#hopefully i did brahms justice

[booklyns]

paint of life | brahms. h [the boy]

+18 only!

PART | this is part 3 [nsfw]. for pt. 1 : click here, pt. 2 : click here.

WARNING | brahms heelshire the warning, stockholm syndrome, s.eggs, literally s.eggs all the way, s.eggs until you can't hold on anymore lmao (not detailed though), accepting you're crazy, delusions (?), maybe cliché, fluff at the end (?) , horrible writing, horrible +18 writing, unedited writing.

RELATIONSHIP | brahms. h/gn. reader.

WORD COUNT | approx 4.5k

SUMMARY | your masterpiece was complete and when brahms saw that smile of yours, dread filled his inside. surely you wouldn’t leave his side? either way, brahms simply had no intent to let you go, even if it meant showing you how much of a good boy he can be.

please read the warning before proceeding. minors do not interact. this is written for fun, please do not normalise this relationship. reach out if you're in a toxic relationship or a relationship that is harmful.

also, thank you for the support! i wasn't exactly feeling it with the +18 writing so i'm surprised many seems to like it.

What were you doing?

Surely there must be something wrong with your brain. You were certain that there's a chance for you to escape yet you were still there, sitting with a paintbrush in your hand and the same canvas in front of you. You were hesitating, weren't you? There was something pulling you back from leaving and it was Brahms.

Brahms Heelshire, that little devil who claimed he's a good boy.

You let out a long sigh, knowing very well that Brahms was sitting behind you in the same old office. Just being inside the same room as him was about to kill you from the inside, your face heating up and your chest was just about to explode. You swore Brahms knew what he was doing, he wasn’t as dumb as he tried to make himself seem.

This was the same place where... things happened.

You would have cursed Brahms to death for doing that to you but you're a hypocrite, weren't you? You could run but you didn't. You could fight against your fate but you didn't. You were just there with him, staring back at him as Brahms stared back at you. Perhaps you could have returned back to the city if you put in some effort, the problem was you didn’t.

You're a hypocrite.

You really were a hypocrite.

And a hypocrite you shall be.

“Done!”

You exclaimed proudly as you stood up, grabbing onto the canvas as if it was your dearest before showing it to Brahms who remained seated on the leather couch. A bright grin crept up your face when the burden and stress disappeared from your shoulders, yet another client would perhaps be satisfied with your painting. In fact, you felt extremely confident with the masterpiece in your hands so why wouldn’t the client be happy?

Brahms gazed at the painting, a mixture of mostly crimson and a deeper shade of blue, something about it was eerie but it held a certain charm, just like you. A hypnotizing charm, pulling and edging Brahms to do something about you. To hide you from the world, to just keep you to himself and for you to just be chained with him. Oh, he would be so happy to have you to himself, no clients and certainly nobody looking for your presence.

Your face.

Your body.

Your soul and your life.

Everything can be his, right?

Raising your eyebrow, you looked at Brahms for any sort of reaction however you couldn’t get much due to the porcelain mask covering his face but you did notice that his intense gaze was constantly on your masterpiece. Fearing that he might snatch it and somehow ruin it, you quickly kept the completed painting back onto the wooden easel.

And you did the right choice.

Brahms knew the reason that you’re here in the first place was to finish that God-forsaken painting of yours and now that you were done with it, there’s no need for you to remain by his side. Surely, him being a good boy would stop you from leaving him but just what if it wasn’t enough? Just like how it wasn’t enough for his parents or Greta, you might end up leaving him and go through that entrance door.

“I just need to tell him about this and get this over with.” 

You mumbled to yourself, no longer focusing on Brahms as your eyes were now on the phone. Scrolling through the contact list, you tried to look for the client’s number and instantly hit it as soon as you found it. The call rang for a second and it died no more than a minute, giving you a sign that the signal wasn’t extremely great. Just when you were about to curse the bad signal that you had been receiving in the Heelshire’s mansion, Brahms suddenly let out an unsatisfied grunt.

“Hug.”

Without thinking much and merely hoping that Brahms wouldn’t throw yet another temper, you gave him a quick hug with the phone in your grasp. Brahms wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you, yanked even, closer to him, still remained on the comfortable seat without moving much. Why should he move when you could sit on his lap? After all, his lap was made perfectly for you and if it were anybody else, Brahms would just have to slit their throat.

But not you, Brahms adored you.

Just like how you adored him.

Tapping onto the call button several times, you never did show any reaction as you straddled him, only mumbling about how the line was shitty and that Brahms should have gotten a better spot. Brahms, who was hoping to see the flustered look you once gave him when he f.ucked you senseless, couldn’t help but to feel disappointed when your eyes were constantly on the damn phone. Bloody, stupid phone. And everything that was inside your brain was the completed painting, client, painting, and then client all over again. You would never stop working and it was driving Brahms insane, as if he wasn’t insane enough.

Were you that eager to leave him?

Brahms was already burning in jealousy yet you barely spared a glance at him.

You’re the one driving him insane.

You’re the one putting him in such a difficult spot.

So why shouldn’t you handle him?

“Brahms, give me a minute.” You placed your hand on his broad shoulder, hoping to see three bars of signal in your damn phone but it wasn’t much of a difference, “I need to give someone a call and then finish up my work.”

Frustration growing inside him, Brahms placed his head on your chest with a grumble.

“Brahms. Give me space, I can’t make a call comfortably like this.”

He wouldn’t budge.

“Brahms.” You exasperated, “One.”

Brahms’ heart suddenly started to race, remembering the upset look on your face that gave him a mixed feeling. He wouldn’t like whenever you’re burning from rage or sorrow but at the same time, it was so entrancing that Brahms could feel himself twitch from arousal. Just what was wrong with him? Whether there was something wrong with his brain or his body, he did not care even one bit. As long as he had you, Brahms could go all crazy for all he cares.

“Two, Brahms.”

He grunted in displeasure and seemed to hug your waist even tighter.

“Brahms. It’s three.”

Reluctantly, Brahms loosened his embrace and leaned back, eyes looking up to you as if you’re going to give him a compliment. You would, if you weren’t this busy and stupid for falling into his trap. The last time you agreed that he’s a good boy, he managed to fill you up inside and despite how your body would prickle from pleasure, you just.. hoped you still had the remaining humanity left inside you. You were praying to God that you still had a grip on yourself, never be swayed by Brahms and his tactics.

Even though it may be too late for you.

Come on, you can do this.

“Thank you, Brahms.” You only smiled to Brahms’ disappointment.

Like a miracle bestowed onto you by God, your phone rang and you hastily answered it before Brahms could do anything. The quicker you get this over with, the better. You knew that very well especially when you caught a glimpse of Brahms’ intense gaze, perhaps already clouded from jealousy and pent-up frustration.

“Hello, Jonathan. I've completed the painting you requested.”

"—he signal is somewhat bad there—Could you repeat that again?"

"I said the painting is complete."

"Oh! Is that so? That's wonderful, this is why I adore you so much!"

You could feel Brahms' grip on you tightened and you nervously laughed, patting Brahms on the head to soothe him down but it wasn't helping, of course. Brahms was already thinking about the cursed voice that would probably haunt him in the sleep. How could the man adore you when he barely knew you like Brahms did? Everything about the client was giving Brahms the irks.

"—ve been thinking about collaborating with the museum in the city, you may not know about this but you're rather well-known among the enthusiasts. —ager to see your works, you see."

Brahms, growing even more upset with the never-ending voice, slipped his hands under your shirt, only to receive a hushed whisper telling him to stop from you. Unfortunately for you, Brahms wasn't being obedient this time. He swore he was a good boy but if he continued to stay quiet, surely you will leave him — you will leave him for that piece of shit client.

He just needed to give you a reason to stay, to be with him.

And giving you tons of pleasure was the only way he could think of.

You froze when Brahms lifted your shirt, exposing the exposed skin that he loved so, so much that he would worship to your body every single day. He planted his porcelain mask on your stomach, just right below your chest and sent a shudder down your spine. The mask, still cold and hard against your skin, gave you a tingle right down there.

"What do you think, huh? How about that idea?"

Whatever Jonathan said into the phone literally did not enter your brain.

"S—Sorry? I am so sorry, Jonathan. I couldn't hear you that well over the phone and what you just said really shocked me so—"

You yelped when Brahms slipped his warm hand into your loose pants and underwear, his face still remained on your torso and his other arm wrapped around your waist. When you felt his palm kneading your ass, you took a sharp, shaky breath and slouched your back. This time, you placed both of your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, still holding onto the phone to not lose the client.

You would curse and scold Brahms, you would.

But something about this situation was sending you a shock of excitement. The fear of being found out by Jonathan and the struggle to keep your moans inside your damn throat were sending a wave of heat down to your core.

"Oh, no worries." You breathed out in relief when Jonathan hadn't noticed your loud yelp. "—gnal is bad, your voice is slightly weak too. All good, don't worry about it. I'm just asking you if you could do another painting. Like I said, there are many enthusiasts that really love your works. They're hoping to see a lot of your works in the new museum. Coincidentally, the owner of the museum is my friend."

Brahms, slipping the mask off his face at long last and you didn't notice until you heard a soft thud on the couch, left a long trail of wet kisses from the middle of your chest to the spot above your belly button. You bit your lips, silently begging and pleading Brahms to stop even if your words weren't really registered inside his brain. When Brahms felt your will and body trembling in defeat, he couldn't get any prouder than now.

He did good, didn't he?

"So! I'm wondering if you would accept a request from my friend, Christopher or Chris, if you wish. If you're interested, I can tell him about this discussion and give your number to him. Then the two of you can discuss and make a decision about this."

Brahms licked and sucked your n.ipple, making it stiffer and protruding even more as if seeking for more of his mouth. He let out a sigh, his hot breath caressing your sensitive buds like an intimate lover. Perhaps Brahms was one, if only he wasn't a cold-blooded murderer that literally slaughtered nannies he did not like. His other hand slowly stroked your bottom, giving you an extremely cruel and sadistic taste of his manipulation.

He knew you wanted more, whether it was your body or your mind.

Yet Brahms wanted to see more of you, what sort of expression you would be making as he made this way more agonizing than the previous time. He just needed you to look at you with lust and want, stop focusing on that Jonathan and focus on him instead.

He was there to make you feel good.

Feeling good was important, wasn't it?

"Ahem, so what's your answer?"

Almost forgetting Jonathan who was on the other side of the call, you squeaked and frantically nodded, only to realize that he couldn't even see you.

"I— I need more time to— to think about this." You squeezed Brahms' shoulders even tighter and stronger when he bit your n.ipple gently. "I— I will tell you when I make up my mind, Jonath—"

Brahms planted his lips on yours instantly as if he wanted to prevent you from saying someone else's name, definitely upset that you weren't screaming out his name right now. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, his warmth tangled up with yours and every complaints you made fell on deaf ears. Only Brahms knew you were squeaking against his lips, only him and not whoever Jonathan was.

Ah, he was losing his sanity slowly but undeniably — he wanted Jonathan to know you're his yet he wanted your voices to only be his. Only for his ears and for his sake, not anybody's else. Since when was having someone this complicated?

"You're breaking off a little bit. Ah, anyway, forget about that for a second. I am hoping you can tell me about the painting I requested. What was it about again, ah, gosh, I have been commissioning too many painters lately. Ah! Life, was it?"

You tried to break off your kiss, "Yea—"

But Brahms was pretty persistent.

"—ping to see what I expected. As you know there's too much vague information about life. What is life about in the first place? I'm hoping you would show that meaning inside your painting but of course, whatever it ended up bec—"

Whatever Jonathan was rambling about seriously fell on deaf ears, none of you was listening onto his hoarse voice, not to mention the occasional statics that would interrupt the call. The voice inside your brain was telling you to give up and just cut off the call yet another voice was telling you to fight against Brahms. Which voice should you listen to in the first place? You weren't so sure anymore.

The former didn't sound so bad after all.

"—know what? I trust you. You have a good creativity after all and you take your job well. Even the most vague commission is a piece of cake to you, am I right?"

Brahms bit onto your lips softly as if enjoying your struggle, his devious hand was pushing your pants and underwear down, and down until it reached your thighs, exposing the throbbing ache that you needed to relieve down there. He caressed and stroked you, soaking his fingers with your wet arousal. He pulled his face back as he slipped two fingers into your body right away, not even waiting just for the sake to see your contorted expression. What was known as an attempt to keep your voice down was futile and you were certain that this time, Jonathan heard everything.

"Uh. Are you okay?"

You whined and kept your hands to your mouth, clamping shut whatever aroused noises you were making as Brahms literally f.ucked you with his fingers. If you were being honest to yourself, it wasn't his fingers that made your arousal grow, it was his bloody piercing gaze that wouldn't stop staring at you in awe. You were like the only pornography that he would watch on loops, never once would he grow bored and every second will only make his c.ock twitch.

You prayed you could plead him to stop watching you enjoying every single touch he left on your heated body.

"I— Yeah, yeah! I just saw—" You whimpered and your lips trembled adorably, "A—A huge rat! And it's still here!"

The corner of Brahms' lips twitched from amusement for the first time in a while and what you said merely drove him to shove yet another finger inside you, which was easily sucked into your hole. He grunted when your hole clenched around his fingers, showing no sign of letting go of the pleasure you felt down there. Oh lord, just how embarrassed you were to be this soaking wet because of this devilish man's touch, Brahms Heelshire — the man who could kill you if he wanted to.

"Haha! A rat, huh? I didn't expect your house to have a rat."

You forced out a nervous laugh, "Y—Yeah—"

"Oh, yeah! How should I take the painting by the way?"

"Oh! I would—" You subconsciously grabbed Brahms by his curly hair, denying over the fact that your hip was grinding on his fingers. "I would prefer it if you just send someone here and take it? I— I can give you the address later on!"

Jonathan laughed, "Alright, alright. I will send my secreta—"

As if Jonathan's voice was getting to Brahms' nerves, the said man snatched the phone out of your grasp and actually tossed it to the corner of the office. You let out a panicked cry as your phone, a device that you bought with your own money, crashed against the damn wall. Fueled by anger and somewhat still having the arousal dripping down your thighs thanks to Brahms' touch, you raised your voice at the man in front of you who definitely did not seem guilty.

"Brahms!"

He said nothing and continued what he knew best, making you feel extremely good just with his touch alone. Brahms left a lingering kiss on your throat as if that was going to make you feel any better. It did, at some point, without you knowing about it. Even if your heart was taken away by Brahms, you wouldn't know about it because of the constant denial that came from your mind. You wouldn't fall in love or even like a serial killer, you told yourself and one might be surprised by what you felt at the end of the day.

You were damn wrong about yourself.

You trembled, unsure whether it was due to the knot in your stomach or anger, and watched Brahms' fingers sliding in and out of your hole. You could see your own c.um on his fingers and the sound of something wet as well as moist slapping each other was shamelessly loud in the office. While you were worried that your phone may not be dead and the call was still on, Brahms didn't seem too bothered by it even if you begged him to let you check on the phone. Of course, he wouldn't care. It wasn't him that had to meet Jonathan anyway.

Brahms laid his head on your chest, curling his fingers to earn a beautiful mewl from your mouth. Gosh, he was already taking a lot of willpower to not fill you up with his seed right away, just to watch you struggle forming words out of your throat.

"Don't leave."

He murmured and mumbled how he could make you feel good as long as you could stay by his side. You couldn't understand, he needed you and it wasn't just a desperate want. It was a need, just like how his c.ock just needed to release inside you, making sure that every drop of his fluid would enter into your needy hole.

You cried out in pleasure, Brahms' fingers moving quicker and sloppier as he pushed you to the edge. Thighs quivering, you tightened your grasp around his hair, not so painful, Brahms found. It was comforting and if anything, it sent Brahms to euphoria and gave him the idea of f.ucking you until his seed would trail down your legs the very next day.

You came, a wave of warmth and contentment washed over you as your mind went horribly blank, shuddering and moaning at the mess you made. Brahms, always looking at you, observing you, slid his fingers out and coated them with more of your c.um. Liking the flushed cheeks of yours, Brahms slid his hands onto your bare torso, spreading your arousal all over your skin.

Would it be so bad to admit that you're still aroused?

That you're hoping to just do it all over again with Brahms?

Perhaps it was true that you're sick in the head because with no second thoughts, you grabbed Brahms by his cheeks and slammed your lips against his. This time, there was no complaint, not even one, and you opened your mouth slightly without arguing back. Brahms, knowing what he wanted to do, sucked onto your tongue passionately and his sloppy kiss always seemed to work wonders on you and your body. You needed him, just like how he needed you. Both of you were mad, very mad, but the mansion held only the two of you.

Nobody needed to know about the two of you.

"Brahms."

He felt his pants tightened at your moan, eagerly kissing you and unzipping his pants. The second he moved his underwear and his c.ock could finally breathe freely, he lined up his c.ock against your hole before mercilessly slid it inside. A satisfied groan left his mouth at the way you shyly moved your hips as if you were ashamed for yearning him — the way you were bouncing on his c.ock and how your hole just stretched to fit so well with his c.ock were driving him to the edge of the damn cliff. The sound of wet flesh slapping and connecting each other echoed throughout the office, covered by the shameless whimpers and moans.

You were crazy, so fucking crazy.

Brahms whimpered and grabbed your hip, aching to just pound into you instead of taking everything slow and steady. Gosh, he couldn't understand how you could still maintain your composure because Brahms just couldn't. He shoved you onto the couch and did the same thing all over again — grabbing your thighs and going deeper inside you, listening to the indecent mewls coming out of your mouth. He wasn't slowing down and every stretch of your hole made your inside clung tighter around Brahms.

"B—Brahms—!"

He moaned softly at your call, eyebrows furrowed together as droplets of sweat trickled down his jaw as he chanted your name as if it was a prayer to make him feel even better. Nothing could beat the feeling of your hole around his twitching c.ock and that tears in the corner of your eyes were only making things harder for Brahms. You twitched and sang praises to Brahms, legs wrapped around his hip as an effort to pull him even closer to you. It did and by the time your thighs lose their strength to hang on, you squirted in an embarrassing way.

Your cheeks were completely flushed but Brahms made it less worse, he gazed into your eyes in awe and just genuine adoration. in fact, you could feel his c.ock throbbed and twitched inside you, a sign that he was way eager than you. Brahms whimpered and lowered his gaze, gawking at the part where he was connecting with you. Something about it was satisfying, watching himself sliding in and out of you. Just becoming one with you was a gift from the Heaven itself.

"Inside?" Brahms whined, "Can I? Please."

It was the first time he asked, considering how he didn't ask the first time but you did not point that out and just nodded your head. Drool leaking out of the corner of your lips, your eyes pleaded for him to just fill you up inside, spread the warmth and fluid inside. You begged and begged, and when Brahms came untied inside you, yet another moan left your agape mouth. Brahms' fluid completely coated your inside, some managed to leak out while some remained inside, causing your body to twitch from satisfaction.

What you didn't expect was how true he held his words to c.um inside you.

Brahms, holding true to his words, pushed the fluid with his fingers back into you. As soon as you felt the contact of his fingers against your sensitive (and already abused) hole, you bit your lips and suppressed the whimper in your dry throat. The scent of lust and arousal in the air did not disappear, it grew even stronger instead. Exactly just like the c.ock inside you.

You stiffened and held out your hands to stop him from pounding into you — you simply couldn't imagine how sensitive your hole could be after reaching the climax for the third time.

"Br—Brahms! Stop, I can't—"

But your words fell on deaf ears once more as Brahms rutted like a beast in heat, every single thing you did was just captivating and arousing. How could he control how his c.ock would react?

And so, he planned to f.uck you until you simply couldn't hold onto his seed anymore. Perhaps the right word would be to make love with you, to Brahms.

Until you would cry that you couldn't take it anymore.

Until you faint covered in his s.emen and salty tears.

Just until your hole was so sensitive and bruised; your lips swollen from the endless kisses, because of the love he held for you, Brahms will just have his way with you.

You groaned from fatigue, eyes squinting and blinking rapidly to adjust to the sunlight pouring into the office. It took you almost a minute for you to realize that you were still in the office with a heavy weight laying on top of you and something still stuck inside you.

A sharp pain shot through your entire body when you tried to move your legs, crying aloud at the chaotic mess that Brahms left you behind. His cold seed was still dripping down your shaky thighs, your hair completely messy and the dried tears were completely stuck on the side of your face.

"Brahms!" You yelled angrily.

Usually, one yell would have been enough to wake him up but not today apparently, probably because he pushed himself c.umming again and again inside you. Brahms hugged you tighter and pressed his bare face against the crook of your neck, his back slouching awkwardly just to fit your shorter build. Though you were hoping to wake him up, you didn't just because you saw how peaceful he looked sleeping on top of you. Instead of pushing him away, you laid stiffly on the couch and blew a breath, sore hand resting on his curly hair.

Brahms whispered out your name groggily, slowly and carefully rubbing himself against you with brain possibly dreaming about you. Nobody knew except for him.

You had given up.

And you accepted that you're a little bit crazy from the start.

[honsoolie]

don’t rush | 03

pairing: Yoongi/reader

genre: slight enemies to lovers, college au, fluff, smut, classical pianist!yoongi, violinist!reader, they’re both actually really into each other but won’t admit it

warnings: mentions of alcohol (everyone is sober!!), explicit smut, fingering, oral (f receiving), min yoongi has a dirty mouth 

words: 6k 

rating: +18

summary: You know, when Min Yoongi’s face isn’t screwed into an accusatory scowl, he looks exactly like the kind of guy you’d have no trouble falling in love with. Or, the conservatory au where Yoongi helps you get over your stage fright. In more ways than one.

a/n: ahhh i hope you’re as excited for this chapter as i am ;) start from the beginning? 

You never realized how easy it was for your life to fall into a smooth common time rhythm, now that the semester was in full swing. School, music, dodging your friends (usually to go practice), and now, Yoongi. You find yourself slipping into the gentlest of cadences. Spring is coming, the flowers are blooming. There’s a new spring in your step, from the warming weather or the constant daily dose of Yoongi, you’re not sure. 

You go to classes, pay your dues in the library. Write the papers that need to be written. You throw yourself into practice. At times you wake up in that half-awake morning sleep, fingers twitching with whatever phrase you were perfecting the previous night. The same cancelled plans, weekend meetups whenever you can manage. 

You study with Yoongi. Or at least, that’s the pretense that you operate under when you go to his apartment. By now, you’re there more often than not. (To be fair, it’s much a much better place to study than your room, what with the in-and-out bustle of your roommate. And, well, it’s Yoongi. ) 

On the nights that aren’t as busy, and you’re not filled with the swelling dread that the impending Bach Festival brings, you practice that Brahms piece with Yoongi in the dingy practice rooms. Much to Yoongi’s dismay, you had started your meetings (lovingly) calling “weekly jam sessions.” Although they were neither weekly nor really jam sessions. Most of the time that you spent in the practice room with him was either laughing at whatever joke he had just cracked, or thumbing through your score, trying to pick up where you had left off. The time you had left until your performance at the Bach Festival was quickly decreasing and you never really found the time to practice the Brahms to properly do it justice, but that wasn’t the point. 

The point, like Yoongi had said, was to get you to find the joy in the music again. Secondary to that was hopefully finding the bravery and confidence to play in front of other people, and Yoongi’s plan was slowly working. After all, you can’t really worry about your intonation at the same time that you’re groaning at Yoongi’s shitty dad jokes. If you didn’t know better, these jam sessions really serve to be a shoddy excuse for what should really be called a date. 

When Yoongi invites you to meet him in the practice rooms, to practice this romantic piece of music, and offers to get dinner with you afterward, how could you call it anything but a date? 

Especially when he insisted on holding your hands if he deemed it too cold. He would shake his head in mock disdain, chiding you in a way that felt nothing like criticism. 

Where are your gloves, y/n?  

Or God forbid that Yoongi decided that your evening attire wasn’t suitable for the still-frigid weather, and you ended up going through the whole night wearing one of his jackets. Every time you turned your head or moved ever so slightly, you would again be surrounded by the fresh-laundry-cute-piano-major smell of his clothing, and it would take every muscle in your body to not swoon right then and there. 

~

Your first violin teacher had always said to you, “You can’t hide from the metronome. The metronome always tells you the truth.” As a child, it wasn’t bow maneuvers or intonation or memorizing pieces that escaped you. It was keeping the simple rhythm, keeping track of the steady downbeat. You could have been learning the most straightforward pieces, but would get tripped up at simple syncopation patterns or start rushing at the wrong places. And that was something that plagued you into your life as a music student. It was difficult to corral your tempo problem, sometimes derailing orchestra rehearsals or struggling with the same sections over and over during your own practice. All because you would stray away from the gentle tick of the metronome. 

Yoongi, however, kept the time for you. Like the metronome, he didn’t lie to you. He kept you grounded. 

When your thoughts would begin to race and run miles ahead of your heart, Yoongi would look into your eyes with that reverent tenderness and tell you it was going to be okay. Then he would pull that wry smile of his and everything melted away. Sometimes, words weren’t necessary and rather, he would pull you into a tight hug that left both of you breathless.

He wasn’t always easy on you. If he knew you were acting unreasonably fretful, he would tell you the truth. Didn’t feel the need to dress it up in gentle words or beat around the bush. Then he would tell you a sex joke that he probably got from a joke book and then the weight on your shoulders was lifted, albeit briefly. Sometimes the tough love approach works. (Although, at times, it seemed like that this whole stage fright ordeal was the only thing that he could be direct with you about.) 

The pressure was mounting, advancing on all sides. Dr. Kim gave you more-than-firm reminders in the form of tight-lipped smiles every lesson, circling dates and deadlines on the lesson notes marked with your name. Dr. Yang greeted you in the hallways, jesting, “Can’t wait to hear the Bach!” Your university email inbox was flooded with music department newsletter updates, promoting the upcoming festival in every. Single. Email. Staring at the “OPEN TO THE PUBLIC” notice printed at the bottom of the e-flyer probably wasn’t doing anything to help you perfect the Baroque interpretation on Bach’s partita, but there it was, looking back at you. Taunting you. 

There was only so much time until your fated performance, only so many hours left to practice, only so many days left until finals week descended upon your campus. Two weeks, if you wanted to get technical about it. 

And Yoongi somehow made it all bearable. 

Like all things in life, adjusting to Yoongi took time. He set new baselines for you. New thresholds on what was friendly banter, ever toeing the carefully drawn line. 

Ever since that pivotal study date (You know, the one where Yoongi held you down and told you he was going to make you beg? Kind of hard to forget.), the signs inexplicably became more and more mixed. Or you were just living in a constant state of denial. 

Because all of the things that he said and did with you, none of them could be considered flirting. You didn’t want to give into that belief. It felt too self-indulgent, too good to be true. It felt like setting yourself up for failure. 

Because if you did, well, that would warrant action. If you decided what he said with you was flirting or something-more-than-just friends, then you would have to do something about that. 

You would either have to take his carefully extended invitation, or reject him. Neither of which you were willing to do. The space that the two of you had come to exist in became precious to you, even if you remained only as friends. Ever before you ever spoke with him, you had spent a great deal of time admiring from afar. Pining is all you’ve known, at least when it comes to Min Yoongi. Wouldn’t it be easier to take the path of least resistance? 

And of course, what if you were wrong? Reading all the signs wrong, falling again into the trap of wishful thinking. Things in real life are never like reading off a score. There are no dynamic or expression markings telling you how to broach this kind of conversation. 

By now, the unwillingness to speak on the matter is irrefrangible. Like an ancient tradition, some unspoken agreement to ignore the elephant in the room. 

Yoongi wanted you, you wanted Yoongi. At least, that’s what you wanted to think. That’s what all the signs pointed to. But it was too late to mention it now. You and Yoongi let it drag on, well past midterms and trundling on in the slow march toward finals. And the Bach Festival. 

Unless, of course, this was a total non-issue. Maybe this was how he talked to all your friends. Maybe this was just how Yoongi was nice. Maybe he just has a totally dirty sense of humor… that clicked perfectly with yours. 

Here’s the catch. Interpretation isn’t always all that simple, especially with Bach. You have to get historical context, you need to know enough about esoteric Germany to know how to interpret the markings on Bach’s scores. It’s not always so easy, but that makes things all the worse. 

It’s all the maybes and what-ifs that plague you when you’re restless at night and the only thing you can think about is Yoongi. Maybe he’s into you, maybe he’s not. What if he’s actually repulsed by you and he just wants a study partner? What if this whole study buddy thing is just a ploy to get you to spend time with him, because what if he’s actually just as into you as you are into him? Maybe he just wants to be friends, but what if he doesn’t? 

What if Yoongi is actually an alien, and he’s trying to decipher how to act like a human being, and that’s why he acts like that? 

What if. 

You would have better luck divining your future with Yoongi in your coffee dregs rather than lay awake, staring at the mildewing ceiling tiles. 

~

You (8:18pm): want to work on the Brahms tonight 

You (8:19pm): we can get boba if it’ll sweeten the deal 

 Yoongi (8:23pm): sure

Yoongi (8:24pm): I was going to go out later tonight so we can practice for like an hour

 You (8:26pm): oh 

 Yoongi (8:26pm): I’ll make it up to you though, i promise. Boba on me? 

Yoongi (8:27pm): you should come out with me, namjoon will be there 

Yoongi (8:27pm): taehyung too 

Yoongi (8:27pm): we literally all know each other, let’s gooooo pls 

 You (8:28pm): i wish but it’s literally thursday dude 

You (8:29pm): have a drink in my name :) 

 Yoongi (8:30pm): will do 

Yoongi (8:31pm): meet me in 115B in twenty minutes, what boba do you want? 

~ 

So Yoongi does have a sense of fashion outside of sweatpants and beanies after all. White button-up, but only a few buttons are actually done up. Sleeves rolled up to his elbow. Dark jeans, and god, that belt . The need to cry or get on your knees right then and there is overwhelming. 

Wow, everything works for him. Every time you think you’ve done the impossible task of not having a visceral reaction in his presence, he does something like this. You never know what specific flavor of Yoongi will appear before you at any given time. 

Yoongi, aloof college student. Yoongi, dark and mysterious man who buys you a drink in a hazy bar. Yoongi, the concert pianist with hands of steel and a heart of gold. Yoongi, the love of your life—no. No, we are not going there. 

It’s a crush, it’s a harmless crush, nobody said anything about love. 

You try to get your head out of the mushy-falling-in-love gutter by doing what you do best. Flirting with him, teasing him, poking fun at him for the littlest things. “You clean up well, don’t you.” You all but sneer, incongruous with the heat spreading across your face. “You’re late.” 

“Well, I was taking care of an important errand. Look,” He shakes your iced drink in front of him. 

You take a sip, refreshing despite the still-frigid weather. “Fuck, we’re so bad. We shouldn’t be eating in here.” 

“We’re not technically eating, are we?” 

“You’re right.” He never, ever fails to make you laugh. Or everything he says is funny. “Let’s get started, I don’t want you to be late,” you say, fiddling with the music stand. 

“You should cooooome out, y/n. Don’t be so boring for once.” 

You gasp. “I’ll pretend like that didn’t hurt. And I won’t know anybody there, and I’m not even dressed to go out, and it’s Thursday .” You gesture to your evening loungewear, your barren face. 

“Okay, but just this once. You’ll have to come out with me next time.” It sounds like a promise, or maybe a demand, when he says it. 

Come out with me next time. Again, you wonder if he knows the implication behind his words, if he really ever means what he says. 

You pull your music out of your backpack, the plastic sleeve of your binder crackling underneath your touch. It’s a familiar sound. You set a pencil on your music stand, like you’ve done thousands of times before. 

“Let’s get started, Yoongi.” He takes a seat at the piano bench, smiling contentedly. You smile back at him, and for a still moment, everything feels just right. 

~

Yoongi isn’t usually late to class. He usually comes in a couple minutes early, headphones on and deaf to the warble of students around him. You know this, because you’ve always made it a point to show up especially early to the classes you share, just so you can watch him scroll through his phone for the few precious minutes before class starts. 

Today, he stumbles in right after Dr. Won, wearing last night’s clothes and a bucket hat undoubtedly covering a messy bedhead. He’s missing his usual coffee, and the bags under his eyes belie the smile he gives you. Yoongi says nothing as he sinks into the seat beside you, cradling his head in his arms. You sense the opportunity to tease him, and pull your phone into your lap. 

You (10:06am): it looks like someone had a rough night 

 Yoongi (10:08am): you should mind your own business and pay attention 

Yoongi (10:09am): i don’t look that bad do i :( 

 You (10:10am): just tired that’s all 

You (10:11am): still drunk or something? 

 Yoongi (10:11am): nope painfully sober 

Yoongi (10:11am): let’s get day drunk after this >:) 

 You (10:13am): no <3 

Maybe his questionable inebriation lowered his inhibitions, which might explain his knee nudging yours underneath the desk. Looks like he didn’t forget your previous conversation. It’s not an accident; accidental knees are nowhere as insistent as Yoongi is being now. You nudge your knee back, as if to say, two can play at that game.  

Yoongi (10:14am): still touch starved? ;)

 You (10:16am): fuck off >:(  

Your theory is confirmed when he inches his hand closer and closer to you, finally resting his hand on your knee. His thumb draws languid circles on the inner part of your thigh, insistent but gentle, playful but...  possessive. It’s a lot to take in at once. 

However, you don’t need alcohol to stoop down to his level. You’ll never let him get the upper hand on you without a fight, no matter how much the butterflies in your stomach would like to contest that. 

You take his hand and place it back in his own lap, trying your best to stay discreet. You keep your eyes trained on Dr. Won, but your gaze still slides back to Yoongi. When you look at him, he’s looking at you in contempt. “Is that a challenge,” his eyes seem to ask.

Slowly, tentatively, you slide your hand from the desk into your lap. It doesn’t get Yoongi’s attention at first, until you gently greet his hand with yours. He’s still looking at you with those same taunting eyes. 

Sometimes you can’t stand how cocky he is. And other times, like these, you love it. You just want to take him down a notch. Your journey underneath the table continues when your hand comes to rest on his thigh, trailing your fingertips along until you find the inner seam of his pants. He’s warm and solid under your touch. It feels overwhelmingly real, and you wonder if you have the guts to finish what you started. 

You try to keep a neutral face, like this isn’t affecting you at all, like you do this all the time with other cute piano performance majors. The smile breaks through your facade anyway. You bite the inside of your cheek red in an attempt to stop it, and you renew your efforts to continue taking notes. 

Your smile turns into a stifled gasp when Yoongi guides your hand higher up his thigh, his hand dwarfing yours. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the half-hardness between his legs, holding your hand in place.

 Blatantly, you realize, your actions have consequences. This is real. This, whatever this is, with Yoongi, is real. Neither of you can fake it anymore. 

The blushing starts up again, creeping down your neck. The heat spreads through the rest of your body, settling in the pit of your stomach, replacing the nervous knots that were there not an hour ago. This was most definitely not what you were expecting. Was fake-drunk Yoongi really going to take the flirty banter this far? You thought that was just part of being friends with Yoongi. Do all his friends get to touch his dick? 

You really should have thought this through more, but you’re going to finish what you started. 

You use the heel of your hand to trace along the length of his cock, dragging it slowly just to tease him for his contempt. You’re suddenly thankful that nobody can see what you’re doing from your angle in the classroom. He shifts into your touch, still not quite looking at you. Yoongi picks his pen up again, scrawling on the blank corner of your notebook. 

“I’m a horny drunk,” it reads. You roll your eyes. Everything is a joke to him, you posit. 

You continue your gentle teasing. Eventually, Yoongi rocking back into your touch. Not once do you tear your eyes off the Powerpoint slides projected across the room. This is the only time in your life you’ve ever cared so much about the beautiful simplicity of Bach’s fugue subjects. 

But in the end, no matter how hard you try, you can only focus on one thing at once. And the task at hand (literally) was to tease Min Yoongi to full hardness. You were fairly successful. 

Yoongi picks his pen up again. “Just so you know,” he writes, “ I’m about to blow a load.” He places your hand back in your lap, patting it for good measure. You don’t miss the way that his hand trembles. 

“I’m a girl with a mission,” You retort, as petulant as you can be with a pen. “Let me finish the job.”  

“Continue your mission after class.”  

Oh. Friends don’t do this with each other. 

You scribble over your correspondence with your pen. 

~

You wish you could take the extra time to explore the inside of Yoongi’s apartment, despite how many times you’ve been here already. Maybe there would be something new to decipher, now that you were here under different pretenses. You catch scant glimpses of the familiar quaint kitchenette and the neatly organized rack of shoes, but you’re now preoccupied with Yoongi’s hands on your waist, tugging your shirt out of where it was tucked into your pants. You see the same guitar on the same wire stand and the same MacBook sitting idle, but your view is obscured after Yoongi presses you up against the door. 

It’s a feat of mental strength to stay upright, and he hasn’t even done anything yet. 

~

After class, Yoongi had shot up from his seat, hand in his pocket, likely readjusting himself. His eyes were glassy. He had looked so, so wrecked. 

“Come with me,” He said, voice strained. To the untrained ear it might have sounded like a voice heavy with sleep, or maybe too many drinks too late at night. 

But to you it sounded like a voice rough with lust, or (a lot of) wanting. All for you. 

 He had grabbed you by the hand and led you back to his apartment, as nonchalant as you can be about this kind of thing. It was an unspoken truth what you two were about to do, like this was the natural order of things. Like you were just fulfilling the inevitable. Like you were always meant to fall into his arms like this. It almost makes sense. 

He had grabbed your hand and led you along the looping hallways out onto the sunny walkway like he had done this hundreds of times before, like the both of you have been touching each other like this for months—rather than just hinting and skirting around the innuendoes, the half-worn glances, the knowing smiles. 

The walk back to his apartment was silent and full of untapped sexual tension coming to a head. Even if the hammering in your chest allowed you to speak, you wouldn’t have. It passed by in a blur, the denial giving you tunnel vision. 

Yoongi is holding your hands in his, like this is a much more intimate moment than it should be. “You still don’t have gloves,” He murmurs against your lips, but he doesn’t close the gap. It sounds more like a promise rather than a statement. 

He’s warming you up from the inside out, erasing the cold from the walk here. Spring was still slowly waking up. The sun takes time to melt the snow. 

He rolls his hips against yours, more insistent than he was in class. When he does, you can feel precisely how wanting he is. All the contemptuousness is gone from his eyes. Whatever replaces it isn’t something you can give a name to.

He can’t—Yoongi can’t hold your hands like that and look solemnly into your eyes like that. Yoongi can’t look at you with that kind of reverence, because that was what made you fall into this deep dark pit of confusing feelings in the first place. But you don’t have time to consider it because he’s rolling his hips against yours again. 

“Look,” he gasps, “Look at what you did to me.” When you look at him again, his pupils are blown wide, all fucked out and desperate and wanting. If it was physically possible, he might be more desperate than you, from the look of it. 

“I thought you said you were a horny drunk.” You tease, and to steer the conversation away from the way he had been looking at you. That’s a conversation that you’re not ready for—neither of you are ready for. 

 After these weeks of back and forth, you’re finally going to make him say what he’s really been thinking all along. You’re done being the cat chasing after the mouse.

The Yoongi in front of you is a far cry from the one before, teasing you for not having been laid in months, showing you just how dirty his mouth could get. 

“No, this is all you…” He breaks off into a breathy moan, muffled by your hair. His hips are still slotted against yours, and your ability to ignore that is diminishing by the second. 

Who knew that the stoic Min Yoongi could ever produce such a whimper? 

“I have to get to class, can’t be late…” You tease, trailing a finger down his chest, but you’ve already made up your mind with what you’re going to do with him. 

You’re going to stay. 

You can worry about the loose ends later. 

“Please stay, just a little longer, please.” He guides you over to the couch, clutching your hand like a damn lifeline. When he straddles your hips, you’re reminded of the last time he held you down, when you were studying together. That memory seems faint now. It’s funny how context can change everything. 

“You won’t be late, I promise,” He says, voice coarse. “And I’m going to fucking show you what this mouth can do.” 

“And you have to promise not to ever drink that much again, what the fuck.” You chastise, your breath hitching at his promise, but you don’t really care. Not if it gets Yoongi like this. Your hand comes to rest on the waistband of his jeans. 

“I didn’t have that much, I was just up late… thinking about you.” He starts to unbutton the collar to your shirt, slotting his leg between yours. Yoongi traces the cup of your bra with a daintiness that reminds you of the way he runs his hands over the keys of the piano before he reels up to play. Knowing that these hands that create his beautiful music are the same hands that are currently on your body produces a shiver that sparks down your spine. 

You try not to put too much stock into what he’s saying, he’s always been all talk. It’s just words to get you in the mood, set the scene. Yoongi has always been all bark and no bite, teasing you with empty, joking promises. That was his whole gimmick, if you could call it that. 

He knows you like dirty talk (you made that abundantly clear from that last conversation), you’re a warm and eager body in front of him, you can do the math yourself. There’s no need to read between the lines for this one. 

The gasp you make when he starts mouthing down your neck is involuntary, as is the way that you thread your fingers through his hair when he moves his way down your chest. 

Yoongi’s hair is uncharacteristically soft, like silk, or the little sigh of satisfaction he makes when he finds the sweet spot he’s looking for. You briefly consider asking him about his haircare routine when he closes his mouth over your nipple. Hot, wet, and everything you needed to forget about the long afternoon ahead of you. 

“Please, please.” He pleads again. “Please stay. I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Okay,” You gasp, “Okay, I’ll stay.” 

“Good, because I’ll make you eat your fucking words,” Yoongi says, gritting his teeth. He’s fully unbuttoned your shirt now, and you are all but bare to him, save for your bra. “What were you thinking? Touching me like that? In class? What if someone saw? But you don’t care about that, right?” 

He doesn’t wait for your answer, however, instead opting to kiss bruises into your collarbones, adding to the faded violin hickey on the left side of your neck.

You are a deer in headlights, frozen in place, completely pliant underneath his touch. Even if you weren’t pinned underneath him with his hands and legs, then you are underneath his piercing gaze. You know he can probably see more than just your shocked, open-mouthed expression. He can probably see your longing written all over your face, or maybe the special kind of glee that comes from wish fulfillment. You might as well confess your feelings for him now, because your expression has all but told him the truth. 

“Did you forget what I said to you the other day? I’m supposed to be the one teasing you until you’re fucking desperate to come, not the other way around.” You shake your head no, lost for words. Who’s going to tell him you’re already desperate to come, sans teasing? 

He starts to push your pants past your thighs, kissing at the skin that’s now bare—and you squirm, whine, whimper into his touch, just to show him how much you want this. Want him. 

Somehow, it feels better like this, with the way he’s left your clothes half on, half off. The collar of your shirt is undone. There is a trail of four socks leading to the couch. It… it…  almost suggests that Yoongi is in such a rush to have you that he can’t be bothered to undress you properly. Like he needs you that much. You ignore the following twinge in your heart. 

All you can focus on is the fine bead of sweat on his hairline as he sways on top of you, ghosting a hand over your panties. When you finally feel him nudging against your clit with insistent, slow pressure, you make a strangled gasp. 

Faintly, you hear yourself cry out into the filtered indoor air, just above the sound of the heater humming. It doesn’t sound like your voice, but you’re too far gone to care or investigate further. All you can focus on is the increasingly hopeless need between your legs, and the person that’s currently about to attend to that. You’ve never heard yourself make noises like these before, let alone meet someone who’s able to make you so desperate. 

Your desperation makes itself tangible in the way that you writhe against him, straining against the warm weight of his body, too much and never enough. It feels like your body is making up for lost time, getting revenge for all the almost-touches, almost-confessions. All those quiet moments in the still night where you should have kissed Yoongi but didn’t, never closing the gap. 

Even now, when you’re right up against his body, it doesn’t feel like enough. Should it scare you that it doesn’t like enough, and you’re almost certain it never will be?

He laughs, almost coldly. It sounds nothing like the morning that you met him. This is a different kind of cold, a different kind of cruelty. “You sound like a little bitch in heat. What, you can’t be a little patient?” He checks the time on his watch, because of course, Yoongi is the kind of guy to wear an analog watch. “We still have time before your next class.” 

At your silence, he softens. He takes his hands off of you, much to your dismay. “Is that—okay? Can I call you that?” You should be embarrassed at the enthusiasm in your nod, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to care. 

Yoongi leans over you again, grinning. “Don’t worry, I like it. I like having you like this. All desperate and,” Yoongi drags a finger downward , “Wet.” 

“Fuck, don’t tease. Don’t-” You’re absolutely shameless now, but it doesn’t matter, as long as you can get some kind of relief. 

“Are you sure? Then it would be over so, so soon.” Yoongi returns to your clit, tracing light circles that only serve to incense you. “Can you even take it?” He pulls your panties askew, blowing gently on the exposed skin. You shiver, now realizing just how wet you are for him. 

“Yes, yes, please, I can, just give it to me–” His finger meets little resistance when he finally pushes a finger inside your needy cunt, immediately setting a punishing rhythm. 

“This is what you wanted, hmm?” He kisses the crook of your thigh, settling ever closer to you. “I told you I would get you to beg.” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Oh, shut up.” You cover your face in your hands, laughing despite yourself. “Not everything is a competition, you know.” 

He works you open with skill because, of course, Yoongi is good at this too. It’s not enough for fate to make him a diligent student, a talented pianist, and have a heart of motherfucking gold. No, he just has to be good in bed too. How are you supposed to resist falling for him? Was it ever worth the effort to try? 

“But it’s so much more fun like that. You know, I don’t appreciate this backtalk.” He presses deeper on that sweet spot inside of you, and you keen, eyes fluttering shut. “Seeing as I’m the one who’s going to make you come, and all.” All the light is gone from his voice now. 

“You’re going to be good for me, right?” Yoongi says, as if the answer could be anything other than a firm, enthusiastic yes. He tightens your grip on your hips, his blunt nails digging into the soft skin. 

“ Yeahyesyesyesyesanythingyouwant,” you whimper. You don’t even have to pretend like you want this dearly, as you’ve had to in the past with less doting partners. How long have you held your breath, waiting for something like this to happen?

“And I thought you were worried about being late? You didn’t get enough? Don’t worry baby, I’ll make sure you get your fill.” His playful condescension sinks to the lowest parts of your stomach. 

“Yoongi,” You whine, “You’re going to kill me.” You attempt to draw your legs up in a belated attempt to preserve your modesty, but Yoongi yanks you further down the couch. 

“No, no, I’m not done with you yet.” Yoongi finally takes your panties off, inadvertently streaking your arousal down your thigh. He throws them off to the side. In doing so, you can see your arousal dripping down his wrist in the afternoon glow. 

“This, Yoongi says, with stars in his eyes, “Is payback.” 

The hot lick of his tongue feels nothing like revenge. 

Yoongi is still keeping you trapped in the same place, nowhere to go. You’re nowhere closer to a release than before. The initial thrill of his mouth on you is gone when you realize that he’s not evolving past the featherlight touches with his hands. You roll your hips against him, as if to to pout. 

“Please, Yoongi,” You gasp. 

“What? Please, what?” He smiles. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and you’re not sure whether to love or hate him for it. 

“You—you can’t—just leave someone like this.” You all but shove your pussy in his face, relentless in your pursuit of some kind of relief, no matter how small. But he won’t give it to you. The kitten licks he’s giving you aren’t enough. The uncharacteristically coquettish kisses he trails down the inside of your thighs, leaving gooseflesh in his wake, aren’t enough. You’re insatiable. 

“Like what? I think I like you more like this.” You know he’s reveling in this, much like how he’s likely reveled in your desperation in the past weeks. Nothing he’s doing is providing relief to the need, the ache. Everything he does only serves to stoke the fire brewing in the pit of your stomach. 

“Yoongi, I need you.” Maybe if you keep hinting at what you want, he’ll give it to you. Because you’re not about to fucking beg for him. Again. 

“I’m going to need you to be more specific.” He drives his point home by dragging his fingers against the upper wall of your pussy. Your answering moan should be specific enough. 

“Come on…” You whimper, thighs trembling. You’re not sure if it’s from the pleasure or the lack of it. 

“Come on… use your words.” Yoongi stills his hand. 

“Just—ugh— touch me. ” you urge, whinier than you intend, exasperated and desperate. You need this release. You need it so much your vision is blurring. “Make me come,” your voice smaller, “Use your mouth, your hand, I don’t care anymore.” You throw your arm over your eyes in defeat. 

Yoongi has all the puzzle pieces laid out in front of him. He’s seen your wanting expression, now that you’ve all but admitted that you want him to give you an orgasm. How could he not see your puppy love for what it is? 

He chuckles, light as bells. “Was that so hard. And for the record, next time, you’re gonna come on my cock.” And just like that, it’s like a dam has broken. No more denial, no more teasing, no more waiting, and Yoongi is touching you in full now. 

You try not to look at him with his head buried between his legs. One, the pleasure is so immense that you can hardly stop your legs from trembling, let alone stop your head from lolling back against the couch cushion. 

Two, you’re scared. Of him looking at you, catching his eye. Of him seeing your face from below. Scared to face the truth, just a little bit. Min Yoongi, the concert pianist that you have been eyeing all semester, is servicing you with his mouth. It even sounds ridiculous in your head. 

Three, you’re not really even sure if this is happening. It is entirely plausible that you’re going to wake up tangled in your bedsheets in the dead of night and realize it was another night of mistaken belief. 

Next time. Maybe. What if. 

The few glimpses you do catch are of the dark hair caught between your fingers, handholds tethering you to the couch, to him. You can also see the indents his fingers make in your thighs, he’s holding you in place. His knuckles are white with the effort. 

“I’m-I’m gonna come. Yoongi, fuck, I’m—” When you finally crest over the edge, you all but levitate off the couch, every muscle in your body straining under the force of your orgasm. 

The sound he makes sounds almost like “you’re mine,” but you ignore that for now. You sit up, blinking in the sunlight. It might be nearly noon now, but you don’t care. Your afternoon lecture is low on your list of priorities right now. You smile wolfishly. “Your turn.” 

There’s no way to pretend anymore, no more mental gymnastics, no more what-ifs, buts, or maybes. You might as well dive in headfirst.