sugar-snap - Tumblr blog

sugar-snap · 5 days ago

Text

take a bite: remastered | MYG ★ 3

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: Your fledgling career as a music journalist is finally going in some kind of direction that must be on the path to success. Your coworkers like you enough to invite you out on Fridays, your boss is starting to think you’re competent enough to let you score a few bylines, and you’re finally getting the hang of InDesign. All of your hard work, late nights, and complete lack of a social life are starting to pay off… Even if it all came at the expense of the longest relationship of your life. Fine. You’ve accepted the fact that romance isn’t for you, under any circumstances. You won’t risk your career for anybody. Not even Min Yoongi.

✧ SERIES TAGS: slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, producer!yoongi, music journalist!reader, neighbors to friends to lovers? you’ll see, reader is bad at feelings, reader is post-break up, now back and better than ever (excluding yijeong's bitchass)

✧ CHAPTER TAGS/WARNINGS: yoongi being RICH, alcohol mentions, masturbation scene (reader)

✧ WORDCOUNT: 3.6k

✧ STATUS: complete

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: aaaah!!! idk what to put for these because this series isn't new but??? enjoy!

CH. 3: i wanna fold clothes for you

So, you and Yoongi are friends.

Of course, seeing him three times within twenty four hours was a fluke, and over the next six days you don’t see him once, not even in passing in your shared hallway. You're not privy to his schedule, but from what little you’ve gathered, working as a producer demands constant availability—late nights, last-minute sessions, deadlines that don’t care what day it is. Your own job isn’t much better.

Still, there’s something about coming home every night and knowing that you have a friend right down the hall, if you need one. You haven’t had that in a long time, and you feel so much lighter now that you do have it.

There is, of course, an upside to not being able to see Yoongi often. Given that you’ve only just met him, you don’t have his appearance committed to memory quite yet, and mercifully, you’re beginning to forget why you were so viscerally attracted to him in the first place.

You reason that it must’ve been the alcohol. You were getting drunk when you met him, stupidly drunk when you discovered that you’re neighbors, hungover when you shared a tangerine, and drinking from a bottomless glass of wine (courtesy of Seokjin) when you drooled over his hands for a solid ten minutes. You have yet to interact with Yoongi completely clear-headed and lucid. Not to mention you’re just a little bit… pent up, recently. Drunk and horny Y/N had the wheel. That has to be it. Nobody is that hot, you’re sure of that. Men ain’t special!

So you go through your week, business as usual, but with a slight spring in your step. And it’s lovely. You even venture way further away from the office for your lunch hour on Friday than you normally would to go to a restaurant you’ve been dying to try. You’re usually so tied to the office that the furthest you tend to go is the convenience store down the street for the instant stuff.

And then, since the universe demands correction (or overcorrection where you’re concerned), all of the floaty goodness comes to a screeching halt when you get in your car to head back to the office. Your car which, in the past hour you’ve been blissfully stuffing your face with tteokbokki, has decided it has done its job and is ready to retire.

It just straight up won’t start.

Sitting in the parking lot of the restaurant, you go into crisis management mode.

You’re thankfully not completely clueless where cars are concerned. It comes with the territory of owning a beater. You keep up with your oil changes, you don’t leave the lights on when you get home late. You replaced your battery semi-recently, so that shouldn’t be it.

Unfortunately, you don’t have much time to troubleshoot. You need to get back to work.

Okay… Damage control, then.

The most obvious solution is to call one of your coworkers to come and rescue you, but your coworkers are just as notorious for being tethered within a one mile radius of the office as you are, so that would more than likely end up being a waste of time. You could find the nearest bus stop, but who knows how long public transportation could take right now? Too unpredictable. You could call your boss and tell him that you’re not going to be back to the office anytime soon (or at all today) and get your car towed and repaired. But then you would suddenly have a reputation of being unreliable, because god forbid you have a human moment. That’s straight up not an option. You’ve been doing so good this week.

You’re sure there are other options. But isn’t this what friends are for?

He answers on the fifth ring, but he answers.

"Y/N?"

"Yoongi." You feel your shoulders slump in relief. You try your best not to sound as panicked as you feel. "Are you busy?"

"Um. I’m at the studio," he says, confusion in his voice. "But I have a minute. Is everything okay?" Confusion and concern? That’s nice.

"Everything’s fine!" you blurt out. "Okay, maybe not. My car won’t start! I don’t know why, but it won’t, and I need to get back to work, but you’re at work, too! I don’t even know where you work, but I doubt it’s anywhere near where I am, and even if it is, I don’t want to tear you away from anything important—"

"Y/N."

"—I know you said you had a minute, but I really don’t want to fuck up your flow. That’s a term, right? You’re a producer, you… flow. Anyway, I just don’t really know anyone here and I didn’t know who to call, and if I don’t get back to work soon my boss is going to kill me—"

"Y/N," he says, more firmly. Your mouth snaps shut. "Where are you?"

"In my car," you say dumbly, frazzled.

Yoongi sighs. "Send me your location."

"For what?"

"I’m gonna send a car to come get you and drive you to your office," he says, and he sounds just the slightest bit exasperated about needing to explain that to you.

Send a car? What the fuck? You have so many questions, such as: how fucking loaded is the guy who lives two doors down from you in your very shitty apartment building? What label does he even work for? How famous of a producer is he to be able to send a car to you? But your immediate instinct to turn down his help wins out over asking any of them.

"What? Yoongi, no, that’s too much," you complain. "Don’t do that. I just freaked out a little bit, I can—"

"Y/N," he interrupts. If you’re not mistaken, it sounds a bit like he’s trying not to laugh at you. Fucker. "Location."

So you send him your location. What other option do you have?

"You’re not far," Yoongi says once he receives your text. A few moments pass, and then: "Car will be there in ten."

"Thank you," you say. You feel nauseous, like maybe you’re going to cry, but there’s also a good amount of relief there, too. "I’ll make it up to you."

"No need," he says. "I’d come get you myself, but I really can’t get away right now."

"Still, there’s a comically large bottle of an alcohol of your choosing in your future. Seriously, thank you."

His responding laugh is enough to settle your stomach just a little. "Seriously, you don’t need to pay me back…" A pause. "But for the record, I like whiskey."

You wrinkle your nose, even though he can’t see it. "Gross."

"Don’t be a hater."

"As long as you don’t make me drink it with you, I’ll keep my comments to myself," you say, finding yourself smiling.

"Oh, you think I share?" Yoongi teases back. He sighs again. "I really have to go."

"Go, go," you say. "Thanks for saving me. Even if it’s by proxy."

"You can always call me if you need shit like this," he says. You can tell that he means it. "I’m glad you called me. Means I’m doing something right."

"You are," you say, your voice soft. Your cheeks feel warm. Probably because you’re sitting in a dead car. "Thanks."

Yoongi hums in response. "Text me when you get back to the office safe, okay?"

"I will. Bye, Yoongi."

And that’s that.

★ ★ ★

True to your word, you text Yoongi when the stupidly luxurious car he ordered for you drops you off at your office, only ten minutes later than you’re due back from your lunch break. You’re able to slip in without anyone noticing that you’re late at all, which is great. Crisis partially averted.

He sends back a thumbs up emoji, and then decides to drop the bomb that he intends to pay for your car to be towed.

[1:21] You: YOONGI NO

[1:21] You: you can’t do that!!!!

[1:24] Yoongi 😐🎧: 100% I can and will as soon as I get ten minutes to make a phone call to sort it out

The audacity of this man.

[1:25] You: seriously i cannot ask you to do that

[1:25] You: i was just going to take the bus back to the restaurant after work and deal with it from there. i’m actively researching towing companies and repair places on company time as we speak

[1:30] Yoongi 😐🎧: You’re not asking me

[1:30] Yoongi 😐🎧: You’ve got enough to worry about so let me take care of it. I know the places

[1:31] You: still, i can’t let you spend money like that on me. i don’t even wanna think about what that car cost you

[1:31] Yoongi 😐🎧: If it helps you sleep at night you can pay me back on your own time. You definitely don’t have to though

[1:32] Yoongi 😐🎧: That reminds me. You can use that car until yours is taken care of if you need to. I’ll send you the driver’s contact.

[1:32] Yoongi 😐🎧: Don’t take the bus

You feel like you’re going insane.

[1:33] You: do you have a grammy or something? what do you DO to be able to afford shit like this? why do you live in our building? are you a drug dealer?

[1:37] Yoongi 😐🎧: :]

Of course, he gives you no clues about what exactly he does, but after a bit more back-and-forth, you finally give in and let Yoongi handle everything under the condition that you’re going to pay him back in full, once you’re able. He doesn’t seem all that worried about it, which infuriates you just a little.

The rest of your workday passes normally. Well—as normally as it can when you're lowkey vibrating with unresolved questions and the lingering taste of humiliation in your mouth. You’re a little twitchy. A little hyper-aware of your inbox. A little worried about your car, which very well might be halfway across the city by now in the hands of a man you barely know but trust for reasons that don’t make logical sense.

By the time you clock out (at a semi-reasonable hour, for once), you figure you might as well make the most of this whole situation. You have a driver now, apparently. So, on the way home, you ask him to swing by the liquor store. He doesn’t bat an eye. Just pulls up, patient and professional, while you sprint inside and return five minutes later with a comically oversized bottle of whiskey cradled in your arms like a newborn.

As you take the elevator up to your floor, whiskey in tow, you text Yoongi and ask if he’s home yet. At his responding ‘No, why?’ you cackle to yourself and pocket your phone. The elevator doors slide open. You were hoping that would be the case.

You clocked out at a semi-normal time tonight, a gift to yourself to cope with the stress of the day, and so you take great pleasure in setting the bottle down on Yoongi’s very tasteful cat doormat, flipping it off right back on your way into your own apartment.

You silently pray to whatever god may be listening that the whiskey isn’t swiped by someone before Yoongi gets home. Pepper blinks at you lazily from the kitchen counter, and you give her a triumphant little scratch on the head before padding to your bedroom to deal with your laundry.

Your move, Min Yoongi.

★ ★ ★

"Do I need to be jealous?"

You take advantage of getting off work early to call your best friend Rina for the first time in what feels like forever. She’s in Paris this month, debuting a play that she’s been working on tirelessly about aliens and drug addiction. You’ve read the script six times over. It’s both campy and gut wrenching all at once, and you’ve cried every time. You picture her with her very chic haircut, sipping from a flute of champagne. The thought of her being jealous of any part of your life is laughable.

"What do you have to be jealous of, exactly?" you snort, holding your phone between your ear and shoulder as you toss your laundry basket upside down on your bed unceremoniously. Your clothes are covered in a perma-layer of Pepper hair, and you think it’s lucky that Pepper is a black cat and most of your clothes are black. Very enviable.

"Of Yoongi, dipshit," she coos through the phone. "You’re replacing me."

"Sure," you say, like she’s making total sense. You’re lying on top of your laundry now instead of folding it. You put her on speakerphone and rest your phone on your chest. "I’m throwing away ten years of being your best friend for a guy that I met a week ago. I’m glad you figured it out, honestly, because I was dreading telling you. I was going to wait until your matinée, but you don’t seem too broken up about it."

"Of course. You have to do what’s right for you, I’ve always told you that," she deadpans back, and you groan. You don’t want to hear it. "No, I just mean… It’s good. That you’re meeting people."

"We’re neighbors," you say, flopping over onto your front to rub at your temples. Rina is resting on a pile of your underwear now. "We talk about work. My work, not his, because he thinks it’s funny to act like he’s too cool to tell me about his job. He’s helping me with my car. We’re… neighborly."

"And you want to fuck him," she says. Maybe calling Rina was a bad idea. Debriefing over text would have sufficed.

"I don’t want to fuck him," you say, indignant. "We’re friends. He’s nice. I can have a guy friend."

"Of course you can," Rina says, like you’re dumb for even thinking she would imply otherwise. "And you can be friends with him all you want. But you also want to fuck him."

You groan in protest but she speaks over it.

"Baby, you can pretend, but I know how you talk about people you want to have sex with, even if you don’t say it outright," she continues. "He may just be feeding you and helping you and talking to you about the weather, but I know you, and I know the whole time he’s talking you’re just agonizing over how he might fuck you if you let him."

"That’s not fair," you mumble, letting your face drop into your laundry. It smells good. Small comforts.

"Are you going to let him?"

"No," you whine, muffled by the cotton. "I don’t need that. There are always strings. I hate strings."

"You said he’s a super straightforward, honest guy, right?" Rina asks.

"Brutally so," you grumble.

"So. Maybe he’d be cool with a lack of strings. You won’t know unless you ask, baby."

You want to tell her that’s easy for her to say, but you don’t want to fight with her when you know you won’t hear from her like this again for a while.

Rina has never compromised for anything. She decided in both of your sophomore year of college, after flirting with both performance and directing, that she wanted to be a playwright, and that was that.

She wrote and wrote and wrote, and after you graduated together, her career blossomed almost instantly because she worked goddamn hard for it. She got opportunities to travel and work with theatre companies around the world, and she took them without giving it a second thought because she knew it was what she wanted. And she’s had a consistent, loyal boyfriend nearly the whole time. He doesn’t always travel with her, but he supports her in everything she does. They’re excruciatingly healthy about it.

When your long-term college boyfriend dumped you two months into your first real reporting job because he "refused to come second to your career," Rina was there. But she didn’t really get it. How could she? Her life clicked into place like magic. Yours just... didn’t. You couldn’t help but resent her for it, just a little.

Still, as much as you hate to admit it, she has a point. You could just ask Yoongi if he wants to fool around without it being a thing, and you know he’d give you a straight answer. You’re even pretty confident he wouldn’t make it weird if his answer was no. That’s not the problem. It never is.

"The problem isn’t whether or not I think he’d be cool with it," you mumble. "The problem is if he is cool with it, and then the strings come anyway. The friendship is nice. I’m attracted to him, yeah, fine. But I can ignore it if it means I get to be his friend."

Theres a long pause on the line, and then Rina sighs.

"Your life would be a lot easier if you could do one night stands," she says.

Don’t you know it.

"Yeah."

"I’ve gotta go, okay? Text me. Keep me updated on life." You read between the lines. On Yoongi, she means. "I love you."

"Mmmhh," you mumble back, still burying your face into your laundry.

When the line disconnects, you feel considerably more twitchy and irritable than you did before talking to Rina.

So, you’re attracted to Yoongi. Or you were, when you were drunk and he was all… hot and considerate. That doesn’t mean you have to act on it! You’re not going to act on it. You’re just pent up, that’s all. It’s been a long time since you’ve had an orgasm, self-inflicted or otherwise, and you can’t think straight.

Maybe you should fix that.

It’s clear you’re giving up on laundry for the night, so you shove the mountain of clothes back into the basket on the floor, sighing as you lay back on your bed.

You feel only slightly ridiculous as you shimmy your sleep shorts down your thighs, your hands sliding up your shirt to cup your breasts, squeezing slightly. Warming yourself up.

You quickly decide to get to the point, though. You’re struggling to immerse yourself in the fantasy that usually does the trick, too wound up and embarrassed (as if it’s not just you in here, by yourself as usual) at groping yourself.

Your fingers slip between your legs and—god—you’re soaked. A gasp escapes you before you can bite it back. Jesus. Had you been like this all day and just… not noticed?

Closing your eyes, you circle two fingers around your clit experimentally, making your hips jerk up under you, sensitive. You do it again, a little firmer, starting a slow rhythm that makes you squirm against your mattress, your bottom lip rolling between your teeth.

It feels good. It usually does—you’ve always been able to make quick work of an orgasm to rid yourself of any lingering jitters before bed. But it feels really good right now, your pussy extra sensitive tonight, and you can’t figure out why. There’s nothing new about what you’re doing.

Rina’s words float back into your head, uninvited and sharp: The whole time he’s talking you’re just agonizing over how he might fuck you if you let him.

You’re way too turned on to stop that train of thought. You imagine Yoongi. Not doing anything wild, just looking at you the way he does when he’s amused, his eyes dark and focused. The smell of his cologne as he leans in. His voice low in your ear, a grumble of approval.

Soft sounds continue to spill from your throat, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, dry from panting as the barrage of Yoongi-related thoughts keep coming, bringing you closer and closer to your release.

Dark, dark eyes looking down at you. A delicate chain dangling above your face. Those long fingers, that soft pink tongue, the press of his chest to yours. You whimper, your fingers sliding down from your clit to sink into your pussy, curling up to rub at your inner walls. The drag of his cock pushing inside you. You imagine the stretch, the groan he'd make, the rhythm he'd set.

You pump your fingers fast and desperate as you get closer and closer to that sweet edge. You wonder what Yoongi would sound like if he was the one fucking into you right now. Would he moan in your ear in that gravelly voice of his? He’s a man of few words. Would he be like that in bed, too? Would he call you sweet names? Not so sweet? Which ones?

Your walls flutter around your fingers, your hips stuttering up off the mattress as your orgasm crashes over you and you gasp out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

You stare up at the ceiling for a minute panting. The high of your release buzzes pleasantly through your body before it starts ebbing away, but the thoughts of Yoongi pervade.

Well, fuck.

After another moment, you roll over onto your stomach to grab a towel from your laundry basket and wipe off your fingers, tossing it on the floor. You grab your phone, only to be greeted by a notification from the subject of your masturbation fantasy himself. He sent it about ten minutes ago.

When you tap it open, you’re greeted with a photo (!!!) of Yoongi holding your gift next to his head, the hand wrapped around the neck of the whiskey bottle almost dwarfed by its sheer size. A testament to the ridiculousness of it, because you’re well aware of how long Yoongi’s fingers are. There’s a lazy smirk on his face, and a mole that you’re just now noticing on his right cheek.

[8:23] Yoongi 😐🎧: Cute.

Yep. Yep. Cool.

You swipe out, tapping on Rina’s contact.

[8:35] You: okay. i want to fuck him.

[8:35] Rina: 🥂🥳🎉

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

askbox ★ ao3 ★ anonymous feedback box

@kkaetnipjeon @ktownshizzle @joonary @ggukivrse @chrrybbmb

@sunreads @futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes @sugainmybowl @wobblewobble822

@this-most-assuredly-counts @ohnothisnameisalreadytaken @sugafun @whoa-jo @amarawayne

@kimsaerom @bangtangsworld @jimingirl95 @jadestonedaeho7 @notsevenwithyou

@perfctlyunstable @yoonmetogether @kpophosblog @chimmchimmm @nnybtitts08

@itsmina29 @sophia--915 @jeanjacketjesus @kiki-zb @velvetskize

@gelijar @livi101ful @annyeongbitch7 @pitchblack0309 @goldietigers294

@hopegdbbggloss @kam9404 @jajabro @parapiop7 @mar-lo-pap

@tarahardcore @butterymin @svnbangtansworld @rainnamu @auroradamned

@mintedagustd @angellekookie @watchingover-hypegirl @slytherinatheart

@seokjinthescientist @namgimini

PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✧ MASTERLIST ✧ NEXT CHAPTER

#take a bite: remastered #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #suga x reader

28 notes · View notes

sugar-snap · 5 days ago

Text

take a bite: remastered | MYG ★ 2

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ CHAPTER TAGS/WARNINGS: more social drinking in this chapter, horny thoughts from y/n, seokjin is a warning of his own tbh

✧ WORDCOUNT: 3.9k

✧ STATUS: complete

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: there are definitely some changes in this chapter! hope you all enjoy <3

CH. 2: really nice to talk to you

Unsurprisingly, it’s less than twenty-four hours later when you run into him again. It tracks, now that it’s clear that the universe is dead set on throwing Yoongi in your path, that you’d see him in person before he’s even gotten the opportunity to text you. If he actually was planning to text you, that is.

It’s a little past four in the afternoon, and you’re both making it home from work. It seems that way, anyway, based on the bag slung over his shoulder and his business casual clothes. No one looks good in business casual, but he does. You hate him, you decide.

He’s also holding a huge bag of tangerines, which is… Well, you guess it’s a talking point. If you’re going to be forced to interact again (although you’re very much considering doing the rude thing and just running inside without saying a word) you might as well make up for the last time you saw each other. Last night. Or, this morning, really. You, drunk and drooling over him. Him, stupidly charming and a very good sport.

You’ve been hungover all day, but it started to wane on your way home from work. So you decide to do the neighborly thing and talk to him.

"That’s a lot of tangerines," you say, and you feel a little smug when Yoongi visibly startles at the sound of your voice. Serves him right after practically making you jump out of your skin last night.

He pulls out one of his headphones and grins, raising the bag triumphantly.

"I have a thing about tangerines," he explains. If that can even count as an explanation. "You want one?"

You can hear your mother in your ear chastising you for taking food from a virtual stranger, but you reason that just because you take one doesn’t mean you have to eat it, and you walk over to his door with your hand out.

"Sure," you say, eyeing the bag warily. "Only because I’m not convinced you could eat all of those by yourself."

He hums, staring at your hand as he pushes his door open, tilting his head toward the inside of the apartment in invitation.

Your eyes widen. You open your mouth to protest, to tell him he could just hand you one, but Yoongi already has his back to you as he walks inside, kicking his shoes off at the door. You linger lamely in the doorway of his apartment.

"Oh—Uh, are you sure?"

"Would I have invited you in if I wasn't sure?" You continue to linger as Yoongi sets the bag down on the kitchen island. He opens a cabinet, procuring a plate. "I don't bite," he calls, turning on the tap of his sink to wash his hands.

You tentatively step inside, shutting his door behind you and setting your bag by his shoerack. You follow his lead, toeing your shoes off before joining him in the kitchen. You watch as he starts peeling the fruit across the island, shifting awkwardly.

Yoongi's eyes dart toward you for a moment as he continues to peel.

"You're acting like you're scared of me or something. You know I'm not gonna murder you, right?" he asks with a laugh, now starting to separate the sections of the tangerine.

"I know you’re not going to murder me," you assure him, visibly relaxing a little so as not to look like such a hopeless, awkward freak.

"Good. Just checking." He holds out a section of the tangerine, offering it to you.

You take it, smiling gratefully, but you let him eat his own piece first. It’s the least you can do, for your poor mother’s sake.

You do a shit job of being subtle as you glance around Yoongi’s apartment, but it’s not like you’re trying very hard to hide it. It’s a natural curiosity, to be in an apartment with a structural layout identical to your own, but so differently decorated. You feel like it’s not weird to look.

"What?" he asks as he eats his own section of the tangerine, and when you look back at him his eyebrow is raised in question.

"Your apartment is cleaner than I would’ve thought," you say, laughing a little.

"Did you think it would be gross?" Yoongi asks, amused. "Do I give off a gross vibe?"

You snort, because he absolutely does not. If anyone gives off a gross vibe between the two of you, it’s probably you, the sloppy drunk that almost threw up on him last night because he was so hot and so close and you were so wasted. But you keep that bit to yourself. "Not gross. Just… messy?" you offer, snatching another section of the tangerine from his hand. "Not gross, though."

"Oh, well that’s good," he teases, starting to peel another tangerine and dividing it evenly, sliding one half to you on the plate. "That you don’t think I’m gross, I mean."

"No, it’s very neat in here," you hum appreciatively, taking the plate. "The constant bed head thing you’ve got going on is very misleading." You point at his mussed hair. If you were a different person, maybe you’d touch it.

He beats you to it, ruffling it with a smirk. "You don’t like my hair?"

"I didn’t say that," you say. Something about Yoongi makes this back-and-forth come easily for you, and it feels dangerous. You should leave it alone, but you can’t. "Putting words in my mouth."

He hums—and then his gaze drops to your lips.

"You... have a little..." He gestures at the corner of his mouth, mirroring where something is, apparently, on yours.

You hurriedly bring your own hand up to rub at your mouth. He shakes his head, laughing in a way that’s more of a sharp exhale through his nose, and then he’s rounding the counter.

When he gets to you, he holds your chin, and you hold your breath in return, looking at him with wide eyes as he wipes it away himself.

Something shifts. You can feel the charge in the air as his thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and your heart does that stupid flippy thing again. This is a bad idea, you think. Since when did your life become a cheesy romcom? You don’t have time for this. Based on the sympathy in his eyes last night when you told him that, he doesn’t either. You both just got home from working on a Saturday after drinking last night, for fuck’s sake. But you can’t bring yourself to pull away even as every cell in your body screams at you to run out of his apartment right now, future awkward hallway run-ins be damned.

And then Yoongi’s apartment door is swinging open, and you’re flying away from him like shrapnel as a broad-shouldered man in a fuzzy pink sweater walks in like he owns the damn place, brown paper bags bundled in his arms.

"Yoongichiiiii," the man sing-songs. "Your Seokjinie-hyung is here to make you dinner, you cretin!"

Yoongi, who hasn’t moved, who didn’t fly away from you like shrapnel at the interruption, finally breaks eye contact with you to look at the man. His Seokjinie-hyung, apparently.

"Do you have to barge in here, hyung?" he says, with the type of tiredness that can only come from a person who endures this kind of thing five days out of the week, minimum. Can’t relate, you think. There’s nobody breaking down your door to make you dinner. "Can’t you knock like a normal person?"

"I didn’t anticipate you’d have company, Yoongi-yah," Seokjin says, turning his gaze to you to waggle his eyebrows. "I’m Seokjin. But you can call me oppa." He smirks, eyes flicking to Yoongi. "Unless, of course, you already call him that."

Ew, for one. You stare at him, your lips parting in shock, because what the fuck do you say to that? You’re completely dumbfounded by this beautiful, broad, gross man. He doesn’t even know how old you are!

"Hyung," Yoongi says sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, and you finally find your voice.

"I’m Yoongi’s neighbor," you say quickly, because this complete stranger does not need to think that you are sleeping with this other complete stranger and calling him oppa, of all things? What planet did you just beam to?

"Okay, Yoongi’s neighbor," Seokjin says, walking further into the kitchen and setting the grocery bags down on the counter. "That’s a beautiful name. Is it French?"

"Hyung," Yoongi repeats, louder this time, smacking the back of Seokjin’s head. "Don’t be an asshole to my guest."

"Yah, when did you become so disrespectful!" Seokjin says, surpassing Yoongi’s volume, smacking him right back, gesticulating wildly as he speaks. "Am I not a guest, too? Here I am, selflessly providing you with a home cooked meal, because god knows you’re completely unwilling to feed yourself properly. Don’t think I don’t see the tangerines, Yoongi-yah. Was that dinner?"

Okay, yeah. You are officially a spectator to whatever the fuck this is. You’re convinced that if you try to intervene in any way, you’ll lose an arm, and you can’t seem to get your legs to work to walk out the door, as much as you might like to. You’re frozen to the spot, entranced.

"You’re an unwanted guest," Yoongi hisses, smacking Seokjin once again. "And I am a grown man, fully capable of feeding myself."

"Yes, a grown man whose height topped out at five-foot-seven because of his horrific dietary habits," Seokjin retorts, narrowing his eyes at Yoongi as he starts unpacking the grocery bags. "Do you think these broad shoulders were bestowed upon me by god? They weren’t. It was kimchi-jjigae."

"Yah, you’re only three inches taller than me, hyung. Don’t get cocky just because of a few inches," Yoongi complains, and you swear you see him lift onto his toes for just a moment.

"Oh, but a few inches can make a world of difference, Yoongi-yah," Seokjin practically purrs, and at that you find your voice, because really, enough is enough.

"I should go!" you blurt out, and both of their heads snap in your direction comically fast. Seokjin looks amused, but also like he forgot you were there entirely, which you think is fair. Yoongi, however, looks incredibly guilty. You’d think it’s cute, if you could think anything right now besides ‘get out while you still can.’

Yoongi steps a little closer to you, lowering his voice so it’s only for you. You can feel your change of heart before you even process anything he says.

"I’m sorry…" he says, glancing back at Seokjin for a moment. "…For that." He sighs. "Look, I get it if you want to bolt right now. Seokjin-hyung has that effect on people."

You hear Seokjin’s cry of protest behind Yoongi, which Yoongi ignores.

"I just don’t want to intrude," you say. Polite. To the point. Your last line of defense, which Yoongi is quick to crumble with his soft voice and earnest words.

"You wouldn’t be. Despite being a pain in my ass, hyung is a good cook. And he makes enough food to feed an army even when it’s just the two of us," he continues. "I… You can stay and eat. I’d like it if you did."

What the fuck is happening to you right now? You can’t even begin to understand why you can’t seem to say no where Yoongi is involved, despite only meeting him less than twenty-four hours ago.

The only thing that you can tell is that it’s not just because of your attraction to him, as undeniable as it may be. You may be an introverted homebody, but you’re still a woman who gets hit on semi-frequently. If that’s what this was, no matter how pretty Yoongi is, you’re sure you’d still be able to say no. But you’re not saying no.

"…This is all very, very weird," you say, and Yoongi breathes out a strained ‘I know,’ which makes you relax a little. "I’ll stay, if you insist."

"He insists," Seokjin says, not even bothering to look up at you as he chops vegetables.

To your surprise, Yoongi doesn’t make any kind of cutting remark in Seokjin’s direction. He just keeps his eyes on you, nods in agreement.

"I insist."

So you stay.

★ ★ ★

Seokjin is very adamant about not letting you help in the kitchen.

"Unless he’s chopped off a limb to get out of it in the past ten seconds I haven’t been looking at him, Yoongi-yah has two fully-functioning hands and knows his way around a kitchen,” he tells you. “So you just sit and look pretty, and let your oppas take care of everything.”

You hate the delivery of that, really. But you do as he says, and it’s actually pretty nice.

Plus, you get to see just how fully-functioning those hands of Yoongi’s are. You have a fucking front row seat to the capability of those hands.

It does not help that Seokjin insists on refilling a wine glass for you every time you take a sip, but what does help is focusing on Seokjin’s weird, kind of cute pinky fingers instead of Yoongi’s fucking sinful everything that you want in your mouth more and more as the alcohol warms you.

The bickering between the two even seems to die down as they cook. It’s clear that the two of them have done this together before, and it even makes you wonder if they lived together for a point in time.

The conversation flows, weirdly domestic. You learn more about Yoongi in thirty minutes than most people probably do in thirty days, thanks to Seokjin’s very loose definition of appropriate conversation.

You learn that he works too hard, which he himself had alluded to last night, but Seokjin confirms with a gusto that makes you think it’s probably worse than you assumed. That he’s completely powerless to his dongsaengs, which Yoongi doesn’t even try to deny. That there are seven of them altogether, a close-knit friend group that will always be the seven of them barring death, and maybe even then. It’s all very sweet.

You’re in the middle of fantasizing about what it would be like to have six friends who love you so much when Seokjin turns the conversation to you suddenly.

"What do you do, Y/N?"

"I’m a music journalist for Look Here magazine," you reply, starting to straighten up with pride just as you did last night when you told Yoongi, but something in Seokjin’s expression makes you freeze.

He looks pleased as fucking punch, and you’re beginning to realize that is probably never a good thing.

"Oh, are you?" he purrs.

"Hyung," Yoongi says warily, but he looks just as confused as you feel.

"You know, our Yoongi makes music."

"Yes, he told me," you say slowly, your eyebrows furrowing.

"He’s very good," Seokjin continues. "Back in college, he used to write all of these raps about eating pus—"

"YAH! Stop!" Yoongi interjects, and when you look at him he is completely pink. You were already pink from the wine, so you would guess you’re fire engine red right now, if the heat in your cheeks is any indicator.

"You weren’t ashamed of it then, Mr. Tongue Technology," Seokjin sniffs, doling out rice into three bowls like he didn’t just drop a bomb that you’ll be thinking about for the rest of your life, maybe. Tongue technology.

"I was twenty," Yoongi complains, high and whiny in a register you weren’t even aware he could hit. "I was young and cocky, and I had an awful group of friends who never told me how fucking stupid I sounded." He turns to you, although he is barely able to hold eye contact. You’re in the same boat. "Please forget you ever heard that."

You nod, stiffly. What else can you do? Say you’d like to take that tongue for a spin, right now preferably? No, no, no, no. You need to get your mind out of the gutter, away from thoughts of a tangerine-sweet mouth and capable hands and—

"How about we talk about something else?" you offer, quickly. "What do you do, Seokjin?"

That seems like the right thing to say, because even when the three of you finally sit down to eat, Seokjin is still happily going on about his aspirations as an actor.

★ ★ ★

Seokjin rubs his belly happily, slumped against his chair.

"God, I’m good," he sighs. "Tell me how good I am, Yoongichi."

"You’re so good, hyung," Yoongi says flatly.

"Thank you again for having me," you say, smiling a little. Despite your apprehension towards Seokjin at first, dinner was surprisingly pleasant and, to his credit, really fucking good. "Both of you."

"Ah, you should come next time all the kids are around," Seokjin says, grinning. "It’ll be a hoot."

Yoongi stays quiet across from you, but he meets your eyes and nods. Flip.

"Well… I’m only two doors down," you say softly, looking down at your empty bowl.

"Just wait until Jiminie and Jeongguk get ahold of her," Seokjin says to Yoongi. You don’t know what that could possibly mean, could mean a lot of things coming from Seokjin, but Yoongi rolls his eyes.

"We should probably clean up," Yoongi says, starting to stack the bowls with a glance in Seokjin’s direction. "Do you need a ride home?"

"I’m not an invalid, Yoongi-yah," Seokjin scoffs. "I can take the bus." He stands up, snatching the bowls away from Yoongi. "Let hyung clean up and I’ll be on my way."

Yoongi doesn’t put up a fight, handing off the bowls, and then Seokjin is in the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone for the first time since tangerines and Yoongi’s thumb on your bottom lip.

"Thank you," you say again, this time just for Yoongi. Quiet. "It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night like this."

"I wouldn’t have any nights like this if it weren’t for Seokjin-hyung and the rest of my friends," Yoongi says, brutally honest in the way you’re figuring out he must always be. "When you love what you do, it’s hard to remember that there’s anything else."

You nod, because you know exactly what he means by that.

"I know we just met, but if you ever need…" He shakes his head, putting his words together. He looks unbelievably shy, not for the first time tonight. "Ah, I’m not used to being the one to give this speech. Look, we can hang out, is all I’m saying. I know how it feels."

You realize then and there what Yoongi is offering, and something clicks into place. Friendship. Despite the charged moments, the clear attraction, he’s offering to be someone you can go to. Someone who gets it and won’t judge. It doesn’t feel like pity, either, strangely.

This is why you can’t bring yourself to say no to him, you realize. He’s offering you something you desperately need, so selflessly. Honestly. Maybe in spite of what he really wants.

You smile, despite the fact that you kind of feel like crying.

"Only if you show me those raps Seokjin was talking about."

Yoongi returns your smile, just as soft. For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward, not exactly. Just heavy, settling like a weighted blanket. Like understanding. Neither of you seems to want to break it.

Then, as if on cue, Seokjin does.

"Well, look at the time," Seokjin says, loud enough to make you jump a little in your seat. "Would you believe I have a very important… thing. In the morning."

You glance at the clock. It’s not that late, not for a Saturday. You know it. He knows it. Yoongi definitely knows it.

Yoongi doesn’t look up. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?" Seokjin asks, all wide-eyed innocence.

"You know what," Yoongi mutters, jaw working.

You sit there, paralyzed between amusement and the strong desire to melt into the nearest crack in the floorboards. Because Seokjin isn’t saying anything outright, but there’s a tone. An implication in the way he’s making a show of his departure.

Seokjin shrugs, lips twitching. "Well. I just figured I’ve, you know, occupied enough of your evening. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome."

"You invited yourself," Yoongi points out.

"Yes, but I did it so charmingly,” Seokjin retorts, grin widening now. "Besides, I thought she might enjoy something other than your usual monosyllabic brand of hospitality."

Yoongi shoots him a look. "Hyung."

Seokjin just hums. "What?" he asks, all innocence. "I’m just saying, there’s wine, the lights are dim… Feels rude to stick around."

Your face heats up immediately. Yep, melting into the floor sounds nice. Or disappearing into your wineglass. Something. Anything.

Yoongi sighs. "You were the one who brought the wine."

"And now I’m graciously leaving it behind," Seokjin replies, smoothing his shirt, picking off a piece of lint. "See? I'm generous like that."

You force a laugh, awkward and tight. He’s not saying anything explicit, not really—but the insinuation is very much there, hanging in the air between the three of you. Like you and Yoongi are going to jump each other as soon as Seokjin leaves, or something.

Yoongi stands, like he’s heard enough. His movements are stiff as he ushers Seokjin to the door. "Goodnight, hyung.”

"Yeah," Seokjin says, already stepping into his shoes as he calls back to you, "goodnight, Yoongi’s neighbor!"

You wave, too stunned to do much else. "Night…?"

The door shuts behind him, and the silence that follows is thicker than the last.

Yoongi stares at the door for a moment before his eyes flick back to you. He rubs the back of his neck, and you see something like discomfort flicker across his face.

"I’m sorry about him," he mutters. "He’s… a little much."

You shrug, trying to play it off. "It’s fine. He didn’t do anything."

"You’re too nice," Yoongi says with a short, dry laugh. "He always gets under my skin. He does it on purpose, but you… you learn to take it in stride, after a while."

You shake your head. "It’s not a big deal."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"He grows on you," you admit.

Yoongi snorts. "Like mold."

Now that it’s just the two of you in the low light, his gaze lingers. Yours does too. You’re painfully aware of the lack of space between you, how easy it would be to pick up where you left off before Seokjin barged in hours ago. Yoongi looks like he wants to, maybe.

He clears his throat instead. "Want me to walk you back?"

You shake your head, gently, and mentally remind yourself of what this is. "I think I can survive the hallway."

"Still," he says, then stops himself. Recognizes the boundary. Respects it with a soft, "okay. Yeah."

You stand, brushing off imaginary crumbs from your thighs. "Thanks again for the tangerine. And… the dinner. And everything."

"Anytime," he says. Then, "really. Anytime."

You nod. Yoongi walks you to his door, leaning against the frame as you step out into the hall. You turn back to him, your hand on your doorknob.

"Goodnight, Yoongi."

"Goodnight, neighbor," he says, lips twitching up at the corners.

You make your way to the door, keeping your head down so you don’t meet his eyes again. Your heart’s still thudding in your chest, and when the door clicks shut behind you, you immediately press your hands to your cheeks.

Warm. Too warm.

Shit.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

askbox ★ ao3 ★ anonymous feedback box

@kkaetnipjeon @ktownshizzle @joonary @ggukivrse @chrrybbmb

@sunreads @futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes @sugainmybowl @wobblewobble822

@this-most-assuredly-counts @ohnothisnameisalreadytaken @sugafun @whoa-jo @amarawayne

@kimsaerom @bangtangsworld @jimingirl95 @jadestonedaeho7 @notsevenwithyou

@perfctlyunstable @yoonmetogether @kpophosblog @chimmchimmm @nnybtitts08

@itsmina29 @sophia--915 @jeanjacketjesus @kiki-zb @velvetskize

@gelijar @livi101ful @annyeongbitch7 @pitchblack0309 @goldietigers294

@hopegdbbggloss @kam9404 @jajabro @parapiop7 @mar-lo-pap

@tarahardcore @butterymin @svnbangtansworld @rainnamu @auroradamned

@mintedagustd @angellekookie @watchingover-hypegirl @slytherinatheart

@seokjinthescientist @namgimini

PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✧ MASTERLIST ✧ NEXT CHAPTER

#take a bite: remastered #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #I FUCKING LOVE THIS FIC ❤️❤️❤️

33 notes · View notes

sugar-snap · 6 days ago

Text

take a bite: remastered | MYG ★ 1

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SERIES TAGS: (kind of) slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, producer!yoongi, music journalist!reader, neighbors to friends to lovers? you’ll see, reader is bad at feelings, reader is post-break up, now back and better than ever (excluding yijeong's bitchass)

✧ CHAPTER TAGS/WARNINGS: social drinking, mechanical bull-related injuries lol

✧ WORDCOUNT: 3k

✧ STATUS: complete

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: OH MY GOD! i've been working on editing this monster for MONTHS now and i'm finally done. in case you're new here, take a bite was the first fic i ever posted back in september 2024! i love this series to bits and pieces, and during my hiatus, i decided to go back through it and make changes to exclude yijeong from the plot + make some edits + add some bonus scenes! i hope that those of you who enjoyed the original series love this version just as much, because i'm so proud of how it turned out <3 i couldn't have done any of it without my friends @ggukivrse @ktownshizzle and @yoonmetogether who kindly beta read the whole series over and over as i made changes! i love every single one of you. thank you for loving this couple so much.

p.s. this series is being uploaded in scheduled posts, so some of the navigation links/masterlist changes will not work until i get a chance to add them later! search the tag 'take a bite: remastered' if you're having trouble finding anything!

p.p.s. happy father’s day to min yoongi the father of my children

CH. 1: turn a bad night to a good time

You can’t help but think to yourself that you should invest in some cowboy boots. You could make them work, you’re sure of it.

Even if you know you would never pull the trigger on purchasing any, too far out of the comfort zone of your normal style, the thought is the only thing keeping you sane—that, and the sound of Cowboy Carter blasting through the speakers of the bar, a welcome reprieve from the drawling country anthems you’ve been suffering through for the past hour or so.

You pride yourself on seeing the merit in all genres of music, you do. You’ve always been the type of person to puff up your chest with pride when you tell people, ‘I listen to everything,’ uncaring of how pretentious it may sound. You mean it. It’s an asset in your line of work, and as far as you’re concerned, a little bit of pretentiousness is a small price to pay for the, quite frankly, baller route your fledgling career is heading in.

But a western bar? Not the kind of place you’d spend a Friday night willingly. Your typical Friday involves you hunched over your laptop, drowning in deadlines, or—on a rare night where you clock out before midnight—re-watching Gilmore Girls and mentally compiling your latest thesis on why Rory is, objectively, the worst.

That was the plan tonight, before you were intercepted on your way out of the office.

It’s not that you don’t like your coworkers. They’re fine. Smart, capable, occasionally even funny. It’s just… Gilmore Girls nights are sacred to you. You were finally getting to the Jess of it all.

But, after months of skillfully avoiding the weekly Friday nights out with the other rookie reporters at the magazine, you’d run out of excuses not to join them. If four years studying communications taught you anything, it was that connections are everything in the journalism business. Especially music journalism.

So here you are, at your fourth stop of your night of bar hopping with your extroverted and extremely drunk coworkers, nursing warm beer and observing from the least populated corner you managed to scout upon entry.

You’ve been a good sport. You really have. You cheered. You clapped. You downed cheap tequila shots and even suffered through holding an intern’s hair back in a borderline-biohazardous bathroom. But you draw the line at square dancing. College may have beaten most of the awkward out of you, but you still have your limits. Your social battery can only take so much.

Your phone battery, too, you think bitterly as you stare down at the taunting sliver of red in the corner of your screen.

Okay, so you’ll finish your shitty beer—because you’re not quite successful enough yet to afford wasting alcohol that you’re paying for—and then use your phone’s remaining juice to catch an Uber home. No biggie.

You’re mid-motion, locking your screen, just starting to mentally rehearse your exit strategy when you realize, with no small amount of irritation, that your chosen corner is about to be invaded.

Your eyes land on a pair of black Jordans (in a western bar? your mind supplies, as if you have any room to judge in your Docs) and travel up, past torn black jeans and a black shirt. The monochrome theme continues all the way up to a head of (regrettably, very nice) black hair and a pair of the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen. Anish Kapoor would wail at the sight of these eyes, you think.

As if sensing your apprehension, your corner-thief raises his free hand (the other clutching a plastic cup of his own) palm out, as if to say ‘I come in peace’, and stops dead in his tracks.

“I can find another spot,” your corner-thief says, the low rumbling of his voice barely audible above Texas Hold ‘Em. “I’m just waiting for one of my friends to get bored or injured so I can leave.”

“Injured,” you echo, blinking. That… was not the word you were expecting.

You mean to shrug, maybe give a nod to let him pass. But something about his word choice throws you. Plus, your phone is dead, your beer is flat, and this guy is—if nothing else—much easier on the eyes than the beer pong bros you’ve been observing for the last forty-five minutes.

Corner-thief grins a (stupidly charming) gummy smile, leaning just the slightest bit closer to be heard better, but still keeping a respectful distance. As if he’s still wary that you’ll lunge at him if he encroaches on your space any further. Good man.

“There’s a mechanical bull upstairs,” he clarifies, using his index finger on the hand holding his cup to point at the ceiling above you both.

Of course there is. With your luck, you’ll also have to peel someone off the floor later after going head-to-head with the bull.

"Not your thing?" you guess, glancing pointedly at his Jordans, and he shakes his head, huffing through his nose in mirth.

"No, I wouldn’t say so."

He pauses, shifting from foot to foot for a moment before speaking again. "So, will you share your wall? I can look around again but this place is more packed than I would’ve pegged it for."

You nod and he smiles again thankfully, taking the spot on the wall next to you.

That should be it. Two strangers who don’t want to be here standing in companionable silence while they wait for their people—your coworkers, his friends—to put them out of their misery and let them go home.

But…

You consider your options, and as your phone takes its dying breath in your pocket, you sigh, turning to him.

"Y/N," you say, extending a hand.

He takes it in his free one, eyebrow raising in amusement as he shakes. "Yoongi."

"What’s that look for?"

Yoongi laughs again, more full this time, and your heart does a stupid, funny thing in your chest. "I don’t think I’ve ever been greeted by a pretty girl in a bar with a handshake," he says.

You practically yank your hand back, your face heating as you bring your drink to your lips in an attempt to recover. Of course.

A western bar certainly isn’t your scene, but admittedly, neither are bars or clubs in general. You got all of that out of your system in college where everyone was awkward as fuck or too drunk to care that you were, and ever since you got your degree you have lived and breathed your work. Your social skills were never quite up to par, but you didn’t realize you were this fucking embarrassing.

"I came out with coworkers right after we got off, so I think I’m still kind of in work mode," you lie, and as if sensing that you feel slightly made fun of, Yoongi shakes his head.

"I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, swear," he says, tilting his head at you. Dark eyes considering you. "Honestly, I’m thankful you’re putting up with me at all. I don’t think I’d be so kind if the roles were reversed. I know firsthand how hard it is to find a spot to breathe in places like this."

You let out a small laugh, relaxing just a little. "I almost did. But my heart breaks for a fellow introvert without a hiding place."

"At least I’m out with friends," he says sympathetically. "I’ve done the coworker thing before. It’s a drag."

"It’s weird," you correct. "I mean, I sit in meetings with these people. I avoid answering their emails all day. Why is it considered rude to not want to see them piss drunk?"

Yoongi hums in agreement, nodding his head. "What do you do, anyway?"

"I work for Look Here magazine," you say, standing a little straighter when his eyes light up with recognition. He angles toward you, shoulder brushing the wall, and you mirror him. "I’m a staff writer for the music section."

"No shit? I’ve probably read your stuff, then," Yoongi says, grinning.

He’s cute. Hot. Charming. You can’t help but notice, no matter how hard you’re trying not to. Particularly, the way that he seems to carry himself might end up driving you crazy if you’re exposed to it for too long. Maybe you’ve been living under a rock, but you’ve never met a fellow wallflower who manages to exude such confidence—the kind that doesn’t overpower, just lingers in the air like cologne.

He wears it insanely well.

"Look Here covers a lot of big artists," Yoongi continues, snapping you out of your thoughts. "I’m a little surprised you’re hugging the wall, honestly. This place is nothing compared to music industry parties."

"Ah, I only started a few months ago," you admit sheepishly, looking down into your cup. "Not a lot of bylines yet. I haven’t made it into a room with an artist that big."

"But you want to," he guesses, and you nod, looking up to meet his eyes. He looks impressed, impressed by you, and that… does something to you. Huh. "Shit, that’s… That’s really cool."

"Thanks," you say. You can feel your cheeks heating up again, and you’re suddenly very eager to turn the attention away from yourself. "What about you? What do you do?"

"Ah," Yoongi says, fixing his eyes to his cup just as you had a moment ago. "I’m a music producer, actually."

You perk up at that. So that’s why he reads Look Here, why he seemed so interested when you told him what you do.

"Anything I’ve heard?" you ask, leaning in like he’s about to tell you a secret. Networking never stops.

He watches as you lean, his mouth turning up at the corners in a smirk. "Probably."

You wait for more, but it doesn’t come. Shithead. So much for that.

"You’ve gotta give me more than that," you say, and god, you can hear the pout in your own voice. Are you that drunk? Flirting for a lead in a story?

"I don’t," Yoongi says simply, his smirk in full force now. Mean and annoying and hot. He hasn’t leaned away from you yet. "I want to know more about you, actually. Journalism is hard work. I’m surprised you have time to go out like this."

"Like I said, I was forced."

"Still. Spending time with your friends or family or partner or whatever must take priority when it comes to your free time."

Why is he asking? You squint at him, trying to parse his angle. But your drink loosens your lips before your brain can object. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, anyway.

"My family is back home. My best friend is this insanely talented playwright. She’s constantly traveling. I see her when she can get some time to fly out. Otherwise, it’s just me. And dating…" You take a quick sip of your drink, ignoring the pang in your chest. Sometimes it sneaks up on you, how lonely you are. You shrug. "People don’t get the job. It always ends in hurt feelings."

There’s a long pause, and you’re worried you’ve shared too much. You’re enjoying talking to Yoongi. You know it doesn’t matter, that you’ll likely never see him again, but it would really, really suck if his permanent mental image of you ends up being ‘lonely weird drunk girl,’ even if that’s what you are. You force yourself to look up at him. The look in his eyes makes your heart flip stupidly again.

"I get that," he says, and his voice is soft, barely audible over the music filling the space. You’re reading his lips more than anything, honestly, and you don’t let yourself look at them for too long. He may be pretty—unbearably so, you’re realizing—but he’s a stranger. A mean, annoying, hot, pretty stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Every guy says he gets it.

This needs to stay what it is, you think. Momentary companionship between introverts who would rather die than square dance.

You don’t get much time to agonize over it. Whatever is going on between you and Yoongi is quickly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket, and his responding grimace when he pulls it out to check it.

"Namjoon fell off of the mechanical bull," he says, like he’s completely unsurprised by that news. He downs the rest of his drink and pockets his phone again, pushing off of the wall. "I’ve gotta deal with that."

You nod, pulling what you hope is a sympathetic face. "Good luck."

His bottom lip catches between his teeth, and you hold your breath. He looks like he wants to say something, torn between rushing upstairs to save his friend and staying, just for a moment.

You think you know what he wants to say, think foolishly that maybe he wants to ask for your number, and you honestly don’t know if you’d give it to him if he did. You’re so used to saying no.

He runs his fingers through his hair, opens his mouth to speak, and then he looks down like his phone is buzzing again. When he looks back up, it seems like he’s thought better of it.

"Thanks for sharing your wall," he settles on, smiling congenially. You smile back, and then he’s heading towards the stairs.

Good, you think. You know better. If he really gets it, he does too.

★ ★ ★

You get dragged to one more bar before you make it home. You’re not sure how you agreed to it, but you choose to blame it on the warmth in your chest left behind by that conversation, those dark eyes, that stupid, infuriatingly charming gummy smile. In a matter of minutes, a complete stranger had knocked you just far enough off balance to keep saying yes when you meant no.

And maybe that wasn’t the worst thing—your coworkers seem to like you more tonight. There’s a lightness between you all now, easier conversations, inside jokes beginning to form. It’s nice. Worth it, maybe.

But by the time your Uber spits you out in front of your building, you're deeply regretting all the different kinds of alcohol swirling around and threatening a coup in your stomach. You shuffle into the elevator dizzy-drunk, fighting to stay upright, the hums and clangs of the old machinery doing nothing to help the way the world spins.

You lean against the back wall, head lolling slightly, as the floor numbers creep by like they’re in no rush at all. Your reflection stares back at you in the smudged metal paneling. Hair a mess. Lipstick long gone. A zit 100% forming on your chin.

Great.

The elevator dings. You stumble out, already digging through your bag with one hand, the other dragging along the wall for balance. You’re sure you put your keys in here. Or maybe in your coat pocket?

"Come on," you mutter, your fingers brushing everything except what you need—lip balm, receipts, your emergency tampon—before they finally find purchase around your keys.

You’re fumbling and failing at getting your key into the lock of your front door, tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration, when a voice calling your name a few feet to your right almost makes you jump out of your skin.

You yell, clutching your chest, and when you turn to face the owner of the voice that almost made you lose the contents of your stomach on your doormat, you’re greeted by none other than corner-thief-mean-annoying-hot-pretty Yoongi himself, leaning against the door to the apartment two doors down from yours.

"What the fuck," you blurt out dumbly, and he laughs. At you! How dare he stand there, lean there, all hot and annoying and in your apartment building for some fucking reason and laugh at you?

"I was going to ask if you needed help," he says, and oh, fuck. You were safe from just how deep his voice was under the thrum of the music at the bar, but in the quiet of your apartment building this late, you can hear it just fine. Feel it, even. Feel it in places you do not want to humor right now. "I’m going to take a wild guess and say you do."

It’s obvious that Yoongi is faring much better than you are, although his night clearly didn’t end after the mechanical bull incident. He gently takes the key from your hand, brushing your fingers with his, and with a single turn—click. The door unlocks like it always does, like it’s easy.

"Gonna make it in okay?" he asks, looking down at you. You force your brain to make words.

"I’ll be okay," you assure him, your tongue heavy in your mouth. "Are you stalking me?"

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "I think we’re neighbors."

"Oh." Oh. Okay. That’s fine. Just because he’s your neighbor doesn’t mean you have to do something stupid, like see him ever again.

"Give me your number," he says softly. Oh.

You blink at him, and he grins. Gummy smile. You feel like you’re going to vomit all over his Jordans.

"In case you ever can’t use your keys again," he clarifies, his tone low and teasing. "I told you, those music industry parties are killer."

And really, you’re powerless to resist. You give him your number, using all of your remaining brain power to remember the order of the digits. Seemingly satisfied, Yoongi pockets his phone and steps back, heading back to his front door.

"Goodnight, neighbor," he says, unlocking his door with ease. "Sleep on your side."

You swallow thickly and nod, slipping inside your own apartment as quickly as you can manage.

Once you’re in, you sink onto the floor, your back pressed against the door behind you. Your cat Pepper, perched on your coffee pot, stares at you in your drunk, flustered state, unimpressed. Offended, even, judging by the way she licks her paw.

You’re so fucked.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

askbox ★ ao3 ★ anonymous feedback box

@kkaetnipjeon @ktownshizzle @joonary @ggukivrse @chrrybbmb

@sunreads @futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes @sugainmybowl @wobblewobble822

@this-most-assuredly-counts @ohnothisnameisalreadytaken @sugafun @whoa-jo @amarawayne

@kimsaerom @bangtangsworld @jimingirl95 @jadestonedaeho7 @notsevenwithyou

@perfctlyunstable @yoonmetogether @kpophosblog @chimmchimmm @nnybtitts08

@itsmina29 @sophia--915 @jeanjacketjesus @kiki-zb @velvetskize

@gelijar @livi101ful @annyeongbitch7 @pitchblack0309 @goldietigers294

@hopegdbbggloss @kam9404 @jajabro @parapiop7 @mar-lo-pap

@tarahardcore @butterymin @svnbangtansworld @rainnamu @auroradamned

@mintedagustd @angellekookie @watchingover-hypegirl @slytherinatheart

@seokjinthescientist @namgimini