iogutwsm

[iogutwsm]

STILL HATE ME? | yoongi min

pairing: coworker! yoongi min x you

warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, lots of drama, explicit sex scenes, explicit language

summary: you and yoongi had hated each other from the very first moment your eyes met. or at least... that's what you kept telling yourself.

authors note: i've been working on this for quite a while, most of the time it was waiting unfinished in my drafts, hoping i would find the motivation to finish it. i don't know how I got this idea tbh, but I'm not complaining.

word count: 10k

you hated yoongi.

truly, genuinely, to-the-core hate him. not in the harmless, everyday way people claim to hate pineapple on pizza or slow walkers on busy sidewalks. no, your hatred is something deeper, more refine, an art form, really. it is the kind of hatred that simmer quietly, with taste. if someone has written a thesis on the emotional architecture of loathing, you could've been the case study. because words - plain, clumsy words - never quite do it justice. there simply aren't enough of them. not in your language, or any other, for that matter.

and oh, he earned it. every eye roll, every clenched jaw, every imaginary scenario in which you flung something heavy at his head, he earned it. he was a professional nuisance. a smug, sharp-tongued, infuriatingly composed presence that never missed an opportunity to get under your skin. his very existence seemed to revolve around the singular goal of driving you mad, and the worst part was: he was good at it. frighteningly good.

it wasn't just his comments towards you, though those were bad enough. those slick, casually cruel little remarks laced with sarcasm and just enough truth to sting. he always knew exactly when to drop them too, like he had a built-in radar for when you were already teetering on the edge. it was the way he had to have the last word, every damn time, as if every conversation with you was some kind of high-stakes debate and he was collecting trophies you never agreed to compete for. and it wasn't even the way he always seemed to win, effortlessly, while you stood there mentally rewriting your last three sentences and wondering why your wit always decided to abandon you in his presence.

and he clearly enjoyed it. the glint in his eyes when you got flustered. the way his lips curved, just barely, maddeningly, when he knew he'd cornered you. the subtle delight he took in watching you unravel. it wasn't about being right for him. it wasn't even about the argument. it was about you. about your reactions. your fury. your silence, even - especially that.

sometimes, late at night, you wondered if there was something else buried under all that rage. something you refused to name, something that kept you awake longer than it should. but then you'd remember the way he smirked at you that morning, and the feeling would pass. mostly.

maybe it was your fault. maybe you were the one who let him get to you, who gave him that ridiculous amount of space in your mind without even realizing it. maybe you handed him the blueprint to your nerves and said, here, please press every button like it's your full-time job. because the second he opened his mouth didn't even have to say anything particularly offensive, just spoke, you could feel your blood start to simmer. not boil. not yet. no, that came after the first smirk.

your hands would curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like you were trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, that wasn't him. it never worked. the frustration always found a way to surface. it bubbled up, slow at first, like a pot just beginning to hiss, until it finally spilled over and scalded whatever fragile sense of self-control you had left.

you don't even know how it began in the first place. why you hated each other. how all the arguments between you two started. was it that morning? the one where you'd brought coffee for everyone in the department, the simple, harmless gesture you hadn't even thought twice about and somehow, you forgot him. you hadn't done it on purpose. honestly, back then, he barely registered as someone you needed to remember. but when you think about it now, you remember the way he looked at you when he realized. not hurt. not annoyed. just blank. like he'd expected it from you. but that was a stupid reason. was it not?

or maybe it wasn't that at all. maybe it started earlier, back in the first few months when he was hired, when he'd corrected you mid-presentation. not unkind. not obvious. just subtle enough to make you look wrong. enough to make everyone glance your way like you'd missed something. and you'd swallowed it, smiled through it, told yourself it didn't matter. except it did. and maybe he knew that too.

or maybe it wasn't one moment. maybe it was all of them. small things, sharp things, piling up when you weren't looking. the way his eyes would flick to you during meetings like he was waiting for you to mess up. the way he'd lean back in his chair when you spoke, lazy, dismissive, like he already knew what you were going to say and it wasn't worth hearing. the way he always, always smiled when you got frustrated. not because he cared, but because he enjoyed watching it happen. 

years. it had been years of this. of him teasing you, no, that word was too soft, too playful. it was more like psychological warfare with a smile. years of you telling yourself to breathe through it, to be the bigger person, to ignore the way his presence made your whole nervous system light up like a warning alarm. years of convincing yourself it wouldn't last forever, that eventually you'd graduate, move cities, change jobs, do something that would erase him from your daily life.

to everyone else, yoongi looked like the kind of person who didn't care enough to start trouble. quiet. aloof. almost detached, like the world only grazed the edges of his awareness unless it personally knocked on his door. he never raised his voice. never made a scene. never stirred the pot, at least not in a way anyone could pin down. he was the embodiment of unbothered, unshakeable, unreadable, and apparently uninterested in anything remotely resembling petty conflict.

and you had believed that, too. well at least once.

you could still remember the first time you saw him. it was at work. he was new. someone had mentioned a new hire would be starting that day, but you didn't think much of it. people came and went, it wasn't exactly newsworthy. when he walked in, you barely noticed. he didn't demand attention like some others had, didn't make a dramatic entrance or introduce himself with any fanfare. he just appeared.nhands stuffed into his pockets, posture loose but closed-off in that way that said please don't talk to me, and i won't talk to you.

you remember thinking he'd be easy to work with. you remember thinking he'd keep to himself. you remember thinking, foolishly, that he might even be nice. and that he looked really good not that you would ever mention it out loud. well okay once to your friend soo-ah. but that was only once, a year ago.

but you were wrong, so wrong.

and suddenly he was everywhere. you would not only see him at work. no also outside of work. first at your supermarket, of all places, standing by the exact aisle you always take, like it's the most natural thing in the world. which was something don't even want to remember. then it was parties. mutual invites. familiar faces and suddenly he's among them. before you realize it, you're sharing the same circles, breathing the same air, trapped by his annoying self. all because taehyung and jungkook liked his “vibe”. and you couldn't say anything. not when it started. not when it got worse. you let it build quietly, let it eat at you every time he showed up where he didn't belong, every time his name slid too easily into conversations that left you tense and silent. eventually, your friends noticed. not right away, but in the way your mood shifted, in the way you stopped showing up, in the way you pulled back without explanation.

but you weren't the kind of person to make them choose. you weren't going to say it's either me or him. so you tried to let it go, told yourself to be mature, to get over it. but it kept getting worse, and he knew. every time you forced yourself to smile, to stay in the room, he saw it. and worse he didn't say anything either.

your friends tried everything. at first it was subtle, carefully nudging you into the same conversations, asking one of you to wait while the other caught up, suggesting you "just talk it out." when that failed, they tried being more obvious. they invited you both to the same dinners, the same parties, hoping proximity would do what words couldn't. it didn't. if anything, it made it worse. every shared glance felt like another fight waiting to happen, every casual interaction forced and brittle.

when that failed too, they got desperate. some, probably jin and soo-ah, thought it would be a good idea to lock you both in a room together. literally. close the door, say "figure it out," and leave you there like two volatile chemicals waiting to combust. maybe they thought you'd talk. maybe they hoped some buried tension would finally break and you'd laugh about it after. they didn't expect the shouting. but that's what happened. voices raised, words sharp, both of you tearing into each other like it was the only language you had left in common.

outside the door, your friends could do nothing but listen. the arguing, the accusations, the anger neither of you could fake your way through anymore. every attempt to help had only added fuel to a fire they didn't know how to put out. and by the time the door finally opened, neither of you looked at the other. you just walked out in opposite directions, the silence between you louder than any of the shouting had been.

there was no world in which you and yoongi would get along. and there would be none.

the applause took you out of your thoughts. a few polite, scattered murmurs of approval threading through the air, you felt it before you even saw it: the flicker of his gaze, cutting sharp through the noise, not toward the people who had actually clapped for him, not toward the ones nodding and smiling and clearly impressed, but toward you, only you, as if none of it truly mattered unless he could see you witness it, as if the real prize wasn't the win itself but my reaction to it.

and you didn't look back, not really but you felt him, the full weight of his stare pressing into the side of your face like a hand around your throat, steady and deliberate, unrelenting, and you knew the exact expression he was wearing before you even dare to glance in his direction: that infuriatingly calm amusement, lips curled into that slow, poisonous smirk.

you hated that smile, hated the ease of it, hated the way he could stand there looking like this is all just some elaborate game he'd already won five moves ago while you are still trying to catch up, trying to breathe, trying to keep your hands from shaking under the table, hated the way he didn't even bother pretending it wasn't personal, the way his gaze sharpen just slightly, eyebrows rising barely a fraction, just enough to wordlessly ask: ‘well? how's it feel to lose to me again?’

and you know what he was doing, know exactly how hard he was baiting me and still, still it burned, still it curls in your chest like fire, still you want nothing more than to march over and wipe that look off his face with the nearest heavy object or, barring that, at least the kind of cutting remark that might make him flinch but you didn't, of course you didn't, because anger is messy and public and vulnerable and you were already drowning in enough of that.

so you just sit there, jaw clenched, nails biting into the soft skin of your palms as if pain can somehow anchor me, keep you from flying apart and god, you hated him, hated him in a way that was too large to name, too complicated to fit into a single thought, because it wasn't just this moment or this win or even this day, it was every moment that came before it, every snide comment and loaded glance and deliberately timed smirk, every time he let you unravel just to see how far you'd go before you broke.

and as the applause fades, as chairs scrap back from the table and voices begin to rise in clusters, people gathering their things and drifting toward the door, you stay frozen, staring blankly at the dimmed screen like it might still hold some version of the outcome where you came out on top, some alternate reality where you didn't just lose to him, didn't just sit here feeling exposed and gutted while he soaks up the victory like sunlight.

and you might've stayed like that indefinitely, wallowing in the echo of your own humiliation, if namjoon your boss, hadn't appeared beside you, voice low and gentle, the kind of softness that always feels worse when you're already raw and you barely manage to nod, barely forced yourself to smile. "i'm sorry y/n. i know how much you wanted that pitch." we both knew what was coming next, both knew the but that would follow, and there it was: the confirmation, the truth. "you were really good but yoongi's pitch was the one they wanted at the end."

of course.

"and hey," he continues, offering me a small smile. "i actually have something else for you. a different deal. it might not be the one you wanted today, but i think it's a really good opportunity," a genuine smile on his lips, before he continues, "i'm gonna send you the details later."

and you say thank you, nodding again, you even smile when he squeezes your shoulder and tells you again that you nevertheless did amazing work, like you hadn't just had the wind knocked out of you in the quietest, cruelest way possible.

but even after namjoon as the last leaves, the room isn't empty, you still can feel his presence.

and you feel him before you see him, that itch at the back of your neck that only comes when he was near, and sure enough, you hear him before you turn that voice, maddeningly light, that familiar lilt of mockery dressed up as charm: "not even gonna congratulate me?" and it was everything you expected and everything you hated, and when you look up, there he is, leaning back with that maddening ease, hair messy and eyes bright, arms crossed.

you don't answer right away. don't give him the satisfaction.

"not even a little 'well done'? no slow clap?"

and you don't know what it is, the grin, the posture, the tone but something in you snaps, something in you lits up with the kind of fury that doesn't flare but simmers, slow and dangerous, and before you can stop yourself, the words are already out "for what?" you say, tilting you head just enough to look bored. "meeting the bare minimum and being rewarded for it? congratulations, really. mediocrity looks good on you." 

he laughs, of course he laughs, like he can't think of a better compliment, like you are giving him exactly what he wants.

and when he says "i know how much you wanted that pitch. stop pretending that you don't care." you hate that it was true, hate that you hadn't left the second it was over, hadn't stormed out like you swore you would and when he steps closer: "pathetic really."

"what's pathetic," you breathe your voice low and measured every syllable shaped with precision, "is thinking this is a win." his brow arches slowly not sharply the movement lazy and deliberate as if you've just told him a joke he already knew the punchline to there's no surprise in his expression only that maddening flicker of quiet amusement that's always lingered in the spaces between your words. like he's cataloging your every reaction just to prove to himself that he still has the upper hand.

his voice when it comes is casual but laced with that undercurrent you've come to loathe the false innocence sharpened by something darker beneath. "isn't it," he replies letting the silence stretch a little longer than necessary before finishing "i mean i walked out with it you walked out with your pride guess which one pays better."

you don't blink you don't even breathe differently. you know exactly what he wants from you a flinch a glare a crack in your expression. something he can hold on to something he can twist so you give him nothing your stare is steady unyielding it's a battle of control now and you refuse to lose but your feet betray you. one step forward small subtle, but enough enough to cross that fragile line of space between your body and his enough to dare him to notice. to dare him to move to test if his confidence will hold up under actual pressure he doesn't step back of course he doesn't he holds still like this is exactly where he wants you.

your voice cuts sharper now more venom seeping into the calm you're fighting to maintain. "no you didn't win. you just learned how to play the game dirtier than the rest of us. you smiled when you needed to you. kissed the right people's asses until they started mistaking your voice for your ideas. you figured out how to keep your hands clean while stepping on everyone else's work. that's not talent that's not a win that's politics wearing a knockoff suit and calling itself success."

you see it the twitch in his expression not obvious not loud just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. the slightest tension pulling at the mask he wears so effortlessly most people wouldn't notice but you've spent too long watching him maneuver through conversations and now you see every miscalculation every adjustment. that twitch tells you everything he wants you to think you're getting too close. that you've hit something real and maybe you have or maybe he's letting you believe that you don't care.

he doesn't smile now not properly his gaze narrows not with anger not entirely it's colder than that more calculated like he's considering his next move already dissecting your words for weakness "and yet you're still here," he murmurs finally the words slow and deliberate the tone shifting into something quieter something heavier as he steps closer to you. it's deliberate that step measured like he's drawing out the tension between you stretching it until you're forced to feel it, "still talking to me."

the shift in his voice is subtle but impossible to ignore it's lost its smugness its casual sharpness it's heavier. now deeper a quiet kind of threat wrapped in silk you can feel the change in the air between you you can feel him watching you.. differently. in a way you can’t really explain.

but you refuse to move you refuse to give him the satisfaction of being the first to step back "maybe," you say quietly not as calm as you wanted it to sound, "i'm just waiting to see if you trip over your own ego and fall on your face."

for the first time something flashes across his expression something that almost looks real his eyes darken slow and certain not with surprise but with something heavier and then his head tilts not sharply but thoughtfully. his gaze tracking yours like he's recalibrating everything he thought he knew about you when he speaks his voice is low quieter than before. not because he wants secrecy but because he knows now you're listening. "or maybe," he murmurs, "you're still trying to prove something."

the words hit harder than you expect them to your pulse stutters before you can stop it reflex unbidden, unwanted. "to you?" you throw back too fast too sharp too defensive and that's all the confirmation he needs you see it in the flicker of satisfaction behind his eyes you gave him. that you handed him that and you hate yourself for it.

he leans in just a fraction but enough enough that you can feel the heat of him now enough that his next words land against your skin rather than your ears. "to yourself."

that sinks deeper than you're ready for somewhere beneath your anger somewhere quieter somewhere you refuse to acknowledge, but you catch it you catch it crush it and bury it before it can show when your eyes meet his again there's nothing soft left nothing honest just that smile that cold brittle smile that has kept you alive in rooms like this with men like him "don't flatter yourself," you say softly letting your voice flatten into something dead and distant "you're not the mirror i measure myself against."

you watch him watching you his eyes drag across your face slowly like he's searching for the crack you just sealed over he's looking for the place it hurts and for a moment you think he might find it for a moment you almost let him.

you straighten shoulders pulled back chin lifted not in pride not in arrogance but in simple refusal to let him see you break "enjoy your pitch," you say finally the words clean precise deliberate before brushing past him without another glance.

"coffee?" you look up, a little slow, your brain still heavy with disappointment and the dull ache of too much thinking. and there he is, hobi standing in the doorway, holding two large paper cups like some kind of everyday miracle. exactly what you needed in that moment. like he had known before you even did. "thought you might need it."

he doesn't say anything more. just standa there with that gentle, steady look in his eyes. it was impossible not to smile, even if only a little.

you let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "you're my salvation," you say, and you mean it more than you expected to. hobi smiles at that, bright and unbothered, like he'd been waiting for the cue. he takes it as permission to come in, to settle into the chair across from you.

he doesn't need to ask if you are okay. he already knows. he moves with the kind of familiarity that came from being in each other's lives long enough to skip the surface-level questions. he sets the coffee on the desk in front of you, then leans back, folding his hands loosely in his lap like you are about to have a conversation you both knew was coming.

"so," he says, softly watching you. "how are you?" his voice is calm, quiet. not pitying. just honest.

you nod slowly, letting out a breath that had been sitting heavy in your chest all morning. "let me guess they're already talking and you're here to check on me."

hobi doesn't answer right away. his face shifts just slightly, enough for you to know without hearing it. not pity, not surprise. just quiet confirmation. "it's been the main topic all morning."

you stare down at your coffee, jaw tight. "of course. now they've finally got something new to talk about. god forbid this place have a single normal week without someone getting eaten alive."

hobi watches you carefully. you can feel it. like he's waiting for the exact moment you crack.

"you know how they are," he says softly, like he's trying to make you feel better. it doesn't help.

"can i even blame them?" your voice cuts sharper now. "it was the pitch. the pitch. and now that they know i didn't get it, that yoongi did, it's all they're going to talk about. not because they care about the work. but because it's a better story this way."

hobi leans forward a little, cautious, like you're a bomb about to go off. "how are you? actually."

your laugh is bitter. sharp. it sounds wrong in your own ears. "how do you think i am?"

he doesn't answer.

"how am i?" you finally meet his eyes, and there's nothing soft about it. your voice is flat, cold, but furious underneath. "i'm furious, hobi. that's how i am."

he stays quiet, lets you speak.

"i worked for that pitch. i stayed late. i tore myself up over every slide, every word. and then he walks in, acting like he didn't care, and of course he gets it. because he's yoongi. because everyone just assumes he deserves things. like it's inevitable." you pause, your voice cracking with something ugly. "and now i get to be the girl who lost to him. who got overlooked. and everyone's pretending it's normal."

you shake your head, looking down at your cup, forcing the words out because keeping them in hurts worse. "it's not even about the pitch anymore. i could've handled losing it. maybe. eventually. but losing it to him? that's what's killing me."

your voice drops lower, heavier. "he didn't deserve it, hobi. not more than me. and now i get to spend every day pretending that's not true."

hobi stays quiet. not because he doesn't have anything to say, but because he knows you need to keep going.

"you know what really gets me? he didn't even have to try. he just existed. stood there with that stupid grin and that bullshit effortless attitude, and they gave it to him like it was inevitable. like we should've all known it was going to be him from the start."

you pause. breathe. not to calm down, you're far past that point, but because your throat tightens and your chest aches, and you need to stay upright.

"sometimes i think about how satisfying it would be to just... wipe that look off his face. not forever. just long enough to get a moment of peace. just long enough to make him stop smiling like that."

your voice cracks a little at the end, the frustration pulling tight across your ribs, hot and unbearable.

hobi blinks at you once, then huffs out a quiet, short laugh. "you know," he says, voice lighter now, but warm, "the fact that you actually sound serious is the best part."

you glare at him, but there's no real heat behind it. "i am serious."

he laughs again, louder this time, shaking his head as he leans back in the chair. "yeah. that's the problem."

and for a second, you almost want to laugh too.

his smile fades, just enough for you to notice, replaced by something quieter. "look," he says finally, voice soft but steady, "i know it feels like he took something from you. and maybe he did. but letting him sit in your head like this? letting him be the thing that ruins your whole day?" he shakes his head slowly. "that's you giving him more than he took."

you don't answer. not right away. not because he's wrong, but because part of you hates that he's right. 

hobi watches you, lets the silence sit between you for a beat, then stands up with a stretch and a quiet sigh, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans like the conversation hasn't just scraped something raw in you.

"i'm heading back or namjoon will kill me," he says casually. "but seriously breathe. drink your coffee. let him rot somewhere else." he offers you a small, tired smile. "and if you do end up wiping that look off his face, call me. i'll help bury the body."

you huff out a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as he steps toward the door.

"you think i'm joking," he calls back, glancing over his shoulder. "but i'm not," closing the door behind him.

it was hours later, and you were still sitting in your uncomfortable office chair, staring blankly at your screen, wishing for nothing more in the world than to finally go home. your back ached in all the wrong places, your joints felt like they'd been dipped in concrete, and the early warning signs of a migraine had begun to pulse behind your eyes.

and, of course, because the universe didn’t mean it good with you, things only got worse.

your copier-ancient, thought that exact moment it would be a good idea, to give up on life. right in the middle of printing your final report. you were this close. just a few more pages. but no. the last sheet had jammed, perfectly wedged in the machine's mouth, half printed and fully immovable.

you tried pulling it gently. then not so gently. then with the quiet desperation of someone who had truly reached the end of their tether.

the page tore, naturally. because of course it did. you let out a loud, utterly ungraceful groan, the kind that echoed off the sterile walls and probably scared the poor intern two doors down. at this point, it wasn't even about the report anymore. it was about the sheer principle of it all.

you press your forehead against the top of the copier like you were hoping it would feel guilt. it didn't.

after a moment of standing there, forehead still resting against the warm plastic of the copier like you were attempting to absorb its will to live (or at least find meaning in its betrayal), you sighed.

fine.

you straighten up, roll your neck with a satisfying crack that made, and shuffled back to your desk like a ghost who paid taxes. there, you plugged in an usb stick, the one you kept in your drawer for exactly this kind of crisis, and copied the final report onto it.

when the progress bar finally showed an end, you pulled the stick out, grabbed it, and made your way toward the copy room down the hall.

because of course your office had only one reliable copier, and of course it wasn't yours. no, it was the communal one that stood in a windowless room near the break area, smelled vaguely like burnt paper, and required you to walk past at least three people who would definitely try to talk to you even though you looked very much like someone on the verge. and at a day like this you wanted to avoid that.

but you went anyway. because that's what you did. because at this point, it was either finish the damn report or spontaneously combust. and frankly, the copier room seemed marginally less dramatic.

you close the door to your office behind you, and the faint click of the latch seems to echo far too loudly in the silence that follows. for a brief second, you assume it's just your own exhaustion playing tricks on your senses but then you pause. really listen. and realize it's not just in your head.

it's quiet. completely quiet. too quiet.

you turn slowly, eyes adjusting to the strange hush that's settled over the floor. the hallway that had been buzzing with movement and muffled conversations just an hour ago is now draped in darkness, save for the pale green glow of the exit signs and the flicker of one last computer screen still left on standby. the office is empty.

your sigh is quiet but deep, curling out of your chest like it's carrying the weight of everything you've been holding in all day. it settles heavily in your shoulders as you shift your bag higher, your footsteps already moving with automatic purpose down the hallway. each step clicks softly against the tiled floor.

you don't want to be here. not a second longer than necessary. your thoughts are already far ahead of your body, drifting to soft sheets and darkness and silence of a gentler kind. a pillow. a blanket. maybe a deep, heavy sleep where you don't dream about job interviews or smug, unreadable faces.

you reach the copy room and push the door open with your shoulder, the movement practiced and tired. your hand finds the light switch almost without

you drop your folder onto the counter and fish the usb from your pocket. you plug it in, tap a few buttons, and listen as the copier comes to life, its blinking light casting dull shadows against the walls.

and then it works thank god.

no error codes. no jammed paper. no panicked flashing of lights or grinding of gears that forces you to start over from scratch. just the smooth, steady rhythm of a machine doing exactly what you asked it to do. which, at this point in your day, feels like an unexpected mercy.

the pages begin to slide out, warm and precise, forming a neat stack on the tray. you stand there watching them with your arms crossed and your thoughts already halfway out the door, counting down the seconds until you can leave this place behind for the night.

and then you hear it, the quiet creak of the door behind you opening. 

your body tenses before your mind can even catch up. you don't turn right away, just freeze there, hand already reaching instinctively for the closest object within reach, not because you really believe something's wrong, but because it's late. you're alone. or at least you thought that you were alone till now. and you're tired in that bone-deep way that makes even small things feel like threats.

your fingers close around the cold metal handle of a hole punch.

you turn. and there you see him standing at the doorframe.

yoongi.

you stare at him for a beat too long, chest still tight, hand still curled protectively around the tool like you're ready to defend your territory with office supplies. he, on the other hand, is leaning against the doorframe like he's just wandered in on a whim. as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

his eyes meet yours, dark, steady, a little too calm and you immediately wish it were anyone else. anyone but him.

leaning in the doorway casual like it costs him nothing, he glances down at what you're holding, then back up, and his lips twitch into the faintest smirk. there's amusement there, but underneath it something sharper. something knowing.

his gaze flicks to the hole punch in your hand.

"so this is the weapon of choice," he says, voice dry. "how poetic."

you freeze. not because of the words, but the tone. the knowing. and then it clicks the conversation with hobi. your words. your rage.

sometimes i think about how satisfying it would be to just... wipe that look off his face.

you don't even try to lie. you just stare at him. he heard your conversation.

"so you heard?" 

yoongi tilts his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "you gonna do it? or just keep dreaming about it?"

your eyes narrow. "don't tempt me."

"why not?" he takes a slow step into the room. "you've clearly been thinking about it."

"you're unbelievable," you mutter, setting the papers down too hard. "you listened in on a private conversation and now you're what? gloating?"

"i'm confronting you," he says simply. "you had a lot to say behind my back."

"you had a lot to say by not saying anything at all."

his brows twitch, the only sign he's even slightly thrown. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"you got the job, yoongi. fine. whatever. congrats." the word tastes like ash. "will you leave me now?"

"you'd still be pissed. you'd still think i stole something from you." he snaps, tone sharpening.

"i don't think you stole it," you bite out. "i think you didn't give a damn about what it meant that i didn't get it."

his jaw tightens.

you press on, because now it's all rushing out, too fast to stop. "you knew how badly i wanted it. and it didn't even register for you. you were too busy celebrating."

"because i won," he says, and something about the way he says it, blunt, unapologetic, hits you straight in the chest. "i wanted it too. i worked for it. fought for it. why should i apologize for that?"

"you don't get it," you say, shaking your head, voice low with something dangerously close to heartbreak. "you never do."

yoongi steps in, closer now, close enough that you can feel the tension in his shoulders like a current. "no," he says. "i do get it," he shoots back. "you wanted it. i wanted it. i got it. end of story." 

"and yet you didn't care," you say cold. "you didn't even pretend to care." regretting your words as soon as they came out of your mouth.

"why would i?" he says, blunt now, unapologetic. "i've worked my ass off for that job, same as you. i didn't owe you anything."

you laugh, a sharp, joyless sound. "you owed me respect. basic human decency, at the very least."

"you wanted a warning? a pity text?" he spits. yoongi scoffs, steps closer, arms crossed. "right, because it was my responsibility to manage your disappointment."

you open your mouth. close it ready to say something, anything. but nothing comes out of your mouth.

"i hate you so much," you say, low and venomous.

he stares at you, jaw tense, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes."yeah?" he says quietly. "well, the feeling's mutual."

you nod once, slowly, like you're memorizing the words so you don't forget later. "great," you mutter. "then we're finally on the same page."

you don't know who moves first. maybe you both do. maybe neither of you.

but then his hand is in your hair and yours is fisting his stupid perfect button-down and his mouth is on yours and everything, all the rage, all the exhaustion, all the want that's been simmering beneath the resentment, breaks wide open.

his mouth is on yours, and it's not gentle. your back hits the copier, half of your papers slide to the floor, but neither of you cares. his hand tangles in your hair, yours fists in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, harder. hard and needing. with his long and silky fingers, he grabs the back of your head, claws your hair and presses you against him. when you feel his hand pulling your hair, you moan loudly into his mouth, which he took as an initiative to push his tongue into your mouth.

your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

oh god. as if it wasn't enough that he was good-looking, he was also a damn good kisser. not that you would ever admit it out loud.

with his hand still holding your hair, he pulls your head further down to give him a better angle. he groans in your mouth, when you press yourself even further against him. feeling the outline ouf his dick on your thigh. and what you felt clearly wasn't small. fuck. 

he kisses you like a man starving for days, as if you were the only one who could quench this hunger. he is only barely detaching himself from your lips. red and swollen. you can feel his eyes on your lips, his breath on your lips, which are still touched by his own. his lips caress yours.

"tell me to stop," he whispers against your lips. voice low and raw from all the kissing. you have to swallow the lump in your throat. it's hard to tear your eyes away from his inviting gaze and when you look up, his eyes are already on yours. "tell me that you don't want this."

his eyes scan yours. dark, focused, unreadable. like he's trying to figure out if this kiss was mistake or not. if he would wake up the next day and think 'fuck what did i do?'. or if he wants to stop himself, but doesn't know how to. they look so intensely into yours, eyebrows drawn together as if he wants to challenge you. as if this is an invitation for a challenge, if you would say or withdraw. before you even get a second to admire the view he's on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the copier.

you still look at him, hearing the hammering of you heart in you ears. breathing uneven.

his hands detach from your hair and slide down your waist, down to your butt until he squeezes hard. while his lips reluctantly detach from yours, this time working down along your neck with kisses and bites, he kneading your butt. his other hand snakes up your back, under your blouse, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to memorise it.

and then you can feel him push your blouse up over your stomach, fingers brushing your skin, warm and firm. leaving a trail of goosebumps all over your body. burning you. you raise your arms, let him pull it off, and suddenly you are just standing in your bra. only in your bra in front of yoongi. his gaze drags down slowly, like he's savouring the image of you, knowing that he would never see you like this again.

he leans in close, too close, his breath brushing hot against the side of your neck as he speaks, low and deliberate, every word a demand. "say it again."

you scoff, tilting your head in defiance. "say what?"

a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "that you hate me even though you can't stop kissing me."

you glare at him, jaw tight. "i do. i hate you so much."

his gaze flickers, just briefly. then he lifts you, fast and seamless, like you weigh nothing, like he's done this before in a thousand different versions of this moment. he drops you onto the printer with a dull, echoing thud, and the machine gives a pathetic little whir of protest. his hands stay planted at your hips, firm, waiting. lips on yours again. he kisses you hard. no hesitation, no softness. it's not sweet, it's messy and fierce and hungry. like he's trying to erase every cruel word with his mouth. like he's trying to claim something he's spent too long pretending he didn't want.

you fist his shirt, this time harder. curling your fingers tight into the fabric like you're holding on for dear life. like if you loosen your grip even for a second, he'll slip away. you pull him closer, impossibly close, until there's barely room to breathe between you. as if your body knows something your brain is too proud to admit that part of you is scared. scared he'll let go. scared this moment isn't real. scared that if he steps back, you'll find out it was never anything more than a well-executed game to him. you hate him with your whole chest. hate the way he always knows exactly how to get under your skin. hate the way he looks at you like he sees something you're not ready to give. hate that he got the job. hate that you didn't. hate that he didn't even pretend to feel bad about it. hate how calm he is now, like you didn't just scream at each other. hate that your body won't stop leaning into him anyway.

you hate him. you really do.

and still, you can't stop kissing him. you can't stop pulling him closer like you want to burn every inch of this moment into your skin just in case it ends the way everything else with him always seems to. like nothing ever happened. like you were the only one who felt it. like he never cared.

he is grinding his dick over you clothed cunt, the friction making your groan. "please."

"beg," he starts to lick and torment the delicate skin of his neck while he guides your movements with his hands. you can feel him shift his hips against yours, making you whimper to that feeling.

"yoongi please," you beg. you were literally at this point where you didn't care at all how pathetic you looked. your senses were drowning in him, every kiss, every touch feeding a fire you couldn't put out. you were shaking with it, ruined by the weight of your own want, and still you begged. begged him to release you, to end it, to do something, anything, to free you from the hunger he'd carved into your skin like a promise

and before you know what is happening you can see his hands working down your sides to your thighs. "please what?" his hand holding your hips and he takes the time to trace over your curves. you can feel him pulling up your skirt, while his eyes are fixed on you. and when your skirt is pulled up to your hips, his hands are everywhere.

"yoongi please touch me," you say pitiful. 

after several long moments of eager anticipation, you feel hin exactly where you want. but only over your panties. "where baby?" your head tips back as you sigh, to his fingers rubbing you over your panties.

"here baby?"

before you can even find the words, before the insult forms sharp enough to throw at his head, yoongis slides your panties to the side. his fingers teasing your entrance before easily slipping two fingers inside. your hips buckle against his hand as he works you with skilled, deliberate movements and you moan out loud. so loud that probably ha-jun the craftsman in the first floor heard you. whimpering to every touch, every stroke. his fingers thrusts inside you, curling to hit that perfect spot that made your vision blur even harder. "so fuckin wet for a man you hate so much," he says as he works his fingers slowly and deliberately inside you, brushing his knuckles against your clit with each pump.

"you hear that y/n. how wet you are for me?" you could hear the wet sounds. his fingers were literally slipping with ease into your cun because you were so wet. it was dirty, pornographic, and hot.

"stop dreaming," you manage, feeling his finger curled the right way inside you, hitting your g-spot. you can feel his hard, thick dick pressing against your thigh, begging for some kind of release. yoongi's other hand slids up your body, freeing your breast from your brac cupping it and rolling your nipple between his fingers, adding another layer of sensation to the mix. your mouth drops when he twist your nipples between his fingers, throwing your head back, overhelmed with all the stimulation.

"what would the others think if they saw me knuckle-deep inside you? what a pathetic slut you are," he growls in your ear, making your moan out loud, pussy tightening around his fingers. "you like it when i call you a slut?" he chuckles. "you're my slut. my dirty little cumslut."

"yoongi, i'm so close," you pant, your hips moving in time with his thrusts, chasing the climax that was near. "please." 

"come baby. come for me," voice low.

you don't know whether if it's his words, his touch or the raw eye contact or maybe the combination of everything that makes you come. your orgasm hit you with a force that left you breathless, your body convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash over you. you cry out his name like a prayer, your nails digging into his back as you ride out your climax. your body nearly giving up due to your mind blowing orgasm.

but yoongi doesn't stop, continuing to pump his fingers inside you, until you are a quivering mess beneath him. when he finally pulls his hand away, he brought his fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a satisfied smirk, humming as soon as he tastes you on his tongue. "i knew that this pussy would taste so sweet." 

you shake as you come down from your high, his hands are hands stroking the outside of your thighs, up your hips, and back down again. and suddenly you see him drop on his knees in front of you. never breaking eye contact. and you could swore that you nearly came the second time when you saw him on his knee, looking at you through his eyelashes with his cat like eyes

finally sliding your panties down, he presses a few chaste kisses to your inner thigh his nose digging into your pussy. the feeling of his nose rubbing against your clit, makes you jerk your hips in response. you grip his hair beneath you as he continues to tease you. he doesn't give you what you want yet, not fully. 

his grippers tightens around your thighs, and then you feel his wet tongue tracing along your folds. you moan out loud to the feeling of his tongue, already seeing starts. your hands yank his hair even harder which makes yoongi groans against your pussy, sending a vibration through your body. 

"so good yoongi," you whimper, not able to say more. 

"baby you're dripping." you can feel the vibration of his voice sending another wave of pleasure to your core. you were sure that at this point you made a mess on the printer. a big wet mess.

his nose presses against your clit as he pushes his face deeper into you. licking and tasting your pussy, as if it was his last meal on earth. your thighs come around his head, squezing it holding it in place. afraid he would stop, just to torture you.

he flicks his tongue faster, lips locking around your clit, sucking it slow and cruel. your back arches instantly, the sudden stimulation making you shake. you cry out, overwhelmed, pushing yourself more against him, hips grinding against his mouth, trying to chase more of that feeling.

his grip tightened. "yes baby. go on ride my face." his tongue dives in your leaking folds, hitting all the right places. 

your fingers curl more into his hair as you move your hips against his face. with the other hand, you hold on tightly to the copier, pushing some buttons, but far too intoxicated by yoongi's tongue to think about it any further. 

"yoongi i'm going to come. please don't stop," your head tilts back, your eyes twist with stimutalion. yoongi takes this as a sign to suck your clit even faster, his hands squeeze your thighs tighter, as if he wants you to keep smother him with them. your hand sinks further into his hair, you tug and pull at his hair, making him moan against your pussy. 

as you look down at him, his gaze hits you like a blow. dark. concentrated. so intense that it takes your breath away.

and that is what sends your right over the edge. his eyes on yours, his mouth on your pussy. you come all over his face, your thighs shaking from the force of your orgasm."holy shit." you really saw stars. your mouth open, you moan loud and shameless. you groan again and again as yoongi still thrusting his tongue into your leaking folds. "yes. yes. yes yoongi." the sounds coming out of you were louder than expected. and at that moment, you were thankful that no one was in the office. 

yoongi detaches himself from your legs, looks up at you with his brown eyes with heavy, lidded eyes as he cleans his mouth corners. you feel your soul leave your body when his eyes flutter closed and a deep moan rumbles from his throat, the sound muffled by the smirk forming on his lips.

"could do this forever," he mutters, voice wrecked. 

you're still catching your breath, body trembling slightly, the aftershocks of your orgasmpulsing through you like tiny reminders of what just happened. but somehow, it isn't enough. not even close. the hunger twisting in your stomach hasn't eased, it's sharpened. like now that you've had a taste, your body refuses to settle for anything less than more. more of him. more of this. every nerve feels raw and alive, skin hypersensitive, mind clouded with nothing but the need clawing under your skin. you can't think past it. you don't want to.

before you know it, he's on his feet again, pulling you closer to the edge of the copier. and then everything happens fast. with trembling hands you fumble with his belt, the click of the buckle echoing in the small room. until it finally becomes undone and the buttons popp open from his pants and boxer in one go. 

yoongi chuckles softly, "someone's eager" he holds your lower back before fisting his cock with his wet precum. the sounds following are pornographic. wet fisting sound. he aligns him to your entrance, "can't seem to think without my cock inside of you huh?"

you don't respond when you take his chock, pump him once or twice, and impale yourself with him in a swift motion. your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head as your cunt flutters around the shaft buried deep inside of you. as if the gods had elevated you, you feel his moist, hard, and huge cock penetrating you the right way. splitting you nearly in half.

you both moan at the same time at this feeling. your nails digging into his back, scratching it and his head falls back as he groans through his clenched teeth.

"so big," you whimper. inhale through your nose to counteract the pain , the pressure in your core, because of his big dick. but it feels impossible. no matter how slick you are, how you breath it feels like he is ripping you apart with every thrust.

"baby, you're so tight." his entire cock is deep within your walls with one push. his pelvis presses against yours, hitting your g-spot over and over again. "look at your pussy taking me so well," yoongi moans in your ear. if you thought listening to your favorite artist was the best sound, you were wrong. now you know you have another favorite sound: him. he rears back and thrusts into you ferociously before you can take a breath. slow, hard, possessive.

his one hand firmly holds your waist to keep you exactly where he wants you, and his other hand presses against the wall behind you to maintain some balance. when yoongi begins pumping harder and harder into you, making you’re nothing more than a whimpering mess beneath him.

"fucking me so good," you cry. already felling your next orgasm approaching. no man has ever made you climax as quickly or as intensely as he has. maybe that's what made you afraid that no other man would be able to do it. crying, and repeating his name like it was your salvation. like it's the only word you know.

yoongi kisses you, and you moan into his mouth the sound raw, pulled straight from your chest. gasping for air, you pull away. your lips are swollen and so are his. he rests his forehead against yours, as he pounds relentlessly in you.

he combines his strokes with a grind of his hips, sucking him inside and squeezing his cock, ensuring he'll never leave again. you bring your thighs around him, pushing him further into you if possible. "i should have fucked you sooner. do you have any idea how much i wanted to bend you over that desk and fuck the attitude out of you? every damn time," he grunts, "bet you would have loved that," he paise is animalistic. you can feel him in the deepest parts of your pussy.

"shit," he grunts as he grabs one of your thighs and puts it over his shoulder, giving him a better angle to fuck you. you could have sworn that in that moment, you felt him in your throat. "look how deep i'm inside of you. can you feel that?" he presses down on the moving bulge in your stomach. the way it slid out only to reappear back in you made your head dizzy. you're dizzy, barely able to keep your thoughts straight, the air around you thick and heavy like it's been stolen from your lungs. your body trembles from the overstimulation, every nerve alight, every inch of skin too sensitive, too raw. you don't know if it's the pleasure or the lack of oxygen that's making the edges of your vision blur, but you can feel yourself slipping, legs weak, mind hazy, barely holding on as the world tilts around you.

and this was your breaking point. you come on his cock, squeezing him dry. "yoongi fuck." your vision blurs, your head hits the wall and the only thing you can hear is your heart hammering in your chest. knees shaking, ans you knew if you weren't on that pinter your legs would gave out. 

he thrusts hard once, twice, sending his cock deep inside you, making you tighten your cunt around him, squeezing him dry. then you hear him grunting, and a strangled cry breaks from his lips before he comes deep inside you. you can feel him twitching inside, moaning your name in your ear would've definitely done it. his voice even lower than before, raspy and needy. "fuck baby."

the heat of it makes you come again for the fourth time this night. trying to keep your eyes open, you want to see him come undone. trying to memorise the way he looks when he comes, how he shuts his eyes, mound open whimpering. he looks so good. and you knew in the deepest parts of your brain, that you would never forget this. because this would be the first and last time you did this.

he looks at you, breath heavy and uneven, his chest rising and falling like he was still catching up to the moment. his skin glistened faintly in the dim light, a thin sheen of sweat trailing down his neck, disappearing beneath the covers.

dark hair clung messily to his forehead, damp and wild in a way that should've made him look disheveled but of course it didn't.

of course, he still looked good. too good.

and then there was his mouth. god, his mouth. lips pulled into that same familiar, infuriatingly smug smile. the one you'd seen a hundred times before. the one that made your stomach twist every single time. but now?

now it was worse. because now you knew what it felt like.

you hated that smile. hated how calm he looked, like this was exactly how he'd expected the night to end. like he knew he'd already won.

he tilted his head slightly, dark eyes flicking over you with that maddening glint of amusement. "so," he murmured, voice low and rough at the edges. "still hate me?"

from: min.yoongi@gmail.com

to: y/l/n.y/n@gmail.com

subject: strictly confidential

[file attached]

you forgot these in the copier room.

you opened the attachment without thinking. but the moment the images loaded on your screen, your breath caught in your throat. pure shock crashed over you, leaving you frozen for a heartbeat before your body reacted on instinct, hands flying up to cover your mouth, eyes darting wildly around the empty office like someone might’ve seen, might’ve known what had just hit you like a train. but you were alone.

still, your cheeks burned like you'd been caught red-handed.

because there it was. clear as daylight. unmistakable.

the copier had done its job a little too well, capturing you and yoongi in high resolution.

[iogutwsm]

all night | knj ft. myg

pairing. namjoon x switch!reader x yoongi

genre. smut, idol!joon, idol!yoongi, pwp | 18+ |

w.c. 4.5k

summary. in which listening to music during a smoke sesh with your best friends namjoon and yoongi in the studio turns into much more

contains. use of marijuana, studio sex, threesome, handjob, degrading, m. oral, edging, m. masturbation, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, creampie, f. fingering, f. nipple play, mentions of exhibitionism, overstimulation, manhandling (namjoon is FED tf up), yoongi shows no mercy either, which results in: squirting<3

“come to my studio, magic happens” -🎵

—

“I almost forgot how fucking good this song was.”

Exhaling the smoke you inhaled before speaking, you turn slightly to retrieve the blunt back from Yoongi.

Cooped up next to him on the small sofa in Namjoon’s studio, Namjoon grins at your words as he reclines further back into his desk chair that’s facing the two of you.

“You just like the words you pervert.”

You cough mid-hit, frantically handing the blunt back to Yoongi as you use your free hand to flick Namjoon off.

“That or The Weekend is just hot so anything he sings is—“

“You think he’s hot?” Yoongi interrupts. You smirk as you bring one hand over to ruffle his fluffy hair, messing it up. He gives you a blank expression and passes the blunt to Namjoon instead of you. Giggling, you blow the smoke into his face.

“Jealous?”

“I’m sure if you moaned in a song I’d call it hot too,” you make sure to add purely for his sake.

“Really?” A suddenly excited Yoongi perks up.

Namjoon rolls his eyes at the banter taking place in front of him, taking a rather harsh drag before disrupting it.

“Y/N just likes songs about fucking,” he nods over to you, “admit it.”

You scoff at his accusation, hand landing on your chest in mock offense.

“A little bold are we?”

Namjoon only smirks, dimples showcased prominently on his relaxed features despite the heavy fog that’s clouding up the small studio.

“I gotta piss,” Yoongi mumbles as he attempts to stand up, large hands playfully shoving you to the side to allow him room to escape. Namjoon reaches over to hand you the blunt, simultaneously blocking Yoongi from passing through— merely just to piss him off. It works as he rolls his eyes, giving the younger man a deathly glare.

“Hurry up, the songs almost over,” you call out as Yoongi finally makes it to the door.

“Then replay it?” Yoongi suggests, deadpanned as usual, just before his body disappears through the small crack of the door, hurriedly shutting it behind him to prevent any smoke from getting out.

Kicking your feet up on the now empty space beside you, you position yourself to lay flat on your back before turning your head to face Namjoon, a mischievous grin on your face.

“Go on…” you tell him, eyes gesturing to the phone on his lap that’s connected to the speaker.

Namjoon understands the underlying intent in your grin as well as instructions all too well as the song you’re listening to, Valerie by The Weekend, starts off with moaning.

“Fucking pervert.” He chuckles to himself with a shake of his head, nonetheless pressing the replay button.

The blunt is almost at the end of its life, so you take one soft drag before reaching your hand out to pass it over to Namjoon, letting him do the honors.

You face the ceiling, eyes blissfully shutting and soaking in the music, and it surprises Namjoon when you sing along. Well— maybe not sing. It surprises him when you moan along.

“Mm… so good.” You trail off, referring to the song of course.

You know slightly what you’re doing, but you consider it banter. A joke. So your eyes go wide when you turn your head and see Namjoon’s large hands covering his crotch area as if he’s trying to hide it from you, the now-dead blunt tucked between his index and middle fingers.

“No fucking way...” you mutter with evident shock to your tone, slight humor but overall seriousness.

“Joonie… are you—“

“You can’t do shit like that, Y/N.” He exhales, an airy chuckle of disbelief following. “Look what you did. It’s fuckin’ getting hard now.”

Trailing your eyes back to his hands, you struggle to get a glimpse of what he’s referring to. You decide to entertain the situation, too high to tell yourself not to.

“Well are you gonna move your hands?” you ask nonchalantly, words being something of a whisper.

He only scoffs, interpreting your words as more banter. “Are you saying you want to see my print?”

The mood is lighthearted and humorous, playful almost, but you’re dead serious when you say “yeah.”

Namjoon tenses up, gulping as he examines your sprawled-out body on the sofa, replaying your soft-spoken tone in his head.

Eyes on yours, yours on his hands, he uncovers his bulge and your bottom lip finds sanctuary in between your teeth.

The song is doing no justice to the sudden tension that overpowers the fading smoke surrounding the room, suffocating you both in an immense cloud of temptation. It’s you who falls victim to the thick air as you let your hand travel to your jacket zipper, your focus set on him as you tug it down.

Namjoon’s eyes are heavy lidded, cheeks hallowed out as he bites on the insides of them, quickly reaching behind to blindly flick the roach of a blunt onto the rolling tray atop his desk before bringing his free hand back to settle on his bugle- this time for a different reason.

He watches your fingers intently as you knock the heavy material off of your shoulders, revealing your white tight-fitting camisole, no bra.

“My turn.”

Bringing your hands to your breasts, you trace over your erect nipples, flicking them slowly until you're whimpering in front of Namjoon’s gaze, noticing how his hand begins to rub against him harder.

“Y/N…” he breathes, whiney almost, and you smirk in response.

“Hm?”

He doesn’t answer, eyes fixated on your breasts until he adverts them to your leg that’s rising up.

You tease your fingertips against the skin of your inner thigh, your attention fully on Namjoon’s reaction. You see how useless his palming is for him as he’s blatantly aching for something more. Something other than his own hand rubbing against his clothed cock.

That’s when your leg comes down, your body sits up, and just like that you’re kneeling on the ground and crawling over to him on his desk chair.

Namjoon gasps with almost no volume at your sudden action and proximity, eyes widening the slightest as he questions your intent.

“Y-yoongi will be back any second,” he attempts to alert you, but you only continue running a hand up his thigh.

He hesitantly removes his hand from his bulge, allowing yours to replace it. It’s crazy how drastic the change is, and he flinches at the pleasure that comes from your touch.

You do exactly what he was doing, rubbing your palm against his stern bulge through his pants, eyes slowly flicking up to his only to see them shut and head lolled back.

“I’m barely even touching you baby.”

Your words choke him up and trigger something within him, his hips jolting upwards to rub himself harder against your palm. A tiny grunt escapes from between his clenched teeth.

You can see the desperation in him taking charge, and you’re so ready to submit to it, but the faint beeping sound of the studio door’s keypad being clicked fills the once-intoxicating air. You don’t stop, though. And it turns Namjoon on more than you know.

In comes a frantic Yoongi, hurriedly closing the door behind him as he speaks with a lost breath.

“Staff looked suspicious as fuck at the smell but I saved your asses, you’re welco—“

You look up at Namjoon, and he looks over to Yoongi to which Yoongi looks down at you. He blinks a few times to ensure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, and when he confirms the sight of your hand on Namjoons cock- his heartbeat stills.

“Thank you,” you respond to his cut-off statement, acting as if the scene playing out in front of him isn’t what it is.

You can feel Namjoons cock twitch beneath your stilled hand, so you continue to palm him softly just as he begins to speak.

“H-hyung, I— fuck Y/N.”

Yoongi hasn’t moved an inch. His mouth is parted and he’s frozen in spot, presumably trying to comprehend everything.

“I uh…” his voice comes out dry and raspy, so he clears his throat before trying again. “I can come back if you two want, I didn’t know—”

“Why would you leave?” you ask innocently, turning to face Yoongi for the first time in this encounter. He’s met with your dark, lustful eyes (which contradicts the red tinge significantly might I add) and he absentmindedly licks over his bottom lip. “We’re just playing around.”

At your words, Yoongi’s brows furrow in confusion- almost falling for your words despite how odd of a “game” this would be, only to be mistakened as you suddenly take your shirt off, no bra.

“Come play with us?”

That’s when his eyes felt like they’d burst out of their sockets, but despite the feeling, his expression was blank. This was enough to make you wonder what the hell he was thinking because you couldn’t read his face.

Although all questions go answered when your gaze travels down his body and to his growing erection.

You sharply inhale.

Your face lights up in a smirk despite the nerves that are engulfing you, and you thank the cannabis for giving you the courage to say your next words.

“Fuck me?” you ask both men, head going back and forth between them for your eyes to innocently meet each of theirs.

Namjoon is the first to react, cock twitching as he delicately lifts your hand off of him, settling it on his thigh as he maneuvers his belt open. You hear faint, hesitant footsteps approaching, and every hair on your skin rises when you feel the coldness of Yoongi’s fingers against your neck. Guiding your hair to one side as Namjoon guides his cock out of his boxers, you find yourself arching your back against Yoongi’s legs behind you.

Your eyes navigate up to Namjoon’s, and you keep them there even when Yoongi grabs your jaw and tilts it back until the top of your head is digging against his lower stomach. You flick your eyes up to his instead when he pokes his thumb against your bottom lip, slowly easing it into your mouth.

“Open,” Yoongi whispers, tone almost overcoming Namjoon’s occasional whimpers of underlying plead.

You suction around him until you feel the webbing of his thumb against your lip, the tip of his thumb on a mission towards the back of your tongue. It’s not long until he makes it there, and just as you gag slightly- your hand is lifted from Namjoon’s thigh and guided directly to his erection.

Namjoon keeps his hand over yours as he directs your fingers to wrap around him, controlling the first couple of strokes before letting go and letting you touch him on your own. Yoongi’s thumb was now rubbing your own spit against your bottom lip, and both men become audible when you tilt your head down to choke yourself on Yoongi’s thumb again.

“Holy fuck… ’m too fuckin high for this,” Yoongi mumbles after a whimper he tried his best not to let out.

“Told you she was a slut…” Namjoon chuckles.

You cough against Yoongi’s finger, and he’s quick to drag it out to allow you to catch your breath.

The mere fact that they’ve discussed this before was something you couldn’t quite believe, and as derogatory as your friend's words were, you can’t help the way it made you feel. You can’t help the sensation it sent between your thighs either.

“You didn’t believe him?” You suddenly ask Yoongi, tilting your head back up to face him in the awkward upside down angle.

“What?”

“When he apparently said I was a slut- you didn’t believe him?”

Yoongi thinks over your question, then he glances at Namjoon, nodding at him for a reason you couldn’t understand since you weren’t able to see the smirk and determined nod Namjoon gave to him.

“Not in the slightest,” he tests, thumb tracing your lips again.

You scoff, and without any warning, you bring your head back down and direct his hand away as you let your lips latch onto Namjoon’s tip, eyes shut as you wait for him to remove his hand from his shaft- and when he does you sink down.

“Ah—“

You smile at the way Namjoon flinches, coming up only for the second it takes to spit onto his swollen tip before sinking right back down.

As you bring a hand to stroke the base that you couldn’t quite take, Yoongi tangles his hand in your hair, holding on tight enough to direct and control your speed.

“Just like that baby, keep sucking his dick like a fucking slut.”

Namjoon seems to react at the general sight in front of him, his abdomen clenching when he sees the tears brimming at your ducts all because Yoongi is showing no mercy on you.

You let your tongue trace over and discover every vain and ridge on his cock, not having much time to salvage the feeling when Yoongi is directing you to go so fast. You hum when you reach your gag limit, free hand blindly reaching behind you to tap Yoongi’s leg in signal.

“Fuck…” you attempt to breathe, the sudden gust of air is cool against your slobbered chin.

Yoongi soothes over your now-tangled hair with the flat of his hands, and Namjoon lazily looks down- chest still struggling to catch a subtle pace- hooking his index finger underneath your chin as he uses his thumb to wipe some of the spit.

“That was so fucking hot…” Yoongi purrs.

“Mm… so fucking slutty too,” Namjoon adds.

You giggle softly at their words of appraisal, once again clenching around nothing as you have been for the past however many minutes.

Placing your hands on Namjoon’s thighs, you push yourself up and turn around. Face to face with almost no gap in between you, you place a hand on Yoongi’s chest.

“You,” you say before pointing behind him, “on the couch.”

He looks down at the hand placed on his chest, chuckling smugly before turning around to head for the couch, having muttered a sly and entertained “yes ma’am.”

“And you,” you turn back to Namjoon, his cock still swollen against his lower stomach as he hazily looks up at you, ready to get on his knees if that’s what you want. And it is.

“On your knees in front of the couch, go.”

Same as Yoongi, he chuckles at your authoritative aura, nonetheless complying as you settle over to join Yoongi on said sofa. The older man had taken the initiative to remove his heavy hoodie, leaving nothing but a too-tight t-shirt that’s straining against his chest. You fit yourself into his lap, his thighs on either side of yours as your back leans onto his chest and you can feel his hard bulge against your lower back.

Namjoon follows Yoongi’s lead, tearing his top off as he inches up towards you on his knees. The sight of his upper body plus his fully out and erect dick makes your mouth water, and Yoongi could feel how you press your thighs together.

“Now what, ma’am?” Namjoon asks, underlying humor in his tone when he spoke the authoritative title. You scoff when Yoongi chuckles at it.

“It’s all fun n games til’ I don’t let either of you cum.”

It’s your turn to laugh as both men go quiet, and their sudden compliance makes you so fucking wet.

“Take my pants off…” you softly instruct Namjoon as you let one hand reach up to cup Yoongi’s jaw. “…panties too,” you add just before connecting lips with an eager Yoongi.

It’s soft and sweet, and Yoongi didn’t expect you to bite his lip so lewdly upon Namjoon manhandling your pants off.

His long fingertips pry their way into your waistband, aggressively tearing them down the length of your legs until they’re bunched at your ankles. It was so quick that you didn’t realize he took your panties off too until you felt a hand toying with your slit.

“She’s soaked…” Yoongi speaks against your lips, alerting Namjoon.

You gasp as you look down to see his large hand playing with your vulva, Namjoon sat in front of you with hunger displayed prominently on his features.

“Need your mouth Joonie,” you tell him, almost innocently. Yoongi moans at this, his fingers that were already on your cunt spread you open, and Namjoon’s breath is felt against your clit until he closes his lips around it.

Suctioning slightly, you don’t get to let out the yelp you so badly needed to as Yoongi was quick to resume your kiss.

The pleasure isn’t unbearable yet, but you consider it to be halfway there when Yoongi brings his free hand to harshly squeeze onto your breast, massaging roughly until his fingers begin to toy with your nipple, softly flicking and rolling it between his two fingers.

Namjoon notices how overwhelmed you’re becoming from Yoongi as well as his own subtle licks, and that powers him to go quicker. Tongue lapping your clit, occasionally slipping into your hole, you arch against Yoongi’s chest until his free hand is prying you down, whispering against your lips to “take it like a slut.”

Namjoon shows some mercy by slowing down, his full attention reserved on your glistening bud when he pulls away for air. He flicks over it with the tip of his middle finger before sinking the digit lower, making it disappear inside of you.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he curls it, and you let out a rather noisy shriek when Yoongi uses four fingers to rub against your clit- Namjoon adding another digit to your core.

“Mm, I can’t last like this—“ you whine, your breathing is frantic and your pitch is higher than ever. “Slower! I’m gonna… Fuck!”

The feeling that was rushing through your body was denied its release when both men, in sync, stopped their movements completely. You let out a sadistic laugh, dark eyes on Namjoon’s.

“You’re gonna what? Cum?” Namjoon tests as Yoongi teasingly bites at your neck.

Ignoring his words, you only bite back a smirk as you maneuver yourself to turn around and straddle Yoongi’s lap. You give him no warning when you reach into his sweats, stroking him through his boxers for just enough time to feel the wet patch in them until you’re taking him out completely, basking in his subtle whimpers as you smear his precum around with your thumb.

“C’mere,” you say loud enough for Namjoon to know it’s directed to him. “Sit right there,” you nod to the empty space beside you and Yoongi.

He does as told, mouth parted as he watches you handle Yoongi’s cock, goosebumps igniting him when he sees how you begin to line him up with your cunt.

“Play with yourself while I ride him, and don’t cum.”

The room is filled with three different sounds of pleasure when you sink down onto Yoongi, Namjoon watching intently as he syncs his pace on himself with your rhythm.

Yoongi hisses as the feeling of your lukewarm walls suffocating him in such a lewd and wanting way. Namjoon can only imagine how it feels, tightening his grip on himself to mimic it to the best of his abilities.

“So tight, Y/N…” Yoongi almost cries, but he redeems himself with a solid grunt, tucking his face into your neck.

Namjoon wishes it was him crying under you. Wishes it was his thick cock being bounced on ever so roughly. And you, you are head empty as you are in the clouds- soaking in the subtle euphoria that comes from just riding your best friend's dick.

However, you're brought to attention when you hear Namjoon moan your name, hips jolting profusely in spot as his hand trembles the slightest.

“Please.”

You could easily guess what he was referring to, but with an evil grin, you thought it was best to act clueless.

“Please what?”

“Let me cum.”

You suck in through your teeth when Yoongi’s own hips falter, his tip spiking right against where you crave it the most. The feeling is too good to get rid of, so you slow your pace and prolong the moment.

“I don’t think I wanna cum yet… his cock feels so good you have no idea.”

Yoongi blushes beneath you, cheekily placing a chaste kiss on your nipple before teasingly biting it with little to no pressure.

“Y/N.” Namjoon pries.

Yoongi glances over at the younger man, seeing how vulnerable and fucked-out he looks beneath his own touch. He almost pities him for a second, but then he’s brought back to his own pleasure when you bounce a little too hard on his dick and he chokes out a moan.

“Shit, I might cum if you do that again.”

Processing his words, you do it again.

Hips rising, you slam them back down onto him harshly- his whine being even louder than the sound of your skin slapping together. With his cock buried inside of you, balls pressing against your entrance, you roll your hips until he’s frantically feeling out your body in search of something to hold. He lands on your ass, squeezing almost painfully as his high shoots out of him and deep into you, his agape mouth frozen and eyes on a different planet.

Namjoon’s defeated huff shoots your eyes off of the hazed Yoongi and to him, giggling when you see his hand is no longer stroking himself.

“What’s the matter? Gave up?”

“Wanna feel you. Please.”

Exaggeratedly sighing, you ignore him for a moment as you go to grab Yoongi’s jaw and direct his head up and off of the sofa’s backrest, aligning your mouths together and placing a sloppy yet meaningful kiss on his lips.

“Thank you for coming so hard for me,” you whisper against his lips, his eyes still lazily shut in bliss. He only hums in response and with that, you carefully ease his softening cock out of you, feel the warm cum slipping out, and to your surprise- Yoongi’s fingers navigate to your core to stuff it right back in.

“Fuck him good,” Yoongi says as you settle beside Namjoon, now sitting in between the two men. Namjoon rolls his eyes at Yoongi’s banter, desperately eyeing you as you contemplate what to do with him.

“Do you even deserve to fuck me? I was so ready to cum earlier and you denied me.”

“Call it even.”

You scoff, eyes shamelessly flicking down to his aching cock. You feel Yoongi’s eyes on you, and so you straighten your posture as you try your absolute best to sound as seductive as possible when you say,

“But your cock did taste really good…”

Namjoon keeps his puppy eyes intact, hoping you cave and just finally allow his cock the release it so badly needs.

“Think I wanna taste it some more.”

Shifting your knees back onto the sofa, you kneel beside him, ass facing Yoongi as you recline down to align your mouth with Namjoon. Yoongi can’t resist tracing the fingerprints he left, and you giggle at the gesture as you place a soft peck on Namjoon’s tip.

Namjoon lets out the softest of whimpers as your tongue jets out and lands on his shaft, slowly licking him from tip to base and base to tip. Although his series of soft whimpers is quick to transform into something deeper when Yoongi’s fingers ease into your wet cunt- your moan emanating a vibration onto his cock.

“H-hyung go faster on her,” Namjoon speaks up, relishing in the way your throat tightens around his tip and mouth vibrates against his shaft at each moan.

The sight is so filthy, and you know if anyone were to walk in they’d not only smell the evidence of smoke but also see you getting finger fucked while you suck dick- you’d all be done for. But something about that very scene playing out drives you absolutely wild, and Yoongi can feel your pussy clench around his fingers at the mere thought.

If the room weren’t soundproof, you’d be moaning as loud as possible in hopes you do get caught.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum—” Namjoon speaks through a sharp inhale, tone frantic as his chest heaves. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

You feel his cock tense inside of your mouth, and despite the curl of Yoongi’s fingers in you, you resist a moan because you know that will trigger his orgasm. Instead, you stop completely, pulling back slowly and tortuously all while staring directly into his frantic, dark eyes.

And just as a smirk begins to pull at the corners of your lips, any further words or breaths are cut short as Namjoon’s hand grasps your neck, igniting a gasp that robs you of all oxygen, and somehow flips you back first onto the sofa. Having stood up in the process, he now stares down at you with one knee above your head- cock directly in front of your face. He grasps his shaft, angling his tip to your parted lips as he strokes hard and fast.

One look at Yoongi was all it took for the older man to understand, mimicking Namjoon’s stance and placing one knee on the sofa as he stood up straight on the other. Guiding your leg onto his shoulder, his fingers continued their strum on your cunt, pace almost inhumane as you whine “t-too much!”

Your cries bring Namjoon closer to the edge, stroking himself even faster than before as your hips jolt and buckle under Yoongi’s touch.

“I-I’m cumming, Yoongi. S-stop now…”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head and everything is a foggy haze when your orgasm spills out of you- Yoongi still rubbing you frantically like it hasn’t.

You don’t see how Namjoon’s jaw drops and pace falters, and all goes black when something shoots out of you. The feeling is only enhanced by Namjoon’s webs of pleasure pooling onto miscellaneous spots of your face, especially your lips.

Yoongi’s fingers stop, and your clit throbs, and yet whatever you just did felt so fucking good that you still can’t open your eyes.

“Holy f—“

“You just squirted…” Yoongi notes in awe, just as out of breath as you and Namjoon.

Your eyes widen, instantly trailing down Yoongi’s figure and seeing the aftermath of your sudden liquids now in the form of water droplets running down his abdomen.

“Shit… I’m sorry—“

“Sorry?” Namjoon chuckles from above you, and you look up. His cock has yet to soften but his aura definitely has. He places a hand on your jaw and gently caresses your cheek. “Don’t be sorry, that was the hottest thing I think I’ve ever seen.”

His thumb trails against your bottom lip, collecting his own orgasm and telling you “open,” before wiping it onto your tongue. You suck all remains off and swallow, eyes blissfully shutting once again.

“We should smoke together more often…” Yoongi mumbles as he sits back down in his original spot, directing your legs onto his lap.

“I’ll bring the speaker,” Namjoon adds, earning a giggle from you.

“And I’ll bring the song suggestions,” you joke, both men snickering lazily in exhaustion.

Namjoon grabs his Yoongi’s hoodie from the floor, using it to gently clean your face up before sitting down beside you, positioning your head to rest in his lap.

Maybe your music preference isn’t too bad after all, Yoongi silently thinks to himself with a grin.

~~~

a/n: i rly wanna say this is the smuttiest smut i’ve ever written but it was just another day in the office lmao. hope you enjoyed luvs! do all the things if u did <3

*kind of proofread, kinda not*

—

©️axigailxo 2022 all rights reserved

[iogutwsm]

mint yoongi ⟡ for @yoonqiful

cr. 0613data

[iogutwsm]

six degrees of yearning

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 10k

glimpse: you're associated to yoongi through six different connections, and you're just hoping that he loves you back in atleast one.

alternatively, you believe in the six degrees of separation, and yoongi's just kind of sick of always coincidentally seeing you.

[ fluff, angst, mutual pining except yoongi's avoidant so He's An Ass At First, initial unrequited love, jealousy, not really a soulmate au (but looks like it w the way yoongi crashes out every time u ignore him (except u are jus reciprocating what he'd normally do!!), reverse cards aka the turns have tabled yippeeee, redemption ]

notes: now #that it think abt it, this is a relatively light fic amongst ALLLLL my yoongis (both tumblr n patreon)!! enjoy :P

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

Yoongi doesn’t believe in connections.

He neither believes the power and the convenience of the supposed connections he has, not because he worries about the ethical parameters of pulling some strings (he literally could not care less if someone talks shit behind his back), but because Yoongi’s never found any real use for them.

His dad says that he has a friend who works as the head of security in the newly-opened outlet mall in the city, and unless Yoongi’s planning on shoplifting a pair of authentic, luxury cargo shorts (that’s in either a hideous color or has an outrageous factory defect like the zipper being stitched on backwards), he’s not really scrambling at the offer, if it even sounds like one to his dad, with his hands outstretched for the car keys.

Yoongi has also heard from his mom that she has a second cousin who’s a dean in this one university that’s hard to get into. Nevermind the fact that the department she’s heading has something to do with numeracy (and the other glaring fact that Yoongi has to whip out a calculator to make sure he knows what he’s doing with the numbers on the microwave) — his aversion towards even considering the offer of being directly enrolled stems from the fact that the said uni is literally hard to get into because the building’s two hundred years old and he doesn’t want to give himself the stress of having to talk to the walls.

It’s not to say exactly that Yoongi’s turning his back on the entirety of connections his family has and the opportunities they could offer. He’s not saying never to the chance of being able to enter a flagship frozen yogurt store three hours away from his house, thirty minutes early (he doesn’t even know for what reason) or shaking his head at the prospect of one day renting a comically large bounce house and rock wall bundle for a party free of charge.

It’s just that Yoongi has no will to exercise his connections, nor believe in them in the first place, because there’s not one that’s ever really benefitted him yet.

It’s to your understanding, however, that Yoongi’s your mom’s best friend’s son, and that fact alone makes you believe in the sheer beauty and providence of having connections.

The first time your mom’s best friend’s son, Min Yoongi, properly interacts with you— outside of seeing him in passing during compulsory family photos in reunions (where you had to take over for your mom multiple times in taking pictures because she just does not seem to ever grasp the concept of taking a photo without her thumb on the way) and video calls between your moms (where the two of you had no choice but to take over because they just kept making the mistake of calling the wrong people) — is at your family’s dinner table.

Yoongi thinks your family’s a hoot to be with, really, even with the way your dad’s dry sense of humor is rubbing off on his own and the way the wallpaper in their bathroom just keeps changing with every Pinterest board your mom could conjure. 

He doesn’t mind that much; he doesn’t mind the closeness nor the rapidly growing amounts of teasing, because although Yoongi’s always known that you and him basically grew up together without being around each other that much at all, he figures that it’s harmless.

It’s harmless for the both of you to know far too much about each other without having even been left together alone in a room, because he figures that it’s just what moms do. It’s harmless for your moms to keep telling the other random details about their lives and their children specifically, because while you know that Yoongi had once mistyped 40 seconds for 4 minutes in the microwave and almost gave their kitchen a very, very bad day, you don’t know if his eyelashes are short or how many piercings he has on each ear.

Now that Yoongi’s here though, right next to you at your family’s dinner table, because your parents are engaged in a heated debate about whether carrots are better eaten in their original or in their miniature form and you’re the only children here for this, you realize three things.

First, Yoongi’s lashes are long and dense that point downwards, and second, is that he has two piercings on each ear.

Third, is that you thank every auspicious thread in your life because Yoongi happens to be your mom’s best friend’s son, and you’ve never seen someone so charming and enigmatic up close. 

 "You could feed them to the dog so it's not as obvious," he leans down to whisper, eyes pointedly lingering at the way you’ve basically scooted all of your vegetables to the side.

"We don't have a dog," you mutter defeatedly, voice fading to a chuckle when you look up and realize that he’s too close; like he’s too familiar with you to the point that he doesn’t see any issue in having his face just inches away from you in attempt to be discreet, when really, it would take an earthquake and a half to even pull your parents out of their debate.

“You don't?" he tilts his head, scrunching his nose in confusion. "Why's there a collar and a leash in your coat rack then?"

"Because I thought buying them would pressure my parents into letting me adopt one.”

Yoongi chuckles softly, the amused smile that settles on his face making you blink once, twice, the weight of his lazy, comfortable expression almost distracting you from the way his hand moves to your plate.

"Here. That's my share," he nudges his head to your vegetables, chewing and swallowing the noticeable dent he had made on your plate without even flinching. “Rest is yours."

"But it tastes horrible," you frown. "You only want it because you're from a granola household," you murmur, the slip of your tongue making you purse your lips immediately. "No offense. Love your mom, by the way."

"What kind of example would I be if I don't force you to eat your veggies?" Yoongi rolls his eyes, resting his cheek on his palm with an almost bored (and slightly entertained, you hope) look to his face.

You should be grateful that he even considered helping you out, but it just doesn’t hit you yet. You don’t want to count your blessings immediately because Yoongi doesn’t look like he’s going to stop being gratuitous anytime soon.

Almost as if you don’t see him leaving your thread of connections within the future.

"Fine. Just one more spoonful,” he yields, mistaking the wistful, dazed, and slightly unhinged expression behind your eyes (you wonder if Yoongi knows about the sidewalk rule, or what side of the bed does he sleep on, and whether or not he’s the type to jump to your family plan or the other way around) for genuine distraught over him not helping you.

You can’t help but feel a little too fulfilled; a little too prideful of being connected to Yoongi, who’d clear the mountain of vegetables on your plate when your mom’s in a crazy, nutty health kick, even if you’ve never gotten the opportunity growing up to ask him what flavor of scented erasers he liked nibbling on or when his first kiss was.

You like Yoongi.

You like him and his ginger hair and the undercut that’s working really well for him, even more than your older sister’s best friend’s cousin who sells imported factory overruns of your favorite jeans (read: the Japanese selvedge denim that you’d never tell anyone where you got it from when they react to your pictures).

You like him and his habit of chewing on nothing when your conversation dwindles and you’re still racking your brain for tangents to continue it, even more than your uncle’s ex-wife’s (who always had you as her favorite) new husband’s food truck that sells your favorite baked potatoes.

You know you would like Yoongi, whether or not he’s your mom’s best friend’s son — it’s that simple.

It’s not so simple, however, when he lingers by the edge of the living room when he hears the telltale patter of your parents ramping up to say their goodbyes, right after decimating each other’s Letterboxd reviews. You didn’t want him to go just yet; you wanted to hear more of his stupid opinions and see his stupidly handsome face even longer.

"You know, it wouldn't be so bad if you just bring home a dog and then ask for permission later," he hums. ”It's not like they can do anything about it."

"And have me and the dog brought back to the shelter?"

"I can convince my mom to have your mom go easy on you," Yoongi shrugs.

"But she's a cat person and mom's just— she's a person, alright. She doesn't even want to have a pet fish."

"Who do you think made her a cat person?" Yoongi snorts, slightly struggling to put his coat on which makes you have the knee-jerk reaction of scrambling to help him, the sincerity (and almost rabid eagerness) of your hands making his eyes widen momentarily. ”I brought in a stray, then she made me sleep out in the porch for a night, but now? She literally cradles Miso to sleep."

It should just be another tidbit about Yoongi that you’re supposed to forget.

It should just be another seemingly insignificant nugget of information that would awe you, but never endear you to the point that you find yourself thinking about him and your red thread (one that you keep tugging on telepathically because although you exchanged numbers and socials, he’s not doing… anything) — something that wouldn’t keep you up at night.

Yoongi and his horrible, godforsaken influence don’t leave you at all.

Yoongi, your mom’s best friend’s son, and the stupid, detailed facts you know about him linger in your system like a red thread stands out on the pink linen runner in your family’s dining table.

You text Yoongi, late in the night, just once, with a picture of a comically large, skrunkly, and funky-looking dog on your lap, whom you could finally call your own.

her name’s veggie :]

Yoongi sends just one text back in the morning, attached with a picture of Miso sprawled out, sleeping on his shoulder with remnants of cardboard in her mouth. 

yippee!!!!!!!

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate. 

Jin who’s not really a licensed auriculotherapist, but who’s your age and Just Happens to be fond of sticking little tiny beads on his ears and his clients (three including you and himself), doesn’t have an actual shop he could call his own yet.

To have one, it would mean he actually needs to get a certification for what he’s doing instead of practicing his self-taught degree from Reddit University, with his esteemed professors being his grandparents, his parents on a good day (when they’re not being undermined by their parents), and some person aliased Jay M. Rings on Etsy who not only sells him his equipment, but keeps answering his questions.

More importantly, Jin (whom you only knew of because he was sat next to you in the library and flicked your conch when he heard your stomach audibly grumble) would need to rent out a place that would bleed him dry, assuming nobody would pay the ideal 400% upcharge to your existing payment so he could keep the spot.

It doesn’t bother you at all that Jin keeps the ear beads next to the orange juice in his fridge. It doesn’t make your brows draw knowing that he forgets to ask you atleast 75% of the time what you were in for before he starts working. It doesn’t even perplex you when you hear Jin hum for two solid minutes right after you ask him what could possibly happen to you if said beads were to fall right into your ear canal.

The only singular time that Jin, your uncertified but family-trained auriculotherapist, actually makes you perk up into attention is when he leaves you momentarily in the living room of his shared dorm, muttering how you might see his roommate but you’ve got nothing to worry about because “he could be an ass sometimes, but he’s polite to strangers” — is that he’s never really told you that he lives with Yoongi.

Jin, bless his heart, who had no reason to ever assume that you know Yoongi in the first place, was right to leave you momentarily in the presence of his friend who’s just as confused to see you sitting on his stool in the counter.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he mutters, the supposed playful thrum of his voice sounding far too real towards the end.

Yoongi’s not even dressed for class or work by the looks of it. Instead, he looks every bit the other paying half of the dorm you’re in. From his ginger hair that’s toned down and a little longer than the last time you saw him (read: it’s much longer judging by his roots, but you can’t even think about that right now), all the way to how his sleep shirt features the silhouette of an actor for a superhero that’s long been cancelled before, you have no doubt that it’s your mom’s best friend’s son staring you down.

“Yoongi,” you smile, voice a little breathless despite having done nothing at all prior to seeing him in the flesh. “Why are you here?” you ask, the lump in your throat making it impossibly discreet that you’ve long connected the dots even before you could utter a response to him.

“I live here,” he snorts, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to make himself look a little more presentable (but not that he cares or anything). “Are you here… for me?”

You have no doubt that it’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate who’s making your brain fuzzy.

“I want to say so,” you chuckle, nibbling on your bottom lip. “But I don’t think you do ear seeding like your roommate does.”

“You know that Jin only has three patients right? Me, himself, and I don’t know who the third one is, but he told me that it’s his first client ever.”

“That would be me.”

“Oh,” Yoongi deadpans, narrowing his eyes. “You know he’s not certified, right?”

“I know,” you nod, trailing off as you look down at the floor to try and not to look like an utter fool in front of Yoongi who looks way too lax about your unexpected meeting. “And he doesn’t even charge that much for someone who can’t legally do this, but am I crazy?” you murmur, fading into a whisper as Yoongi stalks towards you on the counter, working around your figure as he fishes for the orange juice. “Am I crazy for feeling that Jin… makes it work?”

“I’ve been in denial about it for as long as I could, if that helps,” Yoongi whispers back, surprisingly not weirded out with the way your voice had dropped as he gives you your own glass wordlessly. “I pay him to do it, but I don’t want it to get into his head that he might actually be onto something.”

“Right? I think it’s a-…”

“What are we whispering about?” 

Jin comes out of nowhere and you practically jump out of your skin at his interruption, your ass just seconds away from dropping to the floor if not for the very glaring realization that Yoongi’s here; that your body’s split-second response could possibly dictate your entire future with Yoongi, and that your embarrassment would seal the horrid fate of both your threads.

“You guys know each other or something?”

“Sort of,” Yoongi answers for the both of you, looking at you with his eyes thinking out loud as he ignores Jin’s muttering of why he wasn’t poured a glass of orange juice. “Y/N’s my… mom’s best friend’s daughter.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, testing the words on your tongue. “And Yoongi’s… my friend?”

He only shrugs.

“That works too.”

It could and it would work for you, because the way Yoongi lingers around you as Jin works on your ears gives you a different type of constipation that not one cold, tiny bead could fix.

It should work for you, because you’ve never been this ecstatic over incidental connections in your lifetime; not when you learned that you can get 20% off your breakfast muffin orders from this famous joint in the city because your great-grandpa was the first cashier for it maybe a hundred years ago (you do not have a grasp on time past your parents’ ages), nor when you found out that the librarian is the stepmom of the kid you used to babysit and she’d let you bring home anything you want.

“Stop talking to Y/N, Yoongi,” Jin grumbles at some point, exhaling more pointedly than usual when he doesn’t get to stick the bead at the exact pressure point that he needed to. “Her ears are too warm right now.”

“No, they’re not,” you immediately retort, the sharp flit of your gaze to him making him mockingly curl his upper lip at you, rolling his eyes at your denial.

It must work for you, because even Jin, your ear seeding guy, could tell that whatever crush or admiration you have for Yoongi would be devastating — it’d be only endearing, if and only if, it was requited.

Yoongi texts you sometime in the evening, a few too many hours later after you left his apartment. You weren’t necessarily expecting for him to holler at you by the doorframe, asking you to give him a call to let him know you made it back safe; Yoongi didn’t require that of you, and it should be okay.

You’re only friends. 

You’re only a friend who unknowingly drank from his favorite, always-washed-and-dried mug, and he’s only a friend who had texted you at 8 in the evening with a picture of Miso on his mom’s lap 

one time i woke up with two less beads on my ear and i never questioned it

You’re only a friend who rapid-fire texts your dad for a picture of Veggie just to immediately reply to Yoongi, even if said image you receive is a live photo of her snoring with the flash going off on her snout.

there would be No Answers either :D

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your little brother’s dentist’s godson. 

In an attempt at self-preservation (read: working a job wherein he doesn’t feel the need to brawl when faced with a customer with a phone whipped out), Yoongi finally relents to trying one of his connections over the break.

It’s fairly easy, really. He doesn’t have to spend his day looking down on other people’s mouths nor hold the suction for the dentist on duty or anything at all; Yoongi’s not exactly making bank, but all he has to do is be a pretty face in the reception area, schedule appointments here and there, type out a few Excel sheets, and his godmother swears that’s it.

You only wish those were the actual things in his job description, because as soon as you walk in through the double doors, you convince yourself through hell and back that Yoongi’s here for every other reason besides working his summer job.

You wait for the other shoe to drop, for him to telepathically communicate to you (without even making eye contact), that he’s been significantly older than you all this time and that he has a DMD degree and he’s only been humoring you during all your previous interactions, and all the aforementioned is a nudge to letting you down slowly.

You wait for it to hit you that perhaps it’s not really Yoongi-Yoongi whose side profile is facing you, but instead some random guy that has one of those faces, while your little brother waits for you to resume functioning again.

He’s dressed in scrubs, but Yoongi has one of those faces which you could tell have never worn scrubs before. It doesn’t look natural in his frame with the way he looks too foreign and polished in them, almost as if he’s never even stretched upward to pick up something from a cupboard or twisted his arms laterally to get rid of the aches in them. 

Yoongi looks like he doesn’t belong in the dentist’s office thirty minutes away from your childhood home, until he blurts out your name in equal confusion.

"Y/N?" he tilts his head, the unsure tone that coats his words making you snap into attention, walking towards him with a renewed purpose in your steps. “What are you... doing here?"

"I'm here to hold his hand," you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, waving your occupied hand proudly (when just awhile ago you were complaining how clammy your brother’s hand was) with a hesitant smile. "What are you doing here?"

Yoongi’s lips part in astonishment, almost as if he didn’t count on you returning the question to him. He loosely points to the framed picture of the dentist behind him, the chuckle that leaves him making you nod eagerly even before the words could leave him, making it painfully obvious that you already connected the dots to some sort of degree, but you still want to hear him speak nonetheless.

"She's uh, she's my godmom and I'm putting in some hours.”

"Are you getting paid?" you blurt out, eyes later widening when it registers to you that your desperation to keep your conversation going knows no bounds as long as it involves Yoongi, making you swallow your own shame with a cough. “Sorry. I'm just a little nosy.”

Yoongi clears his throat at that, pursing his lips in genuine thought at the (valid) question. ”Uhm, not exactly, I think? I get handed money at the end of the day but really, it's not-..."

You wanted nothing more than to retract your question even before Yoongi could muster finishing his train of thought.

You wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow you whole when Yoongi can’t even finish answering your question, to which you already seemingly crossed a line with, because he’s preoccupied.

Yoongi’s not preoccupied with the way your brother’s started drifting away from you, even with his hand still clasped to yours, except this time he’s treading closer to the reception desk where he stands in, body language glaringly evident that if you were to even loosen your hold on him for a split second, he’ll hide behind Yoongi’s feet to avoid getting his routine cleaning.

He’s not distracted either with the way you keep blinking up at him as if you were communicating your admiration for him in Morse code, nor with the way your lips are still parted with the next awaiting conversation greaser if he were to stall.

Yoongi does stall, not because of you, but because of the woman that strolls into the clinic and past him, her manicured hand grazing past his midsection in the process.

"Hi, Yoongs.”

"Hey, Jisun,” Yoongi immediately replies with a sheepish smile, his hand buffering by his side to return the touch with a gentle pat as his eyes follow her, the flustered lump on his throat making him cough sharply.

Oh.

It’s not Yoongi who doesn’t belong here — it’s you.

"It's more for the experience, then? Not the pay?" you try to finish his thought for him, your voice on the verge of fading if not for the little drops of self-preservation in your throat that keep you standing upright.

Yoongi doesn’t look embarrassed over you seeing the interaction unfold, and he’s not uneasy either. He just looks sheepish… almost pitiful that you had to see something so unnervingly warm and intimate without even meaning to.

“That's one way to put it."

Without another word, you nod firmly and he takes that as his signal to actually do his job.

Without another glance, you do your job and hold your little brother’s hand throughout his appointment, steeling your nerves every time you hear the door to his room open because it would be pointless to look back. There’s no way it’s Yoongi finding an apt reason to linger near you, and there’s no way either for you to come back for conjuring such an expectation.

Yoongi rings you up with no discounts (he's not sure if he's even allowed to) yet he leans in just enough to ruffle your brother’s hair, gaze fixed on him before it flits to you briefly.

"Good job, buddy. Go pester your sister for some ice cream,” he hums, the almost-customary, dry-humored, and slightly playful goodbye rekindling a little bit of hope in you, enough to make you look up from your shoes without worrying if you have to see Yoongi’s midsection grazed by a hand that isn’t yours, again. ”Say hi to Veggie for me."

You nod tightly in obligation.

"I hope Miso's well."

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s sister is the amateur hairdresser who gave you a bad haircut for free in cosmetology school.

For the record, you weren’t searching up Yoongi’s family name and making up a family tree as you went in order to find ways to be closer to him. That wasn’t the case at all.

The only pressing situation you had last night on-hand was that your mind was plagued with the saying that hair apparently holds memories, and after a few barely-passing major exams here and there that hours of doom-scrolling and back-to-back partying couldn’t fix, and you decided then and there that you’d get a haircut first thing in the morning.

Your budget wasn’t that of a pressing issue (it’s no match to the marks on your university portal you could only blankly stare at), but it’s truly up there. You couldn’t afford to go to your usual salon, which although may not be the most expensive salon there is in the city (but they did serve iced drinks in-house so that atleast counts for something), would still set you back a few good meals throughout the next two weeks if you were to book an appointment.

You had no choice but to suck it up. You wanted change and you wanted it quick for a fraction of the usual cost, and that’s why you ended up in the cosmetology school just a few blocks away from your dorm. You only knew five minutes prior to walking there, thanks to a classmate, that they offer services for cheap and that most of the time they end up being actually really good, and you didn’t need to hear any more after that.

In hindsight, however, you should’ve stuck around to hear more.

You should’ve stuck around to hear that getting A+ (maybe even C-) treatment at a cosmetology school is basically entering the lottery, and that you shouldn’t have had a perk in your step walking to there because a higher power, whether it’s up in heaven or just a few blocks away, would mistake it for you being too confident in what you thought you deserved.

You didn’t think too much about the way the woman named Eunji, who happily sat you on her chair with a nervous smile and familiar eyes, kept glancing to the back of your head and to the reference picture on your phone.

You didn’t think too much when she engaged you in conversation and something about the way she laughed made you squint your eyes as you rack your brain on why she both looks and sounds familiar, nor the way your hair kept getting into your eyes as she blowdried you and how she made no move in moving it the last minute.

It’s a little bit funny that the one time you didn’t think too much is the exact moment when you should have, and the whole vignette stops being funny as soon as you turn your head sideways.

The whole bit goes sideways, just like your haircut, when Yoongi walks towards your hairdresser who’s not earned her actual license yet.

"Here you go, princess," he scoffs, handing her a cup of iced coffee. "Had the time of my life explaining your order to the barista in the drive-thru booth."

Yoongi takes off his sunglasses, ready to rip her a new one and detail how he had never been more embarrassed knowing the difference between the concepts (concepts, not actualities) of white chocolate and white mocha somehow, but he suddenly stills.

He knew there was someone sitting on his sister’s chair, and he wasn’t really bothered lecturing her in front of a stranger.

Except you’re not a stranger — you’re you, sat on Eunji’s chair, and you’ve physically never looked this unrecognizable to him.

"Y/N?" Yoongi mutters, unwilling to even wait for your acknowledgement before he snaps his heads towards his sister. “Why's she in your chair?"

"Being supportive," you answer clippedly, only looking at Yoongi’s reflection in the mirror instead of the very real, and very solid him beside you so you wouldn’t have to turn your head and see your haircut in a whole new sense. "Also saving my allowance and I needed to get a trim, so I-I figured... why not go to Eunji?"

Yoongi doesn’t want to beat a horse when it’s down.

He really, really doesn’t want to laugh at you, but with the way you’re blinking at him like you’re held at gunpoint (except the gun is his sister’s shears), he can’t help but put a hand over his mouth.

He’s not laughing, but he is smiling. Yoongi’s thoroughly amused and deeply pitiful for you all at the same time, and he doesn’t know how his smile figures into the scheme of your haircut just yet.

"I could think of a few reasons."

"What do you think?" Eunji cuts in, asking with a nerve-wracking grin on her face with her hands clasped together, the watery gaze she has set on you tugging at your heartstrings in a much different way than when she had tugged at your ends.

"I love it," you answer breathlessly, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as you try to ignore how much length has been cut off and how the layers she gave you are more of an emotional, haircut-related crashout kind. “Oh my god, I love it so, so, so bad."

Eunji breathes a deep sigh of relief at that, her shoulder sagging before she picks herself up and gives you a hug from behind, dashing off to get her camera from her locker instead of her supervisor.

You love the Min family.

You love their warmth and their constant presence, no matter how incidental or fixed.

You’re trying to love the existing skills of their third-born, however, but you can’t tell if your love is that unconditional for a family that’s always treated you like their own.

"Do you need a hat?" Yoongi asks, his upper lip tucked in between his teeth as he continues to stand behind you. "You look like you need a hat."

"N-no. I really, really..." you hesitate, your exhale far too slow for someone who’s genuine, but far too stable for someone who’s pretending to keep it together. "...love the change."

Yoongi gets a full-body shudder.

"I don't," he quips. "I don't think anyone but Eunji would love it."

"Yoongi.”

It’s simple. 

It’s just a simple utterance of his name and yet Yoongi stops cold in his tracks. He reels back the emotion that’s clear on his face, and he lets go of the money he has crumpled in his fists inside his pockets for you to get another haircut at a salon you actually want to go to, because he doesn’t want you to mistake his genuine pity for you as patronization.

You’re on the verge of crying, but Yoongi doesn't wipe your tears. Instead, he just hovers; he’s still there, whether you like it or not, and he could only hope that his striking resemblance to his sister doesn’t further set you off.

"You need a hat," he quietly murmurs, removing his cap from his head and putting it on yours seamlessly. "You don't have to give it back.”

Yoongi leaves it at that, watching you walk out with gas as soon as Eunji finishes taking photos of your hair, before turning his attention to his sister. Her coffee order isn’t the biggest issue they have for the day, instead, it’s her shitty hairdressing skills and how you’re far too kind.

It’s close to midnight, right after you reschedule your ear seeding appointment with Jin for another day because you couldn’t bear seeing anyone with your fuckass haircut (he unfortunately doesn’t know any pressure points that would make your hair grow back longer, and he did research on that after being suspiciously silent when you sent him a picture of your hair), when Yoongi texts you.

He doesn’t talk about The Incident. He doesn’t apologize and go on a rant about how he could’ve reacted better awhile ago.

He just sends a picture of his cat sleeping snugly in a Dutch oven that he got from a blind box and drove to another city for.

sometimes miso throws up orange fur she is white btw

You reply not a minute later before locking your phone.

good night miso

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your best friend’s best friend other than you.

You’re not one to gatekeep. In fact, you’re the number one hater for every creator who washes up in your feed and suggests for you to go manually type up and search a link or press another button to know the follow-up to the already lengthy, chatty video you already watched.

You know you’re not privy to most things; you’re not even privy to anything at all.

It’s not a conundrum with a tight space for it to be debated upon; it’s just the truth. 

The very idea of everyone in the world being connected to each other within six degrees of separation was shaky in itself. If you were asked to, you can’t exactly place the most far-fetched celebrity in the media and trace back the six or less people that would serve as the bridge for you to be acquainted to them. 

You believe, both in a pipe dream and the innate hope you harbor, that you can be connected to said celebrity or anyone just as significant (maybe even notorious), yet it’s the semantics of trying to pinpoint your exact link that you can’t be bothered to do so in your free time. You’re in no rush to discern how many degrees separated you are from the mayor of the city, and you’re not jumping at the opportunity to know how many handshakes away you are from the executive producer of your favorite show.

You believe in fortuity. You believe in the hope that contingency promises and how ridiculous your current chances could be. You believe in select customs when they serve you and you put your hands together to ward off what don’t. You take what resonates with you, even if your belief in tomorrow comes from a long line of whatever came before you that you don’t fully believe in or if it spawns from the clench of your chest that you get when you see something scribbled in a brick wall and you decide that it’ll forever echo in your mind.

You’re not privy to the general admiration you have for Yoongi, nor are you privy to all the connections you have with him.

You believe in fortuity and you believe in Yoongi, but the two aren’t always synonymous.

"Yoongi?" you ask, the slip of his name from your mouth appearing out of habit rather than actual disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

He looks like he belongs here. He belongs here as much as you do and as much as you’ve never questioned the specifics, he looks you up and down with a discreetness that doesn’t belong in a party as big as this.

Yoongi makes Jimin’s party feel small to you. He zeroes in on you with a gaze that you can’t begin to dissect because a grunt slips past his lips before you could even explain what you were doing in the same space as him, again.

"What are you doing here?" he purses his lips, exhaling sharply. "Y/N, it's great to see a familiar face and all, but please don't stand so close to me," Yoongi grunts through his teeth as if your proximity to him physically pierces through his clothes and sears his skin. "I'm seeing this new girl and she gets a little bit-..."

"Hey."

Before you could even try to recover from the recoil of stepping away from Yoongi immediately so he could entertain her, before you could even try to nurse the harshness of his words and his gaze that penetrated your belief in him — Yoongi gives you a further light nudge in panic before backtracking, his arm now across your shoulders.

"She's my cousin, baby," Yoongi breathlessly greets, the belated addition of your name never falling to your ears because you choose not to know her; because you’re rendered frozen anyway when you realize that Yoongi introduces you as someone far more personal to him, yet someone even more distant to anyone who could see you. “Say hi, Y/N."

You can’t even be introduced as his friend.

At the back of your mind, you doubt if being introduced as one would even make a difference because the woman before you doesn’t seem the least bit interested nor intimidated at however Yoongi introduces you as.

You weren’t competition to her, nor did it feel like you were viable opposition to practically anyone in Yoongi’s life.

"Hi," you nod curtly, the clench of your jaw doing little to ease the migraine that blooms from the back of your head.

"Pleasure to meet a family member of my boyfriend, finally. He won't take me home for some reason," she jokes, her outstretched hand being taken by yours that’s gone cold, making her raise a brow, yet she takes it in stride anyway.

Anything for Yoongi’s supposed family, it seems.

"What was Yoongi like growing up?"

"Oh. Yeah, we didn't see each other that much growing up," you swallow, the shallowness of your tone making Yoongi’s casual arm around your shoulders falter, the slyness of his gaze on you curving into something unidentifiable. “Every time I see him, I still... learn something new."

Your voice tapers off, and both Yoongi and his girlfriend let you be. She only pushes for a little right after, when Yoongi’s hand is back snug to her waist and her head is pressed to his chest, yet you can’t bring yourself to add to the conversation she so badly wants.

She should know that she has no reason to impress you. She should know that she doesn’t have any reason to be afraid of letting you down, because neither does Yoongi.

Jimin, yours and Yoongi’s best friend, claps. 

“I’m back! Got in this long-ass line and-..." he trails off, looking between you and Yoongi and his girlfriend. “Oh? You've met each other then. Great!"

Her eyes only narrow in confusion for a split second, but she lets it be.

Yoongi lets it go, right after he sends a few glances your way and realizes that Jimin’s talking to you animatedly.

You only let go of it when you get home from the party far too early than anyone could account you for.

The grasp you have on fortuity is barely firm, just barely getting by, so much so that you don’t even look at your phone when it vibrates on your nightstand.

jimin’s asking where you are

The grasp you have on Yoongi is barely solid, only enough to hold onto thread instead of cloth, that you don’t reply to his text when you see it in the morning, nor bring up the very fact that it was Jimin himself who hailed a ride for you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s a familiar stranger to you. 

He’s basically a crow to you, and to him, you remain to be the pesky, overeager, and insanely optimistic human who wants to domesticate him.

He’s a highly-intelligent, unforgetting, vindictive creature. He knows patterns when he sees them but never flukes, not because he thinks he’s too good for them, but because it felt impossible.

To you, the world had never felt smaller when Yoongi first sat next to you at the dining table.

To Yoongi, the world had never felt bigger since he’s first crossed paths with you. It wasn’t the dining table for him. It wasn’t every other interaction that came after — it was everything before.

As soon as his eyes lay on you from across the floor of the reception hall, the warmth that spreads across your chest is everything but welcome. It stings and it burns and it leaves marks in its wake because it’s Yoongi and it’s you and there’s no other explanation.

There’s no other plausible, full-bodied explanation for the way Yoongi hates familiarity, other than the fact that it’s from you.

There’s no salve for his lack of need for you either.

“Are you a fucking stalker?” 

“W-what? No!” you stammer, eyebrows drawn together as you try to level with him. “This is pure coincidence. I wasn’t even trying to— all the times before either, I swear! I never intended to bump into you.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, the scoff that leaves his lips only adding to the uncomfortable warmth that burns your fingertips.

“Say that you’re right. That every interaction, every meeting, every discreet instance of you shooting your shot at me, which by the way is not discreet at all, is just pure coincidence— do you think I’m happy about it?”

You want to correct him.

You want to point out every thread between you that’s there yet you never pulled on. You want to write his name on a piece of blank paper and map out with yarn all the degrees you’re separated from him, and yet you don’t. You can’t focus on anything with regards to proving yourself right and him wrong when all you can zero in on is the little amount of self-preservation you have left.

“But you don’t hate me, Yoongi,” you murmur, shaking your head earnestly. “You said it yourself. Y-you said it’s nice to see me and-…”

“I said that in the past but I don’t mean it now! Yes, you’re familiar, and that benefits me when I get put into situations and all I happen to know is you,” he snaps, throwing his head back. “I don’t mean it now. It’s not very nice to see you when everyone, including the girl I actually like, just assumes that we’re together because you kept looking at me!”

“B-but I don’t-…. I-I don’t do so well in new-…” the words die in your throat, the gentle yet firm tug he has on your wrist making you freeze in its inescapable warmth. It should be familiar. Yoongi should be familiar, but he feels everything besides that. “But you’re the only one I know.”

“Here. I’ll introduce you to someone and then you can hang onto him.”

Yoongi wordlessly takes you across the hall, delivering you like you’re some misplaced package that ended up on his porch. He doesn’t even look back at you despite his hand being wrapped around your wrist, whereas all you can do is burn holes at the back of his head with your gaze, ignoring the curious onlooking to your predicament as you swallow the lump in your throat.

“Hey, Jungkook,” Yoongi makes his presence known as soon as he sees the familiar mop of hair within his eyeline, his holler effectively taking said guy’s attention.

“Oh, hey-…”

Yoongi, without sparing a second glance to you, nudges you gently to him.

“This is Y/N. Someone I know. Can you watch over her for a second?”

Jungkook, the guy you’ve known for a total of two seconds, hesitantly receives you with a pat to your arm, letting his hand linger there as the both of you look at the back of Yoongi’s retreating figure.

“…okay?”

Just two seconds ago, Jungkook was in a heated one-on-one with his friend Hoseok if it was ethical for one to let their hypothetical girlfriend’s hypothetical close friend sit in the front seat, if said hypothetical girlfriend was drunk and wanted to lay in the backseat (Jungkook’s on team not let close friend sit shotgun) — now, he’s in a silent one-on-one with you.

It’s silent, of course, until you sniffle.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Jungkook panickedly asks, fishing out a handkerchief from his pocket. “Do the tears have to do something with how weird Yoongi was two seconds ago?”

“Yeah.”

“I figured,” Jungkook, someone you’ve known for less than five minutes, rubs comforting circles on your back.

You don’t mind.

“I’m sorry. I drank from this awhile ago but I swear I didn’t spit on it or anything,” he frowns, his hand outstretched invitingly enough for you to interpret it as friendly, but distant enough for you to have the chance to be wary. “Or do you hate drinking from a stranger’s water bottle that’s already open?”

“It hasn’t happened before, but I don’t think I’ll hate-hate it,” you mumble through broken sniffles, turning your head briefly, partly to wipe away your tears, but mostly to not look like a complete idiot. “Also, you’re not a stranger.”

“Right! I’m Jungkook again, by the way. I don’t think Yoongi even said my name properly because of how fast he was dying to get out of here,” Jungkook laughs, the sincerity flowing out of him being easy. Uncomplicated.

You drift to your default silence, nursing your cries to yourself while trying not to make a sound, but it’s proven difficult when you see two large hands underneath your downturned head: one holding the water bottle, and the other cupped underneath it.

Jungkook thinks your questioning gaze is directed to the way his hands are positioned instead of his default kindness for you, and just maybe everyone else he’s ever encountered.

“Because your hands are shaking.”

He lifts the bottle to your lips, being extra careful in tilting it and having his hand tuck right under your chin to ensure that not a single speck of water would drop to the elegant dress you’re wearing (that you’ve only borrowed, unlike his assumption that you just have the number lying around).

Jungkook sheepishly excuses himself right after you tap him on the forearm to let you know you’ve had your fill, the snort that leaves his lips almost disturbing his methodical pouring of the remaining water to the bottle cap.

“Sorry. I’m a little bit thirsty myself.”

“You could just drink from your own bottle,” you find yourself genuinely laughing the first time into the night, shrugging playfully. “Just a thought.”

“But I don’t want you to think I’m a weirdo for drinking from my bottle deliberately after you drank from it,” Jungkook frowns.

“Of course,” you nod eagerly, gesturing to the live image of a man as structured as him taking tiny little sips from an even tinier bottle cap. “This isn’t any weirder at all.”

“Thank you, pretty girl,” Jungkook bows in the most regal way he could, the grin that graces his face easing the weight that Yoongi had left on your chest. “Not bad for a first impression, hm?”

.

.

.

Yoongi has a habit of mumbling.

Jimin has a habit of eavesdropping, especially when it’s Yoongi mumbling angrily to himself.

“Well that’s fucking weird.”

“What?” Jimin clarifies, furrowing his brows at the annoyance that’s plastered clearly on his friend’s face.

Yoongi doesn’t explain. He just barks at him, arms crossed on his chest as he exhales slowly.

“Go bring Y/N a bottle of water. Don’t tell her it’s from me.”

“A please would be nice,” Jimin mutters. “And no? Give it to her yourself.”

“She’s your best friend.”

“She’s your friend too.”

“She’s not,” Yoongi corrects him, the adjustment falling short because Jimin doesn’t even flinch at the attempt.

It’s pure, utter bullshit. It’s a propaganda that he won’t fall for and it’s a movement that even Yoongi himself isn’t truly invested in.

“She’s not?” Jimin echoes. “The girl who hates driving in the dark and in the rain, who drove you to the airport in spite of all that because my car was in the shop last week, is not your friend?”

Yoongi’s breath hitches at the reminder. 

His heart buckles at the way he didn’t even know you were scared until now, because you only talked to him that day like normal. Like nothing bothered you.

Like warm, as always.

Like you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s not intentionally seeking punishment.

Frankly speaking, he doesn’t even know exactly what’s he’s asking from you. He doesn’t know if there’s a word for the hollow, all-consuming guilt that’s planted in his chest and grows roots in the pit of his stomach and blooms in the back of his skull.

If Yoongi were to hear his own words repeated back to him, with even just a fraction of the amount of vitriol and misplaced frustration, he would’ve called it then and there. He would’ve hurt himself and ran for the hills right after to recuperate because there’s no amount of distance that would ever stop the echoes of his own tirade.

You weren’t Yoongi, however, and he’s never hated that fact more.

It’s beyond good, maybe even immaculate that you weren’t him, because you were far too better. Far too warm and too good, because even though Yoongi doesn’t seek punishment from his own hands, you wouldn’t deal him the same deck of cards if he were to explicitly ask you.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. You didn’t— fuck — you didn’t deserve that at all and I’ve never been more stupid,” he apologized through the bedroom door of your childhood home. It was his parents’ monthly catch-up with your own and although the invite wasn’t really open for everyone (not one child from either families came with whenever it was this time of the month), Yoongi jumped at the opportunity to come over. You were still warm, although not for him, but not one second passed wherein you took out your anger for him to his parents who didn’t know any better.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I-I was angry, and I was frustrated, and I didn’t know how to juggle everything — but I’m not making excuses! I’m being honest, and the truth was that I was an asshole and I took it out on you,” Yoongi had apologized to you in his dorm when it was time for your session with Jin. You didn’t work your way around him to change your routines; you stayed rooted and despite being overwhelmed with guilt and the need to make himself better, it’s Yoongi who bended backwards by not fleeing at all. You didn’t take it out on Jin, and you didn’t even take it out on the apparently lucky succulent that Yoongi had slipped to your hands during one of your sessions.

“You can push me away. Please. Y-you can cuss me out and everything, and I know I’m asking for forgiveness and you can keep saying no, but I-I’m not doing this to absolve myself, y’know? I just don’t want you to have my… my own words linger in your mind,” Yoongi pleaded to you during your little brother’s return appointment at the dentist. It wasn’t even summer. He’s not even working for his godmother anymore, and yet Yoongi still came into the date he booked your sibling for. You didn’t give him attitude; you didn’t take it out on him in public.

What Yoongi seeks from you is indiscernable. It’s neither penance or punishment. It’s not forgiveness or absolution.

The only absolute thing that Yoongi knows he wants from you, even if it’s within his lowly means and that equates to being beneath you, is something akin to familiarity.

It hurts to see you there but not for him. It aches to see you everywhere and digest that the only times your gaze would land on him is when he makes himself painfully known for your anger and frustration to snag on, anything, really, just to be reminded that you know him enough— even if it’s just barely to get by — to be annoyed over.

You’re everywhere and Yoongi doesn’t complain, even if every single bone in his body is just yearning for the warmth that he took for granted when your shoulders would touch and your knees would brush and your eyes would meet. 

Yoongi’s being burnt alive from your frigid avoidance towards him, even if you’re practically everywhere he goes, but he doesn’t flee.

He’s not avoiding you. He’s taking the hurt and he keeps taking it, because although it’s not punishment enough, it’s close enough to warmth.

It’s close enough to familiarity, even as he pulls desperately at all the threads that bind the two of you close but never together — because it had only been him who had delayed the latter from happening.

“I’m not making excuses. I-I’m being honest and it’s ugly in hindsight, but it’s the truth,” Yoongi whispers, gnawing on his bottom lip as he stands outside of your dorm with no buffer this time; no other connection, no other degree of separation. “I-I wanted to be connected to you in every single way without— w-without anyone else bridging the way for me.”

“That’s stupid,” you mutter.

“I.. know. God, Y/N. You don’t know how much I think of you and all these stupid, fucking ways I want to be your guy for everything,” Yoongi throws his head back, running a hand through his face as he tries to regain his footing. “I-I want to be the guy who fills up your wiper fluid and double checks if you’re being ripped off at the shop because you’re too pretty. It’s stupid, and I know that, but I thought you’d have the tendency to be like your mom a-and be infatuated with wallpapers one day, and I want to be the guy who talks you down from sticking them to the granite your apartment came with-…”

“You sound like an idiot, Yoongi.”

“It’s idiotic. It’s so, so stupid. I want to be your bootleg designer sunglasses guy. I-I want to know how to cut your cuticles and touch up your layers. God, I even have handwritten notes on how I could be the most annoying, present being in your life and-…”

You slap Yoongi very, very lightly.

It’s practically just a tap on his cheek that wouldn’t even be enough to spook a bug off your arm, but it’s you. It’s you and your touch and your warmth and Yoongi literally jolts with electricity, the words stopping right at the tip of his tongue as you stare him down.

“That’s stupid, Yoongi.”

“I know. It’s so stupid,” he shakily affirms, cheeks impossibly warm at your touch. At your proximity, even if your chest is far from touching his own and even if your hand that was on his cheek is now back on your side. “It’s stupid that I kept pulling down the collar of my shirt when I first sent you that picture of Miso, a-and how I’m a grown man but hid behind my literal cat every time I felt that it was getting too real and I-I couldn’t keep up.” 

Yoongi didn’t always believe in connections, and you have no doubt about it.

You have no doubt about Yoongi’s stupidly honest and sincere outpouring either.

“Stupidest thing I know,” you affirm with a whisper, nodding your head tightly.

Yoongi didn’t always believe in fortuity. 

He didn’t believe in yearning and contingency until it dawned into his thick, stubborn skull that what— who — he wanted most is you.

“I want you in all the ways I already know you,” Yoongi relents, not out of surrender, but out of admission. Out of sincere, full-bodied truth. “I don’t want to stop, sweetheart. I don’t wanna stop thinking and being all the ways I could ever be connected to you.”

[iogutwsm]

[iogutwsm]

U N20: spring wedding

U N7 masterlist

word count: 1439

warnings: yoongi is a marvel villain; it’s so sappy! 🤢 i am only good at writing angst

you pull Yuri to yourself and lick your thumb.

"ew, stop", she says in your native tongue you both practice from time to time, not to lose it completely.

the day has been symbolic: you keep fixing everybody around yourself. first, Taehyung nearly got smothered with the lace flowers on his collar. then Namjoon spilled juice on himself even before you made it to the restaurant. now, Yuri has smeared the mascara on her bare shoulder. she is pregnant again. there's something insidious in their ability to pop out children one after another. they all stare at you expectantly, like they are blaming you for making Yuri bear again, like it was supposed to be your turn.

you don't mind, really. you never brought it up so far. you decided to act normal for once. and it landed you here, today. rubbing the blue mascara off your best friend's shoulder, as she sobs, because her hormones act out this time around. she said when she was pregnant with Taeyang, she felt awesome and looked awesome. the sweet boy barely provoked any morning sickness. she didn't suffer and worry like Yuna who went through hell in the first three months.

you stop in your tracks, trying to count how many Bangtan children there are now, exactly. you've drank a glass of champagne already, to soothe your shaking hands. all of a sudden, you have tremor. you get nervous. once you see the reflection of yourself in the mirror, you freeze like you don't recognize the girl. why now? after all that's happened, your throat gets dry like you're about to meet him for the first time. you exhaust me, y/n, you think, with adoration. restless forever.

Jungkook enters the designated dressing room looking like he's about to kidnap Yuri, jump with her from the roof and then french-kiss someone. he is leading Taeyang by the hand and keeps the door open, looking at his little fingers on the doorframe.

it feels like it's been a long time, a lifetime. but the little Tae always shakes you back to reality. he is just about to turn three.

Yoongi is efficient.

"you are unholy for skipping the church", Jungkook pounds busily, pursing his lips. you look at him handling his family; he bends his knees to bow to his son and push him gently towards the mother because Taeyang stops her from crying this quick; he puts his arm around her at the same time. Jin, Yoongi and Namjoon should be so proud of the boy they have raised. who knew Jungkook would turn out to be so homely? the boy who...

his eyes dart to you and he smiles.

"wow, you look really cool".

"Koo, this is not what you're supposed to say", Yuri helps, her voice still feeble with tears, but she is forgetting her sadness already.

"mmm, you look great".

you shake your head slowly, urging him to do better.

"you look almost as beautiful as Yuri", he finally guesses. you chuckle and give him a thumbs up. Yuri sniffles suddenly, loudly,

"uh-huh, stop lying. i look puffy today..."

Yuna shoves herself through the door exactly when Tae and Jungkook snuggle closer to her to console her. if she cries a lot, her foundation will get smeared, and nobody's going to have a good time.

Yuna handles it. she takes away the two who have snot coming out of their noses, and you are left with Jungkook alone.

he rubs his hands, exhaling shortly. it's a small break for him. there's pressure on his lower lip.

"so, how is it?"

you spread the shimmer better on your forearm. this is one thing you don't fail to take with you to weddings, and it doesn't matter who's getting married.

it's quiet, the door is so thick like it's a tavern. all noise of the celebration that's about to start is shut out. you know in concept Yoongi is somewhere out there. but you have no idea what he looks like today.

you put out your palm to demonstrate the tremor to him. Jungkook slides his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and takes out a flask.

"no, i already drank some".

he shrugs. then walks over to the beauty table and presses his hip against it.

"you know what", he says suddenly, "we never spoke about Prague".

your nostrils flare as you quickly look at him.

"what about Prague?"

he frowns.

"Prague, we met there, remember?"

you roll your eyes.

"of course i remember, Jungkook. what about it?"

he rubs his neck, pondering.

"i just need to tell you this. it's just, it- feels like i have to tell you this".

"god dammit, Jungkook, don't even think about it-"

"i kinda liked you for some time after".

you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

"what's the point?" you nearly yell at him. your hands fall back onto the chair and you grab the edge of it hard.

"what's the point of saying it now?"

his boba eyes look so innocent like he's about to gaslight you.

"well, you knew it, didn't you?"

"i've been told about it", you respond after measuring your breath.

"it was over quickly", he says, "but it's better that you know".

"why?" you whine. seeing his face that's laughing at you, you almost get a fainting episode. the heart rattles in your chest. like it's a nightmare.

"because you always thought you weren't good enough", he replies, calmly. the direction in which it takes you, sobers you up. oh. oh. he isn't trying to stir shit up. he is being... an adult. Jungkook saying wise stuff is so rare that it hasn't crossed your mind.

"and literally half of us were head over heels for you. you had to choose Yoongi huyng, of course..."

the chuckle knocks the air out of you. your fingers relax.

"and you look fantastic", he says, pleased. the ease in his voice is from the lack of infatuation with you. it's just, love.

you hold him in your arms, relieved, shaking. Jungkook makes you gulp from his flask anyway.

"why are you so nervous?" he whispers, as he opens the door for you.

"i am marrying my bias", you mutter, and he chokes with laughter. he's probably forgotten all about it.

Yoongi looks like the dream you've had all your life. like the gentle waves brushing over sharp grey rocks, and like Seoul trees in bloom, like redemption, like peace. you know he might never understand how you see him, and that's okay.

you watch his plump mouth open slightly as he looks above and hums,

"these yellow flowers, they..."

"they were at Yuri's wedding, yes", you nod. you asked for them for this very reason. "Jungkook informed me about it".

it felt like the right thing to do.

there's a strand of hair on the side of his face, and you laugh internally at the dead loser girl who once dreamed to be able to hold his hand every day. Yoongi throws a look at you and then away, pursed smile on his lips. small dimples on his cheeks.

"what?"

"you're too pretty".

"let's not be funny now".

he cranes his neck and makes it exactly to the spot on your neck under your ear. his lips place a kiss there, where people will never find it again. you close your eyes for a second, trying to memorize. he smells like cedar and citrus, and your shimmer: it has subtle tuberose undertone. you look into his face and he looks back, the same way Namjoon looks at Yuna. quiet, ready to listen, eyes softly fixated on your features. like he is memorizing, too.

"tell me something", you ask. he nods backwards: lifts his chin slightly, asking, what?

"did you really not know what a carrier oil is?"

that makes him chuckle. his mouth slowly lopsides in a smirk, then it transforms into a real smile.

"i am not that stupid, y/n. i've been doing hair treatments since i was twenty. of course i know what a carrier oil is".

he chuckles again, putting his arm around your shoulder. the room is blurry. you only see the full plate in front of you, only feel the pull of him, how he lures you,

no matter how many traps you'd set for him, he never seemed to fall into one, huh? instead trapping you, again and again.

someone comes up and snaps a picture of you, and it reminds him.

"oh. i printed it out", he winces, lifting his butt, and takes out something from his pants pocket. you look. it's the shot of Yuri and Jungkook, dashing, with red noses, at the doors of Seoul church on the day of Jimin and Nari's wedding.

"do you want to give it to them?"

he leans in when you try to place a kiss on his cheek.

"no", you say, "this one's for me".

he sighs warmly, content, he can’t eat anymore, not after the cake. Yoongi is full, unapologetically happy, and the cat-like corners of his mouth make you think for a second this is all just a dream. but then his finger tickles your shoulder. and the muscles in your stomach contract.

taglist: @ktownshizzle , @benyhime , @ryryvna , @amarawayne , @mar-lo-pap , @kiki-zb , @hanaohreally

[iogutwsm]

[D-Day] Yoongi is back! (cr. namuspromised)

[iogutwsm]

he so cute | jhs

Idol life is infinitely more fun when you get to take your pick of all the hot, eligible men in the industry. Too bad your manager doesn’t like when you can’t keep it in your pants.

Pairing: Manager Hoseok x Idol Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Idolverse, canon divergent, pwp, smut

Word Count: 4,088

Content Warning: D/s elements, dom Hobi, blowjob, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, overstimulation, slut shaming, ambiguous/open ending

A/N: Another repost in honor of Jay-Slut.

Soundtrack: Princess Nokia - I Like Him

“Every day you make my life more difficult.”

Hoseok sat with one leg on the edge of his desk and his arms crossed against his chest. You thought he was going to say more, but he merely stared at you, his eyes dark and laced with disappointment. This was the third time in two weeks that you’d been called into his office - a record high, if you remembered correctly. 

You were in the final stages of preparing your upcoming album. That meant a lot of time spent in your studio which so happened to be down the hall from your manager’s office. How convenient it was for him to stroll down the hallway, Versace loafers clicking against the tile. It was a shame the soundproof room never alerted you to when he was coming until he was already banging on your door. 

“Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to have Choi PD barge into my office to question if our marketing team asked you to fuck the entire Bangtan Sonyeondan vocal line as part of your comeback or if I truly have no control over my whore of an idol?” 

The only thing sharper than Hoseok’s words was the slap his hand made when he slammed a pile of tabloids onto the desk in front of you. You sat with your back straight in the chair, eyes cast downward. 

There was your name, plastered all over those trashy celebrity magazines, accompanied by various paparazzi and sasaeng photos of you and other idols. The most recent tabloid was distributing photos of you and Kim Seokjin getting a bit too cozy at a nightclub. The angle the photos were taken at certainly gave the appearance that the two of you were making out, but who really knew? 

“I told Jin that blowing a kiss at the camera was a bad idea, but do you think Mr. Worldwide Handsome was going to listen to me?” You narrowed your eyes at your manager.

Everyone knew Kim Seokjin was likely the only idol who could get away with whatever he wanted. You, unfortunately, did not have that privilege, as Hoseok loved to remind you. 

“Oh yes, because that’s the issue here. Kim Seokjin blowing a kiss like the arrogant asshole he is. I wonder if his manager gets his ass handed to him by Bang PD every time he sticks his dick somewhere it shouldn’t be.” 

Hoseok was more pissed than you’d ever seen him, and the two of you have worked together since you were a trainee. 

“Exactly! How is it fair that I’m the one who gets in trouble? How is it fair that I’m the one the tabloids paint as a whore when everyone knows Jin can’t keep his dick in his pants?” You threw up your hands in frustration, not even bothering to flip through the magazines. You already knew what they’d say. 

Perhaps your questions were the confession that something had happened between the two of you, but you were more worried about getting out of whatever punishment Hoseok was about to bestow upon you. 

He pressed his hands together and brought them to his mouth as if he were praying that God would just strike you down right now so he wouldn’t have to deal with you any longer. 

“Y/N, I’m not trying to argue with you over sexist tabloid practices,” Hoseok spoke slowly, his eyes fluttering closed as he took a deep breath to even out his tone. “I’m telling you that Choi PD has forbidden you from going anywhere aside from the dorms or the studio-” 

He held up his finger at you when you made a sound of protest, his eyes still closed. 

“Unless you are chaperoned… by me…” He opened his eyes and his pink lips disappeared into a tight grimace. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your words were extremely inappropriate to use towards your elder, but you didn’t give a shit right now. 

“Watch your language,” Hoseok snapped. “It’s not like I’m particularly thrilled to be the one cockblocking you every day.” 

Vulgarness was shocking coming from your manager’s mouth. Something about watching his lips form the word made your skin tingle.

“Oh, do you wish you were on the receiving end of my salacious behavior, oppa?” you asked with a smirk. You licked your lips and leaned back in your seat, crossing your legs over each other, waiting for him to squirm underneath your inappropriate behavior. 

Your smirk fell when Hoseok took hold of the arms of your chair and leaned into you so closely that your faces nearly touched. His eyes roamed your body, pausing at your lips, before returning to stare into your eyes. It was clear that he was still pissed, but there was something else burning in his gaze.

“Don’t test me, Y/N.” 

“You know telling me not to do something makes me want to do it even more,” you said with a recovered smirk. As if to challenge him, you leaned forward to make the space between you even smaller, like a spiteful game of chicken. 

Whatever power trip your manager was trying to get out of this situation wasn’t going to fly with you. Sure, Hoseok was a bit of a control freak, but this challenging behavior was shocking. You would be thrilled to knock him off his high horse. 

However, your cocky attitude was once again short-lived. Rather than back down like you’d expected, your goody-two-shoes of a manager wrapped his hand around your neck and pushed you backwards into your chair. You tried to swallow, but the movement only made him tighten his grip on you. 

Despite the uncharacteristic behavior, you weren’t scared of him. Hoseok would never do anything to hurt you, no matter how frustrated he got with you. You were his greatest star. 

No, instead of fear, you felt heat flow through your body like lava, and your heart skipped a beat when you felt Hoseok’s lips brush against your ear. 

“Are you that desperate for dick that you resort to taunting your own manager?”

“Are you that curious that you’d give in?” Your voice came out thick from the pressure Hoseok was applying to your vocal cords, but your snarky attitude shone bright through your hoarseness. 

“This isn’t curiosity. I already know you’re a whore. Look at you.” 

You could see the fire in Hoseok’s eyes crack his usually cool composure. His attention turned towards your parted lips, taking in the way you were heavily breathing, before flicking down to stare at your crossed legs. Thighs squeezed together. 

“How about this, kitten. You show me just how obedient you can be for me, and I’ll toss in a few hours of unsupervised fun for you and whichever arrogant prick you’re fucking now?” 

“A few hours?” you snickered, a scoff getting stuck in your throat when Hoseok squeezes just a bit more. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, sweet.” 

By this point you were starting to feel lightheaded and the pressure of Hoseok’s long fingers tightening around your throat began to hurt. You blinked slowly, tongue lolling out to roll over your dry lips. Obedience. That was all this entertainment company wanted. What the industry expected. But there was no denying Hoseok had been good to you compared to other managers. 

You nodded and Hoseok immediately released you. Relief flooded your brain as your lungs gasped for air. 

“Good.” Hoseok took a step back to lean against the front of his desk with his arms crossed against his chest. “Now get on your knees like the sweet little whore that you are.” 

His face was almost unreadable aside from the sharpness of his gaze as he watched you sink to your knees. The black marble chilled your skin and pressed uncomfortably into your kneecaps, but you had more important things to worry about than sore knees. 

It was funny how people joked about idols sucking dick to climb higher in the industry. And here you were, about to suck dick just to be able to go to a nightclub with your friends. Ridiculous. 

Hopefully Hoseok’s dick was as pretty as he was. You’d be a liar if you said you hadn’t thought your manager was attractive. The very first time you met him, your immediate thought was just how pretty he was. His long face and angular jaw created chiseled features that made an otherwise boyish face look intimidatingly serious. You saw his jaw set and molars clenched when he critiqued your choreography or listened to a final draft of your songs. Something in you yearned to gain his approval, lighting up every time that seriousness dissipated. The first time you saw his facade crack, you’d been mesmerized by such a bright smile, large, perfectly-aligned teeth and eyes softer than any you’d seen before. 

The duality of man, you thought with a mental snort as you inched closer to Hoseok. Quick fingers undid his black slacks, tugging them down along with his briefs (Versace, no surprise there). 

“You better keep this to yourself,” you muttered, but your threat was weakened by your obvious gawking at the leaking cock that stood erect before you. Hoseok’s body was lithe but strong, a reminder of his days as an idol himself. More than once you’d nearly gotten caught admiring his physique at the gym, but you’d never imagined his cock could be just as beautiful as the rest of him. You almost wanted to gag already, just out of how poetic it all was. 

Should you give him a good time, though? Did he really deserve it? Your eyes flitted up to see Hoseok gazing down at you. The tip of his tongue peeked out to swipe across his lips and when his eyes met yours you felt his cock twitch in your hand. 

“It’s a pity you’re so used to your sexual exploits getting leaked,” Hoseok said with a smirk. 

Maybe he didn’t deserve a good time. 

Grabbing the base, you leaned forward to spit on his cock, using your spit and the little beads of precum leaking from his tip to lubricate your hand as you pumped him. This would be easy; your mouth was already watering. 

Hoseok somehow managed to maintain a calm tone while you let a stream of spit drip onto the head of his cock. “Ever heard of an NDA, kitten?” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Hoseok let out a laugh that only edged on shaky as you ran your tongue up the underside of his cock. When your tongue hit the ridge of his head, you felt him shudder. You flicked the tip of your tongue at the same spot once again and coaxed a low moan out of Hoseok that practically had you gushing. 

You closed your eyes and focused on breathing out of your nose as you inched your mouth down Hoseok’s cock. His head was heavy as it laid on your outstretched tongue, the ridge gliding against your lips as you sucked the tip for a moment before sliding further. One hand secured the base while the other squeezed his thigh. Your blood red acrylics dug crescent moons into his skin; his muscles twitched beneath the pressure. 

“Is kitty better?” Hoseok waited until you had his cock in your mouth to respond, of course not giving you any time to come up with a quip of your own. 

The effort was more considerable than you’d anticipated, not that you’d assumed your manager had a little dick. With the commanding presence he had, he screamed nothing but massive cock. Still, you were somewhat surprised by your struggle to swallow him whole. 

“Fuck…” Hoseok moaned, uncrossing his arms. He leaned forward to grab your wrist, stopping your hand from pumping the part of him you couldn’t yet reach. Confusion mottled your eyebrows together and you pulled back until only his tip was sucked between your lips. 

He twisted the sleeve of your shirt. “Get rid of this.” 

The garment tied together in the front, an intricate pattern of string laced up your cleavage. Continuing to bob up and down his cock, you hurried to untie the bow at your collarbones, slowly undoing the strings until you could slide the blouse off of your arms. 

Once you were topless with only your lace bralette covering your tits, Hoseok leaned back again. He reached behind himself to hold onto the edge of his desk and the movement jostled you a bit. His cock slammed into your throat a bit too quickly, making you gag around him. Moaning at the sensation of your throat closing around him, Hoseok bucked into you again, hitting the back of your throat with more force than before. 

Tears burned the corners of your eyes, but you did your best to keep them at bay. You dug your nails into his thighs even deeper to ground yourself as your lungs frantically remembered how to breathe through your obstructed airway. 

Perhaps Hoseok pitied you, or maybe he was about to cum, but soon he yanked a handful of your hair to pull you off of his cock. You sputtered and bristled at the realization that you were… embarrassed by your inability to finish what you’d started. But what did your sexual prowess matter in this situation? Hoseok was trying to get his dick wet and you were trying to lessen your punishment. Who cared what your manager thought. 

But when you peered up at him, his pupils blown up and high cheeks flushed pink, your stomach fluttered. 

“Don’t fall in love too quickly,” Hoseok snickered. He beckoned for you to stand up, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your skirt and pulling you forward. Blood rushed to your face at his comment, but you snapped a response as though you were engaging in nothing but your typical workplace banter. 

“Wasn’t planning on it, oppa.” 

“Take your skirt off so I can fuck you properly.” 

You watched his chest rise and fall beneath his tight white button-up shirt, the top button popped open to expose more of his neck, a bit of collarbone, a sliver of chest. his hair was slightly issued as though he’s run his hands through it while you were sucking him off. He looked so raw compared to the sterile way he normally carried himself, and you’d barely done anything. 

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” 

“Obedience was part of the deal.” 

You pursed your lips, wondering how much hell he was going to give you later if you obliged. Did you want to fuck him? Your thong was sticking to your pussy, if that was enough of an indication. 

Slowly, you shimmied your skirt down your legs, kicking it away. Hoseok winced as he saw the clothing item skid across the floor. 

“That is Gucci, Y/N,” he sighed. 

“Are you serious right now?” 

“Yes, do you know how much that costs? I don’t just put you into clothes for free.” He had the nerve to press his fingers to his temples as if his dick wasn’t out in the open, hard as a fucking rock, and you weren’t standing in front of him in $2,000 worth of Dolce and Gabbana lingerie. 

Glowering, you retrieved the skirt and brushed it off before gently placing it on top of Hoseok’s desk. 

“Better?” you huffed. “You really know how to kill the fucking mood, Jung Hos-”

Taking a hold of your arm, Hoseok flipped you around and pushed you forward so you kneeled with your knees on the seat of your chair, facing the opposite direction. Placing a firm hand on your waist, he forced you to arch your back, your ass sticking up for him and your face and chest pressed against the back of the chair. 

“Oh my god, you could have warned me.” You tilted your head to the side to speak, catching a glimpse of Hoseok when you craned your neck around. 

“Look at you leaking all over yourself. Such a needy little whore just like everyone says.” 

Pulling your thong to the side, Hoseok swiped the head of his cock through your dripping folds, smearing your arousal all over your lips and the inside of your thighs. You let out a gasp and raised your hips to rub against his cock, but he gave you a hard slap on the ass to stop you. The force sent you forward and you had to grip the back of the chair to stay in place. 

“So fucking greedy,” he taunted. Hoseok gave your pussy a few slaps with his dick, pressing hard against your clit to watch your legs shake and your walls clench with anticipation. 

“Hoseok!” you yelped, feeling your legs buckle. He grabbed your hips with both hands and hoisted you back up so you were solidly on your knees once more. 

He leaned forward to growl in your ear and you felt the buttons of his shirt drag against your back. “What did I tell you about your language?” 

His arm wrapped around the front of your waist so he could dip his hand between your legs. Your moans were muffled against the fabric of the chair, lips going dry just to wet them again as you began to drool when Hoseok pinched your clit. 

“Oppa, please.” You breathed out of your mouth, panting and whining so loudly you were sure someone walking outside of Hoseok’s office would be able to hear you. 

With a satisfied hum at your correction, Hoseok spread your lips apart and plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your pussy. You quivered as he pumped into you, twisting his long digits to press hard against your front wall, searching. 

“Tell me, Y/N,” His fingers found the sweet spot inside you and dragged against it hard, nearly coaxing tears from your eyes once again. “Does Seokjin make you shake like this?” 

“No, no,” You squeezed your eyes shut and rocked backwards against his hand. 

Nearly all the air shot out of you once you felt Hoseok’s other hand begin toying with you clit while he continued to fuck you with his fingers. He dragged his nails along the sides of your clit, gathering up your arousal to then swirl it along the top in tight circles. The flick of his movements made you dizzy, and you realized you weren’t breathing. 

“H-Hoseok,” you panted, squeezing the chair as hard as you could. You could feel the wet heat threatening to gush between your thighs, the buildup of pleasure causing you to involuntarily buck your hips. You came before either of you could say anything else. Your body locked up and you moaned into the chair so loudly Hoseok slapped his hand over your mouth. 

“So what is the point of wasting your time and reputation?” You were too dizzy with the realization that your manager had just made you cum to know what to say to his question. When you didn’t answer his question, Hoseok pinched your oversensitive clit. “Nothing in that empty whore brain of yours? I thought I trained you better than this.” 

“Hoseok, please,” you whimpered when he removed his hands from you. His absence felt cold and empty, but you didn’t dare turn around. “I’m tired.” Tired of the hours. Tired of the charades. Tired of the bullshit. 

“And bouncing on every eligible idol’s cock isn’t tiring?” 

It was, but not in the way he probably assumed. 

His hands were soft and warm on your hips as he guided you to grind against his cock, coating himself in your arousal. Finally, he sunk his cock into your swollen pussy. You wiggled slightly to guide him in the correct angle as he sunk deeper into you. The wet slap of his hips fully connecting with your ass echoed through the silent office. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You clung to the back of the chair and covered your mouth to keep yourself from screaming as Hoseok began pounding into you, your body still sensitive and tingling. “It’s, it’s,” you let out a quiet moan when Hoseok adjusted his position, returning his fingers to your clit. “It’s none of your business.” 

“You are my business,” Hoseok grunted, slamming particularly hard into you, sending ripples up your body. The way his comment pulled another moan from your chest was more embarrassing than getting naked in front of him or choking on his cock. 

“So you better get used to it.” 

You felt Hoseok twitch when your walls clenched around him, the clear indication that you were getting close yet again. Brain still dizzy and buzzing. Body still shuddering from the overstimulation as his fingers continued to wreak havoc on your clit. Yet somehow he managed his composure, gruff grunts and quiet curses slipping from his parted lips with self-restraint you could never imagine possessing. How could he keep it up while you were practically writhing beneath him as you came for the second time? He’d broken you down to a whimpering mess. 

“Too much,” you whined, reaching down to clutch Hoseok’s forearm. 

“Suddenly can’t handle it, kitten?” His muscles flexed beneath his skin as his fingers still circled your pulsing clit. He didn’t stop until his composure finally broke, pressing his chest against your back as he found his release inside of you, whispering hushed growls into your ear. 

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, chests heaving against each other until they found a pattern to match one another. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to push away the way Hoseok’s moans played on loop in your head. 

Slowly, he pulled out of you and goosebumps spiked up your arms as his cum trickled down the inside of your thigh. His fingers tickled your skin as he scooped up his cum and pushed it back inside of you, pressing against your g-spot one final time just to make you moan. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, drawing his bottom lip between his perfect teeth. “Keep this up and Choi PD’s berating may be worth it.” 

You felt your face heat up and you quickly adjusted your thong to cover yourself. The cold, stickiness of the material made you shiver. 

“We have a deal,” you said with your chin jutted out, maintaining your dignity and not betray the way watching Hoseok tuck his cock back into his pants made your breath get caught in your throat. If he liked your pussy this much, you were going to get what you wanted out of this.

Hoseok’s dark eyes met yours, jaw set and head slightly tilted back as he studied your face. “I am always a man of my word.”

“Good.” You nodded and reached for your clothes. When you brushed against Hoseok, you felt that tingly spark across your skin. You avoided his gaze as you got dressed and missed the way he pouted when he realized you were going to get cum all over your Gucci skirt. Because that was what mattered in this moment. 

The two of you stood beside each other for a moment, the new silence of the room providing you with nothing to drown out the memory of Hoseok’s sweet sounds in your head. He cleared his throat and you finally turned to stare at the smoldering embers still flickering in his eyes. 

“If you need me, I’ll be in my room,“ you said. As you turned to leave, Hoseok grabbed your wrist to pull you flush against his chest. You let out a small gasp that was quickly silenced when he pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was shockingly gentle, slow, almost thoughtful in comparison to the way he’d just fucked you. Your eyes fluttered close and you held onto the front of his shirt to steady yourself. You fumbled to match his rhythm, eventually giving up to open your mouth as Hoseok licked at you. 

He pulled away out of breath, the two of you finding yourself in the same position once again, chests heaving and both of you attempting to calm yourselves down. 

“Don’t forget about the teaser shoot in the morning, "he said, letting go of your wrist. You nodded and finally crossed the threshold of his office, letting the door softly click behind you.

There was no way for you to know that Hoseok still stood in the same spot, staring at where you’d gone through the door, while you stood just outside of it, thinking of him.

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap @likecrazy22 @iadelicacy

[iogutwsm]

he so cute | jhs

Idol life is infinitely more fun when you get to take your pick of all the hot, eligible men in the industry. Too bad your manager doesn’t like when you can’t keep it in your pants.

Pairing: Manager Hoseok x Idol Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Idolverse, canon divergent, pwp, smut

Word Count: 4,088

Content Warning: D/s elements, dom Hobi, blowjob, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, overstimulation, slut shaming, ambiguous/open ending

A/N: Another repost in honor of Jay-Slut.

Soundtrack: Princess Nokia - I Like Him

“Every day you make my life more difficult.”

Hoseok sat with one leg on the edge of his desk and his arms crossed against his chest. You thought he was going to say more, but he merely stared at you, his eyes dark and laced with disappointment. This was the third time in two weeks that you’d been called into his office - a record high, if you remembered correctly. 

You were in the final stages of preparing your upcoming album. That meant a lot of time spent in your studio which so happened to be down the hall from your manager’s office. How convenient it was for him to stroll down the hallway, Versace loafers clicking against the tile. It was a shame the soundproof room never alerted you to when he was coming until he was already banging on your door. 

“Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to have Choi PD barge into my office to question if our marketing team asked you to fuck the entire Bangtan Sonyeondan vocal line as part of your comeback or if I truly have no control over my whore of an idol?” 

The only thing sharper than Hoseok’s words was the slap his hand made when he slammed a pile of tabloids onto the desk in front of you. You sat with your back straight in the chair, eyes cast downward. 

There was your name, plastered all over those trashy celebrity magazines, accompanied by various paparazzi and sasaeng photos of you and other idols. The most recent tabloid was distributing photos of you and Kim Seokjin getting a bit too cozy at a nightclub. The angle the photos were taken at certainly gave the appearance that the two of you were making out, but who really knew? 

“I told Jin that blowing a kiss at the camera was a bad idea, but do you think Mr. Worldwide Handsome was going to listen to me?” You narrowed your eyes at your manager.

Everyone knew Kim Seokjin was likely the only idol who could get away with whatever he wanted. You, unfortunately, did not have that privilege, as Hoseok loved to remind you. 

“Oh yes, because that’s the issue here. Kim Seokjin blowing a kiss like the arrogant asshole he is. I wonder if his manager gets his ass handed to him by Bang PD every time he sticks his dick somewhere it shouldn’t be.” 

Hoseok was more pissed than you’d ever seen him, and the two of you have worked together since you were a trainee. 

“Exactly! How is it fair that I’m the one who gets in trouble? How is it fair that I’m the one the tabloids paint as a whore when everyone knows Jin can’t keep his dick in his pants?” You threw up your hands in frustration, not even bothering to flip through the magazines. You already knew what they’d say. 

Perhaps your questions were the confession that something had happened between the two of you, but you were more worried about getting out of whatever punishment Hoseok was about to bestow upon you. 

He pressed his hands together and brought them to his mouth as if he were praying that God would just strike you down right now so he wouldn’t have to deal with you any longer. 

“Y/N, I’m not trying to argue with you over sexist tabloid practices,” Hoseok spoke slowly, his eyes fluttering closed as he took a deep breath to even out his tone. “I’m telling you that Choi PD has forbidden you from going anywhere aside from the dorms or the studio-” 

He held up his finger at you when you made a sound of protest, his eyes still closed. 

“Unless you are chaperoned… by me…” He opened his eyes and his pink lips disappeared into a tight grimace. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your words were extremely inappropriate to use towards your elder, but you didn’t give a shit right now. 

“Watch your language,” Hoseok snapped. “It’s not like I’m particularly thrilled to be the one cockblocking you every day.” 

Vulgarness was shocking coming from your manager’s mouth. Something about watching his lips form the word made your skin tingle.

“Oh, do you wish you were on the receiving end of my salacious behavior, oppa?” you asked with a smirk. You licked your lips and leaned back in your seat, crossing your legs over each other, waiting for him to squirm underneath your inappropriate behavior. 

Your smirk fell when Hoseok took hold of the arms of your chair and leaned into you so closely that your faces nearly touched. His eyes roamed your body, pausing at your lips, before returning to stare into your eyes. It was clear that he was still pissed, but there was something else burning in his gaze.

“Don’t test me, Y/N.” 

“You know telling me not to do something makes me want to do it even more,” you said with a recovered smirk. As if to challenge him, you leaned forward to make the space between you even smaller, like a spiteful game of chicken. 

Whatever power trip your manager was trying to get out of this situation wasn’t going to fly with you. Sure, Hoseok was a bit of a control freak, but this challenging behavior was shocking. You would be thrilled to knock him off his high horse. 

However, your cocky attitude was once again short-lived. Rather than back down like you’d expected, your goody-two-shoes of a manager wrapped his hand around your neck and pushed you backwards into your chair. You tried to swallow, but the movement only made him tighten his grip on you. 

Despite the uncharacteristic behavior, you weren’t scared of him. Hoseok would never do anything to hurt you, no matter how frustrated he got with you. You were his greatest star. 

No, instead of fear, you felt heat flow through your body like lava, and your heart skipped a beat when you felt Hoseok’s lips brush against your ear. 

“Are you that desperate for dick that you resort to taunting your own manager?”

“Are you that curious that you’d give in?” Your voice came out thick from the pressure Hoseok was applying to your vocal cords, but your snarky attitude shone bright through your hoarseness. 

“This isn’t curiosity. I already know you’re a whore. Look at you.” 

You could see the fire in Hoseok’s eyes crack his usually cool composure. His attention turned towards your parted lips, taking in the way you were heavily breathing, before flicking down to stare at your crossed legs. Thighs squeezed together. 

“How about this, kitten. You show me just how obedient you can be for me, and I’ll toss in a few hours of unsupervised fun for you and whichever arrogant prick you’re fucking now?” 

“A few hours?” you snickered, a scoff getting stuck in your throat when Hoseok squeezes just a bit more. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, sweet.” 

By this point you were starting to feel lightheaded and the pressure of Hoseok’s long fingers tightening around your throat began to hurt. You blinked slowly, tongue lolling out to roll over your dry lips. Obedience. That was all this entertainment company wanted. What the industry expected. But there was no denying Hoseok had been good to you compared to other managers. 

You nodded and Hoseok immediately released you. Relief flooded your brain as your lungs gasped for air. 

“Good.” Hoseok took a step back to lean against the front of his desk with his arms crossed against his chest. “Now get on your knees like the sweet little whore that you are.” 

His face was almost unreadable aside from the sharpness of his gaze as he watched you sink to your knees. The black marble chilled your skin and pressed uncomfortably into your kneecaps, but you had more important things to worry about than sore knees. 

It was funny how people joked about idols sucking dick to climb higher in the industry. And here you were, about to suck dick just to be able to go to a nightclub with your friends. Ridiculous. 

Hopefully Hoseok’s dick was as pretty as he was. You’d be a liar if you said you hadn’t thought your manager was attractive. The very first time you met him, your immediate thought was just how pretty he was. His long face and angular jaw created chiseled features that made an otherwise boyish face look intimidatingly serious. You saw his jaw set and molars clenched when he critiqued your choreography or listened to a final draft of your songs. Something in you yearned to gain his approval, lighting up every time that seriousness dissipated. The first time you saw his facade crack, you’d been mesmerized by such a bright smile, large, perfectly-aligned teeth and eyes softer than any you’d seen before. 

The duality of man, you thought with a mental snort as you inched closer to Hoseok. Quick fingers undid his black slacks, tugging them down along with his briefs (Versace, no surprise there). 

“You better keep this to yourself,” you muttered, but your threat was weakened by your obvious gawking at the leaking cock that stood erect before you. Hoseok’s body was lithe but strong, a reminder of his days as an idol himself. More than once you’d nearly gotten caught admiring his physique at the gym, but you’d never imagined his cock could be just as beautiful as the rest of him. You almost wanted to gag already, just out of how poetic it all was. 

Should you give him a good time, though? Did he really deserve it? Your eyes flitted up to see Hoseok gazing down at you. The tip of his tongue peeked out to swipe across his lips and when his eyes met yours you felt his cock twitch in your hand. 

“It’s a pity you’re so used to your sexual exploits getting leaked,” Hoseok said with a smirk. 

Maybe he didn’t deserve a good time. 

Grabbing the base, you leaned forward to spit on his cock, using your spit and the little beads of precum leaking from his tip to lubricate your hand as you pumped him. This would be easy; your mouth was already watering. 

Hoseok somehow managed to maintain a calm tone while you let a stream of spit drip onto the head of his cock. “Ever heard of an NDA, kitten?” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Hoseok let out a laugh that only edged on shaky as you ran your tongue up the underside of his cock. When your tongue hit the ridge of his head, you felt him shudder. You flicked the tip of your tongue at the same spot once again and coaxed a low moan out of Hoseok that practically had you gushing. 

You closed your eyes and focused on breathing out of your nose as you inched your mouth down Hoseok’s cock. His head was heavy as it laid on your outstretched tongue, the ridge gliding against your lips as you sucked the tip for a moment before sliding further. One hand secured the base while the other squeezed his thigh. Your blood red acrylics dug crescent moons into his skin; his muscles twitched beneath the pressure. 

“Is kitty better?” Hoseok waited until you had his cock in your mouth to respond, of course not giving you any time to come up with a quip of your own. 

The effort was more considerable than you’d anticipated, not that you’d assumed your manager had a little dick. With the commanding presence he had, he screamed nothing but massive cock. Still, you were somewhat surprised by your struggle to swallow him whole. 

“Fuck…” Hoseok moaned, uncrossing his arms. He leaned forward to grab your wrist, stopping your hand from pumping the part of him you couldn’t yet reach. Confusion mottled your eyebrows together and you pulled back until only his tip was sucked between your lips. 

He twisted the sleeve of your shirt. “Get rid of this.” 

The garment tied together in the front, an intricate pattern of string laced up your cleavage. Continuing to bob up and down his cock, you hurried to untie the bow at your collarbones, slowly undoing the strings until you could slide the blouse off of your arms. 

Once you were topless with only your lace bralette covering your tits, Hoseok leaned back again. He reached behind himself to hold onto the edge of his desk and the movement jostled you a bit. His cock slammed into your throat a bit too quickly, making you gag around him. Moaning at the sensation of your throat closing around him, Hoseok bucked into you again, hitting the back of your throat with more force than before. 

Tears burned the corners of your eyes, but you did your best to keep them at bay. You dug your nails into his thighs even deeper to ground yourself as your lungs frantically remembered how to breathe through your obstructed airway. 

Perhaps Hoseok pitied you, or maybe he was about to cum, but soon he yanked a handful of your hair to pull you off of his cock. You sputtered and bristled at the realization that you were… embarrassed by your inability to finish what you’d started. But what did your sexual prowess matter in this situation? Hoseok was trying to get his dick wet and you were trying to lessen your punishment. Who cared what your manager thought. 

But when you peered up at him, his pupils blown up and high cheeks flushed pink, your stomach fluttered. 

“Don’t fall in love too quickly,” Hoseok snickered. He beckoned for you to stand up, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your skirt and pulling you forward. Blood rushed to your face at his comment, but you snapped a response as though you were engaging in nothing but your typical workplace banter. 

“Wasn’t planning on it, oppa.” 

“Take your skirt off so I can fuck you properly.” 

You watched his chest rise and fall beneath his tight white button-up shirt, the top button popped open to expose more of his neck, a bit of collarbone, a sliver of chest. his hair was slightly issued as though he’s run his hands through it while you were sucking him off. He looked so raw compared to the sterile way he normally carried himself, and you’d barely done anything. 

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” 

“Obedience was part of the deal.” 

You pursed your lips, wondering how much hell he was going to give you later if you obliged. Did you want to fuck him? Your thong was sticking to your pussy, if that was enough of an indication. 

Slowly, you shimmied your skirt down your legs, kicking it away. Hoseok winced as he saw the clothing item skid across the floor. 

“That is Gucci, Y/N,” he sighed. 

“Are you serious right now?” 

“Yes, do you know how much that costs? I don’t just put you into clothes for free.” He had the nerve to press his fingers to his temples as if his dick wasn’t out in the open, hard as a fucking rock, and you weren’t standing in front of him in $2,000 worth of Dolce and Gabbana lingerie. 

Glowering, you retrieved the skirt and brushed it off before gently placing it on top of Hoseok’s desk. 

“Better?” you huffed. “You really know how to kill the fucking mood, Jung Hos-”

Taking a hold of your arm, Hoseok flipped you around and pushed you forward so you kneeled with your knees on the seat of your chair, facing the opposite direction. Placing a firm hand on your waist, he forced you to arch your back, your ass sticking up for him and your face and chest pressed against the back of the chair. 

“Oh my god, you could have warned me.” You tilted your head to the side to speak, catching a glimpse of Hoseok when you craned your neck around. 

“Look at you leaking all over yourself. Such a needy little whore just like everyone says.” 

Pulling your thong to the side, Hoseok swiped the head of his cock through your dripping folds, smearing your arousal all over your lips and the inside of your thighs. You let out a gasp and raised your hips to rub against his cock, but he gave you a hard slap on the ass to stop you. The force sent you forward and you had to grip the back of the chair to stay in place. 

“So fucking greedy,” he taunted. Hoseok gave your pussy a few slaps with his dick, pressing hard against your clit to watch your legs shake and your walls clench with anticipation. 

“Hoseok!” you yelped, feeling your legs buckle. He grabbed your hips with both hands and hoisted you back up so you were solidly on your knees once more. 

He leaned forward to growl in your ear and you felt the buttons of his shirt drag against your back. “What did I tell you about your language?” 

His arm wrapped around the front of your waist so he could dip his hand between your legs. Your moans were muffled against the fabric of the chair, lips going dry just to wet them again as you began to drool when Hoseok pinched your clit. 

“Oppa, please.” You breathed out of your mouth, panting and whining so loudly you were sure someone walking outside of Hoseok’s office would be able to hear you. 

With a satisfied hum at your correction, Hoseok spread your lips apart and plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your pussy. You quivered as he pumped into you, twisting his long digits to press hard against your front wall, searching. 

“Tell me, Y/N,” His fingers found the sweet spot inside you and dragged against it hard, nearly coaxing tears from your eyes once again. “Does Seokjin make you shake like this?” 

“No, no,” You squeezed your eyes shut and rocked backwards against his hand. 

Nearly all the air shot out of you once you felt Hoseok’s other hand begin toying with you clit while he continued to fuck you with his fingers. He dragged his nails along the sides of your clit, gathering up your arousal to then swirl it along the top in tight circles. The flick of his movements made you dizzy, and you realized you weren’t breathing. 

“H-Hoseok,” you panted, squeezing the chair as hard as you could. You could feel the wet heat threatening to gush between your thighs, the buildup of pleasure causing you to involuntarily buck your hips. You came before either of you could say anything else. Your body locked up and you moaned into the chair so loudly Hoseok slapped his hand over your mouth. 

“So what is the point of wasting your time and reputation?” You were too dizzy with the realization that your manager had just made you cum to know what to say to his question. When you didn’t answer his question, Hoseok pinched your oversensitive clit. “Nothing in that empty whore brain of yours? I thought I trained you better than this.” 

“Hoseok, please,” you whimpered when he removed his hands from you. His absence felt cold and empty, but you didn’t dare turn around. “I’m tired.” Tired of the hours. Tired of the charades. Tired of the bullshit. 

“And bouncing on every eligible idol’s cock isn’t tiring?” 

It was, but not in the way he probably assumed. 

His hands were soft and warm on your hips as he guided you to grind against his cock, coating himself in your arousal. Finally, he sunk his cock into your swollen pussy. You wiggled slightly to guide him in the correct angle as he sunk deeper into you. The wet slap of his hips fully connecting with your ass echoed through the silent office. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You clung to the back of the chair and covered your mouth to keep yourself from screaming as Hoseok began pounding into you, your body still sensitive and tingling. “It’s, it’s,” you let out a quiet moan when Hoseok adjusted his position, returning his fingers to your clit. “It’s none of your business.” 

“You are my business,” Hoseok grunted, slamming particularly hard into you, sending ripples up your body. The way his comment pulled another moan from your chest was more embarrassing than getting naked in front of him or choking on his cock. 

“So you better get used to it.” 

You felt Hoseok twitch when your walls clenched around him, the clear indication that you were getting close yet again. Brain still dizzy and buzzing. Body still shuddering from the overstimulation as his fingers continued to wreak havoc on your clit. Yet somehow he managed his composure, gruff grunts and quiet curses slipping from his parted lips with self-restraint you could never imagine possessing. How could he keep it up while you were practically writhing beneath him as you came for the second time? He’d broken you down to a whimpering mess. 

“Too much,” you whined, reaching down to clutch Hoseok’s forearm. 

“Suddenly can’t handle it, kitten?” His muscles flexed beneath his skin as his fingers still circled your pulsing clit. He didn’t stop until his composure finally broke, pressing his chest against your back as he found his release inside of you, whispering hushed growls into your ear. 

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, chests heaving against each other until they found a pattern to match one another. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to push away the way Hoseok’s moans played on loop in your head. 

Slowly, he pulled out of you and goosebumps spiked up your arms as his cum trickled down the inside of your thigh. His fingers tickled your skin as he scooped up his cum and pushed it back inside of you, pressing against your g-spot one final time just to make you moan. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, drawing his bottom lip between his perfect teeth. “Keep this up and Choi PD’s berating may be worth it.” 

You felt your face heat up and you quickly adjusted your thong to cover yourself. The cold, stickiness of the material made you shiver. 

“We have a deal,” you said with your chin jutted out, maintaining your dignity and not betray the way watching Hoseok tuck his cock back into his pants made your breath get caught in your throat. If he liked your pussy this much, you were going to get what you wanted out of this.

Hoseok’s dark eyes met yours, jaw set and head slightly tilted back as he studied your face. “I am always a man of my word.”

“Good.” You nodded and reached for your clothes. When you brushed against Hoseok, you felt that tingly spark across your skin. You avoided his gaze as you got dressed and missed the way he pouted when he realized you were going to get cum all over your Gucci skirt. Because that was what mattered in this moment. 

The two of you stood beside each other for a moment, the new silence of the room providing you with nothing to drown out the memory of Hoseok’s sweet sounds in your head. He cleared his throat and you finally turned to stare at the smoldering embers still flickering in his eyes. 

“If you need me, I’ll be in my room,“ you said. As you turned to leave, Hoseok grabbed your wrist to pull you flush against his chest. You let out a small gasp that was quickly silenced when he pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was shockingly gentle, slow, almost thoughtful in comparison to the way he’d just fucked you. Your eyes fluttered close and you held onto the front of his shirt to steady yourself. You fumbled to match his rhythm, eventually giving up to open your mouth as Hoseok licked at you. 

He pulled away out of breath, the two of you finding yourself in the same position once again, chests heaving and both of you attempting to calm yourselves down. 

“Don’t forget about the teaser shoot in the morning, "he said, letting go of your wrist. You nodded and finally crossed the threshold of his office, letting the door softly click behind you.

There was no way for you to know that Hoseok still stood in the same spot, staring at where you’d gone through the door, while you stood just outside of it, thinking of him.

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap @likecrazy22 @iadelicacy

[iogutwsm]

U N12

U N7 masterlist 7/14

word count: 5426

winter unravels. you crane your neck to see through the tall windows, but can only see the milky-white sky of Seoul. the city is still toying with you, hiding itself from you shyly. you've missed it like hell; the winter streets of Yongsan, freezing white, with gentle slopes of hills, with Namsan Tower perched at the end of the road, elevated, like a guiding needle. you've missed them all, as well, and now you are searching for the two people with your eyes. one of them should be tall and covered in black from head to toe, only the tapioca eyes peeking out. the other one should be Yuri.

you shriek as you spot them; you run towards each other. in the last six years, these three months has been the longest you were apart with her. the closest soul you have on par with Jimin, who sees you in all your states of break. she is still as small as the day you've met her, years, years ago. Jungkook doesn't wait and inserts himself, or rather, wraps around both of you in a hug; the heads of flowers are shoved in your face and you are enveloped in them. in their love. in their flowery scent. in their sound. in their arms. you cry a little and they pull you quickly towards the exit.

"you need to go see Jimin-ssi", he says, creaking and groaning, as he loads himself into the car. your hands have been spared of the suitcase and filled with flowers instead. such a great husband, this Jeon Jungkook, that he husbands you, as well. you watch Seoul with feverish greed, with hunger, palpating the moving scenery with your gaze, feeling jealous of it like it's your lover.

"it's late", Yuri says, "she's been flying for almost the whole day".

"yeah, and tomorrow morning he's getting married".

you nod. you have a little energy left to see Jiminie for the last time before he, too, becomes someone's husband. you want to see if he's changed. although you've seen him last week at the online lesson he's diligently visited, like all before. but there's still expectation of a surprise because once again it all feels unreal.

the unrealest thing being the lightness with which you're returning. no ache, no dread, no anxiety. simple human emotion: nostalgia, joy of coming home. you know you'll see all the people you love and it makes you happy. Yoongi, too. you want to run through the streets screaming about how you're going to see him tomorrow. what's with his hair? has he been working out? is he sleeping in his studio chair nowadays? you love him a normal amount. the break was so recalibrating it has practically been a brutal wake-up slap. life's not over. he might not love you back, yes. but you get to love him as long as you live.

it's all a matter of perspective.

Jungkook keeps studying you with his eyes, his hand drawing circles on Yuri's lap mindlessly. teeth torture his upper lip. he visibly notices the newly acquired spring in your step. the relief in your eyes. i am swimming up, Jungkook, you're thinking. and it feels beautiful.

what else feels beautiful? you in this dress. Yuri sticks her tongue out with concentration as she wipes off the tiny spot from under your eye.

"sexy", she whispers.

"you".

"well, that's obvious, too".

she is glowing next to Jungkook. they match each other very subtly, classy, and there's a whole story behind their outfits. their looks remind of their own wedding in a way you'd only notice if you are very close to them. a faded petal of the yellow lily on the collar of his jacket, and the necklace on her with exactly twenty little diamond-laced stars: twentieth of June, the day of their wedding. you go with the dress that wraps your body tightly, like second skin. you never found any type of therapy better than gym, and never stopped going, and it pays off majorly. it's a great additional bonus: you enjoy the way your body looks. dresses like these suit you the best. there's no lie in them.

Jungkook lets you out of the car and steps forward, wrapping his arm around his wife's waist.

you clutch your coat and hug yourself as you three walk over to the church. the day is gloomy and you are still left guessing why they would choose January to get married. as far as you know Nari isn't pregnant. her birthday is not around this time of the year. she's not leaving anywhere. last night, you haven't had time to talk about absolutely everything; lion share of the meeting was you getting to know Nari. so you forgot to ask. does it matter? you haven't felt this festive in years. it's such a great occasion, and for once, your anticipation isn't smeared with the usual Yoongi pain that always held you back from enjoying literally anything. it has always been 90% of fun. because the 10% of you always lamented him not holding your hand through it.

Yuri's wedding was like that: a champagne-explosive celebration of empty expectations, incredible, nerve-wrecking show. god, it was so long ago. you were all younger. Jungkook sat you in between Yuna and Yoongi. his justification was: she doesn't speak good Korean yet and you need to translate for her. Yoongi wasn't perfect at English back then but took his duty with admirable diligence. he and Riko were relatively new back then, she was out of the country, and he didn't even mention he has a girlfriend. the whole day you've been waiting for that ...th-time meeting magic to happen. you looked into his eyes, made an effortless conversation, felt numb being so close to him. you remember the way he looked on that day very well, you remember Yoongi in every detail almost always. white shirt and a dark-reddish jacket nobody but him could've pulled. you were absolutely smitten and basically spent the whole wedding just trying to be as casual as you could. you didn't know back then that it wasn't a fairytale where things come to you just because you want them very badly. in the evening, when the clock struck midnight, Yoongi yawned and said it's time for him to go home. he's a homebody. sleepy already. it's age. he was thirty-one. his sudden departure hit you like a truck. that's it, goodbye, see you. the indifference that sounded in his words was so murderous you would have preferred it if he hated you instead. it was a very, very heavy blow, a reality check. you looked beautiful on that day, everybody kept complimenting you. you went out of your way, a commoner, at Jeon Jungkook's wedding. surrounded by bts and other famous people. you saw Mingyu back then, too. he was nice, smooth. all you could see was Yoongi and his one strand of hair on the side of the face. the silver earrings complimenting the sharp of his jaw. the strong coffee colour of his eyes. you felt like fainting when he left you at the table after politely saying goodbye.

now you have grown tenfold. the world seems like a friend rather than a trickster. and your dress is different. and your mindset is different. your feet feel confident in high heels as you follow your friends to the church doors.

Jungkook manages to get a red nose in the short time it takes you from the car. he is adorable like an animation. you rush your hands to the handbag and gesture to them to stay for a second. you take their picture feeling your heart warming your hands up. you want to look at this picture of them years from now, you promise yourself not to forget to print it out. Jungkook smiles wide and opens the door for his girls.

and it finally hits you.

you inhale through your mouth and bite your lip hard.

"oh, i forgot".

"forgot what?" Yuri asks.

"to get drunk. is the champagne pyramid inside?"

"y/n, it's a church".

"then i'll run across the street. i saw a seven-eleven when we were turning the corner".

Jungkook and Yuri exchange knowing glances. she sneaks into the church quickly: it's cold. her feet click-clack on the marble and then the door closes. Jungkook steps to you and looms over. white fog leaves his hot mouth.

"get it together. alright? you're over it, right?"

you nod, but your lips say,

"i'm not so sure anymore. what if he, like, is very pretty today?"

"he's the same every day. also, it's not Yoongi day. it's Jimin day".

he tilts his head down to give you a lecturing stare but all he achieves is looking more like a toddler.

"i will just run and buy myself one bottle and be back..."

"no. you will go inside and cry with happiness. fuck Yoongi. say it".

you swallow.

"fuck Yoongi".

"he's still the same. you have to get it straight. do not expect anything. just enjoy it".

his hand clutches your elbow almost too hard, but it's the firm hold of a friend. it's the hold that Jimin had on you when he refused to stop English lessons. and the hold that Taehyung gives you when shaking you if you stare too long.

"okay. i'm good".

"deep breath".

"can't, it's cold".

he nods and opens the door for you.

you take off your coats and check your clothes. Jungkook gives you one last look and walks over to his wife who is pulling Yuna forward. you kind of forgot just now that you'll see everybody here, at the church.

they swarm you. Hobi catches you in a hug with the words on his lips that usually evict people from the palm of god forever. you touch the back of his head and feel the stubborn short strands of hair. he is warm and flexible, like always, the furry snake. Taehyung is surprisingly happy to see you. he rolls his eyes at himself as smile pulls on his beautiful face. then Yoongi paces towards you like a thief, making himself smaller in order to slither in between bodies. he smells like Yoongi. sea waves, cedar, classroom, citrus, neverending happiness. you tilt your head back not to leave an impression of foundation on the collar of his jacket. this motion accidentally makes you catch his glance.

"ah-ha. how high are your heels?" he asks. his fucking voice. he is so attractive it makes you smile. he looks tired and energetic at the same time.

"dunno, ten?"

"and still you have to look up to me. not so short, hm?"

you give him a long look.

"you're still caught up on that?"

he shrugs and makes a face. his eyebrows go up and down. you feel the change in the both of you. he's never been so playful before. guess he did miss you in the wet plastic Seoul autumn.

and so what? you're looking at him standing behind Taehyung's back in the even line of best men that Jimin picked. he has eight. all of his hyungs, two of his youngsters and two childhood friends. they are almost clinging to each other in the small space on the side: usual Bangtan business. the other two guys are familiar with it but don't look quite as natural being pushed and swayed by male bodies pressed to them. Namjoon tilts his head back and frowns because Jungkook keeps pacing in place and moves his shoulder. Yoongi is in his element, surrounded by chaotic movement, finding the source of energy in looking at them. Hoseok is tapping his eyes with the paper tissue. Taehyung is looking around admiring the interior of the church. Jin blinks hard once and then stares through space. there's probably some very heavy thinking work going on in his brain. slowly, all of his boys are getting married. it's the third one already. his plump lips get more and more protruded as he gets lost in his pondering.

really, you look at Yoongi the longest. you don't hide yourself as your stare is not longing or glaring. you clutch a pack of tissues in your own palm. Yuri has abandoned you and is standing behind Nari's spot. what a betrayal. Yuna is fixing her makeup next to your shoulder.

she looks over at your hands.

"feeling like crying yet?"

"once i see them, for sure. getting ready".

"do you have your makeup kit with you?"

"yeah".

she bobs her head to a melody playing inside.

"you look new", she says, "so rested. kind of..." her eyes examine you with intent.

"like the weight is gone".

you smile at her with gratitude. she understands you without asking more and smiles back. it's nice that it's obvious.

"got over a slump".

"mm-hm".

you do cry. seeing Jimin so happy that his eyes are glistening even before Nari is handed to him. he steals exactly one glance at you from the aisle and you cherish this intimacy that he will never refuse you. you feel meaningful and seen. some day time will come when you feel like this all the time. someone's eyes looking at you like Jimin looks at you one last time. ties that connect you with him ring rose golden. Nari is princess-like beautiful, she's made of cotton candy and matches Jimin to a T. they look picture-perfect together, you noticed it back last night. they move around each other like two planets, delicatly, not crashing, but not swaying too far away. gloomy day has no power over them, they shine on their own. as they kiss, your tears are crystals rolling down your cheeks. you wish you could share this moment with Yoongi and tell him, see? we were supposed to do something like that, too. but if he never agrees, you're okay, too. you are your own person. why grieving somebody not choosing you? it's selfish.

Jimin has sat you between Yoongi and Yuri and you feel the sense of déjà vu. he's shaken off his jacket and is left wearing the cream Valentino blouse with long ribbons hanging down the collar that were supposed to form a bow. he let them down, opening his collarbones, and you make it your little nasty trick to look at him a couple of times as you lean above the table. his new haircut makes him look younger; the shorter the hair, the smaller Yoongi. blue is gone from it; he finally goes with his natural dark-brownish color, bitter chocolate in the light of the restaurant. winter has been gentle to him; his skin is clear, lean, he looks positively exercised if a little sleepy. but when doesn't he. the sleepy look is sewn into the pout of his perfect heart-shaped lips. it all hurt you a while ago, driving you to lunacy. now it just makes you smile. Yuri is asking for the lemonade jar and you only hear her on her second try, zoning out with your eyes through your plate. Yoongi fetches it instead of you and gives you a look.

"jetlag?"

you shake your head.

"this is the most comfortable i've felt in a long time. i am so rested".

"that's great", he smiles with a half-chuckle. Jungkook is chewing like a squirrel, his eyes scanning the room and taking in the decorations.

"we had similar stars", he says. in the whole time since his own wedding, he has been to about a dozen of them. and each time he finds something similar. the flowers, or the groom's suit, or balloons, or the musical arrangement. for their big day, you gave them an empty photo album and a vintage film camera as a present. your way of thinking was, there's nothing valuable in things that money can buy, when it comes to Jungkook. it should be either something extravagant or something sentimental. you never had enough money to sufficiently surprise any of them.

"i didn't think she would be that beautiful", Yuna said. you're kind of envious that the girls got to know Nari closer in those three months. so now you ask hungrily about her, everything they can tell you. she has the foxy beauty with a hint of innocence that turns into naughtiness at the snap of the fingers. Jimin just went on and found the only person cuter than him so that they look ridiculously pretty together. one thing you've come to realize was that no, Jimin wasn't quite right about the leagues after all. they might not exist in the form you imagined, but there's absolutely levels of beauty. you never exercised trying to categorize people into groups according to how good-looking they were, knowing it's subjective. until it comes to glaringly attractive ones that everybody can agree on. Jungkook is always the first to come to mind, he is overall a ten in any shape, in any state. he is just universally attractive, to the point where he lacks the pulling factor. you could never fall in love with him because of how perfect he is. everybody else have their little faulty parts that give the kick. Yoongi's uneven eyes: one monolid, one double. his dumpling cheeks that come out as soon as he gains extra five hundred grams. his knotty fingers, rough and round. his old man walk that makes it impossible to not recognize him even if he puts on a hazmat suit.

you stall, fidget with the gold-laced tableware, try different salads, not to acknowledge his presence. Yuri is too occupied with her husband to speak to you, and Yuna and Namjoon are already on the dancefloor after the first introductions and toasts.

but it's actually easy. Yoongi is always very nonchalant, he's not staring but eating quietly, sometimes throwing a word to you, that you pick up and return to him. it's easier than breathing, coexisting with him, and before you realize, you are drawn into the conversation about home, winter, airports, and their new album.

"how many tracks?"

"eighteen".

you interview him almost professionally, very curious. you wish you could be there when they were recording, you've never witnessed an album being created. it sounds like a lot of fun.

"i think you'll like it, it's a bit different from before. you like that Pluto song, right?" he asks. you nod.

"it's similar".

"who-o-oa".

he is talkative, charming, familiar. he smiles a lot, feels excited to speak about it, even though the majority of what he says is probably still a secret. he tells you there are so many love songs this time, because the last album they released seven years ago was before Yuri and Nari. you're looking around the room and, as the song ends, you see people return to their tables. Yuri is swaying from how hard Jungkook dances her; there's blood blush on her cheeks and the glassy fever in her eyes. you realize you have no idea what songs they even danced to; you didn't pay attention.

"winter weddings are just something else", Yuna muses. "it even sounds special".

"very", lonely Taehyung nods. his shirt is undone at the top, he's rocking the black hair again, looking hot like a piece of red coal. he is glowing, so effortlessly stunning, and yet non-perfect. his sharp tongue, the ever-dissatisfied expression are his ace.

"cold, gloomy, grey, amazing".

Namjoon says,

"yaah".

it's his way to reprimand someone gently. Taehyung smirks nastily.

"i wish i could be at your wedding", you think out loud, looking at him. "you guys looked like you were having a ball".

they both nod with Yuna.

"the fireworks were amazing. and the garden..."

"could you divorce and then get married again? so that i can go?"

Taehyung rolls his eyes at you, and Yoongi chuckles almost inaudibly. Jungkook is eating again, and food usually makes him deaf.

"if you sponsor it, i'm down", Namjoon looks at his wife. Yuna contemplates it with her mouth open.

"sure. i want a seaside wedding now".

"great, give me ten years and i'll save enough".

you all laugh. warm.

"what season do you want your wedding to be, y/n?" Jungkook asks suddenly. your head raises a little from your supporting fist.

"i am getting married?"

"one day", he shrugs. his eyes look predatory above his plate. he taps his mouth with a napkin. Yuri checks her lipstick.

you throw yourself back against the chair and realize with amusement and horror, that you're doing it to expose your chest and shoulders more.

"man, i am starting to doubt it".

then you remember Jungkook's funny friend.

"by the way, Youngchul? i saw him here, didn't i? i didn't know he's friends with Jimin".

"uh-huh, he's here".

"he told me i am getting old and need to think about family as soon as possible", you explain to the others. Yuna's face takes on a comical frown.

"huh?"

"yeah, said i'm getting old".

"did you punch him?" Yoongi asks.

"i paid for our dinner. he was really humiliated. i had to save for the rest of the month".

you and Jungkook burst into laughter.

"that's a weird way to respond to insults", Taehyung mumbles.

you reach for your glass.

"i want a spring wedding though. during the bloom".

Yuri and Yuna support your choice by humming aggressively.

"i changed my mind", Yuna says, and Namjoon's head turns to her. he always tilts his chin towards her when she's speaking, turns his shoulders, opens to her completely.

"i also want a cherry blossom wedding".

"we can wed by the sea with cherry blossoms", he says, with such elegance that for a mere second, the whole table is dying to be his fiancée.

there's a girl who is looking at Yoongi. you might have seen her at work, or maybe it's someone else. you clock her because she has the same look in her eyes that you sometimes catch in the mirror. she's dreaming about him. and he's just sitting here, the audacity, in his cream blouse, one hand on his lap, laughing with his shoulders, low voice coming out in soft chunks. as the new dancing routine starts, Jungkook and Yuri are gone from the table faster than the wind. Kim spouses stay and chat.

she is approaching shyly, and actually gives you a courtesy bow, checking you out before speaking to him. guess you look good and right together. guess birds of a feather sense each other. she looks at you with an innocent question in her eyes, and you gaze openly in return. you give her a green light, why the fuck not. she puts her small hand on the back of his chair.

"Yoongi oppa", she smiles, "do you dance?"

you're trying to recall her face but can't. maybe she's someone's sister. on the dancefloor, Taehyung is trying to convert Hobi's Jiwoo to whatever religion he is the face of.

"oh, sorry, i don't", he is very apologetic and immediately reluctant. he crunches his nose and looks her in the eye not to offend. your hand reaches to his side before you know it and pinches him hard. Yoongi ouches and doesn't really pull away.

"you have to call him ahjussi", you advise, "he is pushing ninety and his bones are fragile".

the girl snickers into her palm. Yoongi presses his lips together and sighs, standing up. he does it with such effort as if he's playing along. she puts her hand onto his elbow, and they go, Yoongi, defeated, but so used to being violated like that. Yuna is giggling into her glass.

you watch them dance and question what the fuck you're doing. guess you're pushing your own boundaries, training yourself for something, or just want to see him with a woman again. does he seem a little more approachable today than before? the message he had sent you glows green in the limelight in your mind. someone wore your green tea perfume in the recording studio and i thought for a minute that you came back

he has no idea of the power his words sometimes have.

they sway a little, moving smoothly, he leads the dance, and her hands lie on his shoulders. she is much younger and looks up at him like she's about to faint.

"Yuna", you say. "do i look as stupid when i am with him too?"

she and Namjoon both turn their heads and look. Namjoon doesn't like all those 'stupid' and other degrading words, notions. he doesn't believe in psychological stupidity. he believes in trauma, vulnerability and feeling. he believes in humanness and its expressions. he believes in art that is the human condition. but now he replies,

"no. you used to, but not anymore".

you do a phew and drink up from your glass.

the whole world knows - so he must, too. you don't believe he is that thick. so, Yoongi chooses mercy. on the background of the awkward display, Jungkook's arm is around Jimin's shoulder as he's telling him and Nari something that makes them go :O.

"i need some air", Yuna whines.

"it's two degrees outside", Namjoon says tenderly. Yuna closes her eyes tiredly.

"she had like, five glasses already", you note. the gentle giant sighs and lifts his wife up from the chair.

as the song ends, you see Yoongi approach the table from the wrong side. another one starts, and it sounds like a ballad too, and you fear the way he's looking at you for a second. then it passes. you have to remind yourself that you're cool now, as his hand drops with the palm up.

"what?" you say dumbly.

he is standing above you, as the first notes of now familiar song hit the air.

"apparently i dance now".

you don't think twice. his hand is warm and rougher than usual, you wish he started using guitar picks. but it's his hand, it holds yours gently, like he does with everything. he pulls you to the crowd and sighs again, the ribbons on his blouse dangle softly as he turns. hand slides softly across your waist and holds, light, like he's wrapping you up as a present.

"you looked too pathetic there alone", he says, and you admire his ability to be borderline insulting with a soft smirk.

"the loser i usually do it with is getting married".

his face is very close; you can see the pores on his skin and the birthmark near the nose. another one is right on the wing. you look away.

"one of my exes didn't like dancing, either", you recall, "always acted like asking him to dance with me was worse than swallowing poison".

"see, that's the problem", he replies, his voice a rumble. he doesn't need to speak higher, you're too close not to hear, "you girls always try to make us do things we hate".

"it's just, is it really that hard? he always looked like he wanted to die rather than dance with somebody he's supposed to like".

"maybe he really hated it. did he ever tell you why he doesn't dance?"

Yoongi's hand slides up and takes your palm to spin you once.

"he used to say he was too shy".

"it's a painful experience".

"it's saying i'm not worth trying".

"it's saying he hates dancing".

you bend your arm and put your elbow on his shoulder comfortably. his frame is matching yours. Yoongi is a very good dancer, in fact. he enjoys it more than he lets out; as his tutor, you know these basic facts about him.

you're thinking of other ways to pull him on your side in this dispute. his head is turning to look around the room. he's relaxed. you can see tiny baby hairs at the base of his neck and think that maybe for one day it's enough bravery. he smells so good though. woody and sweet. Jimin usually smells like candy, he has that Prada perfume, you're not even sure it's for men. Taehyung smells like coffee most of the time although he doesn't drink it, and it's a mystery. Jungkook smells like wind, water and lilies. Hobi smells expensive and a little choking, intoxicating. Jin smells like nothing because he never wears anything, he's just clean, breezy. Joon smells of expensive leather and coconut. Yoongi has this grip on you, every time you catch a scent of wood or citrus somewhere, you get excited. now you know he recognizes you by the scent, too. you are green tea to him, you're on the map. the thoughts carry you away, and he doesn't interrupt, just dances your body, pulls you right and left with professionalism that usual men simply don't posses. it's his habit that he doesn't notice, the habit that all seven of them have. they will make you fall in love with that dance without intending to. they know the female bodies of their backup dancers and use the waist to guide. Yoongi uses his shoulder to turn, tilt you back, and his hips to make you step. you need to do nothing, except listen to his body.

"i do understand the notion though", he says after a while. "prove that you love me enough. Riko was like that".

you aren't afraid to admit it's an insecure girl thing. admitting faults with him is easy, he has a way of lifting people up. you wonder if he's still hung up on Riko. their whole relationship seems to have been about him proving something to her, and her never seeing enough of it.

"it wasn't just about the dancing. it's, you know, i never ever caught him staring at me. usually if you like someone, you stare sometimes".

"i know. you can't force it".

he shrugs like it's nothing. in his mind, are you so easily unlovable that he doesn't even get the impulse to tell you otherwise? like yeah, he knows. why would anybody stare at you? this thought makes you relax even more, squeeze his shoulder a bit. Yoongi reacts by tensing it, his hold on your waist tightens as well. you can't fucking figure him out, you're in too deep. the silver earrings in his ear gently sway as he shakes the hair away from the eyes.

in the evening, there's no disappointment when it's all over. you're several glasses down and still glistening with the shimmer you'd applied in the morning on your skin; your hair is delighfully half-undone. the last straw broke when you did an almost ritualistic grind against Jungkook to his own lewd song that only two of you seem to enjoy this much. Yuri complains that Jungkook is his own number one fan and Taehyung begs to differ as he points his finger at you two, screaming the simplistic, sex-laced lyrics into each other's faces. you really are two charming idiotic twins, the whole table agrees.

the night is over and you still hold up well; pleasantly tipsy, feet tired, stomach full and body aching with fun.

"you're going with them? which car do we have?" Hobi is talking to no one, muttering, clutching his niece's little hand in his half-open fist. "Jiwoo, the red one?"

your lip is in between your teeth. you pull the coat tighter over your shoulders because you know the heat in your body is a ruse and you will get sick if you trust it.

Taehyung pushes you hard with his shoulder, stumbling upon his feet.

"shit".

his hand grabs you by the hair on the back of the head to keep you standing. you curse at him.

"jesus, you can't take alcohol at all".

"sorry. you're riding with them?"

you both take a look at Jungkook and Yuri connected at the mouths.

"nope".

"then let's go. we'll ride through Yongsan.

you search for Yoongi with your eyes for a second, then give up. it's more of a habit at this point than a genuine attempt.

"okay".

no coffee, he smells like vodka. when drunk, his inner needy self comes out. the boy who was unpopular at school and learnt to insert himself in fun other people are having. if someone told the thirteen-year old Taehyung that he will be the most handsome man in the world, he'd choke. if there's a word that's stronger than beauty, you'd like to know. Taehyung is that: his craving for human connection is debilitating. you have to keep his hand away, that is trying to touch your hair.

"i missed you bitch, let me touch you", he mutters like the husband that is drunk and has beaten you up at least twice. "you got new conditioner?"

"i put eggs on my head".

Tae snorts. his jacket lax on his shoulders, knees crossed. he doesn't lose his swag ever.

"hyung-missed-too, like a pet you've abandoned".

"really?"

"yeah, we could all tell".

"crazy, i am falling out of love with him".

the driver doesn't pay any attention to your drunk mumbling.

"no you're not".

"hmm".

you have to wake Taehyung up when you get out of the car next to your house. you gently brush through his hair.

"please don't let him black out", you beg the driver. Mr Park nods and salutes you, and you smash the door closed.

home is staring at you. you take a second to look at the dark building, allow the wind to bite at your legs and face, take in the sound of the city. the tower is glowing blue at the end of the street, rising above the district. the air is clear. you touch your own heart cautiously to check and find nothing but the party afterglow. you want a bath, tea, your soft green robe.

you have citrus sweetness on you, picked up by the winter wind, and carried away.

taglist: @ktownshizzle , @benyhime , @ryryvna , @amarawayne , @mar-lo-pap , @lili-spots

[iogutwsm]

A House Full of Strangers (KNJ)

18+ MDNI

Pairing: FearfulAttachment!Namjoon x Yearning!Y/n

Summary: When Namjoon visits his cousin in a quiet town, an unexpected friendship sparks between you. Over one summer, it deepens—until timing, and a new relationship, drives a quiet wedge between you. Years later, fate brings you back together during a stormy night in the city, where unspoken feelings and unresolved tension finally resurface.

Themes: Protected sex, emotional tension, past heartbreak, pining, slight (very very slight) jealousy, brief emotional distancing and unresolved conflict

Word Count: 5k

You weren’t even sure whose idea it was to throw a birthday party for Daniel in the first place—he didn’t like cake, crowds, or the vague stress of small talk—but somehow his backyard was full of half-drunk locals and the scent of barbecued tofu, and you were tucked into a sun-bleached lawn chair nursing a fizzy kombucha like it might save your life.

And then he walked in.

Tall. Broad. A little too clean-looking for this dusty small town. City-born for sure. His hair was a soft brown under the string lights, and his shirt was slightly wrinkled like he’d folded it five minutes before showing up and called it good enough.

He glanced around, clearly trying to make sense of the guest list—then muttered, mostly to himself but just loud enough to carry, “Is it just me or does everyone here look like they kind of hate each other?”

You laughed before you could stop yourself—an unexpected, genuine sound that came from your gut, not just your mouth.

His head turned at the sound.

“You agree, huh?” he said, smile crooked and curious, like he hadn’t expected a witness. “Did I offend your friend or your ex or something?”

You shook your head. “Nah, just the girl who brought gluten-free beer. So basically the worst person here.”

That made him laugh—low and warm. “I’m Namjoon,” he said, holding out a hand. “Cousin of the birthday boy. Temporary townie.”

You took his hand. His grip was careful. “Temporary?”

“Just here for the summer,” he said, giving the backyard a once-over like he already had regrets. “Or until Daniel starts feeding me meatloaf.”

“Good luck,” you said. “He made me lentil loaf once. Still recovering.”

From that moment, you became friends. Effortlessly. Days passed, then weeks. You’d meet at the lake, legs hanging off the dock, tossing pebbles into the water and letting conversations wander. He was smart—brilliant, really—but never made you feel like he needed to prove it. Just warm, slightly awkward, poetic without trying to be. You joked about astrology, smoked exactly one joint in a parked car while laughing over conspiracy theories, and fought over who made the better playlist.

What started as playful flirting and stolen glances became something more. Not romantic. Not yet. But undeniably charged. You'd both pretend not to notice how close your knees sat, or the way his eyes lingered on your lips when you talked. Neither of you made a move.

Until you did. But not in the way he expected.

Six months in, after he’d extended his stay, gotten a job at the local froyo spot (you teased him about the apron, he let you), you told him—bright-eyed, hesitant—that you were dating someone.

His name was Ri. And just like that, something shifted in Namjoon. Slightly. Quietly. But enough for you to feel it.

He stopped finishing his thoughts. Stopped texting first. And when you brought Ri around, Namjoon always seemed to have somewhere else to be.

A year passed.

And then he was gone.

You didn’t say goodbye. You weren’t sure if he wanted you to. And life kept going, the way it always does.

About a year after that, you moved out to the city for work, thinking this was your big break. Ri had broken up with you, and you thought this was more of a reason to leave town; nothing was there for you anymore.

On moving day, you ran into none other than Namjoon. The brief interaction between the two of you taught you that he lives in the apartment just upstairs, and you made an awkward joke about how you hope he walks lightly, but it didn't land, and after that, you never really spoke again.

3 years pass and your ‘new’ job has gone nowhere, you still haven't really made any friends in he city and you’ve become a homebody. You’ve been lying to everyone back home about life in the city in fear of disappointing them.

You’d almost forgotten Namjoon lived above you.

Well—forgotten wasn’t the right word. You just stopped trying to remember. After a year of distant nods in the hallway, a shared mailbox area filled with silence, and the sound of his footsteps overhead like a heartbeat you couldn’t reach, Namjoon had become more myth than man again. A ghost in your ceiling.

It had been three years since you last spoke to him. You weren’t even sure if he still liked froyo.

Today, the storm had started slow, but now it was biblical. Rain lashed against your window like it had something to prove, and the power went out with an audible thunk that made you jump. Your apartment was cast in shadows, candles flickering like nervous thoughts.

You were halfway through lighting another when you heard it: sneakers padding up the hall and stop outside your front door.

A knock.

You hesitated. You knew that knock. It wasn’t the UPS guy. It wasn’t your neighbor with the weird cat. He still knocked like he did four years ago. It was—

Namjoon found himself in quite the predicament. He had just arrived home, his phone completely dead, and with a storm rapidly approaching, he had hurried back hoping to charge it enough to get him through the evening until his usual 10:30 PM bedtime.

In his haste, however, he underestimated his own strength. As he jammed his key into the deadbolt, a soft metallic snap echoed ominously — the key had broken off inside the lock. Staring down at the fragment in his hand, then back at the deadbolt, and once again at the now-useless shard, Namjoon let out a low groan and bowed his head in exasperation.

But then, an idea struck.

Without wasting another second, he sprinted up the stairs to the rooftop and made his way to the fire escape, descending hastily toward the window of his apartment. By now, the rain had intensified into a relentless downpour. Peering through the glass, he immediately noticed the telltale signs of a power outage: the digital clock was dark, and the small red standby light on the TV was no longer glowing. He was too late.

Still, he needed to get inside. He attempted to lift the window, only to nearly smack his face against the glass when it refused to move. Soaked and breathless, he leaned in closer and spotted the problem — the latch on the inside was locked.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with frustration, a lump forming in his throat.

Then he remembered: your place. It might not have been the best idea — for all he knew, you wouldn’t even answer the door — but at that moment, it felt like his only option. With no other choice, Namjoon made his way back down the stairs, took a steadying breath, and knocked.

-

“Hey,” came a voice, muffled but unmistakable. “…It’s Namjoon.”

You opened the door.

He was soaked. Absolutely drenched, water dripping from his hair and jacket like he’d fallen in a river, not just battled the storm. He looked ridiculous. And miserable. And beautiful in that unshakeable way he always had.

He blinked at you, sheepish. “I, uh. Locked myself out.”

Your eyes flicked over his soaked sneakers, the busted umbrella in his hand, the bend in his key that stuck awkwardly out of his other. “You okay?”

“Not really,” he laughed, breath fogging. “Tried the roof. Fire escape. Window’s locked. And I think the universe is finally done playing subtle.”

You stepped aside.

“Come in.”

Namjoon stepped inside, shaking like a storm dog, water puddling behind him. Your candlelight caught the edge of his jaw, the collarbone peeking from his drenched shirt. He looked around your apartment like he hadn’t imagined it—like it was more real than memory had allowed.

He stood awkwardly at the door while you walked off to look for a towel and clothes he could borrow. He could smell the scent of old books and the air freshener you’ve used since you met him. “It smells like your old room in here. You still read a lot, I bet?” he called out as he continued to look around.

Just then you walked back out to him and handed him a sweatshirt and a towel. You knew wearing sweatshirts three sizes too big would come in handy at some point. You had no clue a man twice your size from your past would be the one who needed it.

He pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the ground to dry himself off. 

Fuck he’s gotten bigger. Has he been working out. He did use to obsess over biking, maybe he still does. He looks like he does a whole lot more that jus biking somet–

"You gonna keep gawking, or are you gonna help me dry off?" he asked, voice low and teasing—just enough to make your cheeks heat.

You rolled your eyes in an attempt to collect yourself, snatching the towel from his hands and swatting his arm lightly. “You’re impossible.”

Still, you didn’t leave. You stood close enough to feel the residual heat rolling off him, your hand moving in slow, distracted strokes as you ran the towel across the back of his neck and over his shoulders.

He shivered—not from cold, but from the proximity.

“You didn’t have to come here,” you said after a moment, quieter now.

“Didn’t really think about it,” he admitted, still not meeting your gaze. “Just… wanted to be here.”

The rain pounded against the windows in heavy sheets. Your heartbeat echoed it, just as relentless.

He turned to face you fully now, wearing your sweatshirt like it belonged to him, his hair damp and curling at the ends. He looked softer like this—less guarded.

And maybe it was the storm, or the closeness, or the sheer intimacy of sharing space like this—but something shifted.

“I didn’t mean to show up like this,” he said, his voice gentler than you expected. “I just… didn’t know where else to go.”

You stared at him for a second too long, unsure of whether your next breath would calm you or set everything on fire.

“You’re always welcome here,” you murmured, barely audible.

The tension hummed—quiet but undeniable.

“Yeah?” he asked, taking a step closer. “Even if I’m soaked, stranded, and mildly pathetic?”

You cracked a small smile, reaching up to ruffle his damp hair. “Especially then.”

And for the first time that night, he smiled back—slow, crooked, and entirely disarming.

“I should’ve come sooner,” he said quietly, voice low.

You crossed your arms. “Three years sooner?”

He looked at you then—really looked at you, like he was seeing the version of you that had grown from that summer girl. The one who had laughed too loudly at his cousin’s party. The one who used to sing out of key in his passenger seat. The one who didn’t know how to say goodbye when he left.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted.

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to say anything. You just had to show up.”

“I’m here now.” he paused, probably thinking that this maybe wasnt a good idea after all. “I also wasn’t sure if Ri was living here with you.” he padded to the bathroom to ring out his clothes.

“We broke up before i moved here.”

“I figured when i never saw him around.” He cleared his throat and hung his shirt on the towel rack. 

You looked up at his buzzed hair, thinking about how much you missed his beautiful length. “Your hairs shorter.” 

“Memories in long hair. Not good ones.”

“Of us?”

“What i wished was us.” His voice was low but you could hear the shame he carried. He really does feel guilty for leaving. 

He broke the silence first.

"You remember that party?" he asked, almost as if reading your mind. “The one where you said you only showed up for the cake?”

You turned toward him, lips twitching. “I still stand by that. It was good cake.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That was a weird night. Didn’t think we’d end up... whatever this is.”

You met his gaze then, and something flickered between you. Not quite anger. Not quite longing. But a potent mix of both.

“You could’ve said something,” you said softly, surprising even yourself.

He looked at you like you’d just dropped a glass on the floor. “So could you.”

“I was scared,” you admitted.

“So was I,” he said. “Still am.”

That landed heavier than either of you expected. You felt it settle in your chest, sharp and warm.

You exhaled, stepping back until your spine gently brushed the wall. “So now what? You show up at my door soaked and storm-tossed, and we just pretend none of that matters?”

He laughed bitterly, raking a hand through his damp hair. “I didn’t plan this. I wasn’t trying to—” He cut himself off. “I just wanted to see you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t know what we are,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “But I know what we almost were. And I can’t stop thinking about that.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve, your eyes burning with the kind of frustration that only came from wanting something you didn’t know how to ask for.

The distance between you was still small. So small.

And still, neither of you moved.

Because whatever this was—it wasn’t ready to be named.

Not yet.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” you said, your voice breaking into a sharp exhale, thick with frustration. “That’s not fair. You left, Namjoon. You left, and when I finally moved out here—when I finally got brave enough to start over in the same city—you’ve barely said more than five words to me in three years. And now, suddenly, you're here? Would you even be standing in this apartment if your key hadn’t snapped off in the lock and the sky hadn’t decided to drown you out of hiding?”

You sighed, the kind of sigh that didn’t just carry breath, but disappointment years in the making. Your hands raked through your hair, not to fix it—just to do something. To stop yourself from shaking. “You’re real, Joon. You’ve always been real. You never stalled, never bullshitted. That’s why I liked you. That’s why I—” You stopped yourself.

“So why are you bullshitting now?”

Namjoon didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he busied himself with the mundane: wringing out his socks and laying those out on the side of the tub. Like it would buy him time.

But you weren't 20 anymore. You wouldn’t be pacified by silence or half-excuses dressed as distractions.

And deep down, you knew—that was exactly what he was trying to do.

The candlelight flickered, casting a pale yellow glow down the hallway. You stood there, arms crossed, picking at your cuticles and sighing hard as the rain battered against the windows like it was trying to echo your heartbeat.

He was stalling again. You knew him well enough to recognize the way he needed to breathe, to retreat and find words that felt safe. But this wasn’t the time for safe.

“Namjoon,” you called, voice low but steady.

The door creaked open. He stepped out barefoot—damp still clinging to the hem of his jeans. He looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like he’d been carrying something for a long time and finally had nowhere left to put it.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he said, voice raw with honesty. “I just... I didn’t know how to stay.”

You blinked, stunned into silence by how simple and devastating that sounded.

“You didn’t know how to stay,” you repeated, slowly. “But I did. I waited. I texted. I asked about you. I tried to keep something—anything.”

He winced. “I know.”

“And you ignored me,” you continued, a bite to your words now. “For three years. Like I didn’t matter. Like you could just cut me out clean and walk away.”

“I thought it would be easier,” he said quietly. “For you.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “For me? You thought silence was easier than honesty?”

Namjoon stepped forward, tentative but deliberate. “I thought telling you I was in love with you, and leaving anyway, would’ve hurt you more. And if i did anyway then what? You were dating Ri.”

The air thinned.

You froze, words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat because you knew he was right. You knew that, of course, he didn't know what to do. Of course, he panicked and left without a word. But you also knew that you’d have stuck around anyway if he was the one who got a girlfriend.

He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, exhaling like it was physically painful. “You were always the one thing that felt real. Everything else... The stupid parties Dan threw, His friends, the pressure—I could compartmentalize all of that. But not you. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I scared you?” you asked, incredulous.

He nodded. “Imagine searching your whole life for someone that never made excuses, who took what they want and after what– 23 years you find it– the real thing, not some trick. Not a facade… i panicked because i didnt know what to do with it. You made me want to stay. And I couldn’t. Not then.” 

The irony is that you're 24 now. You are standing in front of the first no-bullshit person you’ve ever met, but it doesn't scare you. What scares you is that he might get cold feet and leave again.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at him while everything you’d carried—the loneliness, the anger, the what-ifs—pressed against the edges of your ribcage like a dam ready to crack.

“I didn’t want you to love me,” you said finally. “I just wanted you to choose me.”

Namjoon stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the guilt in the curve of his mouth, the sadness in the way his eyes flickered to yours and didn’t flinch away.

“I’m choosing you now,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

Your breath hitched.

There it was—too late, too early, exactly on time.

And you had no idea what to do with it.

That’s when you began crying. Not hard, not ugly, not a sob—but a soft sniffle, an involuntary sound you tried and failed to stifle. It wasn’t a single, cinematic tear either. They came steadily, like something old and aching inside you had finally split open. Like every word you’d swallowed these past few years had liquefied into salt and memory.

“I miss you, Joonie,” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough to fracture the air between you.

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space between you in a heartbeat, arms wrapping around you with the kind of urgency that said me too, even before he spoke. You pressed your face to his chest, and he held you like he’d been waiting—starving—for this closeness just as long as you had.

You didn’t know how long you stood like that, the room humming with quiet and rain.

Then, gently, he tipped your chin up with one hand—thumb calloused, soft with care—and made you look at him. His other hand rose to your cheek, wiping away a tear with a touch so reverent it made your chest ache.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice low but sure, like he was swearing something into the marrow of you. “I mean, unless the plumbing explodes again or I catch on fire. Then I might leave. Briefly. But I’ll come right back.”

You let out a breathy laugh through your tears, the sound catching at the edges, tangled in disbelief.

“I’m serious,” he said, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, though his eyes stayed soft. “I should’ve said it before. I should’ve said a lot of things. But let me start here: I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I was silent, even when I was stupid.”

You blinked, and another tear slipped down. He caught that one too.

“I missed you so much it made everything else feel... grey,” he whispered.

And then he leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn’t. You tilted your head instinctively, eyes fluttering closed, and felt the warmth of his lips brush yours—a kiss so soft it felt like a memory, or maybe a promise. It lingered just long enough to burn.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling with yours in the quiet.

“You still smell like cinnamon tea and old books,” he murmured, teasing affection laced in his tone. “God, I missed that.”

You huffed a soft laugh through your nose and finally let yourself hold him back.

You didn’t move at first.

Just stood there, holding each other in the soft hum of your apartment, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath still warm against your lips. It was quiet, but your heart was loud. Every inch of you trembled—not from uncertainty, but from the kind of tension that builds over years of silence, unresolved feelings, and the ache of missing someone you never stopped needing.

Your fingers found the hem of his sweatshirt. You didn’t ask. Just tugged. He raised his arms wordlessly, letting you peel it from his body. His skin was still damp from the storm, warm from the inside out, and his eyes searched yours like he needed permission one more time.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You answered by taking a step closer and guiding his hand to the small of your back, your lips brushing against his again, this time with intent. No hesitation. You kissed him like he was yours. Like he had been yours—once. Like you could reclaim something lost in time.

Namjoon groaned softly, the sound vibrating through you as he deepened the kiss. His hands roamed your back, then your waist, pulling you flush against him. Every brush of his mouth, every soft sigh between kisses, made your skin feel tighter, needier.

He lifted you without effort, as if he already knew exactly where you wanted to be. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and he carried you through the narrow hallway, lips never parting from yours, only pausing to murmur your name like it was a prayer.

When your back hit the bed, his body followed, blanketing you with warmth and weight. His hands moved with reverence, memorizing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips. You touched him like you were relearning him, like tracing a poem you hadn’t read in years but never forgot.

“God, I missed you,” he whispered against your collarbone, then again between kisses on your chest. “I thought about this so many times and it never... it never felt this real.”

You tugged at his belt and he laughed softly, breathlessly. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“I thought you wanted me to tell you how i feel.” He smirked playfully.

Clothes disappeared in pieces, dropped to the floor without ceremony. What mattered was the way he kissed you now—slow, like he didn’t want to rush a second of it. His mouth on your throat, his hands caressing your thighs, his words murmured between the soft rhythm of your breaths.

“You’re still the best thing I’ve ever stumbled into,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Even if it took me years to stop being an idiot,” he took the condom you handed him from your side table and rolled it on.

You smiled, eyes shining in the dark. “Less talking, more making up for lost time.”

His chuckle vibrated through his chest as he adjusted his hips, sliding inside you in one smooth motion. You both gasped—his name on your lips, yours on his. No frantic pace, just a slow, It was an aching rhythm that felt more like worship than sex. Each thrust of his hips was deliberate, his body moving in tune with yours, like he’d memorized you in a past life and was rediscovering every note. He didn’t rush, didn’t demand—he gave, patiently, attentively, reverently. Like this wasn’t just a moment, but a culmination. A return.

Namjoon moved like he was listening—to your body, to your breath, to everything you weren't saying aloud. His hand cradled the back of your thigh, guiding your leg to rest higher along his hip, opening you just slightly more to him. It sent a shiver down your spine, the way he adjusted you so gently, still keeping the rhythm steady and deep, like each movement was meant to say, I’m here. I never forgot.

Your legs wrapped loosely around his waist now, your heels pressing lightly into the curve of his lower back with each slow roll of his hips. It was instinctive, that grounding touch—holding him close, anchoring yourself to him like you were afraid this might vanish too.

Namjoon leaned down to press a trail of kisses along your throat, slow and lingering, his lips brushing over your pulse point, your collarbone, the edge of your jaw. Between each kiss, he whispered your name softly, or sighed, or let out a low, breathy moan that vibrated against your skin. It was messy in the most tender way—half-kisses against damp skin, shared gasps and stuttering breaths.

When he moaned again, it wasn’t loud. It was muffled and low, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out. It happened right after you clenched around him—a soft, involuntary reaction to how good he felt, how full, how there he was—and the sound made your head fall back against the pillow with a soft whimper of your own.

His pace picked up slightly then, still not frenzied, just purposeful. Like he’d found exactly what made you melt and was chasing it now, chasing you. He adjusted the angle of his hips just enough to pull another gasp from you, and when your nails dragged lightly down his back, he hissed, lips pausing against your neck.

“Shit,” he murmured, face contorting. “You feel so good—wet and warm.”

Your eyes met his in the dim light, and it was there again—the ache. The longing. The years of silence and missed connections that were now being rewritten by the way he held you, filled you, moved with you.

He brought a hand up to your cheek and brushed away a tear that had slipped free, even now. “Still with me?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your hand finding the back of his neck. “Don’t stop,” you breathed.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

And he didn’t. He kept moving inside you, body pressed tight to yours, every inch of skin against skin, breath tangled, limbs intertwined. He thrust with more certainty now, each slow grind coaxing more soft moans from your lips, until the room was filled with the quiet, rhythmic sound of two people trying to make sense of years apart using only their bodies.

His fingers slipped down between you, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down then moving in time with the thrusts of his hips, your whole body arched up against him.

“Joon,” you cried out, more a gasp than a name, but he heard it. He swallowed it with a kiss as your body began to tighten beneath him, that pressure rising fast and deep.

“That's it, baby, you’re doing so good, so perfect. Cum for me.”

And you did.

You shattered beneath him with a soft cry, your body clenching tight around him, your hands gripping his arms like you were afraid to fall. But Namjoon was there—holding you, kissing you through it, whispering your name like a promise.

He followed right after, hips stuttering against yours, breath catching in your ear as he spilled inside you with a low, choked moan that you would carry with you forever.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

He stayed inside you, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavy, chests rising and falling in sync. His hands found yours and held them tightly, grounding you both in the moment—sweaty, tangled, bare, and finally not apart.

-

Tangled together, you rested on his chest. Blanket pooled at your hips and the rain still coming down hard outside but all od the sudden the lights cam back on and the two of you looked at each other and chuckled softly, “i guess the universe really was working for us.” You inhaled deeply as you curled further into his side. “Stay until your clothes is dry? I can get your apartment door open with my tool box.”

“You have a tool box?” He asked, probably surprised obviously because you’ve never been the type to get your hands dirty with grease and a wrench. “Every home should have a tool box, joon. I picked up a few things from–”

“Ri.. yeah lets maybe get used to never saying that name again.” He stretched before holding you tighter. “I’d love to never bring that douche up again.” You pressed kisses to his chest.

“Wanna go again?” You asked. “Yup.” He answered briefly before pulling you on top of him. 

“Might as well take advantage of being with you again right?” You smiled as you trailed your hands down his chest. 

“You’re greedy,” he bit his lip.

You grinned, settling over him like you belonged there—because, somehow, you always had. “And you like it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his hands skating down your thighs. “Yeah. I really do.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of your breaths syncing, your bodies pressed close in the quiet glow of lamplight. Outside, the rain had finally stopped—leaving behind the kind of stillness that felt like a new beginning.

You looked down at him, brushing your thumb along his jaw..

“Namjoon?”

“Mm?” He looked up at you with glossy puppy eyes, the ones that you adored.

“You’re not leaving again, right?”

His expression softened completely. “No,” he whispered. “Not unless you tell me to.”

You didn’t.

And then you kissed him like that answer meant everything.

Because it did.

a/n i lowkey wanna make this into a longer series and really go into detail about everything lmk if you guys are into that idea

➽ Kpop Masterlist ➽ Main Masterlist ➽ Yoongi Masterlist ➽ G Dragon Masterlist ➽ Buy Me a Coffee

[iogutwsm]

for morale | myg

— pairing: min yoongi x f!reader

— playlist: moment's silence (common tongue) - hozier, love me harder - ariana grande, honey - kehlani, adorn - miguel, don't - crush, waves - dean

—  summary: After two weeks apart, you come home from Bali sun-kissed and full of stories—except none of them compare to the warmth of Yoongi’s arms. He wrote you a song. You brought back tequila, a TikTok trick he has no idea about, and a plan you executed after a terrible week strictly for morale.

Yoongi never stood a chance.

—  word count: 9.9k

—  warnings: lovey dovey couple, they're so in love, little fluffly at the beginning but they're always horny (i get them), established relationship, tequila shots?, yoongi missing oc, oc missing yoongi, unprotected sex, dirty talk?, cunnilingus, little rough, multiple orgasms, jealous yoongi if you squint.

—  note: HELL YEAH! so this was fun to write because it was born, like most of the things i write, from a personal experience with tequila shots. wanna thank miss salma hayek for letting us know The Trick to get a man like that. i miss you yoongi (thank god he'll be back soon). FIRST YOONGI ONE SHOT BTW CROWD CHEERED.

Yoongi has always been sure of two things. Well—always is a strong word. Maybe lately is more honest. Certainty doesn’t come easy to him; it’s something he’s had to fight for, inch by inch, thought by thought. But here, in this quiet moment—his fingers idle on the keys, a half-finished verse echoing in his mind—he knows these things like he knows his own name.

One: he loves music. Not in the cliché way people throw around the word love, but in the way it threads through the cracks in his chest and holds the broken parts together. It’s been his anchor, his escape, his language when he couldn’t find the right words. Music has never asked him to be more than what he is. It just lets him be.

Two: he really, truly, fucking loves you. It’s terrifying, how real that is. How permanent it feels. Like it’s carved into him somewhere deep. You came into his life without warning, without fanfare—and now you’re in the pauses between his breaths, in the silence between his notes. He doesn’t know when it happened, but loving you feels inevitable now. Like it always would’ve come to this, no matter the path.

Three—was there a three? Yeah because now, standing here at the airport, watching you walk toward him, duffel slung over your shoulder, smile cracking through the jetlag—he knows something else, too.

He’s really fucking glad you’re home.

You nudge him gently, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his hoodie sleeve as he sits hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the room bathed in dim yellow light and the faint scent of coffee and something else uniquely him.

“Yoongi,” you say, voice soft with that teasing affection only he ever gets to hear.

He glances over, the corner of his lips twitching into a tired smile—one of those barely-there ones that still makes your chest warm. His eyes, though, tell a different story: they flicker with something like relief. Like seeing you in front of him makes the past two weeks fall away.

“I wanna hear the full song?” you ask, and then you hesitate just a beat, voice quieter, more vulnerable: “Missed you.”

That’s when he turns fully, shutting the laptop with a quiet click. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I missed you, too,” he says, and it’s not just words—he means it. His voice carries that low, slow sincerity you know he only lets out when he’s too tired to hide anything. “House felt empty. Bed felt colder.”

You laugh softly, settling down beside him on the couch, your thigh pressing lightly against his. “You could’ve texted more, you know.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Didn’t want to bother you. You were having fun.”

“I was,” you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder. “But it didn’t feel right without you. Kept looking over like I was gonna see you sitting next to me.”

He lets out a breath, quiet and shaky. “I kept hearing your voice in my head when I was working. Thought I was losing it.”

You grin. “Maybe you are.”

He finally laughs—low and real. Then he squeezes your hand and says, “Let me play you the song. I finished it... the night before you came back. It’s about you.”

Your heart skips, just a little. “Of course it is.”

And in the soft silence that follows, he slips the headphones over your ears and presses play, watching your face as if every beat and lyric matters more now, because you’re home. And so is he.

The music washes over you like a wave—warm, layered, intentional. It’s him in every note: the way he composes with feeling first and logic second, the subtle textures, the pause right before the chorus that somehow says more than words.

And the lyrics? God. They’re not even overly romantic, but they are him—honest and understated and impossibly vulnerable. There’s a line in the second verse that pulls something tight in your chest. Something about “empty spaces filled by the weight of a laugh I forgot I needed.” And another one, quiet, tucked into the bridge, that just says: “You made room where I didn’t know I had any left.”

When it ends, you don’t say anything for a moment. You just breathe. His hands are resting on his thighs now, and you can tell from the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek that he’s nervous.

You blink a few times, then take off the headphones slowly, setting them aside. “Yoongi,” you say, voice soft, caught somewhere between awe and teasing, “are you trying to kill me? Be honest.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Emotionally or musically?”

You snort, nudging him with your shoulder. “Both, obviously. That was… wow. I don’t even have the words.”

“That’s ironic, coming from someone who works with words all day,” he says, smirking just slightly, but his eyes are searching—worried.

You look at him. “I’m serious. That was beautiful. It felt like…” You pause, pressing your lips together before letting the truth out: “Like you cracked open your chest and just—let me see everything.”

Yoongi shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug he does when he’s trying to be chill and failing. “Yeah, well. Took me long enough to say all that. Figured I’d just put it in a track before I chickened out.”

You lean in, forehead touching his. “You’re still such a coward sometimes,” you whisper, smiling against his skin.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you waited for me anyway.”

You both go quiet for a second. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind you only get with someone who knows you inside out.

“I was gonna say,” you continue, pulling back just enough to look at him, “funny how this all started with you awkwardly avoiding eye contact that night we met at Hobi’s thing.”

Yoongi groans. “Don’t remind me. I was not avoiding eye contact.”

“You literally stared at the floor the whole time.”

“I was tired.”

“You were shy.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “And you were so annoyingly composed. Sitting there with your editor brain probably judging my entire existence.”

“I was not judging,” you say, laughing now. “I was intrigued. You were the only one in the room who looked like they wanted to be somewhere else.”

He smiles again—smaller this time, realer. “Yeah. Then you sat next to me and started talking about existentialism and short stories and somehow I didn’t want to leave.”

You grin. “And then we spent the next year pretending we weren’t falling in love during every 3 a.m. conversation.”

Yoongi’s hand finds yours again, and this time he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t pretend very well, by the way.”

“Oh?” you tease.

He nods. “You kept looking at me like you were already writing a story about us.”

You shrug. “Maybe I was.”

Then, quieter, you add: “But I like your version better.”

You and Yoongi have been together for over two years now. That’s not even counting the year before—when you both clung to the idea of just friends like it was some kind of lifeline, even as everything between you said otherwise. Late-night calls, shared silences, too-long stares, the kind of conversations that felt like peeling each other open, layer by layer.

Everyone saw it. Except, apparently, you and him.

Or maybe you did see it. Maybe you were just scared to name it.

Either way, it all came to a head one night—tangled sheets, hearts racing, a confession slipping out in the dark like it had been waiting all that time just to be said out loud. And after that, well… the rest unraveled beautifully.

“It was bound to happen,” Hoseok had said with a grin so wide it felt smug. “Honestly, I was just waiting for one of you to crack. You were already acting like a married couple and you hadn’t even kissed yet.”

Seokjin, ever the dramatist, had clapped a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder and told you both, “You don’t understand. This guy? He doesn’t react to people. He nods at introductions and moves on. But you? You walked into the room at that party and he looked up. That’s practically a love letter coming from him.”

Namjoon had agreed, of course—more calm, more analytical, but just as insistent. “We’ve seen him hear a song he loves and still just blink. But when you spoke for the first time, he tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a melody he didn’t want to forget.”

It sounds dramatic. Overblown. But you’ve lived with Yoongi long enough to know that his reactions aren’t always loud—but they’re deep. And real.

And now, two years in, you still catch him looking at you the same way he did back then—like he’s studying you, memorizing you, writing lyrics in his head that only you’ll ever get to hear.

You joke that he’s soft for you. He just shrugs and says, “Yeah. And?”

But there’s this quiet steadiness to it, too. Like after all the slow burn, the long talks, the almosts and maybes, you both found something solid. Something that doesn’t need to burn wildly all the time because it stays.

So yeah—Hoseok was right. It was bound to happen.

And now you both took a break.

Well—technically, you didn’t take a break. Let’s rewind. That makes it sound way more dramatic than it was.

You just went on a trip.

A girls’ trip. Bali. Sun-soaked beaches, endless laughter, fruity drinks with names you couldn't pronounce, and the kind of easy joy that only comes when you’re surrounded by women who love you like sisters. It was good. No—wonderful, even. It was the kind of trip you talk about for years after, the kind that feels like a pause from real life in the best possible way.

But still… you missed him.

You didn’t say it at first. You told yourself it was healthy—good, even—to have space. That it was nice not to be The Couple for once. You didn’t need to be that clingy type, right?

Right?

Except… it hit faster than you expected. Maybe on the second morning, when your coffee didn’t taste quite the same without his weirdly specific milk-to-coffee ratio. Maybe when someone cracked a joke and your instinct was to turn, to catch his eye across the table and share that look you always did when something was exactly your brand of funny. Maybe when you fell asleep without the weight of his arm slung around your waist and woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It was the first time you’d spent more than 48 hours apart since becoming officially, capital-B Boyfriend and capital-G Girlfriend—a title that felt funny on your tongue at first, but quickly became second nature. You weren’t all over each other all the time.

(Okay, you were. But like, in a wholesome, “I’d follow you into the kitchen just to steal a grape from your hand” kind of way.)

But it wasn’t just physical. That wasn’t it. You liked him. Genuinely. You liked being with him—liked how he made space for your chaos, how he listened like every word mattered, how he challenged you without ever making you feel small. You liked the quiet hours and the loud laughter and the strange little routines that made your life feel stitched together in all the right ways.

So yeah, Bali was gorgeous. Your girls were radiant. The food was incredible. But there was this quiet, persistent pull in your chest the whole time—a whisper that said, I wish he was seeing this too.

And now you’re back. Sitting beside him, knees brushing, headphones still warm from when he played you that song. And it hits you all over again:

You missed him. Not in a dramatic, world-ending way.

Just in the way you always miss home when you’ve been gone too long.

You’re still barefoot, half sunk into the old couch in the corner of the studio, hair a little messy from the flight, face flushed with excitement instead of exhaustion. You just listened to the song—his song—and you swear your ribcage is still vibrating from the last chord. But your mind’s already off, burning through memory, hands moving animatedly as you talk.

“Oh, babe,” you say, practically bouncing in your seat, “Bali was insane. I mean, the kind of beauty that doesn’t even feel real half the time. You’re walking down a street and suddenly there’s a temple just... there. No gates. No warning. Just stone and incense and a woman with silver hair weaving flower offerings like it’s the most normal Tuesday in the world.”

Yoongi hums from the swivel chair, eyes on you, chin in hand. You’re not even looking at him—you’re too wrapped up in everything you're trying to say at once. And god, you’re glowing.

“And the air?” you go on, laughing breathlessly, “Yoongi—it’s like the whole island is perfumed. Salt, frangipani, smoke, clove cigarettes—it gets in your clothes, in your hair. You become part of it. I haven’t felt that light in years. Like my whole body was being wrung out and re-threaded.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Quiet. Intense.

“And there was this one night,” you continue, tucking your feet under you. “We went to this hidden beach—like, you have to go down a billion steps that look like they’ve been carved by actual ghosts—and when we got there? Bonfire. Music. Locals playing guitar on these beat-up amps powered by a generator that sounded like it was dying.”

You grin, eyes flicking up to him for the first time. He’s still. Too still.

You push on, because you’re on fire now. “They handed us drinks—stuff made with arak and fruit juice, totally unregulated, I’m probably lucky I didn’t go blind—and they were just... flirting. Shamelessly. With everyone. Dami got asked to teach this guy how to salsa. Chaeyoung got proposed to with a mango. And I—” you pause, tilting your head, eyes dancing, “—I got called a goddess like, three times. Four, if you count the guy who kept asking if I wanted a moonlit shoulder massage.”

Yoongi's eyebrow twitches.

You notice. You smirk.

“Relax,” you tease. “I told him I was taken. Very taken. Like, off-the-market, emotionally-devoted, boyfriend-writes-me-songs kind of taken.”

His lips twitch, but the line of his jaw stays tight.

You lean forward a little. “Yoongi.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“Yoongi,” you sing again, dragging out the vowels.

Finally, he lifts his eyes to yours, deadpan. “I’m just wondering why you remember how many times someone called you a goddess, but you can’t remember the name of the ramen place we went to three times in one week.”

You blink. Then you laugh. “Are you—oh my God, are you jealous?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m just saying, you were gone for two weeks and apparently became the main character in a beach romance novel.”

“Well,” you hum, shifting closer, “I am a woman of many genres.”

He gives you a look. “Including ‘hot girl summer in Bali with mysterious shoulder-massaging men.’ Got it.”

You bite back another laugh, slide closer until your legs touch. “Would it make you feel better if I told you none of them had your voice? Or your hands? Or your devastating ability to turn missing someone into actual music?”

He doesn’t reply—but he’s listening.

You rest your chin on his shoulder. “I loved every minute of it. But I thought about you the whole time.”

His voice is lower now. “Even when someone was calling you a goddess?”

You grin. “Especially then.”

He exhales, finally, leaning back into you.

“You’re still annoyed,” you murmur, smiling.

“I wrote you a love song and you got proposed to with fruit,” he mutters.

You laugh against his neck. “Okay, that’s fair. But at least your song didn’t give me food poisoning.”

He finally cracks a smile.

And in the soft silence that follows, you slide your hand into his.

Back. Safe. Still burning—with the sun, with the music, with him.

The day after the studio session—after Yoongi had pulled you into his world and played you that new song with the kind of pride he rarely let show—you were finally home, finally grounded enough to unpack.

You’d brought back a mountain of things, mostly souvenirs for your friends. It wasn’t even guilt-buying; you just missed them. A lot.

You started sorting everything out on your floor, each item sparking a memory of someone’s laugh, someone’s oddly specific obsession.

For Namjoon, you had a set of handcrafted ceramics—delicate bowls and one oddly shaped mug you knew he’d appreciate in an “object with character” kind of way. He was into stuff like that: things with weight, texture, stories.

Seokjin’s little bundle was easier. He had this current fixation with coffee, and not just any coffee—he’d sent you the exact brand he wanted, grown somewhere at a particular altitude, roasted a certain way. You weren’t even sure how he found it, but you made the detour just for him. Worth it, you figured, for the chaos he’d unleash in the group chat once he got his hands on it.

Hoseok was getting the batik fabric you found in a tiny shop tucked away near the market. It had deep blues and burnt oranges—bold and beautiful, just like him. You already pictured him turning it into a jacket or draping it over something dramatically at a dance studio. And for his girlfriend, a delicate piece of handmade jewelry—silver with tiny amber stones, shaped like falling leaves. She was going to lose her mind over it.

Your own stuff? That took less time. You hadn’t packed much to begin with—mostly bikinis and breezy tops. The heat had practically demanded it. But you’d also picked up a bunch of new shorts, the kind that showed off your legs just enough. The thought made you grin.

You were definitely planning to wear them around Seoul soon. Yoongi was definitely going to like them.

You were halfway through organizing your pile of clothes when your hand hit something solid near the bottom of your suitcase.

“Oh... right.” Tequila.

Chaeyoung.

The memory hit you like the smell of lime and salt.

She’d shown up in Bali like a whirlwind—barely touched down in Seoul for the past eight months. She’d bounced from London to Chile, Argentina, and then Mexico, and somehow skipped straight to Bali to meet you all, suitcase in tow and stories practically spilling out of her mouth.

“I brought the best tequila for you girls,” she’d announced like it was gold. She held it up like a trophy, her sunglasses still on even though the sun had already dipped behind the trees.

“You’re gonna love it. I swear,” she added, unscrewing the cap to let you smell it right then and there.

Dami squinted at her, skeptical. “What do you mean best? Like—good flavor or good time?”

Chaeyoung had smirked. “Oh, babe, if I told you half the things I did after a couple of shots of this…”

“You’re crazy,” Taeha called out from the back patio.

“No, babe,” Chaeyoung said, eyes wild and glass already half-empty, “you’re gonna want to be crazy after I teach you this little trick. Trust me—this stuff? It’ll get your man on fire.”

The room paused, like it collectively sensed incoming chaos.

Jieun blinked. “Why does that sound illegal?”

“Because it probably is,” Dami whispered, crossing her arms like she was preparing for war.

Chaeyoung ignored both of them, too far gone. She slammed her glass down like she was about to present a scientific discovery. “Okay, LISTEN. I’m about to change all your lives.”

“Oh no,” Taeha muttered. “Not another ‘I saw a TikTok and now I’m a sex guru’ monologue—”

“SHUT UP and listen”, Chaeyoung snapped, already standing like a drunk prophet. “So I was in Mexico, okay? Had just eaten like...six tacos and a churro. I’m tipsy. This guy is rambling about the flavor notes in mezcal like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Alcoholic Edition, and I’m scrolling TikTok minding my business—and BAM.”

She clapped loudly. Everyone jumped.

“This woman—an actress, like straight up goddess energy—comes up on my For You Page. And she’s like, ‘This is how you seduce a man in ten seconds or less.’ I didn’t even blink. I learned.”

“Stop,” Jieun begged, already wheezing. “I can’t breathe when you talk like this.”

“I’m serious!” Chaeyoung shouted. “You don’t need lingerie. You don’t need a playlist. You just need THIS.”

She grabbed a pillow off the couch and slammed it onto the floor like it owed her money. “Dami, you’re the man. Get over here.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“DAMI. Get. Over. Here.”

By the time Dami crawled over, purely out of morbid curiosity, Chaeyoung was already miming the scene. She picked up her shot glass like it was sacred, locked fake-eyes with Dami, and whispered:

“You take the tequila. You hold it. You stare. Not blink. Not smile. Just stare like you’re about to commit emotional crimes.”

She mimed holding the shot in her mouth, then leaned toward Dami with cartoonishly intense eye contact.

“And THEN,” she continued, dramatically slow, “you pass it. Mouth. To. Mouth.”

The room exploded.

Jieun SCREAMED. “WHAT THE FUCK!!!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GONNA DIE,” Taeha said, curled into a ball.

Dami fell backward, shrieking. “Get off me, you demon woman!”

“I WAS DOING RESEARCH!” Chaeyoung yelled back, offended.

“YOU DID THIS TO SOMEONE?” you gasped.

“In the bathroom of a rooftop bar in Oaxaca!” she declared like she was announcing a Grammy win. 

“WHAT.”

“WHATTTTTTTTT?!”

Jieun was hiding behind the couch now. “I cannot believe I have to know you.”

Chaeyoung, now fully unhinged, launched into a dramatic reenactment—flipping her hair, straddling the pillow like a man was beneath it. “Then we made out so hard I almost knocked a soap dispenser off the wall. I think there was applause outside. I don’t know. I blacked out from the POWER.”

“You need help,” Dami groaned, fanning herself.

“No, YOU need tequila and a man with low expectations,” Chaeyoung snapped, already pouring more shots. “Now, who’s next? Let’s practice. I’ll be the guy. Come on. Seduce me, cowards!”

You were crying from laughter. Your stomach hurt. Your soul hurt. Jieun looked like she was about to call a priest.

“Do we need to tell Yoongi about this?” Taeha asked you with an evil grin.

“No one tells Yoongi anything,” you said quickly, gripping your drink like it was your only protection.

Chaeyoung just smirked at you, devilish. “You’re gonna try it. I know you are.”

You just laughed—and avoided her gaze.

But she already knew.

Yeah, that bottle of tequila was now staring at you.

Oh, you were gonna have fun.

By the time Yoongi woke up—hair messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking at you like you were a dream—it was nearly noon.

“You unpacked already?” he asked, voice raspy, warm with sleep.

“Trying to pretend I’m not still on Bali time,” you mumbled, smiling into your mug.

He padded over, kissed your temple, and muttered something about making tteokbokki.

And god, he really could cook.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while he moved through the kitchen with quiet confidence, slicing green onions, adding just the right amount of gochugaru like it was instinct. The rich, spicy scent filled the apartment, and when you finally sat down to eat, you could have cried from the comfort of it. After two weeks of fresh seafood and tropical fruits, having something that tasted like home—like Seoul, like him—felt grounding.

“Still like mine better than any Bali food?” he asked, smug as he watched you devour the last piece.

You licked your spoon. “No offense to Bali, but your tteokbokki is emotional support food. It wins.”

He grinned, that small, rare one that made your stomach flutter.

Now, hours later, the sun was setting outside the living room window. The city buzzed softly in the distance, but here in the apartment, it was calm—dim lights, a quiet movie playing, legs tangled under a shared blanket. Yoongi leaned into the cushions, one arm draped behind you, the other lazily scrolling through his phone during the slow parts.

“Should we open some wine?” he asked, his voice low, almost a hum.

“Only if you pick it,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

He gave you a small pat on the thigh before heading over to the shelf tucked into the corner of the kitchen—a narrow unit lined with a modest but respectable collection of bottles. He crouched down, humming to himself, searching for the right red.

Then he paused.

“...What the hell is this?”

You turned your head.

Yoongi straightened slowly, holding up a sleek, unfamiliar bottle. The label was bright. Bold. Very not him.

He squinted at it. “Did this multiply in my apartment without my permission? I did not buy this.”

You bit your lip, trying very hard not to smile.

He turned to face you. “This yours?”

You gave him a sheepish nod.

He examined the label again, then looked at you with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “Why... do you have a bottle of tequila hiding in my apartment?”

“Chaeyoung gave it to me,” you explained, as innocently as possible. “As a gift.”

Yoongi arched a brow. “That sounds fake. Try again.”

“Okay,” you admitted, slowly standing up, blanket falling from your lap. “It was part of a girls’ night... situation. Involving stories. And hypotheticals. And a very specific TikTok.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes at you like he was trying to read subtitles you weren’t offering.

“…What kind of TikTok?”

You gave him a totally innocent smile. “A harmless one.”

“That’s never true,” he said flatly. “Every time someone starts a sentence with ‘so I saw this TikTok’ it ends in something insane or borderline illegal.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Nobody got arrested. Nobody died. There were just... beverages. And discussions. That’s all.”

Yoongi held up the bottle like it was radioactive. “So this ended with you bringing back imported mystery tequila from girls' night? That’s the takeaway?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, walking over and plucking the bottle from his hands. “It’s artisanal.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“You act like I’m hiding a crime,” you teased, setting it carefully on the table.

“You are hiding something,” he muttered, still watching you suspiciously. “You’re way too smiley for this to be a normal ‘hey let’s have tequila’ situation.”

You shrugged, doing your best to look unbothered—even as your face threatened to betray you with another grin. “Maybe I just missed you and thought it’d be fun to have a drink together.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing like he was filing that line away for later. “Totally believable. No other reason. No hidden context.”

“Exactly.”

A pause.

Yoongi finally dropped back onto the couch beside you, still eyeing the bottle like it might start talking.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered under his breath.

You nudged his knee with yours. “I am lucky.”

He glanced at you, then let out a small, exasperated laugh. “And now I’m low-key afraid to drink that.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, good thing we’re having wine right now.”

He shot you a look, but couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at his lips.

It had been a shitty week. No poetic metaphors, no dramatic flair. Just plain, exhausting, soul-sucking shit. Going back to work was shitty. As an editor at a publishing company, you were used to juggling deadlines, writer meltdowns, and 2 a.m. “urgent” revisions — but this week? This week decided to personally test your will to live.

By Friday, you were running on caffeine, petty rage, and whatever serotonin your cat videos could offer.

Thankfully, it was over. Finally.

You were curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, staring blankly at your phone while half a bag of chips sat forgotten beside you. Yoongi had texted earlier — be home in an hour, miss u — and even just that had been enough to keep you from combusting.

With a sigh, you opened your messages app, finally catching up on the chaos you’d ignored all week.

Your friends' group chat was on fire. Everyone was still riding the Bali high, posting blurry sunset photos, thirst traps in bikinis, and messages like:

Taeha: literally thinking about the nasi goreng at 3am Jieun: my skin still glows like i bathed in tropical gods Dami: WHEN are we doing round two. i need a new passport stamp and a new man. urgently. Taeha: can we do Greece. or Spain. or literally anywhere with sun and drama.

You smiled, heart softening a little. Yeah. That trip was magic.

And then you saw it — a private message from Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung💥: [TikTok link] “this is the visual representation of what i tried to explain that night LMAO” “giving this to u cuz u r the only one with a man lol”

You tapped the link, suspicious.

The video started playing — and you immediately paused it, jaw dropping, face heating.

Oh. OH.

It was the exact tequila trick she’d so enthusiastically attempted to act out back in Bali. Except now, seeing it performed in real time — slow, hot, absolutely lethal — made something in your brain short-circuit. You blinked, stared at your phone like it betrayed you, then hit play again. For science.

The way the woman in the video straddled her man, the effortless way she passed the drink between their mouths, the almost moan he let out like it rewired his whole nervous system—

Yeah. You were watching this on a Friday night after getting metaphorically body-slammed by your job. You deserved joy. You deserved serotonin. And preferably, you deserved it in the form of your boyfriend, shirtless, on this very couch.

You: chaeyoung. what the hell. why r u sending me this 

Chaeyoung: DIDN’T I JUST SAID YOU R THE ONLY ONE WITH A MAN THAT YOU CAN CALL YOURS. SEE THE VISION

You: i see it i feel it

Chaeyoung: YESSSS get that man WEAK, babes.

You: he’s coming home in 40 how fast do u think i can shower and emotionally prepare

Chaeyoung: light the fucking torch.

You stared at the screen for a second, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth.

Well. You did just wash your hair last night. And your cute robe was clean. And that bottle Chaeyoung gave you? Still hiding behind the wine rack like a dirty little secret.

You stood up.

Time to turn this terrible week around—with tequila, TikTok tactics, and one very lucky boyfriend.

The apartment was dimly lit, cozy, and quiet—exactly the way Yoongi liked it after a long day. He kicked off his shoes by the door, ran a hand through his hair, and called out casually, “Babe? I’m home.”

No answer.

Well, no immediate answer.

Just the soft hum of music coming from the living room—something low and sultry. It wasn’t your usual playlist. This was a vibe.

He squinted. Suspicious.

“Babe?” he tried again, stepping further in. His jacket was halfway off his shoulders when he turned the corner—and stopped dead in his tracks.

You were in the living room. Waiting.

Correction: you were posed in the living room.

Wearing your favorite silk robe—one that barely grazed your thighs, tied in a loose, suspiciously flimsy knot. Candles flickered on the coffee table. Two glasses sat beside a bottle he definitely didn’t own.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, crossing one leg over the other as you sat perched on the edge of the couch like a perfectly wrapped sin.

Yoongi blinked. “...What the hell is going on.”

“Celebrating,” you answered, like it was obvious.

He raised a brow. “Celebrating what?”

“The end of a very horrible week,” you said, then added with a grin, “And also… you.”

Yoongi was now actively side-eyeing the bottle. “Is that—”

“The tequila,” you confirmed. “Yes.”

“I thought we said we were saving that for—”

“Plans change,” you cut in, voice light. “Besides, I have a new method. A fun one.”

He blinked at you again, slower this time. “Why does that sound threatening.”

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s sexy.”

You laughed, a little wild in your eyes, and patted the spot in front of you. “Sit. Trust me.”

Yoongi hesitated, that familiar wariness flickering behind his dark eyes like a warning siren—this was definitely going to be one of those moments. But as always, he couldn’t resist you. With a sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and dropped onto the couch, still shooting you a suspicious look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being generous,” you teased, voice low and mischievous.

You slid closer, your hands gentle but firm on his shoulders. “This is something I learned.” You practically straddled him, settling down on his lap with a confident smile.

Yoongi’s brows knit together, confused but intrigued. “What—”

“They said this is how tequila tastes the best,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. “And since I know you really like your alcohol…”

You slowly hooked your finger into the top button of his shirt, eyes not leaving his face. “Can I unbutton this?”

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, lips curling in amusement. “Yes,” he replied, raising a brow as if to say whatever you're up to... I’m watching you.

With a sly little grin, you unfastened one button. Then the next. Then another. You were deliberate with it—fingers brushing his skin each time, exposing just enough of his chest to leave your mouth watering. His skin was warm, soft, and smelled faintly of the cologne he always wore. That scent you liked to steal from the collar of his sweaters.

You leaned in, holding the tequila shot glass loosely in your hand, and whispered—half to him, half to yourself, “And then I have to... huh... lick.”

You dipped your head and—without hesitation—flattened your tongue against the base of his neck. You dragged it slowly up, tracing a path over his collarbone and along the curve of his shoulder, right where the salt would go in the classic version. Except you weren’t following any rules.

Yoongi’s breath caught sharply. His hands, resting on your hips, twitched.

You leaned back, just enough to lock eyes with him. He looked stunned. Flushed. Slightly speechless.

Then, as if to really commit to the bit, you took the shot. Head tilted back, throat bobbing as the tequila slid down.

And finally—eyes on his—your hand reached out for the lime. But instead of putting it in your mouth, you brought it up to his lips.

“Bite,” you said softly.

He obeyed.

You leaned in one last time, stealing the lime back with a kiss that lingered longer than necessary, your lips brushing his in a mix of citrus and heat.

“Okay—where the hell?” Yoongi sputtered, blinking like he just came out of a trance. “What? Why? What the hell?”

He was flustered—genuinely flustered—and that was rare for him. A soft pink crept up the sides of his neck, and his chest was still rising and falling just a little faster than usual. You stayed exactly where you were, still straddling his lap, hands resting lightly on his now half-unbuttoned shirt like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You tilted your head innocently, though your smirk betrayed you. “This is why I wanted to save that bottle.”

Yoongi stared at you, eyes narrowing. “This is what that TikTok discussion was about?”

You leaned forward just enough so that your chest brushed his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I told you it was educational content.”

He huffed a dry laugh, but his hands were already on your hips again, holding you tighter now. “Educational? Babe, you just licked me like a human salt rim and then kissed tequila into my mouth. That wasn’t education. That was witchcraft.”

You bit your lip, eyes gleaming. “Witchcraft that works, clearly.”

Yoongi’s gaze dropped to your lips, his breath catching slightly. You could feel him shifting beneath you, his composure unraveling by the second.

“You’re literally still on top of me,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.

“Mhm.” You rolled your hips just a tiny bit, enough to make his hands dig into your waist in warning. “On purpose.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something darker flickering there now. “You planned this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.”

He surged up just enough to kiss you fully, mouth warm and tasting faintly of lime and tequila, his hands sliding under your shirt like he was reclaiming control. But you broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“You said you liked tequila.”

“I like peace and quiet too, but I guess I’m not getting that either,” he muttered, though the way he looked at you said something very different.

“Not when I’m around,” you teased, pulling his shirt fully open now and tossing the shot glass aside like the game was only beginning. 

He chuckled, low and wicked. “And here I was, just trying to have a normal Friday night.”

“But did you like it though?” you asked, breathless now, lips still tingling from the kiss. You dragged your hands slowly up his chest, over the exposed skin you’d just unbuttoned, nails light enough to make him twitch. “You haven’t said anything about it, babe.”

Yoongi looked at you—really looked at you. His pupils were blown wide now, jaw tight, lips slightly parted as he processed the question, like you had just asked him something offensive.

“You’re seriously asking me that,” he said, voice low, hoarse with restraint, “while you’re literally sitting on me like this?”

You rolled your hips ever so slightly, the friction cruel in how light it was. “Just want feedback.”

Yoongi let out a sharp breath—half disbelief, half groan—and grabbed you by the hips, steadying you, containing you, but barely. His fingers dug in, possessive.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, eyes dragging down from your lips to your neck, to the swell of your chest beneath your shirt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

You smiled slowly. “Just making sure.”

“You licked my neck, downed a shot like it was foreplay, and then had the audacity to grind on me like it was a goddamn game.”

You tilted your head. “It was a game.”

He pulled you flush against him, his mouth brushing the corner of yours with maddening softness, the kind that made your whole body tense in anticipation. “Oh, it’s a fucking war now.”

You gasped, but before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again—hotter this time, needier, tongue sweeping past your lips like he needed more of you now. His hands slid up your back, under your shirt, dragging it higher with every desperate kiss.

He was already hard beneath you, and the way his hips bucked up, just once, slow and deliberate, told you exactly how much control he was pretending to have.

“You wanna know if I liked it?” he growled against your mouth, lips brushing yours with each word. “I’m gonna show you how much.”

And he kissed you again—messy, rough, like the question had flipped a switch in him. One hand tugged at the waistband of your shorts while the other held you firmly in place, his thigh pressing between yours now. Heat pooled low in your belly.

“Tequila,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck. “What kind of spell did you girls cook up in Bali?”

You laughed, breath shaky as your hands tangled in his hair. “The kind that ends with you begging.”

He was gone the second you straddled him.

Yoongi tried—really tried—to keep his cool. But the minute you whispered “lick” and dragged your tongue along his neck, something short-circuited. His brain, his restraint, his sense of time. All of it.

And now, here you were—sitting on him like sin in human form, asking if he liked it.

Liked it?

He wanted to laugh. Scream. Flip the couch. Instead, he grabbed your hips because he had to. Not to stop you—hell no—but because if he didn’t hold on, he might do something entirely unhinged. Like flip you over and lose his mind.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded wrecked. He could feel the way your weight settled into his lap, how warm you were, how smug. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it was driving him insane.

He couldn’t look away from your mouth. The way you were breathing a little faster. The faint shimmer of tequila still lingering on your lips.

When you rolled your hips again—again—he swore under his breath.

His body reacted instantly, hips lifting into yours with an involuntary jerk that made him clench his jaw. Your breath caught. Good. You felt it too.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he muttered, dragging his hands under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin like he had to memorize it. “This—whatever this is—you’re not walking away from it, you know that?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Wasn’t planning to. I told you I had a shitty week.”

Yoongi chuckled, the sound deep in his throat as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So this was your plan, huh?”

You felt the slow drag of his hands down your sides—warm, steady, maddening.

“Mmm,” he murmured, voice low and laced with amusement. “You just wanted to have a little fun. That it?”

His nose nudged against your cheek before he whispered, “You missed me, babe. Don’t play like you didn’t.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but the way he spoke—so casual, so sure of you—made your breath hitch.

“Two weeks without me…” His teeth grazed your jaw. “Two weeks without sex.”

Your thighs instinctively tightened around his hips, and he noticed—of course he did.

“Ohhh, I knew it,” he grinned, cocky now. “I wonder what you got up to while I was around. Hm? What kind of desperate little thoughts did that pretty head of yours have?”

He ran his hands up under your shirt again, slow, appreciating every curve like he’d been starving for it. “You did something to this body, didn’t you?” he drawled, voice dark velvet now. “You’ve been walking around all tan and glowy and smug like that trip fixed your soul—but I know what you really needed.”

His fingers curled around your hips, rocking you down against him, just enough to remind you exactly how ready he was.

“You’re a whole different person when you’re horny, baby. So needy. So fucking honest.”

You squirmed, and his laugh was smug, satisfied.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, dragging his mouth down to your neck, lips soft but teasing. “So naturally, you thought—‘Hey, I know what’ll help. Let me climb on top of my boyfriend and ride the stress away.’”

“Is it working?” you whispered, breath hot against his cheek.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look, eyes burning like they could eat you alive.

“I made you a song while we were apart,” he said with mock offense. “You? You learned a seduction trick off TikTok.”

You grinned. “Productive two weeks.”

Yoongi’s hands were still on your waist, warm and possessive, when he leaned back just slightly, eyes hooded and gleaming with something dangerous. You knew that look. That smirk. Your stomach flipped.

“So…” he began, brushing his thumbs in slow circles over your bare skin, “you pulled that little tequila stunt…”

You grinned. “Guilty.”

“…and thought I wouldn’t retaliate?”

Your smile faltered. “What?”

He leaned in again, lips barely ghosting over yours as he whispered, “You really think I don’t have a few tricks of my own, baby?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve been patient,” he continued, dragging his fingers slowly—infuriatingly slowly—down your spine. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

Before you could respond, he was lifting you effortlessly, standing with you wrapped around him like it was second nature—because, at this point, it was. You barely had time to gasp before he was carrying you down the hallway toward the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him like he meant it.

He laid you on the bed with a reverence that made your heart race and your thighs press together, and then he disappeared for a second—just long enough to make you whine in protest.

“Relax,” came his voice from somewhere near the kitchen, casual and dangerous. “I’m just grabbing the bottle. If you’re gonna start something, babe, you better be ready to finish it.”

Your mouth went dry.

When he returned, the bottle of tequila was in one hand, and that same dark smirk was back on his face. He set it gently on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed with the kind of grace that made your breath catch.

“You remember how it goes, right?” he murmured, kneeling between your legs. “Salt… lick… shot.”

You nodded, suddenly the one speechless.

He dragged a finger across the curve of your collarbone, then leaned in to kiss the spot—slow, open-mouthed, lingering. You felt your heartbeat stutter.

“Lift your arms,” he whispered.

You obeyed. He licked a line just below your clavicle, then sprinkled the salt there with deliberate precision. His lips brushed your ear again.

“Keep still.”

You couldn’t breathe.

He brought the shot glass up, holding it steady in one hand as he dipped his head.

The lick came first—wet, slow, decadent. His tongue traced the salt from your chest with a kind of reverence that made your whole body tighten beneath him.

Then the shot—head tilted back, clean and quick.

And then?

Then came the lime.

Instead of handing it to you, Yoongi brought it to your mouth himself, holding the wedge with his fingers just so. “Bite,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your lips.

You did—and his eyes darkened.

He watched the way your mouth moved, watched the little shiver run through you from the sour tang and the heat still lingering on your skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dropping the lime to the side and pushing you gently back onto the pillows. “You're never allowed to do that trick again unless I get to do it right back.”

Your laugh was breathless. “Deal.”

But before you could say anything else, his mouth was back on you—hot, insistent, everywhere at once. He kissed a path down your stomach, murmuring praise between every inch of skin.

And just before he disappeared between your thighs, he looked up at you with that same boyish smirk that always got you in trouble.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, voice low “Guess I’m gonna have to fuck it out of you.”

You barely had time to react before Yoongi’s mouth was on you again—slow. He kissed down your stomach like he was mapping it, like he was reclaiming it. His fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts, tugging just enough to make you whimper.

“You wore these to tease me, huh?” he murmured, hot breath fanning over your skin. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Maybe,” you said, breathless, hands tangling in his hair.

He chuckled, dark and low. “You walk in here, tequila bottle like some kind of sex witch… straddle me like it’s nothing, lick salt off my chest like that’s a normal Friday night—what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

You were about to answer—something witty, something bratty—but then he had your shorts off and his mouth was on your inner thigh, kissing the skin there like it was sacred.

“You smell like heaven,” he muttered. “And you’re shaking. You’ve been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He hummed. “Then stop pretending like you don’t want me to ruin you.”

And he did. Tongue pressed flat, slow and firm—one long lick that had your hips bucking off the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you down with practiced ease.

“Fuck, baby,” you breathed, already seeing stars.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He was focused, utterly and deliciously focused, like he was composing a melody with your body as the instrument. He switched between long, slow strokes and quick flicks that had you sobbing his name.

Every time you got close, he’d pull back—kiss your thighs, suck a little mark into the skin just to watch you squirm.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he said, voice rough now. “Not until I say.”

You whimpered, a full-body shiver running through you.

He slid two fingers into you—slow, curling just right—and your back arched. Your hands gripped the sheets, clawed at them. He pressed kisses to your inner thigh as he fucked you with his fingers, mouth still devastating between your legs.

“You taste like you missed me,” he said, voice hoarse, fingers never slowing. “Is that what this is? Two weeks of missing me? Of needing this cock and not getting it?”

“Yoongi—”

“Tell me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I missed you—”

“Yeah, you did.” His teeth grazed your skin, his fingers moving faster now. “Missed being filled. Missed being fucked like you deserved.”

You were a trembling mess, every nerve ending lit up, every muscle tense and begging for release.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, he moved up your body, hovered over you, kissed your lips deep and dirty with your taste still on his tongue.

“Wanna come?” he whispered, grinding against you, already rock hard through his boxers.

“Yes, please—”

“Good,” he smirked. “Because I’m not stopping until you do. And then again. And again. You're not sleeping tonight, babe.”

Yoongi didn’t stop—not when your legs started to tremble, not when your breath hitched in that high, helpless way that drove him insane. He was relentless, completely immersed, tongue gliding in slow, torturous circles before switching to sharp, precise flicks that had you arching off the bed.

“God, fuck. Please,” you almost choked, voice wrecked, coming out in desperate, broken pieces. “Fuck, fuck—”

Your hand flew to his hair, threading through the dark strands with shaking fingers. You weren’t just touching him—you were clinging, grounding yourself against the overwhelming wave crashing through your body. Then your other hand joined, not stroking, not pulling—just holding on as he pulled deeper sounds from you than you'd ever made before.

“I—fuck,” you gasped again, voice hoarse and breathless, hips rising against his mouth. “Yoongi—please—I can't—”

He growled low, the sound vibrating against you in a way that made you cry out. And still, he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look up.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

You were falling apart under him, trembling and moaning and begging, and he was drinking it in like your body was his favorite kind of worship. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, holding you down—as if to say You’re not going anywhere. I’m not done yet.

Because he wasn’t.

He was building you like a beat, layering sensation on sensation until it all collapsed—until the dam broke and you screamed his name, clenching around nothing, your body shaking as pleasure tore through you.

And even then, he still didn’t let go.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your thigh, breath hot, voice rough with pride and lust. “Now let’s see how you take cock”

He didn’t give you much time to recover—just enough for your breathing to even out, for your lashes to flutter open, dazed and ruined, still trembling from the aftermath.

Yoongi leaned over you, chest brushing yours, the weight of him grounding you. His lips ghosted across your jawline, featherlight, and then lower, over your neck, where he bit down gently—claiming.

"You always taste like this?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Or is this just what happens when you miss me?"

You whimpered, already breathless again.

He sat back on his knees, undoing his belt in one smooth pull that made your mouth go dry. His eyes never left yours—dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with hunger. His shirt hung open, still a little damp where you’d licked the salt off his skin, and he looked completely, devastatingly fucked out, even though he hadn’t gotten anything yet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes raking down your body. “You’re shaking. You really had a week, huh?”

You nodded. Barely. And he smiled, slow and sinful.

“Well, baby,” he said, positioning himself between your thighs, stroking himself once, twice—thick, flushed, already dripping—“let me make it better.”

And then he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, eyes fluttering shut—your body still too sensitive, too desperate—and he hissed between his teeth.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Always so good for me. Goddamn.”

He rolled his hips, slow and deep, and it was like the air was punched out of your lungs. He filled you completely, every inch deliberate, every movement dragging against all the places you needed him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in for purchase.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

He caught your mouth in a kiss, messy and hot, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your sounds like he wanted to own them. His thrusts got harder, deeper, finding that rhythm that had your entire body arching, your legs locking around his waist like he was the only thing anchoring you.

"You think you can come in here, ride me with tequila tricks, and not get absolutely wrecked?" he growled into your neck.

You moaned—helpless—and he smirked.

"Not after that little show, baby. No way."

He shifted, one hand sliding under your thigh to hitch it higher around him, changing the angle—and fuck, you saw stars. Your back arched off the bed, your head thrown back, and Yoongi watched like he was witnessing art.

Yoongi’s grip tightened, his voice dropping low and rough against your skin. “What did they call you? A goddess?” His hips thrust harder, heavier, deliberately rougher, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. “But they didn’t get to have you like this, right?”

You choked on a breath, overwhelmed by the sensation. “Oh my god… I told you—fuck—because I thought it was… there, fuck—funny… Oh my god, are you really jeal—fuck!”

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you could barely keep up.

“I’m not jealous,” Yoongi growled, voice thick with need.

“No?” you teased breathlessly, arching into him.

“I’m thriving,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, every word dripping with possessiveness. “They don’t fucking get to see you like this. Only I do.”

“You feel that?” he grunted, thrusting harder now, body slamming into yours with a rhythm that left you gasping. “That’s mine. All of this—mine.”

You couldn't speak—you could barely think. Every movement was electric, every drag of him inside you a white-hot promise of release. His pace was brutal now, every snap of his hips laced with possession, with the kind of love that ruins you for anyone else.

“You’re gonna come again,” he said—low, rough, a little breathless, but firm. Not a question. A command. “And then you’re gonna do it one more time. Because I missed this, too. I fucking missed you.”

He growled the last part, voice cracking slightly under the weight of how real it was. His hips didn’t let up—deep, relentless, tuned perfectly to your body like he’d memorized every reaction, every gasp.

Your fingers clawed at his back, useless against the way your body spiraled. You were wrecked—utterly, completely, beautifully wrecked.

“I—I missed you so much, Yoongi,” you sobbed, the pleasure too much to hold in anymore. “I’m gonna… fu—fuck, cum—”

“Oh my god,” is all you can manage, your voice wrecked and breathless, your whole body trembling beneath him.

“Inside,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear, need thick in your tone.

He’s still moving—slow now, but deep, deliberate—as if he wants to feel every last second of you wrapped around him. The look in his eyes is feral, undone.

“Fucking missed you so much, babe,” he groans, and then he’s right there—burying himself deep as he cums hard, hips stuttering, spilling into you with a growl so raw it vibrates in your chest. His whole body tenses against yours as he rides it out, forehead pressed to yours.

“I fucking missed you,” he repeats, almost breathless, voice rasping against your lips. “I told you—I wrote a whole damn song because I missed you. I didn’t have time to give you something earlier but I had this whole fucking plan—a date, like a proper boyfriend.”

He huffs out a breathless, delirious laugh, still barely able to move.

“And now look at us,” he adds, burying his face in your neck. “Fucking tequila.”

You laugh, weak and breathless, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Next time you bring the salt.”

Group Chat: 🌴 Good Bitches Reunited 🌶️

You: update: tequila trick was… effective 😌✨

Chaeyoung: I KNEW IT

Taeha: WAIT. omg she DID

Jieun: This is why I need to start collecting frequent flyer miles. I’m flying to you next.

Dami: HELLO??? 

You: girl. the look on his face when I did it… like he saw God

Chaeyoung: I’M SO PROUD I COULD CRY

Taeha: Honestly I thought you’d chicken out but no. you did the whole “lick → salt → shot → kiss” thing right??

You: Of course I did I studied the tape

Jieun: So you're telling me tequila + cleavage + terrible week + some sort of emotional reunion = Yoongi malfunction?

You: He short-circuited 😌 Then rebooted and proceeded to rearrange my internal organs

Chaeyoung: This is now a case study Scientific proof that tequila leads to spiritual fulfillment and hot sex like I SAID.

You: Anyway. Legs? Gone. Dignity? Questionable. Regrets? Zero. So… success?

Chaeyoung: Tell Yoongi I accept thank-you notes in the form of concert tickets or exclusive unreleased demos 🫶

You: He wrote me a whole song during the trip So I seduced a man and got a song.

Dami: MAIN CHARACTER SHIT

You: I’ll send a selfie later once my legs function again Love u whore💋

Taeha: God I missed us Can we go to Greece next?

Jieun: Bitch, we’re going to Spain next. Get a freakin grip. 

[iogutwsm]

cybersex | myg

The whole point of being a phone sex hotline operator is that you’ll never have to meet your clients. So what are you supposed to do when you find out your favorite client is your brother’s best friend? 

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Word Count: 14,599

Genre/Trope: Brother's best friend, fluff, smut

Content Warning: Sex work, alcohol, attempt at humor, pet names, dirty talk, phone sex, mutual masturbation, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, car sex, blow jobs, creampie

A/N: Don’t judge me for the bad dirty talk 🥴 I'm way better now than I was then

What was Jai listening to?  agust d - agust d  // cyber sex - doja cat 

It all started with a bottle of vodka and a Twilight drinking game. You were pretty good at holding your liquor, so you didn’t expect the night to end up with you passed out on the floor of your living room, your roommate using your butt as a pillow. 

The mixed drink Harlow prepared for the two of you wasn’t half bad. Clearly, her time in bartending school had paid off, even though she never actually got a job as a bartender. Now the knowledge was merely a perk and the promise of a fun time. So sipping the fruity vodka cocktail was easy, but you hadn’t anticipated just how many times you would need to take a drink for every time Edward did something creepy that Bella found romantic, or when the CGI effects for vampires running were absolutely shit. Even every time a vampire hissed was a drinking rule that had you feeling woozy only a quarter of the way into the movie. 

“How is this movie about teenagers?” Harlow slurred. She was slowly tilting closer to you, eventually leaning completely on your shoulder. “When I was a teenager I was playing Sims.”

“Bella should have stayed home and played Sims. She could have turned out alright,” you said with a nod, reaching towards the coffee table to take a shot because one of the vampires began sparkling. You definitely didn’t need another shot, though. And neither did Harlow.

“Exactly!” Harlow tossed her shot glass back and then slammed it onto the table. “These days teenagers are fucking doing meth and cybersexing.” 

“Cybersexing? Is that the verb for it?” You smirked at your roommate, prodding her in the ribs. 

“Shut up! I’m gonna look it up.” She swatted your hand away and pulled out her phone. “Damn. We could make good money doing this. Look, you can make like $35 an hour.” She rested her head on your shoulder and stuck her phone in your face. It was a Cosmo article about “inside the life of a phone sex operator” - journalism at its finest. 

“That is a lot of money for not having to leave the apartment…” Despite the tacky pinks and cursive font of the article title, you took Harlow’s phone and scrolled through it. “AfterDark. What a predictable name for a phone sex hotline…” 

You were currently in between full-time jobs, working as a freelance web designer. A little extra cash couldn’t hurt. And Harlow would appreciate you not being late on rent every month.

“We could totally do it. We have sexy voices, don’t we?” 

“I mean, I guess?” You handed Harlow’s phone back. 

“Think of all the music festivals we could save up for,” Harlow tempted you, getting in your face to stare at your eyes. “Think of all the ice cream cakes we could buy without feeling guilty about it.” 

Well obviously she had you at ice cream cakes. 

“Okay, okay!” 

Harlow squealed and you’d never seen someone’s thumbs move so quickly as she began registering for an account through the hotline mentioned in the article. In all honesty, you couldn’t even remember the rest of the night. All you had when you woke up was a killer hangover and a new AfterDark account. 

“Honey Velour? What kind of name is that?” In the morning you read the confirmation email congratulating you on your first step towards becoming an AfterDark “fairy”. 

“At least you didn’t use your real name…” Harlow whined, staring at her phone as she leaned against the island counter in your kitchen. “I picked Harlow Adore… Hey, we kinda rhyme.” 

Yes, because that was what mattered. 

“Maybe you can change it,” you pointed out. Turning back to Harlow, you placed in front of her a plate of the scrambled eggs and sausage you prepared. “Eat.” 

Harlow may have been in charge of submitting rent payments and other adult responsibilities, but you made sure she stayed alive. 

“Ohh, so you think we should keep up with this?” Of course Harlow noticed the way your words implied that she would continue the account rather than delete it. 

“That’s not what I said,” you sat down on the stool beside Harlow. “But I guess it can’t hurt to try it out…” 

What was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t like you’d ever have to do anything with your clients.

You found very quickly that phone sex was a hit or miss for you - at least, initially. After a few months of learning the ins and outs of being an AfterDark “fairy”, you’d gotten your ratings high enough that you had a handful of regular customers you could rely on to tip you well. Having regulars helped a lot; it meant that more of your calls were with people you at least had some familiarity with. It was always the random men who stressed you out the most, impossible to know if you were about to have someone polite on the other line or an absolute creep. 

Looking at the time on your phone, you gently but firmly shoved Harlow’s legs off your lap and stood up from the couch. 

“Oooh, are you gonna go get your freak on with D-Boy?” Harlow cooed, wiggling her shoulders in what she probably thought was a seductive manner. 

“Leave me alone,” you huffed, but you couldn’t suppress a smile. 

Initially, it felt weird for you and Harlow to know when each other was working with a client, but after a while you got over it. Money was money, and you were best friends. You told each other everything, anyway. 

“I will eagerly await an update,” she said, snuggling back into her blankets and putting her headphones in to give you privacy as she finished the movie she was watching.

Despite the handful of decent guys you’d connected with, there was only one client who drew you in enough that everything you said you were doing was true. When you said you were touching yourself to his voice, you really were; it wasn’t just a lie to keep up the fantasy you were creating. The conversation never felt awkward nor did it feel like the end goal was to get him off - even though you both knew that was the end goal and he was paying for it. If anything, sometimes it felt like he was the one leading the conversation, rather than you. 

You found yourself looking forward to the nights you had a call scheduled with him - and the two of you actually scheduled calls. He would send you a message on AfterDark to see when you were free. Something about that thoughtfulness made you like him more. Even though you knew it was probably for his own convenience, it felt like he was being mindful of your life, too. 

With your favorite Spotify playlist quietly playing from your Bluetooth speakers, you plopped onto your bed. Harlow called him D-Boy because of his AfterDark username, DBoy93. You had no idea what his real name was, and of course he didn’t know yours either. 

The anonymity of the hotline was what kept you on it. You had no idea how in-person sex workers or camgirls could handle seeing the faces and bodies of their clients, or showing off their own. It seemed too awkward. You had mad respect for them, though. 

Sometimes you wondered why D-Boy started using the hotline. From his voice alone you felt like he had to be hot. It was low and so deep sometimes it sounded like he was mumbling, his words slurring together with such intense vibrations. And his voice was soft, comforting even. You wished you could have a recording of it to play whenever you wanted. Was that weird??

Your phone ringing pulled you out of your thoughts and your heart quickened as you pressed 1 to accept the call. 

“Hi,” you said with a breathy tone that was a true representation of how much you looked forward to hearing his voice, and not because you were putting on a sultry front. 

“Hey sweetheart. How are you doing?” 

“I’m supposed to be asking you that,” you said with a small laugh, rolling over to lie on your stomach in your bed. You were down bad if the pet name from some faceless stranger was going to make you go crazy. 

You heard him chuckle before responding, “And you can, but after you answer my question. Last time you told me you’d applied for that new job. How’d it go?”

No matter how many times you talked, you were shocked at how much he paid attention to whatever insignificant details you told him about your life. It was amazing how much time he was willing to spend to just sit around and talk to you when he was paying for every minute that went by. 

“After my phone interview they invited me for an in-person interview. I’m going next week!”  

“That’s awesome! I knew you would do great.” Dare you say his excitement sounded real? “If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re pretty skilled at talking on the phone…” 

“Oh you got jokes, huh?” You nearly snorted into the phone, but that wouldn’t have been very sexy of you. So you tried to hold in your laughter at his tasteless joke. 

However, it did remind you of what you were supposed to be doing right now. “What about you, though? Tell me what stress I can help you with…” 

You knew he worked an office job that paid well, something that had to do with finance. Clearly he had the money to talk to you about your dumb life a couple times a month. But you also knew his heart really belonged to music and the stress of chasing a music career regularly frustrated him. 

“I think you’re my lucky charm, actually.”

His response caught you off guard and you had to stop yourself from asking what he meant. Sometimes it was better to let silence encourage talking. 

“After our last call I scored a couple local gigs, and I might be a festival opener next month. Had to be your energy blessing me.” You thought you could hear a smile in his voice from the way his pitch lifted a bit higher than normal. 

“Oh shut up. That was all you. I’m just a voice on the phone,” you insisted, but you were wearing a smile of your own. 

“Yeah, a really sexy voice on the phone.” You sensed the shift in mood as his voice dropped low. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how incredible you sounded cumming for me last time. I’d fucking listen to that all night, every night.” 

“If only you could have seen me, babe” you said, a smirk forming as you thought back to that night. “My bed sheets were completely soaked through.” 

“Are you in bed now?” You could hear rustling in the background and you imagined it was him getting comfortable. 

“Mhmm,” you murmured, rolling onto your back so you could prop yourself up on your pillows. One of your manicured hands reached down to slip beneath your underwear, gliding lightly over your skin. “Wearing my red lace thong you said you like. Maybe one day I’ll send you a picture. Or maybe a video of me touching myself like I’m doing right now.” 

“Damn, sweetheart… You’d do that for me?” The rustling turned into the clear sound of clothes being removed. His breathing came out in soft puffs, like he was concentrating on something.  

“Mhmm, daddy. I can’t stop thinking about that deep, sexy voice of yours. Just thinking about it makes me start dripping.” 

“Daddy?” The way he moaned told you he liked your new pet name for him. You’d never called any of your other clients daddy, not even the ones you knew would enjoy it. 

“You like that, daddy? You like when I call you daddy while you imagine you’re fucking my mouth? God, I wish I could taste your cock.” 

You put him on speaker and placed your phone beside you to better capture the wet sounds your pussy was making as you fingered yourself. 

“Tell me how you touch yourself, princess. I wanna hear you moan.”

Describing what you were doing was usually the part you hated the most because it was usually a lie. You ended up saying the same shit every time, but you always reminded yourself that this was money. With him, everything was different. The description of how you touched yourself, your fingers dipping inside your entrance, the way you stimulate your clit, it was all easy to share with him. Easy, and made the entire thing so much more arousing. 

“Oh fuck, yes, can you hear me fucking myself? How dripping wet I am for you, baby?” 

“I want you to use three fingers, sweetheart. Stretch yourself out for me,” he groaned, the wet sounds on his end getting sloppier.

The two of you could go on forever, and not just because you were trying to suck money out of him. You genuinely got lost in his voice and the sound of him pleasuring himself to you. 

After a while, you were already reaching the end. 

“Ohh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you moaned, your walls clenching around your fingers as your other hand continued rubbing circles around your clit. “Please, daddy, let me come. Tell me I can cum.” 

“Fuck, yes, I’m close too. Cum for me sweetheart. Let’s cum together. Imagine me filling up that tight little pussy.” 

You would probably do anything for that smooth voice. 

When you masturbated on your own, you were a fairly quiet person. But whenever your favorite client was involved, you made sure to be as vocal as possible. You knew he loved it; it was always what pushed him over the edge. You could hear the sound of his fist coming down on his cock and the deep moans as you imagined him throwing his head back to release.

“I can’t believe you called me daddy,” he said after a moment, a breathy laugh escaping his lips as he attempted to calm down his breathing. 

“You loved it.” You gave him the same laugh in return, your limbs stretched out on your bed as your body hummed. 

“I did. It was unexpected.” 

“I’m full of surprises.” 

And when you finally ended the call and drifted off to sleep that night, you dreamt of a nameless voice whose cadence gently lifted you away.

Vintage Vinyl was your older brother’s baby. When your parents found out that he’d used all his college savings to open up a record store, they nearly had a heart attack. What did Jesse know about owning a business? Absolutely nothing! Yet the store became a local favorite practically overnight. It probably helped that Jesse was a charismatic little shithead (respectfully) and he hosted a lot of events after hours at the store to get people involved beyond browsing decades-old vinyls and CDs. 

Since you were the doting little sibling, you regularly attended these events, even volunteering to help Jesse out with whatever he needed to keep everything afloat. Like now, as you stood with Harlow at your elbow, a stack of flyers in your arms.

“What am I supposed to be doing with these?”

Jesse rushed around the record store, clearing out space around the mini stage in the back of the store. The stage was where he hosted a new event, “Freestyle Fridays”, where Jesse invited local musicians to perform every other Friday night. He considered it a great way for local musicians to get noticed. You thought the name sounded tacky, but apparently every emo Gen-Z and hipster Millennial in your town was all over this shit.

“Hand them out to people when they come in, stupid.” Jesse let his head fall to the side as he looked at you with questioning eyes. “Are you so young you don’t know what promotional flyers are?”

“Why are you so dramatic? I’m a 90s baby, what are you even talking about.” You handed half the stack to Harlow so she could help out instead of ogling your brother like he was a chocolate cake and it was her birthday. “Let’s go. People are waiting outside.”

As people filed in, you dutifully handed out the flyers. They were on half-sheets of paper with a simple design on the front: a skull logo with intricate flowers coming out of the eyes and mouth. It was kind of creepy, but in a delicate way, if that was possible. Beneath the skull was what you assumed was the name of the musician, AGUST D, along with a few concert dates.

“Do you think that was a typo? Not having the second “U”?” Harlow had to work in overdrive to pass out the flyers as even more people flooded the record store. You wondered if Jesse even knew what the building’s maximum capacity was.

“I don’t know, I feel like they would have made sure it was correct.”

Once the lights darkened to prepare for the performance, Jesse relieved you of your flyer duties so you and Harlow could sit back and enjoy whatever you were about to witness. Everyone was crowded around the stage, but the two of you hung out near the records.

“Alright guys, I hope you’re excited for tonight. This Freestyle Friday guest is a special person in my life,” Jesse began, playing MC on the stage.

Who the fuck was a “special person” to Jesse, a man who could die staring at himself in the mirror? Did he have a girlfriend?? You stood on your toes to see over the person in front of you.

“He’s been my best friend since high school, and he’s only recently moved back home. So please give my bro a warm welcome! Introducing Min Yoongi, aka Agust D!”

“Min Yoongi? Wow, what a fucking throwback,” Harlow whispered in your ear as intro music began to play. “He hasn’t been around since he graduated from college, right?”

You nodded, eyes watching a figure climb the stairs to the stage. Jesse embraced the man in a rough hug, slapping his broad back before giving the stage over to him.

Min Yoongi was your brother’s best friend. The two of them went to high school and college together; they were nearly inseparable for eight years of their life. But when Jesse moved back home after college graduation, Yoongi moved away. By then you were just starting college.  

The man who stood on the stage before you was definitely not the boy you remembered shooting your brother with nerf guns as they ran around the house, jumping on the couch and getting a loud lecture from your mother. Or the same boy who made you pinky promise not to tell your parents when he came to pick up Jesse when they snuck out of the house at 1am. It had shocked you how much bigger Yoongi’s pinky finger was compared to yours, but you’d just been a kid and he was a teenager not wanting his friend’s kid sibling to ruin their plans to get drunk. Funny how a pinky promise was all it took back then.

“He got hot,” Harlow spoke into your ear again, but whatever else she said was drowned out by Yoongi addressing the crowd.

“Thanks Jess. Never thought I’d see the day you’d admit to a room full of people that I’m special to you,” Yoongi spoke into the microphone in his hand. He shot your brother a gummy smile, which your brother responded to with a, “Fuck you man!”

The moment Yoongi opened his mouth you felt your knees buckle. You must have made a sound because Harlow’s head whipped to the side to give you a funny look.

“Bitch, why are you wheezing? Oh my god, are you having an asthma attack!? Do I need to get Jesse?!” Harlow grabbed your stiff arm and tried to pry your fingers from digging into the table of vinyls the two of you were leaning against.

“I grew out of my asthma, you know that,” you forced out. It had to be your brain playing tricks on you, right? You were tired and hungry, right? There was no way the smooth, rumbling voice that reverberated through the record store was the same voice that called you sweetheart and moaned into your ears multiple times a month.

Sure, D-Boy had a unique voice, but anyone could sound like anyone! There were billions of people on this earth. No one was truly unique. Yoongi just sounded like him. And it was making you feel heat travel up your neck and down your legs.

“Y/N, seriously, you look like you saw a fucking ghost.”

“I’m fine,” you gritted your teeth.

Yoongi and Jesse’s bantering continued for a bit until Yoongi properly introduced himself as a rapper, thanking the audience for being there to check out his music. He adjusted the white baseball cap he wore and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the way his tongue slowly swiped over his bottom lip, pausing at the corner of his mouth, before he brought the microphone up to begin rapping.

It didn’t take a genius to recognize that Yoongi had a lot of fucking skill. His music was just like the logo you saw on the flyers; his rap style was aggressive, but most of the lyrics were melancholic in the most beautiful way. And then there was a line about his tongue making people cum, which was… too much for you to process in that moment, especially when Harlow squeezed your arm after she heard the lyric.

“I don’t know if I should cry or be turned on right now. Or want to fucking fight someone,” Harlow grinned, her eyes trained on Yoongi’s expressive stage presence, lighting up every time one of his veiny hands adorned with large rings reached down to grab at his crotch.

You stood there for almost an hour trying to convince yourself that you were projecting your own life onto this man simply because his presence was unexpected and he’d grown up to be, as Harlow so eloquently put it, “hot”. You’d almost convinced yourself until a single lyric was spat from Yoongi’s lips that had even Harlow turning her wide eyes to stare at you.

“Did he?” Harlow’s acrylic nails dug into your side as she grabbed a hold of your shirt. “Y/N, did he just call himself D-Boy?”

“No,” you said immediately, refusing to look her in the face. You kept your sights straight ahead at the man on the stage.

“Y/N, yes he did! He said, I’m D-Boy because I’m from the D,” Harlow shook you to get your attention, but you continued to ignore her. “I know for a fact that he said that!”

And at that moment Yoongi’s eyes swept the audience, briefly passing over you as he repeated the lyric in question again, before moving on to another person in the crowd. You immediately felt your face heat up, but you couldn’t pull your eyes away.

“See?!”

Harlow was clawing at you like she was feral now, but her antics were quickly shut down when the person standing next to her loudly shushed her. She dropped her hands to her sides and you saw out of the corner of your eye her lips pinch into a tiny pout.

When the song ended and Yoongi made his final thank yous, Jesse flipped the lights in the store back on, causing the entire crowd to groan.

“What are you, a bunch of vampires? Get the fuck out. Freestyle Friday is over.” Many people chuckled at Jesse’s crass humor, and you were glad someone liked it. Sure as fuck wasn’t you.

With his arm slung around Yoongi’s shoulders, Jesse steered the now sweaty man through the gradually thinning crowd, and they were aiming right for you.

“Harlow, we gotta go.” You grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the front door, pretending that you didn’t hear Jesse holler your name.  

“Wait, what about Jess and Yoongi?” Harlow nearly tripped trying to keep up with you.

“I’ll text Jess later. I forgot I was supposed to submit a project proposal to a client before midnight.”

Harlow nodded solemnly, probably upset that she wouldn’t be able to ogle both your brother and Yoongi now, but she knew how serious you took your freelance web design work.

It was a shame you were lying out your ass, but there was no way you were sticking around to interact with anyone calling themselves D-Boy.

“Girl, did you know we can get AfterDark fan mail?”

A small cardboard box rested on the coffee table in your living room, its corners busted in like it had gone through some shit to eventually end up in your apartment. You sat on the floor at the table, turning the box around in your hands to examine the packaging.

“I did not,” Harlow answered, her cute slippered feet padding over to stand beside you. She leaned down to watch you stab the box cutter into the top and slowly rip the thing open.

“Apparently if our clients want to send us something, they can send it to AfterDark to make sure it’s not, like, dangerous or something. And then AfterDark forwards it to us.”

You sat up on your knees to give yourself better leverage to rip the flaps apart. Digging through the packing material, your fingers eventually slid against something silk.

“Oooh,” you murmured curiously. Lifting the material out of the box, you slowly unfurled a baby pink silk robe.

“This shit is fancy,” Harlow said with a clap, nearly spilling the coffee mug in her hands. “Put it on!”

All you were wearing was a t-shirt and pajama shorts, so it would be easy to gauge how you looked with the robe on. Standing up, you slipped your arms through the robe and tied it around your waist, immediately finding that the robe had pockets, too.

“How do I look? Fabulous?”

You struck a pose worthy of ANTM for Harlow. She let out a high whistle and fanned herself with her free hand. Basking in the ridiculousness of it all, you pushed the joke further by strutting down the length of the living room like you were working a catwalk, hips swaying.

Before you reached the end of the room, Harlow was calling out your name to make you stop.

“I only just noticed the back!” She motioned for you to remove the robe.

“Did I rip it?” You shrugged the robe off and held it up in front of yourself to examine the back. In gold cursive embroidery was your AfterDark alias, Honey Velour, across the back where the robe fell against your shoulder blades. The handiwork was absolutely beautiful, but it made you feel like a pornstar. Or a WWE champ.

“Who bought you this? Oh my god, what if it was D-Boy.” Harlow snatched the package invoice to see if there was a name or note. “Why haven’t any of my clients bought me anything, the fuck.”

If this had happened even two days earlier, you would have been thrilled to receive such a cute gift from your favorite client. But after the whole “Yoongi showing up after years of not seeing him and calling himself D-Boy” coincidence, you would rather have a week or two of nothing D-Boy-related. Like a cleanser.

“Who is Xander J?” Harlow handed you the paper, confirming that it wasn’t D-Boy sending you sexy robes.

“He’s another one of my regulars. He’s pretty nice. I think he’s married, though…” you admitted with a cringe. That made it awkward, but you weren’t the morality police here. You were just trying to make some extra cash.

A sudden pounding on the front door to your apartment made Harlow squeal in surprise, nearly dropping her coffee again.

“Oh shit, is the maintenance guy supposed to come today?” you whispered at her. You tossed the robe onto the couch and started stuffing the trash back into the cardboard box.

“No, they don’t come this early on a Saturday morning.” Harlow shook her head and slowly tiptoed to the door as another knock came banging through. She stuck her eye against the peephole and then quickly spun around to face you once more.

“Who is it??” you urged.

“Your brother and-” Harlow was cut off by a voice only your mother could love.

“Hey big head, you and Harlow are shit at whispering!”

With a groan, you motioned for Harlow to open the door. She raised her eyebrows high, but you assumed her timid behavior was due to the fact that she was wearing a giant unicorn onesie and drinking coffee out of a Goofy mug. As much as you knew she wanted to bone your brother, she was not doing herself any favors today with that outfit.

“Finally, you guys act like you’re hiding a murder scene in here.”

Growing up, Jesse had been the small hurricane to your lone palm tree. The two of you loved each other, but you had very different personalities. He was boisterous and arrogant; you were lowkey and minded your own business. But when you saw that he had brought you donuts from your favorite local donut shop… well… you could admit he wasn’t terrible all the time.

“Eeee, Jess!” You made grabby hands at the box of donuts, ready to peek inside to see if he’d gotten the cinnamon twist ones. But your enthusiasm quickly died when Jesse took a step to the side and another person entered your apartment.

“Hey, Y/N, Harlow.”

If there was one sound you could listen to for the rest of your life, it would be that deep voice repeating your name over and over again.

Yoongi raised a hand up to greet Harlow who hovered behind you.

“Damn, last time I saw you guys was at your college graduation, right?” It was cute how Yoongi was such a part of the family that he’d attended you and Harlow’s graduation.

“And remember Harlow got so drunk at dinner she threw up?” Jesse shook his head and gave Harlow a hard look. “You were messy.”

Harlow opened her mouth and closed it again, eyes shifting to look at you. But you weren’t in any position to come to her rescue because you were still looking at Yoongi.

The baseball cap was gone, putting his platinum blonde hair on display. It looked soft and fluffy, as if he may have taken a shower that morning and let it air dry. The blonde was a stark difference compared to his natural color you’d grown up seeing him in, but it looked good. It brought out the intensity of his eyes.

“Well are you going to eat the donuts or what? Don’t disrespect me by not eating my food.” Jesse pushed you towards the living room, much preferring your soft couches than the structure of a kitchen table.

“It’s not your food, Jess. You didn’t make it.” It seemed that Harlow had finally found her voice. She sat down in one of the armchairs by herself. Her current tactic was to distance herself from Jesse; she thought it might make her get over her crush. You were convinced there was no end to something that had gone one for at least ten years.

“You don’t know that.” Jesse plopped down onto the couch, Yoongi following his lead. That left you with nowhere to sit but next to Yoongi or on the floor.

Reminding yourself that you were simply jumping to conclusions about a coincidence that truly meant nothing, you eased into the couch next to Yoongi.

“Did you buy something?” Jesse pushed the box aside on the coffee table to place the donuts down.

For obvious reasons, you’d never told your brother that you were a sex hotline operator. He would have flipped his shit and probably told your parents. Even though you were in your twenties, your family still liked to think they had a say in what you did with your life.

“Me and Harlow are always finding weird shit on the internet,” you mumbled around the cinnamon donut you’d taken a bite out of. “For example, this unicorn.”

Harlow shot you an irritated glare when you gestured to her outfit, but she didn’t have a chance to cuss you out before Jess was running his mouth again.

“Was it this?” He held up the robe you’d so carelessly left draped on the back of the couch. “Honey Velour? Is that some Victoria’s Secret thing? You’re so gross.”

You may have been imagining it in your sudden panic, but you thought you felt Yoongi tense at Jesse’s rapid-fire questions.

“Jesse!” You got up and snatched the robe from your brother. “You’re the one who showed up at my apartment unannounced. You don’t get to complain about my clothes.”

Stomping towards your bedroom, you tossed the robe onto your bed and slammed the door shut.

“And for the record, it’s not some Victoria’s Secret thing. Get your head out of the gutter you freak.”

Jesse stared up at you with shock as you huffed and puffed your way back to sitting on the couch next to Yoongi, who was now leaned back into the couch. He sat with his hands in his lap and his legs spread slightly, forcing your thigh to press against his because you didn’t have any more room to scoot over.

“Touchy,” Jesse called you out after a moment.

“So, Yoongi!” Harlow was doing her little anxiety leg bounce in her chair, so you knew she was ready to move on from the awkward situation. “Me and Y/N loved your performance last night. Like, wow. I had no idea you were still into rapping like that. Tell us all about what you’ve been up to!”

“Thank you.” He grinned that gummy smile you had etched into your memory and you saw Harlow’s neck start to turn blush red. “I haven’t been up to much. Been working as a financial advisor for a pharmaceutical company and they moved me up here for a new position. I’m staying over at Jesse’s until I can close on a condo I’ve been looking at.”

You were trying, really trying, to stop jumping to conclusions. But too many things were adding up between Yoongi and D-Boy, and you could practically see Harlow doing the math, too. The voice. The nickname. The finance-based occupations. The pursuit of music due to dissatisfaction with working an office job. The fact that they both seemed to have money.

“That sounds sooo fancy and smart,” Harlow perked up, just for Yoongi to give her another smile.

“Too bad Yoong is an idiot.” Leave it to Jesse to need to ruin a compliment if it wasn’t directed at himself.

“Only ‘cause I’ve spent too much time around you,” Yoongi shot back, earning a proud nod from Jess. Their relationship was so weird. 

“You guys have known each other sooo long,” Harlow pushed herself back into the conversation. “But I forgot, where did you grow up, Yoongi?” 

Harlow refused to look at you, her light brown eyes zeroed in on Yoongi’s face. Anyone else would think she was verbally throwing herself on the attractive older man, but you knew the truth. She was meddling in your life. 

“I’m from Daegu. Moved here for high school ‘cause my dad got a new job.” 

“Daegu, cool! I think I remember that now, but it just feels like it was so long ago.” The cheshire grin that spread across Harlow’s face was for no one but you. 

Yoongi’s rap from the night before replayed in your mind. He was D-Boy from the D. Another coincidence? Or were you actually cursed? 

“Do you guys want something to drink? I’m really thirsty. I’ll be in the kitchen!” You pushed yourself off the couch, banging your knee against the coffee table in the process. In the midst of Jesse busting a gut laughing at your pain, you nearly missed Yoongi’s offer. 

“I’ll help you get drinks.” 

“She doesn’t need any help,” Jess assured his friend and jabbed you in the ribs when you walked past. 

“Yeah, I’m fine! I can handle it.” 

“Nah, I’ll help.” 

Internally cursing Harlow for not coming to your rescue, you led Yoongi out of the living room and into the kitchen. 

“Seems like you and Jesse’s dynamic hasn’t changed,” Yoongi said with a chuckle. He leaned his hip against the kitchen counter and fluffed his blonde bangs around. 

“Yup, still plagued by his bossy attitude.” You kept your eyes on searching for your favorite mug. The coffee Harlow made was cold by now, but that was nothing a microwave couldn’t fix. 

“Speaking of bossiness, did you get that new job?” 

You slammed the door of the microwave a bit too hard. Slowly turning back to Yoongi, you watched him with your heartbeat slowing down to a dangerous frequency. Never would you have thought in your adult life you’d get clammy hands, yet here you were clutching them together. 

“Who told you I was looking for a new job?” 

Yoongi’s eyebrows rose to disappear into his bangs, but a blink later and he was back to looking at you with a blank expression. 

“Jess. But he’d probably hate that now you know he thought to bring you up when filling me in on what’s going on back home.” 

“I’m waiting to hear back, but I’m hopeful. I’ve done a lot to update my portfolio, so we’ll see…” You handed Yoongi one of the now warm mugs of coffee to give to Jess. 

“You’ll get it. How could anyone deny you?” Maybe you were imagining things, but you swore his voice dropped an octave or two. He gave you a wink and turned on his heel.  

Yoongi returned to the living room to pick up where he’d left Jess and Harlow giving each other eyes you didn’t want to see. 

“But how have the two of you been?” 

Harlow rambled on about whatever dumb shit you guys got yourselves into, mostly suffering through work and drowning in bottomless mimosas during your weekend brunch dates. You stayed quiet and tried not to think too hard about the way your anxiety was bubbling up inside your chest. If your brother’s best friend was the guy you’ve been having phone sex with for months… What were the chances of that happening? 

You barely paid attention to where the conversation ended; the mental journey of trying to explain away the coincidences was far more important.

“Soooo… I think we need to have a conversation.”

Harlow sat on her bed and watched you pace her bedroom while you waved your phone in the air in hysteria. The moment the boys left, the two of you screeched at each other in whatever unintelligible language until Harlow took charge and called a roomie meeting.

Although the meeting started off as a recap of every little detail that seemed too terrifying to be true about Yoongi and D-Boy, it only escalated when you received a notification from AfterDark.  

DBoy93 sent you a message like he always did when he wanted to schedule a call. But this time, he wasn’t asking for your availability…

He’d given you his phone number.

“Okay, first of all, what are the chances that he messages you right after Yoongi and Jess leave?” Harlow was squeezing her pillow so tightly her face was turning red. You felt like you were in middle school freaking out about a stupid crush during a sleepover.

“I don’t know!”

“What else did the message say?”

“Literally just his phone number…” You slumped onto Harlow’s bed, slowly falling back until you were lying down beside her. Due to privacy rules, AfterDark blocked all clients’ phone numbers from fairies, and fairies’ numbers were also blocked from their clients. The only way a client could call their fairy was by using their AfterDark employee number, which would then forward the call to your phone. It was against the rules to personally contact clients.

“Shit,” Harlow said slowly, taking your phone to look at the number he’d sent. Of course it wasn’t familiar, though it did have the same area code as your city. “I guess you just have to text him.”

“What?!” You lifted your head to look at Harlow. “No way.”

“Why not? He sent it to you for a reason. Don’t you want to find out?” You were convinced this was just Harlow’s love of drama and gossip.

She was right, though. You were curious, despite how embarrassing it would be if D-Boy and Yoongi were the same person. You’d never be able to look at him again, but considering he was moving to your city… that meant you’d be seeing him a lot.

“But what do I say?” You rolled onto your stomach with your arms stretched out to hold your phone in front of you.

“I don’t know. Hi?”

“Yes, that is so eloquent,” you sighed, entering D-Boy’s number into your phone. You typed “Hi” and hovered for a long time without pressing send.

“Well how else do you start a conversation?” Harlow huffed, also moving to lie on her stomach next to you.

You pressed send and waited, the two of you with your eyes glued to the screen.

“Oh, he’s typing! He’s typing!” Harlow screeched, kicking her feet in the air.

[Unknown] this my favorite fairy?

“My heart is beating.” Harlow almost wanted to just snatch your phone and do this herself. “Say yes! Wait, be sexy about it. Tell him you better be his favorite.”

“Harlow…” You rolled your eyes but she continued to pester you until you did it.

[You] I’d hope I’m your favorite

You felt your entire body ache from the stress you were holding in as you waited for his next reply. This was too much for your little body to handle.

[Unknown] does jesse know what you’ve been up to?

Your neighbors had to have heard the scream you and Harlow let out. You threw your phone across the bed and jumped to your feet. Where did you think you were going to go? There was no escaping from this. You were fucked.

“Harlow! Harlow!” You bounced on your feet and slapped your hands against your cheeks. Holding your face like that, you stared at her with wide eyes, heart beating so violently you felt like your ribs were going to break. “WHAT THE FUCK.”

Yoongi was DBoy93 and he knew you were Honey Velour because he saw the robe…….

You’ve been having phone sex with your brother’s best friend without neither you nor Yoongi knowing it…………..

You were going to die.

“Listen,” Harlow held her hand out like she was trying to pause your freak out. “We can handle this.”

You stood in the middle of the room breathing heavily in a cold sweat, waiting for her answer.

“Yes??”

“Umm…” She gave you an awkward, straight-lip smile. “I actually don’t know.”

You collapsed to the floor in defeat. “This is statistically impossible. What are the chances out of all the people in the world, it would be him?”

“Maybe just continue the conversation like normal? Don’t let him know you’re freaking out?” Harlow handed your phone down to you. “It’s not like he’s going to tell Jess. Jess would literally kill him.”

You texted Yoongi a simple “No” and sat your phone on the floor next to you. The thing you and Harlow were ignoring was the fact that you liked D-Boy. You’d slowly become soft to him, even going so far as to wonder what would happen if you did meet him.

But now he was just another gross guy.

Reality sucked.

“Why do you think Yoongi was even doing all that? He’s so fucking hot. He could probably fuck whoever he wants.” Harlow chewed her bottom lip in thought.

She wasn’t wrong. Everything about him was perfect, down to his high cheekbones and the way his Adam’s apple moved when he spoke.

But no! You could NOT think about that.

[Unknown] that’s what i figured [Unknown] i’m free later today if you wanna link up

“Y/N, I swear to GOD if you don’t say yes…” Harlow lunged for your phone after you read Yoongi’s last text out loud. You screamed, scrambling to get away from her, but she was too quick. She ran out of her bedroom and locked herself in the bathroom with your phone.

“Harlow, do not text him back!” You slammed your fist on the bathroom door, practically in tears. “Harlow! I’m going to start crying, stop it.”

Finally, Harlow swung the bathroom door open and handed you your phone.

“Just go with it, okay? He’ll be here in an hour.” She ran back to her bedroom before you could attack her. So you stood in the hallway, staring down at the chaos Harlow had created for you.

[You] I’m free whenever! [Unknown] i can come pick you up in an hour? [You] Works for me! We can go wherever you want [Unknown] dope

“Why did you use so many exclamation points? Go wherever you want? Are you kidding me? You’re making me sound desperate!” You stomped down the hall to your bedroom to get dressed because apparently you were hanging out with Min Yoongi.

There was too much pressure to know what to wear since hanging out with him would automatically come with an awkward level of sexual tension - at least on your end. Maybe he just wanted to tell you that now he knew it was you, he was completely turned off. You hoped that wasn’t the case… but would it really matter? It wasn’t like anything could happen between the two of you.

You kept it simple with a high-waisted skirt and a modest crop top. Cute, but no different than your normal fashion when hanging out with friends. Did you slip into your Jordans because you knew Yoongi liked Nikes? No. Maybe. Perhaps.

Your heart nearly flew out of your chest when your phone rang, that same unknown number flashing on the screen.

“Hello?”

“I’m outside.”

Was it possible for a voice to both make you go cold and heat up every inch of your body?

You didn’t have Harlow to wish you good luck because she got stuck talking to her mom on the phone, so you ventured out of your apartment building on your own. It didn’t take long to spot Yoongi because he stood outside his parked car. The baseball cap was back, and he wore a long sleeve t-shirt with tight ripped jeans. How could he look so simple yet so attractive?

As you got closer, Yoongi opened the passenger door for you. You mumbled a soft “thank you” and scooted inside. The panic was slowly starting to set in once Yoongi took his seat behind the wheel and you realized that the two of you were stuck in a confined space together.

“So, Jesse’s at home…” Yoongi broke the silence as he started the car. “Where do you wanna go? Or do you just wanna drive?”

“Tillis Park?” It was a nice day and you imagined sitting at a picnic table talking to Yoongi would feel less like a date than if you went to a coffee shop, and at least it would let you have some space and fresh air.

The two of you didn’t speak again on the ride there, Yoongi letting a hip-hop playlist cycle through instead of forcing you to sit in complete silence. You remembered going on drives with Jess and Yoongi, back when they were okay with having you tag along with them on their outings. Yoongi was always so kind to you, never once complaining that you were with them, even once he and Jesse were in college and you were just a dumb highschooler. You never went anywhere in particular, just drove around with the windows down in the warm summer air and shouting along to your favorite songs. You saw life in rose-colored glasses, never imagining anything could get more complicated than agreeing on what radio station to play.

Now, you sat in a brand new Bentley, not the beat up Toyota Yoongi used to drive. No longer did you sink into beer-stained fabric seats nor did you crank down the windows for fresh air to escape the smell of marijuana that permeated Yoongi’s car. Now, your bare thighs pressed into black leather seats and the air that filtered through the vents smelled like Yoongi’s cologne, woody, bergamot and pepper. 

Yoongi pulled into the parking lot of the park and the two of you got out of the car. You picked a trail and followed it, appreciating the quiet sounds of nature and the distant laughter of children at the playground on the other side of the park grounds. Unsurprisingly, he was the one to break the silence. 

“You’re a lot shyer in person than I imagined,” he admitted, biting his bottom lip in a smirk as he watched you look everywhere except at him. “Didn’t imagine you’d be Jesse’s little sister, though.”

If only Harlow was there to help you work through this conversation because you had no idea how to respond to this man. You gestured towards a picnic table and sat down, Yoongi choosing to sit opposite of you, forcing you to look at him.

“I don’t know what you expect out of me in this situation,” you sighed, staring down at the picnic table. It was covered in drawings, and hearts with couple’s initials and anniversary dates on them.

“Do I make you nervous, sweetheart?” Yoongi spoke low and leaned closer to you by resting his elbows on the table. He held your gaze and watched your mouth fall open when he called you the pet name he’d used so many times over the phone. Just that alone was enough to spark a fire in your stomach; seeing the person behind the voice and the name was kicking your body into overdrive. He was so hot…

“You are my brother’s best friend,” you sternly reminded, more for yourself than for Yoongi.

“So?” He switched his baseball cap around to face backwards as he leaned even more into your personal space across the table. 

“So we’ve crossed a line we shouldn’t have!” Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you might pass out. “If I had known it was you, I wouldn’t have kept this up. I’m sorry if you feel your privacy has been violated. Especially since you had to pay for it.”

You knew what your brother’s best friend sounded like when he came. You practically had his moans and the sound of him jacking off memorized. Just thinking about it was enough to make your pussy throb.

“Knowing it was you this whole time doesn’t change the fact that I loved it,” Yoongi pressed on. “If anything, it’s made it a whole lot better.”

The lip bite and far too obvious smirk were back again and you felt frozen under his gaze as he looked you over. Hearing that affirmation had your stomach twisting in knots, but you had to fight it. You couldn’t let your desires overtake you, even with Yoongi teasing you like that.

“Yoongi… Why don’t you have a girlfriend or someone to hook up with? Why are you still talking to me?”

“You know how busy I was. I didn’t have time for a relationship.” Yoongi leaned back, giving you personal space once more. And you did know. “I made the account as a joke with my friends, but when I talked to you I realized I actually liked it.”

There was no denying the chemistry between the two of you, and beyond just sex. You genuinely enjoyed his company, and you felt he had, too.

“You made me feel comfortable and it didn’t feel like you were just getting money out of me. I felt like I could tell you anything and you wouldn’t judge me. Not that many people have been supportive of my music journey, so it was nice to have someone to talk about it with. I don’t know, maybe that was lame of me,” he continued.

Yoongi shrugged and you knew talking about his feelings in real life made him uncomfortable. “But you’re funny, and kind, and I felt like you were real with me when you talked about your life, too.”

“You always remembered the things I told you…” you said softly. He nodded, arms crossed against his chest.

“Of course. I cared. Even if I didn’t know who you were, you still felt real. And now I know why.” A small smile cracked his tough expression, and he shook his head in an effort to make it go away. “Jesse might be my best friend but you’re my favorite out of the two of you.”

“Yeah because Jess is a pain in the ass.”

The two of you snickered at each other, the tension dying down a bit.

“Are we cool now? Or are you gonna keep acting awkward around me for the rest of your life?”

Yoongi stood and stuck out his hand to help you up. You shivered at the warmth of his skin and the metal of his rings pressed against your fingers. Were you cool now? Could you live the rest of your life with the memories and attraction that came with your brother’s best friend?

You honestly didn’t think so, but you couldn’t tell him that. So you nodded and walked with him back to the car. Yoongi sat in the driver’s seat but didn’t turn on the car. Instead he kept his eyes on you, shoulder leaned into the seat and head rested back.

“Are you ready to tell me the truth now?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not cool with this. You’re being awkward.”

You wanted to say, no shit Sherlock. Didn’t take a detective to see that. 

“It’s awkward, Yoongi! How can you not think it’s awkward?” You pressed your fingers to your temples and tried to figure out how to explain the butterflies in your stomach. “We… Every time I look at you… Ugh, Yoongi, how the fuck am I supposed to hang out with you and Jesse and Harlow without thinking about you masturbating?!”

Yoongi shrugged, unphased by your mini outburst and straightforwardness. He was always so unbothered, such a stark contrast to your brother. “You’ll get over it eventually. You’ll forget about it.”

“I can’t,” you insisted and dropped your hands into your lap in defeat.

“You can’t forget? Or you don’t want to forget?” He leaned forward with his eyes narrowed, watching your face intently.  

You felt your mouth go dry, and the swallow you tried to push down got caught in your throat. You knew exactly what he meant, but you couldn’t be the one to say it.

“No one has to know,” Yoongi said softly. “Your secret’s safe with me, sweetheart.”

He was referring to the secret of your phone sex history, so why did you feel like there was something else lying beneath his words? The way his eyes fell to your lips and how his forearm leaned against the center console to allow him to sit closer to you made you question if you were agreeing to keep only one secret. 

“You can’t keep calling me sweetheart.” 

“Why not? Does it make you feel some type of way?” Yoongi watched you with round, unsuspecting eyes. He lifted a hand to cup your face and ran his thumb over your lips, dragging down the corner of your mouth to force your lips to part. 

“Honestly, it does.” There was no point lying to him; he already knew more intimate pieces of you than pretty much everyone you knew. 

Yoongi tightened his hold on your chin and pulled you forward, the two of you close enough for you to feel his breath warm on your skin. 

“How about you come over here and let me make you feel something more?” He let go of your chin and leaned back into his seat once again.  

It was so bold of him to not give a fuck about your brother, but you had to remind yourself that you were an adult. You could do whatever the fuck you wanted. If Yoongi was willing to be your little secret, what excuse did you have not to pursue what you’d always fantasized about? 

With a silent ‘fuck it’ chanting in your brain, you climbed over the center console and straddled Yoongi’s lap. The abrupt closeness of your bodies made your stomach drop and your breath get caught in your throat as you stared into his lidded eyes. Even though you knew the intimate side of him from AfterDark, it still felt odd to be sitting in the lap of Min Yoongi, your childhood crush, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders and his hands on your hips.  

You tightened your arms around Yoongi’s shoulders and leaned against him. With your chests together and your thighs squeezing his legs, you pressed your lips into his. Immediately, Yoongi sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking against it. The kiss was deep and warm. Everything about Yoongi was warm, from his large hands squeezing your hips to the feel of his thighs against yours. His teeth gently captured your tongue, tugging a bit before he wrapped his lips around it, sucking. You moaned and felt him smirk as his hands dropped down to squeeze your ass. 

“Not shy anymore, huh?” He hiked up your skirt until it sat around your waist, fully exposing the white lace underwear you wore underneath. The hand he slipped between your thighs from behind was smooth. “Mhmm, already so wet for me.” 

Pulling your underwear to the side, Yoongi toyed with your entrance for a moment. You found yourself grinding against his hand, chasing his fingers when he refused to give you what you wanted. 

“Yoongi,” you blurted out, lips brushing against his. The complaint you were going to send his way was cut short when he sent a stinging slap against your pussy. The startling action caused you to squeeze him tighter and crush your chest into him. 

“Nuhh uhh, sweetheart. You don’t do anything unless I let you.” He shot you a cocky look. “Understand?” 

You nodded your head and eased back down. “Yes, daddy.” 

A low groan rumbled from Yoongi’s throat and his eyes closed for a moment at the pet name you’d remembered he liked so much. 

“Good.” 

He returned to sliding his fingers through your hot folds, gliding around the sweet spot of your clit. Those long fingers weren’t just there for show; Yoongi expertly circled and tweaked your clit as you did your best to stay completely still. Your walls clenched when he gently dragged his nails along the sides of your clit, and you let your face nestle in the crook of his neck to hold yourself steady. 

Despite your efforts of calming your breathing, your legs began to shake as your arousal started leaking against the inside of your thighs. There was a smirk in Yoongi’s soft laugh when he noticed you struggling to keep your promise. 

“Yoongi, please,” you finally whined against his neck. “Touch me, please.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” 

“Inside me! I can’t take it anymore.” 

Without another word, you felt Yoongi plunge two fingers inside of you, immediately curling and pressing into your walls to find your g-spot. He pumped into you with the same slow, unbothered tempo he’d fingered you with. The pace made your body ache with need, desperately wanting him to go harder and faster. 

But he wanted to make you beg even more. 

You ached to ride his fingers until you finally reached your release, but he’d made it clear that you’d end up even further from what you wanted if you misbehaved. Still, you were ragged in your breathing against his neck. You dared to take off his hat, tossing it into the passenger seat so you could dig your fingers into his blonde locks. 

“What did I tell you?”

You wanted to scream when you felt him remove his fingers from you and smear your wetness against your thigh. Another slap to your pussy provoked a strangled yelp that you pressed into the skin of his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” you whined. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“You were never this difficult on the phone.” Yoongi sunk three fingers into your pussy to the knuckle, his rings cold against your skin, stretching you out just how he wanted. 

“It’s… It’s different with you… physically here,” you panted as Yoongi picked up the pace, pumping his fingers into you hard enough that you rocked against his chest. “Oh fuck, Yoongi.” Your mind could barely comprehend the fact that this was real, not just another lame DBoy93 fantasy you made up when you were lonely at night. The shake of your thighs, the wobbliness of your legs, the white stars you saw as you finally came on his fingers were all real. 

“Finally, I get to hear you say my name. And you sound so pretty moaning it,” he hummed against your neck, finally pulling his fingers out of you.  

His words had your body buzzing with validation. You slowly eased back down to fully sit on his lap, making a mess of his jeans as you pressed right on top of the large bulge in his pants. His perpetually unbothered gaze was now sharp and intentional, looking straight into your eyes as though he were trying to read something inside you. 

“Do you remember what I told you?” you whispered in his ear, flicking your tongue against his earlobe. You squeezed his shoulders and grinded into his lap. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that his moans were even better in person.

Yoongi’s eyebrows came together in thought, head leaned back against the headrest of his seat while he stared at you in confusion. 

“I wanna taste your cock.”

“F-Fuck, yeah okay.” 

He adjusted his seat to give you room to ease between his legs. Thankfully, Yoongi’s car had heavily tinted windows and the park wasn’t busy. You lifted yourself up slightly to allow him to undo his jeans, pulling them down enough for you to gain access to the one thing you’d been looking forward to the most. 

“Like what you see?” 

You’d spent a few seconds too long rolling your palm around the head of his cock, admiring the glisten of precum on his soft skin and practically salivating. None of that was lost on Yoongi who shot you that classic smirk you’d never thought you’d ever be on the receiving end of. 

“Maybe I do.” Rather than be embarrassed, you licked your lips and took a hold of his shaft. He leaned his head against the headrest of the chair and closed his eyes when you rubbed the tip over your lips. 

“You taste so good,” you whispered before slowly sucking your lips around his head. The way Yoongi squeezed the sides of his seat and the quickened pace of his stomach rising and falling beneath his t-shirt was all the response you needed from him. 

You hollowed your cheeks and took him inch by inch until your eyes watered. You followed the flow of moans coming from the blonde-haired man as you established a consistent rhythm of gliding your mouth up and down his cock. Every time he hit the back of your throat you gagged, reaching up to twist your fingers into the hem of his t-shirt to steady yourself. You felt the muscles of his abs contract beneath your fingers, and he eventually took a hold of your jaw to ease you off of him when the fluttering of his stomach became too much. 

“Please tell me you’re on the pill,” Yoongi finally choked out, heavy eyes taking you in. “I can’t get my best friend’s little sister pregnant.” His breathing came out shaky and a few strands of his bleached blonde bangs were sticking to the side of his forehead. 

How were you about to have car sex right now? There was something that felt so high school about the whole thing. Like two teenagers sneaking around. 

“I am,” you said in an equally shaky breath. The pulsing ache of arousal that coursed through you was almost unbearable, even though you’d already orgasmed once. Climbing back into his lap, you grinded against his cock, mixing your saliva and arousal.  Running his nails down the length of your thighs, Yoongi scratched into you harder the faster you rubbed him against you.

You gripped his shoulders as you eased yourself onto his cock. The stretch wasn’t considerable, but you thanked Yoongi’s efficient three-finger prepping for that. Breathing out of your mouth, you pressed your lips against the side of Yoongi’s neck. You went slow, careful not to hit your head on the ceiling of his car. 

“Fuck, Y/N…” The hiss that Yoongi let out was a sound much different than what you’d heard on the phone, and the greedy part of you wanted to know what else you could get out of him that you hadn’t been able to before. “You feel better than I imagined.” 

You wanted to ask him if he meant he’d fantasized about fucking you from AfterDark or if it had started when you were in college, but you couldn’t possibly form a coherent thought. 

His hands reached around to grab your ass as you began to bounce on his cock. You allowed him to take control of your movements, adjusting your angle on his cock to hit your g-spot when he felt you jolt the first time. 

“Oh my god, right there, stay right there Yoongi,” you moaned into his neck. You couldn’t lie, your legs were starting to get tired and each jolt through your walls and into the pit of your stomach made your legs shake even harder. 

“Hold on a second.” He clearly took notice because soon he was using one hand to adjust his seat, giving him room to lean back a bit more than before. “Just relax, okay?” With his feet firmly planted on the floor, Yoongi began to thrust into you from below. You wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned against his chest as he took over. With the force he was putting into fucking you, it was a given that your thighs would be sore and bruised by the next day, but fuck was it worth it. 

“Yoongi, fuck, Y-Yoongi,” you shuddered in his arms, biting hard into his shoulder as you felt the pleasure he was giving you build up until you felt you were going to break in half. 

“Shit, Y/N, you got fucking sharp teeth.” Yoongi’s laugh dissolved into a deep moan when he felt you clench around him. Like the gentleman he was, he continued to fuck you while you came, only reaching his release once you’d stopped convulsing in his lap. 

You leaned your forehead against his collarbone, breathing hard. “I think I’m too old to be doing this,” you panted. “I don’t think I can get up from this position.” 

It was highly likely that Min Yoongi’s airy laugh would be your downfall one day. 

He looked at you with that gummy smile you’d remembered from before he left to become something of himself. “I could probably drive like this.” 

Such a stupid, cocky comment made you roll your eyes and slowly lift up from his lap. You grimaced as his cum leaked out of you, spilling onto his jeans and the seat. “Ugh, I’m sorry, that’s so gross.” 

“It’s whatever.” An unbothered shrug. “I’m the one who did it, right? It’s my fault.” 

The drive back home almost felt like the old days, back when Yoongi was someone you looked up to, someone you’d thought had life all figured out. The two of you fought over which Taylor Swift album to blast (Lover; you won) and when Yoongi stopped for gas he brought you back the blue slushie he knew you used to like. 

For a short drive you could imagine your life was supposed to have led you here, that destiny may have finally given you a shot at something good. 

That is, until Yoongi pulled up to your apartment complex and the last person you wanted to see was standing at your door. 

“Shit,” Yoongi cursed, putting the car into park. “I thought Jesse had to go to work.” 

Hopefully driving back home with the windows down had aired out the smell of sex in Yoongi’s car because Jess was now making his way over to you. You gave Yoongi a horrified look, but he merely shook his head. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“How the fuck am I not supposed to-” You were cut off by Yoongi rolling down your window to let Jesse talk through it. 

“What the fuck have you guys been doing? I called both of you.” He peered inside with a classic Jesse look of irritation. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Yoongi lean against the steering wheel, likely hiding his cum-stained jeans from Jesse’s view. 

“You and Y/N are both so annoying, you know that?” Yoongi started, lazily drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. You couldn’t understand how he easily pulled off such nonchalant behavior. “Your family genes run strong.” 

You shot Yoongi a glare at the same time Jess did, as if to prove his point. 

“We went for a drive without you. I wanted to see how jealous you’d get.” 

Jesse scoffed at Yoongi’s confession, but his arrogance took the bait. “You’re an idiot. Y/N’s got you listening to Taylor Swift. Clearly you need me.” You decided silence was the best option here, letting Yoongi and Jess bicker for a bit longer before you finally worked up the courage to get out of the car. 

“Umm, it’s so fun listening to you guys argue like a married couple, but I have things to do,” you piped up, unbuckling yourself. You shooed Jess out of the way to open the car door, quickly closing it behind you. Leaning into the open window, you gave Yoongi a small smile. “Thanks for the slushie.” 

Yoongi swept his hair back from his forehead and slipped his baseball cap on backwards again, the way you liked it. “No problem, sweetheart.” 

You froze, your cheeks immediately heating up. 

“What the fuck?” Jesse bristled, pushing you out of the way to stick his head in Yoongi’s car. 

“Jess, did you realize you’d put on your shirt inside out and backwards?” Yoongi turned his key in the ignition as Jesse looked down at his t-shirt. Only to find that his shirt was perfectly fine. 

“Fuck you,” Jess called out as Yoongi put the car in reverse. 

“See you at home, bro!” 

You and Jesse watched Yoongi pull out of the parking lot, Jesse full of mumbled curses. As you led him up the stairs to your apartment, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling at the cleverness of it all. Sure, Jesse would probably bother Yoongi about what he said later, but now you were confident that Yoongi could hold his own. You, though. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to handle whatever Jesse and Harlow threw your way, as you were sure they’d have plenty of questions for their own reasons. 

And what about you and Yoongi? 

You were absent-minded as Jesse blabbered to you about whatever drama was happening at work, the two of you lounging in your living room like always. What would you do the next time Jesse invited you and Harlow to hang out with him and Yoongi? What would happen to DBoy93? How were you going to let this go? 

The buzz of your phone vibrating in your lap brought your attention back to the real world. You flipped it over to view the new text message, still vaguely listening to your brother. 

[Yoongi] i’m coming over next time. pretty sure my seats are permanently stained

Next time. 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

You rolled your eyes at Jesse, hiding your smile behind a fake yawn. “You are boring.” 

With a snort he continued on his monologue, leaving you to reread Yoongi’s text over and over again. Next time. 

After a two-week long hiatus from AfterDark, you eventually let the company know that you needed to pause your account for a bit. In the past week, you’d attempted to do six different sessions, all to have each of them end with unsatisfied customers and an even more unsatisfied you. 

“He ruined you, oh my god. You can’t have phone sex with anyone else anymore ‘cause he ruined you.” 

“Shhh, Harlow, shut up!” 

“They can’t hear us, it’s way too loud in here.” 

You and Harlow spoke between clamped teeth out the side of your mouths. The two of you sat at a table in the new arcade bar that had just opened up down the street from your apartment. She was probably right; the trashy pop music and the sound of drunk laughter was loud enough to make it somewhat difficult for even you and Harlow to hear each other. On top of that, the sounds of the arcade games rang through the bar like sirens. 

Jess and Yoongi stood at the basketball game machine - no surprise there. Growing up, if the two of them weren’t bickering or getting intoxicated, they were trying to beat each other in every sport on the damn planet. While Jesse’s game was making all kinds of noise, Yoongi had developed a smooth rhythm. The basketball hit the back of the board and swished through the net with the same beat and accuracy every time. You watched the curves of his biceps as he gripped the ball, preparing his shot, before flicking his wrist and letting it go. Each movement was so fluid and effortless you couldn’t help but stare. Because, sure, that was the only reason why you were staring. 

Yoongi must have gotten the feeling you were looking at him because he turned to stare back at you with the basketball wound up in his hands. The gummy smile he flashed you was sweet, except for the way he pulled the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth. With a wink, he turned back to the game and scored his last shot before the machine announced that the game was over.

The pulse that rippled through your body, straight to your core, was inappropriate and unavoidable. 

Of course he won. 

“Y/N,” Harlow began, but you cut her off. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you grumbled around your straw, sucking hard on what was probably your third vodka cran. You’d immediately told Harlow about fucking Yoongi in his car the moment you could, but as the last two weeks went on without another sight of Yoongi… You were slowly having a bitter taste in your month. This was the first time you’d seen him since going to the park. You’d texted a little bit, but he was busy with securing his new condo, and both of you were settling into your new jobs (because, yes, you’d finally gotten that new job). Funny how the world worked. 

Despite your frustrations, every word he spoke had you clinging onto his cadence; every move he made had you floating behind him. Harlow’s firm fingers wrapped around your wrist were the only things grounding you. 

You reminded yourself every time Yoongi looked at you that this was not a date. The four of you used to hang out together all the time. There was nothing different now. 

“Are you guys going to actually play any games or are you just gonna sit and get drunk?” Jesse crossed his arms against his chest and stared down at you and Harlow as if he was the most intimidating guy in the world. But he’s wearing jorts, so… 

“Leave us alone.” Your grumbles aren’t just for Harlow tonight, and you avoid Yoongi’s gaze even though you know he’s only looking at you. 

Harlow placed her now empty cup a bit too hard on the table and hopped up. “I wanna play a game with you, Jess! That zombie shooting one we saw earlier. You’re not scared, are you?” 

Jesse scoffed, rolling his shoulders how he does when he’s trying to look impressive. “I’ll kick your ass, little girl.” 

“Go easy on him, Harlow. I just kicked his ass and his ego is hurting,” Yoongi smirked, just barely dodging a flying fist from Jesse that all four of you knew would have hurt like a bitch. 

“You don’t want to come?” Jess stopped in his tracks to frown at Yoongi. Of course Jess didn’t care if you joined in. 

“Nah, I wanna get a drink. I’ll make sure Grumpy over here doesn’t take the car and leave us stranded.” 

You feel your stomach churn as you watch Jesse and Harlow race towards the zombie shooter games on the other side of the arcade, leaving you alone with Yoongi. Harlow nearly collides with a group of what you assume are college kids, and Jesse scoops her by the waist to pull her out of the way. When had the two of them become so friendly? You weren’t sure when you’d stopped paying attention, and a bit of guilt rakes at your insides. 

Why was it okay for your brother to be into your best friend, but you couldn’t be into his? 

“Hi sweetheart.”

You turned your head to watch Yoongi sit down next to you. He spread his legs in his seat, knocking one of his knees into yours. That act alone was enough to send sparks through you; it was rather pathetic. 

“Hi,” you said back after a moment, willing yourself to not stare at his eyes or his lips. His nose would have to do. 

“Not having fun on our double date?”

It was your turn to scoff now. “This is not a date.” 

“Isn’t it?” Yoongi pulled his knee back, just to let it knock against yours again. The force made your leg move inward before falling back on his. “We went to dinner, got drinks, now we’re playing games together. You’re wearing a really cute dress. I’m wearing my nice jeans. What else am I missing?” 

He watched you with sparkling eyes, though you weren’t sure if that was simply because he’d had a few shots with Jesse earlier in the night. He was wearing his nice jeans, though. Not a hole in sight. And he looked especially good with his hair parted down the middle, his bangs framing his face and exposing his forehead. He’d dyed it dark again, probably for work, though you hadn’t asked and he hadn’t said anything about it. 

“We always used to do stuff like this,” you mumbled, looking away from him. 

“Hmm, you’re right. But there’s a pretty significant difference now.” 

“I guess so.” You looked away quickly, feeling your face heat up. 

Yoongi chuckled at your response, but he didn’t push you further. Instead, he slipped his hand in yours. “Wanna go play skee-ball?” 

Before you knew it he was interlacing his fingers with his and pulling you up. His hand was warm against your skin, but you already knew it would be. The feel of his skin against yours made your heart flutter and your body remember the last time he’d touched you, where those long fingers had been. Perhaps Yoongi’s body dwelled on those memories, too, because he gave your hand a tight squeeze. 

Years of being your brother’s best friend meant Yoongi knew skee-ball was your favorite arcade game, but it was quickly clear that the classic arcade game would have to wait for another day. Rather than lead you to the game, Yoongi pushed you against the side of Ms. Pac-Man, causing the machine to shake. One hand slid down to grip your hip, keeping you pushed backwards so he could slip his leg in between your thighs. His other hand moved to cup your jaw. 

“I’ve been going crazy thinking about you.” His voice dropped low, eyes focused on your now parted lips as you struggled to calm your breathing. Your foreheads pressed against each other. 

“Really?” 

Sure, he’d said there would be a “next time”, but you’d assumed Yoongi would just call you up whenever he wanted to get off. Wasn’t that the agreement you’d had before? He wasn’t really interested, like you were. He hadn’t developed a crush on an unknown voice, like you had. 

He stared at you for a moment with his mouth open as though he were about to speak, but decided against it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and slotted his lips against yours. Your tongues twirled together, flicking at each other’s tips, before venturing out to explore your mouths. Yoongi sighed deeply into the kiss at the same time his hand reached down to grab your bare thigh and glide upwards beneath your dress. The action made your dress hike up slightly, though Yoongi made sure none of you was exposed. You were in public, after all. 

“Yoongi,” you gasped once he pulled away. His cheeks were flushed pink and there was no trace of smugness or apathy in his expression as there had been at the park. No, Yoongi stared at you with stars dancing in his eyes, and it wasn’t just the lighting from the arcade games. 

“Yeah?”

“What about Jess?” 

You still felt your stomach twisting into knots, and you kept trying to look over Yoongi’s shoulder in case you saw someone. A gummy smile on his face wasn’t at all what you’d expected. 

“Fuck Jesse! I don’t care.” Yoongi ducked down to press a hot kiss against your throat and you let out a shaky moan. Shit, you hoped nobody would round the corner looking to play Ms. Pac-Man, or they’d be in for a surprise. 

“I like you, Y/N. I want you,” Yoongi practically groaned. “It was my idea to invite you and Harlow. I just wanted to finally see you. It’s fine if you’re not into it, but, fuck, I don’t know.” 

With trembling hands, you cupped the sides of his face and brought him back to your eye level. “I’m into it,” you said with a small, nervous laugh, repeating his words back to him. You were starting to learn that Yoongi was such a guy. 

“Thank god.” He smashed himself against you once again, kissing you with more force than before and grinding his leg in between your thighs. 

Just as you were about to wrap your arms around his neck, you heard a voice that sent fear shooting ice through your veins. 

“Min Yoongi, what the fuck.” 

Your eyes shot open and you quickly let go of Yoongi, dropping your arms straight to your sides. Fucking hell. You were about two deep breaths away from puking all over Yoongi’s sneakers. 

He moved a bit slower than you did. Yoongi took his time stepping away from you and turning to look your brother in the face. A face that was very distorted in a state of shock, confusion, and maybe a little bit of horror? Harlow stood beside him holding a pink giraffe you’d never seen before, her eyes wide as could be. 

“Yes?”

“Yes? Yes? Bro, I catch you making out with my sister and that’s all you can say?” Jesse didn’t even bother looking at you, and you’re not sure if that pisses you off more or not. 

“Oh come on, man. She’s an adult. She can do whatever she wants.” Yoongi rolled his eyes. 

“Sure, but I’m not letting you fuck her over. Did you forget we went to college together??” 

Harlow tugged at Jesse’s shirt sleeve, silently commanding his attention and breaking him off of the lecture you and Yoongi were about to experience. What you’d initially thought was anxiety in her wide eyes was slowly warping into… anger? 

“What?” 

“Jess, you are such a fucking hypocrite!” Harlow stomped her foot and you couldn’t help but think she looked like a toddler protesting bedtime. 

“Harlow…” 

“No, shut up!” Harlow turned towards where you’d silently bit your bottom lip into nonexistence and prayed everyone would just disappear. “Y/N, we hooked up! Okay! I didn’t tell you because you had everything going on with Yoongi and I didn’t want to seem like I was trying to one up you or steal your thunder or whatever, but me and Jess hooked up after you and Yoongi did!” 

None of this was a surprise; at least, not to you. Yoongi stood with his mouth hanging open like he was trying to collect bugs. 

“Did you know that?” You jabbed Yoongi in the arm, but he furiously shook his head. 

“Wait a second, you fucked my sister?” Jesse’s voice was rising nearly as fast as your cortisol levels. 

“You’re fucking my friend, so why the fuck are you freaking out about what I’m doing?!” You marched up to your brother, jabbing him in the chest this time. “I don’t care if you like Harlow! She’s been thirsting over you for years! But how can you yell at me??” 

Jesse swatted you away like a gnat. “I didn’t yell at you. I yelled at the jackass over there.” 

“Learned it from the best.” Yoongi snorted, fists shoved into the pockets of his jeans. 

“Can we all just chill out, please? We are making this way more dramatic than it needs to be,” Harlow said with a sigh. “We’re also screaming about having sex and it’s embarrassing.” 

The four of you stared at each other with guilty gazes, knowing you’d all acted like idiots. 

“I think we should leave… The bouncers are probably gonna think we’re gonna start a brawl and kick us out.” You earned a few small chuckles from the other three and it was enough to break the heavy tension. 

Yoongi slipped his arm around your waist and pulled you tight against his side. Jesse’s eyes briefly caught yours, but you looked down quickly. You didn’t have the emotional capacity to continue with his obnoxiousness anymore tonight. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we?” Yoongi jingled his keys, so graciously offering to drive now that he’d gotten his car detailed and there were no more cum stains on his front seats. 

Harlow dragged Jess forward, shooting you a small smile as she wove him through the arcade games towards the exit. With the two of them further ahead of you, Yoongi ducked down to kiss you. His lips moved slow and deep against yours, gently grazing his teeth against your bottom lip before pulling away. 

“I’m dropping Jess off at his place first, then Harlow at yours. And then you’re helping me break in my new condo,” Yoongi said with a wink and his tongue in his cheek. “Think you can handle that, sweetheart?” 

“Oh shut up, D-Boy.” Your grin told Yoongi all he needed to know.

[iogutwsm]

Komorebi 木漏れ日

the beauty and wonder of rays of light dappling through overhead leaves, casting dancing shadows on the forest floor.

{cr. namuspromised}

[iogutwsm]

250507 Hobi Weverse Live → "That's right, I'm happiest on the stage. I don't need anything else, that's when I'm the happiest."

[iogutwsm]

some yoongi gifs until he comes back home (47/?)

[iogutwsm]

JIMIN x spring day ↳ requested by anon via ko-fi 💜