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bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

blackout | jjk

Pairings: Jungkook x female reader

Rating: 18+ | Mature | Explicit

Word Count: 16k | read on ao3

Synopsis: You’ve just been laid off, and all you want to do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget. Unfortunately, the neighborhood block party is tonight, and the festivities turn downright chaotic when the entire city loses power. Don’t fret, though. Jungkook will help take your mind off things for a while.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Strangers to lovers, FLUFF with a capital FLUFF, Yugyeom makes an appearance, humor, comfort, smut (starts out with sweet, vanilla sex and masturbation, turns into biting, hickeys, fingering, oral sex [female receiving, male receiving], edging, protected vaginal sex, playful spanking, overstimulation, spitting), drinking / drinking games, drug use (weed edibles).

Preview:

Eyes wet with steaming, streaming tears, you let the bodies push you back.

Back to the elevator.

Back down to the lobby.

And back to the curb outside.

Where he looks up and finds your twisted, nauseated expression.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You didn’t see him when you stepped back onto the sidewalk. Even now, you only see him in parts.

Bent fingers clutch his hoodie’s drawstring, pulling left, then right. The denim of the jacket over it shifts slightly as he does. Full lips rest against each other lightly, an interrupted, absent-minded whistle reforming into more words.

“You dropped something.”

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Thanks and hope you enjoy!

What makes a good manager? Empathy? Organization? Know-how? Whatever mix of qualities, are they innate, or does it come from steadily and patiently rising through the ranks with your allies? Are good leaders born or made?

You don’t think you’ll ever be sure of what makes a good manager. But what you are definitely sure about is what makes a bad manager.

Bad managers are the type of people who, when given a choice, elect to have you come in for your office job all week for your usual 8 to 5, and wait until Friday afternoon to inform you that you have been let go, even though they got the call from leadership on Monday morning.

You grumble as you shift your cardboard box of belongings to your other arm in order to make the last leg of your journey, every single one of your pores emptying twenty-fold their volume into the fibers of your polyester blend. Couldn’t you have been sacked in the fall? On top of having an additional couple of months to figure your shit out, you wouldn’t be drenched.

It’s 7 by the time you’re stomping around the corner to your block. There’s a family-sized bag of pita chips, a pail of hummus, and an edible patiently waiting for you.

If only there weren’t so many people blocking the way to your door.

Crumpled ghosts of flyers float past you. Their sans-serif font and centered alignment. The drawing of an old-school boombox with music spilling out of it. The date. The goddamned time.

“Fuck,” you sigh, unable to hear even yourself under millennial R&B samples carrying Gen Z slang.

Shoulders slumping, you try to trudge through the crowd that doesn’t part, draining energy quickly by the time you make your sixth and seventh attempt, even using the sharp corners of your box to try to snowplow your way through the increasingly drunken bodies that won’t feel any pain until the morning.

Eyes wet with steaming, streaming tears, you let the bodies push you back.

Back to the elevator.

Back down to the lobby.

And back to the curb outside.

Where he looks up and finds your twisted, nauseated expression.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You didn’t see him when you stepped back onto the sidewalk. Even now, you only see him in parts.

“You dropped something.”

The Hulk bobblehead, given to you in celebration of getting this job in the first place, proves to be more lasting than your presence in the office.

When you see it in a puddle by your feet, your heart sinks a little.

And, ever-so-slightly, so does the box in your grip, as you jostle around to allow yourself to reach down and pick it up.

Before you can, though, bent fingers have let go of the drawstring and curl around The Hulk’s head instead. Green abs and purple shorts wiggle from its spring, despite what seems to be The Hulk’s unrelenting protest.

You look up at the owner of those bent fingers, form crouched in front of you, still only able to perceive him in parts. Four wrinkles at the bridge of his nose. An amused smirk.

“Ha ha!”

He studies The Hulk’s face, and his right brow falls into a slanted line in perfect mimicry.

“Raaawwrrr!”

The Hulk’s body wiggles violently as bent fingers shake him back and forth.

“HULK SMAAAASH!”

You don’t mean to smile.

His smile is about to meet you too, but his eyes start to take up more space, widening at the sight of slightly shiny lines on your cheeks, carving your skin out like flowing rivers cutting through sienna rock.

“Hey! It’s OK!”

A sleeve rises into view. It moves in quick, small motions, back and forth.

“Just gotta c-clean him up a little here and—”

The Hulk suddenly grows ten times in size, now dangling on its spring, right in front of your face.

“See?? N-no harm done!!”

You sniffle.

Bent fingers gently set The Hulk back into the box, in a gap between your empty, gray mesh pen cup and your prized, powder blue stapler.

You sniffle again.

You love stapling.

So final, so sure, that satisfying, crisp metal crunch!

You think you hear that crunch as this stranger’s bright eyes are putting it all together.

As are you, bits and pieces of this stranger now stitching together into a concerned but welcoming face, much too kind, and dangerously easy to open up to. Especially for someone in your state.

Your fingers dig into your cardboard box.

“Thanks,” you say, relieved that your voice sounds so steady.

He lifts his eyes from the powder blue stapler and watches as you lift your upper arm to your right cheek.

You dab your tears.

You frown at the sight of black streaks on your blouse.

And then you startle at the feel of denim against your left cheek.

You watch as this stranger takes a step back.

The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice or care about the black streaks on his sleeve makes you care less about the black streaks on yours.

You feel a little lighter. From what it looks like, about three wisps of Pat McGrath FetishEyes lighter.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just—”

“No, that was… that was nice of you,” you say, starting to become impressed at just how steady your voice is. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Can I help you with anything else?” He holds his hands out a little, wrists coming out of his sleeves. “Take that box for you?”

“I’m good,” you say.

He’s kind for softening his doubtful look, but his head tilt gives his thoughts away.

“Really,” you insist.

And you insist to yourself that you really don’t mean to smile. You’re surprised that you do.

He mirrors it, his eyes following his lips, which follow yours, copying perfectly the slightly sad pout that you’re too aware that you’re making, and that tells him that his head tilt is absolutely warranted.

“If you say so.”

Your smile fades a little as you look back down to the box, still in your grip, resting against your stomach.

You look back up and watch as he curiously peruses the box’s content.

“What is all this stuff?” he asks.

You look back over at the crowd now spilling out of your apartment building.

“Um…”

Your brain is moving too fast, keeping you from being able to expand on the complexity of the matter. The words settling in the back of your throat are reduced to grade school-level syntax that matches the grade school-level emotions that you’re trying to hold at bay.

This is all Desk Stuff.

Desk Stuff belongs on a Desk.

But you no longer have a Desk.

You no longer even have an Office.

Or a Job.

And all you seem to be able to do about it, at least, for right now, is cry.

“Just… stuff.”

How is your voice still so steady when your stomach and chest are churning and burning, flip-flopping positions in your body in an attempt to escape this disaster?

To escape you?

He seems to realize now. There’s even a hint of — ugh — pity in his eyes.

You want to explain that you’re stronger than this. It’s just that your Job, and your Office, and your Desk were so rare. Beautifully, wonderfully, hilariously rare. Just like your powder blue stapler is rare, and it’s even rarer to see it not at the ready under a mix of sunlight and fluorescent lighting but settled against hastily packed bits and bobs in a box open to the night air.

“You need to keep any of it?” he asks.

The realization feels weirdly cold in your chest. “No,” you say.

“You want to keep any of it?”

You shrug.

His head straightens suddenly.

“Not even The Hulk??”

He looks so excited.

You really, really don’t mean to smile. You’re surprised that you do. That you still can.

You even chuckle, softly, three tiny stops and starts of that steady, warm voice.

“Why? You want him?”

“Well, y-yeah — he’s The Hulk!!”

You hold the box out and up to him.

“Take him, then. Give him a nice home.”

Bent fingers wrap around The Hulk’s head. He lifts The Hulk out of the box and places it into the left chest pocket of his denim jacket, patting it caringly, for safekeeping.

The Hulk’s eyes peek out at you over the lip.

“Now you pick something,” he tells you.

You look up from The Hulk’s eyes and stare questioningly into the eyes of this alarmingly kind stranger.

“You wanna keep at least one thing, right?” he asks. He peeks back down into the box. “Anything important? Or, just, y’know.” He looks back at you. “Special?”

You think again of the satisfying crunch of metal.

And then you smile down at your powder blue stapler.

You hug the box against your chest with one arm and pull the stapler out with your free hand.

He smiles again, and claps his hands with glee.

The Hulk nods.

And, as you nod back, you catch a glimpse of the alleyway.

Your gaze settles on the too-bright blue paint sadly used for something as putrid as a dumpster.

Your feet take you there, and they, along with your calves, and thighs, and arms, and shoulders, and back, thank you immensely as you toss all the rest inside.

That box looks so small now, amongst everything else. The longer you stare at it, you can’t even really see it anymore, as it gets lost in so many things that also don’t matter.

With your arms free, you get the impulse to pull your phone from your back pocket. But you don’t want to see the flurry of messages that are probably waiting for you.

Instead, you turn and walk back to the curb, where he is still standing and watching you.

Your feet take you back to him, arm at your side, the stapler fold hanging off your finger, its handle and base taking turns swinging as you walk, powder blue grazing the side of your polyester-covered thigh.

You stand in front of him, feeling so much lighter.

“Uh, thanks,” you say. “Again.”

He smiles.

Now that the weight is off of your shoulders, you can take in more. The sound of street traffic buzzing around you. Honks, and music, and chatter.

The crowd around your apartment building has doubled if not tripled in size.

“Live here?” he asks.

You nod, and your shoulders sink. “But the block party completely slipped my mind.” You sigh and wonder how long it will take for the crowd to dissipate. “All I wanna do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget today ever happened.”

“What’s stopping you?” he asks.

You furrow your brow and gesture to the drunken, obnoxious mass blocking your way in.

“Just gotta fight your way through a little, is all,” he says. “C’mon!”

Instead of complaining about having to do anything other than what you want to, you figure that following this guy, with his broad frame, tall stature, and friendly face, will help you work smart and not hard.

So you follow him.

He moves through the crowd with ease, swimming with the current, instead of fighting his way upstream.

He offers you protection from the worst hits. Errant slaps and elbows here and there as people reach for each other. A near-collision with a keg stand.

But people still cut in front of you. By the fourth or fifth instance, you wonder why this always happens when you’re in a crowd, or whether you can consider it a “cut” when you don't even seem to register on people’s radar.

You watch as his head bobs along, nearly out of sight. And then, when he’s too far away, you start to feel the tide turning again, pulling you back out into the vast ocean.

You’re nearly all the way back by the lobby doors when his face pops out of the crowd.

“Hey!” he exclaims.

He throws his arm out, hand open, palm upturned. A life saver on a rope thick, straight, and strong.

You grab it.

You watch as his hand turns over and determinedly pulls you into him.

And you lock eyes briefly before he swirls you around and puts you in front of the crowd, daring you to meet it face-to-face.

He stands behind you but places his hands firmly on your shoulders.

You grip the stapler tight in your hand.

And then, with his guidance, you start to move through the crowd.

Part the crowd.

It’s much easier than you thought. But you knew that. You used to do this all the time, without even thinking. Shoulders back. Hair tossed just so. Beaming with all the wise, unthreatened confidence that years of a magical mix of expertise and bullshit have bestowed upon you.

They, and he, bring you right next to the elevators, and, thinking this is it, you go to punch the button.

But he steers you toward the stairs instead.

He leans down into you, pressing against your back, his lips brushing against your right ear.

“Let’s go this way.”

The music and chatter is so loud that even though you feel his chest straining, it sounds like a whisper.

You think about what’s waiting for you at home.

The chips. The hummus. The last three squares of your weed-infused chocolates. All designed to help you settle your mind and forget about this whole, wretched day.

Then again, maybe there are other ways to forget.

You shove your powder stapler into your pocket and nod, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already angling you toward the stairs, and chases your steps as you both climb.

You feel his hands slide down your shoulders, then arms, then into the crooks of your slightly folded elbows, your right hand still touting your stapler, your left hand not fully grasping but angled to feel along the railing so that you have something to hold onto if you trip over one of these people sitting on the steps.

He’s right by your side. Grabs hold of you to help keep you steady when someone suddenly moves to get up. When he lets you go at the top of the stairs, you're almost sad the building has elevators at all.

“You know the Chans?” he asks.

You register the smell of egg rolls and dumplings and fries and cheese and sugar before you notice that the people who happen to be on this floor are too busy stuffing their faces to really talk. It’s quieter here. Thankfully.

“No,” you mumble, as he walks next to you, moving in lockstep down the hall and slightly to the right. “I don’t really know anybody else in the building.”

“Just moved in?”

“Been here three… wait… four?” You grimace. “Years?”

His eyebrows rise at the speed with which his own mother would race a cake over to every new neighbor on their street.

“I’ll introduce you!” he says, swinging around you and standing perpendicular to your path to let you know that this next, slightly ajar door will lead you to The Chans.

He knocks on the door.

It opens, suddenly, and fully, and a woman grins happily at the both of you before settling into his warm, eager gaze.

“Jungkook-ah,” she chides playfully, “I told you to come as soon as the party started! We’re already almost out of—”

He — or, well, Jungkook, apparently — rushes inside the apartment toward the kitchen, leaving you standing there in the hallway.

The woman turns to you, still carrying fondness in her eyes. “Hi!”

“Hi,” you say, as pleasantly as you can.

The woman takes in the sight of you, though she frowns when she looks down by your hip.

“Is… that… a stapler in your pocket?”

Your brain starts to move too fast again.

Desk. Office. Job.

But then she giggles.

“Or are you just happy to see me?”

Jungkook mumbles something resembling an introduction after you follow “Miff-iff Cham” through the busy, glowing living room and into the kitchen.

“Did you even think to get your friend a drink??” Mrs. Chan asks, reaching not for the plenty of plastic flatware but into the cupboards for a porcelain bowl.

Jungkook mumbles something else, a chomped egg roll raised to his lips, cheeks bulging out, and a bit of fried wrapper sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

“This boy,” Mrs. Chan laughs, shaking her head. “He devours everything in sight!” As she talks, she walks down the line of her counter, scooping up a bit of everything from her various pots and pans and plopping it into your bowl. “If we didn’t feed him real food, he’d eat garbage off the street! Like one of those fat pigeons!”

Jungkook protests, still unintelligible, but wounded, and passionate, given that flakes of egg roll wrapper fly out of his mouth.

“Please, Jungkook, you’re so sensitive! Have you seen you?” Mrs. Chan says with a roll of her eyes. “Although, if you keep inhaling these egg rolls…”

She softens at Jungkook’s worried expression.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you fat. I just meant— Ugh, what else eats tra— Like a raccoon, then. How’s that, huh? Jungkook-ah? My little fluffy, sneaky, grabby-hands raccoon?”

Mrs. Chan shoves the now-full bowl into your open hands and makes grabby-hands with her own, pinching his full cheeks, cooing more… weird?... but sweet, raccoon-based compliments at him, which makes him smile happily, and close his eyes at her caring touch.

You bring the bowl up to your face and breathe in the mouth-watering scent of all of this delicious, home-cooked, made-with-love morsels of amazing food.

For once today, someone has served you a pile of nothing but goodness.

You smile gratefully and take the chopsticks that Mrs. Chan gives to you. And then you take your place next to Jungkook, backs to the sink, both of you leaning back slightly as you eat.

“Now, I didn’t catch your name,” Mrs. Chan tells you, stirring a spoon into one of the pots.

As you finally say it, you can’t help but feel Jungkook paying you close attention — such close attention, mind you, that you swear he’s nearly pressing his smile onto your cheek.

“I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself,” you go on, flashing a look at Jungkook before adding, “I’ve just been so busy…”

Desk. Office. Job.

The rest of the sentence that you were going to say travels down your throat like the unchewed walnut that slipped by.

You cough. Clear your throat the best you can. And pick up what you can recover.

“…at work.”

“Ah, well, whatever! I’m happy we get to meet now,” Mrs. Chan says lightly.

The air with which she says it. So ethereal. It makes you feel a little better.

“I’m Chan Jia,” she goes on, “and my husband Feng and I have lived here pretty much all our lives, and, uh, we really like to cook! Even when half the city isn’t on our doorstep.”

Your eyes hang wide. “You’re amazing at it,” you say, through cheeks fuller than Jungkook’s. “The walnut chicken in particular is, mmm, god, so good.”

Mrs. Chan beams with pride. “Glad you like it! And that you came so hungry.”

More people spill into the Chans’ living room, and Mrs. Chan reaches for some of the paper plates and plastic flatware.

“Get her something to drink, Jungkook-ah!”

He nods obediently and yells out an earnest, “Thank you!”

You scarf down the last bite in your bowl and start to calculate what seconds you want — definitely the walnut chicken, and maybe the lo mein — when Jungkook sticks a fresh egg roll in your face.

“C’mon!”

He stuffs the egg roll into your mouth and takes your empty bowl from your hands, setting it in the filling kitchen sink.

He takes your right wrist and tugs on it, leading you back out to the hall.

You bite down on the egg roll and catch the other half in your left hand, grumbling, “I wasn’t done!” as you desperately try to chew and get the delicious pork filling and perfect golden crackles down your gullet.

“Oh, sorry,” Jungkook says. “Seemed like you were.”

“Well!” You raise your left hand and bite into the second half. “I wasn’t!”

“Well, your bowl was empty, and you emptied it kinda fast, like, shockingly fast, so I thought it was time for dessert—”

You polish off the egg roll as your feet plant themselves in place. “What is this? Who even are you anyway??”

He smiles. “I’m Jungkook!”

“Yeah, caught that,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously, though! I don’t really know who you—”

Someone splits the two of you, excited to bring one of two waffle ice cream cones to someone downstairs.

“—w-who you are, or if you even live here,” you continue, watching as they round the corner, jogging down the steps with what looks like pistachio ice cream in one hand and some kind of chocolate in the other.

You turn back to Jungkook.

“And all these people? I don’t know who they are, and I just really—”

“But now you know Mrs. Chan,” Jungkook says, “and I guess by extension you kinda know Mr. Chan. There was a photo of him on the left wall by the—”

A group of young girls giggle as they exit one of the other apartments on this floor, each of them carrying baskets of freshly baked cookies.

Jungkook playfully yoink! s a couple from the last girl’s basket, and she teasingly slaps Jungkook’s arm as he feigns pain.

They laugh at each other, and then, he wiggles his eyebrows and nods upward.

“Oppa!” she whines.

He brings his shoulders up to his earlobes and wiggles his eyebrows even harder.

She rolls her eyes and hands him two more cookies, and she scurries to rejoin her group.

You glare at him.

He blinks at you. Pushes out his lips.

“So…”

He holds out his arm.

“Is it time for dessert?”

You frown.

He wiggles the cookie around.

“Huuuuuh?”

Begrudgingly, you snatch the cookie that he’s offering.

Chocolate chip with toffee chunks and gooey caramel in the center.

It’s goddamn incredible.

“Is everyone on this floor a chef?!” you exclaim in surprise, crumbs flinging from your lips.

Jungkook looks up at the ceiling again as he counts. His unfolding pinky denotes The Chans in 2A, duh. His ring finger counts the Jeups and their three lovely daughters in 2D. His middle finger stands for the Gal brothers and their new ice cream machine, or, well, old ice cream machine, since their shop got the new one—

“Kinda, actually,” Jungkook answers, looking back at you, still counting the others in his head while holding the three other cookies between his thumb and index finger. “Although I guess the Jeups and the Gals are more… bakers? But I don’t think you say that for ice cream.”

He plumps his bottom lip, chin wrinkling.

“What do you call someone who makes ice cream for a living?”

You roll your eyes as you polish off your cookie.

“Hey, I thought we were doing it?” he asks. “Shoot. Maybe I’m doing it wrong?”

“Doing what?”

“What you wanted to do.”

Toffee and chocolate are swirling together heavenly in your mouth, but you keep glaring at him. You layer more fire into it. Frown harder. Scowl meaner. If you look angry enough, maybe he’ll give you a second cookie out of fear, and you don’t have to admit how boggled you are.

“You said that all you wanted to do was eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget,” Jungkook recalls. “So we’re taking care of the eating part.”

You pull back a little on the glare.

“I would’ve appreciated getting to eat more of that walnut chicken.”

Jungkook’s eyes and grin thin out.

“We can go back. Or…?”

He holds out another cookie to you.

Which you slowly take.

And in return, you let go of the glower.

You turn the cookie over in your hands. Raise it to your lips.

Jungkook nods encouragingly.

You take a bite.

Peanut butter. With little chocolate candies. That are also filled with peanut butter.

Your pesky smile makes another reappearance.

“Now,” Jungkook says triumphantly, biting into two cookies at once and recalling, “Mrs. Chan said,” as he gets those cookies down to half-size with his huge bites, “ god this is fucking good,” smacking as he talks, “to get you a drink. So c’mon!”

He holds out his hand again. Devoid of any cookies.

You take it anyway.

And he leads you to the elevator.

“Can I get a copy of the itinerary?” you ask, puzzled by all your traipsing.

Jungkook drums on the elevator doors with his knuckles before giving the right one a slap and pushing the call button. “It’s just block party physics,” he explains. “You saw all those kegs and coolers when you came in, right?”

You nod.

“Gotta keep beer on the ground floor. Nice way to say hi to people. And nobody wants to lug all that shit up all these floors. But people are doing stuff in their apartments, too. More drinks, and food, and games.”

You take a second to take Jungkook in from toe to head. White, worn sneakers, with blue details. Baggy pants. Thin, white hoodie. Denim jacket. Fluffed hair, crinkled and thin eyes, wrinkled nose, and an easy, big smile. Like he’s just hanging out at home.

“Party physics,” you repeat.

The elevator doors open, and you both step in, Jungkook leaning against the railing in the back, and you facing him with a smirk.

“Of which you just happen to be a scholar?”

Jungkook grins. “That, and, uh…”

He gestures to one of the flyers on the elevator bulletin board behind you. It’s not as crumpled as the ones that blew by you earlier. But it is drooping, the tape holding up its top two corners having lost its stickiness over the past few weeks.

You smooth the paper out.

And then you reach into your pocket.

For your powder blue stapler.

You staple each corner into the cork, and you see what Jungkook is talking about. Below the boombox drawing and general details is a whole spreadsheet of details. A murder mystery party on floor twelve. A dance party on floor seven. Karaoke on floor six. Movies on floor eight.

Nothing on floor nine. You’re one of just a few people who live there. That floor doesn’t get great light, or a great view, facing the north, ignored side of the block. But that doesn’t matter to you. You like it quiet. That’s why you’re all there.

For some reason, you feel a little sick at the thought of riding up to floor nine.

So you’re grateful that you stop, for now, on floor five.

It boasts a crowd just a tad smaller than the one on the first floor, but the energy seems easier. Lively, but less brash.

When Jungkook sees your relieved smile, he takes it as a sign that he’s doing something right.

“Where should we start?” he asks, looking around at all the open doors. As you re-holster your stapler, his head darts left and right, checking your reaction with each option he presents.

“Board games! Ooh, OK, ‘ya seem to like that. We’ll put that on the list. We could also check out that poker game, which we passed back there. And there’s—”

You pull Jungkook’s arm toward you with such force that his nose bumps into your cheek. You laugh together, your eyes shining a bit brighter.

“That.”

You point.

“I wanna do that.”

Given your professional, cool-toned business separates; your seemingly strategic nature; your, quite frankly, super uptight vibe; and the way your eyes initially widened at the proposal to join the board game room, Jungkook wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who had even a passing interest in drinking games. Especially flip cup.

Yet, here you are, standing on top of Kim Yugyeom’s mother’s old kitchen table, the front of your blouse stained with sangria, and both of your hands victoriously pumping two empty, crushed plastic cups into the air.

Funny how the thing that always kept you from playing flip cup was the beer.

And you were extraordinary. How you downed each drink. How, like your voice has been so far this evening, you were able to stay so composed. How that gave you such an advantage with each flip. How everyone in the room cheered you on, shocked by how you hadn’t stuttered on a single cup. How Jungkook almost caught up, but you were able to rally and down two more full cups of sangria than you probably should have.

“Howwwww have I not plaaaaayed this gaaaaame before?!” you ask, delirious from your winner’s rush. And maybe the sangria.

“You haven’t?!” a laughing Yugyeom adds, as he helps you down from his table. “Would’ve thought you were a pro!”

A little unsteady on your feet, and happily so, you lean into him, melting at his strong form and touch before pouring into one of the chairs nearby.

“Alright there, champ?” Yugyeom chuckles.

He watches you wiggle happily in your seat, one strong wiggle forcing you to lean a bit too much to the right.

“Haha, fuck, let me get you some damn water!”

Jungkook lands in the chair next to you, propping you up and giggling at your blissful humming.

Your eyes meet his. “Oh, what’s this?” You raise your left hand up. “Hmm?” Your palm grazes the tip of his nose, and your eyes widen with excitement, as his widen to try to find out what’s wrong with your hand.

“Oh!” you smile.

Equally thrilled and perplexed, Jungkook moves to give you a high five?

But you dodge him with a grin.

“Uh-oh!”

Your wrist goes slack. Delighted, you do an arm wave, letting it flow through up to your shoulders, through to your trunk, and onwards to your other arm, which flows up and around from your side and around, down your opposite shoulder and through your forearm, fingers gathering to a point and tipping back Jungkook’s open forehead.

Jungkook lets out a spirited laugh that perks up your spine.

As you watch with interest, he furrows his brow and opens his mouth in fake offense. His head bobs forward, and he lets the wave travel throughout his entire body, each muscle isolation smoothing into the next.

He gets up and starts to dance, suddenly going rigid as he starts to pop and lock, hips moving with more precision than you would have anticipated, his baggy clothes suddenly looking sharp, his body halving, and The Hulk slipping out a little, bobbling along with him.

Yugyeom rejoins you, and him, cheering and catching the wave in his chest from Jungkook’s lightning rod of a hand and letting it travel through his black hoodie-covered torso, down to his legs, the frayed rips of his light blue jeans swaying as his muscles take turns relaxing and constricting, traveling back up to his other arm, and down to the hand that is holding two water bottles: one for Jungkook, and one for you.

You giggle and shiver as Yugyeom places the cold plastic against your neck, fingers grazing his as you take over the grip of the bottle.

This is… nice.

“What else can we play??” you ask brightly, letting the bottle linger for a moment before lifting it, and unscrewing the cap. “What other games are there?”

“Should probably slow down on the drinking ones,” Jungkook rightfully decides, as you start to slump again.

He takes a step back to you, and your left cheek rests on his right hip.

Feeling so comfortable, you close your eyes for a moment, missing Yugyeom’s intrigued smirk, and Jungkook’s helpless nose scrunch.

“Leaving so soon?” Yugyeom asks, tossing him the other bottle.

Jungkook looks down and notes your hazy, unfocused eyes, as well as your clumsy fingers still working at the water bottle cap.

“After this water break.”

“Well, swing by again later,” Yugyeom tells you, as your eyes flutter open. “I need to avenge my humiliated friend here. Or get the chance to, at least.”

Jungkook pouts. “Humiliated?”

“Only Jungkook can save himself,” you say, much too haughty for someone who has taken about thirty whole seconds to open a water bottle, “but depending on how tonight goes, I might take you on as another trophy. I mean victim. I mean opponent.”

Yugyeom shakes his head at your self-assuredness, looking over at Jungkook to see if he’s clocking this, and finding he’s only chuckling as you close your eyes and eagerly drink.

“Where’d you find her?” Yugyeom asks, as Jungkook looks back at him.

“Obviously by the dumpsters, given all the trash talk,” Jungkook jokes.

You choke on your water and laugh, the back of your hand rising to your lips as you open your eyes again and catch your breath.

“No, really,” Yugyeom goes on, smiling at you and shoving his hands into his back pockets, chest puffing out with a relaxing breath. “You live on the block?”

You point up at the ceiling. “Ninth floor.”

“The hermit floor?” Yugyeom asks, surprised.

You left your left shoulder from Jungkook’s hip and tilt your head toward it. “I crawled out of my cave today. And saw Jungkook on the curb.”

Yugyeom looks over at Jungkook again, who just smiles.

He meets Jungkook’s smile with a pleased chuckle.

“I mean it. Come back later. I still wanna hang.” He narrows his eyes at you and wiggles his eyebrows. “I want a go with the resident flip cup champ.”

You wink at him as you bring the water bottle back to your lips.

Before Yugyeom takes his leave, he reaches out his hand, slightly dampened from the condensation on those ice-cold water bottles, to Jungkook. Their right hands clasp together, and they bring their right shoulders forward to one another, chests bumping together tightly.

Yugyeom slaps Jungkook’s back.

He mumbles something.

Jungkook scoffs with a grin.

And then they part, Yugyeom flashing you another smile before he heads back toward his kitchen table.

Jungkook crouches down and wipes his hand on his thigh. You watch his fingers spreading across. His palm rubbing down toward his knee, and then back up again.

“Oh my god,” he says.

You straighten and snap your eyes to his, feeling caught. “What??”

“I think you’re…”

Jungkook shoots you an open-mouthed, told-you-so smile.

“…having fun??”

“Absolutely not,” you say, trying your best to sneer.

“You’re smiling!” Jungkook taps his finger on your cheek.

You swat his hand away, giggling and thinking fondly of him teasing those three girls with the cookies. You haven’t really stopped smiling since.

“You’re laaaugh-iiiiing!”

You roll your eyes. “So what if I am?”

Jungkook watches as you screw the water bottle’s cap back on and set it down, next to the right leg of your chair.

“Are you?” he asks gently. “H-having fun?”

He wants you.

To have fun, that is.

He wants you to have fun because you so clearly hadn’t earlier that day. He’s good at fun. At least, he’s always thought he is. In much the same way that Mrs. Chan is good at walnut chicken, and the Jeups are good at cookies, and the Gal brothers are good at ice cream.

He’s always thought that he’s been good at fun. Things have gotten a little busier, as life does. He hasn’t talked to as many people in a while. He definitely hasn’t gotten to swing by Yugyeom’s nearly as often, and he’s missed his check-ins with Yugyeom’s wonderful neighbors. While standing out there on the curb, peering up at your building, he wondered if he’d changed.

But, if you’re having fun, given the day that you’ve had, then that means he hasn’t.

He’s still good at fun.

Maybe if you knew this was kind of about him, it wouldn’t feel so strange for someone to want you to have fun when just a couple of hours ago, the bubble of your perfectly pleasant life burst at the discovery that people who celebrated your birthday, who clinked drinks with you at happy hour, who left you funny sticky notes on your desk, who shared the load when work got overwhelming — people who were supposedly invested in you — didn’t actually care all that much.

Do you even deserve it? Fun? When you are so easily discarded?

Jungkook clearly deserves it. He’s only just met you, by some dumpsters no less, and he’s still, inexplicably, trying so hard.

You feel your heavy heart pulling you under.

But then, you catch sight of The Hulk tucked into Jungkook’s pocket.

“I am.” You grin. “I am having a lot of fun.”

He brightens. Sits a little taller.

“Good!” His eyes close nearly all the way, and his two front teeth bunch up his lips. “I knew you were.”

He jumps to his feet. “Feeling up to more games? Maybe those board games?”

The sangria is starting to catch you, mixing with the swirl of emotions bogging down your heavy, heavy heart. You need to do something to let it out.

“Which floor had the karaoke?” you ask. “Six?”

“Quit hogging the mic!”

You spin around and scream the next lyrics at this surly, thin-lipped man, mashing whatever he can into a lour look of extreme disapproval.

The next part of this song is iconic, and masterful. You know each of the vocal parts in the lush swell of the breakdown, but this occasion calls for the throughline, the main melody, to drive the point home.

“NEVER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!” you belt, pointing at Thin Lips, shimmying as you dance around him in a circle.

“NEH! VER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!”

You put a resonant sting on the syncopated quarter notes that carry into the next measure, tapping your toes on each eighth-note of this manifesto.

“NEH!!! VER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!”

Exaggerating even more, you pull your lips into a mocking pout, and you descend down the harmonic scale.

“NEHHHH-VER GONNA GET IT—”

Brazen, and drawing a bit of power from the room clapping and laughing around you, you grab the handle of your stapler, aim it at Thin Lips’ cleft chin, and clap the hammer against the anvil on each note.

“WOO-WOO-WOO-WOOOOOOO!!!!”

“THE FUCK—”

“Shik.”

You aren’t sure when Jungkook got up from his seat on the Hans-in-6F’s couch, but now, he’s next to you, arms folded, chest slightly bouncing from holding in his laughter.

Thin-lipped Shik glares at him, and you start circling around Jungkook instead, singing the second half of the breakdown a little softer, but swaying your stapler in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes, which have been following you this whole time, spread out to the rest of the room, everyone chanting and clapping along. “We’re all having a good time.”

“She’s sung like a hundred songs!” Shik protests. “I want a turn!”

At the whiff of vodka that follows, Jungkook negotiates, “One more song, alright?”

He speaks kindly, with the kind of smile that people born with goodness and light at their core can share. But he puffs himself up when he says it. He unfolds his arms, and his chest inflates. He flexes his right hand. Just in case.

Shik sighs. “Fine. But make it something pleasant. She’s been screaming for the past hour.”

He takes Jungkook’s seat on the couch, seemingly discontent unless he’s taking things from other people.

But it’s fine. The energy is dissipating anyway, En Vogue starting to decrescendo and queue up your next show-stopping performance.

“Hey.” Jungkook’s unflexed right hand lands softly on your shoulder. “Diva.”

You turn and smile at him.

“Wanna do one last song?”

Panting, and jamming your stapler back into your pocket, you slow your dancing feet to a mere sway, pouring your weight to the left, then to the right.

“OK,” you say, mind starting to wander, “but let me pick something different.” Your eyes widen a bit. “Would you wanna sing something with me?”

Jungkook beams. “Yeah!”

As you scroll through your private YouTube playlist of karaoke faves, he stands a little closer. Looks over your shoulder with curiosity. Giggles softly when your thumb tugs at ones that he likes, too.

He smells good.

“Ooh!”

You startle back at his sudden exclamation and bump into his chest.

And he just lets you.

“You, uh, know this one ?” you ask, thumb hovering over a picture of two silhouettes.

“I love that one.”

“Me too.”

A shared glance between you tells you how much.

Jungkook hums. “Then start us off.”

Growing up, you’d wished that the karaoke industry would work faster. Churn out more microchips that held more than just the 70s and 80s ballads that your family sang in the same rotation at every holiday, birthday, christening, graduation, wedding, hell, every Saturday morning, while you each took charge of scrubbing a different part of the house…

Nowadays, karaoke versions of songs aren’t hard to find. Literally every song is essentially at your fingertips. But with every song at your fingertips, it’s becoming harder and harder to find people who know what you know. Like what you like.

As Jungkook reaches for the other mic, still charging on its base, you play the instrumental.

And you raise your mic to your mouth.

“I keep so much of me hidden. Can’t lie. No, I’ve got this pain inside. Most times I never admit it. But with you, no, I don’t want to hide.”

Jungkook bites his lip as you sing. You aren’t the most gymnastic singer, but you have such a pleasant voice. And he’s not the only one who thinks so. A hush has fallen over the entire room, and even Shik is captivated by the way you’ve softened the air around you.

“What’s there all the time. And weighs on my mind. My friends say they listen. But honestly, I don’t think that they get me like you do. You don’t have to try. I come unfolded with the things I hold inside. I have never told no one but you.”

How long have you been singing? Has it been an hour? Two?

Maybe people don’t tire of you as easily as you thought.

Your heart feels a little lighter.

And you let Jungkook fill the space that remains.

“When I’m with you, I feel different.”

In just one line, you discover that if Jungkook’s voice were a drink, it would be a toasted marshmallow mocha. If Jungkook’s voice were a feeling, it would be your bare legs meeting the backseat of the car on a tempered summer day. If Jungkook’s voice were a hand, it would cup your cheek and hold your face up to make sure you didn’t miss the sight of a falling star.

“Like I can’t just be your warmness, oh baby…”

His vocal runs are hurdles and sprints and marathons in equal turns, voice strong and whole as he dips in and out of notes and syllables, playing with time, and tickling your lighter, and lighter, and even lighter, heart.

“I’ve been through some tough things in my life. And it’s so easy to tell you.”

You believe him.

You believe him so strongly that you almost miss your cue to join him again at the chorus, singing an octave apart, matching him note for note, voice bending and gliding a little easier. Freer.

But then everything just stops.

The music. Your voices. The energy.

It all comes to a halt.

Other voices start to overlap. Curses, and concern.

A small circle of bright, invasive light appears. And then another. And another.

They catch people in slices.

Frowns. Fists.

Eyes. No two sets meeting.

Except, somehow, yours and Jungkook’s.

“Everyone OK?” someone asks, as more and more tiny spotlights rove around the room.

“Apparently it’s the whole building!”

“The whole block?”

“Look out the window!”

“Yeah, it’s the whole city!”

Whines start to fill the room. Then groans. Then yells.

“Fuck,” you hear Jungkook whisper, “people are gonna lose it pretty quickly.”

You feel a hand grab yours and yank you toward them.

“It’s me.”

But you knew that.

And now you know that the center of his body, the notch where his pecs and the top of his abs meet and surrender to one another, seems to be a perfect spot for your hand to rest. And your hand resting there makes up for all the blows that your feet and shins and hips take as you fight your way through the distressed crowd.

“Door.”

You don’t see or feel it. Jungkook’s already holding it open for you, leading you through by jutting out his chest and letting you know where he is, which is right there, still curved around your hand.

His hand leaves yours and slides down your side, circling around your back, incidentally following the line of the band of your bra. His forearm pins you to him, and you feel your body bending with his as he shuffles you through to the hall. His chin rests on the top of your head, and your temple cushions against his collarbone.

Baby powder.

Bodes beat against your back, and you take in a sharp breath, your fingers balling into fists. One hand is still safely settled into that notch below Jungkook’s chest. Your other arm is pressed to your side, hugged by Jungkook’s armpit, your hand swinging down and closing around—

“Wait, shit, I’m still holding the mic?”

“It’s OK,” he tells you. “Everything’s OK.”

But something catches his attention.

“Deji?!”

You feel Jungkook’s chest tighten around your fist.

“Deji!!”

“Mr. Jeup?” Jungkook calls out, hoping his voice can meet hers despite the building wails.

“Jungkook-ah?”

“Yes, it’s Jungkook!”

The collective spotlights help Jungkook and Mr. Jeup find each other across the hall, and Jungkook leads him, and you, to a spot close to the staircase railing.

Mr. Jeup has soaked through the collar of his shirt.

“I can’t find Deji,” he says breathlessly. “I’d already been looking for her for a couple of hours, but she got separated from her unnies—” He clicks his teeth. “Always trailing behind.”

You think of the sweet girl slapping Jungkook’s hand away from her basket of cookies.

“We’ll find her.”

From what you can tell, Jungkook’s voice is enough to reassure Mr. Jeup, as the slices of him that you get look more and more relieved.

“Go home and check in with Mrs. Jeup and the girls,” Jungkook tells him. “My friend and I will go up floor by floor. I’ll text you the moment I see her.”

Mr. Jeup shakes his head. “We should’ve just gotten her a phone. Like she wanted.”

“She won’t be far. She knows your rules.” A slice of light catches Jungkook’s smile, as fond as when he had exchanged those cute giggles with her earlier. “And, though it might not seem like it, she always follows them.”

Mr. Jeup nods. “Thanks, Jungkook. Let me know.”

Shades of Mr. Jeup make their way along the railing, following it carefully as he makes his way back downstairs.

“I’ll formally introduce you another time,” he says apologetically.

Jungkook can’t be so hospitable, or demented, to be thinking about a formal introduction in this fraught situation.

But then you think of how he and Deji teased each other. Their familiar, funny way. How she gave him four cookies as a treat.

Or a payment.

A placid smile spreads across your face. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

Jungkook chuckles.

“C’mon.”

“When will it come back on??”

“We wanna watch!”

“It was just about to get to the good part!”

“Give it a few more minutes,” a voice, more mature than the others, calls out. “Give the backup generators a little bit of time to kick in.”

“They’re not going to,” another older voice says in response. “It’s been too long. I’m betting they’re down as well.”

“Stop it!” the first hisses. “You’ll scare them!”

As predicted, the younger voices start to clamor.

“What??”

“So when will the power come back on?”

“I’m getting hot!”

“Me too! I’m starting to sweat!”

“Eeeewww!”

“Helloooooo!”

Jungkook calls brightly from the hallway through the opening door, slowly revealing a group of kids in the living room, and a couple on the couch, outlined against a soft half-sphere of candlelight.

“Yon! Yeo!”

“Jungkookie!”

The woman on the left jumps up from the couch, and the woman on the right just nods.

You sigh softly when, in the center back of the group of kids, all of them lying on top of each other, having kicked off their blankets and facing a blank, white bed sheet hanging on a cleared clothing rack, you see Deji, sitting with her legs criss-crossed.

And next to a boy.

Jungkook lets go of your hand, but not without glancing at you to make sure it’s OK to.

You smile and nod, lingering in the doorway and watching him tiptoe in the gaps between squishy, teeny arms and legs to crouch down next to Deji, and this boy.

Deji gives Jungkook a high five, and you smirk to yourself as he pulls his phone out from his back pocket, sighing with relief as he starts to type.

The woman who waved gets up and walks over to you, leaning on a bookshelf by the door and folding her arms.

“I’m Yon,” she replies. “And that’s Yeo.”

She jerks her thumb behind her.

Staring straight ahead, Yeo takes another sip of wine.

You introduce yourself and say, “Did you set this up for the kids?”

Yon nods. “Toy Story 3. We were almost at the incinerator scene.”

Your eyes pop open, and you look over to the kid who cheered about the scene earlier.

“That was the good part??”

Yon cackles and says, “Seojun over there has a dark sense of humor.”

The other kids have successfully been distracted, settling into other lively conversations, giggling and playing games with each other, and with Jungkook.

But Seojun quietly breaks free from the group and makes her way to the couch. She plops down next to Yeo, the two of them chatting quietly.

Yon watches them affectionately. “So does Yeo. Kindred spirits, those two.”

They look so serious. But there are moments. Eyebrow flickers. Chuckles. And, throughout, a warm smile of recognition of something deeper. A somewhat somber but understanding of the world around them.

Seojun pauses. Stumbles. Gets whatever she wants to say out. Yeo seems to ponder it, and then says something back. Then, Seojun and Yeo look away from each other, and Yeo strokes her hair once as Seojun hides a smile.

You didn’t realize how many kids lived in the building. But you’re usually out before they’re up, and back in long after they’re asleep.

“Kind of you to host something kid-friendly.”

“To be honest, these have kind of been little test runs.”

Yon’s voice is cautious and small, but happy.

“We want to adopt,” she admits.

Her eyes are pillowy soft as they scan over those tiny, laughing faces.

“The kids around here are so sweet. Good families. Good parents. They don’t judge. And they’ve given us so many smiles. It’d be nice to share our lives like this all the time. Especially with a little one who really needs it.”

You can feel how momentous Yon’s heart must be. Her words surround you. Inflate you. Lift you up.

“Well,” you sigh, impressed, and a little sheepish, at her outpouring of love, “the little ones who get to join your family are quite lucky.”

Yon lets out a deep, encouraged sigh. “Thanks for that. Nice to hear something positive, y’know? It’s been… hard.”

You regretfully agree.

“Anyway,” Yon replies, “how do you know Jungkook? Are you friends with Yugyeom, too? That’s how we met him.”

“I, um—”

Desk.

Office.

Job.

“Well, I just met him today.” You blink. You can’t believe you just met him today.

Yon smiles, recognizing your dazed look.

“He makes quite an impression, doesn’t he?”

Your eyes land on him as he grins and throws up a peace sign while taking a picture with Deji, and laughing with the boy, who is starting to take interest in The Hulk bobblehead in Jungkook’s pocket.

“I’ve known him since he was a skinny teen,” Yon reflects. “His parents used to own this building, but they sold the property when they retired. He’s still here all the time, though.”

She smiles.

“It’s been a little while since we’ve gotten to see him. But it’s always so nice when we do. He just makes things… better.”

Jungkook notes the boy’s gaze, and his bent fingers reach into that pocket to pull The Hulk’s head out, flashing The Hulk’s cute little grimace, to Deji and the boy’s delight.

But when the boy reaches out for it, Jungkook frowns and leans back, not letting the boy take The Hulk out of his pocket completely, choosing instead to close the flap of his pocket over The Hulk’s black eyes, tapping the pocket in thanks for safekeeping.

You giggle.

Maybe that’s the secret to Jungkook.

To all of this.

Being a kid at heart.

Yes, things have been hard.

Things are hard.

But they haven’t been hard just today. And not just for you. Or Yon and Yeo. Or Shik. Or Mr. Jeup. Or any of the people in your building, on your block, in this city.

Everyone is shuffling around, lost in the dark.

But it isn’t your fault.

It isn’t anyone’s fault.

Maybe that’s just how it is sometimes.

Maybe that’s how it is all the time.

There’s always more that you could do to fight against the darkness. To make things better.

But maybe there’s also more time for selcas, and singing, and sangria.

Fun, kind things that you could do with others. And for yourself.

Maybe that’s the way to start.

Yon’s face suddenly pulls together tightly. And you follow her gaze to your hip.

“Why do you have a stapler in your pocket?”

“Hey!” Jungkook exclaims, popping up beside you and patting Yon’s back.

“Hey,” Yon says warmly, leaning in for a hug. “We were just getting to know each other.” She smirks. “Just as it seems the two of you are.”

Jungkook grins at you. “The two of us have been having fun.”

You smile.

“Oooh, funnnn,” Yon says, her voice waving up and down as the word trails from her lips.

She smirks at Jungkook.

“Then don’t worry about Deji. She’s just fine.”

And she is. Deji and the boy are in their own little bubble, voices hushed, bodies crouched and facing each other, smiles mirroring.

“Tell Mr. Jeup that I can walk her down if he wants,” Yon says.

“Nah, he’s good,” Jungkook replies. “I sent him a selca. Told him that you were all just hanging out.”

He slides his hands into his back pockets.

“In fact, I told him that it’s better for her to stay. That it’s much calmer than downstairs. So he said thanks, and that he’d come up and pick her up when the chaos dies down. Even if it’s late into the night.”

Yon clicks her teeth and shakes her head. “Cheeky fucker.”

He beams a cheesy, accomplished grin.

“Alright, Cupid.” Yon beams a cheesy grin of her own. “Then why don’t you two continue your night of fun?”

Jungkook flicks his eyes over to you.

You realize that you’re starting to sweat, too.

Yon is already shoving Jungkook back into the hallway when he asks, “Y-you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She smiles at you. “Nice meeting you. Maybe you can explain the stapler when I see you again?”

You laugh, and Jungkook stands next to you in the hallway.

Before you leave, he turns back to the living room.

“Dehhhh-jiiiiiii!” he sings.

Deji looks up at him and smiles. “Yesssss??” she sings back mockingly.

Jungkook sends her a wink.

Deji’s cheeks balloon with air, and they deflate quickly as she whines out, “oh-PAAAA!!!”

He cackles as Yon hurriedly calls back, “OK, Jungkook-oppa is leaving now! Everybody say goodbye!”

The kids yell out goodbyes to Jungkook-oppa, and Jung-krook-oppa, and Yungkook-oppa, and Jungle-oppa, and Crunkook-oppa, and Chunky-oppa— and Yon, cackling, uses her foot to nudge Jungkook farther into the hall before pushing the door closed.

The kids’ goodbyes are replaced with the sound of people in other eighth-floor apartments trying to come up with — and, in some cases, even arguing about — activities to occupy their fellow film fans. But unlike on the other floors, the sound doesn’t seem so overwhelming, tempered above by the typical silence of the ninth.

You look up. Being up on the hermit, ninth floor affords you a certain privilege. You haven’t worried one bit since the power went out. You know that your apartment looks exactly the same as you left it. Kitchen, clean. Living room, sparkling. Bed, made. Pillows fluffed, and sheets pressed. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for maybe the fire escape that you like to keep cracked, fighting off the sometimes stale air.

You see your desk pushed up against it. Pages of your open book swaying in the breeze.

“Tired?” Jungkook asks, tilting his head.

How quickly you grow tired of stale air.

“Maybe a little, but,” you rush, “uh… not quite…”

Your gaze settles on each other. Jungkook’s eyebrows are slightly tented.

“Not quite ready to go home just yet,” you say, voice low, and ambling.

Jungkook smiles.

“Then let’s go do the second thing you wanted to do tonight.”

It’s been a while since you’ve seen stars.

And you still kind of see stars when you turn to Jungkook.

The breeze runs through his hair, making some of his shorter, soft curls dance.

You miss them a little when he pulls up his hood, so that his hair stays clean as he lies down on the roof, next to you.

He’s just so mesmerized by how bright the world is in the middle of a blackout.

“Can you believe this happens every night?” Jungkook asks in awe. “This happens every night, and we just don’t see it.”

You look back up at the sky like an old friend.

The suburbs that raised you gave you unencumbered sight. You’ve memorized a few of them. Though your favorites are the ones that shine during the winter, you can spot some of summer’s best. The dippers. Leo.

You introduce him to them.

It’s fun to watch Jungkook meet them for the first time.

“They make everything feel so much smaller,” he observes in wonder.

“That can be a good thing,” you realize as you say.

You feel his curious eyes on you as you give your body a good, deep stretch, toes wiggling, hips pulling down, chest rising a little, and shoulders popping as your neck tilts left and right, your head still resting on the inside back lining of Jungkook’s denim jacket, which he laid flat on the roof for you.

“Takes some of the pressure off.”

He watches as you lick your lips, take another deep breath, and close your eyes as you exhale.

“Feeling a lot of it?” he asks.

“Was.”

The warmth of Jungkook’s proud glow tickles your side, and you open your eyes to the sight of him beaming at the sky and biting his lip at a job well done.

You follow his gaze, and take another deep breath.

“Things will work out,” he says comfortingly.

You chuckle. “They probably always do, for someone like you.”

“What if they do?”

It would sound cocky if he didn’t punctuate it with a question mark that has a light giggle for a point.

The corner of your mouth ticks up. “Then I’m happy for you.”

Jungkook hums.

You lie there in silence for a while, the sounds of the city floating up from the street. It’s calming, hearing the city chugging along, even if just a little slower and quieter, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Because it isn’t.

Jungkook pulls his legs in, bending his knees and letting his feet plant themselves onto the roof, one leg crossing over the other, foot just above and to the right of you.

You watch it sway a little.

“I’d play some music or something, but I think my phone is going to die soon,” Jungkook mumbles.

“Oh. Hang on.”

As you slant your hips toward him, Jungkook’s eyes run down your body and follow their curves. Your hand slides out from your back pocket with your phone, still full of charge.

When you look at its screen, you don’t even see all the notifications in the top bar. You go right to your playlists, and you see the perfect track.

It doesn’t occur to you to ask Jungkook if he likes it. He’s already moved his swaying foot in time to the slightly faster beat.

It’s a song about a new crush, its sweet and giddy lyrics, harmonies, and melodies floating into the air, lofted by city sounds, and Jungkook humming along beside you.

You smile to yourself.

You narrow your eyes.

And then you turn onto your side, folding and tucking both of your hands under your right cheek.

“Tell me more about this crush,” you say.

Jungkook mirrors you, forehead wrinkling, and lips tantalizing as he smirks and turns inward to you, too.

You’re almost touching.

You catch another whiff of baby powder.

“Hmm… which crush?”

You giggle together, noses almost bumping.

“Tell me more about Deji and this boy.”

“Ahhhh!”

He smiles. Fond. Almost proud.

“She’s so cute,” you say, your heart swelling a little.

“She’s precious,” Jungkook agrees. “The Jeups are always busy at their shop, and when they’re working really late, people from the building will drop by their place and check on them, or invite them over. I haven’t been able to visit as often, but when I visit Yugy, I usually try to swing by. Entertain them for a few hours if I can.”

“So friendly,” you comment.

Jungkook tilts his head toward you. “It’s nice to make friends.”

You smile. “It is.” And then. you sigh. “Now, tell me about the boy.”

Laughing, he says, “His name is Hyun-Woo, and he lives on the fourth floor.”

Your smile stretches, and your eyebrows rise.

Jungkook giggles. And then he shares a bit more.

“His parents are quiet. They’re all still kinda new to the city. A little shy. He is, too. He has a pet gerbil named Moony because he seems to like to play at night. He plays video games. He used to collect these little space battalion figurines, but he kind of lost track of some of them during the move, but it’s alright, because he was kinda starting to lose interest in them anyway. And he plays tennis. He’s OK at it.”

“Is he a nice kid?” you ask.

“What do you think?”

“You’re the one who knows him.”

“Huh? I just met him tonight.”

Your eyes open in surprise. Jungkook knows everybody in the world.

“What?”

He raises his hand in caution. “Hey, all of this info is second-hand from Deji.”

“She’s really fallen for him, huh?”

Jungkook’s brows, cheeks, nose, and lips all draw together, meeting, squinched, in the middle of his face.

“She told me that she’s butt-crazy in love.”

When you laugh, he laughs, all his features bouncing back to their rightful, gorgeous places.

You lie there, just watching him, trying to take more of it in.

More of Jungkook just laughing.

His eyes are perfectly almond-shaped, but they grow so big and round when he laughs. He seems to have a habit of pushing his upper lip into a triangular pout, symmetrical with the way his cheeks form sideways Vs as he pulls his lips up and back. There’s a tiny freckle on his chin, by his bottom lip, and you like that depending on how full his laugh is, and how open his mouth grows to let it out, you can sometimes see it, and sometimes, you can’t, because when it pops up, it’s like a tiny, adorable prize. And now, he’s scratching the tip of his ear, grabbing onto it, before sliding his hands under his cheeks, just like yours.

Your knees are almost touching.

“Is she?”

“She is.”

Maybe it’s the topic, and maybe it’s just tonight, but everything about him shines so brightly. Even his voice bathes you in starlight.

“When it comes to this sort of thing, you just know.”

He rubs his knee, gently, against yours.

It angles downward as he rests his weight on it.

His arm comes around you, and your body turns with it, your back meeting the roof.

His hand flattens, resting on his jacket, holding him up.

As he leans over you, face in full view, the only thing you see, other than the swirls of stars sparkling behind him, you think you might crane your neck up and plant a kiss on his slightly parted lips.

As you raise your chin to meet him, he thinks you might, too.

He opens his mouth to say something else. Maybe even do something else. Whatever it is, you want him to do it.

But then, there’s the loud buzzing of generators, and a rush of light.

Windows.

Signs.

Billboards.

Fluorescent.

Neon.

Spotlights evolving into floodlights.

The entire city rumbles with an earthquake of cheers.

Your lips pull back from the pout you were making, rushing inward as you seal them together with your teeth.

Jungkook freezes.

You look at each other for a moment.

And then he leans back. Instead of lying back down, he sits up, folding his legs under him. He uses them to get himself back onto his feet and walk over to the edge, looking back at you and raising his eyebrows in question.

You rock onto your side, kneel, and then hoist yourself up, joining him to look over the ledge.

The streets are more crowded than you thought. And they’re growing louder, no longer restrained under that black cloud.

“Guess it’s over,” he says.

You blink a few times, getting used to this new, luminous world. You peer down at the building across the street, the one that blocks the city from your apartment’s view, and you see a horde of people through one of the main windows.

You can already hear the din of people in your own building, chaos moving from the hallways to the stairwell. Sweaty bodies pushing against each other to get back to their apartments, filled with stale air.

Jungkook raises his eyebrows as he reads your mind. “Wait it out?”

“Nah.”

You follow the siding, along the ledge, to where the roof’s fire escape sits.

You grab the rising railing and steady yourself before climbing up, over the ledge, and turning around to take the ladder down..

You look at Jungkook with a daredevil’s grin.

“C’mon.”

Hoisting the fire escape window open proves to be much more difficult than you thought. Maybe the metal tracks have rusted over. Maybe the paint has turned to glue. Or maybe there’s something stuck at the top, a bit of wood, or a random pebble, wedging it in place.

Jungkook sends it flying upwards with seemingly no effort.

Even though the fire escape’s metal work is still up to code and more than enough to keep you from tumbling down into, incidentally, the dumpsters below, he holds his arms open and around you. Just in case.

You climb in, careful not to stomp on your still-open book, balancing on your desk carefully, but not for too long, given that it was bought on a budget and contains a drawer of screws that you didn’t use when putting it together.

Jungkook sees you calculating, and before you can give any kind of warning, he dives for the rug, somersaulting into the living room, stopping just short of the coffee table holding your one real plant.

Smiling back as you cackle, he jumps up, dusts himself off, and takes a bit of a bow.

Unlike every other apartment in the city at that moment, your lights are still off. But you tend to keep them off anyway, much preferring the way the city light gives you just enough to maneuver around comfortably.

He seems to understand. Another shared preference.

You watch as he takes slivers of your living room in. At the far end, your door, double-locked. Shoes lined up, except for a boot that has fallen on its side. A table, which is probably where you put your keys and mail. A skinny bookshelf on the first wall. A TV, and that coffee table, in the center. That plant, which, unfortunately, isn’t doing too well. This couch, with the quilt that looks like your mother, or any mother, made it, but is actually another bargain buy.

“Cozy,” he says with a genuine smile.

“Appears that way,” you admit.

Jungkook nods as he takes more in. Everything seems to be in place. In order. And he’s starting to feel awkward there, unsure of where he needs to be.

“Well,” he says, smiling. “I guess there’s nothing left to do but the last thing on your list.”

There’s an uncomfortable pressure in your chest. You let it storm and rumble for a moment, and you realize that it’s not anxiety, or stress. Those would mean that having Jungkook in your apartment would feel wrong. That you would want him to go.

But you desperately, desperately don’t.

It’s regret.

The regret of not craning your neck up and kissing him under the stars.

“I don’t want to do the last thing anymore,” you say, looking at him with want. “I wanna do something else.”

You don’t break your gaze as you walk right up to him, toes touching his.

You tilt your head.

You kiss him.

And he lets you.

When you pull away, you grin and ask, “What are you thinking?”

He could have been staring for five seconds or five hours. It somehow feels like both. And all of that explodes when he tells you, “I was thinking how much I like the taste of your mouth.”

His lips land on yours with a soft grunt, diving in with more want the more that he gets of you. His fingers hold your head gently, but after each taste that he gets of you, his fingers continue to dig in, squeezing your cheeks slightly, and forcing your lips forward.

He runs his tongue over them and kisses you once more.

Hearts pounding, you pull away, wearing matching, wet smirks.

As you pull away, you stare at each other, puzzled, and even more curious.

You rush together again, bodies colliding this time, and violently so.

“Ow!”

You rub at the sore spot just above your right breast, and The Hulk scowls back at you.

“Haha, aww.”

He whines along with you, pulling you in closer on the other side, and placing his hand on your sore spot, too.

He massages his fingers in tender circles.

And then he pulls you in for a kiss that unfolds slowly, not robbed of heat and passion but building back up to it layer by layer, like the measured steps of the fire escape, rather than tumbling off of the roof’s ledge.

His hand travels down, taking your breast in his hand and massaging it with his entire palm, working in tandem with his tongue in your mouth.

You feel both his tongue and his hand at your pussy, clenching tighter, and nearly getting as wet as your smirks.

He groans softly, shoulders bending back.

He momentarily removes his hand from you as he peels his jacket off of his frame, first his left sleeve, then his right, folding the jacket in half and gently tossing it over to your couch.

And then, his hand returns, and the other joins it, groping your chest and pushing your breasts into you. You lay your hands on top of his and follow his round motions, intertwining and closing your fingers around his fingers as they feel you.

His thumbs flick over both of your nipples. You can only feel part of the sensation, with your blouse still on, and given the light padding in your bra. But it’s more than enough to send twitches to your pussy as it drips with more arousal.

Your thighs tighten and clasp together, hips swirling.

Your head dips back as you take in a long, deep breath, followed by shallower ones.

It feels like you’ve been drowning.

Jungkook watches you, hands slowing to a stop.

“Everything OK?”

“I haven’t been kissed like that in a long, long time,” you say, dazed. “And I barely know you.”

Jungkook smiles. “I’m Jungkook.”

You laugh, “Yes, but—”

“Why don’t I tell you what I know,” he says quietly, and thoughtfully.

He runs his fingers down the collar of your blouse. You barely feel him, but your chest feels so tense.

“I know that you’re sweet.”

He runs his index finger down your chest. As he unbuttons the first button with just his right hand, your eyes unfocus, lids falling slightly closed, and your tilting head sending them back.

“I know that you’re kind.”

The second button is a little harder to undo. You had to replace it after the thread came loose, and you overdid the fix just to be sure. He’s still able to unbutton it with just one hand.

“I know that you’re funny.”

The third button opens, and he rolls it in his fingers as he tickles your belly button, making you giggle and squirm.

“I know that you’re feisty. And really competitive. Which I’m gonna have tons of fun with.”

You laugh as he hooks his finger around the fourth button, which falls open. He barely even had to touch it. You feel your shirt spreading apart at your shoulders, and you feel the slight breeze from the window on your chest.

“I know that you’ve had a shitty day.”

You soften as he undoes the last button at the end of your blouse.

“And I wanna make you feel better.”

His hands move up your hips, and waist, and he moans softly at the feel of your skin.

He bends down and kisses just above your right breast, as his hands run up your chest and to your shoulders, slipping under that polyester blend and running down your arms, your blouse traveling with them.

You hear the crumple of sangria-stained fabric fall on the ground.

Jungkook’s lips find a spot on your neck, and you lean back to give him room.

Your hands sneak under his hoodie, and you take the time to grope every single muscle on his back, each of them covered in a slight sheen of sweat.

“Mmm,” he whispers, as you hook your arms under his and pull him closer.

“Why have you been wearing two layers?” you finally ask, feeling the weight of his sweat in the fabric. “It’s so hot.”

“I haven’t done my laundry yet. These are the last clean clothes that I have. And this is thin.”

He tugs on the front and looks down.

“You can see my nipples through it.

Your frown is weighted with empty promises when you look down.

“In the light, I mean,” Jungkook chuckles.

“That’s a feature, not a bug, Jungkook.”

He has no idea what you’re talking about, but he’ll take it, with the way you’re softly moaning as you run your hands across his chest.

“You wanna see them?”

“Uh-huh. Let me turn on the light.”

“Or you could just take this off.”

“Right.”

You almost would prefer to turn on the light, because, now that you know his back is made of nothing but rippling muscle, you don’t know if you’ll be able to handle the full sight of his chest.

But you bite your lip, and tug.

He pulls his arms down, and then he shakes his hair free, as you pull the hoodie from his head.

You wish you could take a picture of the resulting floof, so soft and cute.

And then you let your eyes drift down to his chest.

He watches with interest as you trace each of his pecs with your fingers.

“Live up to your expectations?”

You realize your mouth has been hanging open.

You look into his eyes.

“Shattered them.”

He laughs, and then you go back to admiring his body. You wonder what he does. Weights, obviously, as supported by his strong, defined arms. Maybe he swims, given his waist. He probably likes to run, too. He can probably run for hours. In fact, with all the gallivanting around tonight, his heart’s gotta be like that of a stallion.

This bodes well for you.

The only way he can pry you away from that body is by tilting your chin up and stealing your gaze with his eyes.

His lips flutter against your jaw line until they meet yours again.

With your chests mashing together, and your kisses stretching on for longer, busier spans of time, you’re starting to work up a sweat.

“Bedroom?” you ask, panting.

He nods quickly and looks around to figure out which door it is.

You smile and take his hand, leading him to the far right, past your kitchen, and to your room, to your perfect, comfy bed.

You slide out of your shoes, undo your pants, and let them fall to the floor before climbing onto the bed and sitting in the middle.

And you run your hand across your chest as you watch him take his time, kicking off his shoes, taking off his pants, standing there in his black boxer-briefs and just grinning at you.

“Are you gonna join me or what?”

When your head tilts to the side, weighted with impatience, he scrunches his face again, and laughs.

He crawls as he follows you, watching you to make sure you’re comfortable as you lie down, and then settling on top of you, like you both wish he had done on the roof.

“You playing with me?” you mumble through a smile, as you bring your arms around him.

He kisses the inside of your upper arm and rubs it with his hand. “No,” he says simply. “Just like looking at you.”

You sigh as he kisses you.

It’s a little faster. Hungrier. Like before.

He leads you back with his lips, and when he looks down at your chest, you arch back, fingers finding the band and undoing the clasps in the back.

He lets out a sigh when he sees your bare chest.

He locks eyes with you, and his look says it all. Equal parts tender and fascinated. You wouldn’t believe the look on anyone else, but after tonight, you know that there is no disingenuous bone in Jungkook’s body.

You are beautiful.

He smiles as he snatches your bra from your hand and tosses it behind him, rushing forward to you and pinning you down to your pillow with his kiss, both of you laughing and grunting happily.

You place your hands on his hips, and then stroke his thighs.

You run the backs of your fingernails to his crotch, and he lets out a low moan.

“OK?” you ask.

“Yeah. Yeah, please.”

You fondle his cock, hard, and getting harder, while you grasp it with firm pressure. He whines so sweetly as your hand runs up and down its column, his underwear keeping it pinned against him, nearly choking it off.

His left hand claims your left breast, starting to massage it, and his right hand strokes your panties, twisting as your body starts to writhe against your mattress, the fabric riding higher and getting caught in your swelling, dripping flesh.

Your kisses are becoming more and more impassioned with each need being met.

He starts to dip his fingers between your pussy lips, letting your clit part his index and middle fingers as his wrist rocks back and forth.

As you moan on each stroke, he lifts his lips from yours and rests his temple against your collarbone.

“Can I taste you?” he asks hopefully.

You look at him and nod in desperation.

He smirks and kisses down your body, taking your panties and pulling them down to your calves. He’s so impatient that he starts to eat you out before they’re even fully off, and you take turns between giggling while trying to kick them off completely, and groaning at each dizzy lick of his tongue tip, spiraling around your clit, and sending you spiraling into your own abyss.

Your hips start to match his motion, but then his hands grasp your hips and pin you down.

You feel yourself fighting against him, and that tight, added resistance has you seeing stars. The sensation travels in waves over your body, never quite settling in one place. Your shoulders carry you from left to right. Your ass digs down, then pumps up. Your back locks, then arches. All of your movements fail miserably at quelling the disquieted sections of your body, only shifting the tension from muscle to muscle.

He pins your thighs down with his forearms, and then holds you open with his thumbs, his tongue laying flat and changing from spirals to broad, heated, pressured brushstrokes up and down, at an even, unhurried tempo.

You whimper as you start to feel little shivers of pleasure tickle your body. You wet your lips and press them together, choked-off grunts getting louder and louder.

“Fingers?” Jungkook asks.

“Mm -hmm.”

He grunts as he shifts his weight, letting your left thigh go, and softly pushing it to the side to widen your spread a little.

His hand is warm and covered in your sweat.

He lays the pad of his thumb against the entrance of your pussy, pressing slightly, and then he sucks the juice that collects around it.

“Tight little thing,” he mumbles. “Not ready for me yet.”

You groan at all the things that means.

He slides the tip of his index finger in. At first, you feel yourself fighting him, but when he starts to suck your clit, you feel yourself start to shift that tension up to your extremities. Your hands ball into fists. Your toes curl. Your throat closes off as you try to wail.

His entire finger slides inside, and you feel your walls conforming to his knuckles.

He starts to pump, and you hiss.

The sound of wet muscle doubles, and you feel his groans against your clit as his hips start to snap into his own fist.

He keeps his mouth open as you rock against his mouth, tongue stretching into your folds as you slide around his finger, moving faster, his other fist matching your pace stroke for stroke.

As the edges of a soft, warm release start to take you, he slips another finger inside of you, and you let out a loud moan.

Jungkook hums, pleased with how pleased you are.

“Shit, it feels so good,” you whine, before resting the back of your forearm over your lips and biting down.

He quickens his speed. Curves his fingers up.

“Uh-huh!”

You tighten around him, and he lets out a sigh, his temple resting against your thigh, eyes dazed over as he watches his fingers disappear inside of you over and over again, while his other fingers tighten their grip around his leaking cock.

He grunts again, and then, he places his lips over your clit, sealing it in his mouth, and sucking again.

When you come, you sigh, laughing a little at how unexpectedly delirious you feel.

Your body is still shivering when he stands over you, his pace slowing, but his cock still has a ways to grow.

It’s already so big.

You can’t wait.

“Come here,” you motion, directing Jungkook to come around the side of the bed.

“You sure?” he asks, obviously excited.

“After that?” you say, delighted.

You roll onto your side, hugging the edge of the mattress, and open wide for him, eyes gleaming as you look up at him.

His hand cradles the back of your head as you try to take him in one gulp. It takes you a minute to get the angle right, jaw driving you left and right, tongue flat, then narrow and pointed, until you surround him with your lips, and you start to bob your head back and forth, halfway down his shaft.

He takes a shaky breath in, and you smile when you hear him let out a little, “whoo.”

He comes out of your mouth with a pop as you lick your precum-glossed lips and ask, “You like it?”

You see only his hair floof shake up and down. His head has fallen back, the strong pillar of his throat bulging forward, collarbones out, chin directed up at the air.

You watch as you suck harder, his crown regally announcing itself through the curtains of your tonsils, muscle meeting your throat.

Jungkook hisses, bringing his hands up to the sides of his head, and raking his fingers through his hair.

You move back and forth again, your pillow collecting your sweat as you go.

The longer you go, the more you feel him resisting.

You place your hands on his hips to find that they’re shaking.

When you pinch them, he moans, and he finally lets himself thrust.

You groan as he pushes into you, taking shallow breaths in through your nostrils as he sinks further and further into madness. How you take him so easily, and yet, how beautifully tight and slippery your throat is. How patient you are, and how careful he has to be. It’s driving him sinfully insane.

Before it gets too far, he pulls out, slow at first, and then quick, as you catch your breath, and he tenses.

“Again?” you prompt weakly, opening your mouth.

“I have to fuck you,” Jungkook demands. “Now.”

You laugh at how serious he looks, his eyes darting around your bedroom.

“What are you looking for?”

“Condoms?”

You get out of bed and scurry to the bathroom, Jungkook smiling and pinching your ass as you go.

You lead him to the bathroom, the door opposite your kitchen, and you quickly locate them under your sink.

“These OK?” you ask, holding up the box.

“Perfect.”

He rips one from the rest.

And then he sets it on the sink, taking the box with him and marching back to your bedroom.

You laugh, running up to him and jumping onto his back, wrapping your legs around his waist and peppering his neck and traps with kisses.

He kisses your forearm and giggles.

And then something catches his eye.

He stops.

“Ooh. What’s that?”

You look over to your kitchen counter and spot the simple snacks you’d left out for yourself, thinking you’d be treating yourself for the weekend.

“Is that candy?” he asks.

“Chocolate, infused with weed.”

“Yeah?”

He looks back at you and smirks.

“You wanna?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “We haven’t eaten in a while. And they’re kinda strong.”

Jungkook beams. “Even better.” But then he pushes out his lips. “Unless you were saving—”

“I’m down if you’re down,” you say happily. “Go get ‘em.”

He hoists you up higher onto his back, and you tighten your grip around his shoulders, as he walks over to the counter.

He unwraps the gold foil and breaks off a square. He raises it up and behind him to your lips. You take his fingers into your mouth and suck. He leaves his hand there so that you can suck the rest of the chocolate off of them, too. He beams at you, and you lean forward to kiss him, before he takes another square for himself.

He licks his fingers as he brings you back to bed, the two of you laughing as you go.

And then, he stumbles, tripping, turning just in time to throw you onto the bed, while he falls to the floor.

“Oh my god!” you cackle, as Jungkook pops back up, your pants, and your powder blue stapler, tangled up and around his foot.

“I’m sorry!” he calls out, pulling them off and throwing them back down.

“Are you OK?” you ask, still giggling.

Jungkook furrows his brow and looks at the ground. He disappears, and then pops back up again, holding up a sleeve of condoms.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

He rips one off the end and puts it on, crawling over you as you lay back.

“Mmm,” you sigh, as he pushes into you.

His neck lolls forward, and you grab his hair floof in your fingers.

“You OK?” Jungkook asks gently.

You wonder how many times he’s had to ask someone that.

He’s so long, but his girth. So wide. So full. And so heavy, with want, and passion, and excitement.

“You said that you had to fuck me,” you say, hands grabbing onto his ass. “So fuck me.”

He starts to move, pulling back, and then rocking forward, your bodies bobbing up and down as your movements build off of each other, more pleas floating out of your mouths.

More.

Harder.

Like this.

His eyes find that spot above your right breast.

“What?” you ask, slightly distracted by the look on his face.

“I think there’s a small bruise.” He presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’m sorry about that.”

“That’s OK,” you say, scoffing. “If I need to, I can cover it up with something.”

“So can I.”

His mouth latches there, and he starts to bite, and suck. You feel your skin giving way to him, like it’s breaking open and spilling all over you, instead of Jungkook’s pool of spit.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your hips starting to roll at the combined sensation. “Don’t stop.”

As his thrusts get harder and deeper, he shifts all of his weight to his left side, and his right hand slides down to your clit, starting to rub in those circular motions again. You roll against him, knees in the air, swaying open, then back closed around his waist.

Everything’s a blur.

He stiffens as he pumps, deeper and deeper, the bed rocking under your weight, his own tiny sighs getting louder as you start to wail.

All the while, his teeth pinch and nibble that spot on your chest, and you feel your legs starting to shake.

You’re on the brink of another orgasm.

When he stops.

“No, no, no, no,” you whimper, fluttering.

Jungkook giggles.

“Don’t stop!”

“I’m not. Not completely.”

“Ugh.”

His voice deepens, and softens, as it rumbles through your hair to your ear.

“Think about how crazy it’ll feel when you come.”

He runs his wet index finger around your right nipple, and he kisses the hickey he’s just given you just above it.

“Please.”

Jungkook grins. “Ah, you asked so nicely.”

He starts to thrust into you again, and you fall right back where you were, covered in tingles and sweat, body starting to spasm, shaking even harder than you were starting to before.

He’s right.

Jungkook, this beautiful stranger, who is dipping in and out of your frenzied pussy, cock slamming, and disappearing, whose hand is furiously pawing at your clit and making you overflow with arousal, making every muscle inside of you tremble, and then freeze and release, exploding and sending you reeling, is absolutely right.

“Fuck!”

When you come, you do feel crazy.

And so does he, getting off on how you moaned for him, babbled nonsense because of him.

A few tears are pooling in the corners of your eyes.

You feel so raw.

A good kind of raw.

Not like before, when Jungkook first saw you crying.

The kind of raw that tells you that you’ve washed the day off of your tired skin and are reborn.

You look at him in contemplation.

“You’re lucky I like overstimulation.”

“Taking note,” Jungkook observes, slowing his thrusts. “What else do you like?”

“What do you like?”

“I like spanks.”

“Me too,” you say. “Giving and receiving.”

He stops his thrust altogether, intrigued.

“Then spank me,” he orders. “Right now.”

You do, as you bite your lip and smile.

“No, really, spank me,” Jungkook says, reaching for your arm.

You fight off his wiggling fingers, lean forward, and pack a wallop into your slap on his ass, watching it shake.

“Ow! Not that hard!” he whines, rubbing the spot.

“I’m sorry!”

He collapses into giggles, curling up in your sheets.

“I’m kidding. You’re kind of weak.”

You scrunch up your face and spank him all over his body, but then he picks you up, tickling you and sending you into a cackling frenzy.

“Jesus fucking— Stop! Stop! You win!” you cry.

“Say I’m the flip cup champ!” Jungkook demands.

“What??”

“Say it!”

“B-but you aren’t!”

“Say it or I won’t stop!”

You can’t breathe, you’re laughing so hard. “I’m the flip cup champ!”

Jungkook pinches your side, and you squeal.

“You’re the flip cup champ!” you holler. “Jungkook is the flip cup champ!”

Jungkook laughs with haughty satisfaction as he lies down on his side, kissing you as you start to float back down next to him.

As your cackles slow, you turn to him and run your fingers over his pretty, kiss-swollen mouth.

“What do you wanna do now?”

“I dunno. What do you wanna do?”

“I dunno.”

“What were we doing, anyway?”

You stare at each other, dumbfounded.

He laughs and turns to you, wide-eyed. “I think we were having sex?”

You cackle. “Oh shit, right!” You kiss him. “Let’s do that. Let’s do more sex.”

“Shit,” he giggles. “This is not a reflection of the quality of sex we were having, by the way. I’m having an amazing time.”

“I know. Me too.” You smile. “I’m having fun.”

You’ve been in the clouds since meeting Jungkook. But everything feels even hazier. The boundaries of your mattress, nightstands, walls, ceilings, and floors are melding. Softening.

And so is Jungkook’s happy, smiling face.

You grin and scrunch your nose.

“Hmm. I guess the edible hit.”

“Guess so,” Jungkook celebrates, eyes shining.

“Let me ride you,” you say warmly, but excitedly, kissing him as you get on top. “You’ve been doing all the work.”

“You’ve been putting work in, too. And you can’t ride me better than I’ve been fucking you,” Jungkook teases.

“Are you shitting me?” you ask, aghast. “Is that a dare?”

“Try it and find out.”

You slap his chest, and he laughs.

And while you sink down onto him, he sighs lightly, licking his lips and curling them into a smile.

First, you tantalize him by weaving slow circles, clenching him so tightly, that he hisses the same way he did when he was in your throat.

His hands slap onto your thighs and grab on.

You start to bounce up and down, and he watches your breasts jiggle as you do, his left hand reaching up and squeezing the right one as his right hand squeezes your thigh.

And then, you lean forward, and rock against him. You move so sweetly, whether you’re gently stroking him with your flesh, or riding him so tight and hard that he can’t see straight. It seems that you’re headed that way, with how hard your fists are gripping his shoulders.

He moans compliments as you ride.

“You’re goddamn gorgeous.”

“You feel so good.”

“So, so tight. If you clench even harder, I’ll—”

And you do.

He won’t be able to last.

But then you stop.

His mouth falls open.

You lean forward and scoop him up into a kiss.

“Think about how crazy it’ll feel when you cum,” you joke.

“You are driving me crazy.”

You giggle through another moan. “Butt-crazy?”

Jungkook whines. “Don’t be cute. And don’t talk about butts. I might ask you to do something, and I feel like that’s a question for when we know each other a little better.”

“Keep going the way you are, and if you ask it tonight, I might say yes.”

“Oh god.”

But you still don’t budge.

He places his hands on your waist and frantically tries to get you to bounce. Tries tickling you. Pinching you.

“Agh, c’mon.”

“Nope. This is payback for—”

Jungkook finally just grabs you by the hips. Holds you in place. Starts to pump up and into you.

He’s relentless.

You give complete control to him, barely able to hold yourself up.

But he’s got you.

The strokes feel like flames, deep, hot, and fast, making your pussy pulse, arousal leaking, even threatening to spurt out of you because of how full you are.

When your elbows start to tremble, threatening to give way, he wraps his arms around you hugging your chest to his. His strokes have started a wildfire in your core, and you’re sweating so much that when your head falls to him, there’s a splash of it onto your temple.

Everything in your body is clamping down. Shutting down. You can’t stand it anymore. All this tension.

The release is almost unbearable.

You both howl, your orgasm coming first, and his coming soon after, your bodies tied up in knots as you strain to stay together, transferring each flicker and spasm to one another, until you both collapse back down to the mattress.

“Let me cool you down,” he mumbles, fighting the oncoming drowsiness.

“What?” you ask.

But he’s already sliding down your body.

He licks at your pussy, lapping up all of your arousal.

“Jungkook?”

You start to feel waves rolling up your calves.

“Jungkook.”

“Mm.”

He spits it all back onto you, making you gasp.

He keeps licking, sucking on your clit, sucking on your lips, and gently running his fingers across your stomach, like little comforting tickles.

You come, softly, and quietly, gentle shivers helping your body stretch back out and relax, resolving the rest of the tension that hadn’t quite unfurled from before.

“There.”

You watch him army crawl back up the mattress and laugh softly when his completely drenched hair floof hits the pillow next to you.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

“Nothing,” you answer. “My mind is completely blank.”

“Good.” Jungkook grins. “That was the third thing you wanted, wasn’t it?”

All you can do is stare at his proud, accomplished, wondrous grin.

And before he pulls you into a soft, tender kiss, he tells you.

“You were right. I find that things usually work out. And that’s because I always make sure that they do.”

The sun stings your eyes. It feels chemical. Even with them closed.

Slowly, you pry them open. First the left. Then the right. You blink slowly, then rapidly, the world coming into focus as you do.

Where are you?

Oh. That’s right. Home.

Why did you forget that you were home? You’re always home.

Though it feels like you haven’t been home in ages.

Why is it so bright?

Yes, it’s day time. But it’s so—

Right. The city blackout.

But how did you know the whole city was affected? Whenever anything in your apartment goes wrong, you pretty much ignore it and continue puttering around your apartment until you get some kind of text from a co-worker—

Mm.

Anyway, you guess you’ll putter around until you somehow find out from someone that whatever you were experiencing was actually part of some kind of mass event—

Riiiiiiiight. The block party.

Hold on.

Why are you smiling about the block party?

Why are you giggling about the block party?

Why do you feel so sore?

And what time is it?

You lift your head, too quickly at first, feeling immediately unsteady. You shut your eyes and let your body find equilibrium before trying to step back outside of yourself. When you’re ready — there’s no rush, you, for some reason, kindly tell yourself — you prop yourself up on your elbows and look to your nightstand to find out.

And you see four things.

Your clock, reading 8:43 AM.

Your powder blue stapler.

The Hulk.

And, under his feet, a small note, scribbled on a piece of paper. Torn, like his shorts.

It’s 8:20. I think you’re almost up, but you look pretty comfy, so I don’t want to wake you. Going to the Chans for breakfast.

C’mon!

As everything comes swirling back to you — the dumpsters; and Mrs. Chan’s walnut chicken; Yugyeom and his sangria; Shik and your stapler; Mr. Jeup, Deji, her cookies, her crush, and Crunkook-oppa ; Yon and Yeo in the candlelight; and, not least of all, Jungkook’s beaming face framed by that unspeakably wondrous, starry, starry sky — you’re glad, thrilled, that some memories from last night were absolutely worth keeping.

So you leap out of bed to make more.

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minisugakoobies · 1 year

Text

Versus Valentines

Happy Valentine's Day from your favorite psychotic supervillains (and one superhero)! These cards were created by* each of the characters from Versus, just for you! 😘💌💘

*yes they totally made these and any poor quality is part of the design 🤪

Taglist: @nch327; @dearbambideer; @sabrinareadsbts; @babycoffeefire; @parkdatjimin; @reliablemitten; @yuugehn; @ut-dixisti; @hesperantha; @bonvoyagenoona; @hobi-love; @bangtanintotheroom; @youcancallmemeimei; @bbl32; @neverthefirstchoice; @moonchild1; @blueversaillesdreams; @nabiolive; @akane82; @seokjinger-ale; @taeshuworld; @hannahbee12719ficrecs; @7minsuga96; @dvalitaes; @wonieclub; @miscelunaaa; @jinpanman; @minttangerines; @vyduan; @herecomesjoon; @augustbutwinter; @thatlongspringnight; @lavienjin; @wwilloww; @xjoonchildx; @acquiescence804; @itsirisz; @velvetskize; @bts-ruu; @aretha170; @justanotherstarlightmonger; @secretagent101; @yoongii-ah; @xuxibelle; @ddaeng-angmoh; @werewolfbansheelove

If your URL is italicized, tumblr won’t let me tag you! 😤 Check your settings!

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜

#min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #jeon jungkook #kim taehyung #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #fic: versus #bts valentines #yoongi fanfic #hoseok fanfic #bts fanfic #btscarnivalnet #btshoneyhive #thebtswritersclub #bangtanoasis #bangtanarmynet #possumswrite

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sweetwolfcupcake · 2 years

Photo

(via What's your academia aesthetic ? | darkest academia)

darkest academia

romanticises gothic literature, standing still in a street dimly lit by streetlights amongst the bustle of a city while its raining, brown tweed jackets, cold fingers, black coffee, peeling paint in a decrepit mansion, staying up and lying in bed looking at old worn photographs and wishing you were in that moment again

Thank you @ratherbefangirling for tagging me, this is my academia aesthetic, kind of true.

@amoc94 @catheriiineeee @oppa-agust-d @dearbambideer

#quiz game #tag #quiz show #academia quiz

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deepdarkdelights · 2 years

Note

You know the funny thing is, I had a terrible day today and asked the gods above to give me atleast one good thing to experience before i hit the bed and the next think I know I see your notification 🤯

I loved the story, It is crazy how you manage to make me feel the same fear and emotions as the reader. You write so beautifully, and the words just flow and create a world inside the readers minds.

I do have a question. You said that the strengths that members had when they were alive amplified when they turned. Is it the same for their weakness as well? And if so then what are those. For the members and their mc's

Again can't thank you and appreciate you enough for all the talent that you so dedicatedly share with us💜

Aw I'm so sorry you had a terrible day hunny. But, I'm glad I could bring you some happiness, maybe that's why I felt such determination to get the fic out as fast as possible 🤔

So their strengths being amplified kind of ties into a survival thing. As they become vampires they are given strengths that they lacked before to ensure their survival. Because of this logic their weaknesses wouldn't be amplified. Of course they do have weaknesses, Namjoon's is definitely his ego.

I'm glad you enjoyed Pursuit, I hope you have better days 💜💜💜

#asks #my regulars #dearbambideer #pursuit

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chummywchimmy · 3 years

Text

BOY IN LUV

CHAPTER 6

PAIRING : Yan! Taehyung x Reader

SUMMARY : Your encounter with the campus bad boy was a disaster. All you wanted was to never see him again. But when have things ever gone your way?

WARNINGS : Mature language, yandere behavior, A LOT OF STARING.

Not edited.

I do not own BTS ( :((( ) My intention is not to glorify toxic behavior nor do I believe BTS member would ever act like this. It’s just a figment of my imagination. Know the difference. Please.

TAGLIST : @silversparkles11 @luvmingyu @minshookie29 @cherrycheeks-btsbro@dearbambideer @sassydepression @sweettaeguk @my-paradise-is@happyleepika@tenshi-shimura @waterdemon11@prettxgguk @snowyydayys@yuikitty @ungodlyjoon @angryheartkitten @annacroft23114 @mwitsmejk@eddyforthewin @benhardygalileo

PREV I NEXT

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Your only response is to blink at the boy in front of you.

Did you hear that right?

You do not know how to respond to this. Was this a cruel prank? Or did he want to go out with you to ensure that you don’t expose him?

The line behind him keeps getting longer as he stares at your face, an eager expression on his face. His hands are gripping the counter, long fingers clenched on the ceramic.

After the long day at college and an even longer shift at the cafe, you can only give him a lame response.

“Well, I’m not on the menu, Taehyung. Order something or get out.” You look straight into his eyes with a carefully guarded expression upon your face.

You’re slightly surprised to see the his face fall. As soon as you glimpse the look in his eye, his expression hardens. His jaw clenched, he points to a hot chocolate on the menu.

You turn around, intent on preparing his order quickly so that you can be free from the confines of that heavy stare. Even now, the hair on the back of your neck prickle under the weight of his dark eyes.

Snatching the drink from your hands, he storms out of the cafe after paying.

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Taehyung’s regular coffee shop visits dwindle after that incident. You refrain from informing Sam about that day. You still do not know what to make of it, leaning towards it being the part of another nefarious plan to humiliate you further.

“So where are you two going?” You ask Sam as the two of you sit down for your second lecture of the day.

“I don’t know. He says it’s a surprise. Let’s hope it isn’t anything weird. Although....as cute as he is, I don’t think I would mind even if he took me to his 4 years old nephew’s birthday party as a date.” Sam settles her chin upon her palm, a dreamy expression clouding her eyes.

“Damn, you’re down bad, huh.” You laugh, feeling a sense of happiness at seeing Sam being happy.

“Okay, maybe I would mind it.” She pretends to shiver in disgust.

She was finally going out with the cute boy from elective class aka Namjoon. Sam was ecstatic at being asked out by him and you approved. Even as the rest of the student body treated you like you were the plague, Namjoon openly asked out Sam in front of the entire class, a large smile upon his handsome face.

You hoped that everything would go well for them.

After an hour long class that numbed your sleep-deprived brain, you stood up to move out of the large room.

Suddenly, the crowd of students who were eager to get out, freeze in their tracks. A crowd forms around the entrance and you walk forward, itching to move out.

The horde of students give you wide-eyed looks, as if you were walking to your demise. After a bit of struggle to move through, you find yourself looking at the one person you did not want to see. Kim Taehyung.

He stood near the entrance, his tall figure being easy to distinguish from others. His black, slightly long hair sits in a stylish disarray, bangs falling messily over his forhead. A large hand pushes them back, revealing his forhead as he searches the crowd, looking for someone.

As his eyes fall on you, his frustrated face melts into one of recognition. The crowd notices this and consequently stiffens, remembering your previous confrontation.

His silver watch catches the light as he raises his hand and motions you forward. You give him an annoyed look and refuse to move. Some students discreetly pull out their phones, wanting to record the shitshow that was bound to go down.

At your clear refusal to move, he smirks. People give each other puzzled looks as he begins to walk forward, moving in your direction. His eyes stay locked on you as he walks.

He stands in front of you and looks down, pursing his lips. The crowd seems to hold it’s breath. He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off the by the words of the girl standing beside you.

“What is your problem? We said we won’t leak your video.” Sam’s words are eaten up by the mass of students waiting for the drama to begin. It seems as if many more have joined the audience from the looks of the overwhelming amounts of people now lingering outside the door, pushing at each other to get a peek.

Taehyung’s relaxed face morphs into one of annoyance as he moves his head to look at Sam. His lips pull back in a sneer and he grates out,

“Did I say I’m here for that? I’m here to ask your dear friend out on a date. The last time I did, she scammed me into buying a hot chocolate and didn’t even give me an answer.” His words pull a collective gasp out of the crowd. Their eyes are wide, some are already typing furiously on their phones to update the unfortunate friends who are stuck in a class.

His eyes are back upon you as he gives you a teasing smile, as if the two of you had been friends since you were in your diapers. As he looks at you, his face is relaxed again, eyes clear of any malice. Or maybe he was just a good actor. He was the son of a politician, after all.

“Is this some sort of a prank? Listen Taehyung, you’ve humiliated us enough. As it is, nobody even talks to us. We can’t even spread that video even if we want to. Please leave us alone.” Your voice is tired, exhaustion suddenly wrapping over you like a blanket. You were already tired and stressed, and this was only your first year of college.

By the time you finish speaking, his eyebrows pull over his eyes and his lips are drawn into a frown.

“No, this is absolutely not a prank. Do you think I go around asking people out as a joke?” He backs away from you and the sea of your fellow classmates part for him. He stands in the center and his voice booms,

“Everyone, have you ever seen me asking anyone out?” His baritone voice directs a question to the crowd, to which they respond with fervent denial. Throughout, his gaze stays glued to you and he raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘see?’

As you clutch Sam’s wrist and step forward to go out, his begins to speak again.

“And what’s all this talk I hear about not being friendly with my girl? Huh?!” He shouts, looking around.

No one meets his eyes.

Safe to say, you are not amused.

“Yeah, thanks for intimidating people into being friends with me. So romantic of you.” You snidely comment.

He looks chastised. He licks his lips and stares into your eyes, as if not understanding your reaction. As if you were somehow in the wrong for not falling at his feet immediately.

You finally move, not wanting to be a part of this anymore. You were sure that this entire interaction was going to end up on your university’s very own social media site- GatSocial

He rushes towards you as you are leaving, a desperate look on his face.

“Well? When shall I pick you up?”

That’s it. You lose it.

“Are you fucking with me right now?! Do you have memory loss? Or do you just choose to conveniently forget whatever doesn’t suit you? Go out with you, my ass! Apologize to Sam on your fucking knees in front of everyone and maybe I’ll look your way. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

It seems as if you and Sam have switched souls because you just shouted at the son of the biggest politician in your country. You also belatedly feel that you might’ve been a little harsh. But words are like cannons. Once they’re released, you can’t take them back.

You expect him to storm out after calling you a few choice words. But to your, and everyone else’s, surprise a deep laughter booms out of his chest. He keeps laughing for a long time as everyone looks at him as if he’s lost his marbles.

“You’re so cute.” Giggles spill out of his mouth as he looks at you with a fond look in his eyes.

Giving him a disgusted look, you storm out, feeling his dark gaze on your back as you disappear into the crowd.

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ah im sorry if this is too short but i just wanted to put sumn out regardless. let me know your feedback

-aani

#bts #bts au #bts au fic #yandere #yandere au #yandere bts #yanderebts #bts yandere #btsyandere #kim taehyung #v #yandere v #yandere taehyung #jungkook #namjoon

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bighitfics · 3 years

Text

CEO CHARACTER PROFILE. [1]

Taehyung Kim.

Age : 28

Sign : Capricorn

• Intellectual, Calm, Wise.

• Always need to be punctual.

• Gets mad when a work is not done to the given time.

• Never shouts or yells but gives a cold stare when raged.

• He's the employers best friend outside yet whilst your working you do not forget that he's your boss (don't take the best friend part too seriously on your side)

• Can be closed off and distant sometimes (my guy needs his space otherwise he might explode at the slightest of things)

• Extremely athletic (he's a sports guy) and everyone is enthralled whenever he's doing any of such activities.

• Owns 5 penthouses overseas.

• Can speak a little bit of Italian but is a fluent Japanese and English speaker.

• Green and Brown suits are his colour codes.

• Blueberry Cheesecakes is a must on a regular day.

• Has low alcohol tolerance but he can't help but drink whiskey and wine.

• Diagnosed with Misophonia. (it's a phobia provoked by sounds)

• Lived a rough childhood, and he feels gratitude for every little win.

• He'd unite the sky and ground to attain what he wants. He can endure anything but defeat.

Mommy and Daddy issues

His broken family has given him traumatic memories to remember.

Not a big fan of pets and animals in general .

Doesn't like being called arrogant.

He has separation anxiety.

He's a mixture of both insecurity and confidence.

HOSOEK JUNG.

Age : 32

Sign : Aquarius

• Traditional, Controverted, Idealist.

• Despises when someone interrupts him at work, or during a speech.

DO NOT EVER BARGAIN INTO HIS OFFICE CHAMBER WITHOUT KNOCKING. JUST DON'T.

Doesn't like associating work with his family.

He's very tsundere usually but when he's jealous it's safe to say that it's gonna be a ride to hell.

• Fancies doing charity for the poor and sick.

• Popular among the ladies.

• Exceedingly competitive and headstrong when it comes to dealing with his rivals.

• Owns 19 luxury hotels around the world.

• Blue and Black suits.

• Ice coffee on his chamber is a must in the evening when he's gonna be working extra hours.

• Can't drink strong drinks but has this strange obsession with apple juice.

• Speaks Turkish and English

• He's hard to frighten, hardly gives any reaction anyway.

• Sundays devoted to play with his one and only niece.

• He might appear stoic-hearted but he can be talkative situation wise.

• He's so observing that when he meets someone for the first time he'd be able to describe their traits right away.

JUNGKOOK JEON.

Age : 30

Sign : Virgo

• Strict, Contemplative, Observant.

• Would pay extra salary when satisfied.

• Dislikes when employers don't pay heed to work.

• Exceptionally passionate about things he picks interest on.

• Owns the most expensive series of cars.

• Carries a colt paterson revolver with himself.

• Family man. Mother's dutiful boy.

• Absolutely adores children wants to have 4 of his own at the least.

• Stays awake at the most random time of the night (3-4am)

• Black and Grey suits are his regular.

• Speaks Japanese and English.

• He's the classic "an espresso in the morning is a must" kind of person.

• Smokes weed a lot.

• Has excellent communication skills and even better listening skills.

• Suffers 'intermittent explosive disorder'.

• Has been to the rehab for a year back in his college days.

• A faithful workaholic, once he's begun his work he won't stop untill his stamina gives up or his grandmom calls for him over a stay.

• He's very territorial and commanding about his belongings. Be it anything. Once you harm something that's on his watch there's no turning back.

A/N's NOTE

I've been wanting to do something like this for a while now. The 3 of them have their own stories so I'm planning to continue with drabbles and scenarios. You're welcomed to send asks 🖤

TAGLIST 🦋

@99liners @mwitsmejk @darlinloves @sweetwolfcupcake @dazed--xx @dearbambideer @raynom

#bangtan #bts fic #jhope #bts jk #bts jungkook #bts smut #jungkook x reader #kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung angst #jhope smut #yandere bts x reader #character profile #bts #bts yandere #jhope x y/n #ceo character profile #bighitfics

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ggukkiereads · 2 years

Note

Hi, I am sorry this ones really veery vague. I was hoping to find a namjoon x reader fic. They had arranged marriage. But namjoon had been in love with her before. Namjoon is also kind of possessive in it. Y/N thought namjoon isn't interested in her.

🌷 Hi! I immediately thought of Mad Passion by @mintseesaw! If it’s not the one, maybe you could share more details? If I don’t remember seeing the fic maybe others have =)

#fichunting #dearbambideer #namjoon x reader #Mad Passion #mintseesaw #🌷 chats

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bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

Pitter Patter | JHS

Pairings: Hobi x poc female reader

Rating: 18+ | Mature | Explicit

Word Count: 3k | read on ao3

Synopsis: Hobi comforts you on a rainy evening.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Friends(ish) to lovers, smut (unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex, spanking, nipple play), drinking

Author’s Note: Something fun, sweet, and sexy written for a fic exchange with dear, dear Shenee! Hope I incorporated everything well enough to give you a smile! Sending you and all of GAF love, plus comforting nods, smiles, and locked eyes from Hobi 😎

Taglist (italics means I wasn’t able to tag for some reason but will get you the fic!): @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @btsrecsandmisc @codeinebelle @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @dvalitaes @effielumiere @elyte @greezenini @hajimabutdont @helenazbmrskai @hobi-love @hobiiiiiworld @imaginativedreams @jkkit @kflixnet @liz820 @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @neinyasficrecs @pb-n-juju @purpleheartsfortae @reliablemittenmain @rurugoeson @skyys-universe @smkxth @somewhereofftheglobe @soraiaimnida @squishybabyboycas @sunnietee @svgahigh @virgorisingproblems @xjoonchildx @yoongihan @yuugehn

Hobi and his gang spill out of the club like his laughter spills out of his mouth. Joyful, even in a disastrous downpour.

“Your rideshare here yet?” Namjoon calls, gripping the taxi’s door handle and leaning his weight away to throw the door open for the group.

The gals shriek and giggle as their puddle-ruined heels serve their last purpose in helping them dive inside. Headlights shining from the opposite lane of traffic produce silhouettes of bodies crawling over bodies, the girls piling onto Jungkook and Taehyung’s laps in the backseat.

Hobi shakes his head, hair now sopping wet. “Didn’t call one!” he calls. “Thought I’d just walk!”

Namjoon’s eyes widen. “What?! B-but it’s—” He lets go of the van’s door handle and gestures around, the storm bountiful enough to start pooling in his hands as he waves around. “It’s—!”

Hobi grins. “I’m good!”

Namjoon shrugs and dumps the buckets of water that have collected in his outstretched hands.

“Suit yourself.”

Namjoon jumps inside and shuts his door. Jin has already hopped in the front seat and slammed his. Yoongi, unsurprisingly, didn’t even come out tonight. But Jimin still has one foot planted on the concrete.

“Hobi-hyung, just get in the taxi with us!” he calls out.

Hobi gestures to the tallest tower in their immediate vicinity. “Not even a block away!”

The protests are building now. And the driver’s voice is joining them.

“Text when you get inside, then!” Jimin calls back, lifting his foot and getting into the van. Before he closes the door, he turns in a small circle and pops his head open one last time. “And have something warm before you sleep! Soup!”

Hobi nods and waves, though it’s getting harder to see him through the storm.

As the taxi pulls away, Hobi jogs a little, light on his feet, Gene Kelly-ing his way from street lamp to street lamp.

But then he spots something.

A figure. At the bar on the corner. Drinking alone.

Hobi frowns and jogs over to the bar’s entrance, reaching for the door.

But just before he grips the handle to open it, he places both of his hands on his soggy lapel, straightens his soaked blazer, and smooths back his sopping wet hair.

“So then, I told them that that was the whole point of the piece,” you continue, “to seem out of place! It’s why that piece is made of iron instead of stained glass, and why it’s so large and weird and mismatched! To be a stark contrast that makes you stop in the middle of the gallery and kinda wonder, y’know, what the hell is this exhibit about? Because that’s the feeling! The feeling of losing myself completely and feeling this gnarly wall come up, making me question everything! That’s the feeling I get with when I am completely entranced in something, anything, anything that takes up more time and energy and brain space, because what should take up more time, energy, and brain space in my brain but me—”

The bartender abruptly walks away.

“Where are you going?” you call out after him.

He returns with a bottle of beer and looks up, somewhere behind you.

At someone behind you.

When your eyes land on him, they narrow.

“You’ve gotta be fuuuuuh-huh-huhhhhh-cking kidding me,” you grumble, whipping straight back around and opening your tight, puffy eyes too big, too soon.

You squinch them tight in response.

Maybe if you squeeze them tighter, you’ll disappear.

“Hey!”

You don’t turn around.

The bartender places the beer on the coaster next to you.

Hobi places his hand on your shoulder, and you take in a deep, deep breath.

You cannot take this. You cannot take Jung Hoseok not only draped in all black, wearing what appears to be a mesh shirt underneath his blazer — with sparkles on the cuff of his right sleeve?! — dripping wet with sexy night time rain that made his hair slick back and part to the side, forehead on display, bangs coming to sharp points at his right brow.

You are now forced to turn around. So you do.

And he does it.

The thing.

Where he turns to you, and, through his bangs, locks eyes with you, then feigns turning away but does it all again, tacking on a playful smirk for extra destruction.

“What was that?” Hobi teases, sitting on the stool next to you. “I was saying hi.”

If you speak above a mumble, you will cry again. “Didn’t recognize you.”

He tilts his head down and smizes. He knows better, and he knows that you know that he knows better.

“What are you even doing here??” you ask.

You venture a sideways peek at him. You pray that you don’t see a nipple. Because, you swear to god, if you see a goddamned nipple—

He snorts. Not mockingly. Charmed. “Apparently, I’m drinking.” He looks back up at the movie playing silently on the far wall. “And you’re, apparently, watching 10 Things I Hate About You?”

“Clueless.”

“Sorry, I don’t know romcoms very well.”

“No, it’s the movie Clueless,” you grumble.

He chuckles.

You frown at him. How dare he.

“I can’t believe you’re talking to me, now, on today of all days, while I’m in this Rugrats tee shirt, and not at Jimin’s party while I’m being bubbly and intelligent, holding a canape in my left hand and posing in my favorite, fancy black dress that hugs my hips and ass beautifully!”

Hobi raises his eyebrows.

And then he takes his beer bottle with his right hand, where the body just starts to curve into the neck, index and middle finger curved around the label, the pad of his ring finger resting on the glass, and his pinky tucked away.

“Tonight’s not a fancy night,” he says.

“No, it isn’t, but you…” You let your gaze linger. You think you see nipple. You ignore it.

His beer bottle is still in the air. “I wanted to strike up a conversation,” Hobi admits to you, “but you were busy retconning Alex Mack. I didn’t want to interrupt such important work.”

Your jaw opens a little. He saw you?

And he was… listening?

“I’m glad you heard,” you say out loud. “I was right.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Hobi grins. “Jimin says you always are.”

“Well, then, Jimin’s also always right.”

You pick up your old fashioned, and the two of you clink.

Hobi leans his head back, nose rising, but he stares into your eyes as you both drink.

He drags his sparkly sleeve across his lips and sets his bottle back down.

“So,” Hobi says, “why are we drinking? Celebrating?”

Either Hobi is mean, or he really is Clueless. “Sure, celebrating,” you say, as Hobi starts to smile. But that smile stops in its tracks when you add, “Welcome to my wake!”

“What do you mean?”

You can’t go into the details again. Not when you definitely see nipple. And through still tear-blurred eyes, no less.

“I’ve had a day,” you decide to say. “A day that is a very decisive day. And I see doors closing. And I don’t like that they’re closing. So I’m sitting here and drinking until one opens.”

“The only one that will open is the one they kick you out of,” Hobi says, nodding at the bartender, who is tapping his watch.

Hobi starts to down the rest of his beer, and you watch him curiously.

“You’d do better to stand outside and open your mouth,” you tell him. “Jimin texted me something about the club tonight? Knowing how you dance, your body’s probably only 5% water at this point.”

Hobi sets the bottle back down on the bar and smiles at you. “So you’ve seen me dance.”

You really need to stop talking.

Hobi places some cash, too much cash, on the bar, pinned to the coaster by his bottle.

“C’mon. I live by here.”

“I live by here,” you say.

Hobi brightens, though his cheeks are getting a little red. “So we both live by here.” He bites his bottom lip. “Come over, then.”

“What? Why?”

And then Hobi does the thing again.

Where he turns to you, and, through his bangs, locks eyes with you.

But instead of faking a turn, he reaches for your hand.

“What is it that you do again?”

You stare at all the sneakers on his wall, in little cubbies, like it’s kindergarten, and no one has left feet. Neon pinks. Camel browns. Galaxy blues. And one, frankly, diarrhea green.

You hold your breath and frown at that one.

“They’re not all winners,” Hobi says, leaning on his shelf and placing his arm in front of the diarrhea green skater shoe, in a clumsy way to hide it.

It’s cute.

His eyes follow your tilting neck.

“I had a day today, too,” he says, leaning on the wall now, brushing back his blazer and stuffing his other hand in his pocket. “Tons of proposals for a big account. All of them got rejected. And here I thought I was finally on the precipice of the ultimate promotion.”

You snort. “So you went to the club and danced it out?”

“Well, yeah,” Hobi says, startled, “what else is there to do?”

You roll your eyes and turn around, continuing your investigation of his high rise loft, the storm nicer and gentler 30 stories up and against double-glazed glass, the thunder a buzzy bass beat instead of a whip crack, the rain a gentle pitter patter instead of the rat-a-tat of enemy fire.

Of course someone this high up could have that kind of perspective.

“Very Live Laugh Love of you,” you mutter, eyes settling on a Snoopy figurine.

“Y’know, it doesn’t actually come from an optimistic place.”

He sounds annoyed.

You frown. Jimin always says how Hobi is their group’s sunshine, and he’s certainly proving to be some kind of warmth and light and energy.

“Where does it come from, then?” you ask, genuinely intrigued.

“Laziness. And pride.” Hobi picks up the diarrhea green sneaker and looks at it thoughtfully. “I see things before others see them. Most people don’t see them at all. I feel like you get that.”

You find yourself nodding. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“So you must also get how frustrating it is,” he goes on, straightening and letting his arm swing down, hand still gripping his shoe, other hand still in his pocket, that arm pinning his blazer to his side as he strolls toward you. “Visionaries like us simply don’t have the time to waste convincing everybody of what they’re ultimately unable to see. It’s not our fault they’re unequipped, so why should we let their opinions matter? It’s unfortunate, but we have to ride out the ebbs and flows so that we last long enough to play the game at times to get to where we ultimately want to be. Bright, sunny optimism doesn’t serve that. It steers you away. Distracts you.” He smiles. “But Machiavellianism, on the other hand…”

“Ohhh, I get it,” you say, laughing “you’re a psychopath.”

“Am I?” he chuckles, as he reaches you. “Or am I merely stating fact? I’m seen as too lazy to do anything I don’t want to do, and I’m seen as prideful for believing in myself.”

He sets the shoe down next to Snoopy.

The color doesn’t look so bad in this light. You realize you haven’t really seen it on a shoe before.

“The point is, I know what the fuck I’m doing. The sooner people catch up, the better. And the happier they’ll be.”

You inhale sharply. Now, Hobi is not just warmth, and light, and energy.

Now, Hobi is sizzle. And heat.

He leans into you.

“I remember that dress,” Hobi growls into your ear, voice low, something you hadn’t heard before. “I remember thinking that I wanted to rip it off of you. But you probably wouldn’t let me. And that made me want to do it more.”

His lips don’t taste like beer. They taste like rain.

HIs blazer comes off and lands on the hardwood floor with a slap.

You wonder if his hand will make the same sound on your ass.

“Don’t rip the tee,” you plead, as it comes up and over your shoulders. “It’s—”

“Vintage, I know,” Hobi mutters, lips landing on you as soon as its collar is done separating you from each other.

As you grab and grope for each other, he dances you into the bedroom.

His hands are cool against your chest, but it’s refreshing. It’s something different. Different than the hot water bottles that you’d been cuddling in your apartment all weekend, or the sweaters and blankets your mother kept piling onto you.

The mesh shirt is gone.

So are the bra, and pants, and panties, and boxers.

One sock.

The other.

Two more.

You lie back on his bed.

“No,” he tells you. “I don’t want it like that.”

“Wha—”

He flips you over, and you keen.

The slap sounds exactly like his blazer hitting the floor.

And it feels like the whip of thunder outside, though his voice is helping to muffle it into something so exquisite that you’ve forgotten to share how you like it.

It feels good.

It feels good not to have to keep telling someone how you like something.

“Spread those knees,” he commands. “Ass up. Higher.”

Your palms are a little clumsy on his mattress. It’s a bit lumpy? “Need to get my bearings here a bi—”

“You won’t need them.”

He places his right palm on the top of your spine, just where your body starts to curve into the neck, index and middle finger curved into the backs of your shoulders, the pad of his ring finger resting on your sable skin, and his pinky tucked away.

No, tonight isn’t going to be fancy.

He pushes you into the mattress, and you grunt.

His hands spread you apart.

And then you feel his tongue.

Circling you.

Sliding inside.

The best is when he moves his head from side to side as he eats you out, and when you start to ride his face, pushing back to feel his entire profile against you, he does the thing, snapping his head to the side that caught his attention, and licking, moaning, slurping you up and spitting you back onto yourself, and drinking you back up as it dribbles down your thighs.

He’s good at it.

And when you look back, eyebrows raised and bottom lip pinched between your teeth, he says, “Tell me.”

You whine as he starts to part your lips with his fingers, palm upturned, pads of his fingers stroking and rubbing.

“You feel so good that I think I might cry again,” you whimper.

He chuckles. “Then cry.”

You moan, and he lets out a high-pitched sigh that falls into another hungry grunt as his mouth latches onto you again. His tongue flexes. Really flexes. He’s a renowned master of isolation of movements. His tongue tip flicks against your clit so quickly that it feels like your favorite vibrator on its highest setting, while the base of his tongue lays flat against you, keeping you nice, and wet, and warm.

His lips come together, and he starts to suck.

“Shit,” you sigh. “You’ve gotta be fuh-huh-huhhhh-cking kidd— ah!”

The first wave shivers through you. Hobi does his best to suck your orgasm out of you.

You’re babbling and clawing his mattress, which you no longer care is lumpy. You don’t care about anything. All you feel is overwhelming, completely self-indulgent, somehow simultaneously meaningless and incredibly meaningful joy. Pure joy.

You laugh. Why are you laughing?

“Fuck, the way you push me,” you say. “How you spank me. How you handle me. I love it. No one else has gotten it right. Gotten it the way that you do. Especially this. Fuck.”

He beams and you can feel it on your skin. “Mmm, I can already tell you’re gonna take me well,” Hobi says, lining up against you as the last of your shivers play out.

“How did you learn how to do it like this?” you ask.

“I just like it like this,” he says simply. “You’re delicious, by the way. But you probably already knew that.”

You giggle and wiggle your ass as he gives you another playful slap, and a kiss as a chaser.

He lines up, and he presses into you, straight, and long, and deep.

You feel your body resisting at first, but quickly giving way, though not much.

“That feels incredible,” you whimper.

“You feel incredible,” Hobi pants back.

He clutches your hips, and you feel yourself completely in your body, letting it tumble forward, then back, your neck swaying, forehead pushing into his bed, drool and nonsense bubbling out of your raw lips.

He’s starting to slam into you now, and you turn your head, pressing your cheek onto his sheets, sweat pooling, and wicking, and splashing back onto you.

Pitter patter.

“Hobi,” you whine.

He takes a full breath and lets out a whoop. “Should’ve done this sooner,” he tells you, voice strained. “Should’ve—” This one’s a particularly smooth and full stroke, and you both moan through it. He starts to pump faster. “Should’ve just ripped that fucking dress off of you when—”

You reach back, hand flailing for him.

He takes your wrist, and then the other, and crosses them over each other, pinning them to the small of your back.

You howl.

And he revels in it. Your noises are like songs of worship to him. He could never get tired of them.

He falters a bit, starting to feel heat creep up from the backs of his ankles up into his shoulder blades, curling his body over yours, pressing your body into the mattress, and folding you into yourself as he fucks you. He wants your moans to fill his bedsprings. Wants to hear them when he writhes in bed and touches himself to you later, after you leave, in anticipation of when you get to do this again.

You come.

He pulls out and empties against your lips, pressing his crown into your thigh.

He grabs a handful of your ass and digs his nails in, making you squeak and shake.

Once you let out a satisfied sigh, he helps you turn over, uncaring that his cum will get on his sheets. And you chuckle when he flops on top of you, kissing you, hands massaging your breasts, thumbs and knuckles rolling your nipples, pinching and pulling and releasing to see them bounce.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut as you say it, for emphasis. “Exactly what I needed.” You smile when you open your eyes and see him.

And both his nipples.

“You’re fun,” he tells you, stroking your cheek.

You are fun. You are fun and smiles and joy, all over again.

“Please,” you say. “You’re fun. Incredibly, incredibly fun.”

You lean up to kiss them, lick them.

He laughs in delight.

But then, he places his hands on your shoulders and lays you back down.

“Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?” you ask, reaching out for his arm as he stands. “We’re far from done with all the fun.”

He lets you take his arm. Leans down toward you. And, surprisingly, offers you not one of his panty-soaking quips, but a kiss to your temple.

You widen your eyes in surprise.

He anticipates each of your questions.

“Oh, I know. But I’m gonna make us some soup first. Because it’s cold. And raining. And you’ve had a day. And I’ve had a day. And Jimin told me to.” He smiles. “And he’s always right.”

332 notes · View notes

bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

Tangerine Dream | MYG

Pairings: Yoongi x Female Reader

Rating: 18 + | Mature | Explicit

Word Count: 1.3k | read on ao3

Synopsis: You and Yoongi fuck in a limo after a show. That’s it, that’s the story.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: New relationship, fluff, smut / unprotected sex, semi-public sex, kinda pwp?

Author’s Note: I wrote this on the way home from the Snoh Aalegra concert feeling grown, sexy, empowered, and some type of way about Min Yoongi. And then @mochilatae and @purgatorywriter started drabble battling. 🥵 Completely self-indulgent. Idk what’s wrong with me today. Enjoy.

Taglist: @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @codeinebelle @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @dvalitaes @elyte @greezenini @helenazbmrskai @hobiiiiiworld @imaginativedreams @jkkit @kflixnet @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @pb-n-juju @purpleheartsfortae @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @sunnietee @svgahigh @yuugehn @effielumiere

“What did you think of the show, Min Yoongi!“

His voice rumbles through the hi-hat flurry of flashes. “It was incredible. She’s an incredible artist.”

Another voice calls out to him.

“Does this mean that we can expect a collab?”

Yoongi laughs and lets his neck slope forward. He looks back up at the crowd of reporters and journalists and shrugs. “I’d be honored.”

“How’d you learn about her?” a third voice asks.

Yoongi takes his hands out of his pockets. His left arm curls around your waist and squeezes you tightly to his side. And his top teeth bite his bottom lip as he turns to you and gets ready to say, “My girlfriend.”

It’s then that they see you. And when they see you, it’s like they can’t believe they hadn’t seen you before. The world seen through Min Yoongi’s eyes is extraordinary. And that’s what you are. Absolutely extraordinary. You’re a heat that tiptoes. You’re a blaze started by a floating ember. You’re every day that each person on earth took the sun for granted.

Fine. You’ll share your name. But only because Yoongi loves hearing it. Saying it. Moaning it. He scrunched his nose when you teased him about not having heard her work before, and he scrunches it now as you recount the story. When they write their articles, they’ll be sure to share how beautifully you painted the picture of goldenrod patches on plush carpet, your thighs, and Yoongi's cheeks. Three editors will keep in the line about Yoongi pinching your hip.

“You’re a natural,” Yoongi remarks, as the car door closes behind him.

“You set me up well,” you point out.

Yoongi squints at you. And then it clicks.

“You’re a pro,” he corrects, eyes growing as he slides closer to you, knees separating as he gets more comfortable.

How many classrooms. Board rooms. Virtual rooms. Work chats. Family group chats. All places where you’ve had to dance and riff. “In my way,” you smirk. “Anyway, what’d you think?”

“Fantastic,” Yoongi sighs. “She’s so talented. And a master at maintaining such a calm, pleasant vibe. I don’t think I’ve been to that chill yet engaging of a show. And I loved the fog and neon lighting. Took everything up a level.”

“You catch that drummer’s double bass?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Crisp,” Yoongi agrees. Your lips meet, with a crisp smack of their own. “Clean.” Another kiss. “Could feel it pounding in my chest.”

“Mmm.”

You hike your outer leg over both of his and straddle him.

His hands are already in place for you, and you slide perfectly into him. He pinches your hips.

You moan and roll your hips forward and back.

He slurps. Stares at your chest. “Here?” he asks.

“Anywhere,” you whisper, bending down to kiss him. “Everywhere.”

His hands slide down the legs of your ivory pants, then back up your matching, ivory, fitted crop, hands running over your breasts and settling on the clasp in front, accentuating your bustline.

The lock unlatches with the tiniest click!

You whine and grind down harder onto him as he kisses you hungrily.

“You in that light,” Yoongi mumbles, happy that when he closes his eyes, he sees you bending and swaying in neon tangerine, and when he opens his eyes, he sees you arching left to pull off your top.

He reaches up and mashes his hands into your breasts. You cry out.

The driver rolls up the partition.

Yoongi pulls your strapless bra down, lips burying themselves while his hands trace the band and work at the clasps. One. Two three. Four. Five.

You gasp softly when he kisses your right breast, lips wet against your nipple.

You keen, head falling back.

He tilts his head left. The angle of his stone jaw widens, then tightens. Just before he starts to suck, he opens his eyes wide and watches to see how you’ll take it.

You always take it so good.

Your voice floats out of you, shuddering on its way.

He grabs your ass. Fondles your thighs. Thumbs run up your inner seams and press into your flesh.

“You’re wet already?” he asks, watching the crotch of your pants deepening from ivory to cream.

“Been wet since intermission,” you mumble, riding as he unbuttons your fly. “Can't hold it back anymore.”

Yoongi grunts at the thought, and as you balance your weight side to side, sliding out of your clothes.

He lifts his hip from the seat and undoes his zipper, hastily pushing down the fabric and shimmying his boxers off.

Normally, you’d second guess everything about this decision. But for this man, you will kneel.

The floor isn’t as soft as your plush carpet, but it’s close.

Yoongi whines when your tongue circles around his shaft. You run your lips along him lengthwise, holding him between the tip of your tongue and the back of your tongue, and he hisses when you right yourself at his crown.

He quickly starts to pant, as you feel him harden in your mouth, and ease him into your throat.

“Mm, faster, jagi,” he pleads.

You go slower.

He whimpers and slams his temple against the headrest with each torturous swallow. His fingers thread into your hair and curl into a fist.

Eventually, you give him what he wants. But when you start to go fast, too fast, he whispers, “Jagiya,” and uses his fist to hold you in place as he slides his hips back for his ass to meet the leather seat.

He looks down at you.

His top teeth bite his bottom lip.

It plumps as it pops forward.

You grunt quietly when you see it, hoisting yourself up, excitedly aching for him.

When you sink down, he pushes down on your hips, and you sink even lower.

He breathes out a shivering “fuuuuuck” at the feel of you quiveringly clenching around him.

Your moan comes out in squiggles.

You don’t know whose hips start moving first, but suddenly, they’re pounding against each other.

You need more. More heat. More friction. More bounce. You force it out of each other. You force it out of yourselves.

You never thought you’d ever call a pothole “well-placed” before, but now you know there’s one at this intersection.

Yoongi’s eyes roll back.

You squeeze.

His left arm wraps around you again, holding you tight. He slides his right hand to the middle of your back. Fingers walk up the base of your spine. Flatten into your hairline. Gently coax you into resting your forehead on his lips.

He grunts with each thrust.

You nip at his collarbones.

He grabs your ass with both hands.

Pinches.

You start to ride even faster, thighs pumping, calves frozen in place, absorbing every shock except the ones you want, deep, right into your system.

He hisses and starts frantically searching for your lips.

You give them to him, and he latches on, whimpering into your kisses, and tugging on your bottom lip as his forearms tighten around your waist and strengthen his hold.

He pumps up and into you, hard, fast, smooth.

His hugging upper arms slam you down onto him.

You let out the desperate cry that’s been building in your chest. “Oooohh— yes, Yoongi!! Just like that!"

As he slides all the way down and forward, his back now resting against the seat, he cradles the back of your head in his left palm and smashes your lips.

Which you both open when you come.

You whine and pant and breathe into each others’ mouths, kissing each other with encouragement as your bodies wiggle and hum.

His eyes are so tender.

You melt.

You melt down his body. Your knees find the floor again, and your tongue finds his dick again, and your eyes are tender for him, too, as you gaze up at him and lick.

“Damn,” Yoongi sighs. He props himself up on his elbows. And his cowlick shakes a laugh out of you when he asks, “What are you gonna do to me if we do collaborate?”

You smile devilishly, and lick the remaining cum from his slit.

#bts smut #yoongi smut #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts imagines #yoongi imagines #yoongi scenarios #bts scenarios #ksmutclub #ficscafe #purplearmynet #dailydaegu

284 notes · View notes

bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

Hideaway (M) | Epilogue 7

Pairings: Jin x female nicknamed reader (“Friday”)

Rating: 18+ | Mature | Explicit

Word Count: 8k | read on ao3

Synopsis: Yoongi comes to you with some news, forcing you and Jin to have a conversation that you’ve always needed to have, which involves one Park Jimin.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Fluff and light, angsty smut (oral, fingering, biting, nipple play / nipple sucking). Discussions of cheating. Characters have some pretty toxic, misogynistic traits at times, but they’re slowly working through them.

Author’s Note: This is the setup for the next part of the Hideaway series, the Jimin spin-off BREAKAWAY! Can be read as a standalone, but best read after the series, as you’ll get some flashbacks of past Hideaway events from Jimin’s POV. Hope you enjoy, and see you soon!

Preview:

When Yoongi’s eyes meet yours, you know that he knows what you and Jin have just been doing, and he’s sorry that he keeps interrupting you both when you’re seemingly having the best sex any two people in the world are having at any given moment (and especially now that you have two kids and don’t get to have it as much).

But he needs your help.

“Around 9 AM.”

“Completely dark?”

“No trace.”

A sweaty, shirtless Jin strides into the living room, wearing the baggiest pair of sweatpants that he managed to find in the dark.

“This better be good.”

Yoongi looks up at the ceiling.

“Jimin’s gone.”

Taglist: @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @codeinebelle @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @dvalitaes @effielumiere @elyte @firesighgirl @floralseokjin @ggukkieland @greezenini @helenazbmrskai @hobiiiiiworld @imaginativedreams @jimcartop @jkkit @kflixnet @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @pb-n-juju @purpleheartsfortae @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @sumzysworld @sunnietee @svgahigh @yuugehn

Yoongi operates on a completely different frequency altogether. The decades that have led you to be the ring on Jin’s left finger have also demanded that you intertwine with his right-hand man. And the more time you’ve shared with Yoongi — not just the classes or piano recitals or ragers, but the plane rides and work dinners and hospital stays — the more you’ve come to understand him. You can speak his language. Rudimentary, but comprehending.

So, when you open the door to see Yoongi standing there, staring at the floor, you already know what has happened.

“How long ago?” you ask, as you pull your silk robe sleeve along your still-bare arm.

Yoongi walks through the door that you have just opened wider. He’s still staring at the floor, counting 8, 9, 10, before looking up.

But he needs your help.

“Around 9 AM.”

“Completely dark?”

“No trace.”

A sweaty, shirtless Jin strides into the living room, uncaring that his cock is still hard, but wincing at it straining against the baggiest pair of sweatpants that he managed to find in the dark.

“This better be good.”

Yoongi looks up at the ceiling.

“Jimin’s gone.”

Jin scoffs. “That’s news, how?”

“No trace,” you echo, brows rising.

Jin rolls his eyes, folding his arms. His chest strains, biceps bulge, and cock twitch.

“So?”

You let out a small sigh, partially due to your frustration with this Jimin situation, partially due to your annoyance with the cavalierness that you always think Jin has long grown out of by now, but mostly due to that cock twitch, and the frustration that you feel in your chest, stomach, and still-wet pussy, all of them tied up in needy, yearning knots.

“What does that mean, anyway, ‘no trace’?” Jin goes on, either completely oblivious to what he’s doing, or completely purposeful, and over the silvery moon with the way you’re both reacting.

Yoongi keeps trying to avert his eyes, but there happen to be a lot of reflective surfaces in your glossy, glassy, stainless steel, blissfully billionaire kitchen. Giving up, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It means that we can’t find him.”

“Just because he hasn’t texted you back in, what, 18 hours?” Jin snorts. “Jimin’s a grown man. We all are. Stop being so whiny whenever any of us fall off your radar to go live our lives. And, on that note—”

He reaches his hand out to you.

“C’mere. I wanna pick back up from where we left off.”

Yoongi grunts with a mix of annoyance and disgust. He really wasn’t expecting this kind of a reaction, but he also isn’t surprised, given that these interruptions have been happening a little more as of late. Still. Jin should know better. Yoongi doesn’t like to waste any time.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important. I need your help.”

Jin sends him a dismissive flourish. “Get one of Namjoon’s nerds on it.”

“We did,” Yoongi says, moving with you toward the kitchen, his black, leather Hermes bag swinging in his grasp. “We tracked his phone to his office.”

Suddenly, Jin tenses and gasps. “Wait, then maybe—” His palm flies up and pushes the air in front of him. “And, I-I know, I know, controversial, but just hear me out on this—” His eyes widen. “Maybe he’s—”

And just as suddenly, his face falls flat, in every sense of the word. Brows parallel to the floor. Nose suddenly unbridged. Lips uncurled.

“—at work.”

You’re never sorry for this, but for once, you are. You’re sorry for being the reason so much blood has drained from Jin’s head. He clearly isn’t thinking. When it comes to work, Jimin isn’t like you and Jin. Jimin hasn’t set more than the tip of his big toe in that place since he officially inherited it. There’s no chance in hell he’s there at three in the morning.

Yoongi narrows his eyes. “We found his phone in his middle desk drawer. Which was locked.” He looks at you, eyes softening. “We had to break in.”

The peculiarity of it all. It’s starting to rattle you.

Yoongi’s black bag thwump! s onto your kitchen island, and you let out the rest of the breath you’ve been holding.

“It took a while, but we hacked into his accounts. Thought we might scan for major purchases, or maybe freeze his cards to try to glean something about his whereabouts based on what move he made next.”

Yoongi pulls out his laptop, aiming to show you all the triangulation he’s done. But all you see are just a bunch of blank, lightly gray-outlined squares. Spaces and spaces where Jimin isn’t.

“It’s gone,” Yoongi says, the first crease of worry wrinkling his forehead.

Jin finally looks… something. You’re not sure what. But you’re glad it’s something other than horniness causing a casual disinterest in a friend disappearing.

“…Did someone swing by? Check up on him?” he asks.

A second crease of worry etches into Yoongi’s forehead.

“It’s all gone.”

He pulls up a series of pictures taken at dusk. What was once Jimin’s extravagant loft has been stripped bare to its skeleton, filled with a luminous but ominous orange and listed for 37 billion won.

Jin pulls the laptop toward him and peers at the photos as if they’re Magic Eyes. If he puts his face close enough to the screen and relaxes his gaze, hopefully, Jimin will magically appear.

“You check his place uptown?”

“And the building he’s renovating,” Yoongi affirms. “Checked the usual hangouts, too. His box seats. The underground tunnel to the club. The theater. I called his parents, who, as expected, didn’t seem to care all that much that I was looking for their son in the middle of the night. Literally no one has seen him.”

You start to see the sweat and crud in Yoongi’s pores. You didn’t think Yoongi even had pores.

“Namjoon’s team is still working. Taehyung and Jungkook are trying to track down more of the undergrounders.”

Yoongi meets your increasingly concerned gaze. Over the years, he’s learned your language, too.

“Hobi went to the club, then the bar, then the lounge, then back to Jimin’s office to get a list of recently acquired clients,” he continues. “He’s going through them one by one, emailing them, calling them, or just popping up.”

At this point, the Jung family is synonymous with the entire concept of security. They’ve created solutions for every door, window, car, phone, computer, and cloud computing platform imaginable. As a result, the MOTS 7 partners are supposed to be untouchable. So you can only imagine how hard Hobi is taking this. How deeply personal of a failing he’ll consider this to be.

You clear your dry throat.

“Flights?” you try.

Yoongi meets your eyes. “None.”

“Did you check his pseudonyms?” Jin asks. “Mr. Magnum Polla?”

“We checked. Nothing under that name,” Yoongi confirms.

“Mr. Lebâton Gros?”

Yoongi sighs. “No.”

“Mr. Oki? I forget the first name he used with that one, though.”

“No , Jin. Nothing.”

Jin furrows his brow. “Really? He usually loves going out with a bang.” He blinks. “Guess he’s not living up to his names.”

Though you married him in part for that sense of humor, Jin is doing the opposite of breaking the tension.

You take a deep, deep breath and try to move things along.

“Alright, Yoongi, seems like you’ve thought through everything that can be done right now. What else is there to do? How do you think we can help?”

Yoongi’s look is one of desperation. It’s all-consuming. Rotting him from the inside out. How many times has one of the guys — more often than not, Jin himself — put him in these difficult situations? And how many times has he been able to think those situations through, pretty much single-handedly?

He doesn’t like to waste any time. Especially when it isn’t his to waste.

How many precious minutes have gone by? Will they make all the difference?

“We need to go public.”

The suggestion lands like a breeze block in your stomach — heavy, but full of holes. Yoongi wouldn’t have mentioned it if it weren’t necessary. But involving the law enforcement, putting out a statement, organizing a press conference, and generally calling attention to the challenges of your insular and sometimes dangerous world opens Jimin, and the rest of the group, up to certain vulnerabilities.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jin decides immediately. “It’s been less than a day! Besides, even if he were taken hostage—”

Yoongi’s sneer tells you that it’s all but a foregone conclusion, and it’s wasting time to pretend like it isn’t.

“—then there’d be a ransom note, or a threat, or—”

“They’ve already got him.”

Yoongi has lost almost all patience, driven mad by images of a bruised Jimin, a bleeding Jimin, Jimin missing a finger, missing an eye, with a scar, all flashing through his mind on a continuous, torturous loop.

“I’m sure of it.”

Jin’s eyes widen, and his pupils start to form spirals, like the one Yoongi has been tumbling down for the past eighteen hours.

“Whoever they are, they’ve got him, and they’ve drained him.”

Yoongi’s throat is starting to close up. His neck flexes, Adam’s apple bobbing to try and push the words out. You’ve never heard his voice so thin.

“So, now, they have no use for him, and if we don’t find him in the next few hours, then—”

“Yoongi, goddammit — we had a fight, OK??”

It’s hard to judge how to react. Brains latch onto the oddest things when they’re in a loop, and onto even more bizarre things when you’re thrown for one. You think, funnily enough, of a turducken. A monstrosity of confusion stuffed into frustration stuffed into relief.

Yoongi seems to be poking at his own serving. “You had… a fight?”

“Yeah.” Jin sighs. “Last night, on my way home from the office, Jimin called to talk, and we got into one of our fights and…” Jin sighs. “And I told him to fuck off, once and for all.”

“What did you say?” Yoongi scowls.

“‘Fuck off, once and for all.’”

You’re not sure what’s worse: seeing Yoongi fall down a spiral of worry, or watching Yoongi completely detach.

He throws his laptop into his bag. He makes no eye contact with either of you as he fastens it. And not in the polite, hesitant way that he usually avoids your gazes when he knocks on your door in the middle of the night, but in a way that tells you he can’t stand the sight of you.

“He crossed a line,” Jin says in defense.

“Who even is Jimin if he isn’t crossing lines?” Yoongi scoffs as he lifts the bag from the island.

“I’ll find him,” Jin offers. “I’ll bring him home.”

The words come with such confident finality. Like he’s searching his room, instead of the entire world. WIth the kind of power he has, he frankly might as well be.

But Yoongi doesn’t look reassured. And he doesn’t look back as he makes his way to the door.

“Uncle Yoongi?”

Yoongi’s fingers freeze around the strap on his shoulder as the three of you turn and find a rumpled Junior standing in the hallway, no longer sleepy, but clutching the wall with his own tiny hands.

As quick as his eyes land on him, Yoongi diverts his gaze. Not out of anger, but protection.

“Uncle Yoongi, are you leaving? Don’t go!”

Yoongi hates wasting time, and that includes giving time to something that someone isn’t ready for yet.

“Ah, buddy,” Jin sighs, shaking his head at himself. “You, uh, didn’t have a scary dream or something, did you?”

“Wait! Uncle Yoongi! Friday!” Junior cries out, sensing what is about to happen. The diversion. The placating. The shuttling off to his room. “What happened! I wanna know!”

“It’s OK, sweetie,” you say.

Yoongi closes his eyes and sighs, incongruent with what he’s about to say in response.

“Not to worry, my liege.”

Junior wriggles in place. “B-but is Uncle Jimin OK??”

After flashing you a look, Jin moves away from the island and says, “Let’s go back to bed.”

Your heart twinges at the sound of Junior’s impatient whines, coming off the heels of his genuine concern. You try to ignore them as Jin carts Junior to his room. And you almost reach for Yoongi’s elbow as you follow him to the door, but instead, you decide to just let him lead.

He stops abruptly, body all in angles, eyes downcast but slashing you sideways.

He’d be well within his rights to slam your door. It hurts a little to see him unfreeze and then slip out while leaving that look hanging in the air, and the door swaying a bit in the wake of his exit. You tell yourself that he just didn’t want to worry Junior even more, or wake sweet, sleeping Namu. But you know that it’s more that Yoongi hates wasting time, and he’ll leave a sentence hanging without any punctuation if he needs to.

You’re still dressing the wounds of Yoongi’s sharp glance when Jin comes back to your room.

“I made something up.” He lingers in the doorway, unsure if the look on your face means he’s welcome or not. “Told Junior that Yoongi was just worried about Jimin traveling on his own. Like in The Little Prince.”

You stare at the opposite wall.

“That, just like The Little Prince, Jimin’s searching for his rose.”

You nod.

“OK. Friday. I can’t stand this.”

“He’s most likely fine,” you say gently. “He usually is, right? He just needs…”

You’re not entirely sure what Jimin needs. But given the details Jin has shared, you’re betting that Jimin’s at least safe, and, for now, that’s enough.

“No. Not him.”

When you turn back to Jin, you see nothing but remorse on his face.

“Me,” he sighs.

You tilt your head in question.

His eyes are round, and welling with tears. “I need.”

Seeing him like this, so twisted up and pained, brings back the ache in your chest.

You slip out from under the covers and slowly walk over to him, keeping your gaze on him as you take his face in your hands.

“You love me, right?” Jin whines.

He closes his eyes at your gentle touch, hand sliding up his cheek, bringing him closer to you for a kiss.

Before your lips land, you take another look at him. His eyes open again when he doesn’t feel you, and you both hover there for a moment, breaths floating in and out of one another.

“I do,” you whisper.

He grunts as he kisses you, his body jolting and starting as you bring your hands down his neck, down his chest, down his sides, to feel for the waistband of his sweatpants. He cups your cheeks, forcing your lips into a pout, as you blindly untie the drawstring and tug downward.

“Wait, you’re OK with this?” Jin asks, breaking your kiss. “What we’re doing? Given—”

“I thought you wanted to pick back up from where we left off?” you ask with a grin.

Jin smiles, and relents, scooping you back up into that kiss, tongue running over your lips before splitting them.

He shuffles you toward the bed, leaving his sweatpants where they fell.

He strips you of your robe and uncovers your naked form, hands running up your waist, and moving inward to palm your breasts.

You moan as his lips travel down your neck, and his teeth find your collarbones, tracing their outline before making their mark. You gasp at the slight pinch, and all the pleasure it releases, starting to undo the knots that had worked their way into your body before.

You arch farther and farther back as he kisses down the center of your chest, and then you feel a pillow being laid underneath you. Your knees bending, and your feet resting flat on the edge of the mattress. And his lips and tongue finding your right nipple, starting to pull and tease.

You croon as he flattens his tongue over it, broad strokes massaging you and sending you reeling.

“That feels so, so good.”

Jin murmurs something as he palms both of your breasts, moving in circles and squeezing as he watches you squirm. Something about how he knows. How only he can send you there.

He whispers more as he kneels and spreads your legs. One swipe up your flesh has your hips rocking, and a swipe down, with the underside of his tongue, has you pressing your mound into his mouth.

You feel a finger, up to the knuckle closest to the tip. Your pussy clenches around it, unable to unlatch, even as he swirls it inside of you.

Jin sighs, chin dripping with your juices.

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking as he tries to work his finger in deeper, to his middle knuckle.

You’ve wanted it so bad, wished that you hadn’t been interrupted, but feeling lucky, and warm, and soothed that you’re feeling what you’re feeling now.

It’s easy to get greedy.

“More,” you whine.

He kisses your thigh. “Trying to. But you’re so tight.”

He dives back in, face rocking against your flesh, and soon, he’s able to slip not only that knuckle in, but his middle finger. He starts to thrust them in and out of you as he kisses and licks your clit, your unrelenting hips meeting his unyielding hand.

You shudder before your chest suddenly jerks up, waves of pleasure lifting you, compounded by all the knots that were in your body before suddenly being untied and released.

Jin grunts as he stands, watching and listening with rabid fervor as you sigh his name, his name, over and over again.

“Fuck.”

He slams into you, and you come again, your legs clasping around his waist, breasts bouncing as he starts to swing his hips back and forth.

You’re reduced to whines and tears, your hips climbing higher and higher as you feel his hands lifting your ass, grabbing you, and pulling him toward you on each thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He falters, unable to keep at the pace he set, mind too heavy, or busy.

Your eyes flash open, and you see him squinching his eyes tight.

You run your hands over his forehead, swooping his hair back, getting some cool air onto him, and his face starts to relax.

You wrap your arms around his neck. You pull him down, and into you, the angle serving to extend your orgasm, already threatening to tip into overstimulation.

His nose presses into the pillow behind you as he thrusts. And he tries not to get distracted by your favorite, floral fabric softener, trying not to speak and biting his frustration into your shoulder instead.

“Jin,” you whisper, unworried as he pumps into you, your delight starting to spread. “I’m here.” You clench. “I’m yours.” You stroke his hair. You hold him close. You smile as your cheek meets his, and as your voice floats into his ear.

“I love you.”

You press a kiss to his jaw.

It opens, and he lets out a fulfilled sigh, finally feeling like he can fall apart, finally feeling safe enough to do so, knowing that you’re there, falling apart with him.

He collapses on top of you, sweating, cock pulsing, cum leaking from you and pooling where his left knee is sinking into the mattress.

He feels your mixed arousal against his skin.

“We need to change the sheets.”

Your hand runs down the bed, fingers spreading over the stain and collecting as much of it as you can.

“No. We don’t.”

You bring your hand to your lips and lick it off your index finger.

He loves how you know exactly what he needs to hear. What he needs to see. He nudges your fingers away from your mouth with his cheek, wrapping your lips up in his.

You aren’t sure how long you lie there, just kissing, pinching and tickling every now and then, bodies shifting positions when you feel like it’s time.

And you settle into one another, Jin lying on his back, you curled into his side, head resting on his chest, feeling slight puffs of air from Jin’s nostrils and staring at faint glimmers in the wallpaper on that opposite wall, both of you waiting for sleep to take you.

But it doesn’t.

His chest rises and falls with a controlled patience, a too- controlled patience that you’ve only really seen when he’s trying to get a grip on himself.

You ask anyway.

“What did you fight about?”

At first, you think that the only response that you get from him are those puffs of air turning into a soft, relenting stream. But then, he says, “Business deal.”

You don’t believe it fully when you hear it, so it makes more sense when, after a couple more puffs, he eventually adds, “I broke a promise.”

Your fingers tease the hairs leading down from his navel.

He sighs softly, belly curving up into your touch.

“What promise?”

He knows that he’s laid his insecurities at your feet, time and time again. That, as he gets older, he’s only filled with more questions than answers. More fear than confidence. But Jin starts to suspect that maybe this is the case because he’s always danced around the issue. He’s never told you exactly what causes him and Jimin to explode.

As ridiculous as it sounds, Jin’s afraid that if he tells you now, he could lose it all.

He runs his hands through your hair.

“After… Kwan…”

Jin braces for you to tighten. But you just keep stroking his belly, and waiting for him to finish his thought.

“We promised each other that we wouldn’t make moves,” he says. “Promised that whatever happened, it was up to you to choose. And I broke that promise—”

“At the hideaway,” you finish.

A flurry of memories rush forward.

His kiss.

His admission.

And you understand.

Sleep isn’t going to take you anytime soon.

“What do you think?” Jin asks meekly.

“I think…”

His hand still cradling your head, you turn and press a kiss to Jin’s stomach, before snuggling back into him and letting your hand stroke his thigh.

“I think that what you told Junior is right,” you say warmly. “Jimin’s like The Little Prince. Always thinking about his rose. But he’s a little mixed up about where she is.”

Jin can’t explain to you how quickly and fully those few words flood his body with happiness and warmth.

“I just don’t understand what he’s doing, leaving like this,” he mumbles. “Making Yoongi all worried. Making… everyone… all worried.”

You’re puzzled at how he’s missing the parallels.

“He’s pulling a You,” you remind him, “except he doesn’t have a Friday by his side.”

“Please. If anything, when I went to the hideaway, I was pulling a Jimin.”

Your hand comes to a stop at the center of his chest.

“Why do you think Yoongi came over tonight?” Jin asks. “It wasn’t to talk to me.”

As he falls silent, and those puffs of air dance across your hair, you realize that he’s right.

Jimin has had the thought for quite some time, but now, he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t seen something as unique as you before.

Eyes wide and clear, he watches as you whisper something to Jin.

He isn’t sure why this is particularly exciting. Nothing in 7th grade is that exciting. And you’re always whispering something to Jin.

But he can’t stop thinking about how long you’ve been working on that binder.

You stood in the stationery aisle, agonizing over your decision for weeks before finally picking it out, as the gang picked out snacks for weekly summer movie nights. You’re always hugging that binder to your chest when you’re opening your locker, choosing not to let it rest there, happy to tote it from class to class. You created detailed section dividers for the binder while Namjoon forced the gang to create character sheets for whatever new strategy role-playing game he was trying to get everyone to play. And though Jimin’s been rolling them into more spit balls for his arsenal, you’ve been saving cutouts of your favorite lessons from the packets you received in social studies class, carefully placing them in their special folder within that binder.

What is it like to be that binder?

What is it like to be that special?

Jin is special.

He’s going to be class president. And he should be. He’s got a knack for representing people. And he’s a really, really good speaker. He’s lighting the room on fire now.

But Jimin knows that he wouldn’t be able to do it in exactly the same way without your spark.

He sees that spark in Jin’s eyes when he leans into the mic for his final statement.

“Instead of being told what our future is going to be, let’s find it, together.”

As Namjoon raises Jungkook onto his shoulders, and the rest of the gang whips the crowd into even more of a frenzy, Jimin feels something else wash over him.

Clarity.

And calm.

He has to find you.

He jumps up from his seat and pushes through these other sweaty, pubescent idiots to make his way backstage.

And when he sees you, waiting in the wings and taking in the fire that you’ve started, he smiles to himself.

Did you have the same thought? Is that why you’re here, and not onstage?

Are you here for Jimin to find you?

He takes a step toward you. And then another. And another.

“Oh,” you say, startled.

He takes another couple of steps toward you, standing just behind you and craning to see everybody losing their minds.

“That was intense,” he observes.

“Yeah, I can’t believe he pulled it off so smoothly,” you say.

“No, I mean… you.”

Jimin grins.

“You gave it all up for him. Just like that.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it goes.”

“It never goes like that.”

He wonders what’s going through your mind. Maybe it’s just because he feels so clear, that it’s puzzling that anything would be going through your mind at all. Here you are, at the edge of something incredible, something that you accomplished, and you seem confused.

“You’re a weird one,” he says with a grin.

The confused look on your face disappears.

“Yeah, you’ve made it clear that you think I’m weird,” you mutter, turning back to the crowd.

Jimin wishes he were a better speaker. One like Jin.

“I didn’t mean that kind of weird,” Jimin apologizes. But with the way you’re focusing on the crowd, the apology seems to come too late. One too many seconds after calling you weird. One too many grins as he did it. But, mostly, he’s choosing to apologize after having said it not just now, but hundreds of times in the past.

But you’re also you. And you’re full of grace.

“Then, what did you mean?”

Jimin searches his mind for something to compare you to. He doesn’t know a lot. Hates school. Hates books. But he likes stories. Especially movies. Like the one he watched the night before. Something with pirates.

“I guess I meant… rare. Like buried treasure. Or something.”

Immediately, he regrets it. That must sound so stupid, especially compared to what you’ve just written for Jin. You’re starting to turn around, and Jimin knows that he won’t be able to bear the disdainful look on your face prompted by his ineloquence.

So he steps back into the shadows, and he watches as Jin wraps you up in his arms.

Escape.

In his young life, Jimin has already learned a lot about the art of escape. What it truly is. Where to go. What helps him do it.

Escape is not, for instance, his ability to come and go as he pleases. The Park house is usually empty, and escape requires some kind of expectation. It requires at least one other person to care.

Escape is, though, his ability to retreat deep into his mind when he arrives home two hours past curfew, not expecting his father to be there, and anticipating the next bruising fraternity paddle hit to his bottom.

Escape is not getting out of the house only to attend this stupid fundraiser for activities he hates anyway. Escape is finding this greenhouse on this rich property, tucked in a blanket of green. And escape is this joint that he’s about to get greens on, helping him to see even more vividly the otherwise hidden shades of green surrounding him.

“Hey.”

He knows it’s your voice, but he can’t tell where it’s coming from.

When you appear in the moonlight, glowing like the mythical unicorn that you are, he can’t help but smile.

But that smile is not an escape. It’s a painful, painful reminder.

“Oh, I don’t need any refills,” he decides to joke, zeroing in on your tuxedo shirt and black pants, “just the check would be good.”

You walk closer, and, given that nobody else is around, dares to keep his smile on his face.

“What are you even doing out here?” you ask.

Jimin holds up the joint so that you can see it.

When you roll your eyes, like he knew you would, he winks and says, “More for me.”

The smoke trail surrounds you, softening your glow.

“It’s time to go,” you say. “You’re all about to crash Hae-in’s house party.”

But Jimin doesn’t want to go. Not even Hae-in’s house party is an escape. Not when Jin and the rest of the gang are the ones deciding that it will be the next stop in their travels. Not when he can have more time with you, here, in this magical place.

Maybe you’d be interested in joining him. Really joining him. Have an escape of your own.

Jimin flick his lighter but doesn’t let the flame grow. He just wants to see a spark.

“Don’t you wanna try?” he asks.

“No.”

“You’re not even a little curious?”

Jimin knows you’re curious. You don’t know it, but you and Jimin have a lot in common, actually. It’s your curiosity that drives you. Your curiosity about what else is out there, and how much of it, and what’s worse, or better.

You both believe things could be better.

Jimin pats the grass next to him.

“SIt here, next to me.”

You look wary. “Why?”

Jimin chuckles and holds the joint up again. “You won’t even have to put your lips on it. No one has to know.”

It would feel good to gloat. To brag that he’s given you a first taste of something. He’d love to see the look on Jin’s face. It would be a downright riot. But it’s better if no one knows, Jimin thinks, as you sit down beside him. He’s fully content with sitting here, escaping with you.

You don’t seem to be sure about any of this.

“Look at me,” Jimin says softly, letting the joint rest in the corner of his mouth.

When you do, he feels that calm wash over him again. It guides his thumb to your chin. Helps him have the courage to tug your mouth open, your bottom lip full, plump and red from all the bites you’ve given it.

He wishes you wouldn’t worry so much.

He draws the flame into the joint with a deep breath, and then he leans forward.

When your gazes find each other, he slowly blows the smoke into your mouth.

He can feel it in his own lungs seizing and catching as you cough, but for him, it comes out as smooth, light giggles. Knowing ones. “It’s harsh at first, but you get used to it.”

The smoke softens your gaze as well. And your smile. Your sweet, relaxed smile.

There.

That’s an escape.

“Hmm,” you ponder.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, actually.” You’re cute when you’re learning things. It’s why he can’t stop staring at you in class. “I thought it would be scary, but this is all… soft.”

“Hmm. Soft.” Jimin dares to smile again. “It’s nice, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe this will even you out,” Jimin blurts out, letting out a bit of a yawn as he lets his muscles relax.

He feels your questioning eyes on him as he stretches and stands.

“Why would you say that?”

It sounds different this time. Your voice sounds so much lighter when your defenses are down.

“I just mean that you get a little intense and serious,” Jimin observes. “When you let loose, like now, you’re…”

He can’t say what he wants to say. That you’re pretty. That you shine. That he wants to have you like this, this close, all the time.

“…a little easier to have around.”

When you don’t follow him, he leans down to reach for your hand. You’re cute even when you’re awkwardly trying to get your high self back onto your feet. He giggles again at you, putting more strength into his grip on your hand. More effort into the pull of your arm. And you crash into him, your hand flattening against his chest, and your chin pointing up at him, your bottom lip still so full.

He didn’t think he’d ever be able to catch smoke. But here you are.

This is the line that he’d decided not to cross. But now that he has, he’s worried about what it’ll do to him. What Jin would do to him.

He lets go of you immediately, and you totter on the balls of your feet. Eventually, you right yourself and follow the path back to everything that is boring, and regular. Everything that Jimin so desperately wants to escape.

If he’s going to say it, it should be now.

“I almost kissed you just now.”

You look so stunned. “Why didn’t you?”

His heart feels so heavy in his chest. Yes, in the way that it usually feels when he’s high. But this high, this time with you, is so much more potent.

He wishes that he didn’t have to say it. But it also needs to be now. So that you know. So that you understand what he’s been feeling. Why he escapes. Why he escapes to seek you out.

“Because you belong to Jin.”

Jimin can’t believe it’s years later that he gets to see you glowing like that again.

It’s probably due in large part to the soft, dreamy lights in Song Chae-in’s theater room. The silver screen looks so much like the silver moonlight that enveloped you that night. Save for your age and dress, nearly everything is identical, right down to the concerned look on your face.

“You OK?” he asks.

You frown. “Where did they go?”

Jimin’s kind of glad you weren’t paying attention. All of this is so dull.

“Jin bet that Jungkook couldn’t kick through wood,” he explains.

“So where are they now?”

“They ran out to the shed to kick some wood.”

“Of course.”

“So,” Jimin starts, “are you having fun?”

He often wonders what it’s like to be like you. To have never gone to one of these parties. They were fun for a while. Scratched an itch. They still are better than the alternative, which is sitting at home alone and being solely responsible for whether or not he has a good night. But the highs aren’t so high anymore.

It doesn’t take you long to answer. “Not really. But thanks for asking.”

You clearly don’t expect Jimin to say what he says. “Same. Jin and the guys like these kinds of things, but I get bored after a while.”

He dares to look at you.

“I’m glad you came this time.”

You shift a little in your seat. You’re getting ready to do something. And Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ready to do whatever it is that you’re about to do.

“Jimin?”

“Yeah?”

You look so beautiful, made even moreso when you finally say it.

“I don’t belong to him, y’know.”

Jimin doesn’t even feel his body pulling him closer to yours. His hands wrapping around your wrists. He isn’t sure if it’s you he’s trying to hold steady, or himself.

That calm. It sweeps past your lips and all over his skin. Around his heart. Into his belly. His back curls, just like the bangs on his forehead, which your forehead are parting as you tilt your head for a second kiss.

“Gross!”

Jungkook’s voice echoes throughout the room. Nobody really pays him any mind. But it does signal a shift.

Jin tends to do this. He takes people’s cues to change the setting. Reset the energy. Especially when things aren’t going his way.

“Let’s go back outside. Get some fresh air.”

The entire gang heeds his instructions, but Jimin secretly sails on the cloud that you’ve put him on as you all make your way to the front yard.

He’s drunk. He’s had a few beers, but he’s pretty sure that he’s drunk on you.

He wants to test this out. He needs to be completely convinced, especially before he decides to do anything about it.

Nearly anyone will do.

He spots a more familiar face in the crowd. And, unlike with the thrill of finding you, it’s not very hard to get her attention. All it takes is some flirtatious grabbing. Some giggling. Charms that came by default in Jimin’s innate toolbox.

But he feels nearly nothing as his lips intertwine with hers.

He brightens at the realization. He can’t wait to tell you. He can’t wait to see if you’d be willing to take the plunge. To make your escapes into reality.

But when he looks up to find you, he sees Jin diving after you, into the backseat of your father’s driver’s car.

“So… neither of us make a move.”

Jin’s words are, invariably, final. But this conversation seems poignantly so. In Jimin’s experience, nothing optimistic ever happens after four fingers of whiskey.

“She needs to be the one who chooses.”

He said the same thing after their last huge blow-up. When you were just kids in high school. After that kiss.

Jimin still thinks about that kiss. And he knows that it’s selfish. He’s thinking about it even now, as Jin is rightfully going on and on about how what happens next is your choice.

It’s a clear marker that Jimin would never be the one. But it doesn’t matter. If he’s being completely honest with himself, though that kiss tasted sweet, Jimin has been resigned to his fate for a while. And a part of him knew that from the beginning, as his lips met… what was her name?

Anyway.

What was first mistaken as a test of young love really turned out to be a protective measure against becoming addicted to you. And for as much calm as you bring him, Jimin’s growing bored of hearing about what the best thing is for you, and increasingly more curious about finding the best thing for him.

It doesn’t matter that Kwan is out of the picture.

And it didn’t matter when Kwan was in the picture.

For decades of school, and nearly a decade since, Jimin knows that if you are ever asked to choose anyone, for anything, always going to be Jin.

Still, Jimin thinks, pressing his lips together and still thinking about yours, it’s nice to know that Jin won’t make a move.

Your dress is perfect.

You still went with white. Not surprising. Given the man you have on your arm, there’s obviously a part of you that honors tradition.

Jimin watches through the open door leading out to the dance floor as you lean into Jin for another storybook kiss. Shutter clicks and camera flashes wash over you both, only rocketing you further into your fairytale.

He wonders what it was like when you and Jin came to this place. Walked the grounds. Sampled the food. Warned Jin not to smush the cake into your face. Warned him again when he raised the confectionary square to a spot just in front of your nose.

Did Jin fuck you on the elevator ride, all 125 floors up? Did he settle for kissing you? Or did he just hold you close, whispering, in a soft, lilting voice, “We’re getting married!”

Jimin bets it was the last, the sap.

He would’ve fucked you.

And that tells him that the universe is exactly as it should be.

He takes another hit of his joint.

When you walked the grounds, did you find this spot? This tiny balcony, off to the side, the tendrils of hanging vines falling like curtains?

He hopes you didn’t.

Because then, this wouldn’t be an escape.

He really is sorry that he stepped over the line. Even if the line seems to be moving over time. Like roving lasers that will kill him if he makes one false move.

He looks up at Jin, walking slightly ahead, flashlight swinging. There’s enough light that Jimin doesn’t see the need to turn his on.

He keeps trying to say something. He’ll take a quick breath through his nose, open his mouth, bring his tongue and teeth together, and nothing. He’ll think of a word, any word, double-down in his resolve to just blurt it out, even if it doesn’t make sense, or it comes out funny, and… nothing. He’ll think of your name, which isn’t even a name, and he’ll decide to speak it aloud, even considering that hours-long heart-to-heart that they just had, trusting that he’ll come up with some sentence that covers his tracks, and… nothing.

“You good?”

Jimin looks up to see Jin looking over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raised in question.

No, he’s not good. But he can’t say that either.

“We’re almost there,” Jin says, turning back around. “I can see some felled trees.”

It seems that there’s more storytime hanging off of Jin’s suddenly smirking lips, but Jimin’s glad that he doesn’t tell it.

He just wants to be able to say something. But there’s a weight on his chest. Something blocking him.

Jimin realizes that the high is already wearing off.

And he realizes that the weight he feels, the block he feels, is pain.

The pain doesn’t come from the fact that Jin kissed you here. That Jin fucked you here. That Jin made a baby with you here.

It comes from the fact that Jin told you here.

On what is technically Jimin’s territory.

Jimin can hear Jin’s footsteps moving away.

He leans back on your front door, laughing softly into the empty hallway, thinking about the trophy nestled into his front, right pocket.

He pulls it out and smiles at it.

But then his face falls.

He wishes he were holding the red trumpet lily.

Or, rather, that he were giving it to you, surprising you in bed with it, your beautiful smile blooming.

But all he has is this crumpled index card, with a dumb clue on one side, on the other, a number that will reach some woman who isn’t you.

And the image of Junior falling asleep in that furniture showroom.

A tiny, carbon copy of Jin.

“So, when should I expect the contracts back?”

Jimin grins as the city skyline slowly ambles by, boxes of white and yellow seemingly hovering in the air. He loves that skyline. He never grows tired of seeing it. Watching each familiar landmark pass him by like that reminds him of how much he has, and knowing that he can see it all while careening down the highway at 80 miles an hour reminds him that there’s still so much more.

“Yeah, Jimin, about that… I-I don’t know.”

The admission feels unexpected. Like a betrayal.

“It’s just,” Jin goes on, “another club? Can’t you develop a school or a museum or something?”

“You’re the one who expanded your portfolio to include entertainment,” Jimin points out. “And this one is the best one yet! Seven stories for the seven deadly sins? I mean, come on, that place will be packed every night!”

“Jimin.”

“Fine!” Jimin backs off. “Forget the theme! The sound system alone! Holophonics? First to market!”

“There are insurance risks with being first to market, Jimin.”

“C’mon, you saw the sparkles in Taehyung’s eyes! And you know how long he’s been working on this!”

“I know,” Jin sighs. “I know. But, Jimin, I have kids now, and I can’t afford to make business decisions that—”

Jimin pounds the skyline with the side of his fist, the glass echoing a loud enough thud! that Jin asks, “Jimin?? Are you OK??”

“BULLSHIT!”

“Jimin, you loud fuck, you’re on speaker!”

Jin mumbles some kind of apology. Probably to his driver.

So, maybe, this is the one exception that proves the rule of Jin’s words’ finality.

The contracts have been drafted for weeks. They’re probably sitting on Jin’s desk now. You probably put them there.

“Just— just turn around,” Jimin says slowly, “go back to your office, and sign the papers. I’ll meet you there, and pick them up.”

The silence is unnerving.

And it tells Jimin that he knows what the real root of the matter is.

“How long are you going to hold this over me?” he demands. “It wasn’t even my fault!”

Jimin doesn’t care that his driver can hear. If this deal falls through, he’s as good as dead anyway. He’ll need a witness. He’s pretty sure his driver would side with him, anyway. He pays him to.

“I’m not holding anything over you,” Jin sighs, exasperated, his voice closer, and fuller, now that Jimin’s been taken off speaker.

“Yes, you are!” Jimin counters. “What happened with Jungkook wasn’t my fault!”

Jin groans. “No, it’s not, but it would be good to know if you could stop making these shady deals! If you could stop whatever conquest you’re dead-set on seeing through! If you cared about anybody other than yourself!”

“Oh, be- lieve me, I care.”

Jimin’s panting deep, heaving breaths now, his chest no longer blocked, words flowing freely, throat more than happy to sing.

“You’re one to talk, constantly telling us that we all have to bend you! To Friday!”

“Be careful,” Jin warns.

“You ever think about it?”

The sudden drop in Jimin’s voice is staggering. Low, and dangerously quiet. Calm before the storm. A whirlwind waiting in the wings, residing in the ninth circle after committing all seven deadly sins.

“You ever think about how I could escape to some greenhouse or balcony and steal a little time with her? You ever wonder what I might be up to when you go on one of your month-long business trips? How I might teach Junior a new word? Teach Namu to call me Appa?”

A smirk unfolds, dazzling and nasty.

“Teach Friday to do the same?”

“Jimin.”

He chuckles.

“You think about me in your penthouse? In your bed? You ever smell your sheets and wonder why they smell so strongly of fabric softener? It’s to mask the sweat. The cum. The two of us grinding, biting into each others’ shoulders. Her trembling legs around me, fighting to stay taut. Her tits bouncing. Me slapping them. Palming them. Taking them in my mouth and sucking her nipples so hard they almost rip off. My cock so hard and full, emptying onto her, into her, over and over again as she screams my name.”

He shakes his head.

“No. That’s not what you think about. I know what you think about.”

He narrows his eyes, gaze as piercing as his words.

“You think about us at Hae-in’s house, curled up in those basic-as-fuck recliners, bodies heating up after trying and failing to contain all that curiosity, and longing, her pussy drenched with need and our lips stitched together in the first perfect kiss that she’s ever had, with her first, perfect love.”

When he speaks, Jin sounds like he’s eighteen again.

“Jimin, why don’t you do us a favor and fuck off, once and for all?!”

Jimin shakes the memory of the fight, and his sleepless night, out of his head and trudges on, feet hitting the tarmac. Walks are so much more pleasant in the morning sun. And when he’s headed to his own private jet.

The pilot greets him with a kind smile.

“Mr. Park, sir.”

Jimin tightens his grip on his right backpack strap as he reaches forward to shake the pilot’s hand.

“Thanks for organizing so quickly,” Jimin says. “All of you, ready and waiting. I only called about half an hour ago.”

“Wasn’t hard. Skies are clear. Cabin crew is ready and waiting with champagne and three courses. And your assistant just informed me that everything is packed and ready to go,” the pilot responds.

“Great.”

“Just one question, sir,” the pilot goes on, feeling a bit awkward. “Uh, where exactly are we going?”

Jimin shrugs.

“Surprise me.”

Hideaway | Masterpost

#bts fanfiction #jin smut #jin x reader #jin x you #jin x y/n #bts smut #jimin #kim seokjin #seokjin #park jimin #ficscafe #ksmutclub #purplearmynet #hideaway

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bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

New Fic 🚨: Pitter Patter | JHS

Pairings: Hobi x female reader

Rating: 18+ | Mature | Explicit

Word Count: 3k

Synopsis: Hobi comforts you on a rainy evening.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Friends(ish) to lovers, smut (unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex, spanking), drinking

Release Date: Sat May 14 7 PM US Central | read on Tumblr | read on ao3

Preview:

“What are you even doing here??” you ask.

You venture a sideways peek at him. You pray that you don’t see a nipple. Because, you swear to god, if you see a goddamned nipple—

He snorts. Not mockingly. Charmed. “Apparently, I’m drinking.”

Taglist: @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @codeinebelle @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @dvalitaes @effielumiere @elyte @greezenini @helenazbmrskai @hobiiiiiworld @imaginativedreams @jkkit @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @pb-n-juju @purpleheartsfortae @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @sunnietee @svgahigh @yuugehn

Reblog, comment, ask, just generally reach out or add yourself to the PITTER PATTER taglist!

#bts fanfiction #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts smut #hoseok smut #hobi smut #hobi fluff #hoseok fluff #hobi x you #hobi x reader #hobi x female reader #hobi x y/n #pitter patter

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bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

New Fic 🚨: Wallflowers | MYG

Release Date: Sunday, May 1 at 7 PM US Central

Pairings: Yoongi x female reader

Rating: 18+ | Mature | Explicit

Word Count: 9k

Synopsis: Yoongi needs a plus one. And you happen to be free.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Strangers to lovers, smut, alcohol and cigarette use, mentions of drugs

Written as part of the Party Favor collection with my Roomie, @mochilatae! (more on that soon!)

Playlist: Cigarettes After Sex playlist by LEEPLAY

Preview:

“Can you do me a favor?” he asks.

You collect the change in your palm and gather the tips of your fingers together into a narrow cage. The coins stack pleasantly inside of it as you turn your hand upside down. “Sure,” you say, as you hold the change out, and Yoongi holds out his empty hand to receive it.

“Go with me?”

You blink once.

His hand rises, creases touching your fingertips. The coins plink! into his palm.

You really wish Yoongi wouldn’t jump around in conversation like does.

Suddenly, Yoongi’s shoving his change into his pocket and moving swiftly to the door. “Cocktail attire,” he says. “I’ll be here at 6.”

Taglist: @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @dvalitaes @elyte @greezenini @helenazbmrskai @imaginativedreams @jkkit @kflixnet @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @purpleheartsfortae @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @sunnietee @yuugehn

Reblog, comment, ask, just generally reach out or add yourself to the WALLFLOWERS or taglist!

#bts #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #yoongi #min yoongi #suga #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x y/n #wallflowers

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bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

A Map of Mrs. Kims | KSJ, KNJ, KTH | North: 03

🧭 Fic Masterpost and Schedule 🧭

Chapter Pairings: Taehyung x female OC; Bongseon x Jihu (that’s right, we’ve got another taste of smut goin’ on)

Chapter Rating: 18+ | Explicit | Mature

Word Count: 13k | read on ao3

Series Synopsis: Mrs. Kim is tired of being accosted in the grocery store, at her art class, and even in the country club restroom about her three incredibly gorgeous but stubbornly single sons. So many women are vying for a spot on Jin, Namjoon, and Taehyung’s arms, but these three boys are dead set against settling down. Hopefully, Mrs. Kim’s trusty map of the city’s fourteen top bachelorettes will finally guide them to true love.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Kim line as brothers, slice of life, family drama, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, unrequited love, fluff, angst, smut (food play, oral sex, vaginal sex)

Author’s Note: This is my love letter to our funny, sweet, and heartwarming ARMY, and it is particularly dedicated to all of you who have been so kind and generous with your time, your laughs, your feels, and your own beautiful stories! You can read the original ask that prompted the idea, check out the asks and snippets that have followed, and follow #amomk to check out all the still-ongoing asks / snippets / drabbles!

Taglist (italics mean I couldn’t tag but will get you the fic!): @acertifiedhoe @acsycharm @afangirllikeme-blog @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @arandomcyborgsayshi @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @codeinebelle @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @ducksflysblog @dvalitaes @effielumiere @elyte @emmmui @firesighgirl @greezenini @helenazbmrskai @hobiiiiiworld @imaginativedreams @jimcartop @jkkit @kflixnet @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @miffy1997 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @pb-n-juju @purpleheartsfortae @purpuravm @qhuedie21 @raplinesmoon-main @reliablemittenmain @rurugoeson @shina913 @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @sumzysworld @sunnietee @svgahigh @takaiko @tryagain-84 @yuugehn

Yoongi grimaces at the inefficacy of this 1-ply piece of paper in getting all of the sticky, maple icing out from the corners of his lips. He means well, but his eyebrows are tight and stitched together when he asks, “How was it?”

Namjoon shrugs, content with letting doughnut crumbs fall where they may. It’s Friday, anyway.

He grins, but it’s just a one-dimple grin.

“Ah, maybe the next one will be better,” Yoongi mutters, taking another hungry bite. “And you’ve got, what, at least two or so dates after that, right?”

“Yeah.”

Both of them stare out at the wisps of cadet blue slowly starting to etch themselves into the sky as they sip their iced coffees in silence, perched side by side on the hood of Yoongi’s mid-level sedan, which is parked in its usual place and highly coveted spot, over by the side exit, just by the band hall.

Yoongi’s left boot heel slips a little on the bumper. When he readjusts, he looks left to see Namjoon chewing his bite of doughnut very slowly. Effortfully. Jaw flexing and releasing way more than it needs to. As if speaking aloud the words that are forming in Namjoon’s racing brain.

“Was she… mean?” Yoongi asks.

Namjoon lets whatever thought he was crafting fall away like his crumbs.

“Actually,” he says, icing flying out of his mouth as he smiles again and turns to face Yoongi, “she was really nice. And really smart.”

“Hmm. Nice and smart.”

“I mean, who doesn’t like nice and smart?”

“Apparently, you,” Yoongi jokes, smirking and taking another sip of coffee.

Yoongi watches as Namjoon sets down the rest of his Boston cream doughnut in the box and closes the lid, placing the box between them and looking back out at the sky.

Yoongi nods while he presses his tongue against the edge of his straw, taking a quick gulp as the rising column of liquid gets pinched off and slides back down into the rest of his drink. He licks his sweet lips and swirls his ice.

“Was she nice and smart?”

Namjoon turns to Yoongi. His chin wrinkles, and his brows rise in question.

“The Sadness Girl?” Yoongi tries.

Namjoon laughs.

Normally, he has three distinct laughs.

And Yoongi pairs them with situations like a sommelier pairs wine with food.

Yoongi’s favorite is Namjoon’s oldest laugh. The laugh that probably burst forth from him when he was a baby. The laugh encoded by his genes. It’s his truest laugh. Not that Namjoon has a fake laugh, really. Honest, and showy, arguably to a fault, with his emotions, Namjoon could never disguise something as wonderful as joy. So, in that vein of honesty, it should be labeled as Namjoon’s completely unencumbered laugh — which, despite every attempt to look away, cover his face, and redirect its energy out of other people’s faces — completely trumpets out of Namjoon’s wide-open mouth in all directions, quickly filling the air with musky, buoyant, balsam notes of cedar and winter berries. It’s full. It echoes. A real chortle. And he chortles when he’s caught off-guard, but pleasantly surprised that he’s also kind of right about something. It pairs exceptionally well with finger pointing, “I knew it!”s, and “I told you so!”s.

There’s also Namjoon’s giggle. Like gears that stick a bit. The sound of a ratchet adjusting a bolt. Metallic. Grinding. Shorter spurts, forced through his pinched throat, hovering teeth, and two-( always two-)dimpled smile, more air and spit than voice. It’s percussive. Quick. Kekeke. It doesn’t last long. All treble and mid-tones, zero bass. It’s meant to dart through conversation, zipping things up to make sure that everyone safely gets to the next topic. His nostrils flare when his giggle comes out. It needs more air to push it through. It pairs well with his look of momentary confusion, the top of the bridge of his nose caving in a bit as it strains under slight worry, until he can see the rest of the conversation through.

There’s even Namjoon’s sheepish, high-pitched, sing-song, tee-hee. Soprano and sweet. Like a moscato. A dessert wine of a laugh, let out at the end of a highly satisfied meal of his favorite things. An inadvertent, shared look with Taehyung when losing his turn at a hand game in the backseat of a long, long drive. A muttered, impatient joke that slips from his Jin-hyung’s lips as they help their Appa check the foundation of the front porch swing every fall. When an annoyed Yoongi stands his ground during weekly department meetings about the disappointing size of the tangerines in the cafeteria. It even has citrus notes itself. It pairs well with his chin rising, a quick, backward thrust of his head, and squinched eyes. Fond. Like when he spots something tiny, adorable, and cute.

But this laugh?

It’s different.

It’s not even really a laugh. It’s more of a punctuation mark. One of those abstract ones that was ahead of its time, like the interrobang, intended to try to convey something that everyone knows and feels, but can’t quite describe, and can kind of already express in other ways. Just as his jaw had been working at imaginary words, so too does this laugh work at the prospect of something being funny but not… quite. It’s low. Barely perceptible. Almost nonexistent. A hush. Something finished before starting. A punctuation mark at the end of no sentence.

Yoongi notes that it pairs well with wide, glistening eyes that are so black that they almost seem blue.

“They told you about her, huh?” Namjoon asks, turning his black-blue eyes out to the cadet blue sky, like the good soldier that he is.

Yoongi stares at him for a moment, pupils unwavering. And then, he crams the rest of his doughnut in his mouth, giving up on the tissue-thin napkins that have all but dissolved, choosing to wipe his hands on his pants instead, and stretching backwards, palms and fingers spreading across the cool, red metal, a little wet with some reformed dew.

Through hastily chewed doughnut fluff, Yoongi says, “Ma did, actually.”

“Eomma? Really?”

“Yeah. Last time I came for dinner.” Yoongi swallows. “She cornered me by the bathroom next to her studio.”

“That’s why we never use that one.”

“Well, she asked me if you were secretly seeing anyone, and I said, ‘Since when has Namjoon been able to keep anything a secret?’”

Namjoon scoffs.

“Obviously,” Yoongi goes on, reaching for his iced coffee, “I told her no. And then she told me to encourage you to take a look at the version of the map that she had at the time. She said the top picks in your candidates all had Sadness Girl qualities.”

“Sad Girl.”

“Mm?”

“Just Sad Girl.” Namjoon shrugs. “And you don’t have to call her that.”

“Oh, then, what was her na—”

“You don’t have to call her anything.”

Namjoon glances over at Yoongi to see how the sentence lands. He always forgets that he doesn’t have to do that with Yoongi. Yoongi always understands, and he shows so with a series of slow, wavy Yoongi nods that pair well with a contemplative lick of his lips.

Yoongi smirks. “She was also trying to give me the most updated version of her application form for my own map.”

Namjoon’s eyes brighten with just a bit of gold. “You should take her up on it! She’s really systematic in her approach— We could go through this madness together!”

“Don’t you already have brothers for that?”

“So then all the brothers would finally be in on this,” Namjoon points out. “If anything, it’d be a great story! Y’know, ‘Hey, Yoongi, remember the time eomma helped you find your soulmate?’”

Yoongi’s shoulders sink. Not out of embarrassment. They sink because, around the Kims, he can actually relax.

But then he spots something that reminds him that they need to get on with their day.

Hopping off the hood, Yoongi says, “This is y’all’s story. Not mine.”

Namjoon smiles. “If it’s ours, then it’s a little bit yours.”

Yoongi chuckles as he throws open the driver door, quick to throw the flimsy box with its flimsy napkins in his seat.

“C’mon. We’ve gotta go.”

“But—”

“Bro, get the lead out of your big, goofy feet — I’m trying to help you here.”

Namjoon frowns. “Help me? Help me with what?”

“Yoongles!”

The sound of a new voice pairs well with a thin streak of pink starting to thread through faint, white clouds starting to wake and fluff together for the day.

When Yoongi sighs in annoyance, he almost blows them away.

“Yoongles, I know that’s your car, and I brought the maple—”

The figure stops in her tracks. Namjoon can just make out her arms falling to her sides. Something seems to topple to the ground. Another box of doughnuts? The logo looks so similar.

“Is that…” Namjoon blanks on the name. “She teaches those seminars for the gifted kids? There’s, like, a physics one? Wait, is it physics? I know it’s something with a P—”

“Like I said,” Yoongi says, nearly halfway to the school’s entrance as more and more of the faculty’s cars pull into the parking lot, “I’m trying to help you here. Let’s get inside before the parents start to queue up for drop-off.”

Namjoon scrambles off the hood of Yoongi’s car, grabbing his half-full iced coffee and clutching the strap of his messenger bag resting at his chest.

“Yeah, some kind of stomach flu,” Jin replies.

He listens as his boss’s pleading voice drones on in the back of his head, but his attention is paid in full to the words on his screen.

“Bit of a fever,” he reads. “Some cramping. I think it’s some bad seafood that I ate.” His boss’s voice is only getting stronger until he reads, “Diarrhea! Loads and loads of diarrhea.”

He swivels his desk chair around and stares out the window.

“I don’t know about you, sir, but I’ve never had it this bad before. Honestly, like, I had to use an app to order some cleaning supplies because I haven’t been able to get off my toilet — let alone out of my apartment! — long enough to shop for my—”

His boss’s words start decreasing. Decreasing in count. Decreasing in fervor. Decreasing in demand to rethink taking one measly day off. Jin has only worked for one company, and he’s banked nearly 365 of them during his stellar tenure.

“Thanks for being so understanding,” Jin says, voice sweet but eyes rolling, “I really appreciate your kindness during my, uh—”

How should he phrase it?

“Time of, um, need.”

Just a few, short words later, Jin puffs out his cheeks and triumphantly blows out some air at the sound of his boss disconnecting from the call.

It’s frustrating to call for a day off when his mind is still technically working. It’s just working at something else entirely.

He pulls up his dear eomma’s map. Smirks at how he can hear her voice narrating each aspect in sing-song during family dinner earlier that week. Even though he won’t go through with any of this, not for real, he has to admit that it’s nice to see his eomma so well-intentionally passionate about something again.

Three down, and eleven to go.

He isn’t sure about the first (he’ll wait for Namjoon’s sappy playback later), and he’s already said goodbye to the second, with an egg white omelet, some back and forth about when they’re going to see each other again (they won’t), and one last kiss on Kamou’s sweet lips.

But it’s the number 13 that still weighs on his mind.

He drags the window of his eomma’s email to the left and snaps it to lock. Then, he clicks on a new tab and drags it to the right, doing the same. He smiles as the corners adjust automatically. It’s so satisfying when things just do what they’re supposed to do.

In the new tab, Jin looks up the old Camp Kanu website, wondering if there would be any photos from his time there.

Their time there.

It stings a little that he finds them in the Archives section of the site.

She looks the same.

Jin wonders if he looks the same.

He looks up his work profiles. There are so many professional networking sites with the same, standard, simple headshot of Jin in a suit.

He thinks he looks the same.

At least, it’s plausible that someone from his past could recognize him.

It’s happened before .

His phone rings.

It has moved from his pocket in his pants on the floor to his pocket in his pants on the bed to his desk, right next to him, after having put his clothes in his hamper and getting changed into a fresh pair of sweats. “Hi, Eomma,” Jin says after putting her on speaker, his voice tight, hoping that because his keyboard is clacking right next to the receiver, she won’t be able to tell that anything’s different.

“Seokjinnie, don’t forget that the annual boat race is this Sunday,” she replies. “The weather forecast said it might rain, but the club said they were going through with the event no matter what. You boys are still planning on racing, right?”

A needless question.

“Of course, Eomma.”

The line goes quiet, but when Mrs. Kim says, “Hmm,” or maybe as far back as when she called in the first place, Jin knows that this conversation was never really about the boat race, and that it is far from over.

“Is it a slow day today?” Mrs. Kim asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Usually, there’s always people chattering in the background. Even this early.”

Jin didn’t realize how attenuated his office’s background noise had grown to him, but that tends to happen when you’ve stayed in the same place for nearly ten years.

“Ah, yes, well,” Jin replies, clearing his throat and suddenly keyboard smashing DFJKSLJWWTJ OIF NKLJDSFKLJSDFOKAALKJJKLSDFJLKSDF into the search bar in an effort to, well, do what, exactly? Feign preoccupation? Express surprise?

Vent?

“Well,” Jin repeats, “I decided to log on from home today.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Should I move the date days to a weekend?” Mrs. Kim asks. “The date didn’t tire you out, did it?”

Jin smiles.

“Seokijinnie?”

“Let’s just say that it put more than a little pep in my step.”

“Seokjinnie.”

“And I think it did for her, too.”

“Seokjinnie!”

“What?”

“You didn’t!”

He giggles.

“Kamou is a great candidate, and so lovely and sweet, and I wrote in the rules that—”

“Don’t worry, Eomma, everything is on track with your plan,” Jin interrupts, though he’s deleted the random keyboard smash from earlier and is instead typing a name, a well-constructed, melodious name, into a search bar.

Song Mari.

“Well, since I’ve got you,” Mrs. Kim says, too eager, “why don’t you, y’know, tell me about it!” Jin can hear Mrs. Kim’s eyebrows knit together. “The nice parts, I mean.”

Mari apparently has over 500 work connections. Her profile picture is of her shrugging, as if she doesn’t know what to do with them.

Jin laughs.

“Ooh, does that mean that you had a good time, then?” Mrs. Kim asks hopefully. “Had fun? Good conversation? Good food?”

Jin starts perusing some of the posts on the site. Shared job postings. Encouragement for colleagues. She’s a designer now? That plays. She was always the best at making those plastic, criss-cross-y, keychain or backpack zipper, um, thingies.

“The restaurant was a little cold, the bread basket was stale, and the steak was overdone,” Jin rattles off. “But Kamou is a—”

He can’t help but smirk again. Kamou’s thighs around his waist. Her nail-dug trenches still present on his back. Her lips pouting, and sucking, and skating, wet against his cheeks as she moaned what she wanted next.

Things can also be satisfying when they do what they aren’t supposed to.

“—a good girl.”

“Good.” Mrs. Kim sighs. Relaxed. “Good.”

Jin looks back at the map. His hardworking eomma has put so much detail into every aspect. The grayed out city blocks, carefully traced and stitched together from several different satellite maps and even updated to reflect areas under heavy construction. The precise rating system, with every compatibility percentage denoted in scientific notation, carried over to two decimals. The iconography, the incredible iconography, consistent in design style and color, cartoonish in tone, perhaps for levity. So much time, and love, and care, put into each heart. Every star.

The black dot, in comparison, looks like a keyboard smash.

Jin tilts his head. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course. You know I always encourage that. You can always ask people things.”

Jin isn’t so sure.

“How did you find her?” he wonders.

“She filled out an application.”

“Right,” Jin says, blinking and straightening. “I know she filled out an application, but, like, how do you judge the applications, really? Are you soliciting applications from anyone and everyone? Do you have certain core criteria, or…?”

“Oh, so now you’re interested in the specifics!” Mrs. Kim chuckles.

“I guess you just did such a good job with my first date that I wanna pick your brain,” Jin says, glancing at the screen once more before spinning his chair to the right and getting up.

He talks as he walks back out to the kitchen, suddenly craving something sweet.

“What is it that you liked about Kamou so much that made you think to pair her with me?”

Does he have any fruit?

“Was it an instantaneous thing?”

He might not actually have diarrhea, but it is true that he hasn't gone shopping in a while.

“Or did it take some time, triangulating what you know about me, and what you learned or observed about her, and the answers that she gave?”

He stands over his fruit bowl, at the sad smattering of not-yet-but-nearly-bad apples, grapes, and bananas. He should pick one of them. Before he knows it, they'll turn, and he’ll just end up throwing them out.

“Well, seeing that she wanted kids definitely put her in the running,” Mrs. Kim laughs.

Jin sighs and abandons the fruit. He already knew that he wanted cereal. He always wants cereal. And he’d been craving it since making that egg white omelette a few hours ago. He should’ve just poured himself a bowl then.

He does now.

“That isn’t the only reason, though,“ Mrs. Kim replies, amidst the clinking of corn flakes.

The plastic bag inside of the box of cereal slides back down as Jin angles the cardboard back.

“It’s not?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Kim says softly. “Is that really what you think this is about?”

Mrs. Kim turns to her husband, still snoring, lying in bed beside her, blissfully unaware of the resulting smile that she has on her face. She isn’t careful about not waking him when she gets out of bed. She doesn’t have to be. He’ll be out for at least another hour, when she finally decides to start frying up some sausages. Or maybe it’s that she just automatically starts frying up sausages when she intuits that he’s about to get up. Frankly, Mrs. Kim can’t tell anymore, and Mr. Kim will really only be concerned about the sausages.

Shuffling in her house slippers toward the front door, Mrs. Kim clicks her tongue and asks, “Haven’t you been listening to me this entire time?”

“I have!” Jin protests, mouth full of cereal.

“Have not!”

“Have too!”

Mrs. Kim opens the door, leans out the door jamb, and checks the mailbox on the wall.

“I think about your personality. You’re so kind. Generous. Charming. Sometimes, to a fault.”

Coupons, some bills, and some local ads.

“I think about your interests. Talents. Sense of humor. Funny. Also, sometimes, to a fault.”

She smiles at Jin’s soft laugh.

“Your big hyung heart.”

More bills. There’s a flea market event coming up. That might be fun.

“And I think about what you need.”

“Need?”

“Yes, Seokjinnie. You know, you do need things.”

“Uh-huh. A strong six-figure salary. A happy family life. Fun times, great friends, and good food. Except maybe that steak.” Jin scoffs. “Please, Eomma, tell me — what exactly do I need?”

Mrs. Kim closes the door behind her and shuffles back toward the kitchen.

“You need someone who has all of those same beautiful qualities of yours that I just listed, and to shine them back onto you.” She tilts her head. “Plus a healthy amount of patience. The easy kind. Someone who wouldn’t necessarily say they have that quality. Patient without even realizing it.”

Jin smiles. Fiddles with his spoon a bit. Watching the light, and his distorted reflection change, nose widening as he turns the spoon over to face its shell.

“Sooooo… thennnn… what are the things that help you, like, cross people off your list?”

Mrs. Kim tosses the sorted mail down onto the kitchen table.

“Well, for starters, I cross off anyone who doesn’t have a stellar career, who didn’t get high marks in school, who doesn’t have a healthy family history, who don’t have blood types and Myers-Briggs answers that aren’t compatible with yours, and who don’t want marriage or kids.”

“Wow.”

“But that’s just to start.”

Jin shakes his head, a heavy, unsurprised breath escaping out of the right side of his mouth.

“Only kidding,” Mrs. Kim says.

Though she isn’t.

Not entirely.

“It really comes down to genuineness. Do they seem to want to get to know you? And to be honest, sometimes, it’s not even about getting to know you, specifically.”

Mrs. Kim walks into the kitchen and flips on the light switch before reaching for the refrigerator door, cradling the phone with her shoulder and pinning it to her ear, and pulling out the clear pitcher of water.

She reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a glass as Jin scoops up another bite of cereal.

“It’s about someone who is open to getting to know someone. Anyone. Open to all that it takes. The discussions. The empathy. The time. The sacrifice.”

She sniffs.

“But it also wouldn’t hurt if they were an ENTJ fire sign with at least a Master’s degree in a lucrative field that gives her a yearlong maternity leave package for each of your five kids.”

Jin holds his breath like his next spoonful, just hovering in front of his mouth. Like Mari’s breath against his ear, carrying a secret. Like Kamou’s breath washing, warm, over his lips, carrying seduction.

He lets the breath out.

“Well, if you’re so decided… then why did you entertain a black dot at all?”

He lowers his spoon just a bit.

“Why did you ask Tae-Tae to torpedo his date with Mari instead of just rejecting her from the process completely?”

Mrs. Kim frowns. “Ugh, that was more of an unavoidable favor.”

“For who?”

“Her eomma.” Mrs. Kim frowns. She reaches into the fridge for the opened, now half-pack of sausages.

Jin’s next questions will have to wait.

He stuffs his spoon into his mouth.

“Do you know how Tae-Tae’s date with her went, by the way?” Mrs. Kim asks quickly.

He places his spoon in his bowl, empty of cereal but still full of milk. “No,” he says. “We’re catching up later, though. Around dinner.”

“Alright.” Mrs. Kim reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a pan, setting it on the stove. It lands with too sharp of a clang! , though it isn’t loud enough to rid her of the storm of thoughts that are forming. “Anyway, I hope that’s the last we see of her.”

“Mm.” Jin places his bowl in his sink. “OK, well, I should go now. Do some work.”

“OK, then.”

Mrs. Kim draws in a short, soft breath.

“Seokjinnie?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Eomma.” He pauses, heart swelling. Growing heavy. A little too heavy. “And, well, thank you. Y’know. For…” He smiles. “Just. Thanks.”

Mrs. Kim grins with satisfaction. The satisfaction of having raised a kind, appreciative son. The satisfaction of being right. And doing right by him.

“Bye, sweetie. Have a good day.”

“You too. Bye.”

Mrs. Kim switches on the burners. She smiles at the sound of the flames coming to life. And she smiles even wider as she hears something beside her. A quiet, familiar scuffling of slippers against the kitchen tile.

She turns to find a glasses-less, squinting Mr. Kim in his robe, hair a mess, eyes heavy with sleep and fingers scratching his white tee-covered belly.

“Sausages?” he asks hopefully.

Taehyung tells them that it was much later in the evening than anticipated, so he wasn’t sure if there would be any tacos left when he ordered his usual. He doesn’t know why he always picks tacos. Yes, they’re cheap. And he can always count on his usual place being open late.

But there’s just something about them.

There was something about the way the tortilla chunks, cheddar cheese strips, and lettuce shreds sprinkled across his sheets, like confetti celebrating the moment, little breadcrumbs detailing the trip from her thumb in the corner of his mouth, to the heated kiss, to those first bites into her skin.

“Damn, not too hard,” she moaned, as Taehyung pulled away from her collarbone and unwound their legs from around each other.

He lifted her shirt, up and over, smiling at the sight of her breasts jiggling in their bralette.

“Sorry. I’m hungry.”

“Then here.” She smirked with such glee as she reached over for the box, pulled out another taco, and said, “Though I wonder if you’d like to eat a different kind of taco.”

There was something about the sound and feel of the shell crisply breaking against his cheek, as she smushed the taco into his face, cackling with laughter as he playfully narrowed his eyes.

He rested back on his knees, straddling her thighs, and glaring down at her. “What are you playing at?”

“Me? You’re the one who brought these into the bed!”

There was something about the way sour cream looked when painted over her skin. And like her jeans had so easily slid down and off, the sour cream moved so easily too, barely nudged by Taehyung’s index finger, tracing cloud-like lines up the side of her thigh, to her hip, across her stomach.

He licked at the dollop that he had placed on her navel, letting the tang of that cream mix with the salt of her sweat, pressing it against the roof of his mouth to let it spread over his tongue.

“Gonna paint you with more,” Taehyung murmured, licking the trail of sour cream down to her shaven mound.

She squirmed when he said that, twisting the other way and whining when his tongue delved into her folds and tasted an unanticipated dessert.

“Mmm, you’re sweet,” he observed, taking a moment to nibble on her lips.

She reached back and gripped his headboard. Slid her hips down his sheets a little. Made sure she was right up against his chin.

He opened his mouth wider, grabbing her thighs and digging his cream-covered nails in as his neck craned left and right, head bobbing slowly until she started to whimper.

His thumbs reached inside and spread her wider, and his head shook from side to side, faster and faster as she rolled against him in desperation.

Just as she was about to come, he let go, and pulled away entirely, a mix of cream, spit, and her arousal glimmering on his nose, lips, and chin.

Her eyes flashed open at his sudden absence, and her hips started bouncing up and down in want.

Taehyung only smiled as he reached for the box of food.

He chose blindly, but the first hot sauce packet that he picked had a funny little message: Burning For You.

She snorted as he giggled and placed the perforated edge of the packet in his teeth and ripped, hot sauce spraying out, dabs of it getting on her face and chest.

There was something about the way those packets of hot sauce dripped all over her body. The heat took on a different quality as he licked each drop.

She was so soft that he couldn’t help running his tongue, and his hands, rough and calloused near his nail beds and on the sides of his knuckles, all over her, the hot sauce stinging in places where he bit and chewed.

Her skin was perfect.

He guessed, at least.

If there were blemishes, or bumps, or scars, or moles, Taehyung’s fingers didn’t catch them, though that’s not to say he wouldn’t love to get more time to find out where each and every single one of them were.

But maybe that would be for the next time.

Tonight, he was too focused on the way she moved against his body, the hot sauce starting to get sticky, their skin starting to peel away when they would come apart.

He wasn’t the only one who was hungry. She took every inch of him, though it was a bit of a squeeze to get all of him inside. He’d push slowly, and then have to wait while her body wriggled around him. From her throat, an urgent groan would signal she wanted more of him. And then he’d push slowly again, his head hanging forward, eyes squinched shut so as not to lose composure, tongue busying itself by licking hot sauce from her gorgeous nipples as he waited for her pussy walls to relax just a bit more.

And then he’d push slowly again.

The time came for him to move faster, though, cock pulsing as he slammed inside.

“Gonna? Paint? Me?” she panted.

“You want it?”

“Yes, god.”

Taehyung’s hips shifted into double-time, his hands gripping her shoulders, dimples forming in his ass cheeks as he clenched and strained.

She clenched, too. Warm. And needy. He could feel her sucking him in deeper, and when he moved with her, he started to feel the tip of his cock hitting her innermost wall.

Her squeal turned into a wandering moan, high-pitched and tense.

“T-too much?” he panted.

She shook her head no and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her and lifting her legs in the air.

He grunted, clasping her even tighter, moving his arms under hers and circling them up to grip her shoulders from behind.

He left his lips by her ear.

“Where do you want it?”

“My tits.”

She squeezed her eyes closed even tighter, wrinkles forming in the corners.

“Ah, fuck, Tae, I’m gonna come so hard.”

Taehyung’s right hand slid up against the pillow behind her so that he could cradler her head.

She came apart, shaking, legs unable to hold themselves up. He caught her right leg, his hand whipping back, the inside of his upper arm pinning the side of her knee to his waist. Her left leg quivered as she did, kicking out to the side and sending tortilla, cheese, and lettuce bits into the air.

She laughed as she came, letting out a surprised shriek during an aftershock.

Taehyung slowed to enjoy the scene before him and take pride in the art he had created.

But his cock was throbbing with need.

He grunted and started pumping again, and as she nodded yes with more fervor, his strokes became longer.

His hips used that backward motion to propel him out, a string of precum still linking him to her until it tore apart at the rush of cum spurting out of him, mixing with the hot sauce on her breasts, swollen from the friction.

She rubbed her fingers in that incredible mess as he took deep breaths to calm down, before rubbing those same fingers across his chest in contemplation.

She traced a trail up his neck.

She smiled wildly when he lifted her wrist to lick himself off of her fingers.

And when Taehyung proudly recaps all of this in detail during their video call, Namjoon laughs and says, “That reminds me of something Jin-hyung did.”

Taehyung frowns, and then pouts in annoyance. “What??”

All Jin and Taehyung can see is Namjoon’s ceiling, so they miss the way that Namjoon smirks, as he palms the wall, kicks off his shoes, and uses his socked feet to set them upright by the front door.

“Eomma was telling me about this thing hyung did whenever she was pregnant with me, and then you,” he goes on. “Something about painting her stomach with food. Jin-hyung was so eager to feed us that he would slather her with stuff. Oatmeal. Ketchup. Peanut butter . Other stuff . She had to leave it on her stomach for a little while and wash up when hyung wasn’t looking, or he’d get frustrated and insist that she sit back down on the couch so that he could ‘feed’ you all over again.”

Jin grins. “Copycat!”

“There are even pictures!” Namjoon answers, his eyes lowering, and then moving side to side as he picks up his phone from the floor and starts to type.

As a picture of toddler Jin, baby Namjoon, and a younger Mrs. Kim pops up in the group chat, and Jin and Namjoon’s exclusive laughter has the audacity to fill his living room, Taehyung gets further lost in his faraway look. But it quickly dissolves when those laughs turn into long stretches of high-pitched, increasingly satisfied breaths.

He twists his face and stares at his own, motionless thumbs propping up his phone screen.

“Not every single one of my personality traits is one of your hand-me-downs, you know,” Taehyung scowls. “Plus, technically, Namjoonie-hyung, you were copying Jin-hyung, too!” His voice is starting to get louder, but also waver. “A-and, and—”

“OK, OK,” Jin says quickly. “No one’s really a copycat. We’re brothers, and best friends. It’s normal for us to do things alike, isn’t it?”

Namjoon chuckles teasingly as Taehyung rolls his eyes.

“Anyway, say more about your date,” Jin goes on, a little flatly. “Sounds like you and Mari ended up having a fantastic time.”

“No, hyung, this was with Dal,” Taehyung clarifies. “My friend, from that shop.”

Jin stops chewing.

“Weren’t you paying attention?” Taehyung asks, delighted in his hyung’s expression, and no longer able to mask the bit of a grin that he’s been holding inside all along. “It’s like I said. I didn’t have to launch any torpedos. Mari-noona ghosted.”

It’s been a couple of years since she last taught an art class, but Mrs. Kim will never forget the concept of a classroom “T-zone”. She can still see the ancient, Java-coded graphic in the first tabbed section of every start-of-semester manual. This T-zone referred to the students who tended to sit in the front row and middle column of the classroom. With clean, bright, eager, shining faces, they’re the ones who, sometimes thankfully, sometimes annoyingly, always showed up. They always listened. Always participated. The overachievers. The high performers. The elite.

She was always grateful for them.

But Mrs. Kim herself was decidedly not one of them.

She still isn’t.

Every week, she chooses the easel in the back, by the window, next to the instructor's bookshelf. There’s something familiar about it that she can’t quite name, something that helps her access an aspect of her creativity that feels so much like her old self.

Her young self.

Today’s topic hits close to home, too.

“This feeling that we’re trying to evoke,” the instructor goes on, cleaning her brush and eyeing the next color on her palette, a pale, Atlantic green, “is the feeling of being by oneself.”

Mrs. Kim feels her heart twinge. Not for herself, back then, or now. She can be by herself, no problem. But it’s been three whole lifetimes since she’s been completely by herself. And, unlike those three lifetimes, she knows what it truly is. How it truly feels.

She tries to forget Taehyung’s most recent text message.

Tries to stop thinking of ghosts.

She paints a black streak on her canvas. In warning.

“You may know the feeling as loneliness, which is when we are by ourselves and fraught with anxiety. There is pain. There is fear. There is the sense that you have been abandoned, perhaps due to your own actions, or due to some kind of inherent flaw.”

As the instructor dabs gently at their canvas, Mrs. Kim nearly pokes a hole in hers.

“But there is also another feeling. One that is peaceful, and content. One that reminds us that we are whole, and enough. Just by ourselves. That we aren’t inherently missing anything. That life is additive, never subtractive. That everything we receive, we receive because we are ready for it. We are gifted, never punished.” The instructor smiles at their work, and then smiles at the class.

Mrs. Kim looks up and raises her eyebrows, her arm slowing under the instructor’s gaze.

“That feeling, my lovelies, is called solitude,” the instructor finishes, nodding once. “Blissful, content, wholesome solitude. Don’t take it for granted, friends. Some people go their whole lives mixing up the two, finding an inability to appreciate neither.”

Mrs. Kim looks back at her tortured canvas, all poked and prodded, and lets out a tiny, contemplative breath.

As the class begins to pack up, her eyes shift over to the easel next to her. A gorgeous, serene canvas of pastel pinks and purples, with something small in the background. A building of some sort? Or a figure, way in the distance?

“Is that loneliness, or solitude?” Mrs. Kim asks.

The girl who painted it stops what she’s doing and smiles back.

“Probably a bit of both, to be honest. I don’t know if there's as distinct a separation between them as our instructor thinks. But what do I know?”

What could she know, Mrs. Kim thinks, looking at the girl’s sweet face, unmarked with life’s trials. But, surprisingly, just as memorable.

“I think I know you,” Mrs. Kim realizes. “I saw you at the grocery store a little while ago, right? You were with your mother, outside?”

The girl nods happily. “Yes! I’m, uh, Yang Hwan?” she answers. Mrs. Kim lights up at the name, remembering the shy girl, always in braids, who also didn’t sit in the T-zone. “I also took beginner and intermediate art with you in school.” She giggles. “But that was a very long time ago.”

It can’t have been that long ago, given Hwan’s apparent age. But Mrs. Kim still feels her own age at the comment.

“Ah, how are you?” Mrs. Kim asks, grinning. “Has life treated you well?”

Hwan nods. “Very well. Got my family. My art. Studying it in college now. Can’t complain. Very grateful.”

She clearly means it, but Mrs. Kim notes the clipped sentences, different from the pastel-colored melody with which she spoke of the blurring between loneliness and solitude.

“You’re an artist,” Mrs. Kim sighs, her heart soaring. “How are you finding it? The journey?”

“I can’t see myself doing anything else,” Hwan admits, brightening. “I obviously wasn’t very good when I was in your class. But you and some of my other teachers really sparked a passion for me. I became obsessed.”

She leans forward and shows Mrs. Kim her wrist, where there is a tiny tattoo of a paint brush, with some royal purple paint dripping from its tip.

Hwan smiles sadly at her tattoo.

“But do you buy…”

When she meets Mrs. Kim’s curious eyes, Hwan decides to bail.

She pulls her sweater sleeve over her tattoo.

“Well. Anyway.” Hwan picks up her bag of supplies. “I’ll get out of your hair. See you in class next week?”

Mrs. Kim smiles.

“Actually, I was going to ask if you’d maybe want to have some coffee or tea with me?”

The café one block over thankfully always has free tables. After putting their supplies in their respective cars, and more coins into their respective parking meters, Mrs. Kim and Hwan swing in through the café’s aqua doors and settle at one underneath a pretty, golden chandelier, sitting down in two lemon curd-colored, velvet chairs, in front of one mug of matcha tea, and one tall taro boba.

“Thanks,” Hwan says, both to the server setting her boba down in front of her, and Mrs. Kim placing her credit card back into her wallet.

“Thanks for the company,” Mrs. Kim says, smiling knowingly. “I usually come alone and read or call my boys.” She tilts her head. “Besides. I wanted to know what you were about to say. It sounded like you had a thought forming.”

They both take a drink, each of them savoring the sweet, creamy, mild tastes.

Ironically, it’s Hwan who feels steaming heat in her cheeks.

She gulps down her sip, her cooled tongue now able to move a little easier.

“Formed,” Hwan clarifies. “Always forms. Keeps reforming. Duplicates. Grows. Every day. Without fail.”

Mrs. Kim knows to stir her matcha a little more. Not to pry. To wait. To let Hwan chew and swallow her boba uninterrupted, so that she can work out each letter of every word.

“Someone in our class asked you how you knew you wanted to be an artist,” Hwan recalls, her chipped jade fingernails fiddling with her thick, plastic, pink-lined straw, “how you knew you’d be fulfilled. How you knew you hadn’t made the wrong decision.”

Mrs. Kim grimaces. “And then I said something trite and stupid, didn’t I?”

Hwan laughs, and Mrs. Kim takes delight in seeing youthful stars in Hwan’s bright eyes.

“You told us that making that decision, or any kind of big life decision, is never going to be easy. That we’re never going to be 100% sure of anything. But, also, that nothing is 100% permanent. So, we should always work hard, and be prepared, and go with what’s in our hearts. Even if it changes. Especially when it does.”

Mrs. Kim nods slowly. “OK, that wasn’t terrible advice.”

“It wasn’t. It was pretty good advice, actually.” Hwan smirks. “Got me this far. And, not to be judgmental, but I’m relatively unscathed, especially compared to some of my friends who, incidentally, didn’t take your class.”

Mrs. Kim chuckles, raising her mug to her lips.

Hwan watches as Mrs. Kim takes another sip. And, amazingly, instead of launching into some parable or spiel, Mrs. Kim simply sets her mug back down on the table and waits for Hwan to go on.

“Uh… well, so,” Hwan stumbles, “it’s like, y-y’know…” She sighs. “It’s like this.” She grips the bottom of her drink, swirling it around on the table, condensation on the surface tracing the pattern, pulling apart, and then reforming again. “I don’t know if I buy what our instructor said about being whole, and that being enough. I know I love creating art with every single muscle fiber and electrical impulse in my heart. But… the older I get… it just feels like something is always…”

Her drink comes to a stop, leaving on the table several wispy, watery circles, not quite attached.

“…missing.”

Mrs. Kim nods. “Mmhmm. Been there.”

Hwan blinks. “Y-you have?”

“Of course. I find myself there from time to time, even now.”

Mrs. Kim’s gentle, kind eyes soften at Hwan’s speechlessness.

“I’m a human,” Mrs. Kim replies, “and a woman. Doesn’t exactly make things easier in this world.”

“But you have a career?” Hwan sputters. “And a husband? A-and a family? And your family, your sons, your husband, your career, are all so successful, I—”

Hwan’s eyes start darting around the room. To the cash register. To the doors. Up to the chandelier. Over to the bit of lemon curd yellow chair back that she can see between Mrs. Kim’s left arm and torso.

“Everything OK?” Mrs. Kim asks, furrowing her brow.

Hwan’s eyes grow wider. “No! Well, I mean, obviously not! As accomplished and content as you are, you still feel like something’s missing?”

Mrs. Kim bites her lip and wishes she could go back in time and bite her tongue instead. “See, I knew I wasn’t always great at advice.”

The table starts to shake. It’s barely noticeable, but Mrs. Kim realizes it’s because Hwan’s leg is starting to bounce.

“What’s got you worried?”

“I guess I was kind of hoping for a different reaction from you,” Hwan admits, eyes still darting around, but contained to the table top.

“What were you hoping to hear?”

Mrs. Kim doesn’t need to ask. She’s got enough life experience to know what Hwan was hoping to hear.

Hwan doesn’t have as much life experience, but she is smart enough to know what she wants to hear, though, she is perhaps even smarter for knowing that Mrs. Kim won’t say it.

“That if I just stay the course, I’ll figure it out,” Hwan offers anyway, voice dripping with dejection. “That, eventually, I’ll find whatever’s missing. That it’ll all fall into place.”

The street is starting to fill up with more people. People spilling out of all sorts of Saturday morning classes. Art classes. Yoga classes. Kickboxing classes.

Mrs. Kim’s eyes trace their outlines. “Actually,” she says, “I’ve found that you can always help things along. That you may even need to help things along, from time to time.”

All of these Saturday morning students start to bunch up into blobs. Group into families. Cluster amongst friends.

Pair off into couples.

Mrs. Kim’s eyes settle on one man standing by the bookstore entrance, looking out at the street periodically while checking his phone.

“Can I ask you a question?” Mrs. Kim ventures.

“Sure,” Hwan replies, smiling politely through her nervousness, “although, given what I just opened up to you about, I don’t think I’ll have any answers.”

“I think you will.”

Mrs. Kim furrows her brow.

“What does it mean when someone gets ‘ghosted’?”

Hwan’s eyes widen. “Oh!”

“Not to insinuate anything other than my old age,” Mrs. Kim says warmly. “I think I might know what it means, but even if I don’t, I still don’t like the sound of it.”

“W-why?” Hwan asks. “Wait, did one of your sons— No, they’re too nice to— Unless, was one of your sons— But that’s, I mean, that’s impossible, because there’s a whole line of— A-all the applications, and the standby li—”

She shakes her head.

“Sorry. You asked about ghosting.”

Hwan picks up her boba and cradles it with both hands, leaning forward slightly and speaking before taking a long sip. “Um, well, it means that someone didn’t show up.”

The rage is starting to bubble up Mrs. Kim’s throat. “Like getting stood up?!”

“Y-yes,” Hwan confirms carefully, “uh, l-like getting stood up.”

Mrs. Kim figured as much.

How sharp is her paint trowel? Is it in the car?

“But!” Hwan adds, “I feel like getting stood up has a certain connotation of rejection to it. Ghosting isn’t exactly the same.”

“So, that’s it, then? There’s nothing else behind it? Nothing…” Mrs. Kim’s eyes narrow. “Unpleasant?”

“Actually, usually, it’s because people want to avoid unpleasantries.”

Hwan sets down her boba but keeps her hands, still tucked into her sweater sleeves, around it.

“Ghosting is much easier than showing up and facing situations. And it’s not just used in dating types of situations. People ghost on stuff like hangouts and job interviews all the time now. It might be weird to think about, but my friends and I even have this unspoken understanding. It’s just kind of expected that even though you might make plans for something, other factors, like how you feel that day, or other things that pop up along the way, or maybe even nothing at all, might change the energy around it. It’s almost like there is no such thing as making concrete plans anymore.”

Mrs. Kim shakes her head sorrowfully. “But to disappear like that? With no communication, whatsoever?”

“It doesn’t feel great,” Hwan says quietly. “But I think there’s… It’s…” She takes a deep breath that starts unsure but comes out decidedly. “Things just feel so overwhelming. Don’t you feel that? There’s just so much more. Many, many more things to face. More people to face. And so many more ways to avoid facing them.”

Mrs. Kim tilts her head. She’s no stranger to meeting things, and people, head-on. But it’s because there were only a few ways to meet them. Jin’s always complaining about how exhausting it is to work his fancy, cushy desk job, and it hasn’t been until recently that Mrs. Kim has realized that it must be overwhelming, being able to be reachable no matter what, whether it’s through his personal or work emails, his personal or work phones, or his company’s four platforms for direct messages, of which only two seem to work properly at a semi-consistent clip.

“That may be true,” Mrs. Kim concedes, but I don’t think I approve of ghosting. Communication is always multidirectional. And there’s something to be said for accountability.”

Mrs. Kim is surprised that Hwan merely sips her boba tea. That she isn’t more outraged by this.

How many times has Hwan been ghosted?

Has Hwan ever ghosted anyone else?

As she tries to read too-neutral Hwan’s face, Mrs. Kim wonders how many times she has technically been ghosted herself. Her one-track mind wouldn’t have noticed, let alone kept a tally, before moving on to the next thing.

Mrs. Kim has no time for ghosts.

Then again, if all the ghosts in Mrs. Kim’s or Hwan’s lives had actually materialized, what would have gone differently? Would they be sitting here now, in this lovely little café, two pairs of charcoal and paint-stained hands sharing two delicious drinks on a sunny Saturday afternoon?

“Thanks for explaining it to me, though,” Mrs. Kim adds. “With your context I think I’m beginning to understand. Appreciate the, uh, perhaps… generational… differences.”

Her smile softens, like a line of charcoal smudged. Maybe not as bold, but just as present, and just as wonderful.

Hwan sits up suddenly, her hold on her drink loosening just a tad. “I’m glad I could actually be valuable to someone!”

Suddenly, Hwan is standing, thanking Mrs. Kim for the drink, explaining that she needs to head home, and leading the way back to their respective parking meters.

And as Mrs. Kim stands by her car, watching Hwan wave as she drives away, Mrs. Kim wonders what in the world would make Hwan ever think she wasn’t.

“C.”

“Hmm?”

“The answer is C.”

“Ah.”

“Do you know why?”

“What?”

“Do you know why the answer is C?”

Jihu blinks, and everything becomes clear again. He looks at the group around him, each person shooting haughty smirks right at him.

“Uh—”

He looks down at his book and realizes that he’s not even on the same page as the others.

“Sorry, what question are we on again?” he asks, flipping forward a few pages, checking the others’ books for the page number, and flipping back again.

“Chapter 15, practice question 32,” Yong-hyun replies, with the haughtiest smirk of them all.

Jihu starts to read the question, lips moving along, shaping another unfathomably polysyllabic chemical compound, when Yong-hyun’s finger lands on the page, right on top of the diagram just above practice question 33.

“Beckmann rearrangement,” Yong-hyun says. “Note the oxime.”

Jihu nods quickly. “Right. Right. The oxime.”

“Alright, out with it,” Mi-rae says, elbow landing in the spine of her open book, chin resting in her open palm. “You’ve been so distracted.”

“Oh,” Jihu laughs softly, “I just thought I saw—” His eyes widen. “Um, I just thought I s-saw someone I, uh, know. Sorry to derail things. We can pick back up.”

“It’s not just today,” Jung-kwon says. “You’ve been late. Hard to get a hold of. Especially for our late-night study groups. And your wardrobe.”

Jihu frowns as he looks down at his white button-up and black slacks, perfectly pressed. “What about it?”

Jung-kwon exchanges a knowing glance with Mi-rae.

“I smell a girl.”

“Mmhmm. Thought so, too.”

“Someone finally worthy of the Kim name?” Yong-hyun asks. “Your parents must be thrilled. Especially after hearing all of your bitter diatribes against tradition.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Jihu replies, throat flexing to keep his vocal cords calm. “I’ve just been… I don’t know. Tired or something.” He scratches at his collar. “And I ran out of clothes. A-and I thought I saw someone I know.” His eyes crinkle a little. “Someone who, uh, owes me money.”

“Oh shit, a good ol’ Kim family shakedown.” Yong-hyun claps his hands and rubs them over one another. Like a crime boss. Or a hamster. “How much do they owe you?”

Jihu shrugs. “Not much.”

“Isn’t any amount too much?” Yong-hyun points out.

“It��s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Mi-rae echoes in warned surprise.

“Want us to get it for you?” Jung-kwon asks. “Even with what went down, you still have a reputation to uphold.”

“No, no,” Jihu insists, “that’s really OK—”

“Now’s not the time to be proud, Jihu,” Mi-rae replies. “Everyone knows you’re clever. But it’s not an easy thing to deal with, being cut off so suddenly. We’re trying to help.”

Jihu looks around at the group and can’t help but notice the haughty smirks haven’t really left their faces. And maybe Jihu hasn’t really left the world that has plagued him with so many more questions than answers.

“Thanks, but, really, I’ve got it,” he replies.

He closes his book, the thick halves slamming dully.

“I should try to catch up with them. See if they have the money.”

“Want us to come with?” Jung-kwon tries again, as the group watches Jihu collect his things. “Backup support?” He leans forward in his chair and gestures to the black leather jacket draped across its back. “Rode my motorcycle today.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Badass intimidation factor.”

Jihu snaps his mouth shut as he swings his right backpack strap over his shoulder, and his dimples deepen as he forces a tight smile, gives a wave, and walks away.

He glances down at his shoes. Makes sure that his laces are tied. Reminds himself not to break into a run. Takes extra care not to stumble.

Because if there’s anything unworthy of the Kim name, it’s absolutely the fool who stumbles on his way to meet Bongseon, draped gossamer, peony pink, waiting at the top of the spiraling library staircase.

Her cheeks start to match that pink when she catches sight of Jihu walking— jogging— walking toward her.

And her voice is sweet as peonies when she squeaks, “Hi.”

“Hey.”

Jihu leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You excited?”

Bongseon keeps her eyes closed a second longer. Everything is somehow warmer, better, when Jihu is around. “Honestly, no,” she finally answers, opening her eyes and looking up at him. “I feel pretty numb.” And then a smile peeks through. “Well. Felt.”

Jihu giggles softly. “Gross. What’s happening to you?”

“I know, right?”

She rolls her eyes and clasps Jihu’s hand.

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for inviting me.” He squeezes her hand a little. “And thanks for… y’know. Understanding.”

Bongseon nods. “Of course.”

He tilts his head and gazes at her, the wrinkles in her forehead slowly disappearing. It’s, frankly, a prize in and of itself to get to be one of the few people in the world who gets to see it. But he still isn’t exactly sure why this merits an “of course”.

“Your parents really aren’t coming?” Jihu asks. “No one in your family? No siblings, or aunts, or uncles, or—”

“No, but even with everything you told me, I’m excited to meet yours,” Bongseon replies.

She lets go of Jihu’s hand and starts off in the other direction.

As her black heels clack against the floor, Jihu accepts that maybe this is a bit of an escape. From an uncomfortable conversation. From a seemingly painful past. From the intensity of whatever has been building between them. But Jihu will always revel in the feel of Bongseon’s hand nervously slipping from his.

Because it means that he got to hold it in the first place.

The top floor of the library wasn’t the first choice for this exhibit, but it quickly became a contender when funding finally came in for the leaky roof, stained floors, and air conditioning renovations. Judging has been taking place all day, streams of people weaving in and out of each piece of art on display, those in blue ribbons noting their comments on cards that are placed into a black box in the center of the room. But students and faculty alike don’t care as much about that. They shelled out for tickets to see the architecture of the new ceiling, the imported couches and carrels, and the fancy glass floors that, due to one embarrassing yet thankful mishap with the dean’s secretary, became frosted just a week before an unsuspecting Bongseon bought this dress.

“A vast improvement,” Bongseon observes, looking around. “I can see myself studying here.” She winces. “That is, if I’m still around.”

Jihu wraps his arm around Bongseon’s waist and turns her a little, aiming her toward the one familiar thing in this room.

One big frame, housing one big charcoal sketch of multiple layers of Jihu’s form, his body in slightly different positions in each layer. Sitting. Reading. Talking. Laughing. Watching. Everything that Jihu was. Is. Encapsulated into one frame.

“You see that?” Jihu asks, gazing at Bongseon’s wide eyes.

“I’ve seen it once or twice.”

Jihu pinches Bongseon’s side, and she lets out, and quickly muffles, a squeal.

“Well, I know a secret about them.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jihu leans down to whisper that secret into Bongseon’s ear. “I hear they’re going to win this competition.”

Bongseon gnaws at her lip, and in the process, smudges her lipstick just a bit.

“Don’t do that.”

Jihu blinks.

“Do what?”

Bongseon frowns. “Don’t pretend to give me something that you know you can’t.”

Jihu’s hold on Bongseon’s waist loosens a little.

And at the sound of the second familiar thing in this room, his hold dissolves altogether.

“Jihu??”

Bongseon decides right there and then that Jihu must be an anomaly. An alien of some sort. Adopted, at least. Because Director Kim and his wife, the Mrs. Kim that she’s learned so much about over the past few months, project anything but warmth.

They project strength. They command respect. And they elicit fear. It resonates in the way they march forward, like troops toward battle. The way they scan the room, seemingly for threats. And the way they furrow their brows upon coming toe to toe with their son.

Bongseon can feel Jihu tense up. So she follows suit. But she waits to ball her fingers into fists.

“Jihu,” Mrs. Kim repeats.

Jihu can feel the nearly invisible hairs at the tail of his spine stand on end, and he straightens unnaturally to let them unfurl.

“Eomma. Appa.”

Director Kim is barely there, silently counting down the minutes until this ridiculous event is over, and he can get back to his chair in his study.

“I thought that you had your study group with Yong-hyun and the others?” Mrs. Kim asks. “We saw them taking their places at a table about an hour ago, and they said that you were going to join them.”

“I did,” Jihu says. “But—”

“It’s good that you’re here,” Mrs. Kim replies. “There are many wonderful people here to introduce you to.”

Jihu’s eyes brighten, and his dimples appear as he pulls his cheeks into a small but happy grin. “Funny you should say that because—”

“Haneul!”

The face that turns at the call of that name is a face that all the other campus golden ratio girls would envy. She smiles politely and raises her eyebrows before turning back to the professor with whom she was speaking.

“Hmm, seems she’ll be just a moment,” Mrs. Kim observes.

“Good, because, uh, actually, I was going to say that I wanted to introduce you to someone, too,” Jihu persists. “This is Pan Bongseon.”

His arm circles around Bongseon’s waist, firming with resolve, and making Bongseon’s lips curl into something instead: a surprised, proud smile.

Bongseon’s waist bends, her hips supporting a perfect, 90-degree angle, and her strategically chosen dress revealing nothing except her obligation to honor.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Director Kim, Mrs. Kim.” She smiles weakly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Have you?” Mrs. Kim asks, bored. She looks around Bongseon, eyes never quite meeting. “Then again, most everyone in this room has, ah, heard so much about us.”

She shoots Director Kim a pleased look that goes completely missed.

“Yes, what with your illustrious careers,” Bongseon remarks, hoping that she’s not nodding too eagerly.

“Talk about illustrious. Bongseon’s one of tonight’s finalists,” Jihu says proudly. He gestures to the piece behind them. “Her piece is right here. The medium is charcoal. Isn’t she phenomenal?”

Director Kim stands in place while Mrs. Kim walks forward to get a better look.

“I don’t get it. Who is it supposed to be?”

“It’s not supposed to be any one person,” Bongseon answers. “The prompt called for human models to depict life in motion.”

Mrs. Kim frowns. “But he’s sitting?”

“I wanted the piece to show how we spend most of life moving time forward,” Bongseon answers. “By ourselves. In these small moments.”

Mrs. Kim stares at the piece again. “Well, the piece certainly feels small.”

Bongseon scowls.

“It kind of looks like you, son,” Director Kim chimes in, with an air of intrigue.

“Just, ah, Bongseon’s ability to c-capture the Everyman, I guess,” Jihu stammers.

Feeling unnerved, Bongseon says, “It is him. He saw my ad for models. I paid $50 for a session.” She crosses her arms. “He was very kind, and very happy, to take the job.”

Mrs. Kim smirks. “Fascinating.” She steps closer toward the plaque next to Bongseon’s piece, hunching forward slightly, crossing her arms and squinting her eyes to read the summary, as if needing more proof. “You know, Jihu, if you need money, you could always just come home.”

“Not now, Eomma.”

Every time Jihu says it, he says it with a little more determination. As if the “not now” is slowly but surely transforming into a “never again”.

Mrs. Kim turns to Bongseon, arms still crossed, eyes still narrow. “If you think trying to buddy up with my son will nab you this scholarship, you’re sorely mistaken. We merely paid for the renovations and are attending this function in order to see the changes. We have no stake in who wins or loses. Though I certainly have an eye for prediction.”

Bongseon places her hands on her hips. “Then we have two things in common, it seems. An eye for prediction, and deep care for your son.”

Jihu brightens again, dimples deepening.

Mrs. Kim’s face sours as her head turns, chin moving over her shoulder. Her eyes scan the room again. “Professor Im!” She uncrosses her arms and waves for Haneul to join them. “You’re hogging her!”

Haneul sheepishly grins to the sweet, older man speaking with her. She says something seemingly equal parts charming and kind, given the way he smiles and nods gratefully. After a gentle handshake, Haneul makes her way over to them. She parts a crowd that has gathered around one of the sculpture entries, the figure of a ballet dancer mid-twirl. And like that ballet dancer, she strides, long, and graceful, toward Mrs. Kim, smiling politely and perfectly when she says, “Hello, Mrs. Kim. Everyone.”

Haneul doesn’t bow. At first, Bongseon wonders if that gives her a leg up in the real competition for the evening. Until she realizes that Haneul doesn’t need to bow.

And at that realization, Bongseon starts to shrink, wondering how hard and for how long she would need to stomp her feet to fall through the frosted glass.

“Haneul here is a scholar set to go abroad to study political science,” Mrs. Kim introduces. “Jihu, I think you and Haneul would make great friends.”

“I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you,” Haneul says happily. “Your eomma has bragged about you non-stop since I’ve met her.”

“It’s because I haven’t hit on every accomplishment yet,” Mrs. Kim says with glee, smoothing a slight ruffle in the shoulder of Haneul’s pure white blouse. “Come to our dinner party in two weeks’ time. I’ll send your mother the invitation, and I’ll seat the two of you together. You can catch up then.”

“I won’t be attending the party, Eomma,” Jihu insists.

“Nonsense, you’re coming,” Director Kim replies. “Your grandfather will be in town.” He leans forward. “Whatever else is going on in our lives… well, you’d better be there to see your grandfather.”

“Excited to be a part of it,” Haneul says, grinning at Jihu. Her eyes shift to Bongseon. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but I think I might be in the same dorm as you. I’m in 205, with my suite mate.”

“308.”

“Lucky! You got the single dorm!” Haneul smiles. “Will you be at the Kims’, too?”

Bongseon tries to remember how to speak. That she is worthy of speaking. “Oh, I—”

“Family only,” Mrs. Kim says, with an encouraging wink.

Haneul’s head dips back slightly, and Jihu rolls his eyes.

“It’ll be a wonderful event,” Haneul says diplomatically. “They always are. But if you’ll excuse me? I’m volunteering at this event, and I believe I need to help set the stage up for the announcement of the winners and the dean’s closing remarks. We’re due to start in about fifteen minutes.”

“Go shine, Haneul, like you always do,” Mrs. Kim replies, nodding with proud approval.

“Thank you, Director Kim, everyone,” Haneul says respectfully. “And thank you for the donations to get these renovations done. Our student body is so grateful.”

As Haneul takes her leave, elegance and class wrapped up in the human form, Bongseon feels her own body disappearing into nothing. A better reflection of what she is.

“Go shine?” Jihu mutters. “Haneul volunteered. She’s just setting up the stage. Not even standing on it. Bongseon got here due to her artistic excellence. ”

Mrs. Kim tosses the statement right through Bongseon’s chest, Mrs. Kim’s eyes still not quite landing anywhere near Bongseon’s face.

“Please, Jihu. Only stars shine.”

“Fuck my parents,” Jihu says.

Bongseon stops on the second stair of the entrance to her dorm, her purse swinging under her shoulder. Her long lashes blink in surprise. Despite the issues they had, Jihu had never used disrespectful language about his parents.

“I-I’m sorry, did you just—”

“Fuck! My! Parents!” Jihu repeats, stronger now.

Bongseon looks around.

“C’mon. Let’s go inside. Someone might hear you.”

Jihu can barely keep his words in his mouth, muttering the entire time it takes for them to get from the front door of the building to Bongseon’s single dorm.

“They didn’t cut me off,” Jihu bursts, not even a full second after Bongseon closes her door. “I need you to know that. I need you to know that they didn’t cut me off, and that I’m the one actually refusing to accept their money.”

Bongseon raises her eyebrows. “OK.”

“They try to wire me my tuition every month, and I rip up the check. Every time. Because it’s the principle of the thing.”

“I hear you. Understood.”

“You could make something out of those ripped checks. Whatever that art style is. With all the bits of paper, and the glue, and you turn it into something else.”

“Papier mache?”

“Yeah. But not really. Because I threw all the scraps away.”

“Papier mache isn’t really my forte, anyway.”

Eight, Bongseon notices. Jihu has angrily paced the same line back and forth eight times. But now, he comes to a stop.

He scoffs. “Can you believe them? I was so excited to introduce you to them, introduce your art to them, and they just pulled their same old shit! And now I have to go to this dumb dinner and meet this girl? All because they’re so threatened that I could dare to see things differently than they do, that I could open up to someone who makes me feel—!”

Jihu catches Bongseon’s thoughtful gaze.

At the sight of her, his eyes widen and blink rapidly behind his glasses.

Bongseon’s eyes linger on him for a moment.

And then she takes a couple of steps forward.

Reaches up for his glasses.

Folds the earpieces down.

Sets them on top of a stack of books on her desk, just to her right.

“What do you feel?” she asks quietly.

Jihu’s eyes soften.

“That’s it,” he admits, shrugging. “You… y-you make me feel.”

It’s surprising that it doesn’t happen in her studio, which is where he’d imagined it happening. With the door locked, it’s quite private. So much of her passion resides there. And it’s where they met, so it seemed like the most obvious place. He can’t believe that it happens in her dorm. He can’t believe how lucky he is to be able to be in her living space, where she eats, and sleeps, and lies on her couch while watching TV, and does her dishes. He can’t believe that this is where he’s cupping her cheek in his hand and kissing her with such intensity that he knows this is where it’s going to happen.

Her hands reach for his belt.

“We don’t have to,” he whispers quickly, lest he get his hopes up too early.

But Bongseon smiles the way she usually smiles.

Confidently.

“After tonight? Everything that you’ve said? How can we not?”

Jihu moans as he rushes forward for another kiss, and then another.

The peony pink dress looks at home on the couch. So does his button-up and slacks.

Her white, lacy bra and matching panties look beautiful on her floor. So do his dress socks, and his boxers.

And Bongseon looks exquisite in her bed, naked and excited, pulling Jihu on top of her and hooking her left arm around his neck.

That excitement. Contagious and thrilling.

Jihu realizes that that’s one of the feelings he always has with Bongseon.

The feeling of being wanted.

“I’m so glad you want it too,” he confesses, his hand snaking between her legs.

She bites her lip and lets out a moan at the feel of his fingers spreading her apart, slowly rubbing back and forth to coat his hand in her abundant arousal.

“Badly,” she whispers. She grips his wrist. “Can’t you tell?”

Jihu nods into their kiss, and his fingers massage her clit, hand staying where she holds him, as her hips start to rock back and forth.

Bongseon lets out a moan, head hanging back, teeth raking against her lips as she sucks in a breath to last her. As she moves, she raises her chest to him, and his kiss-swollen lips stamp a trail down her neck, and between her breasts.

She hoists herself up, and hugs his neck, while his free hand curls into a fist, the tops of his knuckles digging into her mattress like his knees are, springs creaking as she bounces heavier, and heavier, against him.

Her throat closes up. All of her muscles tense. A scream presses against her tonsils, but they refuse to let it out. All Jihu can hear are his fingers sloshing around inside of her, and his own quiet, eager grunts.

When she comes, she lets go completely, her back hitting the bed, head landing on her pillow, hair strewn around her.

She lets out a gasp, air rushing into her body. She moans in delight, which turns into a more than satisfied, “Mm- hmm,” before rolling onto her belly.

Jihu lets out a quiet sigh as her ass slopes into view, her back arching, her hand combing through her long hair, and her pretty eyes peeking through as she looks back at him.

He bite his lip as he lines up behind her.

He’s patient as he slides into her. He’s so thick, and she’s so tight, that her juices are more enjoyable rather than useful. Still, she’s dripping everywhere, making an absolute mess.

Jihu loves getting to make a mess.

“Deep,” Bongseon instructs. “Long, and deep. Slow at first, yeah?”

She feels his nod, as it waves down his body and through her mattress’s springs.

A moan of ecstasy escapes her open, wet mouth as Jihu goes as deep as he can, cock curving slightly up, tip touching the back of her walls.

When his hips start to pull away, the suction created by their tight, wet muscles makes them both double over, as it pulls him inside again.

Without looking, she reaches for him. Intertwines their fingers. Presses the back of his hand against her chest.

He fights through the suction as he pulls back. He nearly slips out of her. But then he pushes his cock head deeper, and his shaft rushes along her walls to slam into her again.

Bongseon’s head angles back, and she lets out a low, intrigued moan.

“What you had in mind?” Jihu asks through grit teeth.

Whimpers are all that come out of Bongseon’s mouth. There’s barely any room for anything else against her gulping, heaving breaths.

He bends down, his lips lightly brushing against the back of her shoulder as they move together, full, and slow.

“You know how long I’ve thought about this?” he whispers. “How many times I’ve drifted away and pretended I was kissing you? Fucking you? It’s all I wanna do.”

“Jihu.”

His cock fills her up with the same heat that radiates from his gaze. His smile. His broad chest. Every smirk, every kiss, every long day of work ended with a hug to cover up all the unspoken words, her temple pressed against his beating heart.

He plunges deeper, stuttering on the way in.

Bongseon bites her bottom lip so hard that she thinks it might rip off and expose the bone

“Deep. Slow. You knew exactly what to tell me. You’ve thought about it, too. You’ve wanted it, too.”

Bongseon isn’t usually one to show her hand, but it’s getting harder to fight the “yes” es collecting in her throat.

She wonders if he’ll fuck her there, too. Fuck them out of her. Fuck all the words, and thoughts, and spirals out of her seemingly ever-busy mind.

How does he do this? Torture her and make her feel so at peace, so whole, at the same time?

Their backs arch and curve, sometimes snaking to opposite sides, playing with angles that release curses and unlock bursts of pleasure, sudden tension of hands gripping and teeth biting when it’s especially good.

“Tell me,” Jihu pleads, voice still low, but thinning with urgency. “Tell me this is what you wanted.”

Bongseon whines, squeezing his hand tight, and squeezing her flesh tight, making Jihu moan into the back of her neck.

“Tell me you want more. Wanna give you more.”

Bongseon sucks in another breath, moving her hips back against him, telling him the only way she knows how. The only way she can. Her throat is too tight, voice too lost.

“Wanna give you everything.”

She nods, and Jihu slides his right hand along the seam of her right thigh, fingers finding her clit.

Bongseon bucks back, letting out a yelp as his fingers gather together and start to circle, pressure building.

“Want it all,” Bongseon finally admits, her voice far away. “Want you. All of you.”

As they move, they dip into the mattress and bounce up, rocking gently.

And then, violently.

Bongseon’s chin hits her pillow, and she starts to splay out, barely able to stay as tight as she has been. Her walls are fluttering, and Jihu knows that she won’t be able to last.

“Just let go,” Jihu murmurs, placing his left palm in the small of her back as he speeds up.

She nods. Doesn’t even bother moving her hair out of her face. Just lets her body take over, spasms and movements seemingly just as incoherent as anything that she tries to speak aloud.

When she comes, she wails, spit landing in her strands.

He comes soon after. Repeated grunts, soft “ohh, ohh, ohh” s, match each explosion of cum that springs from him.

When he collapses on top of her, she reaches back for him, fingers finding the back of his head.

She taps him twice.

“Well done.”

He laughs, lips brushing against her cheekbone.

“Now, get off of me. I wanna do something.”

Jihu rolls onto his side, kissing her there before she jumps out of bed, hair flowing behind her, footsteps punctuated by excited giggles.

She gets to her desk and looks around. Even with the clutter, her sketchbook is easy enough to find. Her pencils, though, always go missing. Remembering that she was last sketching when lying on the couch, she picks up Jihu’s shirt, and then her dress and purse, and finds the near-stub of a pencil between two cushions.

She sets Jihu’s shirt back down. As well as her dress.

But she holds onto her purse.

She grabs the pencil and sets it atop her sketchbook on her desk.

But then she opens her purse.

Stares at the first place certificate.

As well as the check.

They each have her name on them, printed carefully, in elegant cursive on her certificate, and in serifed, clear, official font on her check.

She sets the certificate and the check on her desk, both face-down.

And then she grabs the sketchbook and pencil.

She jumps back into bed, having returned with a pencil and a sketch pad.

“Stay still, OK?”

Jihu grins. He knows not to talk as she primes her space.

After a moment, Jihu can’t help himself. He rushes forward and presses his lips to her bare shoulder, making her laugh and gently protest, as she flips her pencil under her index finger and over her thumb and middle, as her palm presses against his chest to push him back against the headboard.

Jihu’s never seen someone so consistently and intensely focused. And he’s not seen Bongseon like this, fresh off the glow of a win. In more ways than just one.

He lifts an arm and bends it behind him, resting the back of his head on his forearm. And, as he’s done for the entire time he’s known her, he watches her work.

It’s amazing how content he feels, just watching her. He’d watch her for as long as she’d let him. And he’d watch her do anything. Sketch another scholarship-winning piece while bathed in the afternoon sun. Read on the top floor of the library. Cook. Laugh. Sleep. Think.

Come.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Jihu tells her, making Bongseon roll her eyes. “I mean it. Just thinking about the way you looked when you…” He smiles. “I’m gonna be thinking about that for a while.”

“Not the only one,” Bongseon giggles, half of her brain in that moment, and half of her brain focusing on how to make sure to get the line of his left pec just right.

“Bongseon.”

“Mmm?”

“I hope this isn’t a one-time thing.”

“Me neither.”

“Good.”

Jihu doesn’t need a breath. Doesn’t stutter. Her confidence is so contagious.

“Because I think I may be falling for you.”

Bongseon looks up from her sketchbook, eyes wide.

Jihu snores.

Loudly.

And a lot.

Bongseon can’t help but fondly chuckle every time Jihu lets another one out. Though he’s loud, and the rattle in the back of his throat might raise concerns about his health, it’s indescribably comforting to watch him sleep so deeply, to know that he’s so comfortable in a place that has only ever been hers.

He doesn’t stir when she gets out of bed. He continues snoring when she makes some tea. He sleeps right through the kettle whistling. So Bongseon is sure that he definitely won’t wake up when she slips out of her room, just for a few minutes.

She takes the stairs instead of the elevator, as if trying to keep Jihu from hearing that, too.

She pads down the hall. Everyone else is definitely asleep. But she has no qualms about waking a particular person up.

She knocks on the door, and when it opens, Bongseon feels so relieved to know that she’s memorized the number correctly.

Bongseon looks up into Haneul’s tired but curious eyes.

Hanuel’s voice cracks when she speaks.

“Y-yes…?”

Her realization grows as more light enters the room and enters those curious eyes, helping her to answer her own question.

“You’re the artist?” she asks, voice still not warm enough. “From today?”

Bongseon nods. “Yeah.”

“Um… well… Congratulations, again?” She raises her eyebrows. “But why are you—”

“I’m really, really sorry to wake you,” Bongseon replies, “but I need your help.”

“Right now?”

“No. Two weeks from now.”

Haneul tilts her head, as Bongseon raises hers.

“Please don’t go to the Kims’ dinner.”

🧭 Fic Masterpost 🧭 Drabbles

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