#꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀cigarettesuga ⠀⠀◟⠀𖹭⠀◝⠀⠀⠀ᯇ⠀⠀⠀writes.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 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.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀pretty little mess Ꮺ bangtan

summary in which you ride their thigh and they watch you come undone ⠀/⠀nsfw, tension relief, body worship, desperation, established relationship or fwb (up to interpretation). minors do not interact !!!

masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s not even touching her. not really. just sitting back against the headboard, shirtless and patient, watching her rock against the thick muscle of his thigh like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. her fingers clutch his shoulders, knuckles white, while her hips grind down in slow, sloppy circles. her breath catches every time the friction hits just right, and namjoon just watches. eyes dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’s the one unraveling. “go on,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “use me, baby.” she whimpers — broken and soft — and his hands move only to steady her waist, not to help, not to rush. “you’re so close,” he murmurs, head tilting as he kisses her temple. “come for me like this.” and she does — thighs trembling, a strangled moan caught in her throat as she soaks his skin. he doesn’t flinch. just holds her through it, proud and wrecked and in love.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he hadn’t meant for it to get this far. it started as a tease, his thigh offered half-jokingly while he leaned back on the couch, shirt bunched around his elbows, eyes glinting. “if you’re that needy, then show me,” he’d said, expecting a pout. instead, she climbed onto his lap, kissed him hard, and now— her panties are soaked through, leaving a wet patch on his sweats as she grinds over and over, chasing friction like a drug. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, the humor long gone. her fingers grip his shoulders, breath stuttering, head bowed against his neck. “jin—” she gasps, voice all tremble and urgency. and he snaps — one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other sliding between them to press against her clit, just once. she breaks apart in his arms, moaning against his skin. “so impatient,” he murmurs, but his voice is wrecked. he’s hard as hell, and he’s already thinking about round two.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he told her to take what she needed. that’s all. no instructions, no teasing — just a quiet, “come here, baby” as he spread his legs and let her settle into his lap, the denim of his jeans rough and perfect against her core. now she’s moving, slow and rhythmic, grinding herself down until she’s shaking, her forehead pressed against his shoulder, lips parted in breathless little gasps. yoongi’s hands are on her hips, not guiding, just steady. like a grounding wire, keeping her together while she comes apart. “just like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “you’re doing so good.” he can feel how wet she is, how much she wants it. and he wants to give her more — his cock, his mouth, his everything — but for now, this is enough. watching her ruin herself on him, all flushed cheeks and desperate whines, he knows: she was made for this kind of pleasure. made to be worshipped.

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s losing his mind. she’s in nothing but a t-shirt, thighs spread over one of his, panties long gone, slick coating his skin every time she moves. he’s leaned back, hands behind him on the mattress, eyes locked on her face as she grinds down harder, her body chasing friction like a prayer. “fuck, hobi,” she gasps, and his name sounds like salvation. he nods, breath caught in his throat, pupils blown wide. “that’s it, baby—ride it. show me how bad you need it.” he wants to touch her so bad it hurts. wants to flip her over and sink into her until she forgets her own name. but he doesn’t. he lets her lead. watches her fall apart, crying out as her orgasm hits, trembling so hard she nearly collapses. he catches her, of course. kisses her shoulder. presses a hand to her heart. “you’re incredible,” he says like it’s the truth (because it is), and he means it with every breath.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s underneath her, shirtless and smug, watching her grind on his thigh like it’s a game he’s already won. her face is flushed, lips swollen from all the biting, her movements stuttery and desperate. “baby…” he breathes, voice dripping with sweetness and sin, “you’re really gonna come like this?” she nods — barely — too far gone to speak. and jimin groans, low and filthy, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “you’re so pretty when you’re messy.” he kisses her like she’s falling apart, like he can taste her pleasure on his tongue, and her hands clutch at his shoulders as her body tenses. when she finally comes, he watches every second — eyes locked on her expression like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “god, you’re everything,” he whispers, and then flips her underneath him, already grinning. “now let me take care of the rest.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀៹ ⠀ he doesn’t even blink. just sits back in the velvet armchair like a king, legs spread, letting her work herself against the solid press of his thigh while his hands rest lazily on the arms of the chair. the only giveaway is his jaw — tense, tight — and the flicker of his tongue across his bottom lip. she’s panting already, body trembling as she drags her soaked pussy along the muscle of his thigh, clinging to his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her from slipping under. “look at you,” he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates through the floor. “fuckin’ yourself on me like you were made for it.” he leans forward just enough to catch her chin, tilt her face up. “you wanna come, baby?” her nod is immediate, breathless. “then come for me,” he says. and she does, with a broken cry, body convulsing in his lap. he kisses her forehead. “good girl.”

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀៹⠀he’s trying so hard to stay still, but fuck—she’s not making it easy. straddling his thigh, panties soaked through, her hips moving in frantic little circles as she chases the high like it’s her last breath. his hands are on her ass, gripping tight, grounding her. his eyes don’t leave her face — wide, dazed, mouth open with a soft chant of his name. “kook… please…” she whines, and he groans, low and ruined. “you can do it,” he rasps. “come on, baby, make a mess on me.” and she does — hard, shaking, grinding through it while he holds her steady and kisses her shoulder through every wave. when she finally collapses against his chest, trembling and boneless, he whispers against her hair, “fuck, that was so hot… you feel what you did to me?” and yeah, he’s hard as hell — but he doesn’t even care. her pleasure’s already wrecked him.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀opposites don’t attract, they destroy⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀pjm⠀⠀) chpt. O2

pairing: fuckboy!jimin x too-proud, stubborn, social butterfly!f!reader

genre: college!au, frenemies to lovers, smut, angst, comedy (sorta), slow-ish burn, emotional damage with a side of flirtatious banter, bad decisions galore.

warnings: explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, oral f and m receiving, protected p in v, switch dynamics), language, light angst, emotionally immature behavior, casual hookup history, mentions of possessiveness/jealousy, one angry ex-fling banging at the door mid-orgasm. reader is horny and confused. jimin is horny and emotionally stunted. everyone is very much down bad.

word count: 11.5 k (got a little carried away)

summary: (y/n) tries to pretend that night never happened, but jimin isn’t making it easy. what starts with a closet confrontation turns into a routine of stolen moments and unspoken rules: this isn’t a thing. they aren’t anything. until someone from his past shows up at the worst possible time, and suddenly it feels a lot like something.

taglist | m.list | prev.

"we're not a thing"

monday came too soon.

the party fog had barely lifted and already (y/n) was back in lecture halls pretending she hadn’t made life-altering decisions in the backseat of a very questionably clean car. her mini skirt was folded neatly in her laundry basket. her phone was muted. and her pride? hanging on by a thread, but still kicking.

she didn’t look for jimin. not on campus, not in her messages, not even in the periphery of the quad where he usually lurked like a lazy predator in low-rise jeans. she told herself it meant nothing. it was nothing. a moment of weakness, tequila, and bad judgment wrapped up in messy kisses and louder-than-necessary moans. it wasn’t who she was.

but denial didn’t stop the nausea from curling in her stomach when she walked into the café and spotted sora already waiting with two iced americanos and that look. the one that said i know something you don’t want me to know.

(y/n) slid into the seat across from her, sunglasses on even though they were indoors. “don’t start.”

sora raised a brow, positively glowing with suspicion. “i didn’t say anything.”

“yet,” (y/n) muttered.

sora smiled, sipping from her straw like she had all the time in the world. “so… you disappeared the other night. at the party.”

(y/n) hummed in response, scrolling through her phone with all the enthusiasm of a corpse.

“you know what’s funny?” sora leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice laced with that teasing lilt that meant nothing good was coming. “park jimin was nowhere to be found either.”

that got a twitch out of her. barely. but enough for sora to pounce.

“i was in the kitchen looking for you when his cute friend—jungkook, i believe—came up looking for park too. said he ‘lost’ him,” she added, air-quoting. “hilarious, i know.”

(y/n) took a long, very unnecessary sip of coffee. “maybe they went to get food.”

sora blinked. “at midnight? during a house party? in his car?”

silence.

“you’re not even gonna try?” sora asked, sounding offended at the lack of effort. “come on. lie to me with some conviction.”

“i didn’t ask for this interrogation,” (y/n) mumbled, pushing her sunglasses up higher. “it was a stupid night, okay? that’s it.”

sora's smile faltered, just a bit. “so it was jimin.”

(y/n) sighed. loud. “sora.”

“you slept with park jimin and didn’t tell me. i’m not mad, just... disappointed. mostly in your taste.”

“it wasn’t like that.” she crossed her arms. “we didn’t—i mean, it was just—fuck, okay, i don’t know what it was. but it’s over.”

“mmhm,” sora said, entirely unconvinced. “tell that to the regret dripping off you like sweat.”

(y/n) groaned and slammed her head lightly onto the table. the iced americano wobbled in warning.

—

the lecture hall felt way too bright for 9 a.m.

(y/n) sat in the back like always, one AirPod in, pretending her iced coffee would bring her peace. it didn’t. everything felt loud—the scratch of pens, the shuffle of backpacks, the tinny buzz of someone’s forgotten phone. her nerves were tap dancing on her spine.

no one was staring at her, but it felt like everyone could be.

what if someone saw her leave the party with him? what if someone heard?

she shifted in her seat, tugging her oversized hoodie lower like that would erase the ghost of his hands on her thighs. the lecture started. something about political theory or the rise of late capitalism—she couldn’t focus. she could barely keep herself from checking the door.

and then it opened.

“sorry, sorry,” came a voice she knew too well now. low, lazy, not even trying to sound sincere.

park jimin strolled in like he owned the air. like he hadn’t made her lose her goddamn mind in the back of his car. like she hadn’t made herself finish all over him and then ghosted the moment she regained lucidity.

he didn’t look at the professor. didn’t apologize again. didn’t even hesitate.

his eyes landed straight on her. and she felt it—like a sucker punch through her spine.

he walked up the stairs of the lecture hall without shame, slipping into the empty seat next to her like this was totally normal and they hadn’t just completely annihilated the “i cannot stand you” consensus within 72 hours.

“morning,” he said under his breath, pulling out a pen he clearly wasn’t going to use.

she stared ahead like she was carved out of salt. “do i know you?”

jimin snorted. “wow. cold.”

“please. i’m trying to learn about... whatever this is.” she gestured vaguely toward the professor.

“capitalist propaganda. riveting.”

“why are you here?” she hissed.

“it’s a class we both take,” he pointed out, barely hiding his smile.

“you don’t even come to this class!”

“i do now.” he leaned in slightly. “you’re very... motivating.”

she kicked him under the table. not hard enough. he just grinned wider.

“you’re really going to act like that night didn’t happen?” he asked, voice dipped just enough to make her clench her jaw.

“what night?” she replied, blinking at him like he was a stranger asking for directions.

his laugh was low, soft, dangerous. “god, you’re mean. no wonder i can’t get enough.”

she hated how warm her cheeks felt. hated it more that he noticed.

“are you going to flirt with me the whole semester now?” she hissed.

“wasn’t planning on it.” he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. “but now? absolutely.” 

he was still looking at her. like class wasn’t happening. like she wasn’t actively trying to pretend she hadn’t cried after that orgasm, freaked out, and ghosted him before he could even zip up properly.

she sighed, still facing forward, whispering sharp. “listen, buddy.”

his grin was immediate. oh no.

“oh, i’m ‘buddy’ now?” he whispered back, elbow propped on the desk, body angled toward her like they were in on some hilarious secret.

“whatever you think this is,” she hissed, ignoring the flutter in her chest, “don’t. matter of fact, let’s stop talking to each other. like… ever.”

“aw,” he murmured, leaning a little closer, his breath warm against her shoulder. “so dramatic. and after we shared such a magical night together.”

her eyes snapped to his. “i’m serious.”

“so am i,” he said, smirking. “i was deeply moved. spiritually even. you, on top of me, moaning like—”

“shut up.”

“i’m just saying,” he shrugged, voice maddeningly casual, “for someone who wants to forget, you’re really intense about the details.”

“jimin.”

“you didn’t even take your underwear all the way off,” he said, tone dropping, eyes shameless. “left ‘em hanging off your ankle like a cute little ribbon. drove me crazy.”

she inhaled, sharp and shallow, heart tripping over itself. “god, you’re such a—”

“brat,” he finished for her, tilting his head like he’d just named a constellation. “you were such a brat that night. acting like you were doing me a favor while dripping all over me.”

her jaw clenched. “you’re disgusting.”

“you’re welcome.”

“you’re delusional.”

“mmm, maybe.” he tapped his pen against her notebook just to be annoying. “but you came. hard. and you’ll probably do it again.”

“in your dreams.”

he leaned even closer. “nah. that was real. trust me, babe—I dream dirtier.”

she stared at the board like it held the secrets to teleportation. he smelled like fabric softener and recklessness, and god, he was radiating satisfaction like a fucking smug heater.

“let’s stop talking,” she muttered, finally writing a nonsense sentence just to look busy.

he chuckled, low. “we can stop talking. but if you think i’m not gonna keep looking at your mouth and remembering exactly how you tasted—”

her pencil snapped. 

he was still smirking. like he could see the tiny crack forming in her armor. the way her thighs pressed together. the way her fingers twitched like they remembered being tangled in his hair.

she refused to look at him.

refused to let her face betray anything but exasperation.

her pulse, however, was another story.

she leaned just slightly toward him, keeping her tone low and dismissive but sharp enough to pierce. “you know what i think, park?”

his brows lifted lazily, chin resting on his hand, clearly entertained. “can’t wait to hear it.”

she glanced at him now—just a flash, just enough to deliver it like a challenge.

“i think you’re the one who can’t get enough.”

his eyes flicked to her mouth again. she could feel it.

“of what?” he asked, feigning innocence. “your sparkling personality?”

“of me.” she said, too calm. too collected. “i think you’ve spent so much time getting easy girls to fall over themselves for you that you don’t know how to handle someone who makes you work for it.”

jimin blinked, then let out a soft laugh, sitting back in his seat like she’d just told him a bedtime story.

“that’s cute,” he said, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip. “but if i remember correctly…” he glanced down meaningfully, just once, “you were the one on top, baby.”

she crossed her legs tightly. don’t react. don’t fidget. don’t bite your lip like you always do when you’re flustered—

“must’ve been exhausting,” he added. “doing all that work.”

“you’re disgusting,” she muttered again, cheeks hot, throat tight.

“and you keep telling me that.” his voice dropped, warm and slow and honey-thick. “but you’re still thinking about it. you’re still letting yourself remember it.”

her jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the front of the room even though the lecture had long since become background noise.

he leaned in one last time, his whisper a lazy breath against her cheek.

“it’s okay. i do too.”

the class ended with the sharp scrape of chairs and the dull hum of chatter. she was out of her seat before the professor even capped their marker.

“wait up,” jimin said behind her, casual as ever.

“no.”

“you don’t even know what i was gonna say—”

“i don’t care,” she cut in, picking up her pace.

he followed anyway. of course he did. sneakers squeaking faintly with every obnoxious step as he trailed her like some smug, ridiculously hot shadow. they were almost to the courtyard when the worst possible thing happened.

“yo,” came a voice to her right.

they both turned to see taemin, one of those mutual-ish friends that orbited in and out of their shared social scenes—enough to know the dynamics, not enough to know the details.

taemin looked between them slowly, brows drawn together in mild suspicion. “aren’t you guys like… natural enemies or something?”

she opened her mouth to respond but jimin beat her to it, already slinging his arm over her shoulders like they were dating or whatever the hell this was.

“she’s finally being cool,” he said, grinning. “we’re getting to know each other.”

her stomach flipped. heat flooded her face.

“ew,” she deadpanned, ducking out from under his arm. “god, no.”

taemin blinked. “…are you guys okay?”

“do we look okay?” she snapped, forcing a laugh. “he’s just being weird.”

jimin clicked his tongue, hands shoved into his pockets now, watching her like she was an unfolding drama and he had popcorn in his brain.

“i’m not being weird,” he shrugged. “you just can’t handle someone being nice to you for once.”

“you call that nice?”

taemin looked positively lost, glancing between the two like he was watching an improv bit spiral out of control.

“what is this energy?” he muttered, stepping back. “are you two like… flirting?”

“no.”

“yes.”

they said it at the same time.

she glared at jimin. he winked.

taemin made a face. “okayyy. i’m gonna go.”

“great,” she said.

“say hi to jungkook for me,” jimin added absently, already falling into step beside her again once taemin left.

“why are you still following me?”

“why are you still pretending you don’t like it?”

“because i don’t.”

he hummed, low and teasing. “you do. but it’s okay. i’ve got time.”

“well i don’t,” she snapped. “so go flirt with someone else. someone easier.”

he stopped walking then. just for a second. and when she turned to look at him—against her better judgment—he was staring at her like he knew she wasn’t going to say that again.

“but where’s the fun in easy?”

—

the door clicked shut behind her and she barely made it to her bed before letting out a full-body groan, throwing herself face-first into a pillow.

sora, sitting cross-legged on her own bed with a snack in hand and a suspicious glint in her eye, didn’t even blink. “so… how was class?”

“don’t,” she grumbled into the sheets. “don’t do that.”

“do what?” sora asked sweetly, popping a piece of dried mango into her mouth.

(y/n) turned her head just enough to breathe. “act like you don’t already know exactly what i’m about to say.”

sora smiled. “i mean, i did see you storming down the quad with park jimin hot on your heels looking like he just got denied a second round of something scandalous.”

(y/n) groaned again. louder. more dramatic.

“he’s such an idiot,” she declared, sitting up and tossing the pillow like it had personally wronged her. “he literally tried to sit next to me in class, like nothing happened.”

“uh-huh.”

“and then followed me outside like we were in a rom-com. like this is some sort of friends with benefits arc.”

“sounds like someone’s a fan,” sora said, half-smirking.

“can you believe him?”

“oh, absolutely. but babes,” she leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, “can you believe yourself?”

(y/n) blinked. “excuse me?”

sora raised a brow, popping another mango slice. “you’re really out here acting like this is brand new. like you haven’t been side-eyeing him all semester like he’s an off-limits dessert on a cheat day.”

(y/n)’s jaw dropped. “i have not—”

“you have. and don’t get me wrong, i respect the effort. the whole ‘he’s annoying and gross and i hate him’ routine was very convincing.” sora tilted her head, grinning. “but, like… you disappeared at that party. he disappeared. and now you’re doing a fake lovers-to-enemies-to-lover-again speedrun? baby. be serious.”

“we’re not lovers.” she hissed.

“sure,” sora nodded. “and i don’t binge-watch kdramas at 2am. tell me another lie.”

(y/n) flopped back on the bed, covering her eyes with her arm. “it was just… one time. a mistake.”

“was it mind-blowing though?”

“sora—”

“okay okay fine. not important.” she stood up and stretched, already heading toward the fridge. “but, for the record, he’s been into you since like week three.”

(y/n)’s breath caught. “no, he hasn’t.”

“please,” sora scoffed, grabbing a can of sparkling water. “he literally asked me about you once. like out of nowhere. said, and i quote, ‘what’s her deal?’ with this stupid little smile.”

“…you’re lying.”

“why would i lie for him? i’m team hot girl. always.” she plopped back down. “but also, maybe consider why you haven’t told anyone yet. like… not even me.”

silence.

(y/n) stared at the ceiling.

“because it’s nothing,” she said finally. “it’s not real.”

sora’s voice softened. “doesn’t mean it didn’t feel real.”

(y/n) was still on her back, staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe—or at least the answers to why her life was currently a mess tangled in low-rise jeans and cocky smirks.

sora didn’t let the silence linger too long.

“okay, fine,” she said, dusting off her hands like she was concluding a business meeting. “we’re calling it: not a thing. whatever happened in the back of that car, totally irrelevant. meaningless. an oopsie.”

(y/n) sighed in relief, eyes still closed. “thank you. sanity has returned to the chat.”

“mm-hmm.” sora took a sip of her drink, then casually added, “just do me a favor and give me a heads up whenever you guys are raw-dogging it in here. i don’t need to walk in and be emotionally scarred.”

(y/n) bolted upright. “i’m not giving you a heads up because i’m not sleeping with him again!”

sora didn’t even flinch. “right. right. of course not.” she stood up and made a show of walking over to crack the window open. “just make sure to air the room out after. i don’t want it to smell like jimin’s cologne and bad decisions.”

“can you fucking not?!” (y/n) shrieked, hurling a pillow across the room. it hit sora square in the back, but she didn’t even turn around—just calmly fluffed the curtain and let the spring breeze roll in like she was a sage preparing the room for spiritual cleansing.

“i’m just being proactive,” sora replied serenely. “your future self will thank me.”

“my future self is going to murder you.”

“only if you survive the next round with your mortal enemy slash backseat boyfriend.”

“he’s not—” (y/n) groaned so loud it could’ve summoned the dead. “you know what? never mind. i’m not even dignifying this with more words.”

“sure, babe. bottle it all up. healthy coping is overrated anyway.”

(y/n) let herself fall back dramatically again, dragging her comforter over her head. “this is my villain origin story.”

“better make it hot. people root for messy girls who look good in mini skirts.”

—

the parking lot, early evening

the parking lot behind the arts building still smelled faintly of cigarettes and burnt espresso from the campus café. jimin leaned against his car, sunglasses on despite the fading light, arms crossed like he wasn’t hiding from the aftermath of the day.

“you’re not slick,” jungkook said, tossing his water bottle into the backseat of tae’s beat-up old jeep. “you keep checking your phone like someone’s gonna text you first. we know you. she doesn’t.”

taehyung snorted, slapping a hand on jimin’s shoulder with dramatic flair. “our boy’s in denial. look at him. he’s twitching like a divorced man waiting on a custody ruling.”

jimin rolled his eyes. “you two need hobbies.”

“don’t dodge,” jungkook said, pointing. “you disappeared after the party. like, fully vanished. poof. i checked the upstairs bathroom, the deck, the kitchen—and you were not making out with that blonde girl from econ like you said you would.”

taehyung raised his eyebrows. “wanna try again, romeo?”

“you wouldn’t believe me even if i told you,” jimin muttered, and immediately regretted it.

“oh?” taehyung leaned in, shark-grinning. “so it is good.”

jungkook’s eyes lit up. “wait, wait—don’t tell me—”

“(y/n),” jimin said, looking off into the distance like it physically pained him to admit it. “the backseat of my car.”

dead silence.

jungkook let out a single, disbelieving laugh. “you’re lying.”

taehyung choked on air. “you got her in the car?!” he pointed at the vehicle behind them. “that car?!”

“hey,” jimin defended, “that car’s iconic.”

“bro,” jungkook said, hands on his hips, “you’ve been flirting with her for what—two semesters? three? she used to pretend you didn’t exist.”

“she still pretends i don’t,” jimin muttered.

taehyung narrowed his eyes. “so let me get this straight. miss ‘you’re disgusting, park jimin,’ climbed into your car, made out with you, and you—what? just let it happen?”

jimin finally smiled. smug, slow. “she undid my belt. i didn’t have to let anything happen.”

“jesus christ,” jk muttered, throwing his hoodie over his head. “he’s so far gone.”

“i’m not gone,” jimin said, too quickly. “we agreed it was a one-time thing. we’re not doing it again.”

tae raised both brows. “and you believed that?”

“yeah.” jimin shrugged. “she said it with her whole chest.”

jungkook rolled his eyes. “okay but like… was her mouth saying one thing and her body saying something else?”

jimin just smiled, and that was answer enough.

taehyung groaned. “you’re doomed. like emotionally wrecked by midterms doomed.”

“nah,” jimin said, reaching for his keys and trying to act like it didn’t matter. “we’re fine. i’m chill. she’s chill. it’s whatever.”

jungkook leaned against the car next to him. “you’re so chill that you nearly murdered a sophomore for asking her what lip gloss she was wearing two days ago.”

“it was a weird question!”

“he was gay!”

“he said it like he was curious,” jimin argued, unlocking his car with a dramatic beep.

taehyung and jungkook exchanged a look. that look said yep. this is gonna crash and burn in HD.

“just promise you won’t write poetry about her when she ghosts you,” taehyung said.

“i don’t write poetry.”

“not yet.”

—

the lights in his apartment were dimmed low that night, nothing but the soft hum of a playlist filling the silence between breaths. 

jimin leaned back against his couch, hands resting lazily on either side of him while rowan's perched in his lap, skin warm and familiar, her thighs bracketing his hips like muscle memory. the kind of closeness that’s supposed to feel easy. automatic. 

she smells like jasmine and wine coolers, a little breathless from their earlier kissing, her lips dragging slowly down his neck. the TV’s on mute, flickering some stupid action movie he’s not watching.

but his mind’s not here. it’s stuck somewhere in the backseat of his car, under the tight grip of her thighs, the taste of her tongue, the sound she made when—

rowan rolls her hips slightly, grounding him, dragging his focus back with a practiced tug at his belt. “you’re quiet,” she says, low. “cat got your tongue?”

his breath catches, but not in the way she wants. “just tired.”

“you never used to be too tired for this.” she leans in again, hand sliding under his shirt, up the plane of his stomach. she knows what he likes. knows how to unravel him, usually.

but he grabs her wrist—not rough, just firm. “not tonight.”

“what?” she pulls back, confusion quickly hardening into something else. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not,” he says, sitting up straighter, adjusting the hem of his shirt like it matters now. “i’m not really in the mood.”

rowan stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “you—jimin. you’re not in the mood? since when?”

he doesn’t answer, jaw ticking once, eyes refusing to meet hers.

she lets out a short, humorless laugh. “wow. okay.”

he tries to soften it. “it’s not about you—”

“oh, of course not,” she cuts in, climbing off his lap, pacing the room like she’s trying to burn off something. “because god forbid you ever talk about your feelings like a real person. no, we just... play house until you decide you’re over it.”

“rowan, come on—”

“don’t ‘rowan’ me.” her eyes are sharp now, arms crossed over her chest. “you think I don’t know? that it’s not me you’re thinking about when I’m right here trying to give a shit?”

he opens his mouth, but there’s nothing worth saying. and she knows it.

“i used to think i didn’t care,” she says finally. “hooking up, no strings... whatever. but somewhere along the way i got sick of pretending that i don’t notice when you disappear into your head every time some new girl starts orbiting.”

his silence is answer enough.

rowan grabs her jacket from the chair, slinging it over her shoulder. “whoever she is, congrats. she’s the first one you’ve ever looked miserable about.”

he flinches.

“text me if you ever figure it out,” she adds, voice flatter now. “but don’t bother if you’re just gonna keep using people like placeholders.”

the door shuts harder than it needs to.

jimin exhales, sinking into the couch, staring blankly at the space she left behind.

fuck.

thursday, campus café, mid-afternoon

the dynamic doesn’t shift much. not on the surface.

jimin still winks when she passes him near the quad. still finds her in every lecture like he’s magnetized to her seat. still leans over her desk to ask if she’s “missed him,” even when she’s actively ignoring his entire existence. still flirts like the backseat of his car never happened—or maybe, worse, like it happened and he knows exactly what it did to her.

and (y/n)? she plays her role to perfection. still rolls her eyes like it doesn’t fluster her. still pretends like she’s busy on her phone every time he enters the room. still cuts him off mid-sentence with a deadpan “get a job” or “you talk too much.”

but it’s wearing on her.

like a pebble in her shoe she refuses to take off, the ache builds. he laughs too loud. sits too close. she hears his voice when she’s not even near him and feels her skin tighten. every encounter leaves a trace—of warmth, of tension, of fucking want—and she hates it. hates him.

hates herself more for still dreaming about the way he groaned her name like it meant something.

they’re at the café when it really starts to get under her skin. he’s already sitting with their shared group of friends when she arrives—oversized hoodie, backwards cap, sipping an iced americano like he didn’t just have two girls giggling at his side moments ago.

she tries not to care. really, she does.

but the second he spots her, his smirk shifts into something too smug, too direct.

“hey, trouble,” he calls.

she freezes only for a second. “do I owe you rent now? you’ve been in my business all week.”

he grins like she said something sweet. like he’s proud to be under her skin.

she takes the seat across from him with the most dramatic sigh she can muster.

he just leans forward, voice low so the others don’t hear. “you look tired, babe. been dreaming about me?”

she stares at him. dead in the eyes. “only in my worst nightmares.”

“still counts.”

and god, it does count. because the problem isn’t just the flirting. it’s the way her body reacts to it. the way her skin still remembers his touch. the way her brain short-circuits every time he calls her babe, like it doesn’t make her stomach flip in a way that’s entirely, pathetically real.

she excuses herself early. says she’s got class.

but really, she just needs to breathe.

because no one warns you that the worst part of a one-time thing isn’t the silence after.

it’s the noise that follows.

that night — dorm room, nearly 2 a.m.

the room is too quiet without sora's commentary in the background. no half-watched drama on low volume, no clinking of skincare bottles or gummy candy wrappers rustling. just the dim glow of her phone on the desk across the room and the hum of the mini fridge.

(y/n) sighs.

she’s already flipped her pillow twice. Her sheets feel like they're suffocating her. everything’s too hot and not hot enough. and she can’t stop thinking.

not about him.

not at first.

she groans and throws her comforter off with too much force, sits up with hair falling into her face, that kind of exasperated energy that only comes when you’ve been avoiding yourself all day.

“fuck it,” she mumbles into the dark.

she knows where everything is. bottom drawer. tucked beneath a t-shirt she doesn’t wear anymore. essentials she tells herself are for “emergencies” but deep down she knows that’s code for nights like this—when the ache is sharper than the pride, when her mind won’t stop spinning and the silence gets a little too honest.

condoms. lube. and the toy she’d never admit she owns, let alone uses.

she settles back into the sheets, legs shifting restlessly. not expecting much. just trying to ease something—tension, maybe. frustration. the emptiness that always hits harder when the world slows down.

she doesn't think of him.

not right away.

she pictures something vague, faceless—hands, lips, warm breath down her neck.

but her mind is a traitor.

because suddenly, it is him.

the tilt of jimin’s smirk. the way his voice dropped when he called her brat. the burn of his hands on her thighs. his tongue tracing the rim of her lower lip before pulling back, that damn string of spit, how ruined he looked watching her come undone.

her breath stutters.

and now it’s impossible not to think of him. her hand moves faster. her body knows. remembers. betrays her with every pulse of pleasure that edges in faster than she expects. she bites her lip to stay quiet, frustrated with herself more than anything.

because he’s not here.

but it feels like he is.

and when she comes, it’s with his name almost on her tongue—so close she can taste it, can feel it scraping the inside of her chest as she gasps, her body arching off the mattress in spite of herself.

silence returns.

heavier now.

god, she thinks, one arm flung over her face.

she wishes she could forget the backseat. wishes her skin didn’t still tingle from the memory. wishes he wasn’t the only one who could crawl into her head and take up space like this.

she hates that she let herself go there. hates that it helped.

but most of all, she hates the part of herself that wants it again.

and so the next morning comes along like a blur.

the kind that clings to your skin and gums up your thoughts.

(y/n) wakes up tangled in sheets that feel more like a trap than comfort, body warm and limbs sore, not from anything real—just tension, that pulling-apart-inside-herself kind of tension. her eyes feel tired even though she slept, which feels like a cosmic joke.

she barely touches her breakfast. everything tastes off. her coffee goes cold on the desk while she tries to not think about last night. about her hand. about the way she couldn't stop thinking about his mouth. his voice. how her own body betrayed her for the millionth time.

and now, here she is, wandering campus like a ghost with twenty minutes to kill before her next class. and, of course—of course—she stumbles right into the one person she’s not in the emotional or hormonal headspace to deal with:

park fucking jimin.

leaning casually against a vending machine like it's a prop in some high-budget music video. his hair looks too good for someone who probably just rolled out of bed, silver chain glinting in the hallway lights, eyes scanning her like he's been waiting.

he straightens when he sees her, lips already curling into that shit-eating grin.

“hey, stranger,” he says, voice all syrup and suggestion. “miss me?”

she clenches her jaw. not today, satan.

he starts walking alongside her like they planned it, like they always walk to class together now, matching step for step with that annoying swagger of his, and it’s so casual, so persistent, it makes her want to scream.

“you know, if you’re gonna keep pretending nothing happened, at least try to not look like you’ve been thinking about me all morning,” he says under his breath, tone light, cocky.

“what the fuck is your deal?” she snaps.

and then—god help her—without even realizing it, her hand closes around his wrist, yanking him forward toward the janitor’s closet just a few feet ahead. the hallway’s not empty, but no one’s really looking, so she drags him inside, slamming the door shut behind them, fluorescent light flickering dim and dramatic above.

jimin blinks, more intrigued than surprised.

“wow,” he breathes, leaning against the shelves with one brow raised. “aggressive.”

“you’re insufferable, park,” she hisses, one hand still fisted in the front of his hoodie.

he tilts his head, smug, eyes glinting.

“and yet you’re the one who pulled me into this closet, naughty girl.”

their faces are just inches apart now. the air thick between them. her pulse flares in her throat, louder than the distant sound of footsteps outside.

he leans forward just a little more, enough for his breath to ghost against her cheek.

“starting to think you like me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, infuriatingly gentle.

“in your dreams,” she mutters, though her hand still hasn’t let go.

“oh, baby,” he grins, “you have no idea.”

her brain shuts off before her pride can catch up.

the only thing she registers is heat—white-hot, no-logic, reckless heat—and her fingers knotting in his hair, tugging hard like she wants to punish him and claim him in the same breath. jimin doesn’t even flinch; in fact, he groans like he’s been waiting for this, starving for it, and then they’re colliding like a match to gasoline.

their lips crash—messy, furious, desperate.

it’s not sweet. it’s not romantic. it’s teeth and tongue and frustration, all those near-touch moments exploding into something they can’t take back.

his hands are everywhere, greedy on her waist, thumbs pressing bruises into her hips through her clothes as he backs her up. one quick motion and he flips their positions, and suddenly it’s her back hitting the wall with a quiet thud—his thigh nudging between hers, his lips dragging down to her jaw like he wants to ruin her, here and now.

“fuck,” he breathes, nose brushing her skin. “you taste like trouble.”

she bites back a moan, hands sliding beneath the hem of his hoodie, fingers skating over hot skin. this wasn’t supposed to happen again. she told herself that. swore it.

but now his mouth is back on hers and she’s arching into him like he’s oxygen.

when they finally pull apart, panting, lips swollen, his fingers still curled around her hipbone like he’s anchoring himself, she’s the first to speak—voice low and wrecked.

“we said we weren’t doing this again.”

“you said that,” he grins, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. “i never agreed.”

she’s silent for a beat, pulse thunderous in her ears.

“…we can’t keep doing this, jimin.”

he leans back just a fraction, cocky as ever but something softer flickering beneath it.

“then stop pulling me into closets.”

she rolls her eyes but doesn’t push him away.

not yet.

“so, tell me baby girl…” his voice is a rasp, low and sinful against the curve of her throat, the breath of it ghosting over her skin like a brand. “what’s it gonna be?”

her will? shattered. dignity? already hanging by a thread since the moment she tugged him into this cramped supply closet with fluorescent lights buzzing above like a warning. she should’ve stopped this. should’ve walked away.

but her thighs are clenching around his, hips tilting helplessly into the friction he’s giving her with barely any effort, and his hand is sliding up her back under her shirt like he already knows she’s done fighting.

her fingers twist in the collar of his hoodie, dragging him impossibly closer until his body’s flush against hers, chest to chest, breath mingling.

“just…” she breathes, the word hitching when he shifts his thigh just right, “…don’t try to make it a thing. it’s not.”

he laughs, laughs, that smug, infuriating chuckle vibrating against her collarbone like he’s absolutely thriving off her unraveling.

“baby, you’re grinding on my thigh and telling me this isn’t a thing?” he teases, one hand slipping down to grab a fistful of her ass, rocking her just a little harder against him.

a soft sound escapes her throat—half moan, half curse—and she glares at him, nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

“you’re such an asshole.”

he leans in, lips brushing her jaw, smug and warm and terrible.

“and yet, here you are. again.”

her mouth opens, maybe to argue, maybe to deny, maybe to call him something worse—but then he moves his leg just right again and whatever thought she had dies on her tongue.

her head tips back, hand fisting in his hoodie like she hates how good this feels.

she tells herself one more time. just this once. she’ll indulge the ache, let him give her the relief she swears she doesn’t need. and then she’ll get out before it means anything.

easy.

except they both know there’s nothing easy about the way they can’t seem to stay away.

they move in sync like they’ve done this a thousand times before—like their bodies have memorized each other already, which is insane because technically this is only the second time, and yet… the way they stumble together, mouths still tangled, hands feverishly tugging at fabric and skin, you'd think they’d been dancing around this fire for years.

he walks her backward blindly, bumping into a half-dead mop and an abandoned box of old test tubes before her back hits the edge of the desk shoved into the far corner. his hands grip her thighs, warm and certain, and with barely a word he lifts her with ease, seating her on top like she belongs there.

her skirt has ridden up from the motion, flowy and far too tempting, his palms ghosting up her bare thighs beneath it like he’s approaching something holy.

she hisses a breath between her teeth, spine arching slightly when his thumbs press into the sensitive skin just above her knees, gliding higher with every second.

"you're gonna ruin me in this stupid closet," she mutters, half-dazed, looking at him like she hates him, like she wants him, like she might let him ruin her all over again anyway.

he smirks, standing between her legs, his chest rising with a breathless kind of hunger, lips swollen, eyes impossibly dark.

“baby girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth against hers, “you already look ruined.”

her nails dig into his shoulders and she kisses him again, like she’s punishing him for being right.

his hands finally slip under her skirt properly this time, finding the place she needs him most. she bites back a sound, burying her face into the crook of his neck, and he swears under his breath, voice gritty with want.

they’re reckless and messy and completely doomed, but right now? right now, nothing else matters but the way her legs wrap around his hips and the heat pooling between them.

"just be quick, i have class next period," she breathes out, fingers already at the button of his jeans like she’s been waiting for this moment way longer than she’ll ever admit.

"mm, yeah?" he murmurs, voice rough, hands sliding beneath her skirt with no pretense this time. "gonna let me fuck the attitude out of you before you go learn about... whatever it is you pretend to care about in that lecture?"

"shut up," she snaps, but her voice lacks bite—too breathy, too desperate. her thighs twitch as his fingers graze over the soaked fabric between her legs. he huffs out a laugh, low and triumphant, pushing her underwear aside like they’re a mere formality.

“god, you're so wet,” he mumbles, more to himself than to her, dragging a finger along her center just to feel how soaked she already is for him.

she closes her eyes for a second, jaw tight, cursing herself internally. this was supposed to be a one-time mistake. it wasn’t supposed to live in her skin, under her fingernails, replaying itself in the silence of her dorm and in the middle of lectures.

he presses in closer, one hand bracing beside her, the other freeing himself without hesitation. her breath catches when she feels him—hot and hard against her inner thigh.

“wait—wait,” he mumbles, one hand flying down to his pocket, fishing around in the chaos of his denim until he pulls out the telltale foil packet. he holds it up between two fingers, brows raised, chest still heaving. "we really doing this?" he asks, a teasing edge to his voice but his eyes are serious, locked onto hers.

she’s already leaning back on her hands, legs parted just enough to answer that for him. “clearly,” she mutters, half breathless, half annoyed at herself. 

he tears the packet open with his teeth, all while smirking like the cocky bastard he is. “god, you’re hot when you pretend to hate me,” he says, rolling the condom on with practiced ease, low and slow and watching her eyes flicker down and back up like she’s not affected.

“i don’t pretend,” she throws back, but the way she shifts closer, needy and impatient, betrays her completely.

“sure,” he says, stepping in, one hand sliding behind her knee, the other helping her tilt her hips forward. “keep telling yourself that, baby girl.”

“just shut up and—”

and he’s already pushing into her, swallowing her words with a kiss so deep it leaves her dizzy.

he moves quick, like he’s got something to prove—hips snapping forward as his mouth drags a hot line down her jaw to her ear, voice smug and breathless all at once.

“told you you missed me,” he murmurs, right into the shell of her ear, grinning when she lets out a choked sound that definitely isn’t a denial. “you’re so fucking loud, baby… you want everyone out there to know you’re getting fucked by park jimin?”

her nails dig into his back instantly, eyes blown wide as she glares at him with half-lidded fury. “shut up,” she hisses, but it’s weak, pathetic, and ruined by the moan she barely manages to bite back when he thrusts deeper.

his teeth graze her earlobe, tongue flicking before he whispers again, voice darker now. “then you better be quiet,” he says, smug and slow like he’s savoring every second of her unraveling. “unless you want someone walking by to hear how wet you are for me. shit, you’re gonna get us caught.”

her hand flies to his mouth on instinct when he hits that one spot that makes her clench around him, her other grabbing the edge of the desk behind her like she’s holding on for dear life. he groans against her palm, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he pulls back just enough to watch her crumble.

outside, footsteps echo faintly, the muffled sounds of campus life continuing on while she’s stuck in her own personal chaos—hips jerking against his, skirt bunched around her waist, teeth sinking into her bottom lip just to keep from making another sound.

he leans in again, lips brushing over her cheek, whispering with that stupid grin still in place, “bet you’re gonna be thinking about this all lecture. squirming in your seat like a little brat.”

she doesn’t respond. not with words.

just with another needy roll of her hips that says she hates him almost as much as she wants him.

their foreheads press together, breaths tangled and shallow, like they’re trying to find some rhythm that isn’t just pure chaos. it’s dizzying—the tension, the friction, the way her fingers drag down the back of his neck and how his hand is anchored firm on her hip, grounding them both in the whirlwind they created.

her lip is caught between her teeth, eyes fluttering half-closed, lashes casting soft shadows against flushed cheeks as she tilts her head just enough to meet his gaze. it’s the kind of look that shouldn't be allowed this close—something intimate in all the wrong ways, almost too honest for a hookup they keep swearing means nothing.

her hand moves between them, delicate and intentional, guiding him deeper, pulling herself closer to the edge of the desk, the edge of whatever the hell this is.

he curses under his breath, his hands flexing on her thighs like he’s barely keeping it together. “fuck, baby,” he rasps, voice strained. “you trying to ruin me?”

she breathes out a laugh that turns into a moan, her forehead still against his, lips barely brushing like she might kiss him again—or maybe just needs the contact to stay grounded. “thought you already were,” she whispers, hips rising to meet his with each push, each grind that sends another ripple of heat down her spine.

he pulls back just enough to look at her, their noses brushing, pupils blown. there’s a hint of something in his eyes—cocky, sure, but maybe a little too tender for a boy who swears this is nothing.

but she doesn’t let herself look too long. instead, she rolls her hips again, biting back a gasp, tugging at his shirt like it’s going to keep her from falling apart completely.

outside, the world keeps spinning. but inside the janitor’s closet, it’s just them, breathing each other in like they’re both trying to pretend this doesn’t mean everything.

the warning bell blares down the hallway just as she tightens around him, her face buried in the crook of his neck, teeth pressing into her bottom lip to muffle the sound that still manages to escape as a broken moan. her whole body shudders, her grip on his back turning bruising, and he’s right behind her—biting out her name like a curse and a confession as he comes, buried deep, the condom catching everything, thankfully—though neither of them had said a word about it when he put it on, the motion all muscle memory in the dark rush of it all.

his forehead drops to her shoulder, chest heaving, arms trembling slightly from holding himself upright, both of them clinging to each other like they’ve got anything figured out. there’s only the sound of their panting breaths now, mingled and shallow, a silence filled with nothing and everything.

“jesus christ,” she exhales, blinking up at the ceiling, still half-dazed, still trying to remember what the hell she was thinking pulling him in here in the first place.

“you say that like you didn’t just make me see god,” he mutters against her skin, lips brushing her shoulder, the cockiness dulled only by how out of breath he still is.

she laughs, more incredulous than amused, hand sliding into his hair to push him off her shoulder. “get off,” she says, not even really mad, just… done.

he groans dramatically but obliges, stepping back just enough to carefully dispose of the condom—because for all his chaos, park jimin is still annoyingly responsible. she fixes her skirt quickly, cheeks still hot, her whole body feeling wrung out.

outside, they can hear voices—students rushing to class, lockers slamming shut, someone shouting about being late.

he looks at her with that maddening glint again, like they didn’t just almost get caught mid-thrust on top of a dusty desk. “same time next week?” he teases, tilting his head.

“you’re disgusting,” she mutters, shouldering past him to crack open the door.

“you didn’t say no, though,” he calls after her, voice smug.

she doesn’t turn around. doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

but her smirk is undeniable.

—

and so it becomes a thing—no, not a thing, god forbid anyone ever call it that—but a routine. chaotic, impulsive, and entirely unsustainable, but a routine nonetheless.

monday? janitor closet.

wednesday? a suspiciously long "coffee break" at a near-empty study room on the second floor of the library.

friday nights? depending on the chaos of the week, she’s either pressed up against the backseat window of jimin’s car again or slipping out of her dorm after sora falls asleep to end up at his apartment—hood up, hair messy, pretending she’s just out for snacks if anyone asks.

and it should feel transactional by now—detached. like just bodies moving the way they know how to. but the truth is, they’ve gotten good at this. too good.

they know what makes the other crumble. what to whisper. what to bite. how to push until the other snaps.

and the worst part? the more they do this, the harder it is to pretend they don’t care.

especially when he texts her again on a thursday night.

[park jimin 🐣]: you up? don’t make me beg, baby. i got that playlist you like on repeat.

she rolls her eyes. groans into her pillow. she's alone again—sora is sleeping at her boyfriend’s place for the second night in a row—and the silence of the room is taunting her. she looks at her phone, thumbs hovering, trying not to grin at the stupid little "🐣" next to his name.

she doesn’t need to go. she shouldn't. it’ll only make things worse. the longer this goes, the more tangled it gets. but god—her chest clenches a little at the idea of being near him again. and her body? her body is already making the decision for her, warmth pooling in her stomach, anticipation prickling under her skin.

she bites her lip, taps out a reply, and then erases it.

then writes a new one.

[you]: you literally have a girl on speed dial. why me.

a pause.

[park jimin 🐣]: ’cause you’re the only one who knows how to ruin me right. doors unlocked. i’ll be waiting. don’t wear underwear.

her mouth drops open a bit at the last message, heat flaring up her neck. "fuck you," she mumbles under her breath, already slipping off the bed to grab her keys, hoodie, and curse the way her heart races just thinking of seeing him again.

and the worst part?

she's smiling.

and so she goes.

grumbling under her breath the whole time, hoodie tugged low, hands buried in her pockets like she isn’t marching right into the lion’s den. like her whole body isn’t already thrumming with anticipation, that annoying flutter in her chest doing acrobatics the closer she gets to his place.

the walk is short, way too short.

her feet should’ve turned in the other direction.

but they don’t.

by the time she’s climbing the stairs to his apartment, it’s not even nerves—just electricity. tension. that unspoken thread that's been pulling her toward him for weeks now, winding tighter with every look, every smirk, every shared breath between lectures.

she doesn’t knock.

he told her not to.

when she opens the door, it’s warm inside, soft music already playing—something moody and sultry, like he’s trying to be subtle about how badly he wants her. he’s shirtless, sprawled across the couch, sweatpants hanging too low, remote in one hand and a cocky smile blooming on his lips the moment he sees her.

“you listened,” he says like it’s a victory, head tilting lazily. “you’re not wearing any, are you?”

she shrugs, locking the door behind her, pretending she doesn’t feel that heat creeping up the back of her neck. “guess you’ll have to find out.”

he sits up slowly, eyes raking over her like she’s a gift, like he’s been counting the minutes since her last text. “so generous tonight.”

“shut up,” she says, crossing the room in steady steps. “this isn’t a date.”

“never said it was,” he grins, legs already parting so she can slot herself between them, his hands tugging at the hem of her hoodie. “but if it was… you’d be the hottest date i’ve ever had.”

“you’re such a dick, park.”

he leans in, voice husky against her jaw. “you’re here though, aren’t you?”

and just like that, she’s folding into him, his mouth already trailing heat down her neck, her hands tangling in his hair.

there’s no pretending here. not tonight.

the tension snaps, and the rest of the night unravels exactly how they both wanted it to. raw. messy. addictive.

and neither of them says it, but this feels dangerously close to something.

and god does that terrify her.

but there’s something different tonight. something unspoken in the way his mouth lingers at her neck—not just desperate, not just needy. softer. slower. like he’s trying to remember her skin. like he wants her to remember this.

her breath catches before she can stop it.

she hates how easy it is for him to read her.

"don’t start acting like you care,” she whispers, almost to herself, but his hands are already cupping her waist under the hoodie, thumbs stroking slow circles like he’s trying to soothe something he can’t name.

he doesn’t respond. not with words.

just lets himself be pushed back into the couch, lets her take control—because she always does when she wants to forget. wants to remind herself that this is about lust, not him. that her fingers shaking at the hem of his sweatpants are just nerves, not longing.

she sinks to her knees between his legs, hoodie sliding up her thighs. her fingers hook around his waistband like muscle memory, and god, the way he’s looking at her—eyes heavy, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s already got him undone—it makes her heart stutter.

“you sure you don’t wanna call this a date?” he murmurs, voice a little wrecked.

she glares up at him, face flushed, fingers pausing at his waistband.

“say that again and i’ll bite.”

he smirks—broad and smug, head tilting back against the couch like he’s already picturing it.

“tempting.”

and she hates how it makes her grin.

hates that he notices.

hates that he's the one person who can make her feel like this—wanting and wanted at the same time.

but for now, she lets herself fall.

lets the heat in her gut take over.

lets his breathy curses and eager fingers write the rest of the night.

and tells herself, again, this doesn’t mean anything.

even though every part of her already knows it does.

so she takes her time—god, too much time.

her hand moving with that slow, torturous rhythm, dragging along the length of him like she’s sculpting him from memory. delicate, deliberate. she watches him like she’s trying to memorize every reaction, every twitch of muscle, every breath that stutters in his throat.

“baby,” he rasps, voice already ruined, “you’re gonna kill me.”

she hums, feigning innocence, lips ghosting along his inner thigh.

“what, this?” her grip tightens just slightly. one slow pull that makes his head fall back and his hips jerk up involuntarily.

“i’m just being nice.”

“that’s your definition of nice?” he pants, half-laughing, half-desperate. he’s gripping the cushions now like they’ve done something to him, thighs tense, trying not to just grab her and make her move already.

she grins, pleased with herself, dragging her thumb over the head of his cock, circling there with a featherlight touch that makes his hips twitch again.

“mhmm. trust me,” she purrs, eyes locked on his, “i could be way meaner.”

and he believes her.

god, he knows it.

because every time he thinks he has the upper hand, she flips the table with a look, a sound, a move that ruins him completely. and right now? with her on her knees, her lashes low, her touch calculated and slow and addictive?

he’s already gone.

“you’re the fucking devil,” he breathes out, hand twitching like he wants to bury it in her hair. but he doesn’t—not yet. not while she’s looking up at him like that, in control and thriving.

she leans in, kisses the inside of his thigh, teeth grazing skin—just enough to make him curse.

“maybe,” she whispers, lips brushing over him now. “but you’re the one who keeps coming back to hell.”

she takes him—slow, sinfully slow—like she’s savoring something rare, something expensive. the flat of her tongue slides along him first, warm and slick and mean in the way it doesn’t linger. he gasps, his whole body tightening under her like a taut wire, his head tipping back into the couch with a groan that punches straight out of his chest.

“fuck—”

it leaves him hoarse, almost breathless, hands gripping the edge of the cushion like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

she doesn’t even flinch, lips parting around him, teasing the tip before sinking lower, letting him in with a depth that makes his thighs shake.

his hips twitch once, reflexive—like his body’s begging without his permission—and she hums in warning, nails dragging lightly down the outside of his thigh. don’t test me, it says.

he knows better. he really, really does.

but she’s being wicked. she’s being wicked, and it’s driving him insane. her mouth is warm, too warm, her pace maddeningly slow, suction deliberate and just shy of messy. the sounds she makes around him have his breath hitching in his throat, and the way she looks—eyelids heavy, one hand curling around the base of him, the other pressing gently into his hip to keep him grounded—is too much and not enough all at once.

he lets his head loll to the side, one hand twitching like he wants to reach for her. maybe he wants to push her hair out of the way just to see better. maybe he wants to hold her there, not out of force, but because he needs to hold something.

his voice breaks the silence, low and ragged:

“jesus christ, you’re gonna ruin me.”

and when she pulls back just far enough to lick her lips and say, “that’s kinda the point, baby,”

he knows he’s already wrecked.

he pulls her up with a grip that borders on desperate, hands digging into her waist like he’s been starving for her. she giggles breathlessly, about to make some clever remark, but he cuts her off by crashing his mouth to hers—tongue greedy, tasting her, tasting himself, and not giving a damn about it.

it’s messy. it’s hot. it’s the kind of kiss that steals reason.

her arms wrap around his neck instinctively, pulling him closer like she wants to crawl inside him, and he moves with her, backing toward his bedroom in a stumbling, heated mess.

they don’t break apart, not for a second.

her shirt get tugged off over her head, as he kicks the door open. socks are discarded like an afterthought, one of them flying god knows where. his fingers fumble with the clasp of her bra, finally managing it with a muttered “fuckin’ finally,” and she laughs into his mouth before tugging his bottom lip between her teeth.

his knees hit the edge of the bed first, and they go down together, her landing on top of him with a gasp that turns into a moan when his hands slip under the curve of her ass.

the room is dim, painted in shadows and the heat radiating off them like static. they’re both flushed, half-naked, panting into each other’s mouths with every kiss, and when he flips them suddenly—pressing her into the mattress, his body fitting perfectly between her thighs—it doesn’t feel like a fuckboy thing anymore.

it feels like want.

raw.

real.

and almost dangerous in how much it’s starting to mean.

and the worst part?

neither of them’s ready to admit it.

his hand fumbles inside the nightstand drawer, already so used to the motion it’s second nature by now—pull, tear, roll—but before he can even unwrap it, she plucks the condom from his hand with a look in her eyes that makes his pulse stutter. a quiet little smirk curves her lips, all confidence and silent challenge.

“let me,” she says, not really asking.

his breath catches when her fingers brush against him—slow, teasing, maddening. the wrapper is discarded in a blink and her touch is precise, practiced, sliding the condom down over him with torturous ease. he curses under his breath, head tipping back against the pillow, fingers gripping at the sheets like he might lose his mind if she doesn’t—

—and then she moves.

shifting on her knees, she turns, giving him her back as she settles over him. her skirt rides up further, and her bare thighs bracket his hips, flushed and glowing in the low light. she doesn’t sink down immediately—no, of course not. she takes her time. dragging it out. one hand behind her for balance on his thigh, the other guiding him as she slowly, slowly lowers herself onto him.

his hands shoot to her hips, jaw slack, an incredulous sound caught in his throat.

“fuck,” he groans, voice strained like it’s being torn out of him. “you’re gonna kill me.”

and maybe she is—because the view is insane, and the way she moves? deliberate, fluid, her back arching just enough to drive him wild.

she glances over her shoulder, her eyes lidded and lips parted.

“shut up,” she breathes, hips starting to roll. “you’ll survive.”

but god—will he?

his mouth goes dry watching her—completely, devastatingly, ruined by the sight. her hair spills down her back in soft waves, swaying with every precise roll of her hips. her spine curves beautifully, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, like she planned this.

and she probably did.

her head turns just enough for her to look at him over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lips parted with a breathless little moan. that smirk is still there—smeared now with something darker, needier—and it’s so smug he could lose it.

“like that?” she asks, voice airy and knowing, one brow raised. she already knows the answer, obviously. she’s just making him say it.

his grip tightens on her hips, barely hanging on, knuckles white. “you’re evil,” he pants, his voice strained and rough, “so evil.”

she laughs—a soft, wicked thing—and moans again, dragging her hips in a slow, taunting circle that makes both of them shudder. she’s so warm, gripping him just right, fluttering every time she sinks down to the base, like her body’s as into this as she pretends not to be.

“then why do you keep calling me over?” she throws back at him, another roll, another moan, one hand sliding up to push her hair over her shoulder again.

“because i’m stupid,” he groans, “and you’re—fuck—insane.”

“mm,” she hums, tipping her head back now, lips parted wider. “glad we’re on the same page.”

and then she drops down harder, hips smacking against him with a loud slap and he chokes, his nails digging into her skin like a silent prayer. and the worst part? her laugh that follows.

because she knows—she knows he’s already gone.

her leg slides up slowly, foot planting on the mattress for better leverage, and god—he feels it. deep. the new angle makes her gasp, her back arching just slightly as her fingers dig into the sheets on either side of her thighs for balance.

“oh—” she breathes out, surprised, satisfied, smug all at once, “there it is.”

jimin curses under his breath, hands flying to her hips again as she rocks down, grinding right where it makes her whimper. she rolls her hips in that angle again, a little slower this time, testing the friction, and she shudders when it hits perfectly again.

he watches her from below, fully wrecked, completely mesmerized by the way her body moves—like she’s trying to ruin him on purpose. which… she probably is.

"you like that?" he manages, his voice low, a rasp barely holding on. "mm, of course you do. look at you."

she shoots him a look over her shoulder, smug and flushed, sweat already beading at her temples. “don’t talk,” she murmurs, breath hitching as she does it again, deeper this time, the sound of her skin on his echoing softly through the room. “just… take it.”

“god,” he growls, hands sliding up her back like he’s not sure where to touch first, “you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

she smiles, that wicked little smile again, completely in control.

“that’s the idea.”

she doesn’t even mean to let go like that—doesn’t plan on it, doesn’t brace herself—but it hits so suddenly, so completely, that all she can do is ride the wave.

jimin’s name falls from her lips like a prayer and a curse, drawn-out and broken as her thighs tighten around him, trembling hard enough that it makes her hips stutter. she grips the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring her to earth, forehead dropping forward with a choked breath.

her walls pulse around him, soaking and snug, and he feels it all.

“fuck—baby…” he hisses through clenched teeth, jaw tightening as he bucks up into her, losing his rhythm and any remaining sanity.

she’s still moving, slow and instinctive, chasing the last traces of pleasure. the slick sound between them only gets wetter, more shameless, her thighs trembling with each little shift of his hips that makes her twitch.

and then he’s gone too.

he lets out a strained groan, hands locked around her waist, holding her in place as he thrusts up once, twice—deep and desperate—before he stills completely, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as he finishes, unraveling beneath her with a helpless growl.

they stay like that for a second. wrecked. breathless. the only sounds left are the heavy inhales, the soft creak of the bed springs, and the messy heartbeat in both of their ears.

she leans forward just slightly, back still arched, hair clinging to her skin.

“…well,” she pants, eyes still half-closed but lips curling faintly, “that was—”

“don’t say it,” he warns, voice gravelled and wrecked.

she snorts, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “—educational.”

he groans like she’s stabbed him, but his hands don’t leave her waist. not yet.

his tongue moves with a kind of practiced cruelty—confident and devastating, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and loves watching her squirm because of it. every flick, every slow circle, every sudden dip has her gasping, thighs twitching around his head.

the obscene wet sounds echo off the walls of his room, loud and shameless in the quiet aftermath of their earlier frenzy. it’s filthy, the way he licks into her—slurping noises paired with the soft, involuntary please she breathes out without realizing.

her hand flies to his hair, gripping tight, anchoring herself. “fuck,” she hisses when he flattens his tongue and drags it slowly upward, his hands now firm on her hips, holding her still even as she tries to ride his face with every roll of her pelvis.

his groan vibrates against her, and she feels it everywhere.

“so loud for me,” he says with a smug sort of murmur, his voice muffled against her, breath hot and humid. “you’re gonna make me think you like me or something.”

she throws her head back with a frustrated laugh, the kind that comes right before another moan slips out. she hates how good he is at this—hates how her body gives away everything she refuses to say.

“shut up,” she pants, yanking gently at his hair, but she doesn’t push him away. not even close.

in fact, she pulls him closer.

the knocking turns into pounding—loud, insistent, angry.

“what the fuck,” she mutters breathlessly, sitting up and scrambling to grab her clothes from where they’d been haphazardly discarded on the floor. her legs are still shaky, her head still spinning, and now she’s trying to pull her shirt over her head while catching her breath and not thinking about how close she was. again.

jimin curses low under his breath, dragging on a pair of sweats and tossing her the hoodie closest to him, which smells like him in the most annoying way possible. he runs a hand through his hair, already halfway to the door, jaw clenched.

“stay here,” he says, not even looking back as he walks down the hall.

“yeah, that’ll go well,” she mutters, fixing her hair in the reflection of his TV screen, still flustered and pissed off.

he opens the door with that casual swagger he always has—like he’s too cool to be surprised—but the smirk dies instantly when he sees Rowan standing there, arms crossed, face thunderous.

“oh,” jimin says flatly, blocking the entrance with his body. “rowan. didn’t know you were stopping by.”

“clearly,” she snaps, eyes narrowing. “who’s here?”

“no one,” he lies without flinching, but his eyes betray a flicker of guilt.

rowan tries to push past him but he stays firm in the doorway.

“move, jimin.”

“no.”

“why not?”

“because I don’t owe you that anymore.”

that makes her pause—just for a second—but then her jaw tightens. “so you are screwing around. you could’ve just said you weren’t interested anymore instead of ghosting me like a child.”

meanwhile, from down the hall, (y/n) tiptoes closer, barefoot, hoodie too big on her, peeking around the corner just as she hears the tone of rowan’s voice rise.

“wow,” she mutters under her breath, biting her lip. she knows she shouldn’t be listening. she knows. but something about hearing another girl refer to him like he was hers stings.

jimin sighs, running a hand down his face. “i wasn’t trying to ghost you, i was trying to avoid this—you showing up uninvited, assuming there’s still something going on.”

“so there isn’t?”

he hesitates. the worst possible moment to hesitate.

rowan scoffs. “you know what? save it, park. i hope she’s worth it.”

and she storms off, letting the door swing shut behind her.

jimin leans against it for a second, exhaling slowly. “fuck.”

he turns—and sees (y/n) standing in the hallway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

she doesn’t look mad exactly. but she does look... disappointed.

“so that’s your usual type, huh?” she says quietly, no venom in it. just curiosity wrapped in sarcasm.

he blinks. “i didn’t ask her to come.”

“yeah, but you didn’t tell her to stop, either.”

and with that, she turns around, heading back toward the bedroom—grabbing her bag off the floor.

“(y/n),” he calls after her.

“don’t,” she cuts him off, voice calm but distant. “you don’t owe me anything, right? just like you told her.”

he swallows hard, watching her leave, and for the first time in a while, jimin isn’t sure what to say.

quietly, always. cigarettesuga

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a safe place to dream Ꮺ bangtan

summary in which you fall asleep on their chest while they're rambling about something.⠀/⠀fluff, comfort, established relationship, soft domesticity, quiet intimacy

masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀namjoon⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until the sentence he’s mid-way through meets silence. not the listening kind, not the nodding, hum-here-and-there kind she usually gives him when he rambles — just soft, steady breathing. she’s curled into his chest, warm and still, and something about the weight of her against him makes his throat close up. he blinks down, eyes tracing her features like they’re poetry. the rise and fall of her breath, the way her lips part slightly in sleep. “oh,” he whispers, a little helplessly. like she’s given him something sacred. he adjusts his arm, gently tucking her closer without waking her. his voice comes back in a softer tone, more like narration now. just for her. “you always know how to shut me up in the nicest ways.” he keeps talking, not needing her to respond. she doesn’t have to. she’s already here.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀seokjin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ the story had been absurd, dramatic — something about a restaurant mishap and a broken plate and him saving the day with the flourish of a prince. but she didn’t make it to the end. her head dipped gently onto his chest halfway through and stayed there, unmoving. jin paused, staring down at her like she’d just done something scandalous, and then — a slow smile broke across his face. “are you kidding me?” he mumbled under his breath. but there was no annoyance in it. just wonder. warmth. the kind of affection that settles deep in the ribs. carefully, he brings his hand to her back, palm pressed flat against the fabric of her shirt. his thumb strokes her spine once, twice. “you couldn’t even wait for the punchline,” he whispers, amused. he’ll save the story for later. she’s the only plot twist he really cares about.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀yoongi⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he’s talking quietly, more to himself than anything. the kind of tired monologue that happens in dim light, when the rest of the world is asleep and it finally feels safe to unravel. she’s pressed against him, warm and close, and he doesn’t expect a response anymore — he just likes the feeling of her beside him. but then he feels it: her breath evening out, the subtle weight of her body relaxing fully into his. asleep. it makes him smile, just a little. that kind of smile that’s barely there, but real. he looks down at her, the soft slope of her nose, her lashes fluttering in a dream. “you’re ridiculous,” he whispers. but his voice is all fondness, no bite. he brings a hand to the back of her head, fingers sliding gently through her hair. he lets the silence stretch. lets it become a song of its own. she’s asleep, and he feels more grounded than he has in days.

⠀◖ ⠀◟⠀hoseok⠀◝⠀៹⠀ she had been giggling along with him not five minutes ago, tucked into his side while he recounted something embarrassing from trainee days. but somewhere between the third laugh and the second yawn, she slipped under. her head found his chest, and her body softened into sleep like it was second nature. hoseok’s mouth opened to say something — probably a joke — but he caught himself before the words came. instead, he just stared at her. blinked once. then slowly, a smile broke out so big it made his eyes crinkle. “yah…” he whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair off her face. “you really trust me, huh?” he shifts slightly to hold her better, one arm wrapping around her back, the other resting over her waist. he stays like that, not daring to move. the room feels quieter now, more tender. she’s asleep, and all he wants to do is protect that peace.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jimin⠀◝⠀៹⠀ he notices the stillness before anything else. the way her hand, once tracing circles on his chest, had gone slack. how her breathing had synced with the rhythm of his own. he tilts his head to glance down, only to find her completely out. fast asleep, lips parted, cheek squished slightly against him. “oh…” his voice catches in his throat. he wraps an arm tighter around her, like instinct, like he was made for this exact moment. it floors him every time — how easily she turns him soft. he brings a hand up to cradle her head, fingers threading gently through her hair. “i didn’t even get to the good part,” he whispers, teasing, though his eyes are glassy with something else. he presses a kiss to her forehead and closes his own eyes. he doesn’t need to talk anymore. she already knows everything.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀taehyung⠀◝⠀៹ ⠀ his voice trails off, slow and deep, as he watches her body melt into his side. she’s already halfway gone when her hand curls against his stomach, nose nudging just beneath his collarbone. taehyung blinks once, then exhales, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he doesn’t say anything right away. just watches. studies. commits the image to memory. “you always do this,” he says softly, fingers finding her hair and stroking through it with a gentleness he never quite shows the world. “always know when to rest.” he keeps talking, but it’s more of a lullaby now. quiet, soothing nonsense. words meant to protect her dreams. and when he finally goes quiet, his hand never stops moving. like if he stays still, she’ll stay with him forever.

⠀◖⠀ ◟⠀jungkook⠀◝⠀៹⠀he’s animated, talking with his hands even though she can’t see them — eyes wide, voice full of that fast, excited rhythm he gets when he’s explaining something he loves. but then she shifts, presses in a little closer, and stays still. completely still. he pauses, mid-sentence, and glances down. her cheek is squished against his chest, arms loosely curled around him, lips parted in the sweetest kind of sleep. jungkook swallows, heart tripping over itself. “oh no…” he mutters, stunned. “you really—” he doesn’t even finish. just laughs softly, full of disbelief and love. he tightens his arms around her, kisses the top of her head once, twice, like punctuation. he’s already made the decision without realizing: he’s not moving. not even if the world ends. he’ll stay like this — holding her — forever, if she lets him.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

[cigarettesuga]

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀opposites don’t attract, they destroy⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀masterlist⠀⠀)

pairing: fuckboy!park jimin x proud & stubborn!reader

genre: college!au, situationship, enemies to lovers, angst, smut, emotional slow burn

warnings: explicit sexual content, casual sex dynamics, emotionally confusing relationships, jealousy, profanity, angst, emotionally unavailable characters, mild possessiveness, mentions of alcohol, miscommunication, toxic attachment

word count: 16.8 k (up to last update)

summary: he flirts. she rolls her eyes. everyone on campus knows they hate each other—or at least, that’s the story they sell. until one night after a party changes everything. what was supposed to be a one-time thing turns into a messy, addictive routine neither of them can shake. they keep telling themselves it’s not a thing… but feelings don’t listen. and when someone new enters the picture—someone who actually sees her—it all starts to unravel. jimin should’ve known: opposites don’t attract. they destroy.

status: ongoing

₍ links ⁾ 

main m.list⠀ | ⠀moodboard⠀ |⠀ playlist⠀ |⠀ taglist

₍ chapters ⁾

O1 | the backseat never happened ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀after a house party gone wrong, she ends up in jimin’s backseat—needy, reckless, and pretending it means nothing. she takes control, he loses it, and neither of them will forget it.⠀/⠀ 5.3 k

O2 | we're not a thing ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀(y/n) tries to pretend that night never happened, but jimin isn’t making it easy. what starts with a closet confrontation turns into a routine of stolen moments and unspoken rules: this isn’t a thing. they aren’t anything. until someone from his past shows up at the worst possible time, and suddenly it feels a lot like something.⠀/⠀11.5 k

O3 | he feels safe ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀coming soon

O4 | you don't even want me ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀coming soon

O5 | don't look at me like that ⠀⠀➜⠀⠀coming soon

Bonus | locked 🔒

Bonus | locked 🔒

© cigarettesuga, all rights reserved.

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ─ ꒰ 貧しい ꒱ ⠀፧⠀ taglist .ᐟ

hey there angel ! if you’d like to be notified whenever i post new content, you can now join my taglist! just fill out the google form below and i’ll take care of the rest:

꒰꒰⠀ taglist ◟ cigarettesuga◝ (please make sure your username is spelled correctly or tumblr won’t let me tag you!)

if you’d ever like to be removed o change your prefrences, just message me anytime — no questions asked

list will be updated regularly and group based on what you like to read. i do my best to keep things tidy, but if tumblr’s being weird, feel free to send me a nudge.

quietly always, — cigarettesuga.