agustamygdala7

[agustamygdala7]

There was a lot of stuff I was supposed to do today, but instead I've made this:

[agustamygdala7]

unlimited gifs of min yoongi ➔ 51/?

[agustamygdala7]

build this dream together (teaser)

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🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab

As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.

Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.

♫ Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now Starship

pairing: joshua x fem!reader wc (for the teaser): 4.7k tags (for the teaser): mentions of alcohol, mentions of workplace discrimination (for the full fic): slow burn, smut, coworkers/best friends to lovers, flashbacks, description of a crash but no one gets hurt, more to come! a/n: ahhhh so excited to share this one with you all! as i’ve stated previously, my knowledge of f1 is minimal. i mostly tried to keep it realistic but as far as f1 academy goes, i’ve pretty much completely ignored the way it actually works irl LOL. you don’t need to know much for the teaser, but i’ll be posting a glossary and an outline of what i ignored alongside the full fic! for now, just enjoy :) tag list info at the end :)

ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2023 "I can't believe this... I can't fucking believe this."

Joshua’s voice comes through the radio so soft, it’s barely audible over the roar of his engine. Your instinct is to keep your eyes on the screen, confirm that your driver’s tires are fine, fuel levels okay, no other car on his ass. But it’s useless because Joshua is seconds from the finish line with no chance for anyone else to take it and no time penalties to serve.

“Believe it, Shua,” you say into your mic as you swivel your chair around and away from your monitor. Your eyes immediately find his bright orange MCL60 approaching the checkered flag like a bullet. “You did it.”

The words are bittersweet, and if this had been last season, you would’ve been jumping up and down with the rest of the team, screaming into Joshua’s earpiece and losing your goddamn mind. Today, though, you stay glued to your seat. Even when the wind of Joshua crossing the finish line right before your eyes whips at your face, even when the world explodes around you in a vivacious spray of confetti and champagne, even when Joshua Hong becomes a two-time F1 world champion—you stay seated. 

“We did it,” he corrects, sounding as calm as you feel. You wonder if you sound it, though—if you sound lonely too, because you are. “And that’s not what I can’t believe.”

You watch as his car starts to slow across the track. “Oh yeah? Always knew you were going to bag another title, did you?” you joke.

He doesn’t laugh. You clear your throat and sigh, knowing you’ve been skirting around the devastation of this all.

“What can’t you believe, Shua?”

Silence. His car feels impossibly far from you even though it’s only been seconds. You think the irony is cruel. You wait a few more moments for his response, and when you receive none, you assume he’s already disconnected from the radio. Just before you take your headset off, he answers you.

“I can’t believe that you’re really leaving me.”

Your stomach twists painfully. He makes his way back, pulling into the pit lane, where he parks next to the first place sign meant for him. Immediately, staff members are already swarming the car—some to tend to the car, some to offer him water, some to scream and cry and congratulate. But still, he stays inside his vehicle, and he stays connected to you.

There are a multitude of things you want to tell him.

You want to tell him you aren’t leaving him because you want to; you’re sparing both of your careers from the scrutiny that would inevitably come if you stayed.

You want to tell him he’s currently the best driver on the grid. Your absence isn’t going to change that, especially when he’s so seasoned, that most of what you do now is just play music for him and inform him how many seconds he has until he reaches the next car. 

You want to tell him this is the right thing to do, no matter how horrible it feels.

Above all, you just want to tell him you love him—that although you only found out a few months ago, you think you fell in love with him the moment you both turned your radios on the first time you raced together—and that’s why you have to go. That’s why you can’t be his race engineer a second longer.

In the end, “I can’t either” is what you settle on. I’m so sorry rings loudly in your head but never leaves your mouth.

“So this is it, huh?” His breath comes out shaky and you know him well enough to know it’s not from the adrenaline of winning another world title.

“This is it,” you confirm, a knot forming in your throat.

“It was a good run, L/N.” You think you hear a knot in his too.

“The best run, Hong.” You can’t help your voice from cracking when you add: “The best of my life.”

“Mine too,” he says with no hesitation, though his voice sounds watery now. You feel your heart break. 

“Shua,” you croak. 

“Hm?”

“Thank you. For the past five years, for genuinely believing I could get you here, for… being my… my friend.” The word hurts you in unimaginable ways. “The best friend. Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me. It was easy,” he responds. “You made everything easy—all of it. I should thank you… you… you make this sport worthwhile.”

You press your lips together to keep from breaking out into uncontrollable sobs, nodding to yourself as you try to wrap your mind around this being your last real moment with Joshua. 

He sighs deeply, another brief silence engulfing the two of you before he speaks again. “I’ll see you out there?”

You hum because you can’t bring yourself to tell him he won’t. As you take your headphones off, the first of your tears fall and you let them; it’s the one time you can without being judged for being too emotional or too feminine. Every grown man on Team McLaren is bawling right now, anyway. 

You slide off your seat and watch from the pit wall as Joshua exits his vehicle a few moments later and waves at the deafening crowd. For five years, you’ve guided Joshua through every F1 track in the world, you weathered countless storms—literal and figurative—together, and you’ve made him a world champion twice. 

But for almost ten years, since the time you started as a low-ranking mechanic at McLaren, you also endured misogynistic slights from the more old-school members of your team, comments that it doesn’t take much to do your job when Joshua Hong is the driver, and teasing that you were only in this to snag a rich husband off the grid.

You persevered. You clawed your way up the ranks. You earned the respect you wanted so badly, and as much as you want to say fuck it and just stay, you can’t. Because being around Joshua when you’re knowingly in love with him feels impossible. And if you can’t hide it, then you’ll have to say it. And if you say it, your career will be over, and you can’t let it be tarnished now—not when it’s at its peak. Not when Joshua is at his either.

Loving him will ruin everything you worked for. Loving him will not only cut you at the knees, but every woman after you who vies for this position. And it’s not going to happen.

Joshua doesn’t see you out there. You leave long before he even gets off the track and long before his time is freed up post photo ops and interviews. You can’t stay and confront the betrayal that’s been dancing in his eyes for weeks, even though he swore up and down that he was happy you found something new and exciting. You can’t let him wrap his arms around you one last time while he whispers heartfelt thank yous for an amazing season—an amazing five seasons—into your ear, confetti raining down and champagne soaking the both of you through to your bones. You can’t do any of it because if you do, you’ll lose your nerve and you’ll stay.

And you can’t. You have a flight to catch and the best F1 driver in the world to forget about. 

Abu Dhabi two years ago was the last time you saw or heard from Joshua. A small part of you hoped he would reach out, but you knew that was a selfish thing to want; after all, you were the one that ran off without a proper goodbye after a five-year career together. Still, there were a lot of days you looked at your phone and wished he would send one of his silly memes or just ask how the job was going. 

Conversely, though, you never texted either. Not when he bombed his very next season, and not when he lost this season’s title by a hair. 

But now… now feels like as good a time as any to text.

The computer lab is in an uproar as your current class of female drivers stop what they’re doing to leap out of their seats and crowd around the massive flat screen television mounted on the back wall, gaping at it. You gape from your desk at the front of the classroom.

“Whoa, didn’t you work with him, Mickie?” For McLaren—a nickname that kind of irritated you at first but have grown accustomed to.

“She was his race engineer!”

“He’s crazy!”

Saki, who had been at your desk to ask a question when you noticed Joshua on the TV and immediately unmuted it, speaks softly—surely not meant to be heard amongst the other girls’ shouting.

“He did seem tired.”

You tear your eyes off Joshua to frown at the student. You’re unsure if she was talking to you or to herself, but the observation shakes you to your core anyway. You would never admit it, but you watched every single race of his since you left. Before this, you don’t know that you would describe him as tired, but now, you’re not sure if you managed to miss something your student saw. You choose not to respond, finding your way back to your ex-driver’s face.

“There’s no way he’s serious! Is he serious?” 

“Why wouldn’t he be serious? His career has been tanking.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s because his race engineers haven’t been as good as Mick.”

“Maybe it’s time to get ahead of it and just retire while people still like him.”

“Shut up, Sophia!”

“Don’t talk to each other like that,” you mumble half-heartedly, too distracted by the TV to really reinforce the reprimand.

“He’s a legend! He had one bad season—” 

“Two,” someone says.

“Well, that’s not fair, he did pretty well this season.”

“—and now no one will give him a break.”

“Girl. He’s giving himself a break,” another voice chimes in.

“Anything other than first place is for losers.”

“This isn’t a break, this is career suici—”

“Okay!” a voice cuts sharply into the noise. You don’t flinch the way the girls do, eyes glued to the screen as Joshua patiently answers questions. The unmistakable clacking of the CEO’s heels striking the floor have all the girls straightening their posture. “Crazy news, I know.”

The TV turns off and you fight the urge to whine alongside the girls. You turn to look at Park Jihyo, who puts the remote back down on the edge of your desk where she found it.

“I know you’re all excited to be here together, but the season starts in just four months, and we’re hitting the ground running,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking every driver in the eye. “And you aren’t going to let news about the millionth man in F1 derail your chances at getting into a major team, now are you, ladies?”

There’s a chorus of nos as Jihyo nods once and claps her hands before making a shooing motion. 

“Good. Because there’s no room for distractions when you’re a woman,” she reminds them. It’s something you’ve heard nonstop since coming to F1 Academy as a technical executive and instructor. Most of the time, you felt like it was being drilled into your head, not the girls’. “Now get back to working on… whatever engineering thing Y/N has you working on.” You snort. “You’re due at the gym for cardiovascular training in two hours and I don’t want to hear that a single one of you was late, understood?”

“Understood!” a bunch of girls chirp as they hurriedly turn back to their respective computers. You sigh, ready to get back to guiding and teaching them, when Jihyo steps into your path. 

She smiles mischievously. 

“What…?” you ask slowly, subconsciously slinking away from her as she leans forward.

“Got a minute?”

You want to say no, but as close as you personally are to Jihyo, she’s still your boss and you refuse to show her any sort of disrespect in front of the students, whether or not it’s a joke.

“Sure,” you say, nodding for her to enter your office ahead of you before turning back to the girls. “Listen up. You feel something off in your steering—slight pull to the right, but there’s no warning on the dash. You’re in the points with 10 laps to go. Give me a few minutes with CEO Park and when I’m back, I want to hear what you’re telling your engineer and what your game plan is.”

The girls don’t bother responding, immediately turning back to their notebooks or computers and parsing out their thoughts. You follow Jihyo into the office attached to your classroom, closing the door behind you. She takes the seat at your desk across from your own, obviously expecting you to sit there. Instead, you plop onto the couch face down, making your boss roll her eyes at you.

“So,” she starts slowly and awkwardly, “how are you feeling…?”

You stare at her blankly, cheek pressed into the fabric of the sofa. “Fine?”

“Pfft.” She kicks her heels off before she sinks lower in her seat, making herself just as comfortable as you. “Joshua Hong just announced a sabbatical and you’re ‘fine’?”

The words are surreal. You just watched a news broadcast of his announcement and the subsequent press conference, and still, your brain wants to convince you Jihyo is lying. The sabbatical is one thing—that was becoming a more normalized event in the sport as drivers started to focus on their families and their mental health. But Joshua’s own words during the interview was another.

Joshua, what does this sabbatical mean for your career? Do you plan on returning to to the track?

I’m not sure at the moment what it means. Maybe it’s time for me to rest and get my head back in the game for next season. Maybe it’s the beginning of an early retirement. I don’t know. I just know it’s needed and I’m grateful McLaren is working with me to make it happen.

No hesitation. The words “early retirement” really came out of Joshua “I’m Going to Be Buried in an MCL60” Hong’s stupid, pretty mouth. You never thought you’d see the day.

“Why would Joshua Hong’s career decisions affect me?” you ask stubbornly, knowing you’re being purposefully daft. “We don’t work together anymore.” You throw a hand up to gesture lazily at your office. “Obviously. You poached me.”

Jihyo lets out a single bark of laughter. “HA! Poached! That’s funny considering you had your foot halfway out of McLaren when I reached out to you. Why was that again?” she asks with fake forgetfulness. “Oh, right! You fell in love with your driver.”

“Every day I regret telling you anything about myself.”

“You didn’t tell me. Drunk you did.”

You wave your hand at her in a silent “whatever.”

“Well, if you’re so ‘fine,’ I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“Okay?” you sigh, feeling very much like the teenage girls outside of your office right now. It’s crazy what a man can do to your mood even two years after completely abandoning him. “You need me to look over more designs for this season?”

Jihyo scoffs like she’s about to say no before stopping herself. “Actually, yes, I do, but that’s not what my favor is. Especially because that’s not a favor, that’s your job.”

You try not to laugh. 

“I need you to poach someone for me.”

You immediately tense. She doesn’t continue, letting the words really sink in. You scramble up onto your knees from where you were sprawled across the couch.

“What the hell are you saying right now?”

“I’m saying that the best driver on the grid is on sabbatical a measly 2-hour flight from here, for who knows how long, and these girls could benefit from learning from the best of the absolute fucking best.”

“Joshua wants to rest,” you immediately argue. “And frankly, he needs it! The man has been behind some kind of wheel for an ungodly amount of years!”

“And you don’t think going from his schedule at McLaren to a schedule teaching girls here won’t be a significant change of pace for him?” she asks incredulously. “Please! Tell me that the transition didn’t feel like a full-on retirement, even for you.”

Jihyo isn’t wrong. 

Being a race engineer was deceptively tiring. A lot of people reduced it to sitting at a monitor for two hours, but your days were long and grueling and a lot more demanding than just race days. You were involved in what felt like countless hours of engineering debriefs, research and development, spreadsheets (god, the spreadsheets), and not to mention, Joshua made you somewhat of his personal therapist, begging you to follow him around the facility when he was in for practice sessions or training. If you stood your ground and refused, you’d find him following you around. 

Not to mention the traveling. Or the actual race days.

Coming to F1 Academy was a breath of fresh air. Sure, you came feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you, but that had more to do with leaving Joshua than anything else. F1 Academy slowed life down for you. 

The schedule wasn’t completely less forgiving; you were still on a race schedule, but instead of traveling to 21 different countries and having 24 different races over the course of nine months, you only had to attend 7 races in 6 different countries in roughly the same amount of time. On top of that, you weren’t a superstar driver’s race engineer. You weren’t anybody’s engineer; all you had to do was supervise and step in if someone was struggling with a student driver. Compared to F1, it practically felt like vacation.

And even more than that, it felt meaningful, cultivating the careers of aspiring female drivers and giving them a path into a male-dominated sport. You know better than anyone else that Joshua would absolutely love it.

“I think this would be good for Hong, and I think this would be good for you,” she tells you. 

You try not to balk at her. “Do you hear yourself? You think it would be good for your technical executive and head engineering instructor to work with the man she left her last position for? You said it yourself! I was in love with him!”

You ignore the way Jihyo very obviously tries to keep from rolling her eyes at your use of the word “was.”

“You can deny it all you want but I know there is something very… unresolved there,” she says, lip curling in mock disgust at the sheer thought of emotions. “And even if it’s not romantic—”

“What do you mean?!” you laugh incredulously. “It should not be romantic if we’re going to be working here together! You should actually be discouraging that as my boss.”

“Pfft,” she waves a hand. “I’m not in HR. That is not my job. If I want to ship two of my employees—”

“He’s not even an employee yet.”

“—then I will ship two of my employees.”

“You are so ridiculous.”

“Besides, you didn’t even let me finish,” she pouts at you. You nod in defeat and let her continue. “Like I was saying, even if it’s not romantic—and I’ll proudly be the first to admit I hope it’s romantic!” she says the disclaimer quickly and in one breath, “I’d still love to see you fix your friendship with him. I know it mattered a lot to both of you.”

Your relationship to Jihyo changed overnight. One day, she was your funny, albeit intimidating boss, and then with the help of several bottles of soju and an Academy staff karaoke night, she was suddenly visiting your office at least twice a day, you were constantly hanging out outside of work, and you knew everything about each other. Including how much you cherished Joshua, not as someone you were in love with, but as a human being you loved, period.

“But I won’t pretend this is selfless,” she sighs. “We’re three seasons into the Academy, going on four, and we have yet to see any of our graduates enter F1.”

You fidget uncomfortably. It’s a stress point for the entire organization and something you’re reminded of in what feels like every meeting. 

“I don’t need to remind you what little time we have to prove this program a success.”

Three more seasons after this next one. 

When the program was conceived, F1 agreed to see what the Academy could achieve in seven seasons. They wanted at least two female drivers in F1 by then, but the stretch goal was to have the winning graduate from every season on a team, even as reserve drivers. That didn’t happen, but they could still get two girls in there; it would just mean having to do it very, very soon.

“No…” you shake your head. “You don’t need to remind me.”

You sit on your couch properly and stare at Jihyo, who refuses to continue speaking. She’s letting you stew in your thoughts, well aware your overactive brain will be better at convincing you than she ever will.

Finally, you groan.

She doesn’t even have the decency to wait for you to agree that Joshua is the best answer before she’s clapping excitedly. She’s infuriating but she’s right. It would be mutually beneficial; the girls would inherit a wealth of knowledge from a driver like him, and he would see what you get to every day: how easy it is to make a difference when your life isn’t solely on the track.

And you don’t know why he’s taken this break, but you have a nagging feeling that’s exactly what he needs.

“Okay, okay, relax,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “How do we even do this? McLaren would’ve had him sign an ironclad agreement that guarantees his return to the team from sabbatical… unless he decides to retire.” You feel your stomach lurch at the idea.

Jihyo waves a hand like the legalities of Joshua’s employment don’t matter to her. “You don’t worry your beautiful, little head about that. While you were all busy screaming at the TV like banshees, I was already on the phone convincing the big guy to let us at him.”

“You asked the CEO of McLaren? And he agreed to you stealing Joshua during his sabbatical…?” 

It doesn’t sound anything like the staunch businessman you came to know over the decade you spent at his organization. He was nice enough, but he was also incredibly greedy—in all the ways that rich men always are. But there was nothing he was greedier about than talent. When he liked a driver—and more importantly, when a driver delivered wins, and therefore money—he kept him forever. Even if that meant convoluted contracts with tricky fine prints. You doubt that has changed.

“No,” she says, smirking and looking incredibly pleased with herself, “I did not ask. I bartered. I already had a leg up since that neon orange eyesore of a company of yours is our biggest proponent.”

If McLaren’s CEO’s greed was good for one thing, it was that he wanted the best of the best, and that absolutely included women. As such, he’s been the only CEO very enthusiastically circling the Academy looking for his next star. 

“I told him if he gave me Hong during his sabbatical, he could have first pick from our litter of talented ladies during any one season he’s interested in,” Jihyo informs you.

You stare blankly at her. “Like the NBA draft…?”

“Girl, I only know cars. I don’t know what that means.”

“Right,” you nod, opting to move on instead of explain. “What if that girl doesn’t want to sign with McLaren?”

Jihyo scoffs. “Then she doesn’t sign with McLaren! I’m not the devil, Y/N; I’m not selling souls here. I’m just giving him the first chance to meet and talk to a driver of his choice before any of the other neanderthals. Convincing her he’s good enough to sign with him is all on him.”

You hum in understanding. “Okay, so why can’t he just tell Joshua himself?”

“So that’s my hiccup,” she groans. “He said he’s all ours if he says yes, but he seems convinced that this is the last thing Hong would want to do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Okay… well then, he doesn’t know him at all. This is the exact kind of thing he’d want to do.”

You know because he invited you to enough non-profit events he supported in the off season to volunteer with him, join him on a panel about F1, or just show face. This is exactly up his alley.

Jihyo shrugs. “He says, ‘The boy has lost his spark,’” she imitates him in an exaggeratedly deep and hoarse voice. “Even if that’s true, I have the perfect person to give him that spark right back!”

She grins widely, blinking her eyes rapidly at you.

“Your faith in me is astronomical.”

“No, your doubt in yourself is astronomical,” she corrects, rolling her eyes. “I’m willing to bet $100,000 that even two years after quitting each other cold turkey, Joshua Hong is still willing to bend over backwards for you.”

You wince at the wording. You don’t like the idea that you quit him because it wasn’t like that. You quit the chance to stay in love with him.

“He has never bent over backwards for me.”

In fact, you’d argue the roles were reversed. It was kind of in your job description as his race engineer: bend over backwards to make sure your driver becomes a renowned champion.

“Oh, Y/N,” she sighs, smiling softly. “My naive child.”

You glare. 

“No bet?” she asks innocently before shrugging. “Okay, smart move for you, honestly. You would’ve been out a pretty penny.” 

She starts slipping her feet back into her heels, obviously ready to go off to whatever her next endeavor is. Probably plotting what other ways she can complicate your life.

“Look,” she sighs, slapping her hands against her lap when she finished putting her shoes on, “if he doesn’t want to do it, then he doesn’t want to do it and I’ll just have to take no for an answer. It would suck because I’d still have to hold up my end of the bargain with McLaren either way, but we obviously can’t force the guy to do anything. It would just be a nice plus for not only the girls, but for you. I know it.”

You don’t bother trying to deny it, not because you agree; you actually vehemently disagree, and you have the evidence to prove it would not be good for you. 

Exhibit A: in the months following your realization you were in love with Joshua Hong, you were a nauseating mix of absolutely miserable and absolutely thrilled any time you were with him (almost all the time). It was exhausting and it sucked the life out of you. 

Exhibit B: you were always distracted. Maybe never during a race because your only focus was making sure your driver won and that he won safely. But every other moment of the day, you were thinking about Joshua, talking to Joshua, listening to Joshua, trying not to scream while Joshua followed you around everywhere, watching Joshua, averting your eyes when Joshua looked up, talking to Wonwoo about Joshua, studying Joshua’s stats, debriefing Joshua’s last race, wondering if you’d see Joshua, daydreaming about Joshua, getting hopelessly lovesick over Joshua—Joshua, Joshua, Joshua!!!

None of that can be good for you.

You don’t deny that it would be good for you because you agree with her; you just don’t have the energy to confront the questions that would require denying it. The main question being: would any of that even be a problem if you’re not in love with him anymore? Because wasn’t that the point of leaving McLaren? To stop being in love? And if you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried about having to be in his proximity?

You take a deep breath as Jihyo stands.

“When do I go?” you look up at her as she walks to the door of your office. She looks back at you and smiles.

“I have the company plane ready for you at Heathrow. Wheels up in an hour.” Your mouth drops in shock. She turns to leave before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and your sub is standing in the hall ready to take over for the girls.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Wrong. I’m efficient.”

a/n: eeeep!!! this one’s gonna be a long one, y’all. i’m at a little over 30k rn and i expect to land nearer to 50 🫣 all fics from the collab will post by the end of the month! to join the official c&e studios tag list, click here! please note that this is the collab tag list and not mine. you can choose to be notified of any or all of the authors’ fics! hope you’ll support all 26 of us! ❤️🏎️

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some yoongi gifs until he comes back home (67/79)

12 days left

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tiny god of music uji for @97-liners 🍚 get a postcard / gifset of your choice when you donate!

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WOOZI in Going Seventeen Ep 129 ➟ MC BOO's Dangerous Invitation #2

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don't u love it when he (^‿⁠^⁠) :

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peak jihooie right here

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⁂ 5/100 days of min yoongi | beauty

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Yoongi for the Permission to Dance live album photoshoot. ♡

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©️_woozi0

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I was supposed to be making an edit

Got a little distracted in the process

Seven times an hour or whatever Jungkook said…

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Jun + Moon

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© 아마빌레

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User sailorsoons marked as ded

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The way I’m obsessed with this group of fuck ups🙇🏻‍♀️

PRICE OF FAME | MYG ★ 06

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SERIES SUMMARY: You were about ready to give up, your career nowhere near what you dreamed it’d be when you started at eighteen, bright-eyed and naive. Reality for you these past few years has consisted of pouting at a camera, ignoring whispers of your name at company events, and ensuring that the stupid, tiny designer purses they keep forcing on you can at least carry a flask. But now, you’re helping a friend in need. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you’re doing something worthwhile with your life. Too bad Min Yoongi, the newest thorn in your side, seems insistent on stopping you.

✧ SERIES TAGS: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fake/pretend relationship (not main couple), rockstar!yoongi, model!reader, guitarist yoongi, singer jungkook, bassist taehyung, drummer jimin, manager namjoon, yoongi & maknae line are in a rock band, reader & seokjin are best friends, yoongi & hoseok are best friends (sope duo ftw), yoongi has a tongue piercing, reader is a brat

✧ CHAPTER TAGS: yoongi and MC are both going thru it, JK too my poor baby, the band is back in seoul, communication but idk if i’d call it healthy, setting the stage for some bullshit in chapter 7 jsyk, flashbacks in italics, nsfw warnings under the cut (see series masterlist for series warnings)

✧ CHAPTER WORDCOUNT: 14k words

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: IT FEELS GOOD TO BE BACK… and here i am, with 14k 😮‍💨 i don’t know what came over me this weekend, i guess posting that teaser kicked me in the ass just like i wanted it to. ANYWAY, i don’t have much to say aside from i missed you guys and i missed this fic so damn much. i’ve already started work on chapter 7 that’s how down bad i am!!! thank you to claret @yoonmetogether (the knower) and K @ktownshizzle for beta reading for me <3 i can’t wait to hear what everyone thinks so please send your feedback after you read!

CH. 06: WHY CAN'T I MAKE A MISTAKE?

✧ CHAPTER WARNINGS: implied/referenced alcoholism, sexting, dirty talk, semi-public sex, oral (f. receiving), but just the BAREST HINT, but yes POF!yoongi’s tongue piercing does make a comeback lol, yoongi’s hands, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (don’t be like them), shower sex, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! lmk if i missed anything, oh there’s a little bit of slight slutshaming in one scene? but it’s for the plot idk you’ll see

Yoongi is trying to focus, but you are testing his fucking patience. 

A meeting with the label bigwigs—an important one, at that. He’s meant to be showing them his progress on the album, that all of the money they’ve already poured into creative teams and PR isn’t for nothing. He’s not an idiot. He knows they’re nervous. Of all the fickle, testy artists they have signed, Yoongi is the ficklest. The testiest.

He came here to plead his case. To prove to them that his creative drive hasn’t completely fucked off and died. 

And you’re sending him pictures of yourself in lingerie. Motherfuck.

Dollface (derogatory): help me pick which one to post? 😇

You’ve been pulling shit like this all week. Blatant attempts at riling Yoongi up that have just gotten more shameless with each day—but always giving yourself just enough plausible deniability.

This time, it’s nudes under the guise of needing advice. From Yoongi. About which photo would look best on your Instagram. Something nobody has ever asked Yoongi for advice on, ever. What the fuck does he know about lingerie brand partnerships?

Yoongi would bet his record deal that there’s no brand partnership to begin with—and even if there is, you’re certainly not posting these photos anywhere. You might as well be naked. 

The set you’re wearing is all lilac mesh and lace, delicate and pretty. The panties are half-obscured, revealed only by a thumb hooking the waistband of your sweatpants down just enough. He doesn’t know how sheer they are, exactly. But if he looks closely enough, he can almost make out the exact shape of your nipples through your bra. Nipples he’s had in his mouth, his mind dutifully provides. 

He can recall the sounds you made—the sweet, breathy way you moaned his name. You like his piercing. He’s noticed. He likes that you like it, can’t wait to show you what he can really do with it, if you’ll let him.

It’s a damn shame. He’d much rather have you laid out in front of him, touchable and soft and begging, instead of memorialized within the paltry pixels of his phone. But he’s not about to take them for granted, even if they’re not what he wants. They’re nice fucking photos.

Yoongi wonders if you were wet when you took them. Wet for him. Maybe that’s why you left the sweatpants on. So he wouldn’t know you’re soaking your panties for him. 

The thought is enough to have him stirring to life in his jeans, which—fuck, it’s really not the time or place.

"Yoongi-ssi."

Yoongi straightens up so quickly his neck cracks. 

“What do you have for us?” Sejin asks expectantly.

“Uh, right,” Yoongi says, fumbling to open his laptop. He casts the screen to the monitor mounted on the wall as he speaks. “Seven recorded demos, three more songs in the works.”

He distributes photocopies of his lyrics to the executives across from him and hits play on the first track on his screen. Thus begins the familiar humiliation ritual.

It’s not that Yoongi is ashamed of his work. He was years ago, sometimes. Before Sejin signed him. When he was handing out CDs, or busking half-baked covers in front of pedestrians in the hopes of a few thousand won. Now that he’s played stadiums, though, it’s a little hard to stay humble. He knows his songs are good.

These meetings that Sejin insists on arranging prior to every album release just feel a little pointless, that’s all. Could definitely be an email. But instead, Yoongi is expected to show up and watch while the people who sign his checks listen to his work in its least-polished state. 

It doesn’t help that it’s Yoongi’s voice, not Jeongguk's, pouring through the speakers this time. But that’s Yoongi’s fault. Given their last conversation, it didn’t feel like a good time to ask Jeongguk to lay down some vocals before Yoongi hopped on a plane.

So, Yoongi bears it. Plays tracks one through seven, taps his fingers on the tabletop as Sejin and the others flip through the lyrics to the unfinished songs, and waits for it to be over so he can go home and think about fucking the brat out of you. Or something like that.

Track seven comes to a close, and Yoongi lifts his head to watch Sejin gather his thoughts.

“It’s… different from what we were expecting,” Sejin says after a moment.

Yoongi fights the urge to visibly bristle, shifting in his seat. Different doesn’t necessarily mean bad.

“How so?”

“Well,” Sejin says, flipping through his copy of the lyrics again. Annotated now, Yoongi notices. “It’s an album full of love songs.”

Yoongi can’t hold his scoff in. “They’re not love songs.”

Sejin raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“It’s telling the story of someone who gets fucked over by a person they’re supposed to trust,” Yoongi explains, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a cautionary tale. Not really sure how you got ‘love’ from that.”

“My mistake,” Sejin concedes, raising his hands with his palms out in surrender. “It’s good, no matter what it is. But that comes as no surprise.”

Yoongi’s hackles lower the slightest bit. He likes Sejin, most of the time. Sejin likes to flatter him, even if Yoongi’s demeanor as of late has been cause for concern. 

“So you can work with this?”

“I don’t see why not,” Sejin hums. “Far from what we expected, so the creative team will have to regroup. But I think it’s a good time in your career for something different. Show some diversity.”

Yoongi nods once in response. He didn’t mean for this album to sound so different from what the band has released so far, but it’s normal for an artist’s sound to evolve over time. Sejin knows the industry, so Yoongi trusts his judgment.

“So.” Sejin steeples his fingers. “Let’s talk logistics.”

Right. This is what Yoongi has been bracing himself for since the tour ended.

“We’re shooting for a July release date,” Sejin starts. “That means six months for recording, mixing, mastering, artwork and design, promotion—everything.”

Yoongi sucks in a breath. Six months means a tight schedule moving forward. Mastering takes a long time. Artwork and design can take even longer, especially with three tracks missing at the moment. They’ll be finishing this album under the gun, but it isn’t impossible.

“I’ll spend a few days with your demos and work with you if I have any suggestions,” he continues. Same old, same old. Sejin is one of the few people from whom Yoongi can receive criticism, so that won’t be a problem. He rarely has edits anyway—he’s a big fan of Yoongi’s creative vision, likely due to the money it makes him. 

Yoongi shrugs. “Sure.”

“In the meantime, Hyunseok will see to it that your bandmates are flown back in over the weekend so we can start recording as soon as possible. We can meet again next week to discuss with the rest of the band.”

Right. Fuck.

Well, Jeongguk isn’t talking to him, but Sejin doesn’t need to know that right this second. Hopefully, Jimin is smoothing things out for Yoongi right now. God, that’d be nice.

Yoongi wouldn’t readily describe Park Jimin as nice, though. Maybe he should’ve confided in Taehyung instead.

“We’ll want to shoot a music video as well,” Sejin adds, cutting through Yoongi’s thoughts. “Although I think the track for it has yet to be written.”

Mmm. Yoongi respectfully (and silently) disagrees. There are at least two songs in his recorded demos that Yoongi has been envisioning a music video for, but it’s a non-issue at this point. He has three more tries to satisfy Sejin in that regard.

“And, Yoongi-ssi.” 

Yoongi meets his eyes. 

“I know you won’t want to hear this, since these are not love songs.” Yoongi bristles, but Sejin doesn’t care. “But I think the video will need a girl. Someone to be the antagonist in your cautionary tale.”

Yoongi makes a face. Yeah, sure, whatever. He’ll give Sejin that. There are plenty of viable candidates signed to the label, female musicians who also dabble in acting. It could be cool.

“Okay,” Yoongi sighs. “If the song you pick calls for it.”

“Great.”

For the next thirty minutes, Yoongi sits and listens while everyone else at the table weighs in. He doesn’t want to make any decisions without the rest of the band present, but it’s helpful to know where the label is at. The head of creative talks album cover design, PR spitballs on promotion methods. Everything is still in the brainstorming stages, but Yoongi can already see the shape this album is going to take, and it looks good. 

The meeting wraps up after that. Yoongi is in the middle of slipping his laptop into his bag, eager to head home, when Sejin speaks again.

“Ten is a good number,” he muses to the table, stopping Yoongi in his tracks. “I have no doubt those last three songs will be done as soon as possible. Our Yoongi is a machine.”

Yoongi looks down at his bag impassively, zipping it up and willing his expression not to sour at Sejin’s word choice.

It’s nothing Yoongi hasn’t heard over and over, nothing he doesn’t already know. Isn’t that what makes Burn The Stage so profitable for Sejin? Isn’t it what allows their songs to have a real message behind them, what allows Yoongi to have a shred of creative control under a company like this? 

Yoongi busts his ass and it works out in everybody’s favor. He denies himself any real semblance of a personal life, holes himself up all day long to scribble in a notebook and play his guitar until his fingers bleed. He churns out seven songs and some change in a week and a half. 

He’s heard it all—disciplined, detail-oriented, prodigious. A machine, Sejin likes to say.

Yeah.

Yeah, he is, isn’t he?

“See you,” Yoongi says in response, slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

“Have a good weekend, Yoongi-ssi,” Sejin says, and Yoongi slips out the door without another word. 

★ ★ ★

Seoyeon is too fucking good at her job. Honestly, if you had even a shred of power at this company (ha!) you’d use every ounce of it to make sure she got a raise. 

You’ve barely had a minute to yourself all week, constantly being chauffeured from place to place. She’s managed to land you a few possible brand deals, along with setting you up with a new nutritionist and personal trainer. She even scheduled a color analysis session for you, although it doesn’t really matter whether you’re a cool winter or a soft summer if the clothes you wear aren’t even yours half the time.

You’re exhausted. You’re busy. It’s exactly what you wanted.

Too bad you still can’t stop thinking about Yoongi.

You really thought the stunt you pulled last week would do the trick. It was satisfying, at first, to give the bane of your existence blue balls. It felt good to see him so visibly frustrated, to see the smugness drain from his expression when he realized you were kicking him out. You felt like you’d won something.

He just had to ruin it with that kiss at your door.

You fully intended to leave it at that, to let him walk out with no hope of a sequel. And you will leave it at that. You’ll be damned if you break first.

But still, late at night when you can’t sleep, your brain summons the phantom feeling of his lips on yours. The slide of his tongue. The stretch of his fingers. How fucking thick he felt, even through layers of fabric. You’re not going to fuck Min Yoongi, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t been thinking about it.

So you’ve been teasing him during your small moments of free time, because you can. Because it makes you feel like you have the upper hand for just a moment.

Oh, and you’ve also been drinking. Not too much, just… more than usual. Enough to dull the guilt and the anger and the frustration you’ve been feeling since you left Jeju with no explanation. 

You might’ve overdone it today, though. 

You're standing on a small platform in the middle of a mirrored fitting room, drowning in swaths of chiffon and organza. Your mouth is dry, and your lips are sticky from the tint that was smeared on them earlier. The flask in your bag is half-empty now. You’ve been steadily sneaking sips of vodka since lunch.

Hyerin has been circling you like a shark with pins for teeth for the past hour and a half. You try to stand still, but your knees feel like they’ve forgotten how to lock. You shift your weight and wince when one of the pins nicks your side.

“Jesus fucking—can you not?” you hiss, jerking away as Hyerin scowls at you.

“God, hold still! If you’d stop fidgeting, this would go a lot faster.” She yanks the fabric taut again, huffing around the pin between her lips.

You shake your head and take a step down from the platform, gathering the fabric of your dress between your fingers to keep yourself from tripping. “I need a break.”

“You need to grow up,” she mumbles. “I don’t know how Seoyeon puts up with this.”

You don’t rise to the bait. Your hand trembles slightly as you unzip the dress halfway down your back, holding it tight to your chest. The room spins when you bend to grab your clothes. It’s subtle, you’ve definitely been drunker. But it’s there.

Seoyeon appears before you can even undress.

“Hyerin-ssi, will you give us a minute?”

Hyerin stands immediately, all too happy to get away from you. When the door slams shut, Seoyeon gives you a look.

You know that look. It’s the I’ve reached the end of my very long, very patient rope look.

“Sit.”

You don’t argue. The plush bench beneath you creaks as you sink into it, blinking blearily at the wall across from you. Seoyeon steps in front of you, tapping her foot.

“Give it to me.”

You blink. “Give what—”

“The flask.” Seoyeon holds out her hand, unimpressed and expectant. 

You scoff, crossing your arms defensively over the itchy bodice of your dress. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she interrupts sharply. “Do you think Hyerin doesn’t know what vodka smells like? Do you think I don’t know?”

You look away.

“I’ve been covering for you all day,” she says. “Making excuses. Pretending you’ve just got a migraine, or you had a long night. But this is unacceptable, YN.” She exhales hard. “What is going on with you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she snaps, jaw tight. “You’ve been off all week, and it isn’t my job to ask questions. I don’t need to know what happened. But I do need you to stop fucking around. I can’t do my job if you’re too wasted to stand straight during a fitting.”

Your face burns hot with embarrassment. You want to argue, but you can’t. She isn’t wrong, and you feel ashamed for wasting her time.

“You asked me to pack your schedule, and I did,” she continues, softer now. “I’m not trying to parent you. I like working with you. I want you to succeed. But if something doesn’t change, you’re going to crash.”

Silence hangs between you for a moment. You shift your weight, chiffon rustling uncomfortably against your bare skin. 

“I’ll throw the flask away,” you say eventually, voice small. You want to mean it.

“You’ll throw it away,” she echoes. “And you’ll drink water, eat something real, and sleep a full night. And if I catch you lying to me again—”

Seoyeon doesn’t finish the sentence because she doesn’t need to. You’re already nodding, a little too eagerly, trying to prove something, though you’re not sure what. That you’re not a total mess? That you’re still worth believing in?

She waits, watching you, then sighs and finally turns toward the door. “I’ll move some things around. Go home and sleep it off.”

You nod gratefully, even though she’s not looking anymore, and the door clicks shut behind her. You let out the breath you’ve been holding.

The dress feels heavy on your body. You peel it off slowly, careful not to tear anything or nick your skin on a pin, and drape it gently over the back of the bench.

The flask sits in your bag like it’s daring you to touch it. You stare at it for a long second, then unzip the pouch, pull it out, and turn it over in your hands. It’s cold, metallic. Familiar.

You walk it over to the trash can in the corner of the room. The clang it makes when it hits the bottom is loud. Final. It rings in your ears.

You grab your clothes and start redressing, tugging your jeans up with clammy hands. You fight with the complicated straps of your shirt, trying to untwist them as much as possible to make yourself look presentable.

The chill in the air barely registers on your skin when you leave the building. You’re warm to the touch, from the vodka and shame combined. So much so that you don’t even bother to pull your coat on before you climb into the car that awaits you. You press your forehead to the window as the driver pulls onto the road, watching streetlights swim by in blurry streaks. 

Your apartment isn’t far from here, and when you get home, you won’t have another drink. Seoyeon’s words have left a mark, at least for tonight. You want to keep your word. You do. 

But the truth is, you don’t know how to function without some kind of distraction. The nonstop schedule didn’t do what you’d hoped. Drinking during work hours is no longer an option. So now you’re stuck, stripped of your crutches and alone with your thoughts.

You’ll need to find a solution soon. Something to keep you moving along.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, pulling you from your thoughts. You squint down at the glow of your screen, blinking at the Instagram notification until the letters unblur themselves.

@abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz has added a photo to their story.

Ah. Jeongguk. 

You remember the countless texts from him sitting unopened in your inbox, and you tap his story open anyway.

It’s a selca of him, Jimin, and Taehyung. They’re bundled in coats and scarves, huddled together in the back of a car not unlike the one you’re in now. Three-fourths of the band smiling brightly. You wonder if they’ve spoken to Yoongi at all this week.

Belatedly, you notice the location tag in the corner.

Seoul.

Chewing at your bottom lip, you swipe out of Instagram and finally open the texts you’ve been dodging since you left. 

JK: you don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to right now

JK: but you can always talk to me

JK: have a safe flight. let me know when you land

You didn’t.

When you landed in Incheon last week, you just couldn’t bring yourself to open his message and explain why you left. Then, only a few nights later, Yoongi had shown up at your doorstep. You really couldn’t fathom facing Jeongguk after that. What were you supposed to say? 

Sorry, I kissed your bandmate that I hate and it freaked me out so bad I had to book a flight? 

Sorry, when he told me he knew about our deal I hooked up with him? 

Sorry, nothing I do makes any fucking sense?

So, instead, you kept ignoring his texts, hoping that eventually his persistence would wear down. And it did.

JK: i’ll leave you alone

​​JK: just text me when you’re ready to talk

You take a breath, shaky fingers hovering over your keyboard. Now seems like a good time to be an adult. 

Maybe you won’t need a distraction if you do.

You: can we meet tomorrow?

★ ★ ★

It’s the big day, and the dread has been churning in Yoongi’s gut since he dragged himself out of bed this morning.

The rest of the band is back in Seoul. Jeongguk is back in Seoul. 

Yoongi needs to at least try to talk to him, right? It’s the right thing to do. The responsible thing. And, even pushing his personal feelings aside, it’s the professional thing to do. For everyone’s career.

But he’s been pacing outside the conference room for an hour, iced Americano sweating in his hand and rattling with each step, and he still hasn’t quite figured out what he’s going to say when Jeongguk actually shows up.

It’s not like Yoongi’s never been on the receiving end of Jeongguk’s stubborn streak. He’s known the kid since he was eighteen years old. Nearing a decade now. Yoongi has learned over the years that telling Jeongguk no—or disagreeing with him at all, for that matter—never ends well.

It’s not necessarily a bad trait. Yoongi admires him for it, honestly. Jeongguk has strong convictions. Yoongi used to think he did, but he learned over the years that he’s all too willing to bend—especially for Jeongguk.

Most of the time, when Yoongi digs his heels in, it’s on Jeongguk’s behalf. In his defense.

But that doesn’t mean Yoongi doesn’t stand his ground sometimes, as the hyung. That doesn’t mean there haven’t been blowout arguments in the past, that there hasn’t been shouting, that Jeongguk hasn’t frequently been the unstoppable force to Yoongi’s immovable object.

Still. The silence has never lasted quite this long, and Yoongi has already apologized and admitted his wrongs. What else is he supposed to fucking say?

So, yeah, Yoongi’s feeling antsy. And the coffee probably isn’t helping.

He glances down at his watch. The meeting is for noon, and it’s 11:52, and Jeongguk always shows up ridiculously early for everything. He’s known the younger to be that way since college. Yoongi was counting on it this time, which is why he showed up over an hour ago.

None of this bodes well. Yoongi needs a fucking cigarette.

He has just under ten minutes. He’ll run outside real quick, smoke, calm his nerves. Jeongguk will show up, because he’s a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. Yoongi can just talk to him after the meeting.

He tosses his coffee in the nearest bin, patting his pockets as he shuffles towards the elevator. He finds purchase on his lighter, and it’s pathetic how quickly the touch of plastic to his fingertips fills him with relief.

And then, like a cosmic joke, the elevator dings before Yoongi can even push the down button.

The doors slide open, and there’s Jeongguk, bracketed by Jimin and Taehyung. 

Yoongi tries not to overanalyze the formation, whether it’s protective or not. Instead, he makes immediate eye contact with Jimin and tries to convey telepathically that he’d like to speak to Jeongguk alone, thanks. Mercifully, Jimin gets the hint. Even if he doesn’t look pleased about it at all. Yoongi doesn’t fucking care, because at least he’s dragging Taehyung towards the conference room without a fight.

When Jeongguk tries to follow, Yoongi stops him with a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Well, here goes nothing.

“Jeongguk-ah,” he starts. His throat is dry. He hasn’t spoken yet today. “Can we talk?”

“Meeting’s in five, hyung,” Jeongguk says, staring at his shoes.

“Fuck the meeting,” Yoongi insists, jostling Jeongguk’s shoulder gently so he meets his eyes. “I just need a minute. Please?”

Jeongguk steps back, out of Yoongi’s space, and crosses his arms. It stings a little. “One minute.”

That’s more than Yoongi expected. He’ll take it.

“I—just…” Fuck, are his palms sweating? “How’re you doing?”

Jeongguk gives him a blank look. “How am I doing,” he repeats flatly.

Yeah, okay, that was stupid. This is the part Yoongi didn’t really think through. He takes a breath, re-centers himself. “Are you… Are we good?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “I’m here, right?”

“That’s not an answer, Jeongguk-ah.”

“I’m not quitting, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jeongguk says. It’s not, but it’s still a relief to hear. 

“I’m worried about you,” Yoongi insists.

Jeongguk scoffs. “Hyung.”

“What?”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Yoongi says, testy. “Guk-ah, what—”

“You’re worried about you,” Jeongguk says, brow furrowed.

Yoongi balks. “What the hell does that mean?”

Jeongguk shakes his head like Yoongi’s being stupid. “To answer your question, I’m not doing that great, hyung. It’s been a shitty week,” he says, visibly frustrated. “But I don’t have anything to say that I haven’t already said. So if you’re wanting me to say the magic words so you can stop feeling bad, I don’t have them.”

This is going nowhere. He needs to switch tactics.

“Jeongguk, I told you I was sorry,” Yoongi tries, desperate. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. I just want to fix—”

The door to the conference room swings open, and Sejin’s head pops out. Yoongi’s minute is up.

“Gentlemen,” Sejin calls, brows raised. “We’re starting.”

Yoongi swallows down the rest of the sentence. He watches Jeongguk’s jaw work as he glances in Sejin’s direction, like he’s chewing down whatever he really wants to say. 

It’s worse than shouting. At least if Jeongguk yelled, Yoongi would know what he was working with. But this… this quiet resignation, this stiff, uncomfortable silence? It’s foreign in a way that makes Yoongi’s chest ache.

“We’ll talk later,” Yoongi offers. Pleads, really, because the ball is in Jeongguk’s court and he knows it.

Jeongguk finally looks back at him. His lashes are dark and low over unreadable eyes. “Sure,” he says, and Yoongi tries to believe he means it.

Without another word, Jeongguk turns and strides towards the door. Yoongi watches the back of his head, jaw clenched so tight it aches, before trailing behind.

The conference room is unsettlingly quiet when they enter. Of the four seats across the table from Sejin, Jimin and Taehyung have chosen the middle two. A barricade.

Yeah, Yoongi expected that. But he doesn’t have the energy to dwell on it.

He swallows down the bitter hurt and sinks into the chair that remains next to Taehyung. Probably better than being shoved next to Park Jimin, if the pitying but kind smile Taehyung offers him is anything to go by. Jimin probably pities Yoongi plenty, but he wouldn’t be kind about it. Yoongi wonders how much Taehyung knows, but he has no intention of asking.

Sejin starts the meeting by getting the others up to speed on what he and Yoongi discussed last week, which gives Yoongi a few minutes to get his head in the game. His fingers twitch for the cigarette he never got, but starting the recording process is the priority right now. If he can’t fix his friendship with Jeongguk today, the least he can do is what he does best—make him more successful. Protect his career.

By the time the meeting ends, everyone has an actual timeline laid out in their calendars. Deadlines that start off rigid and become more tentative as weeks go by, because they all depend on output. On discipline. And most importantly, on whether or not the four of them can make it through the next six months without killing each other.

They’ll get through it, Yoongi thinks. This will be their most successful album to date. He’ll make sure of it. He’ll put himself through the wringer to make it happen.

Nobody lingers when the meeting is adjourned, which Yoongi isn’t perturbed about. He still wants to talk to Jeongguk, but he wasn’t hopeful enough to think ‘later’ meant ‘immediately after this.’ The efforts to record are scheduled to kick off in a week, and if he doesn’t get a chance to fix everything before then, well… Six months. 

Surely, Jeongguk won’t still be mad at him in six months.

He’ll keep his distance for now. There are three songs left to finish, so Yoongi gives Jeongguk a five-minute-wide berth before he heads down the hall and down a floor, to the studio where he dropped his McCarty this morning. He’s not feeling particularly inspired right now, but he needs to finish this album. 

Luckily, like most other things, that’s something he’s used to doing alone.

★ ★ ★

Burn The Stage’s company is very, very different from yours.

You knew that since you started this arrangement, but it’s never been clearer now that you’re actually standing in the building.

It’s nice in here. Clean, but not in the cold, clinical way that you’ve grown accustomed to over the years. There’s lots of natural light instead, and a cheery woman at the front desk who seems like she actually enjoys her job.

You’re waiting for a while, sitting in the lobby while the worker goes through the necessary measures to get you your guest badge. Jeongguk has added you to the visitors' list for today, so there shouldn’t be any hiccups, but you also know he wanted to meet here because he had business to attend to today. He’s probably gotten caught up. You don’t mind waiting—god knows you made him wait long enough—but you’re also actively trying not to crush the banana milk you brought as a peace offering while you sit.

You’re nervous! You’re trying not to be. It’s a good sign that he said yes to meeting you, right?

Still, your legs wobble the slightest bit when the woman at the front desk waves you over to finally hand you your badge. You slip it around your neck with a grateful smile.

“Jeongguk-ssi just got out of a meeting, so he’s already upstairs,” she tells you cheerfully, gesturing to the security guard to her left. “Eunwoo-ssi will escort you to him.”

Oh!

You turn your head in Eunwoo’s direction and recognize him instantly. The security guard from the concert at Wasteland. The one who helped you backstage and made sure you didn’t trip over your ridiculous shoes. The presence of a familiar face makes you relax just the slightest bit, and your smile grows.

“Nice to see you again, Eunwoo-ssi,” you say.

“You too, YN-ssi,” he replies, returning your smile. “Ready?”

You nod and follow as he guides you past the desk and further into the building, towards an elevator down a corridor. You make some polite small talk as you both take the ride up, asking him about his day, and he kindly asks you about yours in return.

By the time you get to your destination, your grip on the bottle of banana milk has loosened significantly, although it tightens again when Eunwoo makes to open the door.

He turns to you first, offering a quiet, encouraging smile. “Okay?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

Eunwoo steps aside to open the door to the small practice room, nodding toward the interior. “Good luck.”

You nod again, eyes fixed on the open doorway. The familiar silhouette inside steals the air from your lungs for a second.

Jeongguk is sitting on a low stool, scrolling through something on his phone. He glances up when he hears the door, and even though his posture stiffens slightly, his face relaxes when he sees you.

“I’ll give you two some space,” Eunwoo murmurs from behind, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind you.

You step forward slowly, the banana milk cradled between your hands. You extend it toward him with a small, sheepish shrug. “Peace offering.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him, the tension cracking just a little. He takes the bottle. “Thanks.”

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” you say, testing the waters.

Jeongguk shakes his head, warm as ever. “Of course.”

You exhale, forcing yourself to relax. “I just… How have you been?”

He huffs a laugh at that, shaking his head. “Everybody really needs to stop asking me that,” he says. “I’m okay, YN-ah. Are you?”

It’s just so Jeongguk, to ask about you when he’s the one who’s been wronged. Your lip wobbles, vision swimming before you can stop it.

“I’ve been better,” you admit. “I’m really sorry, Jeongguk. I feel so bad for leaving the way I did.”

As soon as the words are out, Jeongguk pushes up from the stool. His arms come around you without hesitation, wrapping tightly around your shoulders, and something about the familiar scent of his detergent and the strength in his hold shatters what little composure you’d managed to hold on to.

You collapse into the hug with a muffled sob.

“Yah, none of that,” he says softly, squeezing you tighter. “I’m not mad at you, YN. I’m confused, yeah, but not mad.”

“You should be mad at me,” you sniffle, clutching the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. “I shouldn’t have left you in the dark, I just—” You cut yourself off with a puff of breath, closing your eyes.

Jeongguk holds you quietly for a moment before pulling back, hands still resting lightly on your arms. “We can talk about it now, if you’re ready.”

It isn’t lost on you that Jeongguk knows exactly what prompted you to leave now, but something in his expression tells you that he isn’t aware that you’ve become privy to that information. Which means he also doesn’t know anything about the night in your apartment with Yoongi. Not that you thought Yoongi would be stupid enough to tell him, but still. It’s a relief.

“Yeah,” you sigh, moving to sit. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

There’s a moment of heavy silence before you speak again. You brace yourself.

“The night before I left, Yoongi and I kissed.”

“Yeah. I know,” Jeongguk replies evenly. “Hyung told me.”

You’re all too aware of the crossroads in front of you. This is the moment where you can come clean, tell him about Yoongi showing up at your apartment last week and everything that’s happened since. You desperately want to be strong enough to cut off the lies here. It’s the step you came here to take, for your own sanity. Stop the lies, stop the drinking, get your life back on track and make sure your friendship with Jeongguk doesn’t pay the price for your poor decisions.

But, part of you…

A stupid, selfish, horrible part of you wants Jeongguk to keep looking at you the way he is right now. Like you could never do anything wrong. It isn’t very often that someone looks at you like that.

In the end, that’s the part that wins, and the lie comes too easily.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he’d do that.”

Jeongguk tilts his head. “Yeah. So… you understand why I’m confused,” he says. “You two haven’t had anything nice to say about each other since you met. Last I heard, you hated him.”

“It confused me, too.” You let out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t even know how true that is. “Honestly, Jeongguk, I don’t know why it happened. I do hate him.”

That part, at least, isn’t a lie.

“I was a little drunk. We both were, I mean. All of us had been drinking for hours. And, I don’t know, it just happened.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Still, YN. It’s hard to believe you’d kiss someone you’ve talked so much shit about just because you were drunk.”

“I know. Maybe it was because we’d started getting along after you had me talk to him?” He lifts his head at that, brow furrowed, and you quickly try to rephrase. “I’m not saying it was your fault! Just… in that moment, he wasn’t so bad, you know?”

Jeongguk chews the inside of his cheek, then says quietly, “Okay…”

“Ever since Kihyun, I…” You trail off, swallowing hard. “It’s been lonely, Jeongguk. I can’t lie. I’m glad we ended things, but it’s still hard sometimes. I think it was just good timing for me to make a mistake. And I’m really sorry you got hurt in the end.”

“I’m fine, YN.” His voice is gentle. “I just wish you’d felt like you could talk to me about it.”

“I felt ashamed,” you whisper. “I still do.”

“Don’t.”

“Are you and Yoongi okay?”

He scoffs, looking away. “He’s trying. In his Yoongi-hyung way.”

“But you’re mad at him?”

“Not really because of the kiss, but… yeah. I’m mad at him.”

“I’m sorry if I ruined something for you,” you say honestly. 

Jeongguk just shrugs. “If anything’s ruined, hyung is the one who ruined it. But… like I said, he’s trying.”

“Well.” You manage a small smile. “I hope it works out okay.”

You mean that, too.

“Thanks.” Jeongguk shifts slightly. “Oh, uh. He knows we’re not really dating, by the way.”

Your heart lurches, but you force yourself to feign surprise. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I just… it was going to happen sooner or later, but I should’ve given you a heads-up first.”

“Well, I didn’t make myself easy to reach,” you offer.

A silence settles between you, and it isn’t entirely comfortable.

“Um… so, what does that mean?” you ask. “For us?”

Jeongguk rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to figure that out. I mean, I wasn’t trying to keep Noona a secret just from him, you know?”

You nod silently.

“I guess it depends on where you’re at,” he continues. “I understand if you don’t want to pretend anymore, after everything. If anyone understands not wanting to be around Yoongi right now, it’s me, and… he’s not going anywhere.”

“Fuck him,” you mutter. “I still want to help you, if you need it. Do the public-facing part, at least. Maybe it’s a relief if we don’t have to pretend around your friends anymore, you know?”

“Jimin-hyung and Taehyung-hyung still don’t know anything, but yeah, I get what you mean. It was a lot of lying to ask of you.”

Well, that answers that.

“Are you going to tell them?”

Jeongguk winces. “I don’t know yet. Does that change things for you?”

“No,” you say instantly. “This is your thing, Guk. I’ll do it how you want it.”

“Okay. Well… if you’re sure,” he says hesitantly.

“I wouldn’t be saying any of this if I weren’t,” you reassure him. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, quieter this time. “For everything.”

Jeongguk looks at you, eyes soft. “We’re okay, YN. A lot of shit is fucked up right now, but not this.” He pauses. “Thank you for… not giving up on me yet.”

“Same,” you murmur. Your lips curve into a faint, sad smile. “But for the record, it would take a lot more than Min Yoongi to make me give up on you.”

Jeongguk picks up the banana milk and rolls the bottle slowly between his palms, glancing at you once but not saying anything. You let the moment stretch, enjoying the comfortable silence, now that everything has settled.

Then his phone buzzes, and the spell breaks.

Jeongguk sighs as he pulls it from his pocket, thumb swiping across the screen. “Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I wanna walk you down, but Sejin wants me to meet with one of the vocal coaches in a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say quickly, waving him off. “I’ll let myself out.”

“You sure?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

“You’ve got zero faith in me, Jeon Jeongguk,” you tease, earning a soft smile from him. “I can use an elevator.”

Jeongguk laughs under his breath. “Okay, okay.” He stands, tucking his phone away. “Well… I’ll text you, okay?”

You nod. “And I’ll text you back this time.”

He starts to turn toward the door, hand on the doorknob already, but something sparks in your chest—nerves or hope or maybe both—and before you can second-guess it, you speak up.

“Hey!”

He pauses, looking back.

“Uh. There’s this thing next Saturday night,” you begin, the words spilling out in a rush. “A perfume launch I’m being forced to go to. I usually hate those events, but… wanna come with? Do the public-facing part? Open bar. Could be fun.”

“Ah, um.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I would, but… It’s noona’s birthday.”

“Oh!” you blurt, a little too brightly. “Right. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He looks faintly guilty. “And now that I’m back in Seoul, I—”

“No, I get it,” you say, cutting in before he can keep going. You swallow down the quiet, unexpected sting of disappointment. “That’s way more important. Don’t sweat it.”

“You sure?” His brow knits, eyes searching your face.

You force your lips into a smile, make your voice sound certain. “One hundred percent. I just wanted to offer.”

Jeongguk nods, visibly relieved. “Well… thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” You gesture toward the door. “Now go to your meeting.”

Jeongguk chuckles, reaching for the handle again. “I’m going, I’m going.”

And then he’s gone, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

★ ★ ★

Eunwoo is nowhere to be found when you leave the practice room, probably off escorting another visitor around. 

The halls are surprisingly quiet for midday. You keep walking, slow and meandering. You don’t have anywhere to be for a while, so you wander. Think. Process.

Everything went… well. Better than you expected, honestly. Jeongguk was kind. Forgiving, even. You didn’t deserve that. And still, he gave it to you.

And you?

You lied to him.

You can still hear the words falling from your lips. How easy it was to bend the truth, to frame it in a way that would make you look like someone he could still trust. To push all of the blame on someone else. You’d come here with the intention of being honest, with the hope that confessing everything would free you from the pit that’s been hollowing out your chest for weeks. Instead, you chose comfort. Self-preservation. Whatever version of you he still wanted to believe in.

You feel sick about it. Grateful and awful, all at once.

The hallway stretches on, and you follow it without thinking. The walls here are different from the sterile ones in your own building. Sleek, sure, but full of warmth. Color. Memory.

Photographs line the corridor in neat black frames. High-res shots from concerts and tour stops, behind-the-scenes moments caught in candid black and white. A timeline of Burn The Stage’s rise. 

There’s Jeongguk on stage in Tokyo, crouched low with his mic held out to the screaming crowd. Taehyung grinning mid-strum on his bass guitar. Jimin, soaked in sweat, laughing with his drumsticks raised.

And Yoongi—never center stage, but always present. A shadow behind Jeongguk’s spotlight, fingers curled over his guitar neck, gaze cast downward. 

You stop in front of a larger canvas print. Burn The Stage at their first sold-out arena show. Yoongi’s got his arm thrown lazily over Jeongguk’s shoulders. They’re both drenched in sweat, beaming at something off-camera, caught in the afterglow of a perfect night. It makes your stomach twist.

Because here’s the thing: no matter how messy it got, no matter how much they might be hurting right now, there’s a history between them that you can’t touch. You’re the disruption. The outsider. You’ve known Jeongguk for a year. Yoongi? Barely at all. But somehow, you’ve managed to wedge yourself into the fault line between them and split it wide open.

And you don’t even know what you want.

You’re turning away from the photo when you feel it—that unmistakable shift in energy, like a cold wind curling at the back of your neck. 

One of the studio doors eases open with a soft mechanical click, and Yoongi steps out.

He hasn’t seen you yet, somehow, though you’re laughably close. He’s too busy looking down at his phone, one hand in the pocket of his dark cargo pants. 

He looks… fuck. His jacket is a deep, bruised purple with mixed textures: ribbed sleeves, paneled faux suede. The black tee underneath is teasingly fitted, a glimpse of the muscle had to feel for yourself to believe.

But that’s not what fucks you up.

It’s the hair.

Pulled back. Tied off, sleek and neat at the crown of his head, a few strands brushing loose near his ears. It's too good. Too unfair. It sharpens every angle of his face—his jaw, his cheekbones, the curve of his throat.

You shouldn’t.

God, you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve already lied to Jeongguk once today. Lied to his face—looked into those kind, trusting eyes and chose the easier version of the truth. The quieter one. The one that doesn’t crack your friendship down the middle.

And this—standing here, watching Yoongi like you're waiting for the chance to fold yourself back into something reckless—this is exactly what got you into all this mess in the first place.

The way your body reacts to him before your brain even catches up. The way your heart stutters just because he looks good in a fucking jacket and has his hair tied up. The way he hasn’t even seen you yet, and still, you’re already cataloguing all of the little things about him that drive you crazy.

You hate yourself for it.

You shouldn’t be feeling any of this. You shouldn’t want anything from him.

But the thing that settles in your chest is resentment—not at him, not even at Jeongguk. At the impossible standard you’ve somehow found yourself crushed beneath.

Why can’t you make a mistake?

Why can’t you do something messy, something selfish, something human—without it immediately defining the worst parts of you?

Something inside of you snaps.

Mind blank, you grab Yoongi’s wrist harshly and pull, fingernails gripping wool so tightly you’re in danger of tearing into the fabric.

“What the fuck—” Yoongi hisses, stumbling after you, but you’re not listening. You’re moving on autopilot, acting on instinct alone. You navigate the hallway of the unfamiliar building like a madwoman, trying to find somewhere private. “Yah, let me go!”

You ignore his protests, pulling harder, and your eyes zero in on a promising spot. It’s the first door you’ve seen that isn’t glass or locked or labeled conference room.

Supply closet. Sure.

The shelves inside rattle with the force of the door slamming behind you. Yoongi yanks his wrist away instantly, shaking it out with a wince. 

“Are you insane?” he snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shut up,” you interrupt, locking the door with intent. You turn to him with wild eyes, chest heaving. “You win.”

He stares at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “What are you even talking about?” he asks, still clutching his wrist like a goddamn manchild. Like it isn’t killing you how shamelessly you’re offering yourself to him, on a silver platter. 

Okay, fuck. You’ll spell it out for him, then. It doesn’t matter.

“Fuck me.”

Yoongi blinks, stunned. “Fuck—”

“Yes, Yoongi,” you huff, impatient. You step into his space and touch because you can’t help yourself, your hands skimming over the smooth suede of his jacket and then under, to the soft cotton of his black shirt. Feeling the lean muscle beneath. “Fuck me. Right now.”

Apparently, that’s all he needs.

You gasp as Yoongi grabs your hips and whirls you around, shoving you firmly toward the nearest shelf. Your palms splay over it to catch yourself, wood digging into your skin as your body braces.

“You really wanna do this here?” he mutters, voice low, nearly a growl as he crowds you from behind.

“I dragged you in here, didn’t I?” you shoot back breathlessly.

He huffs a dry laugh, shoving his jacket down his shoulders and tossing it aside. “Crazy fucking woman.”

You hold yourself steady as his hands push the hem of your dress up over your ass.

“This what you want, dollface?” he murmurs, breath skating over your ear. Your panties are roughly pushed down your thighs as he speaks, pooling uselessly around your ankles.

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing back against him. You can feel the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans, pressed against your bare ass. Embarrassment and desire curl up together in your stomach, indistinguishable from each other.

“Fuck, look at you,” Yoongi hisses, grinding forward so you can feel him better. “You want it so bad. How the hell am I supposed to say no, huh?”

“Fucking—get on with it already,” you grit out. “I’m not here to talk.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll just have to use my mouth for something else, then.”

Oh, fuck.

You whip your head around fast, but not fast enough. Yoongi’s already dropping to his knees behind you, spreading your pussy with his thumbs.

“Yoongi, I don’t need—” 

Your sentence dies in your throat, cut off by the sound of your own surprised moan as his tongue licks a flat, filthy stripe through your folds.

You lurch forward, forearms braced on the shelf as your whole body shudders. His piercing flicks against your clit, and the sensation makes your vision go white for a split second.

“Holy fuck,” you moan. Yoongi hums against you, firm hands holding you open as he devours you, tongue delving deep. “Yoongi, fuck, that’s—”

Yoongi tsks, pulling away suddenly with a sharp slap to your ass. “Noisy girl,” he chastises. “Moaning my name like you wanna get caught.”

The thought sobers you, if only for a moment. Yeah, no—no. The thought of being caught, who might catch you, sends a chill down your spine. You know exactly who is in this building right now. You need to pull yourself together.

“I’ll be quiet, just—” You steady yourself on the shelf, panting against your crossed arms. “Fuck me already.”

“Impatient,” he huffs. 

You hear the shuffle of movement behind you, the sound of his zipper dragging down. Your stomach flips. 

After a moment, you feel the nudge of Yoongi’s cock against your entrance, and you try to wiggle back again on instinct. There’s a sharp huff of amusement against your neck, but to your frustration, he doesn’t give in yet.

“Say please,” Yoongi says, smug.

Bastard.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

“Getting there, dollface,” he teases, running the thick head of his cock through your folds just to be an asshole. “Just wanna hear you beg a little first. Since you want it so bad.”

You grit your teeth, pride clashing hard with want, but your body betrays you. Your thighs are trembling, cunt clenching around nothing, begging for fullness. For him.

“Please,” you whisper, broken and raw. “Yoongi, please fuck me.”

“That’s better.”

Yoongi sinks into you so slowly that your knees threaten to buckle.

Inch by agonizing inch, and it hits so deep your eyes flutter, mouth falling open and nails biting into wood. You can feel every detail of him. He’s thick, god, impossibly thick. The stretch burns in the best way, your walls aching to adjust but slick enough to take him, take all of him. 

When he bottoms out, your moan of relief is caught instantly by his hand, clamping tight over your mouth before you can make another sound.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, and you nod, centering yourself.

He gives you a moment to adjust, then draws his hips back and fucks forward hard.

“Shit, you’re tight,” Yoongi hisses, strained. “Fucking squeezing my cock.” 

He sets a brutal rhythm right away. His hips slam into the backs of your thighs so roughly that the shelves rattle with the force. Every thrust rocks you forward, and every retreat pulls a whimper from your throat as your walls try to keep him inside.

You can’t see him like this, and it feels like every other sense burns hot and sharp in its place. You can feel him—so thick, so deep, each stroke making you choke on your breath. You can hear the slick, obscene sound of your cunt, wet beyond reason, practically sucking him in.

“Oh my god,” you try to say, but it’s just a muffled sob against his hand.

He fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other keeping you silenced, helpless and pressed to the shelf. Something falls and topples to the floor, but it barely registers. Your breasts are squished against the wood, aching with every thrust. You can feel the slick mess between your thighs, every wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing obscenely in the cramped closet.

“Goddamn, you’re soaked,” Yoongi growls, hips snapping into you again. “You hear that, dollface?”

You do. The sound is filthy, each thrust punching a wet, obscene squelch into the air. Your cunt clenches tight around him, and he groans, deep and raw.

“Oh, fuck, you’re close, huh?” he asks, and your responding whimper is so pathetic your cheeks burn. 

His rhythm falters for half a second, just long enough for him to yank your leg up onto the lowest shelf, opening you more. Making it deeper. He lets go of your mouth to spit in his hand, reaching around to rub your clit in merciless circles.

And oh, fuck, you can’t be quiet anymore.

“Yoongi,” you sob, “I—oh my god, please—”

The hand gripping your leg moves fast to cover your mouth again as he toys with your clit, but your body’s already unraveling. Everything clenches down, heat flaring white-hot in your belly as your cunt clamps around his cock. You bite down onto the meat of his palm, muffling your scream as you come hard.

Yoongi hisses at the bite, swearing low and dirty in your ear. His hips stutter, rhythm turning ragged as your walls flutter around his cock.

And then you feel it. 

He pulses inside you with a groan pulled deep from his chest, fucking you through it as his cum fills you up. Thick and hot, leaking already as he keeps grinding through it, wringing every last drop from himself, every aftershock from you.

Yoongi’s weight leans into your back, both of you breathless, hearts hammering. The air smells like sweat and sex, and the only sound is the shallow drag of your breathing in tandem, syncing up as you both come down.

After a moment, his hand finally slips from your mouth. You suck in a shaky breath, lips slick with spit.

Your knees barely hold as Yoongi pulls out, and you feel it—his cum leaking down your thighs before you can so much as catch your breath. 

You don’t dare look at him.

You feel empty. Fucked open. Raw in every sense of the word.

You hear the rustle of fabric as he probably pulls up his pants, zips himself back in. You stay where you are, bent over, trying to breathe.

“You okay?” he asks.

And that—that pisses you the fuck off.

You turn to him. His jacket is back on, his pants zipped like nothing happened. Meanwhile, you’re still shaking, your dress is still hiked up.

“Don’t,” you say, voice hoarse.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask if I’m okay,” you snap. “We both know what this was.”

He just watches you. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize either.

There’s a thick, awful silence after that, and you fill it with movement. You pull your panties back up and fix your dress. The mess between your thighs presents a problem, but it’s nothing you can’t conceal with your underwear for now. You grab the doorknob and unlock it with a shaky hand, peeking out to make sure the hallway is empty.

Thank fucking god.

“Don’t fucking follow me,” you say, fixing him with the most withering look you can muster, and Yoongi only raises his hands in surrender, bewildered.

It feels like stepping out of a crime scene. You take a few unsteady steps forward, one arm clutching your bag to your chest, the other dragging your hand along the wall to stay upright.

Every movement is careful. Every step makes you feel it. The soreness, the wetness, the truth of what you’ve done. You should find a bathroom. Clean up. Compose yourself. Hide.

But you don’t. You keep walking.

Because stopping means thinking. And if you start thinking, really thinking, you’re not sure you’ll be able to handle what you find.

Fuck, fuck fuck.

★ ★ ★

For the first time in months, you’re alone. Like, actually alone.

No texts buzzing your phone. No voice echoing from the other room, asking if you’ve eaten. No arms around your waist in the morning. Just you, in the silence of your apartment.

It should come as a relief. 

It was only a matter of time before Kihyun dumped you. You shouldn’t have let it drag on for as long as you did. You should’ve ended it yourself. But you didn’t, because—

Because what? You were lonely?

Because it was easier to keep going than it was to look at yourself in the mirror and admit you were never really in it?

Kihyun was good to you. Kind, not performative. He remembered the little things, like how you took your coffee, where your neck always ached when you slept too stiffly. He was attentive, thoughtful, patient. You were physically attracted to him from the first date. And although the sex wasn’t the kind of thing that rewired your brain or left your limbs shaking, it was… nice. Gentle. Consensual. Consistent.

You could’ve built something with him.

But you didn’t.

Because it’s you. It’s always you.

You never opened up. You held him at a distance, even when he offered you all his softness, even when he asked—gently, again and again—to be let in.

You didn’t ask about his family. You forgot his best friend’s name—Yoo-something? You nodded along when he talked about writing music but never followed up. And when he invited you to dinners or birthdays or afterparties, you begged off every time with some excuse about your busy schedule.

You didn’t mean to hurt him. You just… didn’t care. Not really. Not about his world. Not about yours, either.

And still, he tried.

You can’t get the last few hours out of your head. He invited you over, said he wanted to talk, and you knew immediately that it was going to end. You’d felt it for weeks, hadn’t you? Maybe longer.

You almost didn’t go, but guilt won out. You showed up, and you thought—maybe you’d get one last night. One last kiss goodbye.

Instead, you got a fight.

“You don’t even care about me, YN,” Kihyun said, voice shaking. “You cling to me on red carpets, post about me on Instagram, kiss me in front of photographers—but when it’s just us? Do you even know anything about me?”

You’d accused him of being dramatic. He’d accused you of using him. Connections. Comfort. The appearance of stability he offered you.

You’d both yelled. Loud and bitter. And then there were tears. His, not yours. You just stared at the floor while he filled a box with your things and said he hoped you got whatever you were chasing.

When you finally walked out, you didn’t even look back.

Now, hours later, you sit on the floor of your apartment, hollowed out. The lights are off. Your coat is still on. You haven’t even taken off your shoes.

You don’t feel relieved. You feel sick with yourself, and you don’t know what to do with it.

There’s a bottle of vodka in your kitchen cabinet. You’ve never been much of a drinker—too many calories, too many headaches, too much loss of control—but tonight? Tonight, you need something to dull the pain.

You don’t bother with a glass. You drink it straight, the burn lighting a trail down your throat that feels like punishment.

You’re halfway to drunk when you grab your phone. The screen glows blue, too bright in the dark. You open Twitter.

You should stop yourself, but you’ve never been good at self-control.

@ynonline: i’m sorry i ruined it

A cry for help in lowercase letters. A digital bloodletting to no one in particular.

And then you keep drinking.

★ ★ ★

You can’t stop laughing. Your behavior lately has been so goddamn out of character, all you can do is laugh. It bubbles out of you, ugly and gasping, half-drunk and half-delirious, echoing through the kitchen like it doesn’t belong to you at all. The wine in your glass is mostly gone, and the second bottle on the table is already open.

You don’t know what’s going on with you. You don’t know when you lost the plot so severely that you started fucking people like Min Yoongi in closets.

How good it felt doesn’t matter. How badly you missed being kissed and touched by another person doesn’t fucking matter. Because you don’t recognize yourself anymore. And that’s funny. Like, laugh-until-you-cry funny. Because if you don’t laugh, you’ll spiral. You’ll fall into the cavern of shame that’s been yawning open beneath your feet ever since Yoongi touched you and you let him.

You’re in the middle of telling Seokjin about your week—or, at least, you’re trying to between wheezes. He’s listening intently across from you, brow furrowed and lips twitching with amusement as he tries to translate your garbled speech.

“You know,” he says dryly, “I could’ve predicted this.”

You snort so hard it turns into a hiccup. “What? All I’ve done is complain about him for weeks.”

Seokjin raises a brow. “Yeah, well. You know what they say about the fine line between love and hate.”

“Oh, believe me, we are still firmly planted in the hate camp.” You lean forward, elbow slipping slightly on the table. “It’s gonna take more than some halfway decent stroke game to change that.”

“Halfway decent, she says,” Seokjin mutters, lifting his glass to his mouth, “even though you’ve barely been able to talk about anything else for the past hour. No ‘hello, Seokjin. How has your week at the hospital been? Save any children lately?’”

You wave your hand at him. “Are you saying you aren’t entertained?”

“No, please.” He leans back in his chair, smirking. “Go on.”

Your eyes light up with memory. “Oh my god. Last week, I sent him these pictures—”

Jin frowns. “Wait, what—?”

“Look!” you cry, fishing your phone out of the pocket of your leggings. You tap open your texts with The Devil himself, dropping the phone onto your kitchen table with a clatter that makes Seokjin wince.

Normally, he’d be blushing already, flailing, sputtering something dramatic and prudish. He’s always been weird about this stuff. But this time, he doesn’t even crack a joke.

Instead, when he picks it up, his eyes widen into saucers. You watch as he fiddles with the phone in his hands, tapping into the first picture.

“YN, you didn’t—”

“Look at what he said!”

“You sent him these?” he asks, swiping out of the photos and back to the texts to confirm what he’s already seen.

The tone of his voice makes you pause. You try to catch your breath, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“What’s the big deal?” you ask, making a face. “They’re, like, tasteful.”

“They’re nudes.”

“I’m wearing underwear!”

“They’re nudes,” Seokjin repeats, like you’re stupid or something. 

What the fuck? Why does he sound so mad?

“They’re just pictures,” you mumble, snatching your phone out of his hands and clutching it to your chest.

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Because pictures like that have done you so many favors in the past.”

All of the alcohol-induced warmth rushing through your bloodstream evaporates in an instant.

“What the fuck, Seokjin?”

“I can’t believe you would do something so stupid, YN. After everything that’s happened—”

"Shut up!"

“—and you don’t even trust the guy,” he continues. “Less than a month ago, you were telling me you thought he knew—”

“Seokjin, shut up—”

“—It’s like you want bad things to happen to you, I swear.”

Something in your chest cracks open. Seokjin has never, ever implied that you were in any way at fault for what happened years ago. Even when you felt it yourself. He’s the only one who has been on your side this whole time. Unwavering.

Until now. Until Yoongi.

“Get out,” you say, voice cold.

“YN, I’m just trying—”

“Get. Out.”

He stares at you like he’s still catching up, like he doesn’t realize what he just said out loud. His mouth opens, then closes. You see the apology start to form behind his eyes, but it’s already too late.

You stand. Point to the door. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Seokjin stands slowly, reluctantly, like his limbs are made of cement. He grabs his keys from the table, fingers twitching.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just… I’m scared for you.”

You don’t respond. Don’t even look at him. The door clicks shut behind him, and then you’re alone, still clutching your phone, wine forgotten.

And all that laughter? Gone.

★ ★ ★

You don’t sleep much.

Your body gives out around 4 a.m., but it’s not so much sleep as blackout, your limbs too heavy to move and your mind too exhausted to keep turning things over. But it’s not restful. You wake up dry-mouthed and nauseous, tangled in the sheets like you fought a war in your sleep.

The fight with Seokjin rings in your ears, louder now in the cruel quiet of the morning. 

“It’s like you want bad things to happen to you.”

There’s no more wine in your system to dull those words. They weren’t fair. You’re still furious. Still hurt. But the longer you sit with it, the more panicked you become.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You have been reckless. You did send Yoongi those pictures without thinking. Not because you trusted him, but because you wanted him to look at you. To want you. And Seokjin’s words force you to think.

Because what if he still has them? What if he shows someone?

What if you’ve made another mistake that you can’t come back from?

You drag yourself out of bed, slow and sick, your whole body moving like it’s underwater. The nausea doesn’t fade as you brush your teeth. It only gets worse. You barely manage to brush your teeth without hurting yourself, scrubbing hard like it’ll erase your words last night. But nothing helps.

Once you’re out of the bathroom, you throw on the first clothes you can find. Clean enough, mismatched, whatever.

You don’t have Yoongi’s address, so you text Namjoon. It’s early, and you don’t expect him to respond, but he replies immediately.

Kim Namjoon: Is everything okay???

You: i just need it

You: please

You: you got my address from seoyeon, sooooo There’s a pause, then an address. You don’t offer thanks, even though you do like Namjoon. He owes you this.

You call an Uber and sit in the backseat with your arms crossed tightly over your chest, barely able to breathe. Every bump in the road jolts your stomach. By the time the car pulls up to Yoongi’s apartment, your nerves are a live wire, ready to snap.

When you get up to his door, you don’t knock gently. You pound.

It takes a moment. Nearly longer than you can take, honestly, with how wigged out you are. But right when you’re about to raise your fist again, the door swings open, and there he is.

Yoongi, bleary-eyed and hair mussed like he’s just rolled out of bed. His stupid sweatshirt has rips across one shoulder, bare skin peeking out from beneath, like he isn’t a rich rockstar who can afford nice clothes. Everything about the sight of him makes you angry. 

“...Hi?” he says cautiously.

“I need you to delete them,” you blurt.

He stares at you for a second, blinking awake. “...What?”

“The pictures,” you say, voice too loud, too fast. “The ones I sent you last week. I need you to delete them. Like, now.”

You push past him and barge inside, uncaring of whether he was actually planning on letting you in. 

He shuts the door behind you and turns around slowly, regarding you like a spooked animal. “What happened?”

“Yoongi,” you snap, “I’m not here to explain myself. I just want to watch you delete them.”

Yoongi holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I can do that.”

He fishes his phone from the pocket of his sweatshirt and unlocks it. You hover over his shoulder while his fingers move on the screen. It doesn’t take him long to find them. You watch as his thumb hovers over the images. One tap, two taps, three.

Deleted.

He goes to the trash folder. Deletes them again.

Then he turns the phone around, still unlocked, and holds it out to you. “Check it if you want.”

You take it, hands clammy, and check all the possible places. Empty. 

“Okay,” you say, taking a much-needed breath.

Yoongi watches you for a moment longer, something you can’t name flickering over his expression.

“I know I haven’t given you any reasons to think I’m the best guy in the world,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have shown those to anyone. Not ever.”

You want to believe that. Want to grab onto it like a lifeline. But you’re not exactly Yoongi’s number one fan, and this isn’t a matter of trust anymore—it’s survival.

And even if you were a fan of his, Seokjin was right. This isn’t something you can afford to risk.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Well, you can’t, now. So.”

An awkward silence settles between you.

You’re not sure if you feel better. You don’t think you do.

Yoongi gestures toward the kitchen. “You want coffee?”

You hesitate. Under normal circumstances, you’d laugh in his face. You and Yoongi don’t hang out, like, historically. Fight, sure. Make poor sexual decisions together, absolutely. But hang out and share coffee? It seems unthinkable.

But at the same time, you’re still rattled, and getting into another bumpy Uber doesn’t sound particularly appealing right now. And Yoongi isn’t being… totally unbearable. It was shockingly easy to get him to delete those pictures, despite the way you’d built it up in your head.

“…Yeah,” you say finally. “Okay.”

Yoongi hands you a chipped black mug without saying much, and you murmur a quiet thanks as you curl your fingers around it. The heat seeps into your palms.

The two of you stand in his tiny kitchen like strangers, the silence too loaded to be easy. He leans against the counter opposite you, sipping from his own mug, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds like he’s trying to work up the nerve to say something.

Instead, you settle into the pathetic choreography of small talk.

“So… this is your place, huh,” you offer.

Yoongi glances around. “Yeah.”

“It’s big.”

“It’s too big,” he says, and, yeah. It is. Big and mostly empty. It almost seems like no one lives here, from where you’re standing.

You shrug. “Still. The quiet must be nice.”

Yoongi huffs out a small laugh. “It was,” he says pointedly, “until someone ruined my beauty sleep.”

You try not to bristle. He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be mean, and you don’t have the energy to argue with him anyway. “Sorry.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I’ve had worse wake-up calls.”

Neither of you mentions what happened the other day. The closet. The rough, desperate way he fucked you. The way you begged for it.

Instead, you sip your coffee in silence.

“I, uh,” Yoongi starts, then cuts himself off with a quiet exhale. “I should probably go shower soon.”

You nod like that’s news you needed, staring into your mug. “Right.”

You hear the click of his mug being set down gently on the counter. “Dollface.”

You look up, partially in response to the name. Mostly because of the cautious tone in his voice. Terrifingly, you have no idea what he’s about to say.

Yoongi shifts on his feet, mouth twisting like he’s really weighing his next words before he speaks.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Oh.

Huh.

Your breath stutters. Your spine straightens just slightly.

He’s not teasing. Not playing. Not doing any of the mean things you’ve learned to associate with Yoongi since you’ve met. He’s just asking quietly, like it’s a real offer. Like there’s no pressure attached, even though the weight of it sits heavily between you.

There are a million reasons you should say no and go home. One of which being, well, the reason you’re here in the first place. You don’t trust him. You don’t like him. You keep making terrible, life-ruining decisions with him.

But still, there’s this thought in the back of your mind, half-formed but louder than all the rest. 

You’re so tired of punishing yourself for every impulse, every need. Tired of denying yourself the right to fuck up. To make mistakes.

Sending the pictures was unforgivably stupid, yes, you’ll give Seokjin that. But despite your panic in the immediate aftermath, fucking Yoongi felt good. Mind-blowingly good. Like something inside you finally got to breathe after being locked up too long.

Jeongguk doesn’t know. And as guilty as it makes you feel, he doesn’t have to know, as long as Yoongi keeps his mouth shut. Judging by the state of that friendship right now, you have a feeling he will.

So.

You set your mug down carefully, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

Yoongi nods once and then turns, walking down the short hall that leads to his bedroom. You follow wordlessly, heart thudding in your throat. 

When you step into his bedroom, you feel like you’ve crossed into something irreversible. Yoongi opens the door to the master bathroom while you linger in the sparseness of the space, eyes fixed on his king bed. Charcoal sheets, rumpled on one side and perfectly smooth on the other. 

The sound of the shower squeaking to life brings you back to the moment and forces you to take a few more steps. You hover in the doorway of the bathroom. Steam begins to curl around the room, warm and beckoning.

Yoongi looks over his shoulder.

"You coming?"

You cross the threshold.

Yoongi turns to face you, backlit by rising steam. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. Just watches you for a second, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll change your mind.

You don’t.

You peel off your sweater first, then your shirt, then your bra. You catch the flicker in his expression when your breasts fall free. His gaze trails down your body, and when your leggings hit the floor, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

Yoongi steps towards you and cradles your jaw in his palm, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about your pussy for days,” he rasps, and your knees go weak.

Before you can say anything in response—before you can even breathe properly, he leans in and kisses you. Slow and sure, but greedy too. You kiss him back, moaning when his tongue slips into your mouth.

You shove your hands up the hem of his tattered sweatshirt, pushing it up his torso impatiently. Yoongi hums into your mouth, pulling back just long enough to tug it over his head and toss it to the floor. Then he steps out of his sweatpants and briefs in one fluid motion, unabashed.

You’d barely seen him last time, but now, you get a full, unhurried look. Smooth, pale skin. His cock is thick and flushed, already half-hard and growing the longer you look. Your thighs press together instinctively.

He tugs you gently into the shower by your hand, pulling the glass door closed behind you. The water is hot and heavy, already soaking your hair, dripping down your back. Yoongi presses you against the tiled wall, hands sliding along your waist like he’s been starving for this.

His mouth finds yours again, and your teeth clack together as you kiss him back. One of his hands slides up your spine, cupping the back of your neck to keep you close, while the other moves over the curve of your ass, squeezing.

“Always such a fuckin’ brat,” he murmurs against your lips, “until I get my hands on you.”

You mewl when he palms your breast, thumbing your nipple until it’s stiff. His other hand dips lower, sliding between your legs, fingers finding you embarrassingly wet even under the spray of the shower.

You gasp when he presses a finger inside, then a second, curling them just right. Your legs threaten to give out, but he hooks an arm around your waist to keep you upright, keeping you wide open for him.

“I could make you come just like this,” Yoongi says, fucking his fingers into you slow and deep. “But you want more, don’t you?”

“Yoongi—” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut.

“Tell me what you want,” he says as he kisses a heated line from your jaw to your throat. “Tell me how you want it.”

“Inside,” you pant. “I want you inside me.”

He growls—actually growls—and pulls his fingers out, lifting your leg to wrap around his waist. His cock slides through your folds, notching against your entrance as the hot water rushes down both your bodies. His forehead rests against yours.

“You’re sure?”

“Just fuck me,” you murmur, and that’s all it takes.

He slides in slowly, both of you groaning in unison at the feeling. The stretch is deep, bordering on painful, but so fucking good. He doesn’t move for a second, just holds you there, buried to the hilt.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groans, bracing himself with one hand on the wall behind you. You moan, high and raw, and he starts to move.

His hips drive forward again and again, the sound of skin slapping echoing sharply in the tiled space, mixing with the hiss of the shower and the ragged breathing between you. Your hands scramble for purchase at his shoulders, his neck, his biceps—anything to anchor yourself.

He fucks you like that for a while. Deep, heavy strokes, hips rolling into you like a tide. Your legs shake. Your cunt flutters around him, tight and desperate.

“Yoongi, please,” you moan, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re begging for. 

He hitches your thigh higher around his hip, opening the angle. Like this, every thrust has his cock pinpoint that spot inside of you, the one you struggle to reach on your own. A strangled cry is punched out of you in response and Yoongi groans, forehead pressed to yours. 

“Touch yourself,” he rasps. “Let me see.”

Your hand drops between your legs, and it only takes a few circles around your clit before you’re gasping his name, walls clenching around him. He watches as he fucks you through it, moaning as you squeeze around his cock.

His thrusts grow sloppy, unable to hold back any longer, and then he’s pulling out quickly, spilling onto the shower floor with a curse. His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parting against your damp skin. You feel his chest rise and fall against yours, both of you trembling from the high.

Neither of you speaks.

For a long moment, there’s only the deafening beat of water against tile and the slow comedown of your heart rate. Your thighs ache. Your skin is flushed. His cum washes away down the drain between your feet, a quiet, shameful stream of evidence.

Shit.

You’re the first to move.

Gently, you press your palm to his chest, signaling space. Yoongi lets go. Steps back.

The warmth of his body leaves yours all at once, and the shower suddenly feels colder, emptier, even with the steam still thick in the air.

“I just…” you start, voice thin and heart pounding. “I need a minute.”

You don’t look at him as you reach for the glass door, slipping out of the stall on shaky legs. You find a towel draped neatly on the bar just outside the shower and wrap it around yourself, not bothering to dry off properly. The towel sticks to your skin, damp and clingy. You think you feel his eyes on you through the glass, but you can’t bear to check.

You grab your clothes from the floor and step out into the bedroom. The room is still dim, the curtains drawn, the gray light of morning barely filtering in. You dress in silence, and when you’re done, you sit on the edge of Yoongi’s bed until you hear the squeak of the faucet as it shuts off. When the bathroom door opens, you lift your head.

He emerges wrapped at the waist in a towel, hair dripping. He’s rubbing at his head with another towel as he steps into the room and freezes when he sees you.

“You actually stayed,” he says, like he hadn’t expected that.

You shrug, barely meeting his gaze. “Didn’t seem right to sneak out.”

Yoongi watches you, still drying his hair. After a moment, he sits next to you.

“Do you want to talk about it this time?”

Your stomach turns. “What is there to talk about?”

“You didn’t really give me the impression you were interested in round two, the other day.”

“I wasn’t,” you say flatly.

“And yet here we are,” he says in kind, gesturing between you. “I’m just wondering what I should expect, moving forward.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “No, you just want me to admit you were right.”

Yoongi scoffs. “I’m getting sick of people telling me I don’t mean what I say.”

Jesus.

You frown. You have no clue what he means by that—and honestly, you don’t care. Not right now. So you stay quiet.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look,” he continues, “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s not fun if you’re not into it. But I need to know where we stand. So tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking about how much I hate you,” you snap, on instinct.

Yoongi shrugs. “Okay. That’s not new information. Didn’t stop you from fucking me twice, though. Two and a half, if we’re splitting hairs.”

“Clearly,” you reply bitterly. 

His expression doesn’t change. “Hate me all you want, dollface. I’m not asking you not to.” He tilts his head just slightly. “Are we doing this or not?”

You stare at him for a long moment, on the edge of something dangerous.

You think about the way it felt when he touched you. The way he looked at you. The way your body still feels like it’s buzzing from the inside out.

This is a mistake. You know it. You named it. But that little thought that started to form inside you earlier is louder now, stronger, and it won’t let you walk away, even though all the logic in the world tells you that you should.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “We are.”

Yoongi nods like he’d already known the answer. “Okay. Great. Glad we could clear that up,” he says, unbothered. “You feel free to let me know if you change your mind.”

And then he stands, towel low on his hips, and walks across the room to get dressed.

Fucking asshole. 

You can’t stand how he can just act like this is easy for him. Like it should be easy for you. Like going behind the back of his best friend doesn’t bother him in the slightest. 

Worst of all, you hate how it still feels like Yoongi has the upper hand. 

Desperate to get it back, you stand. “Hey.”

Yoongi hums from where he’s rummaging through a drawer in his dresser, half-turned but not looking at you. 

“My deal with Jeongguk is still on,” you say, crossing your arms with finality. “Just so you know.”

You hope it’ll get some kind of reaction out of him. He pauses what he’s doing, gaze flicking to you for a second, and you search for any indication that he’ll falter. 

But then he shrugs, turning back to the drawer. “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” he grumbles. 

Right.

Annoyed, you twist the knob of his bedroom door, swinging it open. 

“Just keep your mouth shut about this,” you say over your shoulder, aiming to hurt. “Some of us are actually in his good graces.”

You don’t stay to see his reaction.

You wonder, as you show yourself out of Yoongi’s apartment, if this is actually going to be easy at all.

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