ohnaurshayla

[ohnaurshayla]

Per se. — Lee Jihoon

part of my milestone event

Sent by @shinysobi idk emoji but "I shall worship from distance, slyly attach by estrangement/ The bond that leaves no mark" (mayabono biharini horini) by rabindranath tagore for woozi

may u get 50k more

I’ve been unwell ever since I read the verse and decided to look into the poem. I hope I did justice to both the verse and your ethereal brain 💜 thank you for blessing my inbox, and may we all be witnessed like this someday 🥹 — also, I hope you know, I love you and admire you and respect your hard work. You're the best !!

Genre: Non-idol au, melancholic romance, slice of life, low-key (?) angst, slow burn

Pairing: Jihoon × fem!reader

Content: Yearning, mutual pining, mutual emotional distance, greenhouse fieldwork, university conservation project, nature and plant symbolism (wildflowers, basil, thyme, peonies), botany metaphors, introspective tone, springtime countryside, emotionally suppressed jihoon, reserved love, ceramic charm/flute symbolism, journal confessions, missed timing, no physical romance (but emotionally full), soft goodbye, unsent love letter (?), Tagore-inspired, low-stakes bittersweet romance

Warnings: No explicit content or smut, no violence, no abuse, emotional ache and themes of loneliness, not shown heartbreak, mutual but unfulfilled love, low-key melancholy, bittersweet ending, emotionally guarded characters, implied long-term grief, lingering attachment

Word count: 1,848 words

To that end, he had loved her from afar; a sentinel guarding a bond he had dared not name. Not for lack of courage, per se, but because some things, like wildflowers in an untended garden bloomed better unpicked.

It was early spring in a sleepy town near Gyeongju, where the mountains wore tones of moss and pale jade, and the wind still held the bite of winter in its fragrance. The air trembled with a stillness that usually comes after a war—or before a confession. Jihoon wouldn’t know.

She had keys to the greenhouse they both worked in, dangling on a worn lanyard that bore his initials. She always forgot hers. So it goes.

They weren’t lovers, in truth. Not even by definition. Just two volunteers for their university conservation project, tending to heirloom herbs and medicinal plants. Cataloging notes, discussing pollination and drying techniques, sharing thermoses of citron tea, laughing over cafeteria cuisine that never quite hit the mark. But all the while, he loved her.

Brushing dirt off a spade, his fingers grazed hers. Her always so close, so sunlit smile, never stayed long enough for him to catch. Yet she stayed. In between rows of thyme and peonies, beside morning dew, in the warm hush of shared silences.

He watched her with the reverence one saves for a doe crossing an open field, head held high, every step unknowingly sacred. She wasn’t beautiful in the way magazines promised, but in the way old songs whisper: music heard once, remembered evermore. He supposed it was foolish to string unsent messages into constellations and wait for her to look up. But thus, he endured. Perhaps love was made of perseverance more than bravery.

And he was tired. To be clear — not of her. But of everything else, e.g., of carrying this ephemeral ache of guarding an illusion-filled devotion with no place to land. Still, she laughed with him under the sunshine, handed him freshly picked green herbs with fingers stained by soil, and said his name like it meant something.

That was enough. Most days.

-

There were brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments wherein she’d linger at the edge of his shadow. Say things like, I wish I met you sooner, or You’re easy to be around, you know? Moments all but said, but never quite. Moments where he almost dared to believe she could love him back.

But Jihoon's love was a flute played in secret far from her ears.

A presence like dove feathers: barely there, and fragile as they come. And even if he gave her aught of himself, fully, what justice would it serve? Would it not crush the comfort they built for their own sanity in this insanity?

So he didn’t risk it to give it name, breath, or edges. He loved her not to be loved in return, but to simply love. That was the dream, and if it failed—if she left, or forgot him, or chose another—he’d accept it. He’d grieve quietly, offer her his best wishes, and continue tending to the garden like her footsteps still graced its soil.

He told himself that if he were rejected, it’d be alright. That it’s okay to fail. That even in vain, love had merit.

That perhaps, for what it’s worth, she would carry some trace of him, such as a leaf pressed in a book, the echo of his laugh in twilight. That would be enough.

Likewise, he would carry her scent in spring, her laughter in the sound of wind among trees, and her warmth in the worn ridges of his palm. She would remain—therein, within him. Unnamed, unburned, unbroken.

A bond that left no mark, but lived nonetheless.

Just a semester in the countryside. One research paper, maybe two. Fieldwork, they called it; perseverance in disguise. They didn’t warn you that peace could be so addictive, or that kindness could be silent and still hit. You meet Jihoon there with sunshine through fog—not in a rush, but in a glance that tinged too long. And somehow, his presence grows into ritual.

He always arrives before you with his hands deep in soil or sketching leaves with near-surgical precision with that tension in between his eyebrows. He never talks much unless you speak first. But you always do, because he actually listens, as if your words are okay even when they’re not clever or necessary.

You know, you say one day, brushing a smudge of green off your knuckles, you work like the plants are listening.

They are, Jihoon replies simply, not looking up, as though the earth demanded his full attention and he had no intention of denying it. You just need to speak in their language.

That’s how he is. Always half-afraid to look directly for some reason, always too gentle for a world that values noise over nuance. You don’t mind. In fact, you find comfort in the quiet symmetry of him: the way he tilts his head when you talk about nothing; how he leaves you your favorite tea without needing thanks; how he finds excuses to be near you—yet never too near to be crossing the invisible line he’s drawn and never explains.

There’s femininity in the way you love the world: open arms, open heart. But there’s dignity in the way he does: voiceless admiration, hands kept to himself. And you weirdly still feel it. Every unsaid thing, every thought that lodges behind his teeth and chooses, again and again, not to surface. And so, perhaps because you understand or perhaps because you simply choose to, you keep your own words tucked away too.

Do you think, you ask another day as you both kneel beside wild basil, that it’s possible to be… close to someone, and still not really know them?

He stops picking for a second, I think some people prefer to be known from a distance.

Why?

Because the closer you get, the more likely they’ll fall apart.

You don’t press him and just nod. You’d like to hold his hand, once. Not even in romance; just to prove to yourself the most that he’s real. But it feels like reaching out to touch a dove mid-flight. You’d rather let him fly than risk breaking his wings. So instead, you start writing again in your journal, in the margins of botany books, even on napkins. Words you can’t say to his face, because you, too, are learning the art of loving from afar.

I shall worship from distance, you scribble one night in the dim light of your rented room, slyly attach by estrangement—The bond that leaves no mark. [Mayabono biharini horini…]

And suddenly, you really understand the poem. You love Jihoon, maybe, or maybe you just love the way he makes the world feel slow. But you know this: your connection is real, albeit invisible. A thread spun of shared glances, unsaid words, and tones of silence.

-

You sit together on the edge of the garden as the twilight pulls the shadows long—long enough to make hearts say things they shouldn’t.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” you let it out into the air.

He just gives you a nod; nothing more.

“Are you… okay?”

“It’s just a change of season,” he says, half-smiling. “Plants survive that.”

“And people?”

“They try.”

You both laugh—sadly. You almost want to say something, but instead, you take a deep breath, and say, “you’ve been kind to me. I’ll miss this. You. Even if we don’t—stay in touch.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Likewise.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I can say… without breaking anything.”

That makes you still. So you stand, and place something in his palm; a small flute-shaped charm from the local night market. It's ceramic, fragile. Useless, really. But he’ll understand. “You don’t have to play it,” you murmur. “It’s not for music.”

“Then for what?”

“For what it’s worth,” you say, smiling, “just something to remember the quiet by.”

You lean forward, not a kiss, just the brush of your forehead against his—like justice for all the words you both refused to say. And then you walk away with your keys jingling. You don’t look back, not because you don’t want to, but because the bond never needed a goodbye.

The seasons turn without asking. The twilight comes a little later each day. The basil has gone to seed, the peonies have begun to droop, and she’s been gone… he’s not exactly counting, though, but the space she left behind is precise. It’s in the extra chair by the shed and the missing thermos on the ledge. The silence where her humming used to dance.

Jihoon doesn’t talk about it or tell the new volunteers she used to sit cross-legged on the stone path, whispering stories to the plants as if they were her old friends. He doesn't correct them when they call her that city girl who was always late but always smiling. He just keeps showing up early, just in case.

It’s a tired sort of afternoon as he steps into the old shed brushing dust from the doorknob, and notices something wedged between the loose slats of the workbench drawer. As he leans closer to it, he realises it's a folded piece of paper. A page from her journal, by the feel of it. His fingers hover over it—then go completely still.

He shouldn’t read it. It isn’t fair. It wasn’t meant for him. But thus he reaches, slowly. And unfolds eventually. And there, in her slanted handwriting:

“This is not a love letter. Not per se.

But if it were—

I’d tell you this:

That I loved you like a sunflower loves the sun it cannot reach.

That I saw you even when you wouldn’t let me.

That every moment felt like a memory before it was even over.

I shall worship from distance,

Slyly attach by estrangement—

The bond that leaves no mark.

And I will carry it quietly. Like you always did.”

He lets the paper rest against his chest, closing his eyes. The wind rattles the loose pane, as though urging him to speak. “You knew,” his lips barely moving as he whispers just to himself. “You always knew.”

And perhaps, that’s the only kind of closure people like them get. He walks out into the fading day, the garden humming with dusk. He takes the little flute-shaped charm she gave him from his pocket, still unplayed. He doesn’t play it, but sometimes he presses it to his lips as if it's a promise to her.

Years pass by. He's teaching now and that's botany, of course. Still quiet, still nice. Still too modest for his own good. But some days, someone will mention the word ‘love’ and he’ll look out the window and smile to himself.

He does it not because he’s moved on, but because some bonds do not fade no matter how much you try or want, and he doesn't want that. They simply stop blooming in the light, and remain, therein, like wild roots beneath the surface. Growing. Silent. Eternal. Evermore.

The story begins in third person past tense, from his perspective; the love that was. Midway, it shifts into second person present tense to bring you into her inner world; the moment of feeling it directly. The ending then moves into third person present from his perspective, reflecting how some emotions don’t fade with time but that they settle into the present, enduring; the enduring memory and trace.

✦ in fiction we trust. love, celeste ˶ᵔ⤙ᵔ˶ You may notice that this piece blends both tense and point of view in a slightly unconventional way — and that was intentional.

I chose this structure to mirror how memory works: how we look back, how we feel in the moment, and how some feelings never truly leave us. I never really use dividers in between sections of my fictions, but in this one I did. I felt like otherwise it might be confusing for some readers and decided to also add this note as a clarification of the structure.

⌦ 🕊️ © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[ohnaurshayla]

7 LETTERS OF LOVE ⭒ BTS [m. list]

through the challenges of military enlistment, seven men face the journey of separation, longing and reunion, bound together by a love that refuses to fade.

pairing — dom!bts x sub!femreader

genre — military enlistment au, established relationship, slice of life, domestic vibes, smut, fluff, angst

warnings — 18+, explicit sex scenes, mature themes, conflict and argument, grief, military enlistment anxiety, depression, post departure grief, separation, mental and physical pain, harmful coping mechanisms, sadness, mental health themes, smoking and drinking, each oneshot contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the dark and potentially triggering content)

a/n — this isn't an interconnected series, just seven completely different oneshots, all centered around the military enlistment theme. Each story has their own vibe and storyline! <3

taglist — [open]

status — ongoing

m. list

────୨ৎ────

⤷ back in your arms

in which jungkook returns from his military service to reunite with his girl, spending a passionate night filled with love and longing after their separation.

⤷ my love, until I return

in which you and taehyung share an emotional final day, filled with desperate love and physical connection, as you prepare for the pain of his impending military enlistment.

⤷ to be released.

⤷ to be released.

[ohnaurshayla]

MY LOVE, UNTIL I RETURN ⭒ KTH

in which you and taehyung share an emotional final day, filled with desperate love and physical connection, as you prepare for the pain of his impending military enlistment.

pairing — dom!taehyung x sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, slice of life, military enlistment, long distance relationship, heartbreak, smut, fluff, lots of angst, sad ending

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, hard dom!taehyung, possessive!taehyung, emotional intimacy, grief, military enlistment anxiety, physical closeness, shyness and vulnerability, possessive tenderness, music and dancing, promises and vows, love confessions, lots of crying, post departure grief, separation anxiety, assurances of love, they love each other so much i can't, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, cunnilingus, face riding, face sitting, cum swallowing, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, multiple sex scenes, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, lots of breast play, he is obsessed with her tits, nipple play, nipple sucking and biting, rough sex, missionary position, doggy, riding, gentle lovemaking, emotional sex, cockwarming, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, against the wall sex, cum play, overstimulation, making out, hickies/marking, bruising and scratching, spanking, shower sex, morning sex, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, cock sucking, face fucking, hair fisting, cum swallowing, power dynamics, body worship, loving aftercare

wc — 11k

a/n — i literally shed tears while writing this aaaa, i miss tae so much y'all! 😭

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

The mourning was inevitable, the regular smell of air in your apartment filled with the musky smell of Taehyung's cologne.

A scent you were so used to that it felt like a part of your own skin.

The sunlight casts a soft glow over the couch where you sat, its cushions filled with years of shared moments.

Taehyung was beside you.

His presence as always providing you comfort, yet it was painful.

His broad shoulders, usually confident, now hunched forward showing the weight that he was carrying.

His dark hair slightly messy and falling over his eyes, framing his face in a way that makes him look both boyish and mature.

His deep brown eyes usually having a playful spark or intensity, were clouded today with grief.

And a desperation.

The sight of him like this—beautiful, broken, and yours—makes your chest ache painfully.

With a fierce love.

You’re curled up beside him, legs tucked beneath you as your body instinctively seeks his warmth.

You wore one of his oversized white shirts, it felt warm and cozy along with the smell of him that clings to the shirt.

Enveloping you.

Reminding you of his impending departure.

Your hands rested in your lap, fingers twisting nervously—a habit developed from anxiety that didn’t leave you since he told you about his military enlistment six days ago.

Your heart felt like it's trapped.

A reminder.

Of the clock ticking and each minute slipping from you until he leaves.

Taehyung's deep voice soon breaks the silence.

“My love.” he murmurs.

The endearment spilled out of his mouth for you, making your breath catch.

He reached for your hand, fingers warm and calloused from years of hard work, his roughness softening just for you.

His hand slowly starts tracing slow comforting circles over your knuckles, making your lips part.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this.” he says.

Voice cracking slightly with emotion.

“A week left and all I can think about is how I wanna memorize every inch of you,” he breathes.

“I wanna carry you with me, sweet girl, so I don’t forget what it feels like to be whole.”

His words felt like a knife to your chest and tears well up in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Your cheeks warming beneath his attention as you finally lift your eyes to meet his, raw vulnerability in them.

Stealing your breath.

“tae…” you whisper.

Your voice trembles, biting your lower lip, trying to hold back the sob trying to escape.

He shifts closer, arm wrapping around your waist possessively.

The heat of his touch grounding you against the ache in your chest.

His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“I know my baby”

Voice steady for you despite the storm you know he is facing by looking at his eyes.

Wanting to stay strong for you.

His lips brush your forehead, lingering there.

Branding himself into your skin.

“I’m terrified too. The thought of being with you... fuck—it's like losing a part of myself,” he says.

“But I’m here now, hmm? I’m gonna love you so much, so completely, you’ll feel me even when I’m gone.”

His words felt like a lifeline and you lean onto him, head resting against his chest.

The steady beat of his heart matching your own.

That lulled you to sleep several nights.

Just imagining how you will sleep without it once he was gone brings tears back to your eyes.

You whimper shakily, causing his arms to tighten around you and you breathe in his cologne, clean male scent.

Your fingers clutched shirt.

Desperately clinging to him.

۶ৎ

The week before his departure has been full of emotions.

All moments shared close together, barely giving you any relief.

Mornings were spent tangled in bed as Taehyung's lips traced your sensitive skin—your neck, shoulder.

Especially the sensitive spot behind your ear, him knowing it makes you arch into him.

His constant whispers of “I love yous” and “you’re mine” surrounding you permanently.

Afternoons spent with quiet walks in your backyard garden, relishing each other's presence.

His hands never leaving yours, fingers holding yours tightly

Afraid you’ll slip away.

He tried to make things normal, you could feel it. His laughter, so rich and deep, comforting you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Taking away the pain of separation that will happen eventually, even for a little bit.

He wouldn’t leave your side even while cooking, staying by your side all the time while you prepared all his favorite meals.

Knowing he was gonna miss them when he's gone.

Heartfelt conversations and teasings would end up with heated kisses against the counter, his body pressed against yours, hands roaming all over you with hunger.

Never leaving a chance to not touch you.

But the nights—oh god, the nights.

It unraveled both of you in a way, desperation controlling you both.

The nights were a mix of touches and need.

Bodies speaking louder than words.

Each kiss and touch felt like a promise, a plea and a goodbye that will break you both.

And yet no amount of memorizing felt enough.

Not when the time constantly taunted you both.

۶ৎ

Taehyung pulls you closer, now in bed, arms tightening around you until there’s no space left.

His lips finding yours, gentle and soft, tasting you, tongue tangles with yours, slow and exploring every corner of your mouth.

Consuming you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rested against yours, both your breaths ragged, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

“My love,” he rasps.

“I need you to know something… for me, yeah? no matter where I am or how far apart we are, you're with me no matter what, always…”

“You’re in my very blood, my soul, and I’m gonna fight every day to come back to you, to hold you like this, and love you until we’re old and gray.”

His voice was gruff, laying his heart for you through his words.

“Do you hear me, hm, baby?”

His voice hitched, and you see his eyes glistening with tears.

A rare emotion, he hides so well.

He never cries.

But for you, he was a broken man.

You nod, throat too tight to speak, burying your face in his chest, tears soaking his shirt.

“I love you, taehyung.”

You sob, voice muffled.

“I’ll wait for you. I'll always wait for you.”

He holds you for what felt like hours and hours, the world fading.

Only the two of you.

All that existed was him, you, and the raw love you both shared for each other.

The love that you guys will have when he needs to go for his enlistment.

But for now, you clinged to the moment, soaking his warmth and his loving words, meant for you only.

Because you knew… that soon…

It will be all you have left.

۶ৎ

It's the day before Taehyung's departure.

The sky itself was gloomy today, the threat of rain mirroring the environment in your home.

The ache in your chest.

You stir awake in bed, body feeling heavy with what's about to come, the loss you're gonna face.

Your half lidded eyes opened slightly, only to find Taehyung already gazing at you.

He’s propped on one elbow, bare torso and hard muscles, his eyes holding yours with several emotions—love, hunger, and a quiet fury.

Anger at the time slipping away.

You’re curled up against him, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets, an usual act, hinting that the intimacy of such normality will be gone soon.

“Darling…”

His voice made your throat tighten.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek, calloused finger tracing your features.

A shiver goes down your spine.

“I want today to be ours.” he growls.

You let out a quiet whimper, tears welling in your eyes, but you held them back for the sake of both of you.

Wanting to make the most of today.

His dark eyes stared straight into your soul, getting to know all your feelings without you telling them.

“taehyung,” you crooned

“I don’t know how to let you go. I'm so scared.”

The words spilling out uncontrollably, raw and heartbreaking as tears started streaming down your face.

Against your will.

He immediately pulls you into his arms, hard chest pressing against you, and he fists your hair, holding you to him.

His hand slides to the small of your back, the heat of his touch seeping through you.

“Baby,” he hums.

“I’m terrified too. But I'm here now.”

Lips brushed over your jawline.

“I love you, sweet girl… more than anything”

۶ৎ

The day starts with each moment in a midst of needing to be close, imprinting the other's presence into memory.

Breakfast was quiet in the kitchen.

Taehyung was standing at the stove, broad shoulders relaxed as he flips the pancakes with a practiced ease.

He’s shirtless, only wearing sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing his masculine beauty.

Making your legs clench unknowingly.

You sit at the table, hands wrapping around a hot cup of coffee Taehyung made for you earlier.

Taehyung soon turns, a plate of crispy pancakes in hand, flashing you a warm smile.

A boxy smile that was now tinged with sadness.

That he tried his best to hide.

“Eat for me, love.” he orders.

His commanding voice slipped out of him, unknowingly.

Whenever he needs to take care of you.

He sets the plate before you, and drizzled some chocolate syrup over the pancakes, knowing by heart you like them like that.

He leans down, pecking your lips, your chest heaving at his care.

“I wanna see you smile today.” he demands.

You try, but the smile feels fake, something he notices.

He always does.

His eyes softened, and he sits across from you, knees touching yours under the table, teasing you.

His thumb strokes your palm, the simple touch sent a warmth through you, eyes meeting his, biting your bottom lip to control your emotions.

“tae…”

His grip tightens on you, eyes darkening.

“You don’t have to be strong, darling.” he coos.

“Fall apart if you need to. You know I'll always be here. Ready to catch you… always.”

The words felt like a vow, and before you know it, a tear spills down your cheeks.

He leans across the table, kissing the tear away, and you gasp, clinging to him.

His actions making you ache more.

And you realize you’ll ache forever.

Until he returns.

۶ৎ

After breakfast, his need to be close to you becomes overwhelming, and Taehyung suggests a shower.

Voice laced with desire.

Taehyung stepping in first in the spacious shower, and the sight of him under the water steals your breath.

The water streaming down his body, almost tracing his muscles, droplets cling to him, causing an insistent pulse between your legs.

His wet hair pressed to his forehead, and his eyes met yours, longing and lust in them.

He motions at you with a single finger.

“Come here.” he exhales, sharply.

You step into the shower, heart racing and the water now falling over you as well, soaking your shirt.

Making it see through for your man.

The sensation felt too much.

He pulls you against him, hands clutching your hips.

The water falling over you both, a warmth that shuts out the world.

You forget about everything.

Except him.

“You’re so beautiful…” he hums.

Lips brushed against your ear, naked chest pressing against yours, and his warm baritone makes your stomach flutter, eyes getting dilated.

“I wanna you feel good.” he purrs.

You huff, gripping his naked chest, nails digging into his skin.

His rough hands slide under your shirt, lifting it slowly, taking his time and making you impatient.

His hands roamed all over your body, gripping you wherever he wanted, and he finally tossed the shirt aside

It landed on the floor.

Leaving you bare for him.

The sudden exposure makes you shy, a flush warming your cheeks as you look away. Even after years of your relationship with him, the shyness never really faded.

But his gaze was unwavering, filled with so much adoration and love.

Your insecurities were gone.

“tae…” you whisper.

“You make me feel so…so seen.”

The words were vulnerable, and he responds with a hungry kiss, lips insistent, all tongue and teeth, claiming your mouth.

Almost like a feral animal taking his place.

The intensity made your knees weak as you cling to him while he practically eats your mouth.

The taste of him—clean, with a hint of the chocolate syrup from breakfast—flooding your senses, and you moan uncontrollably in his mouth.

“Mmm, tae…”

He swallows all your sounds with his tongue, his hands find your breasts, weighing them in his hands, loving the weight of them.

He always bragged about how your tits were the perfect size for him.

Made for his hands specifically.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, hardening them instantly under the touch, and the sensation was almost electric, a jolt of pleasure that goes straight to your pussy.

Your clit throbbing in need.

“Hah… oh, tae!”

You gasped, arching and pressing your breasts closer to him.

He groans lowly, thumbs connecting to your nipples, and he pinches your nipples lightly, rolling them between his fingers.

“Mhm, oh…oh…please—”

The combination of pain and pleasure made you pant.

“You’re always so sensitive… mm... I love it, baby.” he murmurs.

His lips brush against your collarbone while continuing to tease your nipples.

Water streamed over both of you, amplifying the sensation, the water acting like a slickness that leaves your mouth parted in ecstasy.

The water droplets slide down your skin, between your breasts, and Taehyung snarls at the sight.

Chasing the droplets with his tongue.

He finally decides to give you a bit of relief, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue flicking it in fast motions.

“Nghh, taehyung!” You cry out.

The wet heat of his mouth and tongue was almost overwhelming, your thighs trembled, pussy growing slick with arousal.

Your hands, desperate for him, slides down his body, tracing the hard planes of his chest and abs.

He exhales, humming his approval against your nipples, the vibrations have you trembling.

Your hand soon reaches for his cock, already hard and heavy against his thigh.

You wrap your hand around him, fingers barely meeting from his thickness, and you revel in his hardness.

His head fell back, the noises escaping unrestrained.

“Fuck my love,” he pants.

Hips bucking into your hand.

“You drive me crazy.”

You start stroking him slowly, your own chest heaving with shaky breaths, feeling the throb of him, water washing away the precum bedding out of him.

Your mouth waters with want.

Your clit pulsing in time with your strokes, an ache that you try to ignore by pressing your thighs together.

Seeking relief.

“You’re so hard…” you coo.

Your voice shy but laced with need and he growls, hands gripping your ass and pulling you flush against his chest.

Your bare tits pressing onto his hard chest, you let out a whimper.

“I want you,” he gruffs.

Eyes meeting yours burning with a love so intense, you struggle to breathe.

“My baby, I’m gonna miss this—miss you—every fucking second.”

The words a confession full of raw pain, and you feel your tears mingling with the water streaming down your body.

“I’m gonna wait for you… I swear.” you sob.

Your hand still working his cock, and your other arm wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

Your promise settled on his chest until he feels desperate again, tongue entering your mouth, biting and sucking your bottom lip.

All while he fucks your fist, hips bucking.

His hand fisted your hair, and you whine, letting him take whatever he wants from you.

Taehyung’s hands roam all over your body, every curve, every dip.

As if he's memorizing you.

Your slick now dripping on the floor, and with each brush of his finger, the ache seemed to increase, and it was almost painful.

You didn’t want teasing.

Not today.

Not when the time was running out so fast.

“tae, I need you.” you begged.

He nods, eyes darkening with a promise.

His own patience running out, not wanting to waste even a second with you.

“Not here, princess,” he rasps, gently.

“I want you in our bed, where I can take my time with you… wanna make every moment worth it.”

He turns off the shower, grabs a fluffy towel, wrapping you in it, hands gentle but possessive as he dries you off.

His lips brushing your skin with every moment, and you lean against the wall, lips parted.

Savoring his attention.

۶ৎ

Taehyung picks you up in bridal style, naked and you clutch his shoulder.

Your heart pounded with the adoration he stares at you with, he starts walking, reaching the bedroom, both your bodies still wet and dripping from the shower.

He gently lays you down on the bed, your heart racing as you look up at him.

He hovers above you, one hand propped beside your head, his presence and your need causing goosebumps all over your skin.

“My love,” he breathes.

“I wanna worship you today. Every inch of you—I want it all to be mine.”

Devotion in his words.

You swallow hard, shyness making your cheeks flush, but his gaze holds you to him.

Taking away your instinct to hide.

“taehyung,” you tremble.

“I’m yours.”

You declare, like always, his eyes softening before he presses his lips to yours once again.

The kiss starting slow, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger.

He deepened the kiss, making you let out needy noises on his mouth, his teeth scraping your lower lip, your fingers curling into the sheets as you arch into him.

“Mhhh, Tae…” you moan, softly.

He pulls back, breath hot, looking at you with dark eyes.

Eyes gazing all over your naked body, drinking you in, his stare felt like a physical touch.

“I could spend forever just kissing you, but I need more.”

You pant as he begins his descent downwards, lips trailing over your jaw to your sensitive neck, sucking gently.

A gasp left your mouth.

A faint hickey left on your skin.

The sensation was a delicious sting, your toe curling.

You felt exposed, still slightly wet breasts rising and falling with your quickened breaths, and a groan leaves his mouth.

His eyes taking you in.

“Perfect,” he rasps, in awe.

“Absolutely goddamn perfect for me.”

His hands cupped them just like he did moments before in the bathroom, but he doesn’t make you ache anymore.

He smirks wickedly, at your neediness.

A knowing curve on his lips.

Lowering his mouth to your breast, taking one nipple in his mouth, harshly, a lot rougher and hungrier.

“Oh, Taehyung!” you cry out.

Fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging.

His teeth grazed your nipple, enough to make you gasp out, body shuddering with his attention to your breasts.

“Please… please!” Your breath shakes.

Hips shifting against the sheets.

“It feels so good.”

He moves to the other breast, grazing your nipple with his teeth while pinching the other neglected one.

You're a squirming mess for him.

“Fuck,” he chuckles, darkly.

Pulled away from your now overly sensitive breasts, from his torment.

“I love the noises you make for me, darling…”

His kisses trailed lower, slow and taking his time as he places kisses over the smooth skin on your stomach.

Lips lingering on your navel, tongue licking a stripe.

The ticklish feeling making you squeak.

And you let out a giggle despite the heat building inside you.

The sound draws a deep chuckle from him.

He glances up at you, eyes sparkling with love.

“I love that sound too,” he says.

Thumb brushing over your thigh.

“I’m gonna miss every part of you, love, every bit of your noises along with your happy ones.”

The reminder made your grin fade, the sadness taking over.

But it doesn’t last long.

His fingers start brushing against your folds, slow and teasing. He parts you gently to reveal your glistening pussy.

He uses the pads of his thumb, exposing you completely, baring the throbbing nub between your legs.

His fingers grazed your inner thighs, and you whine, slickness dropping more.

Shyness forgotten at the back of your mind from being so vulnerable in front of him, only needing relief.

You’re already too wet, pussy slick with arousal, clit needing his touch.

He paused, eyes fixing on you, and you gulp.

“Look at you,” he grunts.

“So wet for me already.”

His hand cupped your entire mound, fingers exploring your cunt, gathering your slick

“Tae… please.” you whimper.

Hips bucked towards him, seeking more.

He hums darkly, his gravel voice sending a shiver down your spine as he starts to circle your clit with his thumb.

Your hands fisting the sheets tightly, brows furrowing.

“So needy… just like a naughty girl,” he grits out.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. I'm gonna give you everything you deserve.”

After all the teasing.

He finally presses his mouth to you.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit felt like a shock of pleasure, your hips lifted off the bed with a cry leaving your mouth.

“Hahh hah, tae—”

Your hands bunching the sheets around you, feeling dizzy with the wet heat of his tongue on your sensitive clit.

He starts sucking your clit, quickly and mercilessly, until you are shaking.

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you, and you're uttering nonsense right now.

Voice unrestrained.

“Oh God, taee.”

Your fingers griped his hair, hips tightly closing around his head but he holds you open with ease.

Your strength nothing compared to his.

He continues worshipping you with his mouth.

His tongue switched patterns, alternating from flat licks to your clit to occasional sucks that make your thighs tremble.

The obscene sounds filling the room—wet noises from his mouth, mixing with slick and his own soft groans, while tasting you.

“You taste so fucking good, I can eat this little pussy forever.” he growls.

Voice muffled in your pussy and you sob, hips rocking on his mouth instinctively.

His fingers soon join his tongue, sliding inside you with an ease and the sudden stretch has you letting out a scream.

Overwhelmed.

He curls them instantly, trying to find that spot inside you that makes you cry for him, his favorite music.

You start seeing stars behind your vision.

He thrusts his fingers in time with the movement of his tongue.

The dual sensation was too much

Too much all at once.

The wet heat of his tongue and his thick fingers fucking you in fast motions has you calling out his name constantly.

He groans against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

“Nghh, Tae, I’m fuck—I’m close.”

You quivered.

Thighs clamped tighter around his head, the pressure building in your stomach, ready to snap any moment

He doesn’t let up.

His tongue worked your clit, fingers thrusting faster, hitting that sweet spot every time, and it felt like torture to you.

A delicious torture.

“Come for me, princess,” he hisses.

Lips brushing your clit as he speaks.

“I want to feel you fall apart.”

The orgasm hits you, body convulsed, a broken scream leaving you.

“taehyung! oh god, taehyung!”

Your loud moans filling the room as your pussy clenches around his fingers, clit pulsing wildly against his tongue.

The sensation makes your body tremble uncontrollably, your grip on the sheets keeping you from falling apart.

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue gentle, still lapping at you, drawing out your pleasure until you’re letting out breathy sobs.

Oversensitive and breathless.

“It’s too much, please—”

You plead.

Hands tugging at his hair.

He finally pulls back, lips and chin glistening with your arousal, the sight made your pussy clench, despite your orgasm.

He crawls up your body, capturing your mouth in a possessive kiss.

The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you moan, gripping his hair once again.

A reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed you.

“I love you.” you whimper against his lips.

“Love you too… my baby.”

Forehead rested against yours.

You cling to him, body still trembling as you press a kiss on his sweaty chest.

Your heart close to bursting.

You lie there, his arms wrapped around you, breathless and spent, the sheets damp beneath you with your release.

A proof of how he unraveled you so easily.

Your eyes fell to the clock, and your nails dig into his chest.

No matter how much you try to forget about what's about to come and enjoy the moment.

It's not possible.

Taehyung senses it, pulling you tighter to him.

His lips brushed your ear.

“This is just the beginning. I'm gonna spend all day today showing you how much you mean to me.”

۶ৎ

In the afternoon, you both are in the living room.

The air filled with jazz playing, a romantic song creating an intimate atmosphere.

A music genre that Taehyung always loved.

You both were enjoying each other's presence after having lunch, every detail of the day felt heightened.

As if the world had slowed.

To savor these last hours with Taehyung.

The weight of what's gonna happen tomorrow still there.

But for now.

There's only him—his presence, his touch on your body and love for you.

You’re standing in the center of the living room, bare feet. Taehyung standing across from you, intense eyes locking with yours

Your breath catches and you look away, a shy grin tugging at your lips.

“My love,”

“Dance with me.”

The command was soft, cheeks flushing as you hesitate, fingers twisting your shirt nervously.

But he steps closer, taking your hand in his big calloused ones, holding your soft small ones.

Protectively.

He pulls you into his arms, hand settling on his chest, and his hand grabbed your waist.

The other hand guiding your hand to his shoulder.

You felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, looked up at him, your own heart pounding, and eyes glistening.

You sway together.

The music helped with the slow movement of his hips against yours, breath warm against your temple, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there.

You purred unknowingly, and you felt his smile without seeing it.

In that moment it felt like the world disappeared.

Only the two of you existing.

His hand slides lower, fingers laying across the small of your back, pressing you closer.

The moment innocent and romantic, but the hunger between you was palpable.

Wanting to feel each other all the time.

Before everything ends.

The friction of his pants against your bare thighs felt maddening, a tease that made your pussy pulse.

Even though he made you come just a few hours ago.

His hard cock pressed against you, and your breathing turns shaky.

“tae…”

Your eyes flickering up to meet his and the raw emotion there make your knees weak.

Love, desperation, hunger.

He doesn’t respond with words, only a low guttural hum left him, dipping his head to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

His lips soft yet demanding, wanting to take as much as he can from you.

It felt familiar.

In a way, you know where he does it when he's needy for you.

The taste of him, flooding your senses.

You melted into him.

Your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding into your mouth, exploring you, something that he has been doing the entire day, almost as if he wants to etch your taste in his memory.

Still, it makes your head spin.

His hands begin to roam, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other slipping beneath your shirt to caress your bare skin.

You gasp into his mouth, body arching towards him.

The dance forgotten.

Music faded in the background, both getting distracted by each other.

Once again.

“I can't get enough of you, baby.” he rasps, against your lips.

His words laced with an urgency that makes your heart pulse.

He pulls back enough to look at you.

“I need you. Right fucking now.”

Your breath hitched, restriction fading at the fire his words.

“Yea…”

The word was simple, but he hears the plea in it.

His lips curve into an almost predatory smile, and before you can process it, he’s moving with an urgency.

He presses you against the wall, the wall cool against your back, pressing himself against you, pinning you in place.

His hands are everywhere, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one quick motion, leaving you bare before him.

You didn’t bother to wear any bra and panties because he was busy taking your clothes off everywhere, at anytime.

And he always loved it when you remain bare for him.

The cool air raised goosebumps all over your body as he takes you in, never getting enough.

His hands start tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist.

Always taking his time exploring.

“I wanna see all of you… my beautiful girl.”

You tremble, lips parting on a shaky breath.

His mouth later finds your breasts, sucking and biting the nipple to his liking, switching breasts faster than you can keep track of.

Supplying both of them with his attention.

Your back arched off the wall.

“Oohh, Tae”

His obsession with your breasts never ending.

“I can never get enough of these tits” he grunts.

Your knees get weak, when he finally pulls back, your nipples completely coated with his saliva, and you whimper at the sight of him.

So commanding.

So utterly devoted to you.

“I wanna taste you everywhere” he groans.

He was about to kneel before you on the floor, but you stop him, a sudden urge overtaking your shyness.

A need to give as much as you’re receiving.

“taehyung…” you breathe, determined.

“Let me… Let me please you, please.”

His eyes widen slightly, soon turning into a smirk. He straightens, hands resting on your hips and nods, eyes never leaving yours.

“Anything for you, sweet girl.”

His voice thick with anticipation.

Now you are the one sinking to your knees before him on the floor.

Your hands tremble, reaching for his sweatpants, and you tug them down slowly, your breath catching as his cock springs free.

It's thick and heavy, tip glistening with precum, and the sight makes your mouth water.

Your pussy clenching.

You wrap your fingers around the base, marveling at the weight and it throbs for you, veins visible.

A low groan left Taehyung.

“Darling,” he exhales.

“Look at you, so eager for me.”

His hands cupped the back of your head, fingers fisting your hair.

Not pushing but guiding.

A gentle encouragement.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the tip, his salty taste filling your senses.

You moan softly, the sound vibrating against him, making him curse.

His grip on your hair tightened.

You finally take him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head before you slide down taking him deeper.

The stretch was intense, tears welling in your eyes from the sheer size of him, the weight of him making you sputter as you try to breathe through your nose.

You hollow your cheeks, sucking gently, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he growls.

“Such a good girl. Look at you, taking my cock so well.”

You whine against him.

“Fuck, keep doing that”

You bobbed your head, setting a rhythm, hand working what you cannot take inside your mouth, making gagging noises, which encourages him further.

His pleasing noises make you squeeze your thighs together, tears spilling down your cheeks.

The taste of him grows stronger as he spills more precum on your tongue and you savor it hungrily.

Your other hand cup his heavy balls, fondling and massaging them, to your liking, and he hisses.

His hips start to move, fucking your mouth with quick thrusts.

Taking what he wants from you.

“Oh God, your mouth feels like heaven.” he rasps.

Voice filled with awe and desperation.

His words spur you on and you take him deeper into your mouth, trying to relax your throat in order to fight the urge to gag.

The way he fills you so completely.

Taking over you.

You don’t stop, driven by the need to make him feel as cherished as he makes you feel, how he always puts your needs before his, when he deserved to be pleasured as well.

He’s close, you can tell��his breathing turns heavy, thrusts erratic, cock twitching against your tongue.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he warns.

“You want it, baby? Want me to come in this pretty mouth of yours?”

You nod as best as you can, your needy noises expressing your request for him to let go.

Your mouth worked faster.

And he finally lets out a strained groan, spilling in your mouth, hips stuttering.

The taste was overwhelming.

You swallow every drop, some of his release dripping down your chin, but you lick them like a good girl.

Licking the excess fluid off his cock.

Cleaning every single drop.

Trembling above you as he comes down, fingers stroking your hair, his eyes half lidded and jaw clenched.

He pulls you to your feet immediately, kissing you hungrily, tasting himself on your tongue.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Before you can deny him, his hands are on you again, lifting you effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist and he presses you back against the wall.

Your chest heaved with your pants from his manhandling, the strength in his arms.

“I need to be inside you,” he growls.

“now.”

His cock hard again, or maybe it never softened.

It finds your cunt like a magnet, pressing against your slick folds like it's meant to be there and you whimper, core aching with need.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t make you wait.

Knowing time was running out.

He lines himself up to your slit, thrusting into you in one smooth motion, filling you up and you forget to breathe.

“Gahhh, shit! taehyung!”

The stretch burned, but the pain soon mixes with pleasure, your head falling back against the wall.

He groans at the feel of your cunt clenching around him, forehead falling against yours.

“You're so tight and warm, my love.” his voice breaks.

“so damn good”

He starts to move, thrusting deep, yet quick, each one hitting that spot inside you, making you tremble in his arms.

Your body losing strength to hold yourself up, only supported by his arms, knowing he won't ever let you fall.

Trusting him with everything.

His powerful hands supported you, anchoring you to him, fucking you with a desperation that matches your own.

You call out his name, voice high and broken, nails raking down his back, leaving red, burning scratches all over his skin.

The sound of you both going at it drowns out the jazz still playing in the background.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, his tongue exploring your mouth almost matching with the motion of his thrusts.

All your loud moans and whimpers swallowed by his mouth.

“Mhmm, ahnnn.” you gasp, on his mouth.

Your noises encouraging him further to fuck you stupid against the wall.

“You’re mine.”

His palm lands a sharp spank on your bouncing ass and you let out a startled scream, his hips snapping.

Harder and faster.

“Say it, baby. Tell me you're mine.”

His voice possessive and angry, but there's also a hint of vulnerability.

A need for reassurance, making your heart ache.

He was overthinking.

“I’m yours tae!” you chant, voice breaking.

“Always, always only yours”

The words pushed him over the edge, hands bruising your ass while he pounds you to his liking.

You bite his shoulder to ground yourself, pussy clenching around his cock constantly, as the pressure builds.

“Come on,” he commands.

“I wanna feel you come on my cock like a good slut.”

His hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit like an expert, rubbing tight, quick circles, and you see stars.

“Ah, oh, fuck, fuck—”

You felt dizzy, head swimming as the pleasure makes you shatter so fast.

“Gosh, taehyung!”

Voice raw, pussy pulsing around him, milking his cock as you come.

He follows moments later, letting out an animal growl, cock pulsing, and he finally spills inside you, filling you to the brim.

His release warm inside you, making you shudder against him, biting his chest needily.

“Damn it.” he pants.

His thrusts slow and gentle now, drawing out the aftershocks until you are squirming in his arms, tears brimming your eyes.

He holds there, pinned to the wall, cock softening inside you.

You both cling to each other, a tangled mess of sweaty bodies not caring about anything but each other.

The room quiet now except for both your ragged breaths, the jazz playing in the background and the romantic song matching both your current state.

“I will miss you,” he whispers, voice choked.

“I’m gonna miss you every day.”

You cling to him, face burying in his shoulder, a few tears leaving you.

“I love you, tae,” you whimper

“I promise.”

The weight of tomorrow presses, heavily.

But for now.

You hold each other, everything else forgotten, every fear in the back of your minds.

Love the only thing existing.

۶ৎ

The night felt endless, raw desire and pained love filling the bedroom with heat.

The air heavy with the scent of sweat and arousal, your shared smell, the sheets tangled messily, soaking with dampness, clinging to both of your skin.

The only sounds—creak of the bed, skin slapping against skin along with your pleased noises, and his rough breathings.

The clock ticked on the nightstand.

A devastation.

Counting down the hours until Taehyung was gone.

But in this moment, time felt like an enemy, each touch and moan felt like you both wanted to hold it against the coming separation.

Taehyung was possessed with wild feral need, a beast with relentless energy, on a mission to unravel you and test your limits.

His dark hair was a sweaty mess clinging to his forehead, eyes were feral with a mix of rage, hunger, and love.

His muscles flexed with every movement of his, unbeatable strength driving him further into ruining you.

His cock standing proudly, hard and leaking precum, thrashing despite using it several times now.

And the breath leaves your lungs, shocked at his crazed need to own you.

Never getting enough of you.

Your pussy clenched with a need that feels almost painful, core swollen from all it has endured, but the slickness dripping out of you said otherwise.

Wanting him for the last time before morning arrives.

And everything ends.

“Mhnmm,” he growls.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight, you’ll feel me for weeks… mm, you’ll feel me every time you sit or walk.”

Your stomach knots under his gaze, he looks at you all over, memorizing all your trembles and reactions completely.

The intensity makes you feel exposed yet treasured in a way that has your lips parted trying to breathe as much as you can.

You’re spread across the bed, skin flushed with slick and sweat. Your thighs slick with arousal, the cool air making your pussy throb with an ache.

Your cunt sensitive from hours of his touch, yet you crave more.

Always craving more.

Your breasts felt tender and way too painfully sensitive, nipples hardened from the night's earlier attentions, along with your swollen reddened lips from his relentless kisses and makeouts.

“Hnn tae,” you mewled.

“Take me, please…”

He doesn’t hesitate, movements quick, crawling over you and his lips crash against yours, tonguing your mouth.

His arousal clinged to your tongue as well, and all of it mixing together to make a lewd taste.

That has you both moaning.

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails scraping the already marked skin from earlier actions, making him hiss.

“This pussy is dripping for me, begging for my cock…”

“You’re gonna take my cock like a good naughty girl, hmm? Want me to fill you up, make you scream… yeah?”

His dirty words make you pant and you nod, breath hitching as he grips your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand.

The restraint has your body arch towards him, instinctively, body completely in control of him.

Turning you on further.

His fingers caress your soaked folds, parting them, sliding through your slickness, gathering them and teasing your slit.

You let out a whiny sigh, thighs parting further for him.

“tae… baby, please, I need you.”

The endearment for him rushes out of your mouth, a rare nickname for him that rarely slips out of you, due to your shyness.

And it makes him growl, satisfied, instantly rewarding you by plunging two of his thick fingers inside you.

“Hahh, gosh!” you moan.

He starts scissoring his fingers, stroking your spot and you are a mess, writhing against the bed, hips starting to rock against him at the motion of his thrusts.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh.”

You chant.

Your noises spilled out unconsciously, trying to quiet yourself as he works you open for him.

“That’s it, love”

Eyes fixed on your face, taking in all your reactions, making sure to go along with it, knowing exactly what you like, like the back of his hand.

“Don’t hold back, sweet girl,” he coaxes you.

“let everyone know how much you love my fingers in your tight little pussy… how it greedily sucks me in.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling it and your body jerks towards him.

His lips fall on your collarbone, leaving marks everywhere, sucking the marked skin from earlier, turning them purple.

Making sure the marks last you for weeks.

A reminder of him every time you look at a mirror, his love tattooed to your skin.

“taehyung, please… ohh, stop—stop teasing me! I need you—you inside me.”

You struggle to speak between your moans, voice breaking.

He groans, withdraws his fingers out of you with a wet squelch, bringing them to his mouth.

The sight of him licking your arousal off his fingers—eyes locked on yours, tongue slow as he savors each drop—makes you grind on his thigh, humping him like a bunny in heat, whimpers sputtering out of you.

Shame and shyness at the back of your mind.

Nothing makes sense to you anymore.

All you wanted was him and the connection.

“Shhh, don’t be such a dirty slut, baby.”

He rasps, steadying your moving thighs, stopping you from relief, and you pout.

“I could eat you the whole night, but I need to be inside you.” he exclaims, roughly.

Positioning himself between your legs, keeps your legs spread and without warning, he penetrates you.

Burying himself with a fast, brutal thrust.

“Oh my god, Taehyung, fuck!” you scream.

He grunts, beginning to move at a fast pace.

Pounding you or ruining you.

You couldn’t understand.

He reached such depths inside you, you didn’t know existed, almost reaching your stomach and your wails came out freely.

“Fuck, this cunt is all mine, yeah? made for my cock…”

He laughs darkly, a sex demon in his place and you almost couldn’t recognize him, hand fisting the sheets, burying your face in them.

“Fucking answer me, slut!”

He lashes out, fingers finding your clit and pinching it hard and you let out a scream, soon turning into a sob.

“Yes, yes, only yours, tae, too much.” you hiccup.

He hums his approval, bed shaking beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall with each of his thrusts.

His cock hits that spot inside you with every thrust, a torture that has your toes curling, breasts bouncing for his eyes.

You moaned, hips automatically pulling away from the pleasure, not understanding whether you want more or it's too much.

“Don’t run, baby…”

Gripping your wrists tighter, pinning you in place.

“Mhhh—you love this, don’t you? love being stretched to your limits?”

His hips puncturing each of his words inside you and you let out a sob at his words, body arching to meet his, hand gripping wherever you can on his body.

He releases your wrists, griped your hips instead, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

He angles you to take him deeper, thrusts growing more forceful and the sound of skin slapping against skin gets louder, his grunts escaping along with your mindless noises.

“I love you,” he signs.

“Shit, I can’t—I hate leaving you like this. I wanna stay here, fucking you, loving you forever...”

His anger can be heard in his words, thrusts turning angry, a glare etched his eyebrows.

“I love you, tae.”

“always—gahh hahhh—”

He leans down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, teeth grazing it.

The dual sensation—his cock pounding into you, mouth on your breast—too much.

You cannot take it.

“Come for me, darling. Show me how much you love my cock.”

His own voice strained.

His words pushed you over the edge and you shatter, orgasm breaking through you and you scream loudly in between your sobs.

“tae! mmphhh, nooo.”

Your pussy pulsed and clenched on him, his hips faltering.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t give you a moment to recover.

He pulls out and the sudden emptiness has you whimpering, but he's already flipping you onto your stomach, hands rough and urgent.

“On your knees.” he barks.

You obey, body trembling and controlled by him, sensing his anger.

All this will soon be over in a few hours.

You lifted your hips, ass presenting to him, pussy gaping after being stretched, giving him a good view of your insides and your release dripping out, folds swollen.

Your tight ring just above clenching pathetically, slicked as well.

“Goddamnit!” he growls.

You jump at how unrestrained and possessed he seemed right now, both of you wild and feeling madness overtake.

His hands grip your cheeks, spreading you open more, taking a good look at your bottom, your both holes.

You let out a trembling whimper, hiding your face in the sheets, overtaken by shame, but your hips still rocked towards him.

Wanting him.

“Such pretty holes for me. You're going to take me so good, mhmm?” he breathes.

He thrusts into you again, the new angle getting him a lot deeper than expected.

“Ahh, tae, too much—too—”

Your voice cracks, hands fisting the sheets, burying your face in them and biting on a pillow, trying to ground yourself.

Almost tearing the fabric in the process.

His hips slam against your ass, eyes fixed on your bouncing ass and the way his cock plunges in and out of your sopping pussy.

Coated with your arousal.

A sight that will be a permanent thing in his memory for the lonely nights in the military.

He trembles, his own moans leaving as he continues drilling into you, balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of painful pleasure into you.

Your body instinctively moves away, his fingers quickly grabbing a handful of your hair, pulling you to meet his thrusts and the pain along with pleasure has you letting out cries.

Your throat aching from the constant noises.

“Ah, you’re my girl for sure.” he praises.

He reached around, palming your pussy, tapping your clit with his fingers a few times, enough to make you scream.

“taehyung. taehyung. taehyung”

You call out his name repetitively, mindless, only capable of uttering his name.

“I’m gonna, ahhah, come again.”

He grunts, thrusts growing erratic, control leaving him.

“Do it, baby, let me feel you fall apart for me once again”

You scream, vision going white, coming once again, losing count of how many orgasms you've had in a day.

Your body hurt, achy core swollen, body falling limp onto the bed.

He follows you soon, his groan primal, cock pulsing, spilling inside you, filling you up until it hurts.

A pain you welcomed.

“Fuck” he pants.

He collapses onto you, his weight heavy and making you feel secure, breath hot against your neck.

“You’re everything”

Your body still shook, which he tries to soothe by lovingly caressing your back.

But he’s not done.

The night still there, a need still wanting to be quenched.

He pulls out, making you whimper and he flips you onto your back again, eyes dark.

“I need more,” he growls.

“You know I won’t stop until you say the safe word, love…”

His words final and he spreads your legs, eyes locking onto your pussy, dripping with his release mixed with yours and he snarls loudly at the sight.

Your body weak as your toes curled, almost like you're preparing yourself for the long night ahead.

He leans down, not being able to help himself, tongue capturing the little overstimulated bud that has been palpitating needily.

Your body jerked.

“Hnnngg! tae, please, I can't anymore—”

You sniffed, tears streaming but he didn’t listen, tongue collecting both of your arousals mixed together, humming at the taste, sucking until you let out a broken wail.

Your mouth parted, drool spilling onto the sheets.

Your thighs shook around his head and he finally decides to give you a break, letting you breathe.

He slowly faces you, lips glistening, kissing you, sucking onto your bottom lip, letting you taste the combination.

“I’m so angry I have to leave you.”

His words were angry as you see his nostrils flare, and you grip onto his hair, sucking his tongue needily.

“Come back to me soon, tae… come home.”

Still struggling to speak from your intense orgasms, you could feel your heart breaking, a feeling that was more painful than anything.

Home.

A word that he knew was only associated with you.

Home was where you are.

“always... my precious girl.”

His eyes locked onto yours and the endearment of his words, the connection between the two of you had tears streaming down your eyes, his own tears mixing with yours.

Him not being able to stay strong any further. You cling to each other, never wanting to let go.

Hating the universe for separating you both

۶ৎ

The night continues in a rush of different positions, each one more desperate than the other.

He takes you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder, cock hitting deep.

You also ride his cock, which turned into him fucking you against the headboard, your back pressed against the wood.

Your screams and cries echoed through the night, filling the room along with his occasional groans and ragged breaths.

By dawn, you both were spent.

The room heavy with the scent of sex.

You collapsed together, naked and tangled, bodies no longer able to move, drained of all its energy.

۶ৎ

The morning light hits you through the bedroom window, unforgiving, the reality of what's about to happen sinking in.

The tangled, damp sheets clings to both of you, the faint red marks on your body and his, from the passion and roughness of last night.

The air still thick with the obscene smell of sweat and sex from what you and Taehyung shared.

Your body ached intensely, each muscle raw and painful from hours of lovemaking.

But it doesn’t compare to the pain in your heart.

A wound that's threatening to break you completely.

You stirred, fighting against the exhaustion, and the first thing you feel was that Taehyung's still inside you.

His cock, now softened but heavy, remains nestled deep inside your pussy, a connection that felt like a lifeline in this moment.

He didn’t want to let you go.

So he stayed inside while you were unconscious in tiredness, asleep.

The sensation was overwhelming—binding you together physically as if that can even stop what's about to happen soon.

Your walls pulse softly around him, still sensitive from the night's intensity, each flutter on your oversensitive core, sending you gasping.

The warmth of him inside you grounded you, reminding you of the way he claimed you.

Just an hour ago.

You’re sprawled across his chest, cheek pressed against his hard muscle, his heartbeat lulling you.

His skin was still slightly slicked with sweat and you look up at him, watching him sleep so peacefully, the sight bringing fresh tears to your eyes.

His lips slightly parted, skin flushed, in that moment he looked so innocent, so peaceful, away from all the worries in the world, just resting, something so rare.

A sight you will lose for long months.

You placed a soft kiss on his chest, just below his nipple, tasting the saltiness of his sweat.

The cockwarming felt more than physical—a refusal to let go even in sleep.

Your pussy stretched and full and every breath you took shifts you slightly, causing him to press further into your inner walls.

Your breath hitched, a moan escaping.

It's not arousal, not exactly, your body was too spent for that.

But a deep, aching connection

A need to hold onto him in every possible way.

You felt vulnerable, heart breaking into pieces at the thought of losing this closeness. The sensation of being connected to him felt both comforting and torturous.

You pressed closer to him, fingers curling onto his chest.

As if you can keep him here.

Make him stay.

Taehyung’s arms are wrapped around you, one hand resting possessively on your hip, the other tangling in your hair as if he’s afraid to let go even in sleep.

His chest rising and falling with his breaths, but there’s a tension in his body.

You shift slightly, his cock twitching inside you and you let out a quiet whimper, body too tired to respond fully but you are too aware of him, so you cannot ignore it.

Your movement felt by him and he soon wakes, breath hitching as he realizes that it's morning now.

The thought settling over him like dread.

“Morning, sweet girl.” he murmurs.

His voice raspy and deep from sleep.

You knew he was trying to lighten your mood.

But it wasn’t working, it ached you further hearing his voice.

His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there, feeling his lips tremble, his emotions can be felt just from that simple touch alone.

His cock still inside you and he doesn’t move to pull out as if he were too clinging to the final moment of connection.

“So warm, so perfect around me… god, I don’t want to leave this—leave you.”

His voice almost breaking with his own pain, your chest tightened, throat constricting with unshed tears.

You tilt your head to meet his and the sight of his eyes—red rimmed along with exhaustion but still expressed so much love for you just with his eyes alone.

The stubble on his jaw gives him a rugged, almost broken beauty.

“tae” you breathe.

His face was blurry with the tears you cannot hold back anymore, buring your face in his chest, wanting to escape this moment so bad.

But his fingers grip your chin, turning your face to his, gaze intense, demanding the truth.

“I’m—I’m gonna miss you.” you confess, shakily.

His jaw clenched and you can see the flash of anger in his face—anger at the fact that he has to leave you, that you are crying.

He hates being the reason for your tears.

He feels like killing himself if that will stop you from crying, from hurting.

“Fuck this,” he spits out.

“I don’t want to go, baby. I can't—”

He swallows hard, brows furrowing in pain.

“I can't leave you like this, still wrapped around me, so mine... this is killing me.”

His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into your skin, with a desperate need to hold onto you.

You’re crying now, silent tears streamed down your face, he cups your face in his hand, thumbs brushing away your tears.

His tenderness making you cry harder.

His warm touch not enough to dull the grief you were facing.

“I’ll wait for you, tae. I promise, until you return.”

His eyes soften, but the anger still there.

“I’m coming back to you. Nothing, absolutely no fucking thing, will keep me from you… I swear it, hm?”

His hand holds you to him tightly, the movement causing his cock to shift inside you, you shudder against him.

He lets out a deep, tortured groan, forehead meeting yours.

“You’re my only girl.”

You whimper at his words, his endless love for you and how he makes you feel so important.

So needed.

“I want to stay like this forever.” he murmurs.

You nod, tears falling faster, he captures your lips, desperately, with a mix of sorrow.

His tongue claims your mouth with a hunger that makes your heart race, you kiss him back with equal fevor, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

You feel him twitch inside you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, hands still cupping your face.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” he commands.

“Eat properly, don’t skip meals. You know I don’t like it, yeah? and I need you strong and healthy, waiting for me… promise me, come on.”

His voice authoritative in a way that makes a small smile tug at your lips, a hushed chuckle leaving you that makes him smile in return.

Him always fussing over to take care of you in other days made you amused, tease him, but now it felt too wrong.

Too heartbreaking.

“I promise.” you tremble.

He nods, eyes searching yours, memorizing all your features for one last time.

“And sleep well.” he continues.

Voice almost pleading.

��Don’t stay up all night worrying about me, tiring yourself. If you’re not okay, I won’t be either… so be a good girl for me.”

You lean into his touch, tears soaking his skin.

“I’ll try,” you whimper.

“For you, I’ll try.”

He exhales shakily, pecking your lips.

“I love you.”

“You’re my reason. Don’t ever forget that.” he whispers.

Finally he moves, his cock slipping out of you, with a wet sound, you both gasp at the loss of him so suddenly after being full the entire night.

Leaving you hollow.

Your pussy gapes before clenching around nothing and you let out a whine, the sudden absence almost painful.

“I’m sorry, my love.” he croaks, hurt in his voice.

Kissing your nose, he helps you settle against the pillows, hands gentle but trembling.

The room already felt cold without his arms wrapped around you and you bite your bottom lip trying to hide a wail, pulling the sheets around your naked body.

A shield against the reality of his departure.

Taehyung stands, broad shoulder decorated with red marks from your nails, occurred from your desperation.

His skin holding your marks.

He moves to the dresser, pulling out the neatly folded military uniform that’s been waiting like a burden all week.

The olive green fabric was a sharp difference from the soft masculine clothes he usually wears and the contrast breaks your heart a little more.

He dresses with a quiet intensity as if getting ready for a war he doesn’t want to fight.

Being forced to do this.

The uniform hugs his muscles tightly and the sight of him in it was both breathtaking and devastating for you.

He looked like a soldier.

Strong and determined.

But the slump of his shoulders and his clenched jaw proved that he was breaking inside.

Shattering.

He catches you watching him, a flash of raw pain etches his features.

“Don’t look at me like that, princess,” he pleads.

“You’re making it harder.”

But he crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside the bed, hand reaching for yours.

He pressed your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles with so much adoration you cannot breathe, his own hand shaking.

“I need you to be strong for me”

“Eat and sleep well. Do it for me, my love, because I'm coming back… and I need you whole when I do.”

“I will.” you sob, voice barely there.

He stands up, pulling you in his arms, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one softer and gentler, trying to savor you.

His hands cupped your face, thumbs wipe away your tears when his own are spilling.

The saltiness of both your tears being tasted and shared between you.

Last shared kiss.

One last time.

“I’ll write to you.” he says.

Once he pulls back, voice fierce and determined.

“Every chance I get, and when I’m back. I’m never letting you again… you'll be mine forever.”

He stands, grabbing the duffel bag that’s been packed and waited by the door.

You follow him to the doorway, the sheets wrapped around your bare body, legs unsteady, each step aching your core from all it endured last night.

But it wasn’t enough to stop your cries, or the pain of him leaving you for so long.

He turned to you one last time, eyes burning with love and rage, his jaw ticking at how helpless he felt.

“I love you”

He breathes, rough hand coming up to caress your cheek one last time.

“always”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and you're left empty, all alone.

You collapsed to the floor, sobs leaving your mouth, freely now, no longer holding back as you poured out all your emotions.

Your pained cries echoing in the room, the empty room taunting you.

His scent still on your skin, his warmth in the sheets.

But it's never enough.

It's not him.

But it will be all you have left to cling to in the long months ahead, his love for you the only anchor.

Until he returns.

Back to your arms, but this time no world to pull you both apart.

────

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[ohnaurshayla]

∞ you like because, you love despite ∞ masterlist

a yoongi x childhood best friends to lovers story [ongoing]

chef!yoongi x korean!f!doctor!reader | mdni 18+

cw: fluff, angst, smut, reader is korean for story's sake, warnings stated in each chapter no matter what

synopsis »» Your friendship always made sense to you and those around you. It wasn’t difficult when both your parents grew up together as best friends too. Your moms always used to refer to your friendship as being written in the stars, whereas your dads believed it impossible for you two, being girl and boy, to be best friends. Your mothers constantly remind them how wrong they’ve been to believe that.

Or were they?

masterlist |

»» part one [that question] 8.6k

»» part two [as expected] 6.2k

»» part three [and just like that] 5k

»» part four [because] 7.4k

»» part five [yours or mine?] 7k

[ohnaurshayla]

"I'll always come back to u"

Idol Yoongi x reader

2012

You and Yoongi had been dating for a few years, ever since high school back in Daegu. Your relationship had turned long-distance when he left for Seoul to pursue his passion for music production. You always supported his dreams, cheering him on whenever he felt like the world was against him.

One evening, during a late-night phone call, you could hear the frustration weighing down his voice.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Yoongi admitted, sounding defeated. “Is this path even meant for me?”

Your heart ached hearing him like that, but you knew how much music meant to him. Taking a deep breath, you replied gently, “Gi-ah, I know the path you’re choosing is hard, but if you really love what you’re doing, have a little faith. Sometimes it takes a long process to get where you want to be, but I promise you, it’ll be worth it in the future. I believe in you, Yoongi.”

On the other end of the line, Yoongi felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. You were his comfort person—the one he wanted to come home to at the end of the day. No matter how tough things got, your words always made him feel better.

At that time, Yoongi was working as a producer at BigHit, a small company just starting to make its mark. He had been writing songs for various K-pop groups, but nothing ever seemed to match the success of artists from bigger companies. Doubt often crept into his mind, but your unwavering support kept him grounded.

One day, something unexpected happened. BigHit offered him a contract—not just as a producer, but as an idol trainee alongside six other guys: Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, and Jeon Jungkook. At first, he was hesitant, unsure if this new path was meant for him. Then he remembered your words:

“Grab opportunities.”

With that thought in mind, he signed the contract, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead—because he knew you’d be right there supporting him, no matter what.

A few months after Yoongi signed the contract, you received some life-changing news of your own—you had been accepted into a college in Seoul. It was everything you had ever dreamed of, a step closer to becoming a professor one day. Your hands trembled with excitement as you dialed Yoongi’s number, unable to contain your joy.

The phone rang a few times before he picked up, sounding a bit breathless. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“You won’t believe it!” you squealed. “I got accepted into college in Seoul!”

There was a beat of silence, and then Yoongi let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Are you serious? That’s amazing! I knew you could do it.”

Tears pricked at your eyes from how proud he sounded. “Thank you, Yoongi. I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

He chuckled warmly. “You’re gonna be the smartest professor one day. I’m so proud of you.”

Your heart swelled with happiness. “I’m proud of you too. I heard you’ve been working nonstop. Make sure you take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied, his tone softening. “I’ll make sure to rest. You’re gonna be in Seoul soon… I can’t wait to see you.”

Even after you moved to Seoul, the two of you continued to respect each other’s time and space. Both of you were working hard toward your dreams—Yoongi training tirelessly with his group and you diving into your college life. Yet, even in the same city, meeting up wasn’t always easy.

But Yoongi always found a way. One evening, after his long and exhausting practice, he showed up at your apartment, still in his training clothes, hair slightly messy and eyes tired but bright with affection.

You opened the door, surprised. “Yoongi?”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Hey. Missed you.”

Before you could say anything, he pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You melted into his embrace, feeling his heartbeat pounding against yours.

“You should be resting,” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair.

“I’m resting now,” he whispered, holding you even tighter. “Being with you is the best rest I can get.”

You chuckled softly, guiding him inside and making him sit on the couch. “Wait here. I’ll get you something to drink.”

As you prepared tea in the small kitchen, he leaned against the counter, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You know, I still can’t believe I get to see you in person now,” he said.

You smiled over your shoulder. “Neither can I. Feels surreal sometimes.”

He smirked. “It’s funny… I keep thinking about how I want to hold your hand every chance I get. And how I just want to hear your voice, even if it’s just you complaining about school.”

You laughed, setting the tea down on the table. “You’re so cheesy today.”

He shrugged, pulling you down to sit beside him. “You make me like this. Can’t help it.”

He took your hand, intertwining your fingers, and rested his head on your shoulder. A comfortable silence fell between you two as you sipped tea together, sharing quiet moments of peace.

Even after his debut with BTS, Yoongi made it a habit to visit you whenever he had free time—sometimes surprising you after practice, other times just showing up when he missed you too much. No matter how hectic his schedule got, he never stopped making time for you.

One night, after another successful concert, he knocked on your door, a tired smile on his face. You let him in, and he immediately wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his forehead against yours.

“You did amazing today,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

Yoongi grinned. “You saw?”

You nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He kissed your forehead softly. “I’m glad you’re here. You always make me feel like I’m home.”

2016

Years passed, and life kept moving forward. BTS slowly but steadily climbed their way up the charts, gaining recognition and building a loyal fanbase. Their hard work and passion were finally paying off, and Yoongi couldn’t have been prouder of how far they’d come.

Meanwhile, you were thriving in your own journey. Four years of hard work, sleepless nights, and countless exams had earned you the prestigious title of Dean’s Lister every year. Your dedication to your studies never wavered, even when juggling part-time jobs to support yourself. Whenever you received your academic awards, Yoongi was always the first person you called, his proud voice making you feel like all your efforts were worth it.

“I knew you’d do it,” he would say with a wide smile through the phone. “You never fail to amaze me.”

“And I knew you’d make it big,” you’d reply, hearing the excitement in his voice every time BTS achieved a new milestone.

As BTS’s fame grew, so did Yoongi’s income. He never hesitated to spend a portion of it on you, despite your protests. From cute stuffed animals to expensive accessories, he’d often surprise you with gifts, each one reminding you of him when he was away.

One evening, a package arrived at your apartment, and you nearly choked when you saw the designer label on the box. Inside was a beautiful bracelet—simple yet elegant, with tiny musical note charms. You quickly dialed his number, knowing he’d just finished practice.

When he picked up, you couldn’t hold back. “Yoongi! Did you seriously buy me this? This must have cost a fortune!”

He chuckled softly. “You like it?”

“Of course I do, but you didn’t have to spend so much!”

“You work hard, and you deserve nice things,” he replied, his tone gentle but firm. “And it’s not like I can take you on proper dates right now. Let me spoil you a little, okay?”

Despite your hesitations, you couldn’t help but smile, twirling the bracelet around your wrist. “You’re too much sometimes.”

“I know,” he teased. “But you love me for it.”

Little did you know, Yoongi’s generosity hadn’t gone unnoticed. One day, his manager called him into the office, his expression serious. As Yoongi sat down, he could sense something was off.

“We need to talk about your relationship,” his manager said, his tone professional but firm.

Yoongi tensed, a slight frown appearing on his face. “What about it?”

The manager sighed. “We’ve noticed you’ve been spending quite a bit on your girlfriend. Fans are becoming more curious, and it’s starting to draw attention. The company thinks it might be best if you... end things with her.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “What? Why?”

“BTS is just starting to gain momentum, and any hint of a relationship could ruin our image. You know how the industry works. We can’t afford a scandal right now.”

Yoongi felt his heart drop, anger and frustration welling up inside him. He knew the reality of the industry, but the thought of losing you—of being forced to break up with you—made his chest tighten painfully.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice low and unwavering. “I’m not breaking up with her.”

The manager looked at him with a mixture of surprise and disapproval. “Yoongi—”

“I’ve worked too hard to give up on my dreams, and I’m not giving up on her either,” Yoongi interrupted, his tone firm. “She’s been with me since the beginning. She supported me when no one else did. I’m not letting go of the one person who believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.”

His manager sighed, rubbing his temples. “Just... be careful. Don’t let it become a distraction. And try to keep it low-key.”

Yoongi nodded, his jaw still tense. “I understand.”

That night, he called you, trying to sound as normal as possible, but you could sense something was wrong.

“Yoongi? Are you okay?” you asked softly.

There was a long pause before he replied, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. “Yeah... I just needed to hear your voice.”

You smiled gently. “You’re working too hard again, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” he murmured, a hint of a smile in his voice. “But it’s worth it.”

The pressure from the company never eased up. Even though Yoongi kept standing his ground, it became harder to ignore the tension building up around him. Managers constantly warned him to be more discreet, and some staff members avoided bringing up his personal life altogether. He knew they were just trying to protect the group’s image, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

One morning, Yoongi woke up to his phone buzzing nonstop. Notifications flooded his screen—messages from his members, his manager, and dozens of missed calls. Confused, he rubbed his eyes and opened one of the messages from Namjoon.

Namjoon [6:23 AM]: Hyung, don’t look at Twitter. Stay off social media. Call me when you wake up.

His heart dropped, and despite Namjoon’s warning, he couldn’t resist checking. As soon as he opened the app, he saw his name trending along with phrases like “Yoongi’s Secret Girlfriend” and “BTS Scandal.” Clicking on the hashtag, his blood ran cold as he saw pictures of you—leaving your apartment, wearing the bracelet he bought you, even some blurry photos of him entering your place late at night. The media had found out.

Panic set in as he dialed your number, his hands trembling. You picked up almost immediately, your voice shaky.

“Yoongi?”

“Baby,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. “Are you okay? Did anyone—”

You took a deep breath. “There are people outside my apartment. Reporters. And some... fans.”

Yoongi cursed under his breath. “Don’t go outside. Lock your doors and windows. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Yoongi, no,” you interrupted, your voice cracking. “You can’t come here. It’ll just make things worse.”

He bit his lip, fighting back the helplessness washing over him. “I don’t care. I’m not leaving you alone to deal with this.”

Just then, there was a loud bang on your door, followed by muffled shouts from outside. Your breath hitched. “They’re getting louder... I’m scared.”

Something in him snapped. “I’m coming. Just stay put, okay? I’ll handle it.”

Before he could hang up, you stopped him. “Yoongi, wait!”

He paused, his heart pounding. “What is it?”

You hesitated, choking on your words. “Maybe... maybe we should listen to them.”

“What are you talking about?” Yoongi asked, his voice strained.

Your eyes filled with tears as you forced the words out. “Maybe we should break up.”

Silence.

His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach, and he shook his head as if you could see him. “No. I’m not losing you because of this. We can figure it out—”

“Yoongi,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Look at what’s happening. Your career... everything you’ve worked so hard for... it’s falling apart because of me.”

“That’s not true!” he snapped, frustration and fear mixing in his tone. “You’ve done nothing wrong. They’re just being irrational. I won’t let them take you away from me.”

A sob escaped your lips, and you wiped your tears, trying to be strong. “I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything. You’ve worked so hard to get here. I can’t be the one who ruins it.”

He was silent for a moment, breathing heavily as he tried to process your words. “I don’t care about any of that,” he finally whispered. “You’re more important to me.”

You smiled bitterly, your heart breaking. “But it’s not just about you and me anymore. It’s about BTS too... and I know you love them. I know how much you’ve sacrificed for this dream. I can’t let you throw it away because of me.”

Yoongi gritted his teeth, fighting back tears. “So what are you saying? You want me to just... let you go?”

You hesitated before whispering, “It’s for the best.”

He didn’t respond right away, his mind racing as he tried to find a way to convince you otherwise. But deep down, he knew you were right. The backlash wouldn’t stop, and the hate directed at you was something he couldn’t bear.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he finally spoke, his voice trembling. “Fine... but promise me something.”

“What is it?”

He swallowed hard, his heart aching as he forced himself to say the words. “Wait for me. No matter how long it takes, I’ll always come back to you. Just... wait for me.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “I will. I’ll wait for you, Yoongi.”

Neither of you spoke for a while, both lost in the pain of goodbye. Finally, he whispered one last thing before hanging up.

“I love you.”

And just like that, the call ended, leaving you alone with the ache in your chest and the shattered pieces of your heart.

A Few Weeks Later

Since the public found out about your relationship and Yoongi had to deny it, the two of you kept your distance, just as you both agreed. You changed your phone number and deactivated your social media accounts to avoid the relentless hate and messages from fans. It hurt, but you knew it was necessary.

Yoongi did his best to focus on work, throwing himself into producing and writing, but his heart wasn’t in it. The members noticed the change in him—how he seemed quieter and more distant, his eyes constantly tired and empty. One evening after practice, while sitting on the floor of the dance studio, Namjoon finally spoke up.

“Hyung, are you okay?” he asked gently, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Yoongi didn’t respond right away, staring blankly at the floor. The other members exchanged glances, worried.

Jin cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ve been spacing out a lot lately. Are you eating properly?”

Yoongi forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

Hoseok scooted closer and gave him a gentle nudge. “Come on, hyung. You know you can talk to us.”

Taking a deep breath, Yoongi hesitated before finally admitting, “It’s harder than I thought.”

“What is?” Jungkook asked, tilting his head curiously.

Yoongi clenched his jaw, trying to keep his emotions in check. “Pretending like it doesn’t hurt. Denying the one person who’s been by my side since the beginning... it feels like I betrayed her.”

The room fell silent, and Jimin lowered his gaze, understanding the pain Yoongi was feeling. Taehyung reached out and patted Yoongi’s shoulder gently.

“I’m sure she knows you did it to protect her,” Taehyung said softly.

Yoongi let out a bitter chuckle. “I’m not even sure of that myself. I keep replaying her voice in my head... how she tried so hard to be strong while breaking up with me. I thought keeping our distance would make it easier, but it just hurts more.”

Namjoon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hyung... I know how much she means to you. But you made the choice to protect her from the hate. It’s not your fault.”

Yoongi shook his head, his hands trembling. “I feel like a coward. I promised her I’d always come back... but what if she stops waiting?”

Jungkook bit his lip, hesitant to speak but feeling compelled to comfort him. “If she loves you as much as you love her, she’ll wait, hyung. Love like that doesn’t just disappear.”

Jin nodded in agreement. “We know you’re hurting, and I’m sure she is too. But this will get easier with time. You just have to keep pushing forward.”

Hoseok forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, we’re here, too. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Yoongi looked around at his members—his brothers—grateful for their support. Even if the pain didn’t go away, knowing they were there made it a little easier to bear.

The days continued to pass, and Yoongi kept his promise to focus on BTS. He poured his heart into writing lyrics, his songs often reflecting the ache and longing he kept bottled up. Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, he’d sit by the window, phone in hand, staring at your contact name on his screen.

He wanted to call you—just to hear your voice or know if you were okay—but he held back, respecting the distance you both agreed on. Still, he couldn’t help but write texts he’d never send:

“Did you eat today?”

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to protect you.”

One evening, as BTS sat in the dorm living room watching a music show, one of the rookie groups performed a song that Yoongi had helped produce. The familiar melody made his chest tighten, and he couldn’t help but think of how proud you’d be if you heard it.

Jimin noticed Yoongi’s faraway look and nudged him. “Hyung, your song is doing well. You should be proud.”

Yoongi forced a nod, but his mind was elsewhere. “Yeah... it’s doing well.”

Namjoon glanced at him knowingly and spoke up. “You’re not planning to give up on her, right?”

Yoongi’s eyes flickered with determination. “No. I meant it when I said I’d come back to her. I just... need to get through this storm first.”

Taehyung grinned softly, his boxy smile comforting. “Then keep that promise. She’ll be waiting.”

Jungkook chimed in, trying to sound hopeful. “And when you’re both ready, it’ll be worth it, right?”

Yoongi gave a faint smile. “Yeah... it will be.”

As the night dragged on, Yoongi found himself back at his writing desk, scribbling down lyrics that spoke of longing, loss, and the unwavering hope of returning to the person he loved. His heart ached, but he knew that someday, when the chaos settled and his dreams became reality, he would come back to you—just like he promised.

And until that day came, he would keep working hard, knowing that somewhere out there, you were holding on to that promise too.

Four Years Later

Time flew by faster than you could have imagined. The pain of letting Yoongi go never truly disappeared, but you had learned to live with it. You threw yourself into your studies, determined to make something of yourself despite the heartbreak.

Graduating at the top of your class, you earned your degree with honors, and it was the proudest moment of your life. You remembered how Yoongi used to tell you how smart and hardworking you were, and a small smile crept onto your face as you accepted your diploma. You wished he could see you now—see how far you’d come.

After graduation, you didn’t stop there. You pursued your master's degree, specializing in educational leadership and curriculum development. You spent countless sleepless nights buried in research papers, lesson plans, and academic journals. Your passion for teaching burned brighter than ever, and the dream of becoming a professor stayed alive in your heart.

During your master's program, you took up a part-time teaching position at a local university in Seoul. It was nerve-wracking at first—standing in front of a class full of eager minds, trying to inspire them the way your own mentors once inspired you. But with each lesson, your confidence grew. Your students admired your dedication and passion, and seeing them learn gave you a sense of purpose.

One evening after class, your colleague Mina approached you.

"You did great today, Y/N. The students love your teaching style," she said with a warm smile.

You chuckled softly, rubbing your neck. "Thanks, Mina. I still get nervous sometimes."

"You’d never know," Mina replied. "By the way, have you thought about applying for that international teaching program? I heard they’re looking for innovative educators, and you’d be perfect for it."

You raised your eyebrows, intrigued. "International teaching? Where?"

"The United States. They’re offering positions for professors who specialize in modern teaching strategies and curriculum development. Plus, it’s an incredible opportunity for growth and exposure."

The idea stirred something in you—ambition, curiosity, and a desire to prove yourself on a global scale. Could you really do it? Could you leave Seoul and pursue your dreams halfway across the world?

That night, you stayed up researching the program. You read testimonials from previous applicants and saw how their careers flourished after being accepted. It was an intimidating thought—leaving behind the familiarity of your city and starting fresh in a new country—but something about it felt right.

Finally, with a deep breath, you submitted your application, pouring your heart into your cover letter and highlighting your dedication to education. You didn’t expect much—competition was fierce, and the thought of being chosen felt almost impossible.

But fate had a way of surprising you.

A few months later, you received an email from the international program. Your hands shook as you opened it, scanning the words with bated breath.

"Dear Ms. Y/N,

We are pleased to inform you that your application for the International Teaching Fellowship has been approved. Congratulations on being selected as one of our newest professors! Please review the attached documents for further details and next steps."

Your jaw dropped as you reread the message over and over. Tears filled your eyes as the reality set in—you did it. You had achieved your dream of becoming an international professor.

You immediately called Mina, who squealed with excitement on the other end. "I knew you could do it! This is huge, Y/N! You’re going to be amazing!"

Packing your life into a few suitcases wasn’t easy, but you knew this was your chance to grow. Before leaving, you visited your favorite spots in Seoul one last time—the cozy coffee shop where you used to study, the park where you’d stroll to clear your mind, and even the little restaurant where you and Yoongi would share meals on his rare free days.

Memories flooded your mind, but you pushed them away, focusing on the bright future ahead.

"Goodbye, Seoul," you whispered as you boarded the plane, determination sparking in your eyes.

The transition wasn’t easy. You struggled to adapt to the culture, the food, and even the accents. Some nights were lonely, and you found yourself scrolling through old photos and reading the letters you wrote to yourself for motivation.

But slowly, you adjusted. Your students were bright and curious, eager to learn from your experiences and methods. You found yourself immersed in academic conferences, workshops, and mentoring programs. Your innovative approach to curriculum development earned you respect among your colleagues, and soon enough, you were invited to give lectures at different universities.

One evening after a successful seminar, you sat in your office grading papers when your phone buzzed with a notification. Curious, you checked it and saw an article headline:

"BTS Makes History as the First Korean Group to Sell Out Multiple Stadium Tours Worldwide!"

Your heart clenched at the sight of Yoongi’s face on the thumbnail, his gaze as intense as ever. He looked different—more mature, confident, and a bit more worn out. Pride swelled in your chest despite the pang of sadness that followed.

"You did it," you whispered, running your fingers over his photo on the screen. "I knew you would."

You turned off your phone and leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. The thought of him still lingered in your mind, but you reminded yourself that you both had dreams to chase. You had come this far, and there was no turning back now.

One night after class, as you were tidying up your materials, one of your students approached you.

"Professor Y/N, your lecture today was really inspiring," she said with a bright smile. "You always talk about chasing dreams no matter how hard it gets. Have you ever done that yourself?"

You hesitated, memories of your journey flashing through your mind. A soft smile graced your lips. "Yes. I have. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done... but it was worth it."

The student beamed. "I hope I can be as brave as you someday."

You nodded, your heart warm with pride. "You already are. Just keep pushing forward."

As you walked back to your empty apartment that night, you couldn’t help but wonder if Yoongi ever thought of you—if he remembered the promise he made. Maybe someday your paths would cross again. Until then, you’d keep building your future, one dream at a time.

A Year After Your Departure

Yoongi found himself stuck in a never-ending cycle of rehearsals, recordings, and interviews. BTS’s fame had skyrocketed beyond imagination, and he was grateful—truly grateful. Yet, despite the worldwide success and the overwhelming love from fans, he felt emptier than ever.

He tried his best to focus on producing songs and writing lyrics, but every melody seemed to remind him of you—your laughter, your encouragement, your unwavering support during his most vulnerable moments. The studio, once his safe haven, now felt suffocating, filled with memories of late-night phone calls and words of comfort you used to offer.

He couldn’t help but wonder where you were, how you were doing, and if you had moved on. He hated himself for letting you go, for denying what you two had, and for pretending that he didn’t care.

One evening after a long practice session, Yoongi sat on the studio couch, his head resting against the wall as he fiddled with his phone. Absentmindedly, he scrolled through social media, searching for any trace of you. He had tried countless times before, typing your name into search engines and browsing through mutual friends’ profiles, but he always came up empty-handed.

"Yoongi-hyung," Jungkook called out as he poked his head into the studio. "You okay? You’ve been in here for hours."

Yoongi let out a tired sigh. "Yeah, I’m fine. Just... trying to find someone."

Jungkook raised an eyebrow and stepped inside, curiosity evident on his face. "Someone? Who?"

Yoongi hesitated, not wanting to open old wounds, but he couldn’t deny the ache in his chest. "Y/N. I just... I don’t know where she went. She’s not in Seoul anymore."

Jungkook’s expression softened. "You really miss her, huh?"

Yoongi didn’t answer, just clenched his phone tighter.

Jungkook smiled gently. "If it’s meant to be, you’ll find her again. Just trust that."

Just then, the door burst open, and Jimin came rushing in, nearly tripping over his own feet. His phone was clutched tightly in his hand, and his face was flushed with excitement.

"Hyung!" he practically shouted. "You’re not going to believe this!"

Yoongi and Jungkook exchanged confused glances. "What’s with you?" Yoongi grumbled, though he couldn’t hide his curiosity.

Jimin shoved his phone in Yoongi’s face, pointing at the screen. "Look! Look at this post!"

Yoongi squinted at the screen and saw an Instagram post from Jimin’s younger brother, Park Jaehyun. The caption read:

"Huge thanks to Professor Y/N for guiding us through this tough semester! We learned so much from you. Your passion for teaching inspires us every day. #Grateful #BestProfessorEver"

Beneath the caption was a photo of you standing at the front of a classroom, wearing a crisp blouse and slacks, a bright, encouraging smile on your face. You looked more mature, more confident—like you had truly become the person you always wanted to be.

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the screen, his fingers trembling. "That’s... her," he whispered.

Jimin grinned. "Jaehyun texted me earlier about how he loves his new professor. When he showed me the post, I couldn’t believe it. Hyung, Y/N is teaching at a university in the States!"

Yoongi swallowed hard, his mind reeling. "She... went to America?"

Jimin nodded. "Apparently. Jaehyun said she’s one of the most sought-after professors there. She’s been hosting international seminars and lectures too."

Yoongi couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and regret. You had made it—chasing your dreams just as you promised. While he had been drowning in guilt and loneliness, you had been thriving on the other side of the world.

Jungkook looked at Yoongi, his expression softening. "Hyung, maybe this is your chance. If you miss her that much, reach out. Let her know you’re proud of her."

Yoongi hesitated, his mind spinning with possibilities. Would you even want to hear from him after all these years? Would you still think of him the way he thought of you?

"What are you gonna do?" Jimin asked cautiously, sensing Yoongi’s turmoil.

Yoongi took a deep breath and lowered his gaze. "I don’t know. I want to see her. I need to talk to her. But... I don’t know if she’d even want that."

Jimin smiled softly, patting his shoulder. "One way to find out. You always said you’d come back to her, right? Maybe now’s the time."

Yoongi knew he was right. He had made a promise to you once—a promise to always come back. Maybe it was time to fulfill that promise.

Late that night, while the other members were asleep, Yoongi sat at his desk, staring at your picture on Jimin’s phone. His heart thumped in his chest, and he gathered his courage to send a message to Jaehyun, asking for your contact information. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but he couldn’t let this chance slip away.

For the first time in years, he felt a spark of hope. Maybe—just maybe—he could find his way back to you.

Yoongi’s mind was spinning with thoughts of you. After finding out where you were, he couldn’t help but feel restless. The thought of finally seeing you after so many years brought a sense of excitement, but it also made his stomach churn with anxiety. Would you still want to see him? Would you even want to talk to him after all that happened?

That night, Yoongi lay on his bed, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. Sleep refused to come as memories of you filled his mind—your laughter, your encouraging words, the way you used to tell him to keep going no matter what. He missed you more than he could ever put into words.

The next morning, without telling the other members, he squeezed in some free time in his schedule and booked a flight to the States. He knew it was reckless, but he didn’t care. He needed to see you, to hear your voice, even if it was just from a distance.

He was on his way to the airport when Jimin appeared out of nowhere, pulling his suitcase behind him. Yoongi stopped in his tracks and raised an eyebrow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Yoongi asked, his tone harsher than intended.

Jimin grinned, completely unfazed. "You didn’t think you’d go alone, did you? I’m coming too. Besides, I want to see my brother. It’s been a while."

Yoongi opened his mouth to argue, but he knew it was pointless. Jimin could be annoyingly persistent when he wanted to be.

"Fine," Yoongi mumbled, pulling his cap down to hide his face. "Just... don’t make a fuss."

Jimin snorted. "Like I would. Besides, it’s not every day I get to see you all worked up over a girl. It’s cute."

Yoongi shot him a glare, but Jimin just laughed, following him through the check-in and boarding process.

The flight was long and filled with silence, save for the occasional hum of the airplane engine. Jimin sat next to Yoongi, occasionally glancing at his friend’s tense posture.

"You nervous?" Jimin asked softly.

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window, watching the clouds drift by.

"Yeah," he finally admitted. "I don’t know what I’ll do if... she doesn’t want to see me."

Jimin smiled gently, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You’ll be fine, hyung. She’s not the type to hold grudges. She loved you. I’m sure she still does."

Yoongi didn’t respond, but he hoped Jimin was right.

After landing in California, the two made their way to a small hotel near the university where Jaehyun had mentioned your upcoming seminar would be held. As they checked in, Yoongi couldn’t help but feel his hands trembling.

Jimin noticed and nudged him. "Hey, relax. It’s gonna be okay."

Yoongi just nodded, but the knot in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

Later that evening, Jimin video-called his brother, and Jaehyun picked up almost immediately, his face lighting up with surprise.

"Hyung? You’re here?!" Jaehyun exclaimed, clearly not expecting a call from his older brother.

"Yeah," Jimin replied with a grin. "I’m here with Yoongi-hyung. We just arrived."

Jaehyun’s eyes widened. "With... Yoongi-hyung? Wait, why—"

"Long story," Jimin cut in, giving his brother a look. "Where’s the seminar happening?"

Jaehyun thought for a moment before replying, "It’s at Stanford University tomorrow morning. Professor Y/N is giving a guest lecture in the humanities department. It’s a pretty big deal. She’s been doing seminars all over the States."

Yoongi’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of your name. You really had made it big, just as he always knew you would.

"Got it," Jimin said with a nod. "We’ll head there tomorrow. Don’t tell anyone, okay?"

Jaehyun grinned. "I won’t. Good luck, hyung. I’m rooting for you."

After hanging up, Yoongi leaned back against the wall, letting out a shaky breath.

"She really made it," he whispered, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Jimin patted his shoulder. "She did. And you’re here now, hyung. Go get her back."

That night, Yoongi barely slept. His mind kept replaying the moment he would see you again—how your eyes might widen in shock or how you might even turn away, hurt and betrayed. He didn’t know if he was ready for the worst, but he had to try.

The next morning, Yoongi and Jimin dressed inconspicuously and made their way to Stanford. The campus was bustling with students, and the two idols did their best to stay low-key, despite a few curious glances.

They eventually found the humanities building, where a large poster announced your seminar titled "The Power of Education: Cultivating Future Leaders." Yoongi’s lips curved into a small smile. It sounded just like you—passionate and driven.

As they approached the lecture hall, they noticed a long line of students waiting to get in. Yoongi’s heart pounded harder with each step, and Jimin gave him an encouraging nod.

"Let’s sneak in from the back," Jimin suggested, guiding Yoongi around to a side entrance.

They slipped into the hall, taking seats near the back where they wouldn’t be easily noticed. The room was filled to the brim with eager students, their excitement buzzing in the air.

When you finally walked onto the stage, Yoongi’s breath hitched. You looked so confident—composed and radiant, wearing a sleek blazer and professional attire. Your hair was styled neatly, and your expression was both serious and approachable. The way you greeted the students with a warm smile made Yoongi’s heart ache with longing.

"Good morning, everyone," you greeted. "Thank you for coming to today’s seminar. I’m honored to share my insights and experiences with you all."

Yoongi couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He hadn’t seen you in years, but his feelings hadn’t changed one bit. If anything, they’d only grown stronger.

Jimin nudged him gently. "Hyung... she’s amazing."

Yoongi just nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. As you began your presentation, confidently discussing educational philosophies and the importance of nurturing young minds, he couldn’t help but admire how far you had come.

He could see it now—how you had blossomed into the person you had always wanted to be. And it hurt that he hadn’t been there to witness your journey.

When the seminar concluded and students approached you with questions, Yoongi hesitated, unsure whether to approach or wait. Jimin gave him a gentle push.

"Go," he urged. "Now’s your chance."

Taking a deep breath, Yoongi mustered the courage to stand up and make his way through the crowd. As he approached the stage, you finally noticed him, and your eyes widened in shock.

The room seemed to fall silent as you stared at him, your expression a mix of disbelief and something unspoken—maybe longing, maybe pain.

"Y/N," Yoongi whispered, his voice trembling. "I... I’m here."

Your lips parted, but no words came out, still frozen in surprise.

"I came back," Yoongi said softly, his gaze unwavering. "I told you I’d always come back to you."

Your breath hitched as your mind struggled to process what was happening. You blinked a few times, trying to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

“Y-Yoongi?” you whispered, your voice trembling with disbelief.

Yoongi’s lips quirked up into a small, fond smile, his eyes never leaving yours. Seeing him standing there after all these years—looking just as handsome, just as familiar—made your heart pound in your chest. A whirlwind of emotions surged through you: happiness, confusion, shock, and a hint of fear that this might just be a cruel dream.

Yoongi’s hands itched to reach out and pull you into his arms, but he hesitated, not wanting to overwhelm you. Instead, he just looked at you with that soft, tender gaze that you remembered so well—the gaze that once made you feel like you were his whole world.

“It’s really you…” you managed to choke out, covering your mouth as tears brimmed in your eyes.

Before you could stop yourself, you rushed forward and threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. Yoongi staggered slightly, caught off guard, but then his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you just as tightly. You buried your face into his shoulder, feeling the familiar warmth and scent you had missed for so long.

**“You came…” you whispered, your voice muffled against his hoodie.

He let out a shaky breath, his hand gently caressing the back of your head. “Of course, I did,” he murmured. “I couldn’t stay away any longer. I had to see you… I missed you so damn much.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your hands still gripping his shoulders. “I thought… I thought I’d never see you again,” you whispered. “It’s been so long, Yoongi…”

He reached up and gently wiped away the tear that slipped down your cheek. “I know. I’m sorry for making you wait. I just… I had to come back. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You’ve been on my mind every day.”

Your lips trembled, a soft laugh escaping as you wiped at your own tears. “You idiot… You really think I stopped thinking about you?”

Yoongi’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I never stopped loving you. I promised I’d come back, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling through your tears. “You did.”

Suddenly, you heard someone clearing their throat, and you both snapped your heads to the side. Jimin was standing there, his phone held up, recording the entire interaction with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Hyung, you’re so cheesy,” Jimin teased. “The guys are gonna love this.”

Yoongi shot him a glare. “Yah! Park Jimin, delete that!”

Jimin just giggled and skipped back a few steps. “No way! The guys need to see this. You were about to cry, hyung! I’ve never seen you this soft!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, covering your mouth as Yoongi tried to chase after Jimin, who was already texting the video to the group chat.

“Jimin-ah!” Yoongi hissed, but his annoyance was half-hearted. He glanced back at you, giving you a soft, embarrassed smile, his ears turning red.

Jimin, still grinning, gave a thumbs up. “Yoongi-hyung’s in love!” he sang teasingly. “I’m telling the whole world!”

Yoongi gave up chasing him and just groaned, running a hand through his hair. But when he turned back to you, his expression softened once again.

“Sorry about him,” he muttered. “You know how he is.”

You just smiled, wiping your cheeks. “He hasn’t changed a bit.”

Jimin leaned in and whispered, not so subtly, “Actually, neither of you have. You’re still so in love it’s ridiculous.”

Yoongi shot him a warning look, but the corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile despite himself. He reached out and took your hand, squeezing it gently.

“Can we… talk?” he asked softly. “There’s so much I want to say to you.”

You nodded, your heart racing but your smile never fading. “Yeah… I want that too.”

Jimin patted Yoongi’s shoulder before stepping back. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. Just don’t forget to thank me later, hyung. Without me, you wouldn’t have found her.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but gave him a grateful nod. “Thanks, Jimin-ah.”

As Jimin wandered off to give you two some space, Yoongi turned his attention back to you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart skip a beat.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You did it, Y/N. You made your dreams come true.”

You bit your lip to keep from crying again. “You too, Yoongi. You became everything you wanted to be. I’m proud of you too.”

He looked down for a moment, a hint of sadness flashing in his eyes. “I just wish I hadn’t lost you along the way.”

You reached out and cupped his face gently, making him look at you. “You didn’t lose me,” you said firmly. “You never did. I was always waiting for you.”

Yoongi’s lips quivered, and he leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath. “Then I’ll never let you go again,” he whispered, his voice full of determination. “Not this time.”

You smiled and leaned in, brushing your lips softly against his. The kiss was tender and filled with years of longing, both of you savoring the moment that you’d both been waiting for.

And just around the corner, Jimin snapped a few photos and sent them to the group chat with the caption:

"Mission accomplished. Lovebirds reunited. Yoongi-hyung actually cried!"

[ohnaurshayla]

Wanna See My Cat? - Min Yoongi / Suga

Prompt: “Do you wanna see my cat?” You're not actually lying but he thinks it's a sexual innuendo.

Prompt request: HERE

Genre/tags: Fluff, situationship-ish, clueless reader vs flirty Yoongi

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Word count: 2k

a/n: I was contemplating on whether to actually add smut to this but I decided not to cause it's cuter this way and I think we could all agree there're plenty of bts smut but not enough fluff here! :D

Situationship was a funny concept. Either you commit or not, that was what you believed. Which was why you were not precisely proud to say that you was now in fact in one. 

In your defense it had only been what, three? Four weeks? A month or so? Min Yoongi was this nice guy your acquaintance introduced you to. Gentle, could be hilarious when he wanted to, and cute. Although he could be a little emotionless at times, mostly he was a really sweet guy and you liked him a lot. In your other defense, you did not believe what you had with him could be called as a situationship. It was just what your friends had been teasing you about. 

In the whole time of knowing him, you had been to total of three dates. The first being a casual “are you free for dinner after work?” kinda date, second a movie date, and third being a very chill cafe date. And in your opinion, you enjoyed all of them, you had the greatest of time chatting and spending quality time with him. But your friend kept teasing you otherwise. 

Apparently your dates were considered too boring, too innocent for today’s dating world standard. You had not even had your first kiss yet and one of your friends was already asking about his size. Evidently, wanting to take things slow was a crime nowadays and you were lowkey getting annoyed. 

Today though, your park date was cancelled due to the rain. You kept cursing to yourself at home when you saw Yoongi’s text telling you to do a literal rain check, seeing the thunderstorm. The outfit that you bought especially for the occasion failed to see the outside world. 

As you stood in front of the mirror, seeing the reflection gave you a weird idea. A small Siamese cat walking past your feet, meowing adorably. Your pet cat, Zuko. A cat whose existence wasn’t known by Yoongi yet. The lightbulb above your head lightened up. 

“Do you wanna see my cat?” You sent the text. 

**

Yoongi texted you to let you know that he had arrived at your place. You recalled last time he picked you up it took him around fifteen minutes but this time he only took ten. You wondered what made him arrive a lot quicker. 

You were giddy with excitement and took a screenshot to tell your friend. Instead of being excited and giddy for you, your friend sent a bunch of side-eye emojis. Well, they could be just teasing you but the chat bubble following afterwards had you wondering. 

“Woo! Give me a rating score later!!!” 

You crooked your head in confusion, but there was no time to ponder on your friend’s riddle when Yoongi was already waiting for you to open the front door. 

“Hey.”

That hey definitely did not have to sound that deep and hot. You had to gulped your saliva down upon seeing him in his comfortable clothes. Since when did wearing sweatpants and baggy t-shirt looked so good? And did he just had his hair cut or was it just you? So many questions pilling up in your head. 

You knew it was game over when he went in for a hug. Heavenly was the only words you could use to describe his smell. It was a mixture of his shampoo and his laundry detergent, and his intoxicating smell. It seemed like he didn’t even use any perfume. 

“What should we eat?” You said while smiling giddily. 

“I’m kinda craving some instant ramen?” He looked at you while lifting a shopping bag filled with a few packets of noodles. 

Your eyes beamed. “That sounds really nice actually with the weather and all.” 

“Alright cool.” He nodded. “Let’s cook?”

Yoongi was being extra touchy. You were boiling the water and he would swiftly grab the chopsticks in front of you from behind, making you feel his chest. You fully knew well that he could easily grab the utensils without doing that, but for some reason the demons were working hard at the moment. He even leaned his chin over your shoulder as you were chopping some sausages. At this point he could be doing it on purpose for all you knew. 

He did not stop when you both started to eat. From the smooth wiping your lips from food to feeding you. Who was this person and what had he done to Yoongi you might never know. 

Right after washing the dishes and escaping a few of Yoongi’s teases, you both chilled on the sofa. As you browsed through Netflix, you could sense him scooting closer to you. You could feel his body warmth that automatically made yours grew hotter as well. 

“What are we watching?” He asked with a husky voice. By this point he was hugging your waist and rested his body weight on you. 

“I was thinking some action? You love those right?”

“I do.” 

You paused. Why was the tone of his voice sounded slightly off and why was he looking at you funnily?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He broke into a small smile. “Nothing.”

“Stop or I’ll make you watch Puss in Boots!” You whined. 

And then it hit you. The cat! You were too busy being swayed, head in the clouds, fantasizing, that you forgot why he was initially visiting you in your apartment.

“My cat!” You exclaimed loudly, which made Yoongi jumped and sat back up from his position. 

You missed the look of confusion in Yoongi’s face as you ran quickly to your room to pick up the furball in your bedroom. 

“I can’t believe I forgot about him!” You chuckled with your pet now in your arms. “He doesn’t like roaming around, he mostly sleeps in my room.”

Yoongi just looked at you, quizzically. As if he could not believe his eyes. 

“Meet Zuko!” You smiled, proudly showing your cat. “Zuko, meet Yoongi.” You giggled and shoved the cat to the man’s hands. 

He stared at the cat blankly for a good few seconds before gently petting the creature’s head. 

“Uh, hi.” He said, sounding lightly awkward. “He’s actually really cute.”

“I know right!” You grinned. “Do you wanna hold him?”

“Sure.” He said, sounding a little unsure. 

The man sat down with your cat on his lap, slowly stroking the soft white fur of its tiny body. You bent down, sat on the carpet on his knee level to pet the cat. Somehow seeing you smile lovingly at the cat made Yoongi’s lips curled into a soft smile as well. 

“You’re adorable.” Yoongi said. 

“He’s the cutest cat, I know.”

“No, I mean you.” 

“Oh.” You shyly looked away, hoping the nervous giggles did not give it away. “Thank you.” 

Yoongi chuckled and huffed a sigh. “I can’t believe there’s actually a cat.”

“Huh?” You crooked your head to the side, wondering what the guy meant by that. “Of course there is? What do you mean?”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” He laughed. “You don’t know?”

“Uh, no?” 

He ruffled your hair and laughed again, this time a little bit louder than before. You were still stunned, too confused to process when he quickly pulled you in and kissed your forehead. Suddenly you did not want to protest about how messy he just made your hair. 

“It’s alright, maybe next time.” 

You covered your face with both of your palms.  “What’s with you today?!” You said with your hands still covering your face. 

“I like you.” He shrugged. “Might not be the most animated guy out there so I’m just letting you know.”

“Yeah, which is why I’m so confused with you today???” You said with flushed face. “Oh my god, that’s not the point though! I like you too!”

He chuckled. “Let’s just get back to the movie?”

The vibe after that conversation calmed down. Maybe it was the whole letting-the-cat-out-of-the-bag thing on your feelings making the air less thick. You ended up just cuddling, snuggling to each other while watching The Notebook. You both hated romance movies, but somehow finished the entire movie anyway after you misclicked it in the first place. It was nice and warm being in Yoongi’s arms and you were afraid you wouldn’t want to ever let go. 

And it was finally time for him to go home. Crazy how you did not notice the time went by so fast. Heck, you didn’t even notice the screen was already playing another movie. How could you when Yoongi was caressing your hair ever so gently? Goodness gracious. 

“Hey, I have to go now. Meeting in an hour, remember?” He tapped your shoulder. 

“I’m not letting you go.” You whined, hugging him tighter. 

He laughed. “Silly, I can come again tomorrow.”

You sat back up and looked at him. “Really???”

“I mean yeah, you don’t have work on Sunday, right?” He smiled. “If you want to, that is.”

“I want to.” You giggled. 

He flashed his gummy smile one more time before getting up from your couch. You walked with him to the door and waited for him to grab his jacket. The whole time you were stalling, asking him the most random questions, and made the silliest remarks. You just didn’t want him to go home yet, especially after finding out that he liked you too. 

“As much as I’d love to talk more about how much I disliked the whole education system, I really have to go now.” He chuckled. 

“Okay.” You pouted. You watched as he got up from tying his shoelaces. 

He huffed a sigh and smiled. “Come closer.”

You did as told without thinking and in a quick seconds, somehow you were pulled into a soft kiss. It was a soft peck and you could feel his smile through it. He didn’t gave you a chance to react as he swiftly let go. 

“See you tomorrow?” 

“Come on…” You whined again and covered your face in awkwardness, and he could only laugh at you. “Go! Before I lock you up!”

“I’ll text you.” He waved and you finally closed your door. 

You found yourself giggling and smiling to yourself like an idiot. This was new. Whatever in the fresh hell was that, you couldn’t lie to yourself that you were into this somewhat bold and flirty side of him. 

You casually walked back to your couch and switched the tv to youtube. As you let random science podcast video play, you decided to check your phone, realizing you had not text your friend back yet. 

“What do you mean by giving a score?”

Your friend replied almost too immediately. You were shocked to see the usage of caps lock. 

“YOU DON’T KNOW??????!!!!! WTF???”

“Okay, explain?????”

“Poor Yoongi has to deal with your dumbass 😔” 

“Shut up 🖕🖕🖕”

“It’s a code. You say that instead of asking to come over and have sex. Basically the new netflix and chill.”

“… okay. OKAY???!!!!!!”

“Bestie, did something happen though??? 😍”

“SO THAT’S WHY HE TOLD ME HE WAS SURPRISED THAT THERE WAS ACTUALLY A CAT???? OMFGGGGGG!!!!!! ASFDKSPSKSG 😭😭😭”

You put down your phone to muffle your tiny scream with your knuckles. You recalled him mentioning a next time. Then you also recalled him wanting to come over again tomorrow. Needless to say, it was finally time to let out that one cute underwear you had been keeping in your drawer for months.

Thank you for reading! 🐈‍⬛💕

[ohnaurshayla]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ CHARITABLE CAUSES Ꮺ myg

request: Hi!! Im just discovered your blog and your writing is genuinely moving it's so beautiful 🥹 with that being said I would love to request a yoongi x reader fic maybe idol yoongi with actress reader. Maybe they're at a charity event or something and they meet and it's basically love I dunno. Potentially Smutty 👀👀👀

Anyway continue your absolutely beautiful writing pookie <3

pairing: idol!yoongi x actress!fem!reader

genre: strangers to lovers, slow burn, social event tension, emotional isolation, suggestive/flirty atmosphere

warnings: mature themes, strong sexual tension, making out in semi-public setting, suggestive language, swearing, mutual thirst with a side of pining, power plays in eye contact form

word count: 5.6 k

summary: yoongi doesn’t want to be at the charity gala — not when he is the only one doing the promotions, not when all he’s expected to do is smile and survive conversations that mean nothing. but then she walks in: the actress with sharp eyes, a reputation for blunt honesty, and a look that makes him forget how to breathe. what starts as a few shared glances turns into something neither of them can deny — tension thick enough to choke on, every moment charged, quiet, dangerous. and when she dares him to follow her, he doesn't hesitate.

lu's note: hi!! instead of making this one-shot smutty, i decided to make it charged with sexual tension between these two (it definitely has potential for a part two with smut if you guys are interested 👀). alsooo my requests are open atm if you want to send something in!! i think that was all i had to say lmao, thanks for reading

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

Yoongi didn’t want to be here.

He was already itching under the collar of his suit, his tie too tight no matter how many times he subtly tugged at it. He shifted his weight, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored slacks as his manager chatted with some executive he didn’t recognize — or care to. The lights were too soft, the music too polished, and everyone around him wore the same polite smile that screamed networking opportunity rather than actual interest.

He’d done the red carpet, posed for photos with the sponsors, nodded through two glassy interviews, and now he was trying to disappear into a dark corner of the ballroom with a half-glass of something amber and sharp. It wasn’t bad. Just... not enough.

This was what his life looked like now — solo appearances, solo press runs, solo dinners. The other members had gone off to fulfill their service, and though they kept in touch, the silence in the dorms had started to feel louder than any crowd.

He could hear Jin’s voice in his head: just show face, say thank you, and get the hell out before someone asks for karaoke.

Yoongi almost smiled.

And then —

She walked in.

He noticed her before the crowd did. Or maybe they did too, but didn’t quite react the same way.

She wasn’t flashy, not in the usual way actresses made entrances. She wasn’t dripping in jewels or batting her lashes at the cameras. But there was a quiet kind of magnetism to her, like the kind of song that doesn’t hit you until the third listen — and then it won’t leave you alone.

Her dress hugged her body just enough to command attention, but it was the way she moved — unhurried, confident — that made Yoongi straighten subtly, gaze tracking her as she crossed the room like she’d rehearsed it in heels and hardwood a thousand times.

She didn’t look at him.

He told himself he was only watching because she looked vaguely familiar. An actress. He’d probably seen her in something, but he couldn’t place it. And still — he watched.

His manager leaned in. “That’s the girl presenting the grant award later. She’s the face of that new indie film with the Venice buzz. She’s kind of everywhere right now.”

Yoongi just hummed, eyes still on her. She laughed at something someone said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled her nose and tipped her head back slightly. She had no idea he was staring.

But god, she was pretty.

And Yoongi, who had been perfectly content with fading into the wallpaper tonight, suddenly didn’t feel like hiding anymore.

The first time her eyes met his, it was an accident. Probably.

She was in conversation with someone — a producer or a director by the looks of it — her hand delicately holding the stem of a wine glass, one shoulder tilted back in that practiced red carpet way, when her gaze skimmed the room and snagged on his.

Yoongi felt it like a pinprick. Just a flick of her eyes, a pass-through. Except... she didn’t keep moving.

She held it.

Not long. A second, maybe two. Enough for him to feel the soft, subtle shift in the air around him — the moment going still. She didn’t smile, didn’t look away immediately, and Yoongi? He didn’t either.

Her eyes glinted — there was no better word for it — something playful or curious or maybe even amused. Like she knew exactly who he was and wasn’t all that impressed. Like she’d been watching him first.

And then, as if remembering herself, she blinked and turned her attention back to her glass, laughing at something the man beside her said. Not a hair out of place.

But Yoongi stood there, unmoving, with a ghost of heat still crawling up the back of his neck.

He told himself not to look again.

He looked again.

She didn’t glance his way this time — not that he caught — but she shifted in her stance, exposing more of her neck, brushing her fingers along her collarbone. Deliberate or not, it made his mouth go dry.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, bringing his drink to his lips like it might hide the way his jaw had subtly tightened. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention. Or maybe he was, once — when the seven of them would work a room with a mix of chaos and charm — but this? This slow burn stare across a sea of designer suits and string quartets? This wasn’t his usual arena.

And yet...

He couldn’t bring himself to look away for too long.

She caught him watching again twenty minutes later.

This time, she did smile. Brief. Coy. Not even directed at him, not technically — but her lips curled just as her eyes passed over his, like a secret shared under breathless silence.

He swore she was enjoying it.

And still — neither of them moved. Not toward each other. Not yet.

He wondered if she was waiting for him to crack first.

He wondered how long he could stand this game.

The third time he glanced in her direction, it hit him.

Not all at once — more like a slow bleed. A flicker of her profile, the curve of her smirk as she nodded through a compliment, the way her hands moved when she talked — expressive, graceful, like someone used to taking up space on camera — and something in his brain clicked.

He’d seen her before.

Not just here. Not just tonight.

A clip.

Yoongi blinked, tilted his head just slightly, trying to chase it down.

It wasn’t anything dramatic — no scene-stealing performance, no scandal. Just a moment from some variety show that’d passed through his feed a year or two back. She was in a sleek black dress, hair shorter than it was now, legs crossed confidently as a flustered host asked her the million-won question: what’s your ideal type?

She didn’t name anyone. Played coy, the way they all did when management told them to avoid specifics.

But the way she said, “i like quiet people. mysterious. the kind who don’t need to be the loudest in the room to pull attention,” had lit the internet on fire for a hot second.

Fans clipped the moment to death, pairing it with every idol imaginable. But the top comments had mostly been the same:

 “girl just described min yoongi and dipped.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Just another clip. Another game. And he didn’t watch those kinds of shows unless someone forced him to.

But now? Standing here, watching her command the room with none of the desperation he was so used to seeing at these things, it landed different. It lingered.

She hadn’t approached him.

Neither had he.

And maybe that made it worse.

Because now he knew she knew who he was. Or at least… he suspected. And there was something in her eyes that told him she’d seen the clip too — or heard about it. Something about the way she’d looked at him. Measured. Steady. A slow blink, not surprised — prepared.

He didn’t know much else about her.

Her name, yeah. He’d seen it on posters for a coming-of-age high school drama, the kind stylized in soft lighting and pink overlays. He remembered the interviews after — her deadpan delivery as she confessed she only took the role because her agent guilt-tripped her into it, how she hated how they styled her hair, how she cringed at her own delivery of the “i like you, oppa” line.

He’d chuckled at that interview. She’d been honest. Blunt. Something about that had stuck with him, too.

And now, here she was. Real. Tall. Quietly devastating. And watching him like she knew something he didn’t.

Yoongi finished his drink.

Maybe it was time to stop playing polite.

Or maybe it was time to let her come to him.

Either way, something was happening — slow and certain — and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it.

Yoongi slipped away without much thought, half-finished drink abandoned on some linen-covered table, the chatter of the ballroom dissolving behind him like steam off hot glass. His manager didn’t notice — or pretended not to — which he appreciated. One less question to shrug off.

He followed the curve of the corridor, deeper into the venue, where the light dimmed and the press of bodies thinned out. A hall lined with mirrors and floral arrangements led to the back terrace — not quite hidden, but quiet enough to breathe.

He stepped outside.

It was colder than he expected, the Seoul night curling cool fingers into the stiff collar of his shirt. He exhaled hard, hands bracing on the stone railing, the silence settling like a weight in his chest — heavy, but better than all that polite conversation.

This wasn’t his thing.

Never had been.

The constant smiling. The small talk with people who only knew him in keywords. The way the music never really drowned out the static in his head.

It was like being trapped in a room where the walls were made of glass — everyone looking in, and no one ever seeing past the reflection.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching at the base of his neck where sweat had started to cling. He needed ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Just to be alone.

And then—

He heard it. The soft, unhurried click of heels.

He didn’t turn. Not right away. But he stilled.

The sound grew closer — not close enough to be bold, but deliberate. Slow. Intentional. When he finally looked, she was there.

Not right beside him. Not even within touching distance.

A few paces away, arms loosely crossed, the wind tugging playfully at the fabric of her dress. She stood there like she’d been looking for him — or maybe not. Maybe this was her spot, too.

Her gaze met his. Not shy. Not smug either.

Just... level.

Like they were picking up a conversation they hadn’t started yet.

Neither of them spoke.

She stepped a little closer, not closing the space entirely, just enough to share the moment without asking for anything. Her perfume reached him before her voice did — soft jasmine, something warm beneath it. He didn’t recognize it, but somehow it made his stomach tighten.

Finally, she said, “it’s loud in there.”

Yoongi’s lips curled at the edge.

That was the understatement of the year.

“you don’t seem the type to hate the spotlight,” he murmured, low.

“i don’t,” she replied, coolly. “but sometimes it feels like it’s hating me.”

That surprised a small breath of laughter out of him. Quiet. Real.

She tilted her head. “you always this elusive, or is it just tonight?”

Yoongi finally turned to face her fully, elbow still braced on the railing.

“depends,” he said. “you always this direct?”

She smirked. “depends.”

That hung there between them — easy, almost lazy — and yet the air was taut, like a string drawn back and waiting to snap.

They didn’t move.

They didn’t need to.

Something had shifted. Just enough.

Yoongi wasn’t tired anymore.

The conversation slipped in the same way she had — smooth, unannounced, strangely welcome.

They talked about nothing at first.

Weather. The view. The brand of wine being passed around inside — neither of them liked it, which felt like a strange kind of agreement. She mentioned the ridiculous sponsor gift bags, and Yoongi snorted when she admitted she’d already lost hers somewhere between the coat check and the champagne tower.

He found himself answering her without thinking. Letting his shoulders drop. Saying more than he usually would.

It wasn’t the way she spoke — though she was eloquent, wry, and more clever than most. It was the way she listened. How she let silence hang without rushing to fill it. How her eyes tracked his like she wanted to hear what he thought — not because of who he was, but because of how he said it.

And somewhere along the way, the lines between idle banter and flirtation started to blur.

When he said something dry and slightly cynical about award shows, she grinned and said, “careful, people might mistake you for charming.”

He raised a brow. “you mistaking me for charming?”

She hummed, tilting her head like she was weighing it. “maybe.”

Later, when he told her he didn’t remember the last time he willingly stayed at one of these things longer than he had to, she leaned a little closer and said, “guess I should feel special then.”

And maybe it was the moonlight catching on her skin. Or maybe it was the faint flush of wine on her cheeks. But Yoongi found himself looking at her differently — not just as the girl from the clip or the actress with the sharp tongue, but as someone he wanted to keep talking to.

Someone who surprised him.

Because this wasn’t him.

He wasn’t the type to flirt casually. To linger on someone’s lips when they weren’t speaking. To trace a fingertip over the condensation on the railing just because she had done the same a moment earlier. He didn’t do this.

And yet, here he was.

“I should go back in,” she said eventually, her voice soft, almost reluctant.

Yoongi nodded, suddenly a little too aware of how long they’d been standing out here.

She didn’t move right away. Her eyes held his for a beat longer — unreadable, steady — then she stepped back.

No fanfare. No goodbye.

Just: “don’t disappear completely.”

Then she turned and walked back through the glass doors, her silhouette catching the light for one last flicker before slipping out of sight.

Yoongi stayed where he was, heart beating a little harder than it should’ve been.

He didn’t disappear.

But he didn’t follow either.

Not yet.

Yoongi reentered the ballroom ten minutes later.

He wasn’t even sure what he expected — maybe the same static atmosphere he’d left behind. But things had shifted. Or he had.

She wasn’t looking at him when he stepped back in. She was standing near a circular table, deep in conversation with someone he vaguely recognized from a recent Netflix project. She was laughing, but her posture was loose now, less stiff than earlier. Like the edge had worn down.

He moved toward a small group clustered near the far end — an artist he'd collaborated with once, an old producer, someone from a fashion house — and for the first time all evening, Yoongi stayed in the conversation.

Not fully. Not with his whole attention.

But enough to nod, add in a comment here and there, even offer a small smile.

Because every few minutes, he’d catch her watching him.

Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice.

But her eyes would drift — over a glass rim, past someone’s shoulder — and settle on him. For a second. Two. Long enough for him to feel it.

And when she caught him looking back, she didn’t look away like before.

She held it.

Once, when they crossed paths between clusters of mingling guests, her fingers brushed against his — just barely — like a ripple in silk. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t an accident.

Another time, she leaned in while passing behind him and whispered, “i swear, if one more man over fifty tells me he loved me in that high school drama, i’m gonna fake a fainting spell.”

Her breath skimmed his ear. He had to bite back a laugh.

“do it,” he murmured, without turning his head. “i’ll catch you.”

That made her pause. Just slightly. Enough to send a spark up both their spines.

Later, she found herself standing beside him again. Close enough to smell the warm cedar of his cologne. Not close enough to touch — but the kind of closeness that crackles.

“you’re smiling more,” she said, casually.

“you’re imagining things,” he replied.

She tilted her head. “sure i am.”

And then she did something he didn’t expect.

She leaned in again — not to whisper something snarky, not to tease — just to look at him fully. To see him.

“you look like someone who’s finally letting themselves enjoy the night,” she said, softer this time.

Yoongi didn’t respond right away.

But something shifted behind his eyes. Something open. Bare.

“maybe i am.”

The lights dimmed slightly as the final round of speeches began — polite applause, practiced smiles, a rotation of figures taking the stage one by one. Yoongi had tucked himself toward the side of the room again, half-listening, swirling the remnants of his drink, mostly watching her.

She hadn’t looked at him in a while.

Not directly.

But he felt her everywhere — in the way his pulse tripped every time she laughed, in the ghost of her perfume still lingering near his collar, in the phantom brush of her hand across his an hour ago that he hadn’t stopped thinking about since.

He didn’t expect much when her name was called.

Just the usual — a poised thank you, something light about the cause, maybe a rehearsed joke about the indie film industry. But then she stepped up to the mic in a fitted satin gown that caught the stage lights like molten silver, and Yoongi forgot to breathe.

She was magnetic.

Poised, sure. But loose in her skin. Her smile curved with intention. Her voice rang out, rich and playful, dancing between sincerity and charm so naturally that the whole room leaned in.

She opened with a quip about actor egos. The crowd laughed.

She thanked the organizers, cracked a joke about one of the directors being too handsome to trust with funding decisions, made a subtle nod to the importance of art in lonely times. Yoongi caught her saying something like “art is how we look at each other without saying it out loud.”

That one hit a little too close.

And still — still — she looked at him.

Not every second. But enough.

Between lines. Between pauses. Her eyes would wander the room, always land on him like they’d just remembered where they wanted to be. Like he was the safe place in a room full of pretty strangers.

She wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Not the lingering glance. Not the barely-there smirk when she said something cheeky. Not the way her fingers curled just slightly around the microphone when her gaze dropped to his mouth for half a second too long.

Yoongi leaned back in his seat, elbow resting on the table, and let her look.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch.

But his eyes burned right back.

If anyone was watching closely, they’d see it — the kind of tension that wasn’t meant to be public but had no choice anymore. Like the room had melted away and there were only two people left, pretending to keep their distance while undressing each other with their eyes.

She wrapped her speech with a coy, “thank you for letting me steal your attention, even if just for a little while.”

The applause was thunderous.

But Yoongi didn’t clap.

He was too busy watching her step down, composure intact, but her eyes flicking to him one last time — and that was the moment he knew.

This wasn’t just harmless flirting anymore.

This was a spark waiting to be set on fire.

She excused herself somewhere between the end of a speech and the announcement of dessert, murmured something to the person beside her and slipped from the circle with the same effortless grace she’d had all night. Yoongi didn’t watch her go — not directly. But he saw the way her fingers ghosted along the curve of her clutch, the way her heels tapped against the marble, the way she passed by his side without a word and let her hand — barely — brush the bend of his elbow.

It wasn’t an accident.

Not after the look she gave him — not bold, not obvious — but expectant. Daring. As if to say, you coming, or are we pretending we’re done?

She didn’t look back once.

Yoongi waited two full minutes. Long enough to not make it obvious. Long enough to convince himself he wasn’t being impulsive. And then he stood up, excused himself with a nod, and slipped into the hallway like a shadow.

The corridors were quieter now — muted laughter and the clatter of glassware bleeding faintly from the ballroom behind him. He walked slowly at first, fingers adjusting his jacket sleeve, eyes scanning for her.

He caught a glimpse of her at the end of the corridor — a swish of silver, a turn of her head just before she disappeared right around the corner. Definitely not toward the bathrooms.

Yoongi’s mouth curved slightly, the weight in his chest heavier now — not stress, not exhaustion, but curiosity. Want.

He followed.

She led him through one turn, then another. Past the staff doors, past a roped-off staircase, deeper into the quiet hum of the hotel’s back corridors. They didn’t speak. Didn’t call each other’s names. There was no need. Every step she took was permission.

By the time she stopped, they were somewhere off the map. A tucked-away lounge maybe, or a service hallway that hadn’t seen a crowd in hours. Soft golden light spilled from a wall sconce, bathing her skin in something too tender for a woman who’d spent the whole evening mastering poise. Here, alone, her edges softened. Her back remained to him for a moment longer than necessary, like she was catching her breath.

She turned around just as he reached her.

Neither of them spoke.

They stood there, only feet apart but thick with everything that hadn’t been said. She watched him like she’d been waiting for this — not impatient, just ready.

Yoongi’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back up to her eyes.

And then he exhaled — a dry laugh, quiet and a little self-conscious — and said, “you sure do know how to make a simple guy feel like the main character.”

Her lips curled, slow and knowing, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t a smile meant for a camera or a room full of people.

It was for him.

She took a step closer, the heels silent now against the carpet, and tilted her head just enough for the light to catch in her eyes.

“there’s nothing simple about you,” she said, voice low.

And Yoongi believed her.

Because right now, with the quiet pressing in around them, with her looking at him like he was the answer to a question she hadn’t known how to ask — he didn’t feel tired. Or distant. Or guarded.

He felt seen.

And if he leaned in now, just slightly — if her hand brushed his chest in return — they both knew exactly what would happen next.

Yoongi didn’t move at first.

He just stood there, still held in her gaze, like some invisible string had been pulled tight between them. But then she took another step. A quiet one. Not enough to close the distance, but enough to change it — the kind of step that said, your turn.

And he answered without a word.

One step.

Then another.

Her eyes never left his. Neither of them smiled, not really, but there was something dangerously close curled at the corner of her mouth — playful, knowing, like she was already writing the next five seconds in her head and daring him to catch up.

“you always this good at slipping away from crowds?” she murmured, voice softer now, just for him.

“you make it easier,” he replied, a little rougher, each word grazing the space between them like a touch.

Another step.

Close enough now that the soft scent of her perfume found him again — jasmine and warm skin and something deeper beneath it that made his breath catch low in his throat.

“i wasn’t sure you’d follow,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to his lips, then back to his eyes like she wanted him to notice.

“you touched me,” he said simply, like that explained everything. and it kind of did.

Her laugh was breathy now, barely a sound. “bold of me.”

“stupid, really,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly — teasing, sharp.

“i’m an actress,” she whispered, voice like silk sliding over stone. “i do stupid things for tension.”

And fuck, that pulled a real grin from him — crooked and short-lived, but there.

Their steps slowed. They were barely a breath apart now.

Yoongi leaned in just slightly, his head tilted like he was listening for something she hadn’t said yet.

“you flirting?” he asked, low.

“what gave it away?” she breathed.

“the way you looked at me like you already had a scene in mind.”

Her breath hitched, just a little, the space between them crackling.

“and what do you think happens in that scene, yoongi?”

His hand brushed the wall beside her — not touching, just close. His voice dipped.

“depends on how long we keep pretending we’re not already in it.”

She didn’t answer him right away.

Her gaze flicked between his eyes and his mouth, lashes low, lips parted just barely — like she was already tasting what would come next. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward, wasn’t hesitant. It pulsed. It breathed. The kind of silence that thrums with every unsaid thing they’d been building toward since the first glance across the ballroom.

And then, she reached for him.

Not dramatically — no sharp grab or desperate lunge. Just her fingers curling softly into the lapel of his blazer, tugging him forward with a quiet surety that made his pulse jackknife in his throat. Her other hand came up to ghost over the line of his jaw, her touch featherlight, like she needed to confirm he was real. Yoongi didn’t resist. He leaned in, his breath brushing hers now, every part of him humming with how close she was.

“You gonna keep talking,” she whispered, voice low and velvet-wrapped, “or are you finally gonna shut up and kiss me?”

Yoongi didn’t smile, but something shifted in his expression — a flicker of surrender, of heat curling behind his eyes like a storm finally breaking. She’d won. But it wasn’t a victory. It was a truce, a mutual unraveling. And when he moved, it was like a thread snapping loose from both of them.

He kissed her like they were already in the middle of something — no hesitation, no testing the waters. Just lips colliding like a secret finally exhaled. Her mouth was soft but insistent, tasting like wine and want, and Yoongi lost track of his breath instantly. She tilted her head to deepen it, fingers twisting tighter in his jacket as her body arched toward his, like they’d been waiting to fit together like this all night.

He groaned — quiet, buried — and his hand finally found her waist, pulling her in flush. No one was around to see. No cameras, no curious glances. Just them, hidden behind a dozen turns and a door left slightly ajar, lost in a kiss that had been begging to happen since she first caught him staring.

Her lips broke from his just enough to breathe, but they didn’t pull apart.

“so,” she murmured, breath skimming his lips, “still think you’re just a simple guy?”

Yoongi chuckled, low and rough and completely undone. His thumb brushed along the small of her back, anchoring her there.

“no,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth like he couldn’t help it, “not when you look at me like that.”

She didn’t give him time to say anything more after that — didn’t need to. Her mouth was already claiming his in a way that left nothing open to interpretation. This wasn’t a kiss built on curiosity anymore. It was hunger. Permission. Weeks, maybe months, of imagining what it would be like to let go with someone who could match them.

Yoongi melted into it, no — gave into it, let her guide him backwards with one hand curled tightly in his jacket and the other sliding into his hair like she’d been aching to touch it all night. His spine met the wall with a dull thud, but he didn’t care. Her body followed, pressing flush against his, and he made a sound into her mouth that was far too low, far too honest for someone usually so composed.

He wasn’t composed now.

Her lips were hot and eager, tongue teasing at his in a way that had his hands roaming on instinct. One gripped her waist, pulling her closer, while the other flattened against the back of her neck, fingers spread wide like he needed to anchor himself to her or risk falling through the floor. She kissed him deeper — not gentler, not sweeter — just more. Like she wanted to know how far he’d let this go before breaking.

Spoiler: not far. He was already halfway there.

When her teeth tugged on his bottom lip, Yoongi swore under his breath — a low, bitten-off curse — and surged forward, spinning her gently but firmly so she was the one pressed against the wall now. His mouth didn’t leave hers. If anything, it got rougher — not careless, just real. All tongue and heat and breath caught between gritted teeth. She moaned softly, and the sound went straight to his gut, coiling low and tight.

Their bodies moved together like they’d done this before in a dream they’d both forgotten. Her fingers were in his hair, tugging just enough to make his jaw clench. His hands were sliding down her back, settling at the curve of her ass with a grip that was possessive in a way neither of them were ready to name out loud. She gasped when he ground against her — fully, deliberately — and her head tipped back just enough for him to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck.

"fuck," she breathed, barely more than a sound.

He smiled against her throat. "yeah," he murmured, voice rough and uneven. "that makes two of us."

Her hand slid under the lapel of his jacket, nails dragging lightly along the crisp shirt beneath, and he could feel her trembling — not from nerves, but restraint. It was mutual. They were both right on the edge, poised in that dangerous place where want turns into need, and everything rational starts to fade beneath the weight of it.

She pulled him back in with a hand on his tie, lips crashing into his again — messier now, swollen, open, desperate. Their breaths tangled, their hips pressed, and time stopped existing. All Yoongi could feel was her. All she could think about was him.

And god, if someone didn’t walk down this hallway soon...

They were going to do something they wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

Yoongi’s hand had just slipped beneath the open side of her dress — palm skating the bare skin of her waist, hungry for more — when his phone vibrated sharply in his pocket. The sound was muffled, but the moment they both stilled, it may as well have been a siren.

He didn’t move at first. His forehead rested against hers, both of them catching their breath, their lips kiss-swollen and parted, panting into each other’s silence.

“don’t,” she whispered, fingers fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt. “just let it ring.”

He almost listened.

God, he wanted to.

But reality creeped in like a cold breeze — a reminder of where they were, what this was, who he was. The text buzzed again. Reluctantly, Yoongi eased back a few inches and dug into his pocket, checking the screen with a muttered curse under his breath.

[manager] yoongi-ssi, they’re asking for you. where did you go?

He didn’t respond. Just stared at the message like it had yanked him out of something he wasn’t ready to leave behind.

“I have to go back,” he said, the words landing heavy. Apologetic.

She didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, her hand smoothed over the lapel of his blazer, brushing down the fabric until it slipped into the inside pocket. When her fingers withdrew, there was a small folded piece of paper tucked neatly where only he would find it later. Her eyes never left his.

And then she was kissing him again.

Hard. Decisive. Like she was stamping her name into his memory before letting him go. Her mouth moved against his like she’d never doubted they’d meet again — tongue slipping past his lips with one last claim, hands curling in the collar of his jacket to hold him there, to brand him.

When she pulled away, it wasn’t clean. Her mouth lingered, brushing over his one last time, slower now, like she was memorizing the shape of it.

Then she leaned in, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, her nose brushing along his jaw in a featherlight stroke that made him shudder.

“to be continued?” she whispered.

It wasn’t a question.

Not really.

She stepped back before he could answer — before he could do anything. Her eyes glittered with something wicked and unfinished, her mouth swollen, hair slightly mussed, and she still looked like she owned the room even from a dark hallway no one was supposed to see.

By the time Yoongi made it back inside, cheeks still flushed, heart still pounding, the weight of her number pressed against his chest like a loaded gun... he knew exactly how this story was going to continue.

And he couldn’t wait to turn the page.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[ohnaurshayla]

BTS | MYG | FIC RECS

This list is probably one of the longer ones cause sheesh... I'm a sucker for cats 😭 I hope you'll enjoy the fics as much as I have and don't forget to tell the authors how much you've liked their work!!

Have some spices 😌...

Three Tangerines, @kithtaehyung (smut, brother's best friend, implied age gap au)

Illicit Favours, @yoongiofmine (Fluff, tiny angst, smut, non idol au. Friends to Lovers)

Oh, Darling!, @yoongiofmine (Series, fluff, angst, smut, non idol au, university au)

Predator, @liveyun (gangster au, smut)

Apricity, @liveyun (arranged marriage au, strangers to lovers)

Petals, @yoonia (parenthood au, fluff)

The devil wears Valentino, @orchidyoonkook (One Shot, Spooky AU, Supernatural Creatures AU, Age Gap, Slice of Life, Angst, Smut, Fluff)

Sugar, @zehakoo (strangers to lovers, neighbours au, fluff, smut)

Peaches in bed, @borathae (Smut, married life!AU, domestic!AU)

Yoongi's Lullaby, @jiminrings (unrequited love friends to lovers soulmate au)

Snow Blanket, @yoonieper (friends to lovers, fluff, smut)

A Wager of Lords and Love, @hisunshiine (regency era au, arranged marriage au, s2l, fluff, smut, angst)

By The Time I've Figured Out What It's Worth, @ugh-yoongi (est. relationship, marriage au, angst, smut, fluff)

Bad Things, @yoonia (Brothel!au, Street Fighter!Yoongi, Escort!reader)

Close Call, @xjoonchildx (smut, mafia AU)

The Little Things, @kth1 (Smut, 21+, Slice of Life, One Shot)

Sweet Morning, @7ndipity (slightly suggestive, implied smut, implied drinking, swearing)

Shy, @7ndipity (smut, unprotected sex, soft dom-ish Yoongi)

Hello Soulmate, @bluemari23 (soulmate au, soulmarks, fluff)

Celestial Ruin, @remedyx (Fantasy, Angst, Smut, Corruption)

Carnal Desires, @explicit-tae (smut, stripper reader, mafia/gangster yoongi, grinding, finger sucking)

Moonlit Throne, @hobidreams (smut, angst, fluff)

Desolate, @angelicyoongie (angst, fluff, eventual smut)

The Perks of Being a Househusband, @sunnebeam (marriage au, crack, domesticity, yoongi in his stay-at-home hubs era)

Give It To Me, @ki-yomii (smut, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), praise kink, dom!yoongi, established relationship, pet names)

[ohnaurshayla]

𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗲.

➞ pair: yoongi x female reader.

➞ word count: 1k

➞ synopsis: "yoongi and reader making a meal together for yoongi's parents" with a little bit of a domestic twist.

➞ genre: established relationship, husband!yoongi, dad!yoongi, just fluffy fluff fluff, they cook together, dad!yoongi, nothing goes wrong, dad!yoongi, just pure happiness, they also call it tooth-rotting fluff lol, did I mention: DAD!YOONGI ???, they have a babygirl uwu <33

➞ A/N: first off, thank u anon for sending me this super cute prompt, I loved it and had sm fun writing it!! second, EID MUBARAK TO MY FELLOW MUSLIMS OUT THEREEE <3 this is my lil gift for yall on this eid. it wasn't supposed to be this long tbh, and I haven't written anything for over a month, so, sorry if this is kind of messy and all over the place??? im trying to get my sht together again. but I really liked the prompt and!!! had to write it!!!! kkk enjoy bbys <3

ps. any form of feedback is reallyyyy appreciated. I live for compliments :) !

★ MASTERLIST.

ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

It was one warm spring morning.

Yoongi was back from a long series of concerts just a couple of days ago. Grateful to be finally home with the two people that mean the absolute world to him. Your cat was purring on his chest as the two of you laid on the bed, enjoying the quiet of Saturday that had just begun, when his mother called to announce that, later that evening, she and his father would be coming over.

One thing led to another, and there you stood with your husband in the kitchen. One was chopping ingredients up by the stove, the other handling a mixer. Your two years old baby girl, Nara, was sitting in her high chair somewhere away from the oven and any other harmful thing. What used to be your favorite playlists playing ever so softly in the background as you fixed yourselves your favorite meals, together, was replaced with the mindless blabbering of your sweet baby girl instead, playing with the wooden spoon you had given her to play with some minutes before.

“Is this good?” Yoongi dipped the tip of his finger into the mixture he’s been working on, and carefully brought it up to your lips. You hummed in satisfaction as soon as the flavors hit your taste buds, a little bit taken aback at how he nailed your mother’s secret recipe only in the first try, “Great. You’re getting so good at this, Yoonie. I think you should take over kitchen duties very soon.”

He snorted, “If that means I’ll never have to do the laundry ever again, then sure.”

Feigning annoyance, you hissed at him, “You’re so lazy.”

“No one likes doing laundry, honey. Not even you.”

"You're so annoying."

Your daily bickering banters were disturbed by the sound of his phone ringing from the other room. He left to take the call, leaving you with your noisy little baby. The chef hat she had on her head–Yoongi's idea, by the way, along with the tiny apron she wore as well–was almost too big on her. It made her look a thousand times more adorable that you immediately started grinning and cooing when she looked up at you.

"And what about you chef? Are you having fun?"

She balled her fists up and raised them in the air, wiggling in her seat to let you know that she wanted to be picked up. Being the ever so whipped mom that you were, you scooped her up in your arms right away, and peppered kisses all over her chubby face. Her giggles seeped through your skin and locked into your bones, aching with a sickeningly utmost adoration.

“Mom said they’re almost here.” Said Yoongi upon entering the kitchen, putting his phone atop the table and smiling as soon as his eyes fell on the two of you—his girls.

“Are you being a good chef assistant, baby?” He cooed, kissing her cheek, then leaning in to leave a peck on your lips.

“She’s been blabbering her life off the whole time you were gone." you hummed.

“Mom is going to have a good time conversing with her this evening.”

“We’re almost done cooking now.” You reminded him, “Honey, check on the oven please.”

“Right.”

A wave of heat hit his face as soon as he opened the oven, but he smiled once he checked on the muffins, “they are done.”

When he took the tray out and swiftly put it on the counter, Nara erupted in a fit of loud blabber, flailing the arm that clutched on the wooden spoon in the air and almost smacking your face in the process.

It had your husband giggling, of course. He couldn’t help but join in and engage with her blather, how could he not when he got such an adorable chatterbox for a child? “Huh, Nini? The muffins are done! Yeah!”

He took her into his arms, allowing you to go check on the stewpot that was still boiling on the stove, before bringing her to have a look at the tray of the mouth watering muffins, and cheered, “look!”

Your heart, yet again, swooned, almost oozing out of your ribs with how tight your chest grew to be at the sound of your baby’s joyful squeals. She was all excited as her daddy showed her around the process of cooking the dinner for her grandparents.

Nara was having the time of her life. For some reason, she's always loved being in the kitchen. Yoongi once made a comment about her becoming a successful chef, which then turned into a long, heartwarming talk about your daughter and her future. The gentle smile Yoongi had on his face throughout that was one to die for, especially when he sulked about not wanting your babygirl to grow up. His pout was so intense, you ended up engulfing him in a bone crushing hug for almost half an hour.

It was moments like this one that you wished were pictures so you could cut them up and hide them. Somewhere deep inside your heart. Forever. That's how you often found yourself observing and admiring every single interaction your husband made with your baby, and that’s how you ended up listening attentively as he continued to talk so passionately and earnestly with her, while simultaneously attempting to work with his free arm to the best of his abilities.

She, at one point, got so ecstatic that she accidentally thrusted her arm forward and hit him in the face with that spoon. But he only turned to look at you with an affectionate smile.

Struggling through a fit of giggles, you slipped the wooden object from her grasp and gave her a big kiss; making sure to squish her doughy cheeks—a trait that she definitely got from her father, “No more hitting mama and papa for you!”

The little girl’s squeaks only got louder as she reached out with her arms towards you, addressing you with more words of her very own and special language.

“Family hug?” you asked, glancing at a grinning Yoongi.

“Family hug!” He wrapped his free arm around you, bringing your body closer so that Nara could get a hold of you as well, then added, “but let’s make it a short one or else my parents are going to come to a burnt dinner.”

[ohnaurshayla]

like a tangerine - myg

↠ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | yoongi x reader

↠ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18.5k

↠ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | roommate au, e2l if you squint, pwp

↠ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | explicit language and sexual content. mentions of alcohol (beer). dry humping, oral sex (m + f receiving), gagging, cum swallowing, throat fuck, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, hair-pulling, unprotected sex, (y/n has an iud, wrap it before u tap it!), rough sex, riding, doggy style, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie. yoongi has blonde hair and a filthy mouth.

↠ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | y/n’s a law student drowning in debt. yoongi's a brooding music major needing a place to crash. forced together in a freezing seoul apartment, will they be able make moving in together work?

--

You’re elbow-deep in the faded cushions of your thrift-store couch, fingers clawing at the seams for any hint of spare change. Dust puffs into the air, catching the dim light of the single bulb flickering overhead, but there’s nothing—no coins, no crumpled bills, not even a stray candy wrapper. Just lint and disappointment. You groan, slumping back onto the floor, the chill of cracked linoleum seeping through your threadbare sweatpants. Your breath fogs in front of you, a cruel reminder that the heater’s been dead for days and your electricity bill is overdue. It’s the brink of winter in Seoul, and the cold is a living thing—sharp, biting, sinking into your bones like a punishment. Outside, the wind howls through the narrow streets around Seoul national University, rattling your single-pane windows, while frost creeps up the glass like spiderwebs. Inside, it’s barely better; you’re wrapped in a hoodie and two pairs of socks, but your fingers are still numb, your nose stinging with every inhale.  

This isn’t how you pictured your senior year. You’re a law major with a 4.0 GPA—top of your class, president of the mock trial team, the girl who aced her constitutional law midterm while half the room floundered. You’ve got a stack of recommendation letters from professors who call you “driven” and “exceptional,” and last spring, you won a university debate competition so decisively the opposing team just stared at you, slack-jawed. But none of that pays the rent. You’re drowning in bills, scraping by on 7,000 won an hour from your cheapskate manager at the convenience store on the south end of campus. The job’s a soul suck: sticky floors, rude drunk students, and the constant beep of the scanner as you ring up instant ramen and soju bottles. You hate it—the stale air, the flickering fluorescent lights, the way your manager hovers over you like you’re about to pocket a candy bar. Between 8-hour shifts and 8 A.M. lectures, you’re a ghost of yourself, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely living. 

You grew up in Busan, the youngest of three, with parents who scraped by running a small seafood stall at Jagalchi Market. They taught you grit—how to haggle, how to smile through exhaustion—but they couldn’t prepare you for this. You moved to Seoul four years ago, starry-eyed and determined to be the first in your family to graduate college, to become a lawyer who’d fight for people like them. Your apartment’s small—two cramped bedrooms, a tiny kitchenette, and a living room just big enough for that small couch—but it was supposed to be your haven. One room’s yours, cluttered with books and laundry, the other a guest room you’ve never had a guest for, its bare mattress gathering dust. You thought living alone would mean focus, independence. Now, you’re not so sure. The weight of it all—school, work, this freezing place—presses down until you can’t breathe. You’ve always been the stubborn one, the kid who’d rather starve than admit defeat, but tonight, with rent due in three days and your bank account at a pathetic, single-digit balance, defeat feels inevitable.  

You sit there, face in your hands, fighting the sting of tears. This wasn’t the college life you dreamed of. Back in high school, you imagined coasting through SNU—late nights at karaoke bars, laughing with a big group of friends, maybe even a cute boyfriend to steal hoodies from. You saw yourself at rooftop parties, sipping cheap bear under string lights, free and invincible. Instead, you’re broke, shivering, and clinging to one solitary lifeline: Namjoon. Your best friend, your rock, the only person who’s stuck by you through this mess. Everyone else faded away—too busy, too far, too caught up in their own lives. But Namjoon? He’s your constant. 

You glance at your phone—11:47 P.M. He’s due any minute to study for your upcoming criminal procedure exam, a brutal 50-question beast that’ll test every ounce of your caffeine-fueled willpower. With a sigh, you haul yourself up, brushing dust off your knees. The apartment’s tight—barely 25 square meters. You shuffle around, tidying what you can: stacking textbooks on the wobbly coffee table that accompanies your depressed, sagging couch, kicking a stray sock towards the hall leading to your bedroom, wiping crumbs off the counter from the half-eaten rice cake you rationed for dinner. The sink’s full of dishes, but you ignore it—too tired, too cold. You’re shoving a pile of case notes into a neater stack when a knock echoes through the room.  

You shuffle to the door, tugging it open against the warped frame. It’s Namjoon. He’s there, towering over you in his puffy jacket, a knit beanie squashing his dark hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His dimples flash as he grins, but his eyes narrow when he sees you—pale, hunched, a human popsicle. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside, voice warm as always. “You look like death.” 

“Feel like it too,” you mutter, shutting the door. You’ve known Namjoon since freshman year, when you met in Intro to Legal Studies. You’d been late, sprinting into the lecture hall with a half-drunken coffee and an open backpack, only to trip over his stupidly long legs stretched across the aisle. He’d caught your arm, steadying you, and deadpanned, “You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.” You’d snapped back, “Sue me then,” and somehow, that was it—friendship sealed. He was a Busan kid too, raised on the coast, all easy smiles and quiet smarts. You bonded over late-night study sessions at the library, swapping stories about salty air and nosy aunties, laughing over burnt ramen when you couldn’t afford takeout. Four years later, he’s still your anchor, the one who drags you out of your spirals.  

He drops his bag on the couch, glancing around. “You okay? You’re... off.” His brows knit, concern creeping in. 

“It’s nothing,” you lie, waving him off. He doesn’t push—Namjoon never does, just watches you with that steady gaze that sees too much. You both settle on the couch, pulling out textbooks and highlighters. The criminal procedure exam is in two days, a gauntlet of search-and-seizure laws, Miranda rights, and case precedents like Terry v. Ohio. You flip to a page on warrantless arrests, reading aloud: “Exigent circumstances allow entry if—” You stop, brain fritzing. Namjoon picks up, voice smooth, explaining probable cause like it’s poetry. You scribble notes, trying to focus, but the cold’s gnawing at you, your fingers stiff around the pen. 

He shivers mid-sentence, rubbing his arms. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” he asks, breath puffing out in a faint cloud.  

That's when it hits—you crack. The words spill out before you can stop them, voice breaking: “Because I can’t pay the electric bill, Joon. The heater’s busted, my manager’s a stingy ass who won’t give me more hours, and I’m so tired—of school, of work, of counting every damn coin I see just trying to make ends meet.” Tears burn your eyes, hot against the chill. “I’m failing at everything.” 

Namjoon’s face falls, guilt flashing across it. “Shit, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your shaking shoulders. You sink into him, his jacket smelling faintly of coffee and pine. “I should’ve noticed,” he mutters, kicking himself. Then softer: “What if you got a roommate? Split the costs?” 

You pull back, sniffling. “I wouldn’t even know where to find one. And honestly? I’m this close to dropping out, moving back with my parents. Just... starting over.”  

He blinks, alarmed. Your parents are saints—kind, warm, always ready with a bow of kimchi jjigae and a spare bed in their Busan flat above the stall. Your mom’s a hugger, your dad’s a storyteller, and you miss them fiercely—their laughter, the sea breeze, and the simplicity. They’d take you back in a heartbeat, no questions, and part of you aches for that safety net. 

“No,” Namjoon says, grabbing your hands in a desperate plea. “You can’t leave. Not now, not senior year. I need you here—we’re supposed to graduate together, pass the bar together. I can’t do this without you.” 

You shake your head, voice small. “There’s no one, Joon. I’m out of options.” 

He pauses, then his face lights up like he’s cracked the code. “Wait... Yoongi. My friend Yoongi. He’s been crashing on my couch for the past two weeks since his lease fell apart. He needs a place, you need a roommate. It’s perfect.” 

You frown picturing Yoongi. You've seen him at Namjoon’s place a few times—quiet, almost cat-like with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He’s not unfriendly just... distant. You remember him from your junior year too, a psychology elective you both took. He’s slouch in the back, headphones on, scribbling beats in a notebook while you sat up front, acing every quiz. Your eyes met sometimes—brief, awkward, charges—but you never spoke. He’s a music major, that much you knew, always lugging around a laptop or a keyboard case, and Namjoon swears he’s a genius. Still, he’s a stranger, mostly. 

“I don’t know,” you say, hesitant. “I’ve barely talked to him. He’s... weird. Quiet. And my parents—” 

“Please,” Namjoon cuts in, clasping his hands like he’s praying. “Just meet him first. Come over tomorrow—we'll eat, hang out, see if it clicks. If it doesn’t, I won’t push. But don’t give up yet.” 

You chew your lip, the idea sinking in. A roommate could save you—rent split, bills manageable, maybe even heat again. That guest room could finally see some use. But Yoongi? Your parents’ open arms tug at you, tempting. Namjoon’s pleading eyes tip the scale. “Fine,” you mutter, reluctant. “I’ll meet him.” 

He beams, dimples deep. “You won’t regret it. Yoongi’s chill, I promise.” You nod, half convinced, as the cold creeps back in, a shiver reminding you how badly you need this to work. 

--

You stand in your tiny bathroom, the air thick with damp chill, staring at the showerhead like it’s a loaded gun. The water’s been ice-cold for weeks—your landlord’s a miser who won’t fix the boiler, and you’re too broke to hire someone yourself. You twist the knob, bracing for impact, and the spray hits like a thousand frozen pins, ripping a gasp from your throat. Your teeth chatter as you lather up with a sliver of soap, the last bar you’ve been rationing for a month. The shampoo’s cheap, a floral scent, and you scrub it into your scalp fast, fingers trembling as the frigid stream pelts your back. You’re in and out in four minutes, a personal record, wrapping yourself in a towel so worn it’s more holes than fabric—a hand-me-down from your sister, like most of your life. Your skin prickles with goosebumps as you dart to your bedroom, the smaller of the two in your cramped apartment. The guest room sits placidly across from yours, a barren box with a bare mattress, a single flickering bulb, and a window that rattles in its frame—useless, empty, a silent taunt of your isolation. 

Your closet’s a mess of thrift finds and sibling castoffs. You dig out a black turtleneck, the wool pilling at the elbows but soft enough, and dark jeans with a frayed hem that still hug your legs right. Your sneakers are scuffed, soles thin as paper, but they’ll do. The crown jewel is your sister’s puffer jacket—navy blue, patched with thread at the elbows, a size too big but thick enough to face Seoul’s brutal winter. You tug on two pairs of socks—one with a hole at the toe, the other mismatched—and lace up, the cold floor biting through anyway. Back in the bathroom, you swipe on makeup with shaky hands: tinted lip balm over cracked lips from the wind, a flick of mascara to coax life into your tired eyes, a dab of concealer under them to hide the shadows of sleepless nights. Your hair’s wet, curling into tendrils at your neck, but there’s no time—or heat—to dry it. You glance at your phone on the sink: 6:38 P.M. Namjoon said 6:30. You’re late. 

You snatch your keys from the counter, sling your threadbare bag over your shoulder, and bolt. You weave past the kitchenette, its sink piled with chipped mugs and a single pot, and the living room, where your sad couch sags under a pile of law books. The door sticks as you yank it open, and the stairwell greets you with a gust of icy air whistling through cracked windows. You jog down three flights, sneakers clomping on warped steps, and burst outside. Seoul’s winter slams into you—bitter, unrelenting, a beast with teeth.  The sky’s a slab of slate, heavy with unshed slow, and the wind howls down the narrow streets of the south end of campus, clawing at your face. Your breath fogs in sharp bursts, crystalizing in the air, and the cold seeps through your jeans, stinging your thighs. You hunch into your puffer, hands jammed in pockets, but it’s not enough—the chill find every seam, every gap, freezing your ears until they ache. 

The trek to Namjoon’s is a mile east, and you’re penniless—no bus fare, no taxi dreams. The south end fades behind you—dingy noodle joints, neon-lit PC bangs, students huddled in scarves—giving way to broader streets lined with skeletal trees. Their branches clatter like dry bones, stripped bare by weeks of frost. Snowflakes start to fall, lazy at first, then thicker, dusting your shoulders, catching in your lashes. The sidewalk’s a minefield of ice patches, gloss under streetlights, and you shuffle to keep from slipping, your sneakers skidding once, twice. Your nose numbs, your fingertips tingle, and by the time Namjoon’s complex rises ahead—a sleek tower on the east side of SNU—you’re a shivering wreck. The glass doors part for you, the lobby a warm cocoon of polished marble, soft lighting, and a doorman who nods absently. Namjoon is a trust fund baby from Busan, his parents flush with shipping money, and this place screams it—nothing like your crumbling walk-up with its flickering hallway bulbs and mildew stench. 

You step into the elevator, the hum of it thawing your bones as it climbs. A long minute ticks by—your reflection in the mirrored walls shows a flushed face, damp hair plastered to your neck—before it finally dings on the fifth floor. You step out, stretching your strides down the carpeted hall to 13E, dragging your feet. Your stomach churns, nerves sparking like live wires. Meeting Yoongi—actually talking to him—feels like walking into a storm blind. You’ve always been anxious, a knot of worry since you were a kid. In Busan, grade school was a nightmare—you'd linger by the classroom door, too shy to join the girls giggling as they played jump rope, too scared to ask the boys kicking a ball if you could join them. Your mom had to bribe you with sweets just to get you to a friend’s birthday party once, and even then, you hid under a table, clutching a juice box, until she dragged you out. Friends were rare, fleeting—your tongue tripped over itself until Namjoon stumbled into your orbit. You’re better now, but new people still twist you up inside. What if Yoongi’s a jerk? A slob? What if he thinks you’re some desperate loser? Your pulse races as you reach his door, raising a shaky hand to knock. 

It swings open fast, and Namjoon’s there, all six feet of him, dimples flashing in a wide grin. He’s cozy—cream cable-knit sweater swallowing his broad frame, gray sweatpants loose and soft, socks with little cartoon dogs peeking out. “Took you long enough,” he teases, voice warm as he steps aside. You shuffle in, and the heat hits like a blanket, radiators purring, chasing the cold from your bones. The air’s thick with doenjang jjigae—earthy soybean paste, sharp garlic, a hint of beef simmering low, curling into your nose and waking your empty stomach. Your brows furrow; Namjoon’s a disaster in the kitchen, once nearly burning his apartment down with a botched ramen attempt. Who cooked? 

His apartment’s a world apart from yours. Open-plan, sprawling, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the snow-dusted campus and Seoul’s glittering skyline. The living room's plush—a gray sectional piled with fleece throws, a glass coffee table stacked with law books and a stray coffee mug, a flat-screen above a sleek fireplace spitting soft flames. The kitchen’s a showpiece—marble counters, stainless steel appliances, a fridge that hums quietly, not rattling like yours. A monstera plant thrives by the island, its leaves glossy and proud, while your own sad succulent back home rots in a cracked pot. “Yoongi’s in the bathroom,” Namjoon says, nodding toward a hall as he waves you to the kitchen island. “He’ll be out in a sec.” You slide onto a padded stool, the cushion a luxury after your hard furniture, and he leans across, chatting—tomorrow's lecture, the criminal procedure exam, easy stuff to steady your nerves. 

The bathroom door creaks open, and Yoongi emerges. He’s tall—5'10, maybe—looming over your 5’1 frame, all lean angles and quiet menace. His hair’s blonde, a soft, bleached chaos brushing his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans hugging his legs, and plain socks. His eyes—dark, hooded, cat-like—lock on you, unblinking, and your throat dries up. He stares, assessing, and you stare back, words dissolving. Namjoon clears his throat. “Yoongi, this is Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi.” A nod, barely perceptible, then Yoongi slinks to the island, sitting opposite. The food’s spread out—doenjang jjigae steaming in a clay pot, fluffy rice, tangy kimchi, grilled mackerel glistening with oil. You scoop rice, hands jittery under his gaze, the spoon clinking too loud against the bowl. 

Namjoon tries to spark something. “Yoongi, how’s that music project?” Yoongi shrugs, spooning stew, lips pursed. Silence stretches, thick and awkward. Namjoon kicks him under the table—you catch the flinch, the faint scowl. “It’s fine,” Yoongi mutters, voice low, gravelly. “Mixing’s a pain.” You nod, unsure, picking at your mackerel. The meal crawls—Namjoon rambles about law precedents, you murmur agreements, Yoongi grunts or tosses out clipped answers. He slurps his stew too loud, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, picks his fish apart with his fingers instead of chopsticks. Petty, maybe, but it irks you—he irks you. He’s not rude, just... distant, like he’s here but not really. 

Dinner eventually ends, and Namjoon excuses himself for a moment, leaving you and Yoongi alone. The silence is deafening, the fireplace's crackle the only sound as you sit at the island, pushing rice around your bowl. He’s across from you, scrolling his phone, blonde hair catching the light. You clear your throat, desperate the fill the void. “So, uh... did you make this?” You nod at the empty jjigae pot, voice smaller than you meant it to be. 

He looks up, eye flickering to yours, and there’s a beat—a heavy, charged pause—before he answers. “Yeah.” His voice is low, rough, brushing your skin like a touch. “Namjoon can’t cook for shit.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on the counter now, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne—something clean, like cedarwood and bergamot. His lips twitch, a smirk that’s gone fast but leaves heat in its wake. 

You snort, caught off guard, and it’s too loud in the quiet. “No kidding. He set off the fire alarm with toast once—smoke everywhere.” Your laugh’s shaky, and his eyes linger, dark and unreadable, tracing your face like he’s mapping it. That smirk flickers again, slower this time, and your stomach flips. 

“Sounds about right,” he says, voice dipping lower, almost lazy. He shifts, stretching one arm across the counter, fingers brushing the edge of yours—accidental, maybe, but it sends a jolt up your spine, nonetheless. “You’re not bad, though. At eating it, I mean.” His gaze drops to you lips for a slip second, then back up, and the air thickens, warm and tight. 

You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, thanks? It’s good—really good. Where’d you learn?” Your words stumble, and you hate how they sound—too eager, too soft. 

“Mom,” he says, leaning closer, voice a rumble now. “Runs a store in Daegu. Cooks for the regulars. Watched her enough to pick it up.” His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something in them—something sharp, hungry—that makes your breath hitch, makes you feel small in comparison to him. His knee brushes against yours under the counter, a graze that feels deliberate, and you shift, suddenly aware of how small the space between you is. 

“Busan for me,” you blurt, clutching at normalcy. “My parents have a seafood stall. I’m useless, though—burned rice once, got banned from the stove.” You laugh, but it’s tight, and he tilts his head, blonde strands falling into his eyes. He doesn’t laugh back, just watches, lips parting slightly, and the silence stretches taut, electric. 

“Bet you’re not useless at everything,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it, and his gaze drops again—lips, neck, back up—slow, deliberate. Your pulse hammers, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing. Then he pulls back, just an inch, breaking whatever spell he put on you, grabbing his phone again. “Namjoon should be back soon,” he says, casual, like nothing happened, but the air’s still buzzing. 

You nod, dazed, as Namjoon’s footsteps echo down the hall. “Couch?” he calls, clapping his hands. You stumble off the stool, following him, Yoongi trailing behind. The sectional's plush, and you sink in, pulling a throw over your lap as Namjoon sits beside you. Yoongi drifts off—to Namjoon’s room, you assume—leaving you two by the fireplace. The crackle fills the silence. “So?” Namjoon asks, eyes bright, hopeful. “What do you think?” 

You twist the blanket’s edge, grimacing, mind still reeling from Yoongi’s voice, his closeness. “He’s weird, Joon. Quiet—too quiet. That talk just now? Barely anything. I don’t know if I can live with that.” You don’t mention the sudden heat between your legs, or the way your skin’s still tingling. 

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I get it, he’s not chatty, but he’s solid. I’ve known him for a while now—met him at a music shop. My parents have money, yeah, but Yoongi’s regular. His dad's a fisherman, mom runs a corner store. He’s here on scholarships and hustle. Music’s his life, and he’s brilliant at it.” He pauses, voice softening. “You’re my rock, Y/N. Since freshman year, you’ve kept me grounded—pushed me when I slacked, laughed when I needed it. You’re my best friend, and I can’t finish this year without you.” 

Your chest aches, warmth mixing with dread—and something else, something new. “You’re mine too. But Yoongi—it's so fast. Two days, and he’s in my space? I’m freaked out.”  

He shifts closer, resting a hand on your knee. “I know it’s a lot. Look, he’s been on my couch too long. This place is nice, but it’s one bedroom. I’m tired of tripping over his shit every morning. He’ll pay his half, keep out of your way. You don’t have to be buddies, just... coexist.” His eyes plead. “Give it one more day to think. Please.” 

You nod, slow, reluctant. “One day, just one day.” Yoongi’s in Namjoon’s room, hunched over a desk, headphones on, tapping at a laptop—either oblivious or ignoring you. You grab your bag, say your goodnights to Namjoon, and head out. The cold swallows you whole. 

The walk back is a nightmare. Fresh snow is piled thick, blanketing the ground, crunching under your sneakers with every step. The wind’s a howling beast, slashing through your puffer, freezing your hair into brittle strands that whip your face. Streetlights flicker, half-dead in the storm, and the campus sprawls dark and desolate, east to south a slog through swirling white. Your breath stings, lungs burning with each icy gulp, and your fingers curl into fists in your pockets, nails digging into palms to feel something other than numb. You fumble your phone out with stuff hands, dialing your mom. It rings three times before her voice breaks through, soft and crackly, a lifeline. 

“Y/N-ah? Are you okay?” Her warmth cuts through the static, the wind. 

You choke on a sob, snow stinging your eyes. “Eomma, I’m falling apart. Rent’s due, I’ve got nothing—literally nothing. The heater’s busted, I’m freezing every night, and Namjoon’s pushing me to get a roommate. I don’t know if I can do it—I'm so tired. I just... I think I should come home.” 

She’s quiet a long moment, the line humming, and you hear her shift. “Y/N,” she starts, voice thick with worry. "You sound exhausted. Tell me what’s going on—everything. How’d it get this bad?” 

You sniff, trudging through a snowbank, the cold biting at your ankles. “It’s been building. Work’s a nightmare—7,000 won an hour at that shitty store, and my manager cuts my shifts whenever he feels like it. Schools killing me—exams, papers, I’m barely sleeping. And the apartment... it’s a freezer. I can’t afford the electric bill, let alone fix the heat.” 

She sighs, long and heavy, and you can picture her rubbing her temple like she does when she’s stressed. “My girl, I hate hearing you like this. You’re working so hard—too hard, maybe. What’s the apartment like now?” 

“Bad,” you mutter kicking snow off your sneakers. “My breath fogs inside. I’m in three layers just to sleep, and it’s still not enough. The windows rattle, the entire place is freezing. I can’t keep doing this.” 

“That sounds miserable,” she says, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t be living like that, not in your last year. But a roommate... that might be good for you. I wouldn’t look past it so quickly, Y/N.” 

You swallow, the wind howling louder. “Namjoon is desperate for me to stay, I think that’s why he’s so adamant about it, telling me it’s the only way, and I kind of agree. He’s got a friend in mind, and I’ve met him, but... I still don’t know. It’s such a leap, and I’m already hanging on by a thread.” 

She’s quiet again, then softens. “You know we’d take you back in a heartbeat. Your dad’s already been plotting—he's got this idea to repaint your room, teal like you always wanted, says it’s cheer you up.” 

“I miss you both,” you whisper, tears welling, hot against the cold. “It’d be so easy to come home.” 

“We miss you too,” she says, voice thick now. “But listen—it’s your senior year. You’re so close. I never got past high school, married your dad at nineteen, worked the stall since. We made it work, raised you and your siblings, but I always wished I’d had a shot at more. That law degree, that life—you're building something I couldn’t. I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than you think. Namjoon wouldn’t push this on you if he didn’t care, if he didn’t think it would work. Try it—give this roommate thing a shot. Split the bills, get heat back in that place, and if it crashes, you’ve got us—always. Okay?” 

You nod, though she can’t see, the snow growing thicker. “Okay. I’ll try.” 

“Good girl,” she says, pride warming her tone. “Call me tomorrow, yeah? Tell me how everything goes—I need to know you’re okay.” 

“Okay. I love you, Eomma,” you say, voice breaking as you clutch the phone. 

“I love you more. Hang in there.” The call ends, and you’re alone again, the wind howling louder, snow piling at your feet. 

Your building looms ahead, a squat, peeling relic on the south end. A note’s taped to your door, red ink glaring: Rent due in 3 days or eviction proceedings begin. Panic spikes, sharp and sour. You unlock the door, stepping into a wall of cold—dark, silent, arctic. Strike one. You check your bank account on your phone: 8,000 won. Enough for a single ramyeon pack, maybe. Strike two. You trip over that loose floorboard you haven’t been able to fix, crashing to your knees, pain shooting up your leg. Strike three. Furious, you haul yourself up, whipping out your phone again, texting Namjoon. 

[You, 9:17 P.M.] I’ve made up my mind. Get Yoongi over here ASAP. 

You storm to your bedroom, peeling off your clothes, tugging on the same pajamas you’ve worn all week—hand-me-downs from your siblings, a faded long sleeve with a stretched neck and holes at the seams, sweatpants with cuff frayed to threads. You grab your blanket—a relic from your childhood, yet the only thing that seems to have managed to remain the same over time; thick, soft, warm enough to get you through the night. You wrap it tight around you, curling up on your bed. The mattress creaks, the cold seeping through every layer, relentless. You shiver, teeth chattering, staring at the ceiling where a water stain spreads like a bruise. Sleep feels impossible, and distant dream in this frozen purgatory. This night’s endless, and you’re already spent. 

--

The apartment’s a fragile bubble of warmth, pierced by the hum of space heaters and the faint tang of instant coffee lingering in the air. Two weeks with Yoongi as your roommate have stretched the edges of your sanity, but they’ve also kept the landlord’s eviction threats at bay. Rent’s been paid—a hefty price split down the middle, wired just before the deadline—and that alone is a victory. Seoul’s winter rages outside, a gray beast of snow and wind clawing at the single-pane windows, frosting them until they creak. Inside, the cold is a stubborn guest, slinking through the cracks despite the landlord’s refusal to fix the damn boiler—his last excuse, barked over a staticky call, was “building maintenance costs.” You’d bitten back a curse, teeth chattering, and hung up. But the space heaters, bought with a grudging amount, split between you and Yoongi, glow defiantly in your bedroom and his, their coils a faint orange against the dark. Namjoon’s blankets—fleece throws he’d so graciously gifted to you during the move, dotted with adorable designs like Minions or cartoon dogs—drape your couch and bed, a soft excess you’d never admit your hoard, their weight a shield against the nights when the chill bites the deepest. 

Yoongi’s arrival was a blur of panic and necessity. Namjoon had blinked at your sudden text and rallied him like a soldier to the front. He’d shown up a day early, just a day after your snow-soaked phone call to your mother, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His blonde hair peeked out from a beanie, a large puffer jacket swallowing his lean frame, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a keyboard case gripped tight. “This is it?” he’d rasped, voice rough as gravel, scanning the cramped space—your sagging, depressed couch and bare walls. You’d nodded, nerves raw, and he’d sighed, a low sound of surrender, clearly used to Namjoon’s lavish apartment. He’d hauled his belongings in, carefully tucked away in boxes with muted thuds as they hit the floor of his new bedroom. He’s barely spoken—grunted at the spare key you’d handed him, muttered about the “shitty stairs”—and you’d fled to your room, shutting the door on his quiet unpacking, heart thudding with the weight of a stranger in your haven. By nightfall, the guest room was his, a bunker of blankets and music equipment, and you’d lain awak, staring at the ceiling’s water stain that you’d labeled as being shaped like an elephant, wondering if this was the right decision.  

Two weeks later, it’s not a disaster. Yoongi’s a ghost, slipping in and out with barely a ripple, and you’re too buried in your own grind to mind. Law school is a beast tamed—your criminal procedure exam, the 50-question monster, hit the same day Yoongi moved in, and you’d conquered it. Nights bled into a frenzy of study, hunched over on the couch, highlighters streaking Terry v. Ohio and Miranda v. Arizona as your breath fogged in the unheated dark. The 96% grade, posted last week with your professor’s “outstanding” scrawled in red, felt like a godsend, a lifeline proving you could still climb this perpetual mountain of death. You’d collapsed on your bed that night, one of Namjoon’s many blankets cocooning you, relief so sharp it burned your throat. 

Now, your days are a relentless churn—early morning lectures on constitutional law and judicial ethics, afternoons crafting mock trial arguments as team president, evenings at the convenience store where the floor is tacky with spilled soju and the scanner’s beep drills into your skull. Your manager, a pinch-faced ass, bumped you to 18,000 won an hour after you shoved a tally of your overtime in his face, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. It’s not much—enough for ramen or a coffee when your eyes droop—but it keeps your account afloat. Sleep is a thief, snatched in five-hour bursts, the space heater’s hum a lullaby against the wind’s howl. Yoongi’s orbit is a mystery, misaligned with yours. He’s gone by dawn—music labs, you guess, or classes—and back late, his door creaking at midnight. You imagine him hunched over that keyboard, headphones clamped on, lost in beats—Namjoon's “genius” label a quiet echo. Sometimes you hear it, a muted thump through the wall, and picture him scribbling lyrics, blonde hair catching the heater’s glow. 

You’ve seen fragments. Once, he sprawled on his mattress, notebook open, pen tapping his knee, eyes half-closed like he was dreaming in rhythm. Another night, he lingered in the kitchenette at 2 A.M., reheating kimchi jjigae, stirring slow, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal forearms taut with quiet strength. He’d glanced at you—bleary from study binge, shuffling for water—and slid a bowl your way, the spicy steam curling between you, wordless. Last weekend, he was on the couch, laptop open, cords snaking across the cushions, muttering “fucking latency” at a glitching track. Music’s his war, fought in solitude, and you don’t ask. He doesn’t tell. It’s your silent code. 

Living with him has been... fine, mostly. He’s clean—bowls rinsed, trash bagged, no mess beyond his room’s controlled chaos. The bathroom’s tidy, his towel hung crooked but dry, and he leaves your rice cakes alone, a respect you note silently. Chores split without fanfare—him on trash, you on dishes—a rhythm that holds. His room is a fortress now, Namjoon’s blankets swallowing the mattress whole, a guitar case propped up in the corner, vinyl records stacked haphazardly—from what you could see: Eminem, Epik High, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and... TWICE? You loved their songs, Fancy had you jamming in your apartment and Rewind had you holding back tears. Never in a million years had you imagined Yoongi being a Once. You often wondered who his bias was. You don’t snoop, and he doesn’t cross your line. It’s peaceful... sometimes. However, Yoongi’s got this infuriating habit—blasting tracks at ungodly hours, loud enough to shred your nerves. It’s not every night, but it’s brutal when it strikes. The third night, 2 A.M., a baseline punched through the wall, rattling your bed, yanking you from sleep. You’d lain there, heart pounding, as synths and warped vocals bled in, relentless. It stopped after twenty minutes, but sleep fled. Two nights ago, 1 A.M., it was slower—moody, heavy—but the volume gnawed at you. Last night, 3 A.M., an hour of jagged snares and distortion, the wall pulsing like a living thing. You’d hovered at your door, anger simmering, but retreated—too awkward to confront him. You’ve hinted—yawning loud, dragging your feet—but he doesn’t bite, and it festers, a quiet thorn. 

Tonight, you’re in the kitchenette, 10 P.M., picking at a bowl of ramyeon, the broth warming your throat. Mock trial prep looms, notes stacked on the couch, but you’re in pajamas—a faded long sleeve and sweatpants. The bathroom door creaks open, and you glance up, chopsticks halfway to your lips. He’s shirtless, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips. Water beads on his skin, dripping from his damp blonde hair down his neck, over collarbones sharp as knives. His chest is lean but cut—muscles taut, abs carved like he’s been lifting more than just dreams, arms flexing as he rubs the towel through his hair, veins threading under pale skin. His V-line dips below the towel’s edge, and your breath catches, utensil clattering against the bowl. He freezes, cat-like eyes locking on yours, and the air thickens—silent, heavy, awkward as hell. You stare, he stares, and neither of you move. His lips part, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Water drips onto the floor, a soft plink, and you swallow, throat dry, eyes darting to your food. He shifts, grabbing a soda from the fridge, the can’s hiss slicing the quiet. His bare shoulder brushes the counter as he leans there, sipping slow, and you feel his gaze—steady, unreadable—prickling your skin. You scoop broth with your chirirenge, burning your tongue, and he retreats to his room without a word, leaving you flushed and out of sorts. 

You sit, thinking, allowing your food to grow cold when his music starts—loud, inevitable. Bass thumps through the wall, and you groan, dropping your head to the counter. Not tonight. You drag yourself to your room, a blanket wrapped tight around you, and flop on your bed as the track swells—drums, distortion, and a chaotic roar. Sleep’s a distant hope, and you lie there, his shirtless frame flashing behind your eyes, the wall pulsing until it fades an hour later. You drift off, restless, dreaming of damp skin and dark stares. 

The morning is grey and brutal, exhaustion clinging to you like wet clothes. Yoongi’s gone when you wake, his door shut, and you slog through your day—lectures, store shift, and hanging out with Namjoon at a nearby coffee shop—you're basically running on fumes. Back home, you’re on the couch, phone pressed to your ear on speaker. Your friend Hyejin’s voice crackles through, loud and brassy, filling the room as you pick at a rice cake. “... So, I told him, if you’re gonna ghost me, at least have the balls to say it, right? Men are trash, Y/N, I swear.” 

You short, shifting in the blanket enveloping you. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly swimming in options either. Work’s killing me.” 

The front door creaks open, and Yoongi slips in, arms laden with two grocery bags—nothing heavy, just bulging with a carton of milk, chips, and some greens poking out. His sweatshirt is zipped halfway, hair mussed from the wind, and he glances at you, nodding faintly before heading to the kitchenette. Hyejin’s voice barrels on, oblivious. “You sound wiped, babe. What’s up? You’ve been off for days.” 

You fumble to switch off speaker, thumb jabbing the screen, but it freezes—stupid cracked phone. “Uh, just tired,” you say, voice tight, eyeing Yoongi as he unpacks, silent and methodical. Milk in the fridge, a bag of tangerines on the side you know he’ll be hoarding. 

“Tired?” Hyejin laughs, sharp and echoing. “Girl, you need to get laid. That’s your problem—no good dick in forever. When’s the last time you even hooked up?” 

Your face flames, and you slap the phone harder, but it’s stuck, her voice blaring. Yoongi’s hands pause over a bag of green onion, head tilting slightly, and you want to die. “Hyejin—” you hiss, but she steamrolls. 

“What about that roommate, the blonde one? You said he’s hot, right? Why not just fuck him? Get some stress relief, Y/N, you’re dying out there!” 

Mortification crashes over you, hot and suffocating. Yoongi’s back stiffens, just for a second, then he turns to the fridge, slow, deliberate, a smirk tugging at his lips—small, private, but there. Your hand finally smacks the speaker off, and you choke out, “Gotta go,” ending the call mid-Hyejin's cackle. The silence is deafening, thick as snow, broke only by the rustle of bags as he slides the tangerines into a bowl. Your face burns, red creeping up your neck, and you mumble, “Sorry, she’s—uh—loud,” voice barely audible, cracking with same. He doesn’t look up, just hums—a low, amused sound—and keeps unpacking, smirk lingering like he’s savoring it. You bolt, blanket trailing, slamming the door behind you. You shove your face into your pillow, still blazing, the muffled groan swallowed by cotton as his quiet unpacking echoes through the apartment. 

--

The apartment has turned into a silent battlefield, the air thick with the ghost of Hyejin’s voice echoing in your skull like a relentless taunt. It’s been a week since that call shattered the fragile peace, a week since Yoongi’s smirk burned into your memory as he unpacked groceries with that slow, knowing curl of his lips. You’ve turned avoiding him into a desperate science, a losing fight when you share this cramped, crumbling space—25 square meters of peeling paint and warped floors that creak under every step. You’re hyper-aware of him, attuned to every trace of his presence: the groan of his door hinges at odd hours, the faint thud of his footsteps on the linoleum, the low hum of his heater seeping through the wall like a pulse. It’s suffocating, a constant reminder of the line you’ve crossed in your head, and you don’t know what he thinks—whether he’s laughing at you behind that unreadable stare, pitying your flushed embarrassment, or—worst of all—disgusted by the mess Hyejin’s words dragged into the open. The uncertainty gnaws at you, a splinter lodged under your skin, sharp and persistent, and you’ve convinced yourself he hates you now, that her brash suggestion painted you as a walking humiliation in his eyes. 

Your solution’s been retreat, a coward’s playbook executed with precision. Mornings, you’re up before the sky cracks open, the world still cloaked in pre-dawn purple, tugging on sneakers that scuff against the icy stairwell as you flee to SNU’s lecture halls—constitutional law at 8 A.M., your 4.0 GPA a lifeline you cling to. The cold bites your ankles, the wind whistling through the cracked windows of the south-end building, but it’s better than facing him over coffee. Evenings, you linger at the convenience store, the flickering fluorescents buzzing overhead as you scan soju bottles for bleary-eyed students, the air thick with stale beer and burnt microwave popcorn. You stay late, dragging out the lock-up routine—counting the till twice, wiping the counter until the manager snaps at you to “Go home already”—just to avoid the moment Yoongi’s door creaks open at home. When you finally slink back, you’re a shadow, slipping through the apartment like a thief—door shut tight, pretending the thin wall between your rooms is a canyon wide enough to swallow the tension whole. 

Yoongi’s mirrored your silence—not that it’s anything new—but he’s been retreating deeper into his hermit shell, turning the guest room a fortress you don’t dare breach. He’s more ghost than man now, his presence reduced to traces you can’t ignore. His music’s quieter now, too, a muted pulse seeping through the wall, like he’s tiptoeing around your frayed nerves, testing how much you can take before you snap. You’ve caught glimpses—him peeling a tangerine at the counter, fingers deft as they split the rind, eyes darting away when you shuffle past in your threadbare socks. The citrus scent hangs in the air after, sharp and fleeting, and it twists something in your chest.  

But there’s something new, something odd that’s crept into the routine: Yoongi’s been showering more. A lot more. The bathroom door creaks open at strange hours—midnight, when you’re half-asleep, mid-afternoon when you’re often gone—and you hear the water running for a shorter amount of time than normal, a steady that echoes through the thin walls. You’d want to be mad, to storm in and snap at him for hogging what little hot water your shitty boiler sputters out, but every time you shower, it’s warm, perfectly so, the steam curling around you in soft, teasing wisps. It hits you slow, a realization that sinks in like ice: he’s taking cold showers. Why? The question burrows into you, strange and nagging. You can’t shake it, and it feeds the restless churn in your gut. 

The phone call flipped a switch, and you hate it—hate how it’s twisted your head, turned Yoongi from a quiet, tolerable roommate into something else, something you want. It’s humiliating, the way your mind drifts when you’re alone, a traitor to your pride. Nights, you lie underneath your pile of blankets, your heater humming a low drone, and imagine him—his lean frame pinning you to the mattress, wrists trapped under his hands, his tongue flicking against your clit, sharp and precise, unraveling you with every deliberate stroke. You wonder what he tastes like, how he kisses—rough and demanding, claiming you in a rush, or slow and soft, teasing until you’re begging? The fantasies coil tight, your breath hitching as you press your vibrator harder, chasing release under the blanket’s weight, quiet gasps swallowed by the dark. It’s never enough, the ache lingering, pooling low, and it leaves you frustrated—sexually, emotionally, a tangled mess of want and shame. You wonder if he feels it too, but he’s a wall, unreadable, and you’re too mortified to ask, too afraid of the answer. 

From Yoongi’s side, it’s a different war, one he’s losing in silence. He’s lock himself in his room much more than he did before, the guest-now-his space a scattered mess of his belongings, because facing you feels like stepping on glass—one wrong move and it’ll shatter. That call—Hyejin's loud, brash suggestion—hit him harder than he’ll ever admit. He smirked, yeah, playing it cool as he unpacked those groceries, but inside, it was chaos, a wildfire he couldn’t stamp out. You think he’s attractive? No—hot? The idea sank into him, sharp and heated, a hook he can’t dislodge, and he can’t unhear it, can’t unfeel the way it’s shifted practically everything. He’s been avoiding you too, not out of hate—God, no—but because every time he sees you, his head’s a mess of lewd flashes: you under him, thighs trembling as he drives into you, your lips parted in a moan that’s his name; on your knees, mouth wrapped around him, wet and eager, eyes locked on his. It’s relentless, a reel he can't stop, and he hates how it’s turned him into a horny idiot, his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting himself in the shower more than he has since he was a gangly teenager with no self-control. 

Cold showers, specifically—ice-cold, the water a brutal shock to his system, numbing the heat that flares every time he thinks of you, every time your small figure brushes past him. He stands under the spray, teeth gritted, hair plastered to his forehead, hand working fast, imagining your hands instead—smaller, softer, tracing his skin—your voice, low and breathless, your body pressed against him. It’s you every time—your flushed cheeks from that call, the way your clothes hug your frame, the quiet gasps he’s sure you’d make if he touched you right. He comes quick, shuddering under the icy blast, the cold biting his skin. It’s a fleeting relief, a cycle he’s trapped in, rinsing away the evidence but not the want. He doesn’t hate you—he wants you. Bad. It’s driving him up the wall, a tension he buries under layers of silence and locked doors. 

A week later, four weeks into this strained cohabitation, the tension’s a live wire, sparking at the edges, ready to ignite. Last night, Yoongi had divvied up the laundry—two hampers, one for you, one for him, a silent chore split to keep the fragile peace. You always wash your clothes together, a money-saving trick drilled into you from years of scraping by, cramming everyone into the ancient machine in the basement laundry room with its chipped paint and flickering bulb. You're meticulous about it, cataloging every threadbare piece—two pairs of jeans, faded at the knees; three hoodies, one with a frayed drawstring; 5 pairs of t-shirts and long sleeves, two pairs of sweatpants, and a handful of socks, mismatched and thinning—because losing anything when you own so little stings deep. Hyejin’s words echo as you sort the pile—“You need to get laid!”—and on a reckless impulse, you toss in your one nice thing: a red lace thong, delicate and daring. Maybe Hyejin was right, getting tangled in your sheets might be a good idea, and who knows? It might actually loosen you up a little and get your mind off of you-know-who. 

Yoongi had dropped your hamper off in your room last night, awkward as hell, his frame filling the doorway for a brief, tense moment. He’s barely met your eyes, blonde hair falling into his face, muttering a clipped, “Here,” before retreating like he couldn’t get away fast enough. You’d nodded, throat tight, a flush creeping up your neck, and started your wash routine today, hauling the load downstairs in the dim stairwell, the air damp with mildew. The machine’s groan was a familiar hum as you fed it coins, the clink echoing in the empty basement, and you trudged back up, the cold seeping through your socks. 

Yoongi was assigned to retrieve both yours and his clothes, mindlessly tossing both loads into the same hampers used earlier. He could easily tell your items apart from his, so he didn’t have a single qualm when he dropped everything back off with you.  

You’re folding the warm pile on your bed, the space heater’s glow warming your shins through your sweatpants, when panic hits like a punch. The thong’s not there. You dig through—jeans, hoodies, socks—fingers clawing at the fabric, unraveling the neat stacks, but it’s gone. Your stomach drops, cold and sour, a sick lurch as images flash: the red lace crumpled on the laundry room floor, some grimy tenant picking it up, snickering at your expense; or worse, caught in the machine’s drum, a scarlet flag flapping for the next person to find. Mortification burns, hot and prickly, spreading from your chest to your fingertips, and you rake your hands through your hair, tugging at the roots as your mind races. Did it fall out on the stairs? Land in someone else's laundry basket? The possibilities spiral, each more humiliating than the last, and you’re two seconds from bolting downstairs to check, retracting every step in a frantic hunt, when you freeze, breath catching. Yoongi’s room. What if it’s with him? 

Yoongi’s hunched over his own hamper, elbow-deep in hoodies and sweats, and fabric warm from the dryer, when his fingers brush something soft, foreign, out of place. He pulls it out, slow, deliberate, and freezes—a red lace thong dangles from his hand, the fabric catching the heater’s orange glow like a flame. His breath catches, a sharp hitch, eyes flashing to you in his mind—your face, your body—and a groan rips from his throat, low and wrecked, echoing in the small room. Images flood him, unbidden and vivid. His grip tightens, the fabric bunching in his fist, cock hardening at the thought of you underneath him, the room tilting as desire slams into him, raw and unfiltered. He’s about to shove it back, bury it at the bottom of the hamper, pretend he never saw it, when a quiet knock jolts him upright, snapping him out of the haze. 

“Uh—come in,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat, his voice rougher than he intends, gravelly with the edge of what’s churning inside him—desire, panic, a tangle of heat he can’t unravel. The door creaks open, slow and hesitant, a low groan of hinges that slices through the quiet of his room. There you are—timid, small, framed in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, your faded pajamas hanging loose on you. The T-shirt's thin, slinging faintly to your chest, and your sweatpants hang low on your hips, cuffs brushing the floor. Your eyes are wide, searching, darting around his cluttered space—blankets in a heap, vinyls teetering by the wall—before they land on the red lace thong handing from his hand. Your face flames, a rush of red blooming across your cheeks, a soft but piercing gasp slipping past your lips, sharp enough to jolt him where he stands. 

He stares, caught, the air thickening into something vicious, heavy with the weight of your locked gazes. His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body—down the curve of your shoulder underneath the fabric, the dip of your waist, the way your legs shift nervously, bare skin peeking where the waistband of your sweatpants ends, and the hem of your shirt begins. His gaze lingers on your lips, parted slightly from that gasp, then snaps back to your eyes, wide and mortified but holding his stare. You don’t speak, don’t even breathe for a beat, the silence stretching taut between you, electric and unbearable. Then you step forward, hesitant, the floor cold under your socks, squeaking faintly under your weight as you close the gap. Yoongi’s breath hitches, chest tightening, his grip on the thong faltering as he watches you approach—small, trembling, but determined. Your fingers reach out, shaky and tentative, brushing his as you pluck the lace from his hand, the fleeting touch a spark that sears his skin. He exhales, sharp and unsteady, the air rushing out as you clutch the thong tight. 

You turn to leave, quick and jerky, like you’re fleeing a crime scene, your socks scuffing the floor as you aim for the door. Your shoulders hunch, the T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of your lower back, and Yoongi’s eyes snag there, his throat dry, pulse hammering. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, anything—but before words form, the world plunges into black. The power cuts with a faint pop, the dim glow of his desk lamp snuffed in an instant. Darkness swallows the room, thick and disorienting, the only sound the storm’s distant howl beyond the walls and the ragged edge of your breathing. The cold creeps in fast, a chill the prickles your bare arms, and you freeze mid-step, your silhouette a faint blur against the void. 

Yoongi stands rooted, the sudden black amplifying the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The air shifts, heavy with the absence of light and heat, and for a moment, neither of you move, the silence a living thing pressing against your skin.  

Then he speaks, voice low, cutting through the dark like a blade. “Stay.” It’s not a request, not quite a command, but there’s and urgency laced in it, rough and unpolished. You hesitate, your outline shifting as you turn slightly, and he can’t see your face, but he feels your uncertainty, the way you’re poised to bolt. “Just—stay there,” he adds, softer, stepping toward the desk where he keeps a flashlight and tealights he grabbed in preparation for exactly this. “I’ll get light.” 

You don’t argue, don’t move, and he hears the faint creak of the mattress as you sink onto it, the sound small but seismic in the quiet. He fumbles in the dark, fingers brushing vinyl sleeves, a tangles cord, until they close around the flashlight’s cold metal grip. The mean flickers to life, weak and unsteady, casting jagged shadows as he sweeps it across the room—the heap of blankets a sleepless mound, you perched on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest, arms crossed tight over them. Your silhouette sharpens as his eyes adjust, and he can see the goosebumps rising on your arms, the way your breath fogs faintly in the chill. He grabs the tealights a lighter from the desk drawer and moves back, placing them on the window ledge behind his bed. 

The lighter flicks, the tiny flame sparking against the wick of the first tealight. It catches, a fragile glow blooming, then another, until three small flames dance, casting gold over the scuffed ledge. He sits back, cross-legged, the mattress dipping under your weight across from him, the space between you shrinking in the flickering light. The candles throw shadows up Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, blonde hair mussed and falling into his eyes, lips parted as he exhales—and you feel exposed, the thin T-shirt no shield against the cold or his gaze. Your arms tights, a shiver running down your spine, and he notices, eyes flicking to the way your shoulders hunch, the faint tremble in your fingers. 

“You’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, and before you can respond, he’s twisting to grab a hoodie from the pile beside his bed—black, worn, the sleeves stretched from use. He holds it out, the fabric dangling between you, and the gesture hangs heavy, an offering laced with something unspoken. “Take it.” 

“I’m fine,” you mutter., stubborn, your teeth chattering faintly as the chill deepens, the room’s temperature dropping fast without the heater’s hum. Your breath fogs more now, a soft cloud in the candlelight, and you hug yourself tighter, pride warring with the cold sinking into your bones. 

“Take it,” he says again, sharper this time, his tone brooking no argument, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours. There’s a demand there, rough-edged, and it pricks at you, but the cold wins out, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his stare and the shiver racking your frame. You reach out, fingers brushing his as you take the hoodie, the contact brief but electric. You tug it on, the fabric swallowing you—smelling of cedarwood, the hem brushing your thighs—and he watches, a flicker of something dark crossing his face as you settle into it, sleeves flopping over your hands. 

The silence stretches, awkward and thick, the small flames creating shadows that act like a fragile barrier. You shift on the bed, the mattress creaking under you, and he leans on his hands, the bedding soft underneath his palms. The storm’s a dull roar outside, snow pelting the windows, but inside, it’s just you and him, the air humming with tension you’ve both danced around for weeks. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and you glance up, catching the way his eyes glint in the candlelight, sharp and assessing. 

“It’s been quiet lately,” he says, voice soft, almost casual, but there’s an edge—a thread of intent snaking through it. His fingers flex against the mattress, inching closer, the tips grazing the blanket near your thigh. “You, I mean. Not just the room.” 

You blink, caught off guard, heat creeping up your neck despite the chill. “What?” you say, too quick, your voice wobbling as you tuck the hoodie’s sleeves tighter into your fists, avoiding his gaze. He’s too close, his presence too heavy, pressing against you like a physical thing. 

“I dunno,” he shrugs, but it’s calculated, his shoulders rolling slow, the bed shifting as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, narrowing the space between you. “I just noticed. You’re usually... louder. Moving around, banging shit in the kitchen. Now it’s like you’re not even here.” His tone’s even, but there’s a tease buried in it, a glint in his eyes daring you to bite, to push back. 

“I’m here,” you mutter, defensive, staring at the tealights, the tiny flames blurring as your heart kicks up, thudding against your ribs. “I’ve just been... busy, I guess. School, work, and I’m with Namjoon a lot—you know how it is.” It’s a flimsy excuse, the words brittle, and you can feel him see through it, his silence louder than any rebuttal. 

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and the smirk returns, faint but sharp. “Busy, huh?” He leans closer, his knee pressing firmer against yours now, intentional, the heat of it seeping through your sweatpants. “Is that why you can’t even look at me?” 

You glance up, and he’s closer than you thought—his face a breath away, eyes locked on yours, dark and piercing in the candlelight. “I’m looking at you now,” you say, aiming for defiance, but it comes out shaky, a whisper swallowed by the tension thickening the air between you. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice a rumble. “Took you long enough.” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, and the room shrinks, the cold forgotten. 

“Okay, so what?” you snap, the word spilling out before you can stop them. “What’s your point?” Your face burns, defiance masking the nerves twisting inside you. 

He doesn’t back off, just watches you, steady and unyielding. “My point,” he says, slow and deliberate, “is that you’ve been avoiding me.” It’s not a question, a statement dropped like a match onto dry grass, and it ignites something in you, a flare of frustration and shame you’ve been choking down for a week. 

Heat surges up your neck, prickling under Yoongi’s hoodie. “No, I haven’t,” you bite back, voice sharp, your denial too quick. “That’s ridiculous.” You shift back slightly, the bed creaking under you, putting an inch of space between your knees. 

“Ridiculous?” he echoes, voice soft but edged, leaning forward more, closing the gap you just made. “You’re out before I’m up, gone ‘til I’m asleep. You’ve barely said ten fucking words to me all week. You call that normal?” 

“I’ve been busy!” you snap, louder now, the words bursting out as you glare at him. “School, work, like I just explained—shit you’d get if you weren’t holed up in here all the time. Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s quiet.” Your voice trembles, anger masking the guilt, and you shove the hoodie’s sleeves up, the fabric bunching at your elbows, too hot under his scrutiny. 

He snorts, a harsh sound, leaning closer, his knee slamming back against yours, a deliberate push. ���Don’t pull that. I’m here, yeah, but I don’t fucking vanish. You’re dodging me like I’m contagious—can't even look at me half the time.” His voice rises, rough with irritation. “What’s your deal? You think I’m pissed about something?” 

“My deal?” you fire back, voice climbing, the argument spiraling out of your control. “Maybe I just don’t wanna deal with you staring at me like—like I’m some joke after that stupid phone call! You don’t get to turn this on me when you’ve been a hermit too!” Your chest heaves, and you hate how raw you feel, how exposed. 

He freezes, just for a beat, then leans back slightly, but his voice drops, low and sharp. “A joke? That’s what you think?” His tone’s quieter, but it’s loaded, frustration simmering under the surface. “I’ve been giving you space, not laughing at you. You’re the one running.” 

“Space?” you scoff, incredulous, your voice crackling as you lean forward. “You call locking yourself in here space? I didn’t ask for that—I didn’t ask for any of this!” Your hands shake, and you hate how close he is. “This is all Namjoon’s fault. If I had just move back in with my parents to begin with—” 

“Then why—” he interrupts, voice rising again, his hand slamming down on the mattress, and you flinch. “Why are you acting like I’m the problem when you’re the one who’s been avoiding me?” His eyes bore into yours, dark and furious, and the tension snaps taut, a live wire humming between you. 

“Okay, fine!” you yell, the words ripping out, raw and jagged. “I’ve been avoiding you! Happy now?” You look away, face burning with shame, jaw tight. 

He doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze when you dare to meet it again, the anger softening into something else—something heavier. “Why?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost gentle, but it’s a blade all the same, cutting straight to the core. 

You swallow, throat dry, the truth clawing its way up, bitter and hot. “Because of the call,” you say, voice small. “What Hyejin said—it's been... weird. I didn’t know what you thought, if you were angry, disgusted, or—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip hard, the humiliation surging like fresh wound, a sour twist in your chest that makes you want to curl into yourself.  

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and his eyes soften, just a fraction, though they never leave yours. “Didn’t think anything bad,” he says, low, deliberate. “Didn’t mind it.” A pause, then softer, a confession slipped into the dark: “I kinda liked it.” It hangs there, raw and unguarded, and your stomach flips. 

“You liked it?” you echo, incredulous, your voice rising slightly. 

“Yeah,” he says, simple, unapologetic. “You think I’m attractive, right? That’s what she said... your friend, I mean.” His voice dips, teasing again, but there’s a hunger underneath, a question he’s daring you to answer, and it’s dizzying, the way he’s peeling you open, like a tangerine. 

“I—” You falter, breath hitching, his proximity scrambling your thoughts, turning them into static. The hoodie’s too warm, his scent too close—a drug you can’t shake—and yet you can’t look away. “She said it, not me.” 

“But you didn’t deny it,” he counters, voice a rumble now. “Still haven’t” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, slow and deliberate, and the tension shifts, thickens, a palpable thing wrapped around you both. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough. “What she said. Me.” 

Your mouth opens, a denial on your tongue, but it dies there, strangled by the way his eyes darken. “I-I... I don’t—” 

“Don’t what?” he presses, voice a tease, but his gaze is intense, stripping you bare. His knee nudges your legs apart slightly, moving towards where you need him most. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Say it, and I’ll back off.” His eyes search yours, dark and intent, flickering with something that mirrors the heat twisting inside you—desire, need, a question he’s laid bare between you. His fingers curl slightly into your thigh, possessive, waiting, and the silence stretches, taut and trembling, your response teetering on the edge. 

Instead of answering him, your lips slam into his with a force that rips the air from the room, a bruising collision born from the weight of all the suppressed desire, every moment you’ve bitten your tongue instead of speaking, every time you’ve turned away instead of reaching out. It’s not soft, not tentative—it can’t be, not after all this time simmering in the space between you. Your hands fist the worn cotton of his hoodie, knuckles whitening as you clutch the fabric like it’s the only think keeping your grounded, pulling him closer until there’s no gap left to close. The kiss is spark flung onto dry tinder, a wildfire roaring to life after too long smoldering in the dark corners of your mind. Your lips press hard against his, insistent and desperate, testing the faint salt of his skin, the bitter edge of the beer he sipped earlier still clinging to his breath—a sharp tang that mixes with something deeper, something raw and uniquely Yoongi that floods your senses and leaves you dizzy. 

He freezes for a heartbeat, his body tensing before you, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as if you’ve jolted his from a trance. Then he surges back, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat—a primal sound that vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver racing down your spine, igniting every nerve in its path. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—yanking you against him with a force that makes the mattress groan beneath your combined weight. The bed creaks sharply, a protest that echoes in the small room as your bodies collide, chest to chest, the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of fabric separating you, warming the chill that’s lingered in your bones for days.  

You move on instinct, driven by a need you can’t name, swinging one leg over his lap until you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his lean thighs. The shift presses your core against the hard ridge of his cock through his clothes, a sudden jolt of friction that drags a soft, involuntary moan from your throat—a sound you barely recognize as yours, raw and needy, spilling out into the quiet. Your nails rake over his shoulders, catching on the fabric of his sweatshirt as you press yourself closer, your chest flattening against his, the rapid thud of his heartbeat pounding against your ribcage until it feels like it’s yours too. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they flex and shift under your touch, coiled tight like a spring begging to snap, and it sends a thrill through you, a spark that catches and flares. 

His hands slide under the hoodie, rough calluses scraping against your bare waist as they roam upward, igniting your skin with every inch they claim. His fingers splay wide, possessive, digging into your flesh with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth—a sharp, breathy sound that he swallows greedily, like it’s fuel for the fire he’s stoking. They travel higher, slow and deliberate, until his palms cup your breasts, the heat of his hands searing through you, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing, languid circles. They harden instantly under his touch, a delicious ache blooming as he rolls them between his fingers, coaxing another moan from you—a louder one this time, raw and unfiltered, muffled against his lips, vibrating in the tight space where your breaths tangle. The sensation is electric, a current that zips down your spine and pools low, making you shift relentlessly in his lap. 

The kiss deepens, turning messy and wild—as if it wasn’t already—a clash of need that strips away any pretense of control. Your teeth knock together in your haste, a faint click drowned by the wet slide of your tongues wrestling for dominance, a dance of give and take that leaves you breathless. Yoongi’s mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue curling against yours with a skill that makes your head spin, a slow, deliberate sweep that has you chasing after it, hungry for more. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, a sharp sting that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, and you whimper—a soft, broken sound that melts into a groan as he sucks it hard, soothing the bite with a slow, deliberate lick. The taste of him floods you—salt a heat and that faint, bitter edge—and you dive back in, your tongue darting into his mouth, desperate to drown it. 

His grip tightens, one hand abandoning your breast to fist in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He yanks your head back, a sudden, firm tug that bares your throat to him, the pull stinging your scalp a drawing a ragged gasp from your lips—a sound that hangs in the air, sharp and vulnerable. Your head tips back, exposing the tender line of your neck, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate—his mouth descends, lips dragging hot and wet along your pulse, leaving a trail of fire that sears your skin. He sucks lightly at the spot where your heartbeat thumps wildly, a teasing nip of his teeth that makes you squirm in his lap, your hips rocking forward on pure instinct, seeking something, anything, to ease the ache building inside you. 

That movement—unplanned, desperate—grinds you against him, the seam of your sweatpants catching just right on the bulge straining against him. A low, guttural moan tears from his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he presses his forehead to your collarbone, he breath hot and uneven against the hollow of your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, the curse slipping out like it’s been punched from him, and it sends a thrill through you, your own breath hitching in response. You roll your hips again, deliberate this time, a slow, purposeful grind that drags your core over him, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tight in your belly, a heat that spreads like wildfire. His hands snap back you your hips, guiding you, encouraging the motion with a firm squeeze, his fingers digging into your ass through the fabric, anchoring you as you rock against him. 

The movement builds a rhythm—slow at first, tentative, like you’re testing the waters, then faster, more urgent, a desperate cadence that matches the pounding of your pulse. Each roll of your hips presses you harder against him, the heat between your legs growing slick and insistent, soaking through your sweatpants until you can feel it dampening the fabric, a secret you can’t hide. You can feel him—thick, hard, pulsing beneath you—and the thought alone makes you moan louder, a needy whine that echoes in the small room, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the creak of the mattress. Yoongi matches you, his own groans spilling out, low and broken, as he thrusts up to meet you, the cotton soft against your thighs, yet scraping in a way that’s almost too much but not enough. 

Your moans climb higher, a string of needy sounds that spill out unbidden—soft whines, sharp gasps, a broken “Yoongi” that slips from your lips before you can stop it. His response is immediate, a groan that’s half-curse, half-prayer, hips bucking up harder, meeting you halfway, the fabric dragging against your skin in a way that’s rough and perfect. 

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his as you pant, your breath hot against his swollen lips, mingling with his own ragged exhales. Your eyes—wide, wild, glassy with need—meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes you, a storm of want brewing behind his own pupils, the dark swallowing the brown until there’s nothing left but desire. “You’ve been fucking teasing me for weeks,” he rasps, voice gravelly, thick with want, his grip on your hair tightening until it stings, a delicious edge of pain that makes you move harder against him, your hips stuttering in their rhythm. “Think I didn’t notice you squirming? All those little looks, avoiding me like I wouldn’t fucking see?” 

“I—I didn’t—” you start, but the lie dies in your throat as he smirks, dark and knowing, and drags you back into the kiss, his tongue plunging deep, silencing you with a claim that leaves no room for denial. Your hands slip from his hair, trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms as the kiss breaks again, leaving you both panting, lips swollen and slick. The need clawing at you is too much now, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sweatshirt, the oversized gray fabric that’s been brushing against you all night. You tug upward, a silent question in the motion, and Yoongi’s eyes flicker with something dark and eager as his lifts his arms, letting you peel it off him in one fluid desperate pull. 

The sweatshirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, you just stare, your breath catching in your throat as you take him in—shirtless, bare, and breathtakingly real beneath the flickering candlelight glow. His chest is exposed now, and your eyes trace downward, drinking in the sight of him—smooth and unmarred, save for the faint flush creeping up his sternum, a soft pink that blooms under the heat of your gaze and the exertion of what’s just passed. His torse narrows into a lean waist, the lines of his body flowing inward like a river cutting through stone. His abs come into view—subtle but undeniable, a not-so-faint six-pack etched into his stomach, each muscle a shallow ripple beneath his skin rather than a deep carve. The muscles flex slightly as he shifts, tightening with every breath, every twitch of his hips still pressed against you, and you can see the faint sheen of sweat coating them, making his skin gleam like polished marble in the low light. A thin trail of dark hair starts just below his navel, barely visible against his pale complexion, leading downward in a sparse, teasing line that disappears into the waistband of his pants, hinting at what’s still hidden. 

You slide off his lap then, your hands dragging down his bare chest one last time, mapping the lean planes of him—the smooth expanse of his pecs, the subtle ridges of his abs, the heat of his skin—before you sink to your knees between his legs, the cold wood biting into your skin a stark contrast  to the fire burning in your veins. Yoongi watches you, breath hitching, hands flexing on the bed as you teg at the waistband of his sweatpants, his hips lifting slightly to help you pull them down along with his boxers, crumpling into a messy pile around his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, the tip glistening with a fat bead of precum that catches the faint candlelight glow—a slick, iridescent promise of how much he’s been aching for this, how long he’s been holding back. You pause, your breath snagging in your throat at the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins pulsing faintly under the skin, every inch of him straining towards you. Your fingers hover near it, trembling with the weight of anticipation that’s been clawing at you, a hunger that’s sunk its teeth into your core and won’t let go. Then you reach out, wrapping your hand around him—tentative at first, your touch light as you feel the heat radiating off him, the slight give of skin over rigid flesh. His reaction is instant: a sharp, guttural groan rips from his throat, loud and unrestrained, his hips jerking up an inch like he’s already chasing you. 

You tighten your grip, fingers curling around his length, and start to stroke—slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist with every pass. The skin is velvet-hot under your palm, slick where he’s leaking, and you drag your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum in a lazy, teasing circle. Yoongi moans again, a rough, “Fuck,” spilling out as his head tips back, blonde hair spilling into his eyes in a wild, sweaty cascade that glints gold in the dim light before falling into shadow. His chest heaves, a low growl rumbling through it as you lean closer, your breath fanning over him, warm and deliberate. Your lips brush the tip, featherlight, barely a touch, and he shudders hard, thighs tensing under your elbows where they rest, a ragged “shit” groaning out of him as his hands flex on the bed, knuckles whitening against the sheets. 

You part your lips, letting your breath tease him for a bit longer, watching his abs clench, his jaw tighten, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. The you take him in—slowly at first, your tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the sharp salt of him, the heat that floods your mouth as you close your lips around the head. You swirl your tongue, tracing the ridge beneath with a slow, deliberate drag, savoring the way he pulses against you, the way his groan turns into a louder, “Fuck—yes,” his voice cracking on the edge of desperation. You suck lightly, lips tightening as you pull him deeper, inch by tantalizing inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate him as you hollow your cheeks, creating a tight, wet vacuum that makes him hiss—a sharp, needy sound that cuts through the quiet. 

The taste of him intensifies, and you start to bob your head, setting a rhythm that’s wet and sloppy. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, slick and messy, dripping down your chin as you take him further, the heat of him pressing against your tongue, nudging the back of your throat with every downward stroke. Yoongi’s hand shoots to your hair, fingers threading into the soft strands with a rough grip—not just anchoring now, but guiding, tugging you down harder as he groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked. His hips twitch up, a shallow thrust that pushes him deeper, and you gag slightly, the burn in your throat sharp but thrilling as you adjust, breathing through your nose to keep in time with him. 

He gets rougher then, his restraint fraying as his hand tightens in your hair, pulling with a firm yank that stings your scalp and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Take it,” he growls, low and commanding, his hips bucking up again—harder this time, fucking into your mouth with a controlled thrust that has you choking around him, spit spilling over your lips and down his shaft. You don’t pull back—can't, wont—your tongue flattening against him as he sets a pace, deep and insistent, each thrust hitting the back of your throat with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room. He moans louder, letting out a string of curses, “Holy shit, Y/N that feels so—fuck,” each one rougher, more broken, he voice cracking as he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark. 

Your free hand slides up his thigh, nails scraping the taut muscle there before finding his balls, heavy and tight beneath him. You cup them, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling the way they draw up under your touch. Yoongi’s reaction is rewarding—a deep, shuddering groan tears from his chest, louder than before, his hips stuttering as the sensation hits him. You knead them softly, fingers working in time with your mouth, fondling them with a careful pressure that makes his moans climb higher. The added stimulation drives him wild, his thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate, fucking your throat with a rhythm that’s less controlled now, more primal. Your eyes flick up, meeting his, and the sight of him unravels you—head tipped back, blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, burning with a desperation that’s almost palpable—and it sends a shiver through you, your own arousal pooling low, thighs clamping together as the ache between your legs sharpens into something almost unbearable. 

It’s intoxicating, the way he’s falling apart for you, and it drives you to push him further, to take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him thrust past the point of comfort, the stretch burning as you gag again, spit pooling and dripping onto his thighs as he fucks your mouth with a grunt. His moans turn constant now, a litany of sound—low growls, sharp groans, broken curses—each one louder, rougher, spilling out as his hips snap forward, his grip on your hair tightening until it’s a delicious ache. He’s losing it, control slipping through his fingers, and you can feel it in the way his thrusts falter, the way his abs clench, a ripple of muscles that signals he’s close. “Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum,” he growls, voice strained and raw, a warning that’s morphed it’s way into a plea, giving you the change to pull back if you want it. But you don’t—you can’t—doubling down instead, sucking harder, your lips a tight seal around him as you take him as deep as you can, throat flexing around his length. 

You hand pumps the base, fast and slick, working what your mouth can’t reach, while your other hand squeezes his balls just a little harder, rolling them in a way that drags another loud, shuddering moan from him. His hips buck one last time, hard and erratic, and then he’s coming undone—a choked, “Shit,” tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and pulsing, thick bursts that coat your tongue, your throat, filling you with the taste of him—salt and heat and raw, unfiltered need. 

You keep going, working him through it, your mouth softening but still moving, your hand stroking slower now as you milk every last shudder from him. His groans turn ragged, breathless, his body trembling beneath you, thigh twitching as he rides out the waves. His hand in your hair loosens, fingers slipping free with a faint tremor, and you pull back slowly, letting him slide from your mouth with a wet, messy pop, spit and cum mingling on your lips as you gasp for air. Your chin’s a wreck, slick and dripping, and you swipe it with the back of your hand, panting as you look up at him, your chest heaving, thighs still pressed tight against the ache that’s screaming between your legs. 

You start to shift, intending to rise, but Yoongi moves faster, his hand snapping to your arms with a grip that’s firm, unyielding, almost bruising as he hauls you up from the floor with a strength that steals your breath. Your knees groan as they leave the cold ground, a soft, startled gasp slipping form your lips as he pulls you onto the bed, dragging you up to meet him in a rush of motion that makes your head spin. His mouth crashes onto yours, fierce and unrelenting, a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, claiming you with a bruising intensity that leaves no room for air. His tongue dives in, hot and possessive, tasting himself on you—the salt and musk of his release mingling with the faint sweetness of you—and he groans into it, a deep, primal sound that rumbles against your lips, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through your core. 

His hands shove at the hoodie still clinging to your frame—his hoodie, oversized and heavy with his scent—fingers rough and impatient as they yank it up and over your head, the fabric catching on your arms for a heartbeat before you shake it free. It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, and the cold air of the room bites into your newly bared skin, prickling goosebumps across your chest, your nipples hardening instantly under the chill and weight of his stare. You shiver, caught between the shock of exposure and the fire in his eyes, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust—his hands are on you again, strong and commanding, flipping you onto your back with a swift, effortless twist that makes the bed creak softly, the springs protesting under the sudden shift. Your back hits the mattress, the tangled blankets cool and soft against your skin, and Yoongi looms over you, his lean, shirtless frame a shadowed silhouette against the glow of the candles—his bare chest slick with sweat, abs tightening as he braces himself above you, a smirk tugging at his lips, sharp and dangerous. 

“Fucking finally,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, thick with intent as his hands drop to the waistband of your sweatpants. Hi fingers hook onto the fabric, rough and urgent, yanking your sweatpants and panties down in one harsh, impatient tug that scrapes against your thighs, the material bunching briefly before he rips it free. The cold air hits you like a slap, a shock against the slick, burning heat between your legs, and you shudder, half from the chill, half from the raw vulnerability of being spread bare beneath him. He tosses the clothes aside, the faint rustle of them landing somewhere in the dark swallowed by the pounding of your heart, and his hands find your thighs—his grip bruising, possessive, as he forces them apart, spreading you wide with a strength that makes your breath hitch, your body arching instinctively toward him, open and waiting. 

Yoongi’s head dips low, his breath ghosting over your core first—a warm, teasing huff that makes your hips twitch upward, chasing the promise of contact. His hands dig into your thighs, fingers splayed wide and bruising as he holds you open, pinning you to the mattress with a force that leaves no room for resistance. His lips graze your clit, a fleeting, featherlight brush that sends a sharp, electric jolt ripping through you, arching your back off the bed as a gasp tears from your throat, high and desperate. Then he dives in, his mouth latching onto you with a hunger that’s almost feral, sucking hard on your clit with a wet, obscene pull that makes your vision blur at the edges. The sudden pressure is a shockwave, a white-hot burst that has your hips bucking against his face, a chokes whimper spilling from your lips as your hands scrabble against the blankets, searching for something to hold onto. 

His tongue follows, relentless and greedy, lapping at your folds with broad, messy strokes that leave no part of you untouched, electing a loud cry from you. The wet heat of it drags through your slickness, a slow, deliberate sweep that collects every drop of your arousal, and he groans against you—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your core, making your thighs tremble in his grasp. He circles your clit with tight, teasing loops, the tip of his tongue flicking against the swollen bud in quick, precise darts that have you whimpering, your breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. The he shifts, plunging his tongue inside you, thrusting it deep into your heat with a rhythm that’s slow but unyielding, fucking you with it as you moan, loud and unabashed. “Oh, shit, Yoongi!” You cry, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them. 

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, leaving crescent-shaped marks as he pulls you closer, pressing you harder against his mouth like he can’t get enough. His nose brushes your clit as he buries himself deeper, and your breath hitches, your moans growing louder with each pass of his tongue. He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, lips sealing around it with a fierce, wet suction that makes your back bow off mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat—“Y-Yoongi, please,”—your voice breaking on his name. His tongue flicks against you in response, fast and ruthless, and then his fingers join in—two of them sliding into you, curling deep, stretching you open with a deliberate thrust that makes you feel every inch of his digits, every ridge of his knuckles as they sink inside. 

He pumps them fast, rough, the wet squelch of your arousal loud in the quiet room, mingling with the faint howl of the storm outside. His fingers curl just right, hooking against that spot inside you that sends sparks bursting behind your eyes, and he pairs it with another hard suck on your clit, his teeth grazing you lightly—a fleeting sting that makes you jolt, a whimper turning into a moan. His free hand lifts, hovering over your thigh for a moment, then comes down with a sharp crack, spanking you once—the sound echoing, the heat blooming instant and fierce across your skin. “Louder, let me hear you,” he growls, voice muffled against you, his breath hot and ragged as he dives back in, tongue lapping at you like a man starved. You oblige without meaning to, a loud stream of moans spilling out as your hips grind against his face, chasing the pressure building inside you. 

Your hands find his hair, fingers threading into the sweaty blonde strands, tugging hard—hard enough to make him groan again, a deep, rumbling “mmph” that vibrates through you, pushing you closer to the edge. He retaliates by nipping at your clit, a quick, sharp bite that sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your grip tightening as you yank his hair again, desperate and wild. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing your clit as he speaks, the words sinking into you like heat, stoking the fire in your belly. “Been dreaming of this pussy—gonna make you scream.” His tongue dives back in, relentless, swirling around your clit before plunging inside again, fucking you with it in deep, wet strokes while his fingers pump faster, curling harder, stretching you open until you’re trembling and whimpering, thighs shaking uncontrollably un his bruising grip. 

The candlelight dances over your body—sweat beading on your stomach, glistening in the hollows of your hips, a red mark blooming bright and hot where he spanked you, the skin tender and pulsing with every brush of his fingers. Yoongi’s focused, utterly consumed—his eyes flick up to yours, dark and piercing, locked on your face as he drinks in every whimper, every squirm, every broken sound you make. His hair’s a mess from your grip, strands sticking to his forehead, falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t care—his tongue keeps moving, his fingers relentless, savoring the way you’re unraveling beneath him. The pleasure’s sharp, overwhelming, a knife-edge that cuts through you. 

He spanks you again, harder this time, the crack louder, the heat searing across your ass as his fingers curl just right, hitting your g-spot with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quicks, merciless strokes. You break—screaming his name, “Yoongi—fuck!” The sound raw and ragged, tearing from your throat as your body shatters, clenching tight around his fingers, pulsing hot and wet against his mouth. Your back arches high, hips grinding against him as the climax rips through you, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking, trembling, a moaning mess, every nerve alight. He doesn’t stop, lapping you through it with slow, greedy strokes, his tongue dragging out every shudder every twitch, his fingers easing their pace but still moving, coaxing you down from the peak until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging hard at his hair to pull him up, your chest heaving as you pant beneath him, wrecked and sated. 

Your chest heaves, lungs burning as you pant beneath Yoongi, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the oversensitive twitches shuddering through your thighs where they press against the mattress. He pulls back from your core, lips glistening with your slick in the faltering candlelight glow, his blonde hair a sweaty, tangled mess from your desperate tugging, strands plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes—dark, wild, smoldering with a hunger that hasn’t dimmed. His bare chest gleams with sweat, the lean planes of his abs tightening with each shallow, unsteady breath, his pale skin flushed pink from exertion, collarbones sharp and jutting, a faint sheen of perspiration pooling in the hollow of his throat. He climbs over you, his wiry frame moving with a predator's grace, sweat-slick chest brushing your bare skin as he looms above, caging you in with his arms, the heat of him searing into you like a brand. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and deep, a messy tangle of tongues and teeth that tastes of you—sweet and sharp—and him, salt and heat from earlier, a primal mix that makes your head spin. You moan, soft and needy, your hands clawing at his bare back, nails raking down the lean muscle, digging into the taut ridges of his spine as you press yourself closer, your chest heaving against his. 

“I need you, Yoongi, need your cock.” The want between you is raw, reckless, primal—no barriers, just skin and heat—he smirks, and you shift, pushing him back onto the mattress with a surge of strength, the bed creaking sharply as you climb over him, straddling his hips, your thighs once again bracketing his lean waist, knees sinking into the tangled blankets. He groans, low and guttural, as you line yourself up, the head of his cock brushing your entrance—bare, hot, pulsing against your slick heat. He shifts beneath you, one hand reaching down toward the bedside table, fingers stretching for a condom packet in the dim light, but you catch his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a question in their dark depths, and you lean in close, breath hitching as you whisper, “I want to feel all of you.” His gaze darkens further, a flash of something feral passing through it, and he groans, deeper, his hand falling back to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh there as he surrenders to the moment.  

You sink down slow at first, the stretch raw and intense, a searing burn that splits you open. Inch by thick inch, filling you completely with no layer between you, just the unfiltered heat of him inside. You moan, loud and trembling, your head tipping back as he bottoms out, hips flush against his, the fullness overwhelming, your walls clenching around him instinctively, a tight, greedy grip that makes him groan again, “God, you feel so good—shit.” Your nails bite into his chest, scraping over his pecs, leaving red trails across his pale skin as you start to move, lifting yourself up and dropping back down, the wet slap of your thighs against his steady, filthy rhythm. “Look at you,” he grunts in between each pass of you against his member, “avoiding me for weeks and now you’re practically begging for my cock.” 

You moan, high and desperate, as you ride him, hips rolling with every rise and fall, the drag of him against your walls sending jolts of pleasure sparking through you, your ass bouncing against his thighs with each thrust, and he relishes in the movement of your breasts as you ride him. “Oh, God, Yoongi—” He groans, rough and primal, his hands guiding you, lifting you higher, slamming you down higher, the bed creaking wildly under the force, springs protesting as your pace quickens.  

You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, nails digging deeper into the firm muscle, and he spanks you once—hard—the crack sharp and loud, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” The sting blooms hot across your ass, making you moan louder, a broken sound that echoes in the room. He spanks you again, “you like it rough, baby?” You nod in response, the heat spreading like wildfire, and you shudder, your rhythm faltering for a moment as the pain twists into pleasure, your moans climbing higher, constant now, spilling form you with every roll of your hips. 

Yoongi’s groans deepen, his thrusts up to meet you turning erratic, his cock twitching inside you, and he moans, a strained, desperate sound, his abs clenching tight under his sweat slick skin, sweat beading on his brow as he fights the edge. “Fucking hell.” He shifts abruptly, hands gripping your waist, flipping you off him with a swift, strong twist that makes you yelp, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as he pulls out, leaving you empty and trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, slick and desperate. He moves fast, pushing you onto your stomach, “Ass up,” he demands, the bed creaking as he pulls your hips up, forcing you to comply, your knees sinking into the mattress. 

He drives back in with a single, deep thrust, bottoming out in one brutal snap of his hips, hitting every spot, and you moan long and loud, “You feel so good, Yoongi, fuck,” your voice shakes as he fills you again, the new angle letting him go deeper, harder, his cock dragging against your walls with a precision that has your toes curling, your hands clawing at the sheets, tearing at the fabric. He groans, rough and primal, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, the force rocking your body forward, your face pressing into the pillow, muffling your constant moans—high, desperate, spilling from you with every snap of his hips, driving you closer to the edge. 

Your climax builds fast, a tight coil snapping in your belly, every thrust, every spank, pushing you higher, “I’m so close, Yoongi! Gonna cum soon—” you moan louder, a desperate, shuddering sound as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching tight. Your orgasm hits hard, a shattering wave that rips through you, and you scream into the pillow, a raw, broken moan muffled against the fabric as your body shakes, trembling uncontrollably, pleasure crashing through you in relentless surges, your ass stinging, red and raw, your nails clawing at the sheets, tearing holes in the cotton as you ride it out, shuddering, lost in the raw heat of him inside you. 

He feels it, groaning loud and rough, his thrusts turning sloppy, hips stuttering as your clenching walls grip him, and he cries out, “Ah shit, Y/N!” It’s a strained sound, breaking form his chest as he chases his own edge, sweat dripping onto your back, hot and slick. His climax snaps, a guttural moan tearing from him as he spills inside you, hot and deep, pulsing thick and unrestrained, filling you with every erratic trust. His hands pull you back onto him as he comes, trembling above you, breath ragged, breaking into rough sound as he rides his orgasm out, his cum leaking out, warm and sticky, dripping down your thighs. He collapses over you, chest pressed to your back, his weight heavy and grounding, both of you shaking, spent, tangled in the damp, sweat-soaked sheets. His arm drapes around your waist, breath hot and uneven against your neck, stirring the damp hair there. 

The cold begins to seep into the room as the last candlelight flickers out with a faint hiss, plunging you into near-darkness, the only light a thin, silvery glow from the window that softly outlines Yoongi’s lean, shirtless form as he slides off your back and next to you. His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his flushed skin, catching the dim light across the sharp lines of his collarbones and the subtle ridges of his abs, now relaxed after the tension of before. Silence settles over you, thick and soothing, like a heavy blanket, muffling the world beyond—the storm outside reduced to a faint whisper against the glass, barely audible over the slowing thud of your pulse. You lie there, breathless and spent, your body heavy with exhaustion, tangled in the sweat-soaked fabric that clings to you, sticky and warm, but there’s a sweetness to it, a comfort in the mess you’ve made together. 

Yoongi shifts beside you, rolling onto his side with a soft creak of the mattress, his movement careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid to jostle you too much. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle, a quiet rasp softened by a thread of concern that makes your chest warm, his breath brushing your cheek as he props himself up slightly. You turn your head toward him, cheek sinking into the pillow, damp strands of your hair sticking to your flushed face, and catch his eyes in the dimness—soft, warm, searching yours with a tenderness that feels like a balm after the roughness. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse from exertion, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze, your lids heavy with fatigue. “Wrecked, though—like, can’t-move wrecked.” He chuckles, a gentle, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest, and his hand slides up to your hair, fingers threading through the sweaty, tangled mess, rubbing your scalp with a slow, soothing touch that draws a faint moan form you, a sigh of pure relief. 

“My favorite kind of wrecked,” he says softly, his tone teasing but laced with affection, his thumb brushing along your temple as he smooths your hair back, tracing the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that makes your heart flutter. His fingers linger, rubbing slow circles against your scalp, easing the faint ache form earlier tugging, and you feel your body soften under his touch, the tension melting away as you sink into the comfort of it. “You’re still warm,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, a quiet wonder in it as he leans closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a tender kiss, soft and fleeting but heavy with care. You snuggle into him, ignoring the sweat—his skin slick and sticky against yours, your cheek pressing into the curve of his chest, right above his heart, where the beat thumps steady and slow beneath your ear, grounding you. He pulls you tighter, his hand still moving through your hair, fingers sliding through the strands with a kindness that makes your chest ache. 

“You’re sweaty,” you mumble, your breath warm against his chest, your nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone where the faint musk of him mixes with the salt of his skin, earthy and comforting. 

“So are you,” he replies, his voice light, a smile threading through it, “but I don’t mind—keeps you close.” His hand shifts, sliding down from your hair to trace your skin, fingertips gliding over your shoulder, along the curve of your arm, then back up, featherlight and slow, mapping you with a tenderness that sends a shiver of warmth through you. Your body curls into his, legs tangling, the stickiness of your skin fading under the solace of his touch, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. 

The room grows colder, the air brushing against the skin of your back where the sheets have slipped, but his warmth chases it away, his body a shield against the chill, his chest a steady anchor beneath your cheek. “Just rest, I’ve got you,” Yoongi whispers, and you smile against his chest, the sweat and mess a distant thought under his gentle touch, his fingers threading through your hair and tracing your skin, grounding you in his kindness as you drift, tangled together, sated and held in the quiet warmth of the moment. 

--

Two months later, the late afternoon sun spills through the living room window of your shared apartment, casting a warm golden glow over the mismatched furniture—the sagging couch where Namjoon sprawls, the coffee table cluttered with empty takeout containers, and the armchair where you’re curled up, half-draped over Yoongi. The air smells faintly of soy sauce and fried rice, remnants of the lunch you all split, and the TV hums in the background, some random variety show Namjoon picked out but no one’s really watching. Yoongi’s arm rests lazily around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm through the thin sleeve of your hoodie—his hoodie, technically, the faded black one you’ve claimed as your own. His hair’s a little longer now, his grown-out blonde strands brushing his eyes. 

“I missed you today,” you murmur, tilting your head to nuzzle his jaw, your voice soft and sweet, a little pout in it as you press closer, your hand resting on his chest where his heart beats steady under your palm.  

He chuckles, low and warm, tilting his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that quiet, gummy smile you adore. “Was only gone a few hours, doll.” he says, his tone teasing but tender, his hand sliding up to rub your hair gently, fingers threading through the strands like they’ve done a hundred times since that night two months ago. 

“I still missed you,” you insist, leaning in to peck his cheek, and he hums, a contented sound, pulling you tighter against him, his lips brushing your temple in return. 

“God, you two are disgusting,” Namjoon groans from the couch, his deep voice cutting through the moment as he flops his head back dramatically, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sight. He’s sprawled out in a T-shirt and sweats, lang legs dangling over the armrest, his dimples nowhere in sight as his face twists in mock disgust. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters, peeking out from under his arm to glare at you both, his annoyance palpable. 

You giggle, turning to sick your tongue out at him, and Yoongi smirks, his hand still rubbing your hair as he leans his head against yours. “What, Joon? Jealous?” Yoongi teases, his voice light, and you snuggle closer, your cheek pressing into his shoulder. 

Namjoon sits up, tossing a throw pillow at you both—it misses, landing harmlessly on the floor—and runs a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. “I suggested you crash here, man, because you said you needed a place to stay, not so you could turn my best friend into—into this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you tangled together, his time a mix of irritation and disbelief. “I swear, if you start jumping each other’s bones right in front of me, I’m moving to Japan. I’ll sleep on the street before I watch that.”  

You laugh, bright and unrestrained, and Yoongi’s chuckle joins yours, his fingers tracing down your arm now, a soft, comforting glide. “Relax, Joon,” you say, grinning, “we’ll save it for when you’re not around.” 

“Yeah, promise,” Yoongi adds, his voice deadpan but his eyes glinting with mischief as he pulls you even closer, his lips brushing your ear just to mess with Namjoon more. He groans again, louder, flopping back onto the couch with an exaggerated huff, muttering, “Should’ve known this would happen—gross, both of you.”  

He grabs the remote, cranking the TV volume up to drown out your giggles, while you and Yoongi stay wrapped up in each other, the warmth of his touch and the softness of his laughter a quiet comfort against Namjoon’s playful grumbling. 

As the day fades into evening, the three of you setting into this new, chaotic normal, a little louder, a little messier, but unmistakably home. 

[ohnaurshayla]

Where We Left Off

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: college au, friends to lovers, angst

summary: you’ve spent years dancing around the inevitable. soft glances, blurred lines, and too many nights pretending not to want more. but when the game finally ends, nothing feels casual anymore. not his touch. not his kiss. and definitely not the way he says you’ve always been his.

warnings: mutual pining, years of tension, soft but filthy smut (tongue technology in action 😜), oral f, riding, unprotected sex, tenderly possessive, angst, yearrrrrning, morning after fluff

word count: 4,413



It starts the way it always does.

With his name flashing softly across your screen, cutting through the quiet in the way only he ever manages to.

Late, always too late, when the world outside your apartment has gone still and soft and heavy with sleep. That dangerous, in between hour where decisions are made more with instinct than logic.

You shouldn’t answer.

You tell yourself that every time, every night he calls after midnight, every moment you watch his name glow like a siren, luring you back into waters you swore you’d never tread again.

But you never hesitate. Not when it’s him.

Your thumb slides across the screen before your mind can even form the word no, and you press the phone to your ear, already sinking deeper into the warm cocoon of your blanket like it might somehow shield you from what you know is coming.

“Hello?”

Your voice is soft from sleep, wrapped in that lazy, intimate heaviness that only exists when the world has gone quiet.

But his cuts through even that.

Low. Rough.

Not broken, Yoongi never lets himself fall apart that easily, but tired in a way that makes something twist inside your chest.

“Can I come over?”

Simple. Familiar.

A question he doesn’t need to ask, but always does anyway. As if giving you the option makes any difference at all.

You could say no.

You should say no.

You should remember what you promised yourself after the last time he left in the morning without a word, pulling the door closed with a softness that still somehow managed to echo in your ribs.

You should remind yourself that graduation is weeks away, that soon you won’t live across campus from each other, won’t share classes and coffee shops and the invisible tether of we can always figure it out later.

Later is running out.

And yet…

Your resolve falters, just like it always does.

Because Yoongi, in all his quiet, unassuming gravity, has always been your exception.

You close your eyes briefly, swallowing around the thick knot forming in your throat. You know exactly how this will end. You’ve known since freshman year. Since that night he fell asleep on your dorm bed halfway through studying, his arm slung lazily over your waist, lips parted as soft breaths tickled your neck.

Since the mornings after, when he’d make you coffee and act like he didn’t remember the way he kissed you until you couldn’t speak, only to pull you right back in when no one was looking.

Since the first time you both agreed—out loud, serious faces and fragile hearts—that going back to friends was the right thing to do.

It never stuck.

Not really.

Not with him.

You sigh, already moving from your bed, already unlocking the front door without bothering to flip on the hallway light.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice quiet but steady.

“Come over.”

••••••••

You leave the door cracked for him, because that’s what you always do. He never knocks, never has to. You hear the soft scrape of the door as it opens, then closes, sealing the night and whatever this is back inside.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Neither do you.

But you feel him.

The quiet weight of his presence as he toes off his shoes and pads down the short hallway like muscle memory. The subtle shift in the air as he enters your living room, where the only light is the pale glow of the TV playing something neither of you care about.

When you finally look up, he’s already watching you. It’s painfully familiar. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his worn hoodie, hair messy and falling into his eyes.

No pretense. No shields.

Just Yoongi, standing there like he’s still nineteen and knocking on your dorm room door with ramen and a physics textbook, asking if you wanna pull an all nighter.

But you’re not nineteen anymore.

And neither is this.

He looks… tired.

But not in the way you expected.

You sit up straighter on the couch, tugging your blanket tighter around your shoulders like armor. “So,” you start, voice sharp and cool despite the way your pulse races. “Why aren’t you with her right now?”

Yoongi blinks, caught.

Or maybe not caught, just surprised you went straight for the throat tonight.

“Her?” he repeats slowly.

“Sade, your girlfriend,” you clarify, your tone too bitter to pass for casual. “Thought she was the one keeping your bed warm these days. Why come running here, Yoongi? Did she stop answering your late night calls?”

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth.

They sound crueler than you intended.

But part of you—the part that’s been carrying this bruised thing between you for too long—wants them to sting.

Yoongi’s jaw tightens.

For a second, you think he might turn around and leave.

For a second, you almost want him to.

But instead, his shoulders drop, and something shifts in his expression.

“We broke up.”

The words land heavy and sharp, punching all the air out of your lungs at once. You stare at him, momentarily stunned silent.

“…What?”

His lips twist, humorless and soft.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before flicking back up to you. “A few weeks ago.”

You scramble to collect yourself, to school your features into indifference.

You fail miserably.

“Oh,” you say, voice tight.

“Why?”

You mean for it to sound casual, but it comes out hollow. Too fragile.

Yoongi steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing just in front of you. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to hold his gaze.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes soft but heavy, like he’s weighing every single word he’s about to say.

When he speaks, it’s low. Unshakable.

“Because she wasn’t you.”

Your breath catches.

You blink, once, twice, trying to process as he kneels in front of you, resting his hands on your knees like he needs to anchor himself there.

“I tried,” he says, voice quieter now but somehow more intense. “I really did. To move on. To pretend I didn’t feel it every fucking time you looked at me, every time we crossed paths on campus, every time I caught myself thinking about how no one ever makes me laugh the way you do. How no one else feels like home the way you do.”

You can’t breathe.

You can’t move.

His fingers slide up your thighs gently, curling over them as he leans in just slightly, not enough to kiss you yet, but enough that his breath fans across your lips.

“It’s always been you,” he whispers, the confession slipping out like a sigh and crashing directly into your ribcage.

“It’s you or no one. And I’m so fucking tired of acting like I’m okay with anything else.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your heart is hammering too violently, your thoughts dissolving under the weight of his closeness.

And Yoongi, usually so patient, so slow and deliberate, doesn’t wait anymore.

He surges forward and kisses you like he’s been holding it back for years.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

It’s desperate and deep, all tongue and teeth and soft, broken sounds caught between your mouths.

His hands slide up, burying in your hair, pulling you closer as you clutch his hoodie with shaking fists, kissing him back just as fiercely.

There’s no hesitation now.

No pulling away.

No more pretending.

You melt into him completely, letting years of longing bleed out through every press of lips and swipe of tongue, until all that’s left between you is heat and the terrifying, beautiful certainty of finally.

When he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath is shaky, his voice roughened with emotion when he whispers, “No more running.”

You nod, your lips brushing his as you murmur back, quiet but sure.

“No more pretending.”

And this time, you both mean it.

You feel it in the way he shifts immediately after, pushing you gently but firmly until your back meets the couch cushions.

His body comes over yours in one fluid movement—balanced on his forearms so his weight doesn’t crush you, but close enough that his presence consumes everything.

He looks down at you like he’s memorizing.

Like he’s apologizing.

Like he’s claiming.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, each press slower than the last.

You hum softly, sliding your hands beneath his hoodie, smoothing over his warm skin with shaky fingers.

“Since when?” you whisper, arching slightly when his hips press lower, slotting perfectly against yours.

He hesitates, eyes flickering—exposed, honest in the dark.

“Since freshman year,” he admits, voice raw. “That stupid night we stayed up finishing that music theory paper… when you fell asleep on my lap.”

You remember.

Of course you do.

You remember the way his fingers ghosted through your hair as though he didn’t realize he was touching you so tenderly.

You remember the scent of his hoodie and the sleepy, startled look in his eyes when you woke and your faces were too close. You remember not speaking about it. Not daring to.

But now…

Now, he kisses you again. Slower, sweeter, pulling your bottom lip gently between his teeth before releasing it, his voice breaking on a confession you know has been years in the making.

“Thought I could ignore it,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “But then you kissed me sophomore year, after that party… and ruined everything.”

You gasp softly, laughter and ache mingling as you clutch at his sides, your fingers pressing into his skin.

“That was your fault,” you murmur, smiling through your breathlessness. “You said I looked pretty that night. You never said shit like that back then.”

Yoongi laughs into the kiss, soft and boyish, and devastatingly fond.

“You always looked pretty,” he says quietly. “I just got brave enough to admit it.”

You laugh with him, but the sound fades when his hands slip lower, sliding beneath your sleep shorts.

Warm palms on bare skin, slow and fervent as they coast along your thighs, spreading you open with a gentleness that makes you tremble.

The air shifts again.

Laughter dissolves into soft, shaky breaths.

You rut up against his fingers instinctively, eyes fluttering closed, until his voice—low and commanding—pulls you back.

“Look at me.”

You obey.

Of course you do.

His eyes are molten when they meet yours, heavy with restraint and years of unsaid things.

“No more hiding,” Yoongi whispers, his voice nearly breaking. “I want to see you.”

Your throat tightens at the weight of it. At the way this suddenly feels so much bigger than anything that’s come before.

And when he slides his fingers beneath your panties, dragging through your slick heat, you gasp, hips chasing his touch instinctively.

“Fuck, you’re wet already,” he mutters, his mouth brushing across your jaw, your cheek, your lips. “So eager for me, huh?”

You nod, helpless.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, shivering when his fingers circle your clit with agonizing slowness.

“I know, baby,” he soothes, kissing you tenderly even as your body writhes. “Been waiting too. Let me take my time.”

And he does.

For long, torturous minutes, he touches you ardently—circling, stroking, slipping inside until your thighs shake and your head falls back in desperation.

By the time he pulls away to rid himself of his sweats and boxers, you’re wrecked. Lips kiss swollen, eyes hazy, chest heaving.

But there’s no rush.

Even when he’s bare before you, flushed and heavy, cock already leaking, there’s only devotion in the way he watches you as you strip his shirt from your body, leaving you naked beneath the faint glow of the TV.

Yoongi’s gaze devours you.

His lips part, eyes darkening as they drag slowly down your body, his voice rough when he finally speaks.

“Fuck… you’re so beautiful.”

You shiver beneath the weight of it, and when you swing your leg over his lap, settling into him slowly, deliberately, his hands fly to your hips, steadying you.

The shift is immediate.

The press of him beneath you makes your breath hitch, and your fingers cradle his face, pulling him in until his eyes—dark and swimming with tenderness—meet yours.

“Keep looking at me,” you whisper, voice breaking with emotion.

“Don’t look away.”

His lips curve faintly, his throat working as he nods.

“Never.”

You kiss him again—soft, loving—as you shift, grinding softly until the thick head of him nudges at your entrance.

You don’t tease.

Don’t hesitate.

You rise slightly, guide him to where you need him most, and sink down slowly, achingly slow, until he’s seated deep inside you.

Yoongi releases a shaky groan, head dropping to your shoulder as his arms wrap tight around your waist, holding you to him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Fuck, fuck…” he murmurs, voice shredded.

You hold still for a moment, your own breath shallow, your hands threading through his hair as you press soft kisses to his temple, waiting for the fullness to become something bearable.

When he finally lifts his head again, his eyes are molten—wide and soft and devastating.

“You feel like everything,” he says quietly, like he almost can’t believe it.

“Always have.”

Your heart clenches, but you don’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead, you start to move, slow, rolling motions, your hips circling gently, pulling him deeper with every glide.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, cupping your ass, sliding across your ribs like he’s desperate to feel every part of you at once.

But his eyes never leave yours.

“That’s it,” Yoongi whispers, his lips ghosting across yours. “Stay with me. Don’t look away.”

You don’t.

You couldn’t if you tried.

You ride him slowly, grinding and tilting until the rhythm becomes everything—until pleasure builds so steadily it threatens to unravel you both.

“Yoongi…” you gasp, your body trembling as the knot inside you pulls tighter.

His grip tightens, his own hips lifting to meet yours in sync.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers roughly, worshipfully. “Always.”

That’s what undoes you.

Not the stretch.

Not the perfect drag.

It’s the words.

You cum with a soft, breaking cry, clutching him tightly as your walls pulse around him, your entire body going rigid and then liquid all at once.

Yoongi follows moments later, hips stuttering as he releases deep inside you, his hold on you tightening as he presses his forehead desperately to yours, whispering your name like a vow.

You collapse together, breathless, shaking, still joined—arms wrapped tight, lips brushing in the tender quiet that follows.

••••••••

You’re still breathless when it happens.

Still full of him and clinging to his side, loose limbed and warm, hearts beating in sync beneath thin layers of sweat and soft, uneven breaths.

Yoongi kisses you lazily, lips brushing yours over and over like he can’t bear to stop, even when the kiss is more air than contact.

But there’s something shifting beneath his softness now. Something simmering, low and heady, and impossible to miss. You feel it in the way his hands, once gentle and still, start to roam again.

Up your back.

Down your thighs.

Across your hips, fingers dragging possessively as though relearning your skin even though he was just inside you.

“Yoongi,” you murmur softly, voice spent, already anticipating the haze of sleep.

But he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes have gone dark again.

Not harsh or demanding.

Just… starved.

“I need more,” he says, voice low and frayed with something deeper than want. “I need to taste you.”

Your breath stutters.

Before you can respond, or can even fully process the shift in him, he’s sliding down your body.

Slowly, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch.

He takes his time, giving his full attention to your breasts. Wrapping his lips around your sensitive nipples as he grips the weight of them in his hands, kneading, licking, nipping.

His lips and tongue leave wet, open mouthed kisses across your belly, your hips, your inner thighs. Pausing only to murmur softly against your skin, words that melt straight into you.

“Thought about this too much,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper but loaded with years of longing. “Every fucking time you smiled at me.”

He kisses higher, lips dragging just beside where you need him most.

“Every time you laughed at my stupid jokes…”

Higher still, his breath hot as his nose brushes your sensitive skin.

“Every night you left my room after those late study sessions…”

You gasp softly when his tongue flicks out, tasting the mess between your legs, your release mingled with his, and he groans low in his throat, the sound filthy in the quiet room.

“Fuck, this—” he rasps, mouth already moving again, kissing and licking as if your taste alone is holy.

“This is ours. Do you know that?”

Your hands fly to his hair as he buries himself there, his tongue dragging slowly and firmly through your folds, lapping up everything you gave him like it’s exactly what he’s craved all these years.

“You and me,” he murmurs brokenly against your pussy, his words lost slightly in the wet sounds of his mouth and tongue working in lazy, devastating strokes.

“It’s always been this.”

You whimper, your hips lifting helplessly into his mouth, thighs trembling as his hands press them wider, keeping you open for him.

His tongue flicks softly over your clit—once, twice—before wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently.

The noise that rips from your throat is wrecked.

“Yoongi—oh, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he whispers, pulling back just briefly to kiss your inner thigh, his lips sticky and glistening. “Let me have it. Let me make you fall apart again.”

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue returns with purpose now, flicking and circling and stroking until your body arches sharply, fingers twisting tightly in his hair as your orgasm begins to creep up your spine, liquid and insistent.

And all the while, he keeps talking. Soft, filthy truths spilled against your cunt as though he can’t hold them in anymore.

“I wanted you for so long.” He mumbles, sucking on your clit.

You shiver, a broken sound spilling from your lips as your walls flutter around his tongue. He continues with his confessions, “Thought I could be patient. Thought I could stay quiet.”

Your head is spinning with pleasure, fingers tightening in his hair.

“But you ruined me. You ruined me for anyone else, and I love you more for it.”

Your vision blurs.

Everything tightens, the pleasure cresting with terrifying speed as Yoongi shifts, sliding two fingers deep inside you while his mouth never stops moving.

You cry out his name, breaking apart all over again.

This time wetter, messier, with his fingers curling perfectly inside you and his tongue flattening against your clit until you’re shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

But Yoongi doesn’t stop right away.

He kisses you through it, slow and soothing, lapping up every drop as though committing the taste to memory.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick and swollen, his cheeks flushed.

His eyes are half lidded and heavy with something that looks suspiciously like love.

“I love you,” he whispers hoarsely, sliding up your body again until he can kiss you properly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“I love you, I always have.”

You kiss him back weakly, too wrecked to speak, your arms winding tightly around his neck as you pull him down fully on top of you.

His weight feels perfect there.

Settling.

And when he buries his face in your neck again, breathing deep like he can’t get enough, he murmurs the softest thing yet.

Words you barely catch as you drift toward sleep.

“I’m never letting you go.”

You don’t respond.

You just kiss him again—slow, lingering, grateful and terrified all at once. Because this time, you both know there will be no going back.

And you don’t want to.

Not when forward means him.

••••••••

It’s the sun that wakes you.

Gentle, unhurried, slipping through the slats of the blinds in soft golden ribbons that stretch across the sheets and pool warmly against your bare skin.

You shift slightly, limbs heavy with a familiar ache — thighs sore, muscles lax and humming faintly from hours spent tangled beneath Yoongi.

For a moment, you forget.

Not truly. Not really.

But enough.

Enough that the haze of sleep has you floating, suspended between the past and now, until you feel him.

Heavy and warm and wrapped around you like he belongs there. His arm, thrown lazily across your waist, fingers curled possessively against the soft swell of your stomach. A thigh slotted firmly between yours, hooking you close, anchoring you even as sleep clings to him.

His face, pressed to the curve of your neck, lips parted against your skin as his slow, steady breaths fan out across your collarbone.

And his scent, warm and familiar. Skin, faint sweat, a hint of your shared release still clinging faintly to the sheets and to him.

It hits you then, soft but deep.

The realization settling slow and sweet beneath your ribs.

Oh. This is real now.

The thought is tender now, not terrifying.

Not anymore.

You shift, turning carefully until you’re facing him, until you can see him properly in the muted morning light.

Yoongi stirs almost immediately. Brow furrowing softly, and his grip tightens instinctively, pulling you closer before his eyes even flutter open.

A quiet, gruff sound escapes him. Thick with sleep, the barest edge of whine beneath it.

“Mm… where you going?”

You can’t help the soft smile that curves your lips.

Your fingers lift automatically, carding gently through his messy hair, pushing the strands from his eyes as they finally blink open, bleary, half lidded, but heavy with affection.

“Nowhere,” you murmur quietly. “Just wanted to see you.”

A slow, sleepy grin tugs faintly at his mouth. Lopsided and warm and boyish in a way that makes your chest ache. He hums in response, nuzzling slightly deeper into your touch, eyes flickering lazily over your face like he’s cataloguing every detail.

Neither of you speak for a while.

You just look.

Like maybe you’re both still trying to believe it.

That this happened.

That this is.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. His voice soft, so careful, but tinged with something fragile beneath the playfulness.

“Last night…” he trails off, eyes flickering between yours. “That wasn’t just—”

“No,” you interrupt gently, shaking your head before he can finish.

You cup his cheek softly, your thumb brushing tenderly along the curve of his jaw, anchoring him.

“Of course it wasn’t.”

Something inside him visibly eases at your words.

His shoulders, always tight even in sleep, loosen fully as he exhales slow and deep, his eyes slipping closed briefly as if letting himself feel it for the first time.

“Good,” he whispers when he opens them again, pulling you even closer until your foreheads press softly together, noses brushing.

“Because I meant everything I said.”

Your lips brush his when you smile again—faint but sure, full of quiet certainty.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I believe you.”

The kiss that follows is slow. Languid and lazy. Your lips sliding gently, no urgency left.

It feels like gratitude.

Like peace.

When you finally part, Yoongi’s eyes shine brighter in the morning light, clearer now, like sleep and secrecy have finally burned away.

“Are we…” he starts softly, but hesitates.

You tilt your head, teasing, eyes glinting playfully.

“Are we what?”

His lips twitch, though his voice stays serious beneath the hint of amusement.

“Together now?” he asks, and there’s something unexpectedly shy about the way his fingers fidget against your hip as he says it. “Like… for real?”

Your heart twists in the best possible way. Not with fear or uncertainty. But with overwhelming fondness and the soft, slow flood of relief.

“Do you want to be?” you ask quietly, though you both already know the answer.

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice certain and steady, eyes never leaving yours. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

You kiss him again, this time faster, grinning against his mouth as his arms wrap snugly around your waist, pulling you fully onto his chest.

“Okay,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “Then we are.”

Yoongi hums, satisfied, his hands sliding beneath the blanket to cradle your hips as he buries his face in your neck again.

“Good,” he murmurs sleepily, his voice muffled but teasingly possessive.

“Was tired of pretending you weren’t mine anyway.”

You laugh softly, warmth blooming deep in your chest as you card your fingers through his hair again, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of his head.

“Same,” you whisper, softer now. “So tired.”

He hums again, low and content, before mumbling against your throat,

“Stay here a little longer. Just wanna hold you.”

You do.

You stay pressed together in the lazy quiet, legs tangled beneath the sheets, until the sun climbs higher and hunger finally forces you both from bed.

••••••••

Later, the kitchen is filled with soft laughter and sleepy bickering.

Yoongi teases you mercilessly as you accidentally burn the eggs, while you roll your eyes fondly when he struggles to work your ancient coffee machine, grumbling like he hasn’t made coffee with it for years.

It’s easy.

So easy, it makes you ache.

You share a plate, sitting pressed hip to hip on the counter, his knee bumping yours, his arm slung comfortably across your shoulders as you lean into him.

Every few minutes, he kisses your temple or tucks your hair behind your ear like he can’t help himself.

“Still feels like us,” he murmurs eventually, voice thick with affection and sleepy wonder as he glances down at you.

You smile softly, fingers brushing lightly against his thigh.

“It’s always been us,” you whisper, steady and sure.”We’re just picking up where we left off.”

He doesn’t argue. He just leans in and kisses you slow and sweet, right there in the kitchen, still in yesterday’s clothes, half finished breakfast forgotten.

As though this, right here, is everything he’s ever wanted.

And everything he’s finally allowed himself to have.

masterlist

[ohnaurshayla]

min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear. 

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif​ and @morndas​ for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!​

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable. 

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Keep reading

[ohnaurshayla]

Sharing The Moment | MYG

Pair: Yoongi x reader 

Summary: You and your son went to D-Day 3 to support Yoongi. Your son stole the show after appearing on stage and ARMY was absolutely… swooned. 

Genre: fluff, established relationship, parents au, married au

WC: 1169

Before the both of you stepped into the stadium, you could feel the ground vibrating from all the fan’s anticipation. The arena felt alive before the real show even started. It was the last day of Yoongi’s D-Day tour in Seoul and all the fans were there early. Whether is it giving out fanmade gifts, food, or drinks, they - Is that a tangerine in her hand? And is that a whole bag of it?!

The atmosphere was electric but for you, today was something even more special. You were not only here as a fan but also as Yoongi’s family. While ARMY’s certainly had eagle eyes, they have yet to catch on that you weren’t the only surprise that day. Your son, Min Ji-Hye, a carbon copy of his dad, was the source of the surprise. His little body was buzzing with energy. 

Since young, Ji-Hye has looked up to his father’s music and absolutely idolizes him. Every time Yoongi works from home or comes home with new music, Ji-Hye would demand listening to it even if it is the rawest version. Of course, Yoongi tries to keep the cursing to a minimum whenever Ji-Hye is around. 

The both of you found your seats in the middle catalogs which the staff has reserved especially for the both of you. Ensuring that Ji-Hye wouldn’t fall off his bumper seat, you started to set the area for the both of you so that you wouldn’t miss a single second to find some water. You were so engrossed in ensuring that your son had everything he needed that you didn’t realise Jin and Hobi were standing right next to you. 

You jumped when you felt a light tap on your shoulder, immediately turning around with large eyes, hoping that you wouldn’t cause trouble for your husband if you got mobbed or something during his concert. But you found two laughing figures and calmed down once you heard Jin’s signature laugh. 

“Yah, don’t scare me like that!” You chided.

“It was you who weren’t paying attention! We were here the whole time!”

You were about to shoot back another snarky remark when - “Seoul, ARE YOU READY?” 

Cheers from all directions engulfed you as fireworks lit up the stage. Yoongi came blasting from the backstage and no matter how many times you have been to BTS concerts, you never get tired of seeing them perform. The raw passion in their movements and voices always ensures that the audience has one of the best concerts. 

You turned over to see Ji-Hye at the edge of his seat, eyes glued to the stage. You had dressed him in Yoongi’s stage outfit, complete with a cap that looked a few sizes too big (it was taken from Yoongi’s closet). With his cat-like eyes and gummy smile, he was essentially Yoongi 2.0. 

Watching your son sing and jump to the lyrics of his father, your lips curled upwards in a loving smile. While he didn’t quite understand the depth and innuendos of the songs, he was enjoying himself and you knew how much this concert meant to him. With the news of Yoongi’s enlistment, you knew that your time together would be cut short for two years. 

You had told him that telling ARMY a day after the concert wasn’t going to be the best decision but management pulled through so it was scheduled as it is. So both of you continued to enjoy the concert with the new addition of Uncle Namjoon. 

As the music filled the stadium, Yoongi delivered an electrifying performance, pouring his heart and soul into every lyric. His presence on stage was magnetic and the fans were completely enthralled. You thought that you could hold back the tears as he broke down in front of all his fans but the tears streamed down your cheeks, staining them in a salty caress. 

Amidst the sea of fans, Ji-Hye suddenly squirmed and wriggled his way past the people in front of him. Running down the steps, you tried to catch him when Namjoon suddenly grabbed your wrist. “He’s safe, don’t worry. There are guards everywhere.”

But you couldn’t help but worry. What if he got lost? What if fans start to swarm around him and he can’t make it to Yoongi or any of the guards in time? Your heart skipped a beat as you saw his little figure making his way up the stage. There was a collective gasp from the fans nearby as they realised what was happening. 

The surrounding security personnel recognised him and allowed him to approach the stage, guiding him carefully so that he didn’t fall down the large steps. Yoongi had just finished a ‘Life Goes On’ and was taking a moment to catch his breath when he saw little feet running up towards him. His eyes widened and broke out into a huge grin when he saw him, squatting down to his level and spreading his arms. The fans, realising that he was Yoongi’s son, started to cheer even louder. 

The moment Ji-Hye crashed into Yoongi, every ounce of fear that Ji-Hye would be afraid of the cheers washed away in that instance. Yoongi scooped him up, hugging him tightly as your son laughed into the microphone, causing another wave of cheers to vibrate the stadium. It was a moment of pure, unscripted love between a father and his son. You stared at the two most important people in your life on stage, celebrating as if they were the only ones in the world. 

The fans were absolutely swooning - taking in this whole scene with hearty eyes and red faces - their hearts melted by the sheer adorableness of the scene. They watched as Ji-Hye whispered something into Yoongi’s ear and Yoongi’s eyes sparkled with amusement and affection. 

Yoongi turned to the fans, holding Ji-Hye high above his head like the scene from Lion King. “This is my son, Min Ji-Hye.” He announced proudly. “He’s a little ARMY like all of you.”

The fans erupted into cheers, shouting their love for both Yoongi and his son. Ji-Hye waved at the crowd, his gummy smile wide, grinning from ear to ear. Your heart felt so big that it was going to explode. 

As the concert continued, Yoongi held Ji-Hye in his arms, dancing with him on stage during a couple of songs. It was a moment of pure joy and it was clear that this concert had become something extraordinary - not just for the fans but for Yoongi and your family. 

After the concert, Yoongi was still beaming with light as he continued to hold Ji-Hye in his arms. “You know, you stole the show today.” He chuckled to his son.  

Ji-Hye looked up at his father, eyes shining with admiration. “Daddy!” He swung his little legs. “I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”

Yoongi’s heart swelled with love. “You can be anything you want. Just remember to always be yourself.”

[ohnaurshayla]

Auburn Skies - MYG

Summary:  Everyone knows that if your best friend has a little sister, she’s off limits. That, and the fact that your best friend will probably kill you if you even think about going near his sister. Yoongi knows this. There’s no way he could tell Namjoon that once upon a time you kissed him, drunk in his living room after a break up. So much time’s passed since then, too much time to bring it up now, but Yoongi still thinks about it, he’s still a little hopeful. Now you’re here at the lake house because Namjoon brought you and you clearly have something you want to say to Yoongi. 

Namjoon’s gonna kill him.

Genre: 18+, fluff, angst, humor.

Word count: 12k

Warning(s): 18+, smut, oral (m+f receiving) unprotected sex, porn is mentioned. Yoongi and Y/n are BOTH stupid and they need help. Taehyung’s trying his best, Seokjin is also trying his best but subtler. Yoongi’s convinced that Namjoon’s out to get him at every turn. Slight jealousy. Y/n and Yoongi have no idea how to actually hold a conversation like adults, until they do.

Notes: My addition to the Autumn Leaves Collab, hosted by the beautiful @bangtansmauyeondan !! I had so much fun working on this, and I met so many beautiful people that I’m so grateful for, so happy to call my friends 🥺 I love y'all! Please check out the other authors’ fics on the Collab Masterlist! Everyone worked so hard, give my girls some love! Shout out to @blog-name-idk and @xpeachesncream for being absolute aNGELS, beta reading and helping me out when I panicked over this lol, and @madbutgloriouspond for helping me brainstorm. I hope you guys enjoy!! Please leave feedback, I’m nothing but a poor soul seeking validation (and motivation!) to keep going.

If you like my content, please, consider donating if you’re able - Here

“You’re staring.” Seokjin nudges Yoongi’s arm with his, snapping him out of his daze. He catches Seokjin’s smirk, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that promises nothing good. Yoongi pulls his eyes away from your form, sitting in a chair on the dock away from everyone else with a book in your hand. You’re bundled up in a thick sweater and cozy sweatpants, completely lost in your book.

“Was not.” Yoongi feels the need to deny it, distracting himself with cutting up onions, focusing on the way the blade of the knife cuts through the vegetable and definitely not the way Seokjin was wiggling his eyebrows at him.

“Sure. I believe you.”

Somewhere inside, there is music playing. A Lo-Fi beat that plays softly under the sound of rain. It’s kind of sad, if Yoongi is being honest, but he supposes that autumn is a sad season. Nothing but changes all around. The leaves change colours, mixing like paint on an easel in the hands of a melancholy artist drowning in his own solitude. They shift and the vibrancy of summer fades until they die, falling off their homes to go drifting in the wind, or land on the ground to become everyone’s problem.

Keep reading

[ohnaurshayla]

the weak hero class 1 reference in tastefully yours

“…which high school did you go to?”

[ohnaurshayla]

It's like a polaroid love

in which; Taehyung finally posts your wedding photos after long years of hiding you

❨ 김태형 ❩ kim taehyung x fem.reader | est.relationship / married | idol au

note; in honor of my man being released from that hell (military). apologises for bad grammar ! english is not my first language and i refuse to let it influence my life (proud patriotic [lmao])

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am"

"... but like absolutely, thousand percent, pinky promise sure?"

you can't help but groan into your pillow at his uncertainty. Taehyung has been out of the military for just a few days and since then, he's asking you about the same thing

posting your wedding photos

you two got married right before he and the other members started preparing for the service. the man is a rather private person. he shares some parts of his life with fans but family is something completely different. he knows revealing it will literally break the internet, but, as he's always saying,

"i want everyone to know who's making me the happiest person alive"

that's why a small laugh leaves your throat at his questions. first he wants to show you of to the world, second he's too scared.

"Darling" you start, sitting straightly on your shared bed and looking down at Taehyung, who's just leaning his head on the bed frame. he's looking at you with these dark eyes that only you have the privilege of making softer.

"We are grown people. Your fans are, too. They will understand that you want to have a family on your own" netizens still have pretty unhealthy expectations of celebrities. relationship is still a taboo topic, but it's changing. slowly but surely. many armies have grown up and are growing up with these men, they're able to understand that Taehyung wants to settle down.

Taehyung's quietly listening to your words, almost getting distracted by the little marks he left on your skin last night. he knows your right. he noticed that his fans' standards shifted a bit, and they seem eager to know if he's single or not. he looks again at his phone. the photo is simple. polaroid, you dressed in a gorgeous white dress and a veil sitting on his lap, he in a black suit with a little red rose in the pocket on his chest, hugging you with the biggest grin on his face. even if someone wouldn't get it immediately, the date in the corner of the photo with a small heart says enough.

he takes deep breath

"Okay" he mumbles

"Three, two, one..." and he quickly clicks 'post'. he turns off his phone and throws it somewhere to the side on the bed. he rolls over to bury his face in your stomach and wrap his arms around you.

"See? It wasn't that scary" you say softly, your fingers running through his hair that thankfully got longer.

"It was" again, you chuckle. a big, grown man who looks like he could break a watermelon with his biceps being scared because of an instagram post

"If anything, we can always just get a good lawyer"

"A damn good one"

i seriously need to read more it's not funny anymore >:[ can someone recommend some books

[ohnaurshayla]

Cat-astrophe - Min Yoongi / Suga

Summary: Your pet cat keeps going to your neighbor’s apartment and it’s a problem. 

Genre/tags: Fluff-ish, strangers to ???, minor mention of anxiety.

Pairing: Yoongi x she/her reader

a/n: cus we're all soft for long haired Yoongi, right? hehe

It had been officially a month since you had moved to a new apartment place. You loved the new place honestly. It was cozy and the neighborhood looked nice. There were many convenience store nearby and the street was always still busy until late at night, making you feel a little bit of secure when coming home late.

While the place was nice it had one tiny downside. It was rather on the far side from your workplace. It took you an hour of bus ride just to get home from the office, so some days could be more tiring than others. And today was one of those tiring days. 

It was around nine at night on a Monday. Having to work overtime for the deadline and missed the bus, really dreaded you out. You were both tired and hungry, arriving home only to find that your pet cat was missing. It really just was not your day.

To say you were panicking would be a bit of an understatement. Cookie was barely a four month-old cat and had a very tiny body. All the negative possibilities start filling your head and you were horrified by all of them. Not to mention how it was basically forbidden to bring pets in the apartment complex. It was one of the policies but you couldn't help it since Cookie was a rescue.

When you arrived at your apartment lobby with a cat snack on your hand, there wasn’t that many people there. You walked past a guy by the front desk, who had medium-length black locks and fair skin, with headphones dangling on his neck. You began to call your pet’s name as soon as you were outside the lobby, but suddenly you felt a light tap on your shoulder. 

“Are you looking for a small black Bombay cat?” It was the same guy who just walked past you.

“Oh my god, I am! Have you seen him???” You said, your voice was a little bit shaky. 

“He’s in my place, I’m on the seventh.” 

“Oh, me too!”

“I know.”

“Oh.” You said, surprised at how stoic he sounded saying that, but didn’t further question him on it. “I’m so sorry for bothering you, can I go get him now?”

“Sure, I was just gonna go up as well.”

When you both entered the elevator, you made a mental note to ask his name or at least introduce yourself. He was a neighbor after all. It was pretty silent inside the lift and you just hoped he didn’t hear your stomach rumbling ever so slightly. You took a deep breath, bearing the hunger for a little while. 

When the elevator door opened you followed him from behind as he led you to his door. When he stopped at his front door, your eyes were widened in shock. 

“You live next to me?!” 

“Yeah.” He said casually and unlocked the door. "I've seen you multiple times."

You chose to not further question and followed him but stopped when you had only took two steps in, because technically, the homeowner had not really officially permit you to come in. The guy seemed to notice how you just stood awkwardly and looked back. 

“You can sit down for a sec, I’ll go get him.” 

“Oh, right… yeah. Thank you.” You said awkwardly and walked to sit on his couch. 

A few seconds later the man came back with your cat in his embrace. Cookie was clinging on his tshirt before he tugged him and gave him onto your lap. 

“Cookie!” You called, almost teary. 

“I think he jumped from your balcony to mine. Make sure to close your balcony door next time.”

“Thank you so much, I owe you… uh…”

“Yoongi.” 

“Thank you, Yoongi.” You repeated and introduced yourself in return. “I’m Y/N, and if you ever need anything please let me now.” You said as you stood up, already making your way out. 

“Also, thank you for not reporting it…”

“No problem.” Was all the guy said and by this point you figured he was not much of a talker. 

You bid your goodbye to your neighbor, which only gained a small nod before he closed the door on you. You walked to your door and let Cookie down as soon as you got inside. Sighing deeply, you began to feel your stomach rumble again, this time it rumbled quite loudly. Your feet were aching from standing on the bus and now your body finally got on how tired you were. 

Cookie meowed and immediately went to his cat bed and laid down. You sighed and smiled at the small creature. 

“You little rascal… you’re lucky I love you.” 

You then went to your kitchen to cook yourself some instant ramen. 

The next day you went to work and had to take another overtime. Unfortunately you had to for the rest of the week until your current project was done. It was exhausting but you had to make it and mostly thinking about the bonus pay from it helped quite a bit. You spent the next few days the same, repeating the schedules, and the tiring work. 

It was almost ten at night that you arrived home and found out Cookie had gone missing again. For some reason your first instinct was to knock on your next door, in hope the neighbor who once helped you, could lend you a hand again, and hoping maybe Cookie just ran to his place again instead of being gone somewhere where it wasn't safe for him.

You knocked on the door and didn’t get immediate answer. You waited for what felt like five minutes, before the door opened and you were greeted with the sight of your neighbor with wet hair. He had a small white towel around his neck and the hoop earring that you saw him with before was absent. His skin looked glowing, you probably needed to ask about his skin care routine later.

“So sorry to interrupt you, I was wondering if Cookie might have gone to your place again?” 

“He’s right there on the couch.” He casually pointed. His expression was straight and had you wondering if he did not mind it, bothered, or simply didn’t care. 

You slowly walked to approach your cat and bent down to its level. “Cookie, you need to stop this…” You tapped the cat's nose, as if scolding the poor cat would do anything. 

“He jumped to my balcony again, did you forget to close the door?” 

“But I made sure to close it this morning…” You looked at your neighbor, who walked closer to inspect the cat. 

“I think he knows how to turn door knobs, since he’s quite a jumper. You need to lock the door.” 

“I can’t believe this little demon…” You sighed, fingers still stroking the purring cat. 

“He’s… alright.” 

You were slightly taken aback by the response and looked up to him, but much to your disappointment, his expression still looked the same. You were about to get up and excuse yourself, but you notice a small steel bowl under his dining table, half full with what you assumed to be cat milk (I mean, it would be weird if it was his, duh!). 

“You also have a cat?”

His eyes followed yours. “Oh, that. I got it the first time Cookie came here, I figured he must be thirsty since he came in around noon time.” 

“That’s… that’s very nice of you.” You looked at him and smiled. Somehow him addressing your cat by his name sounded lovely. 

“You can have the rest of the milk if you want, since you’ve figured out how he escaped and all…” 

“It’s okay, you can keep it! Just in case he ran into you again…” You chuckled but then stopped after realizing how that just sounded like you did not mind troubling him with your cat continuously. “I mean… I’m sorry, I’ll make sure he’ll never escape again.” 

“It’s alright, I’ll keep the milk for now.” He paused for a second, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just in case.”

You looked at your neighbor and couldn’t help but to feel all warm inside. He seemed like a nice person and from the looks of it he also liked your cat. 

“Thank you so much, Yoongi. I’ll be taking this little guy here then...” You smiled at him and stood up with Cookie in your arms. 

“I got some dim sum…” 

You looked at the guy questioningly. 

“Do you maybe want some?” 

“That’d be too much, it’s okay, you go ahead and eat.” You politely declined. Although you were hungry, you could bring yourself to bother your neighbor any more than what you had done. 

“Have you eaten?” 

“Y-yeah?” You asked, afraid you heard it wrong. 

“Have you eaten?” He repeated. “If not, then I insist you take some.”

“I…” You wanted to lie, but at this point it would come off as rude if you refuse him again. “I actually haven’t. Thank you very much though, I feel so bad that you’re being this nice to me.”

“You can just eat them here.” 

“I don’t wanna disturb—“ You were awkwardly cut by the sound of your stomach rumbling. 

“You’re not disturbing me.” He cleared his throat and looked away. 

That was embarrassing. 

And that was how you ended up sitting down on your neighbor’s dining table, eating dim sums. 

In silence. 

This Yoongi guy really did not like conversation it seemed. He was sitting down on his couch and had turned the TV on. The volume was on but not quite loudly, and Cookie was on his lap, sleeping as he occasionally stroked the cat’s head softly. Funny that somehow you could see some resemblance of Yoongi with your cat.

“So… how long have you lived here?” You bit your bottom lip as you waited for his answer. You kind of regretted asking as soon as the words came out from your mouth, afraid it would be awkward. 

“Around ten months or so.” He paused. “No, I think it’s been almost a year cause I spent two months overseas.”

“Really? What were you doing overseas?” You regretted asking again. Looking at how quiet Yoongi was, you didn’t want to ask too much or indulge into too much conversation, afraid it would be too much for him. 

But much to your surprise, he answered. “I’m a producer. I was working for this artist and all the work had to be done in America.” 

“Wow, that sounds amazing!” You said. At this point you no longer were sitting facing the table, but to him. “Who was the artist?”

“Uh… Halsey.” He replied while looking at the TV screen, seemingly to avoid your stare.

“Oh my god???” You gasped. “That’s incredible! So you’re like crazy talented?!”

“I’m alright…” 

“You should show me some of your work someday!” You said enthusiastically. When Yoongi did not reply to it and stayed silent, you cursed yourself internally. “I mean compared to what I do that’s like really amazing.” You chuckled nervously. 

“I’m sure you’re great at what you do.” He looked at you, a small smile was on his lips. 

You realized it was the first time you saw him smile and it made your heart raced rather faster than usual. It was the first time you saw him with facial expression other than his usual poker face. 

“I’m just a normal product designer at a very normal company.” You shrugged. 

“Don’t downplay yourself like that. You work very hard.” 

“Thanks…” You replied shyly. 

After finishing your food, you got up and went to wash the dishes, which immediately got stopped by the homeowner. He politely told you to go back home and rest. Which again, you could not thank him more for. 

You took your pet in your arms and said your goodbyes to your neighbor. Right when you arrived back in your place you came to realize something. Yoongi did not eat with you and there was only one portion of the food. While it could just meant he had already eaten beforehand, you felt giddy, thinking about another possibility. Was this a crush you sense forming? Frankly speaking, you could not care less. You were welcoming the possibility with open arms.

— 

Friday finally came and you were ready to take it in. The days of working with your company project was going to an end, which meant you no longer need to work overtime after this. The thought of it put you in a very good mood. 

This time right after arriving home, you walked to a nearby chicken restaurant and grab some not only for you, but also for your neighbor. You wanted to repay his kindness the past few days. After changing into some comfortable clothes, not to mention the multiple times you had to re-check the outfit in the mirror for some reason, you took your cat in your left hand and the food in the other. You knocked on your neighbor’s door hoping he was home. 

And he was. You were greeted with his silence but he opened the door wider as soon as he saw your face without question. One thing that caught your eyes though was how he was dressed up like he was ready for a night out. He wasn’t in his usual sweatpants and baggy t-shirt, but instead in a ripped wide legged jeans and a light blue shirt, unbuttoned, with a plain white tee underneath. He looked handsome. And here you were, in your so-called comfy outfit that you were starting to regret.

“Before you ask, no, Cookie’s right here.” You smiled awkwardly as you raised the small cat in your hand for him to see. “I’m just here to drop by some chicken I got for you… as a thanks for your help these past few days.” You handed the plastic of food to him. “Alright, that’s all…”

He took the food from you hesitantly. “You don’t wanna come in?” 

“Aren’t you going out or something?”

“I was… but you are here.” He said, sounding unsure. 

“That’s ridiculous, why would I stop you from going out?”

“I was gonna go to your place…” 

Your mouth formed a small O shape, unable to form a word. He was going to your place? But what for??? The butterflies in your stomach were having a blast. 

“But you’re all dressed up…”

“I was gonna change back.” He sighed, running his hand through his hair, which made you gulped at the sight. “I knew this was a bad idea I shouldn't have listened to Hoseok—”

You stopped his rambling. “What do you mean?”

“I was gonna ask you if you wanted to go eat together at that one Chicken restaurant nearby…”

“Oh.” You widened your eyes.

“Yeah.” He looked at you, biting his cheek in annoyance. 

“This is awkward.” You chuckled. 

“Whatever, just… just come in first.”

You saw Yoongi putting the plastic of food on his table. You offered help after putting down your cat on his couch and walked to his direction. Both of you plated the food in comfortable silence, it felt oddly domestic and you liked it. At this point you were used to him being not talkative and see it as his charm. 

After you took the plates to the living room, Yoongi suddenly came back with cans of beers and soju in his hands. 

“We’re drinking?” You said with an amused grin. 

“You can drink, right?” 

“Sure, but can you?” You playfully eyed him. 

“Don’t challenge me.” 

You could see how he was trying to hide his smile, and it brought colors to your cheeks. 

—

You did not know how you got in this situation. Five episodes in randomly rewatching Avatar The Last Airbender and you both were drunk. You were resting your head on his shoulder as you watch the screen. It seemed like the booze gave you confidence, or made you shameless, or both, but the guy didn’t complain so it could be a sign of a good thing. While you could see Yoongi holding his alcohol better than you, he was not completely sober either. 

It was at this very moment where you saw things through a pink tinted lense. Had Yoongi’s hair always looked that soft? Had he always looked this handsome? You began to question things you should not be questioning.

“Why didn’t you change your clothes?” You randomly asked. 

“Do I look bad?” He replied, eyes still on the screen, hands stroking the sleeping cat on his lap. 

"Of course not, I just feel severely underdressed now..." You chuckled.

He eyed you from top to bottom, which made you nervous, but he shrugged, seemingly to not have any problem with your clothes.

“You look… handsome.”

“You think I look handsome?” He suddenly moved to face you, making you move to look at him as well. The tone of his voice sounded like he was teasing more than asking a question.

You nodded and bit your lips. “And you kinda look like Cookie.” You giggled. 

He raised one of his eyebrows, clearly not satisfied with your answer. 

“Your eyes…” You began to ramble. “They look just like Cookie’s, and when you look annoyed, or just your plain expression… you look like a cute cat.” 

“Really…” Yoongi hummed. 

“Yup!” You giggled like an idiot. 

You failed to notice how at this point, Yoongi has put Cookie down from his lap to the floor. His face only inches away from you as you kept rambling. 

“Your hair look so soft… like a cat’s fur.” You reached your hands closer to his hair, but stopped mid-way, scared he’d get uncomfortable. 

Yoongi surprised you again by grabbing both of your wrist and putting your hands on his hair, letting you stroke his head slowly. You saw his expression softened and as you kept playing with his hair, he closed his eyes. You swore you heard him purr. 

“Pretty.” You said with a drunk smile. 

“Hmm. Pretty.” He mirrored. 

“Okay, call me crazy but why do I kinda wanna kiss you right now.” You said, totally losing the battle with your common sense. 

Yoongi chuckled. “You’re crazy.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking to the right. “I like it.” 

—

To be frank, you could not recall what happened after. You recalled some bits of karakoe-ing? Singing random PSY songs in your broken Korean using a bottle of whiskey as your mic. That was probably all? You couldn’t think while the throbbing headache was present in the room with you.

So why were you now in a bed that was not yours, wearing a t-shirt that was too big for you and was clearly not yours, also for heaven’s sake, WHY IS YOONGI SLEEPING NEXT TO ME??? 

You froze. Did you??? There was no way. Sure you found him attractive and all, and you definitely had this huge crush on him, but you couldn’t just sleep with a guy you barely knew. Besides your headache, your body didn’t feel any pain, so that was probably a good sign. What if he was just that gentle? Okay, you need to stop thinking at once before you started a whole fiction about you and Yoongi in your head.

When you turned your back, you felt the other side of the bed shifted as well. 

“You’re up?” He asked with a raspy voice. 

“Yeah.” You said, still back-facing him. “We didn’t… you know…”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Oh, okay good.”

Yoongi did not answered to that, but instead you felt him scooting closer. 

“I’m sorry, this isn’t probably how you’d wanna spend your weekend.” You chuckled. 

Your breath hitched when you felt a hand over your waist. “Is this okay?” He suddenly stopped when your body tensed at his touch. 

You nodded, heart beating too loudly for you to form any sentence. 

“This is nice.” He said, resting his forehead on your back. 

When you stayed silent, he took your hand and turned you over to face him. Heat immediately took over your body as soon as your eyes meet. You noticed he was back in his usual home attire, oversized tee and sweatpants. His hair was messy, but it seemed like universe had its favorite cause he still looked good. 

“You know, I haven’t had good sleep in… weeks.”

You were surprised by his sudden confession.

“It’s half past eleven now, and it’s not even ten minutes after I woke up…” He tittered. “My anxiety has been getting worse the past month and out of nowhere a black cat suddenly jumped to my balcony, meowing non-stop while I was working.”

You looked at him, letting him finish his talk. This was the most words you had ever heard coming out of Yoongi’s mouth and it made your heart flutter. 

“I haven’t been caring. I’ve stopped caring, for a while now. Seeing you care so much for such a small creature… I don’t know, it feels good. It makes me wanna care.”

“Yoongi…” You cooed, caressing his cheek. "It's not true, all you have been since I first met you until this moment, was caring."

"I'm sorry if it feels like it came out of nowhere but I feel at home with you and I don’t know why...” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yet, at least.”

“I… like this too. A lot actually.” You said shyly. 

“I would like to get to know you more if you’d like.” He was being honest and exactly to the point, no flirty bullshit to spice his sentences.

“I’d love that...” 

Suddenly you heard a low meow from under the bed and Cookie jumped into the bed, joining you two. Apparently his bedroom door was left opened and none of you noticed how Cookie had entered. You giggled and he smiled as well, the widest smile and the most genuine you had ever seen from him, as he took the cat and cuddled both of you close.

"I think it's about time you give me your number..." You squinted at him playfully. "You know, so we don't repeat the whole chicken restaurant accident again?"

“Okay, but promise me first you won’t apologize again after kissing me.” He chuckled. 

“EXCUSE ME WHAT???”

— 

“Okay, call me crazy but why do I kinda wanna kiss you right now.” You said, totally losing the battle with your common sense. 

Yoongi laughed. “You’re crazy.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking to the right. “I like it.” 

“I can be crazier if you open that whiskey.” You wiggled your eyebrows.

Yoongi just shook his head, smiling at your silliness. He stood up and went to grab his Hibiki anyway, which earned a shout of celebration from you. 

Things escalated quickly after opening the bottle. Somehow you were starting a drunk karaoke session which followed by many dance breaks. You ended up crying when a sad song randomly came up in the playlist and when Yoongi asked why, you replied. You replied with your lips on his.

In your head it just made sense. It was his lips’ fault for looking so juicy. Yeah, totally his fault for looking so hot that it was driving you insane.

None of you moved and it only lasted seconds before your mood turned sour again. 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t mean…” You pushed him gently. “Oh my god, you’re so gonna hate me!!!”

“Hey, calm down…“ 

You started to panic, tears now forming in your eyes again. “Please don’t hate me, I just wanted to kiss you…” You cried. 

“Okay, I think that’s enough drinking—“

And you puked. 

Yes, Yoongi did see your lilac colored bra when he helped you change into his t-shirt. But that’s a secret between him and little Cookie. 

Thank you for reading! 💎

part 2 is here!