonged to him since he bought it, but you remember helping him choose.

"Okay", he says finally, "but I will tease you about it forever".

As he says it, he bobs his head accusingly. Then something kicks you gently under the table. You look down and see his hand. You take it. He must feel the change in your touch, because he squeezes your palm, one corner of his mouth smiling. Honey boy. What's worse is, you always had a thing for him, too. Just a different thing, deeper. Something that needed to be undug.

taglist: @mar-lo-pap

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi imagine #bts imagine #yoongi fluff

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