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oftenderweapons · 2 months

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Bourbon Bossa Nova | MYG | Pt.1

This story is part of the Blue Crush Collab

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (nicknamed Sunny)

Wordcount: 7k

Rating: 18+ (This part is pretty innocent, but Part 2 will feature mature content)

Genre: strangers to friends to lovers, composer!Yoongi x lifeguard!YN

Content warning: swearing, alcohol, allusions to sexual thoughts. Allusions to death, child abandonment and family loss.

Synopsis: when you start your summer at Honeycomb Cove, you're only expecting sunshine, waves and annoying teenage bravado as you work as a lifeguard. What you don't expect is Min Yoongi. He wasn't expecting you either. Soon your morning walks are your favourite part of the day, until you realise it's not really the walks, maybe it's always been him you are, after all, waiting for.

Shoutout to the incredible folks who helped me find courage to keep believing in this fic - and finally posting it. To Mars (@joheunsaram), To Bells (@youtifulhobi) to Yannie (@ressjeon), my power squad who believed in this fic (and in my writing skills) more than I did. Here's to me finally breaking my dry spell!!! And to some of my old and new supporters and cheerleaders @lelegzem0, @aanncchhuu, @blushingatyou and @percheee (other people are most definitely in this list but Tumblr is limiting my access to previous notes so I can't find you all) You folks are part of the reason I'm still rolling in the dust here on Tumblr

Part two out now!

Here's my masterlist, just in case you're new

Also: disclaimer! (very important, I should have put this first) I'm not Brazilian, and I have very little familiarity with Brazilian culture, but I really wanted to do a shoutout to this incredible country, its people, its art and its music. If you have any notes you would like to leave regarding Antonio's characters and Yoongi's attachment to Brazilian culture, you are the most welcome, both here in the comments and in my blog. I'd love to learn more 💜

Enjoy the fic!!!

May is a great thing. Flowers everywhere, the smell of sunscreen starting to spread in the air, orange dawns, hair getting frizzy with salty air and too much time in the water. Sand under your toes, loose linen garments, wearing a sports bra and a pair of shorts all the time, throwing an oversized sweater on when the night gets too cold, the smell of citrus and geranium to keep mosquitoes away.

Early summer is great. Way better than midsummer and August. May and mid-September had always been your favourite times of the year: the beginning felt like sparks starting to burst, and the end felt like the natural conclusion of things, that languid nostalgia sweeping in gently, like the soft wind ready to carry in autumn days and blow the leaves away.

The smell of rosemary and lavender and juniper accompanied you to the beach as you walked down one of the side alleys.

“Good morn’ Earl!”

The old man turned to greet you as he kept watering the hibiscus bushes before the sun became too blinding, burning the poor flowers. “Morning Sunny!”

“Remember your heart pill!”

“Sure! Already took it!” Earl shouted back, his voice bubbly and bright.

You waved at him as you kept walking, ready to meet your next friend. “Hello Rosa!”

“Hi Sunny!”

The old lady already had her cocker spaniel on a leash, ready for her morning walk. “When’s Mindy coming around this year?”

“Mid-July. And she’s taking her children too!” The woman looked ecstatic about her daughter visiting.

“That sounds amazing! I really have to rush, bye Rosa! And bye Lemon!”

“Lemon say bye!” Rosa told her dog, making her bark just in time before you started your jog.

Being a lifeguard was great. It was the life you had always dreamed of. You had always worked out to fit in the lifeguard guidelines requirements, and a good ninety percent of your decisions had been oriented to making sure that you could be a lifeguard from the second week of May to the first week of October — that is the entirety of tourist season. Once autumn arrived, you would resume working at the retirement home: it was only your second year with that working arrangement, and you weren’t sure it would work at first, but your grandmother being the godmother of the director of the elderly institute guaranteed you would always find a spot working there; plus, they were also constantly in need of an extra set of hands, especially if those hands came with a degree in nursing.

You’ve always known you wanted to work in elderly care just as much as you’ve always known you were made to be a lifeguard. Your parents were worried over the sort of sacrifices and strains that such an occupation would entail: all the caregiving, and the cleaning and the affection you spend on people you’re inevitably going to lose; yet it felt natural to you. Sure, some people can be antagonistic and diffident, in some cases you end up being more of a nanny than a nurse, but most of the time, it’s worth it. After two years in this field, the ups are definitely brighter than the darkest lows, and you’re under the strong impression that it will keep being so.

Back to the glorious morning in front of you, you took off your flip-flops as you reached the best place in the world: the golden beach of Honeycomb Cove. Smiling, you fixed your cap on top of your head and walked to your tower, depositing your stuff in the cabin before going for your morning run. As you were opening the umbrella, taking in the blue infinity of the ocean before you, you spotted an unfamiliar figure below, a big fisher hat on its head, a long-sleeved white shirt covering its arms, a stick in one hand while the other was pressed to his lower back in a fist.

“Hi, hello there!” you greeted, a wide smile for the small, old man walking on the shore before your tower. The bizarre figure lifted his head up, eyes squinted, his button nose curiously pointing about as he looked for the voice.

“Over here! Good morning, sir!” You waved energetically at him, the man frowning — not that you could notice that, because of the distance and the hat.

“Morning?” he greeted back in confusion before continuing his walk.

Yoongi was extremely confused when he heard the voice. His night had been too long for him not to suppose he was hearing voices. Maybe his time had finally come and that was the call of some deity summoning him to whatever comes after the struggles of the living.

What he didn’t expect was for the voice to call again, this time the source clearly identifiable. He squinted at the lifeguard tower and offered a small wave in greeting.

She — that had to be a she — seemed to be set alight in sunlight, the early morning light making her glow in something brighter than gold.

He had a precise image in his mind for a second, something his grandmother had told him when he was a child. Something like mythology, like Achilles’ halo of hair, or Helios who carries the chariot of the Sun.

He shook his head and continued walking, turning around only once he was several feet ahead and her long legs had carried her in the opposite direction, her wide strides amazing Yoongi, who could just stare at her golden, looped locks bouncing as she played with the back-and-forth of the tide, running along it.

For a second, Yoongi thought of The Girl from Ipanema, shortly before remembering all the controversies behind it, and how much his grandmother hated the song because of “the male gaze”. With chastised pupils, he let his gaze fall back to the fragments of seashells at his feet, the distant fall of her feet meeting the sound of the tide calling to his ears in a hypnotizing beat.

All the way back to his home, Yoongi let it ring and echo through all the empty halls of his brain, until he could finally — although artificially — recreate it in the calm of his home, and let it resonate through its corridors.

Yoongi would define himself quite a reserved man. He had his home — an old Victorian-style house in the more quiet and deserted part of the bay, too inhospitable for tourists, still linked to the naval history of the cove. He had renovated the house after his grandmother had left it to him, replacing the old wooden axes with new, not rotten ones, repainting the walls and repolishing the floors, installing soundproof panels on the room he had decided to turn into his studio.

It had only been a short while since he’d moved into the beach house; his college in San Francisco and his scholarship and research in New Orleans had sent him spiralling between opposites, diving deep into sounds he wasn’t entirely familiar with, and in a bout of homesickness and confusion, he’d decided to return to his true roots, to his true north.

Here he could daydream of green hills and golden beaches of a faraway place that he could only imagine through the saudade of an old immigrant. He could feel the beat of that city that was nothing but an overgrown village, the roaring of cars on dirt roads, and that open-armed man that seemed to be every man, every woman, every human being in that open-armed city — that all-forgiving man that seemed to welcome strangers, with their weary feet and guilty souls.

He knew the place that inhabited his wildest dreams, his most romanticised visions, no longer existed. It had been erased by decades of progress and politics and human greed. That place where all his bedtime stories took place was no longer, and maybe it had never been. Yet Yoongi longed to reach that all-forgiving stone man and feel, just feel how the rolling waves carried all the nostalgia and the sins and the tears of those lost souls that reached a new land hoping for fortune and maybe a brand new start.

He too was something in between worlds. Son of a woman adopted by a foreigner and a man lost in time, somewhere. And there was nothing more foreign to him than the woman who had raised him, the same woman who had given him the house he was living in. He had always been drifting in something somewhat estranged. His mother had been a nobody, abandoned before an orphanage, the only known facts were her name — Moonbae — and that she had been abandoned as the last of sixth children, her family too poor to afford her. As a twist of fate, she had then been adopted by an American anthropologist — Yoongi’s grandma — who had always respected her will to stay away from her past. Still, loss persecuted her, her loving, if a little taciturn adoptive father passing due to a mysterious disease somewhere in Guatemala.

It took several years for Beatrice and Moonbae to settle in the old colonial house in Honeycomb Cove; Trice had returned to her great-grandmother to assist the incredibly old lady to her last breath. Needless to say, she then inherited the house. The women lived sheltered, quiet lives until Moonbae got pregnant. A summer fling, that was all it was, the man a fleeting tourist who took a risk too many, fathering a son he would never take care of.

His absence was filled by someone who looked the exact opposite of the little moonbeam of a child, laying pale and tranquil in his cradle, lulled by strange, exotic songs that his grandmother had perfected for him.

Beatrice fell in love with a man who became everything to Yoongi — someone Moonbae never approved of, so much so that she decided to leave town when her son was maybe four years old. She never returned. Beatrice never looked for her either.

Antonio was eighteen years younger than Beatrice, his skin a rich cinnamon shade, his accent so thick that it took a while for Yoongi to decipher the heavy Brazilian cadence in the man’s English.

Yoongi preferred when Antonio spoke Brazilian Portuguese, anyways. By the time the boy was fourteen, he and his acquired grandfather easily conversed on the wooden patio, drinking lemonade, a guitar in the man’s arms. Antonio taught Yoongi everything, the boy so taciturn, so eager to listen, that the nationless musician let all his woes and nostalgia pour out. And maybe the man was no citizen, something in between an exile and a fugitive, but in that old house, he found a home, with Trice constantly refusing to marry him and loving him like a madwoman at the same time.

Yoongi doubted love like that could exist anymore. A love so strong that when she had passed, Antonio had magically drifted away together with her a few months after, disregarding his significantly younger age. What the not-so-old man would never say was that he passed in tranquillity, knowing that he had taught his spiritual child all he had to offer.

And just so, Yoongi won a scholarship, all because of the easy, wordless afternoons when Antonio taught him to play three instruments and speak that language that reminded Yoongi of his old cat, Sweeper, and the way he lazily rolled around in the sun.

Now he was just a young man graduated from a prestigious music academy in San Francisco, two of his compositions had been featured as soundtrack in a couple movies, and he was already producing for a small recording studio specialised in chamber music. He didn’t make much money out of it, to be true, but sometimes he managed to have an extra income with royalties, and he was currently composing his first mixtape — for which a studio had already contacted him, and the fact that Antonio had introduced him to some of the most influential artists in the San Francisco scene had quite definitely jump-started his career.

He was living a cool life, the kind of life he had always seen himself living. He worked at night and finished his day at seven am; then he would head out for a walk, when the sun was still gentle in summer and when it would be barely up in winter. And next, he would sleep. Wake up around five pm. Get some food ready and start all over again. He’d returned to Honeycomb Cove only six months prior, so he hadn’t yet entirely reconnected with his local social circle, plus most of his friends were still in college, which meant that it wasn’t that easy to arrange a get together. But to be true he was quite excited about Seokjin being back in town and spring break approaching. By summer come, they would all be a great team again and he would feel like he had all the time in the world.

His musings were interrupted by the doorbell. That had to be his pizza. It was almost eleven and Gerry, the old Italian man who owned the pizza place at the end of the street, always knew that Tuesday night meant late night pizza for Yoongi.

He grabbed the money — already perfectly calculated so he could pay for the pizza and leave a tip for the delivery boy, Pippo. But tonight it wasn't the delivery boy knocking at his door. As he opened it, he found a wondrous mass of blond curls right in front of his eyes. “Oh, hi!”

“Hey!” The voice sounded chirpy, familiar.

A sudden breeze pushed the stranger’s perfume past the doorway, the scent crashing over Yoongi like the surf. God she smells good, Yoongi thought, lips agape as he stared at the woman in his doorway. It was a mix of coconut and papaya, the scent overpowering the tasty smell of his pizza.

You put on your friendliest, warmest, brightest smile, then said: “We met on the beach right? You must be Min Yoongi. I'm _____. Gerry said you always dine alone and told me you could use some company.”

“I'm not a charity case,” Yoongi replied before realising how rude he'd just been.

“Well, that's a funny introduction, Not A Charity Case. Is that the name you chose to go by? Like Jenny From The Block?” You shook your head and looked away. “What told you it's not me who could use a friend. May I?” You asked, pointing at the door, asking if you could enter. “You can ask Gerry. He sent me. I've just arrived for the season and I could really use a friend. He told me you're a good person and you're always alone too.”

Yoongi was almost outraged by your insolence. Were you always so blunt? He was also confused: what kind of setup was this?!

You passed him the pizza and he lifted the lid, checking that it was actually his and that you weren't an imposter, or a serial killer.

'Take the golden retriever girl. She needs a smart friend. -G,’ read a note left inside the box.

“Yeah, I’m Yoongi,” he said, almost defeated. “Come on in, then.” If he found his house entirely stripped of anything worth money, he would sue Gerry.

“Oh. Thank you.” You flashed him a grin.

Yoongi's knees almost caved. What a smile. It was like… like staring at the sun. But in a good way. It was like a blue sky. Soothing. Serene. Cloudless, pacific.

You placed your own pizza box next to his on the counter while at the same time you looked around. “Wow, your house is so pretty. Your family lives here?”

Yoongi opened his pizza and grabbed a beer from the fridge. “I don't have a family anymore.”

You froze. “I'm sorry.” You were already failing at this. That's why your friends all had fake teeth and a medical record thicker than your cookbook. Not to mention the average age.

“It's okay. I got used to that. You should be the lifeguard, right? Wait, would you like some beer?”

You shook your head. “I'd like some water please.”

Of course you would, he realised. You had to be one of those health freaks. He could already anticipate how easily he could make you run from him with his suicidal diet.

He placed a glass beside your pizza box before sitting down and getting ready to dig in. “I still owe you the money. From the pizza.”

“I already paid for both. I thought that since I wasn't bringing you a housewarming present, I could at least buy you some food.” You took a slice and started eating up, humming and nodding at the taste. “I get why he works so much. This pizza is heaven.”

“Yeah. All the kids here grew up on sunshine and Gerry's pizza,” Yoongi mentioned casually. He liked that you talked with your mouth full. He did, too. Beatrice had never liked that.

“Are you from the neighbourhood?” He asked before wolfing down another slice.

“Kinda. I live a bit farther into the mainland. I used to come here on holiday when I was little. With my parents.” You took a sip of water as Yoongi learned one more thing about you.

“I thought so. I don’t really remember you from growing up, and me and my friends know all of the locals.” Yoongi studied your face, trying to dissect any detail that could make you familiar.

“I see. You’ve been raised here, I assume?”

“Yup.” The silence is heavy, but at least you can distract yourself with food. “So, lifeguard? That your dream job?” He said it sarcastically, almost evilly before he realised you were nodding eagerly and happily.

“My great-grandpa was a sailor. I've always wanted to live by the sea.” You munched on the crunchy crust, Yoongi blinking rapidly.

Making fun of you felt like shooting a dead body. There was no use — and no mercy — in doing that. “Shouldn't you be in college or something?”

“I took nursing school. And I'm old enough to be out of college.” Yoongi’s tone had really made that sound like an insult, but you tried your best not to assume the worst.

Yoongi tried to get on his better behaviour. You were a new person, you wouldn’t understand his sardonic tone. “I'm sorry,” he said, contrite.

“For what? Me being a certified nurse and a person in charge of other people's lives? I know I look stupid, no need to rub it in.” You arched an eyebrow, rather fed up with the weirdness of this exchange, of the man sitting before you. You stood up and closed the box of your pizza, still half uneaten. “Sorry I disturbed your night. Enjoy your meal—”

“Wait, no! Don't go, please.” He didn't know what suddenly convinced him to make you stay. “I was a dick, I'm sorry, let's start over.”

You hesitated for at least three seconds and then, despite your better judgement, you sat back. “I'm ____. But my friends call me Sunny. It's my middle name. Really. My parents thought it funny.”

It suited you so damn bad. Yoongi wanted to bask in your aura in a hammock with a slight breeze and a samba playing in the distance. “It's a really nice name. It really suits your appearance. And I mean that as a compliment.”

You breathed out the tiniest laugh.

“I'm Yoongi and that's the only name I have. We don't use middle names.” He relaxed once you opened your box once more.

“Where is it from?” You asked, recognising the name being foreign.

“My mom's name is Korean. She picked a Korean one for me too. Just to remind me we're not entirely American.” He was vaguely bitter about that. Maybe just indifferent, you told yourself. That must have been tough.

“That's interesting,” you mused, drinking some water. “How old are you?”

Your question was naive. Childlike. “I'm twenty-three. And you're…?”

“Twenty-four. Twenty-five in a couple weeks.” You smiled and he was once more lost in how radiant you looked.

Once you were finished eating, you rinsed your hands at the sink, helping him get rid of the boxes before shyly following him as he moved to the living room.

“Wow.”

“It's a bit overwhelming, I know.” He looked around, analysing the room through a stranger's eyes. “My grandma was an anthropologist, my grandpa too, though I never met him. She travelled a lot and always brought back fancy things.”

“What's this?” you asked, watching a strange fork of sorts.

Yoongi sat down and grabbed a bizarre little stick, no bigger than a pen, with a large ball at the end. He hit the fork, a soothing, metallic sound coming out of it and the box at its base, amplifying the cold dong. “It's a diapason. It gives a specific note. This one sounds like la. Or A, whatever notation you prefer. We use it to tune instruments like guitars.”

You nodded. “That's interesting. I like it.”

Yoongi chuckled. “It's very soothing, right? It resonates at a frequency that has positive effects on humans. My grandma used to play it when I needed to calm down as a baby.”

Thinking that the coarse man before you had been a baby felt baffling. “And it still relaxes you?”

“It does. But I think it's more of a reflex. I think they trained me. Like Pavlov's dog… Wait, was that Pavlov?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed with a giggle.

“Sometimes I think I was a strange experiment. That's what happens when you have two scientists in your home.” He shrugged with a funny grin on his face, his cheeks going puffy as he did so.

“It's okay. You lived through that. You're not doing bad for a lab rat. You could be having bald spots by now,” you joked, almost expecting him to get confused or disgusted. Instead he laughed.

His laugh was so soft. He actually looked soft, with his gums out, his cheeks puffed up, his nose curled up cutely. Yoongi was cute. Very much so.

“So, what do you do for a living?”

He blushed to his ears. “I'm a musician. And a producer.”

“Wow. That sounds cool! How does that work?” Your voice was filled with wonder, making Yoongi understand that after all it wasn't like you were dumb. You were just unashamed of not knowing things.

“I make songs. Spend too much time on the computer fixing songs for other people. And then spend a little bit of time with my instruments, going through riffs and melodies, finding little things that inspire me for longer songs or pieces.” Yoongi stopped himself from dumping all of his artistic worries over you.

“You studied at UCLA?” you asked, knowing that was the best place for a person like him.

“Actually, no. My grandfather got me into an academy in the city. I mean, my granny's boyfriend,” he corrected himself. Considering Antonio his grandpa had always come natural to him, but he'd never substituted himself for Trice's husband.

“It's so cute that she found a boyfriend. You mentioned your grandpa passed so I guess she met the guy after?” You posed the question gently, wording it accurately.

Yoongi nodded. “Yup. I was a toddler when they met.”

You hummed. “With all respect to your grandpa, I like when old people find a partner — or at least, someone meaningful to them. It brings a lot of joy and newness in their lives. Partnered old folks have a way less lonely life. And it seems they live longer too! I read a paper for a course back in college.”

Yoongi was pleased to receive confirmation of you being an old people's person. Hopefully you also hated kids so he could actually deem himself safe. “So you actually liked nursing school.”

You bobbed your head enthusiastically. “I’ve always liked the idea of working in a retirement home. Old people have so many stories and so little audience. I like staying with them, helping them write memories they can pass to their overly busy children and grandchildren. And they learn about technology, they play cards. They crochet! Isn't that amazing?!” you exclaimed with a radiant look on your face.

Yoongi realised you were a genuinely generous person. You reaching out to him wasn't just Gerry forcing you to Yoongi's place, but hopefully you needing a friend. It really seemed you could use a pal your age. “And how does that pair up with your lifeguard position?”

You shrugged. “I've always loved the beach. And splitting it with caregiving helps me from taking nursing too seriously. It helps me worry less about people… passing, you know.”

Yoongi nodded. He hadn’t thought about what it means taking care of someone day after day after day, and then suddenly they’re gone. He also thought about the different weights of a job: probably that was the same reason why it had taken him so long to work on his music while delivering piece after piece for commission. He had lost the passionate side of it.

“So, your granny's boyfriend got you into a music academy and then?”

Yoongi smiled, then he started telling you everything about that.

The two of you talked way deep in the night, the initial strangeness turning into easy chit-chat about school, life, family and work… It was almost one in the morning when you realised it was time for you to go. Once Yoongi noticed how long he’d been talking to you, he blushed and understood it was time to say goodnight, no matter how warm and welcome he felt at your side.

He accompanied you to the door, then stood on the porch, waving at you before wondering whether he should accompany you home. “You’re staying here in town, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just five minutes away from here. I have my bike.”

“You don’t want me to drive you?” He rubbed the back of his neck as he waited for your reply.

You shook your head. “I’m okay, don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

Yoongi realised the reason why he felt sad about you refusing was exclusively because he wouldn’t be able to spend more time with you. He was struggling to let go, after only a couple hours of chatting, and at least half of that being awkward acquainting with someone new.

And to further increase his struggles, he could almost hear Antonio scolding him for letting go of someone that made him feel good. “Will I see you tomorrow morning at the beach?”

You were ready to leave when you heard Yoongi’s question. It sounded vaguely insecure, as if he was testing the waters. “Come meet me at seven. I’ll be there.”

Yoongi nodded to himself. He should have asked for your number. Stupid social anxiety.

“Goodnight Yoongi!” You waved from the gate before leaving.

He stood there, arms crossed, shrinking inside his striped polo shirt, its long sleeve doing very little in keeping him warm. So unexpectedly his night had changed. He thought about the percussion riff he’d jotted down that morning around nine, laying in bed, sleepless. For all he knew, you could have possibly changed his life.

He would remember tonight forever.

The following day, Yoongi left his house at six forty-five. You had given him a when, but not an exact where. He was nervous. And he was somehow hoping that seeing you in broad daylight would somehow lessen your magic.

How wrong he was.

He waited for you at the feet of your tower, leaning against it nonchalantly while he almost ran to get there in time. Watching you arrive in sunglasses and a white sundress was definitely something. You looked like the kind of girl that could have starred in Dirty Dancing.

“Good morning, sir!” you greeted, waving.

“Stop treating me like an old man,” he complained, however you heard some irony in his voice.

“Not my fault you behave like one!” you bit back, amused and maybe a little cheeky. “Hello Yoongi,” you tried again, more calmly now that you were standing before him. “I’ll go get changed quickly so we can go on a walk.”

He nodded and looked at the horizon before him, his ears blushing at the thought that you were half naked just a few steps away. You looked so lean and fit and tall and he was… He was struggling not to let his mind run wild. After all you were just a prettily shaped woman. No more, and no less.

All the months that had passed since he’d last slept with someone weren’t a valid reason for him to think of you half naked.

“Let’s go!” you exclaimed, basically throwing yourself down the stairs and taking a few small jumps on your spot — like a golden retriever too excited about going out. You started with a jog, only to watch Yoongi’s panicked look.

You exploded with laughter. “See, I told you! You’re an old man!”

Yoongi hid his smile with a pout before catching up with a few quick steps. “Do you need to run or can you just walk?”

“I’ll walk in the water. Helps me burn more energy and work on my stamina,” you replied, entering the water to the point it reached your knees. “You can walk on the shore. Did you sleep well?”

He looked away.

“Oh, right. You work at night. So— Did you… produce?” You looked down, careful about not splashing him.

“Oh, yeah. The conversation with you was very inspirational,” he conceded. He hadn’t worked half as much in the last four weeks. Listening to the little riffs and chords hidden in your voice was like experimenting with a new genre. It was as if he was building a new theme for you. Something that signified your presence, but at the same time conveyed the fits and starts of meeting someone new, and getting to know them, and discovering something new about oneself from all the analogies and differences they could see with the other person. As much as he was composing about you, about the little bits he’d learned about you, he was in some way also composing about himself.

The process had been thrilling and once he’d finished the first, roughest draft, at dawn, the music felt so vibrant that it could properly and proudly accompany the rise of the sun. It was of course still only a draft, but the way you’d talked deep into the night, the way you’d circled around things until they’d come out right, had inspired him to give it all a try. It didn’t need to be perfect, it only needed to work. And work, in the end, it did. He only wished he had sampled a piece of your conversation — that joke about him being a lab rat… the laughs that followed. It would have been great for a skit.

“You know, I really wish I could listen to your music. I'm kind of curious about what such a quiet person considers noise worth listening to.” You looked at him. “After all, music is just very tidy noise right?”

He smiled. “Yeah, I would agree to that.” He looked at the seashells on the shore. “I'll make you a playlist. I'll include random stuff I like listening to.”

“Oh, I'd love that!” you replied enthusiastically. “We can make a playlist for our walks!”

Yoongi’s ears perked up at that: “walks”, plural, which meant you would do this again, soon. He was pleased at the way you had so casually hinted at creating a routine. He had someone to share music recommendations with. Someone who would maybe recommend pieces to him in return. He realised he was excited about this. So many new sensations, and none of that as unpleasant as he’d thought. He could get used tho this.

Once the two of you said goodbye, he realised he couldn't go to sleep. He was too excited about making a playlist and sharing it with you. Walking with you in the gentle morning sun. Hearing you laugh.

Yoongi understood: he was making a new friend.

Having walks with Yoongi became extraordinary. You started associating him with the tender colours of the shyest sunshine, and the sweet cotton scent of his shirts in the gentle morning breeze. The way his soft locks danced in the ocean air, tangling together, the way his cheeks turned into little ice cream scoops when he smiled at you as you greeted him good morning.

Likewise, Yoongi started adoring sunshine. You ended each of his nights, bringing him into the reign of soft morning light, introducing him to a brightness he'd always much preferred doing without. Truth was that his ears had become acquainted with your vintage summer bops, with the way your steps would automatically sync up with the beat of Pumped Up Kicks when the song started playing, and your little blonde baby curls would end up bouncing by the time the first chorus came around. Sometimes you looked like one of those strange horses trained to match the rhythm of music. Dressage, wasn't that?

And then, you loved his calm acoustic ballads, the relaxing guitar riffs that accompanied the rise of the sun.

Once your shared routine of morning walks was sufficiently cemented, you trained him, like a stray cat, to stick around some more after your walk, convincing him to join you for a morning snack. You always brought him iced coffee and a peach jam sandwich while you drank your aloe and matcha drink before indulging in an avocado toast. He liked your mornings as much as you did. You also probably liked each other too.

Your perfect sunny streak was tainted only by a mildly cloudy morning, during which Yoongi showed up at your tower anyway, an extra sweater on top of his long sleeved shirt. He knew you'd probably be cold.

The striped black number seemed to be big enough for you to fill it up comfortably. After all, you were half a head taller than him, and your arms were significantly longer. At least by three or four inches, he had to admit.

When you showed up, you looked drowsy, your hair was half low and you were carrying a different bag from usual. “Morning old man,” you called, placing your bag at the feet of the stairs.

“Morning, Sunny. Wait. Are those actually knitting devices in your bag? Wonder Woman ____ knits?”

“Shut up. Linda taught me. It's just something to share with the ladies at The Orchard,” you justified yourself. “We'll see if you still joke about that once you get your soft, handmade cosy sweater this winter.”

Yoongi blinked, suddenly realising his expression had been shifting to a pout. “Are you still going to be around this winter?”

You invited him upstairs, avoiding the question for now. Could you wait from September to May to see him again? Could you go so long without him?

As you picked up a half knitted torso from your bag, pressing it to his face, you realised you couldn't. You also realised you had made a naive mistake. You had thought you were domesticating a stray but in the meanwhile you had opened him your home, your heart. You had invested your time in him and that made him much more than a stray. You were giving him a forever home.

“Is this for me?” he asked innocently, gently, rubbing his face against the soft, airy fabric.

“It’s alpaca wool,” you commented drily. You already knew you would give up on your long-term dream sweater only to see him all fluffed up in the pastel mesh of colours. You smiled as he pressed it closer to his face.

“So soft,” he murmured, nuzzling up against the small piece of knitwork. The moment he opened his eyes, you realised his nose was just a tiny bit red from the chilly breeze coming from the sea, carrying a storm in its wake. His cheeks were rosy and puffy, his eyes big and dark. And his eyelashes, so dainty and insanely… flirtatious? He looked like he was seducing you for the slowest of seconds.

You looked away, cheeks aflame. “Let’s go. Before the rain comes.”

Yoongi startled at your tone, cloudy for the first time since that night when you’d known each other too little, and he’d been unforgivably too sarcastic. He followed you like a confused pet down the stairs, then grabbed his earpods and passed one to you.

You were especially thankful for the music now that your thoughts were too scattered for you to form sentences and make some conversation.

“It will rain in a bunch of minutes,” Yoongi commented. “There’s no use walking today.”

You ignored him. Would he leave if you agreed with his statement? Would he think walking was pointless, and therefore there was no reason for the two of you to spend any time together today? Too lost in trying to find a meaning to how sad you felt at the thought of being apart, you didn’t realise a raindrop had hit your nose.

The storm was coming.

An angry guitar riff came on, The Neighbourhood blaring from the earphone as Yoongi grabbed your hand. One drop followed the other, his hand around your wrist as he tugged at your arm, running fast, faster, to a speed that felt ridiculous considering how lazy he always was.

‘I’m going back to 505, if it’s a seven-hour flight or a forty-five-minute drive. In my imagination you’re waiting lying on your side, with your hands between your thighs, and a smile…’

You ran, faster, short of breath, the music carrying you across the sand. You didn’t even realise you were trusting Yoongi completely, even as he led you past your tower, even as he kept running while the downpour broke loose, even as The Beatles came on, singing about jars by the door and lonely people, even as the morning got so dark, the sky like a purple shiner after a rowdy pub fight.

You kept running, Yoongi panting as the two of you finally recognised the fence of his house, the tower barely visible behind the thick cover of rain and mist. “Come on!” he gasped out.

You kept running until you were under his porch. “What the hell, Yoongi! Why didn’t we stop at the tower!?” you scolded him, barely alive, barely breathing — how had he worn you out like this? He was way less trained than you, and yet he’d managed to run by your side, keeping your pace, ending up winded, sure, but in way better a state than you’d thought he would be.

He shook his head, bent in two, his hands gripping his knees. “I was distracted! I wasn’t thinking!”

You shook your head, too busy pulling oxygen into your lungs to fight him back. After a few breathless minutes, you sat down on the first step of the staircase. “You knew it would rain. Why did you come?”

Yoongi felt called out all of a sudden. “I— I thought you were expecting me to come. I don’t have your number so I couldn’t text you. Or call you.” He sat down beside you, his hands pressed in between his knees. “I didn’t want you to worry or think I had forgotten.” He took in a large breath. Somehow the little effort of a confession required way more air than the makeshift marathon under the storm — it was definitely shorter than a marathon. Probably not even a tenth of it. He just knew that was the longest and the fastest he’d ever run, but you were running, and you were so majestic and he just wanted to be part of it.

Yoongi paused, gathered his courage, then murmured, “I didn’t want you to feel lonely.”

You recognised the guitar strums immediately, the song changing once more. You looked at Yoongi, Hozier’s soft voice crooning at your ear. “What about you? Were you feeling lonely?”

He looked away, too shy, too old, too used-to-it to admit it. He had no right to feel lonely when you weren’t around. He had been alone for so long, but loneliness? It had been a stranger to him until he’d learnt your name. “I don’t—”

You pushed his hair off his face, your index finger casually following the handsome curve of his jawline. “Yoongi?”

He finally turned to look at you, once more innocent in the way he seemed to seduce you. He looked so pure and for the first time you felt so desperate to taint him. You needed him to look normal and mundane and you prayed for your crush to fade, for his sinless charms to be washed away so he would show his true colours, because no man should be allowed to be perfect the way he felt perfect to you.

“Yoongi,” you whispered, your heart tied up with pining.

‘Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.’

You hadn’t realised your eyes were closed until it was too late, the lyrics making you open them only to notice Yoongi leaning towards you, his lips protruding in the most imploring pout you had ever seen.

You were ruined.

You tugged the earpod off, almost throwing it to the ground before hollering a ‘see you ‘round’ and running off in the cold rain.

Yoongi, confused, afraid, sat on his porch as he watched you disappear.

Part 2 will be out now!!

#bourbon bossa nova #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x reader #min yoongi fanfiction #bts blog #min yoongi scenario #min yoongi imagine

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oftenderweapons · 1 month

Text

Bourbon Bossa Nova | MYG | Pt.2

This story is part of the Blue Crush Collab

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (nicknamed Sunny)

Wordcount: 11.4k

Rating: 18+

Genre: strangers to friends to lovers, composer!Yoongi x lifeguard!YN

Content warning: Allusions to death, child abandonment and family loss. Swearing, Alcohol. Sexual content (switch!reader, switch!yoongi; unprotected sex (plz be smart, use condoms); masturbation, both male and female receiving; oral sex, male receiving; powerplay with sub!yoongi; plenty of emotional, intense moments).

Shoutout: to my lovely readers first, and my moots too. Thank you for staying around. This is all for you 💜

Here's part one, in case you missed it

And here's my complete masterlist, in case you're new HEHE

Six days went by without you seeing Yoongi. First you had your day-off, and though Yoongi waited for you by your tower, you didn't come.

Truth was, you spent your day off working at the Firefly Ball at The Orchard, the retirement home you had been volunteering at for years. It took you about two and a half hours to realise you truly didn't have Yoongi's number, which reminded you of your short conversation before your non-kiss debacle. You couldn't tell him about not being there for the day; after all, you'd always gone on a walk even on your day-off during the previous weeks. Mostly, you couldn’t tell him about Laura helping you with the german short rows you needed to shape the sweater that had become his. You couldn’t tell him about Marvin trying to set you up with his lovely nephew — who is already very taken, of course, except Marvin doesn’t really like the girl and you’re already like family. You couldn’t tell him about that song you hate coming on thirteen times on the radio, and you couldn’t tell him about the excellent songs the people at The Orchard recommended you. You couldn’t tell him that you told Orla about him and Beatrice and she said she has some pictures of her in high school, from the days she started dating her future husband. You couldn’t tell him that she told you about Beatrice and Antonio, how she would have loved to spend more time with them, and get to know them, weren’t her husband so opposed to her hanging out with such ‘uncivilised extravagants’. Orla also told you about the samba that used to come from that house, how she loved walking by it. And then she asked to hear the young man play just once, with the guitar, because he was so good at it since when he was just a child and he must have become even better now that he’s a man.

The day after that, you did go to the beach, but this time it was Yoongi that didn't come.

You had broken him, you told yourself. You had broken the beautiful, timid bond between the two of you. You had slashed it away. And once again, the day after that, you were left by yourself, dashing away from the tower before you could sink in the magnitude of your loneliness.

You were sad.

You felt like an empty fishbowl, a broken diapason no longer giving the right frequency. It was like a crack had damaged the truest, most intimate part of you.

It was excruciating to feel so lost after knowing Yoongi for so little. It was as if the sun had dulled. You felt underwater, suffocated, with the ocean above you weighing you down.

Being in that kind of mood meant that it was hard to convince you to join your coworker Hoseok at his friend's party — you had given up exclusively because the man was incredibly persistent and he was very hard to turn down. So you had done your hair up pretty and you had worn your cute white dress, checking yourself in the mirror before heading out, forcing yourself to put a spring in your step and not throw yourself at some regrettable glass of exceedingly sweet liquor.

Once you reached the beach, you recognised the party immediately, a large group of people gathered around the fire, the full moon lulled by the sea as it laid a couple inches above the horizon. You scanned the crowd for the only person you knew, spotting the two bickering employees of the ice cream parlour. And a man that looked like the surf instructor who worked in the school a mile away from your tower. And there was Hoseok, surrounded by cheering people. Of course he was the life of the party; still, though everyone looked at him when he cracked a joke, he always looked at the same girl, over and over again.

There she was then. His crush.

And there he was. Yours.

Yoongi, sitting on a bench, hands tucked in between his knees, shoulders squished together as he tried to make himself less noticeable. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him.

Still, his shy wave in your direction made you change your mind.

Confused, you made your way closer to him. To hell with fear, you would get your answers tonight.

“Hi,” you spoke, and your voice could barely be heard with the crowd and the noise, the music, the chatting and screaming.

Yet, Yoongi heard you. And he smiled. It was like getting kicked at the back of your knees. “Hello, Sunny.”

Your insides fluttered. You didn’t have much history with boys or men, only a couple relationships behind you and maybe three or four sexual partners with varying degrees of success. And apparently, Yoongi had been engineered to be your kryptonite. He was just the right side of shy, and introverted, and quiet and soft spoken, despite the bite in his sense of humour. After those initial adjustments during that first awkward dinner, he’d become so incredibly suited to you. As you looked at him, you suddenly felt so very known, maybe because anyone else at the party was more or less a stranger.

And in all that strangeness, there was Yoongi’s warm, steady gaze. Familiar and gentle. To you, he was irresistible. You’d hoped that the days spent apart would have cooled your spirits; instead, seeing him again after so long made you appreciate those details you’d almost grown accustomed to. The way his hair curls softly when dried by the ocean breeze. The way his pale, pale skin contrasts so beautifully with the black of his hair. The way his gums show when he smiles, and how damn perfect his teeth are. And then those hands. Good lord, those hands.

A part of your brain screeched to a halt. He’s abandoned you, Sunny. He’s left you alone. You left him alone once, after almost kissing him, and he realised you’re weird and embarrassing and inappropriate. And your sense of humour sucks. And you can’t make friends because when people get to know you they find you a lot worse than they thought you’d be. You frowned and shook your head at your own limiting beliefs, but you forgot to adjust your facial expression and your greeting to him came out sour. “Hello, Yoongi. Glad to see you.” You managed to pull your face into a smile. “Finally.” Very smooth, Sunny. Very damn unsuspectable.

He blushed and looked down. “I was in the city. I had to deliver my mixtape.” The fact that he was seated, lower than you, and he had to tip his head back to look at your face made you even weaker. His jawline was splendid, but that was not the point.

His glance was so intense, with his obsidian irises glimmering with the fire and the night sky. He looked beautiful and you were so damn fond of him. He was the best thing you had seen in a while, and quite definitely the most attractive man you had ever laid your eyes on. Had he put on something special tonight?

You checked his outfit, but it was a simple black button down in some flowy, glossy material, some white flowers printed on it — probably lilies? — and he was wearing some undyed cotton jeans underneath. Plain, usual Yoongi fashion.

And you checked his hair — slightly longer, but still inky black, still curled in the softest little bouncy waves at the bottom. It looked extra silky tonight. Very soft. The kind of soft you can comb your fingers through as you’re making out. The kind of soft you can caress as he’s kissing down your—

��You didn’t come either. On Tuesday,” he reminded you.

You shook the steamy thoughts off your brain, terrified by the way you were dangerously getting increasingly affected by his presence. “I had a day off for the Firefly Ball. At the retirement home,” you explained. “I always came here for our walks so I never really mentioned I have Tuesdays off. And then I didn’t have your number to call you.” You asked to sit beside him through awkward body language, a whirlwind of arms and wrists and hands until he nodded with a little laugh.

He was impressed by the fact that you had come to meet him even when you could have slept in or done whatever it is that athletic, stunning, too-out-of-his-league girls do. “How was your time in the city?”

Boring. Sad. Lonely. Agonizingly slow. He had wanted to see you. He would have all summer with you; nevertheless, he would much prefer spending it in your arms, as your crush, rather than the sweet introvert who you pitied. He wanted to confess. He would do so at the end of the night, with the fireworks. He would sing you ballads all night and exchange shy or flirty looks and then he would confess. And if you liked him back, then good.

If you didn’t…

“It was sad… I don’t like the city. You can’t hear your thoughts.” He inched closer towards you.

Sitting beside him had been an awful idea. He smelled like his usual self: a deeply set salty smell mixed with lemongrass and incense. Was it incense? Something spicy, but deep. It smelled like inspiration and artful meditation and invention. It also smelled like the kind of sex that resets your whole existence. What in the world do you mean? the rational side of your brain — not your strongest — objected, but it was quickly coerced into silence. “Excuse me, what?” You said, not even remembering what he’d told you mere seconds before.

He tipped his head to the side and repeated. “I was saying the city is really loud. Lots of stuff happening and you can’t focus on your thoughts, because you know, the noise and stuff keep interrupting you and—”

You nodded eagerly in understanding, “Oh yes!” God, he must think you’re dumb or something. Of course he’s smart. Smarter than you, clearly. Living with all those academics must have helped with the braincells. His mom probably listened to Bach while pregnant. Or maybe he—

“How was the ball?” Yoongi asked, his face serene as he looked at you. And yet there was a certain gleam in his eyes, the kind of gleam you’d seen in the restless beast he’d become the last time you saw him, on his porch, drenched in rain, desperate, burning.

You needed to slap your face and get your mind all in one place. Since you couldn’t quite slap yourself in public, you settled for a nice pinch to your leg and nodded, grounding yourself to the current conversation. “It went okay,” you replied. “The usual. Old people dancing, spiced punch, dreamy jazz and blues.”

And there it is, gummy grin all out. Perfectly symmetric pearly whites flashed to your face. “Seems like my kind of night.”

You snorted loudly, your laugh erupting without grace or composure. Yoongi was amused by it: he would make fun of himself forever if that meant making you happy like that. “You’re unbelievable” you murmured, half to him, half to yourself, for being this rowdy, antisocial mess.

Yoongi’s eyes fell to your lips. God, he loved them. So rosy, not too plump but always so happy. And he was pretty sure there were some freckles on them too. He was about to give in. There was nothing he wanted more than to touch your lips with his. Not even kiss you, just… Just touch you.

“Come on, guitar boy, make your show!” a moderately tall, moderately tanned man hollered. He had impressive shoulders. “Who’s your friend?” he questioned, studying you.

“____, this is Seokjin. You can call him Jin, but it’s better if you don’t call him at all.” Yoongi bared his teeth at the man as you introduced yourself, but it was only half disguised as a smile. Seokjin shrugged and cocked an eyebrow as he stared at Yoongi, daring him to make a move.

It took half a second for Yoongi to realise how easily you and Seokjin would get along, how the adventurous, athletic, extremely sporty man could charm you with his stories and take you surfing at midnight to look at the stars from the sea, where no artificial lights could taint the immensity of the night. It bothered him. Bothered him and saddened him, and he just shook his head and let go. If that’s how it was supposed to go, then he would let it.

Seokjin passed a sticker-covered guitar to his friend, forcing the two of you up from your seats and away from the main location. It was just a few metres away, someplace more quiet, where the guitar could be heard over the blaring music.

Only a couple people followed, and it felt like a true concert, a miniature one, mostly because of how skilled Yoongi was. After all, he is a professionist, and the fact that he has never mentioned playing live doesn’t make the experience any less exquisite.

Soon more people were coming around, a few women sitting way too close for your eyes not to look at them with scorn. Were they thinking…?

No. You had no right to feel the tightening sensation around your stomach, not when Yoongi would look up and search for your eyes, to make sure you were watching — that you never stopped watching. You wouldn’t want him to find your eyes away from him to stare down at some dumb girl whose only fault was fawning over the same man you had a crush on.

It was almost midnight when a loud beeping sound broke out from across the beach, blue lights in tow. The beach patrol. “This party is unauthorised!” An officer ordered from a megaphone. “You must leave the premises immediately.”

Your eyes met Yoongi’s, then Seokjin’s, whose face looked very white as he glared at a woman in shock, then in full-blazing hatred. No, not hatred: disappointment. The object of Seokjin’s pointed stare seemed equally shocked.

Yoongi placed down the guitar, immediately reaching Seokjin and grabbing him by the shoulders — if it weren’t for the dramatic situation, the height difference would have been truly endearing, if slightly hilarious. “Didn’t you ask for a permit, you dumbhead?”

“I swear I did, Yoongi! Remember I made you check the papers? I did everything right!” Seokjin was panicking, staring at the other woman. “I did everything right, didn’t I?” At the woman’s silence, he asked again. “Didn’t I?”

“Officer! We have a permit!” Yoongi told the woman who arrived on the beach together with two colleagues. “We delivered it at the office and had it signed. This party is authorised.”

“We signed no permit,” her coworker stated coldly. “Leave the premises now.”

“Excuse me, officer, but my friend and I handed in the request personally,” Yoongi repeated, already losing his cool. The fact that he’d been sipping bourbon between a song and another didn’t help at all. He seemed ready to start a fight.

The officer shook his head. “We have no permit for tonight.”

“Listen, you—” Yoongi replied, visibly irritated, taking one more step forward.

You stopped Yoongi from pressing a finger against the fine shirt of the man’s uniform, doing the first thing that crossed your mind. You pulled him away and squatted down, pressing your shoulder to his stomach and picking him up effortlessly.

With a kind smile, you tried to flatter the guard. “Officer, please excuse me. He has been really stressed over his job—”

“Sunny, what the hell are you—” Yoongi wiggled around a little, but you held him tighter.

“Tonight he let loose a little, and drank a bit too much. Please excuse him.” You gave your most dazzling smile, looking sheepish, trying to project all your innocence and adorableness.

“Don’t worry, ____. Do you need us to take you home?” the female officer intervened.

You shook your head. Apparently your good girl looks were giving you one more perk. “I’ll just walk him. Don’t worry. The people here are very cooperative, I’m sure you won’t have to deal with any issues.”

“Sunny! I swear to God—” Yoongi insisted, hitting his forearms against your back.

“Easy, tiger,” you taunted him before waving at the beach patrol staff members before you turned and left.

“Put me down!” Yoongi growled once you were a few feet away.

“Shut the hell up,” you replied, calm and condescending. Yoongi felt a shiver roll down his spine, completely ignoring you as you went on chastising him. “Do you wanna end up in trouble?” you said, calmly, reasonably.

Heat started to warm his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the liquor. Sure, the alcohol made him more prone to a short temper, but he could still keep himself in check. This, however, this liquid warmth making him melt for you… This was all you. “We had the permit!” He complained, whiny, pliant, but still combative.

“If you read the room a little, apparently Seokjin’s friend hadn’t handed it in, you dumbass.” Go figure, you were the one supposed to be the dull tool in the box. “You really thought it would be a good idea to lay a finger on an officer? After drinking? They could arrest you, Yoongi. And I won’t waste my pay on bailing you out of jail.”

“But I would have paid you back!” he protested while you opened the gate in his fence and dropped him down unceremoniously. He grunted a little and stormed off to the door as you followed him suit.

“You would have slapped yourself at the thought of paying money to the fucking police!” you reminded him. “And it would be a big waste of money.” You stood behind him as he opened the door, then tried to slam it shut, almost causing it to hit you. The action made you startle, and maybe he didn’t want you to enter, but you also wanted to calm him down, and you deserved an apology about his lack of gratitude and basic decency. “Oh, come on, I just saved you at least a few hundred bucks, don’t be such a brat to me!”

He turned around with a cocky grin. “Or what? You’re gonna spank me?” He sealed his lips shut as soon as he realised what he’d just said.

Your face went dead serious, an eyebrow raised at him as your blood cooled significantly. A little cackle came out your throat as you said, your tone serious and dark. “Is that what you want?” It came out a bit more seductive than you intended.

“Don’t get all puffed-up now. Didn’t know you liked authority so much,” Yoongi’s body language got interesting: he conveyed challenge and curiosity as moved behind the kitchen island, putting an obstacle between the two of you.

“I don’t. I just think you're being a warmongering little shit.” You felt your body act on instinct, getting ready for the chase. You didn’t know exactly what was going on between the two of you. Actually you didn’t know anything at all.

He licked his lips, looking at you from under his lashes. “That’s a difficult word for a lifeguard.”

That almost made you lose your cool, but you still managed to hold your horses since it was so obvious he was looking for a fight. “You think I’m dumb?” You asked, taking a slow step towards him. He took a step in the opposite direction.

“No. But that’s a booksmart, not streetsmart kind of word.”

You took one more step towards him. “I might not be a little intellectual, like you fancy yourself, but I’ve read a few books, Yoongi.”

He bit his lip, put more distance towards the two of you.

“What game are you playing, little mouse?” you taunted him.

He could feel his heart hammering against his chest, blood rushing everywhere. He could tell his body was reacting in ways he was not proud of, grateful for the counter currently hiding his lap. “You might say you don’t like authority, but you sure like playing cops and robbers.”

You grinned at him and he grinned right back. With two large strides, you were on him, arms wrapped around his middle, and if it hadn’t been dangerous inside the kitchen, you would have tackled him with no effort whatsoever, his tipsy form completely incapable to stand a fight against your trained, honed and ready physique. “Gotcha,” you murmured in his ear and he just folded over himself, trying to hide from you the ridiculous state he was in. “What do you have to say about streetsmart nurses and puffed-up lifeguards? Still wanna start a fight?”

“Sunny…” he whispered, turning to stare at you.

That day under the rain and that mad dash came back to you like a punch to the face. He was again dark eyed, pouty, beautiful. So easy; so, so easy to take. There, hanging from your very lips.

“Yoongi,” you whispered back. “This is—”

He licked his lips, his eyes as if chasing shooting stars from your eyes to your mouth. “If you run this time, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it make sense.”

“How sober are you from one to ten?” Safety first, you told yourself. If he’s not sober there’s no chance you can kiss him, no chance to go further than this.

“Enough to tell you I’m not gonna regret this in the morning.” He was still caught in your arms, and it felt divine to feel the shape of you against him, warm and soft in the chill of an early summer night. His cheeks heated as he added, “Enough to tell you I’ve been thinking about this long before I had those drinks. Long before the party even started.”

Your hand moved to cup his cheek. “I’ve been thinking about this too.”

He wanted to turn around, but he was not entirely proud of how affected he was by the current situation. However he did not fight it when you made him face you, your belly pressing against his, your breath catching in your throat. “I’m sorry— I—”

You shook your head and smiled as you looked down. “You thought about this, that day in the rain?”

“I’ve spent the last four days asking myself where I messed up,” he admitted, purring when you tentatively shifted against him.

Your legs bracketed his, the puzzle of them causing him to hold his breath, then breathe out very slowly. He took a step back, but his arms were looped around you, so he managed to drag you with him until his back was pressed against the wall by the kitchen.

“I thought I was… I thought you didn’t want this. I thought I was projecting my own desire, misreading the look on your face.” You shook your head and chuckled, your exhale caressing his chin.

He licked his lip, then bit it a little and you stared at it, your eyes incapable of ungluing themselves from the glistening of moisture on his pouty mouth, so red, so plump, like ripe cherries. You tempted him, lowering yourself so close, your breath fanning over his lower face, close enough to kiss, yet not crossing the final inch yet.

He whined, “Can’t you tell how much I want you, want this?” He shifted his hips and you both held your breath. “Like I wanted it then?”

Your hands moved to cradle his face, holding him as if he were delicate. “Then I can—?”

He nodded. “Yes.” Then more. “Fuck yes, please.”

You dove for him without hesitation.

Kissing Yoongi must be what scientists feel when they discover some groundbreaking molecule that could cure some half-known disease. It’s revelating.

You’ve been waiting your entire life for this.

The kiss managed to stay innocent for two seconds more. Two seconds too many.

Yoongi groaned against your mouth, then pulled you closer, pressing his hips against yours, then yielded again, maybe ashamed, maybe weakened by the sensation.

You answered his need with your own, picking up where he left off. He gasped against your face, mouth sweetly parted, sloppy against your own, jaw slack as he got lost in sensation.

“If you want to just make out, this is the right moment to tell me,” you advised him, but he shook his head, eyelids hanging half-open.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” you asked, a smile on your lips, so amused at the idea that this intellectual, eloquent, intelligent man had turned wordless in your arms, with his body writhing against your own.

“Some words here and there,” he replied, then tilted his head back in a way that summoned every inch of instinct within you, your face nuzzling against the column of his throat as you started sucking at the side of his neck.

“Like what?”

“Like ‘make out’, and ‘right moment’, and ‘little brat’,” he hummed, then moaned, his hips rolling so softly, so perfectly that you wondered what he would do once undressed against your naked body.

“I didn’t say ‘little brat’,” you pointed out in between a bruise and a kiss.

“Too bad. I must have been dreaming it all.” He hissed as his zipper pressed against him just a tad too hard.

“I could still—” You smirked. “You want me to…” Your hand moved from his waist to his side to his thigh, then went back to his ass, cupping one cheek and pressing him against your hip. You bent to his ear. “You like being talked dirty to?”

He nodded, thankful that you were making sense of him.

“Being told that you’ve been bad?”

He nodded again, feeling heat flush his cheeks further.

You frowned, trying to find the right way to go about this. “That you’ve been driving me crazy? You flirty little demon…”

He smirked and threw his head back, puffing out a desperate little cackle, his brow furrowed. “Please, Sunny, God I’m hating these jeans, love.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise and you kissed him slowly this time, taking your time. Did you want to undress him? Here? In the kitchen?

You shrugged at yourself. “You want to go upstairs or?”

“Don’t care, please, just…”

You considered it for two seconds, then you stopped him, grabbing him by the face. “Okay, let’s be clear. You want me to… be a little harsh?”

He let his eyes roll close, head tipping back as if he couldn’t hold it anymore, resting it against the wall. “Yes. Please, yes.”

“You want me to manhandle you? Get rough?”

“Yes!” he confirmed, his tone definitive.

“Okay, good.” You moved your hands to his wrists, currently at your sides, his hands frozen at your tapered waist, as if not sure where he was allowed to touch. You pinned his hands to the wall, then skillfully twisted your body so that he ended up with his back pressed to your front, his cheek against the wall. “Like this?”

“Yes. Sunny, love, this— Yes.” He was struggling to form sentences. God. He was one lucky mess.

“Is this what you like?” Adrenaline rushed down your spine. God, he was wicked, and perfect, and so, so needy. “Answer me, my cute devil.” You pressed your lips to his ear. “Or do you want me to call you a dirty little freak?” You didn’t feel like cursing out insults at him, but this, all these pretty pet names? This you could do.

And Yoongi seemed to like them as he shivered again, whining, his hips shifting against the wall.

You chuckled, curious, delighted. “Who would have thought pretty, dainty Yoongi wanted this… Because you want this, don’t you?” Apparently, just as much as he wanted this, as much as he was turned on by your rough treatment, your brain was turned on by the fact that he wanted you to administer it. You always thought your shape and build meant that you would always somehow be a challenge to your potential partners, usually aiming at the fit, buff type so that they could handle you. You’d never thought you’d be turned on at the idea of overpowering a smart, lithe, uncharacteristically agile little mouse such as Yoongi. And yet, here you were, soaked against his writhing body as it ricocheted between you and the wall.

“I like this. I like this a— a lot,” he said, panting faintly as you breathed against his ear. “I like you a lot, ____. Please—”

You chuckled. “Oh, you like me? A lot?” Tentatively, you skimmed the shell of his ear with your lips, making him whimper. At the first sign of him breaking, you added the tip of your tongue, causing him to moan outright, his glutes flexing against your pelvis as he tried to find a sliver of pleasure. You wanted to touch him, and he seemed okay with the idea of doing this here and, on top of that it was vaguely turning you on too. “Would you still like me if I put my hand into your jeans and stroked you?”

“I think I’d go insane for you,” he confessed.

“Is that your consent to me giving you a handjob, Yoongi?” You checked, your hands still on neutral ground, one pinning his wrists gently, the other helping you prop yourself up against the wall.

He nodded before speaking, “Yes, I do.”

In a second, your hand left the wall, undoing the buckle of his belt.

“Where the hell did you learn how to undo a belt one-handed,” he mused. He hoped you would shut him up with your lips against his. Unfortunately you didn’t.

“I’m a lowly nurse, right? A nurse needs to know how to work with buckles one-handed. Now will you… finally… stay put?” You asked, finding his cock and squeezing it in a way that made Yoongi’s knees grow weak.

“You’d have half the fun,” he opposed, right as you started stroking him, his tip so wet it was ridiculous. He felt ridiculous.

You blushed as you put on your shameless, steel-spined persona and asked, “What got you so hard, Yoongi?” You took a break, trying to find the words, then let your curiosity out: there was no harshness in your tone, no command, no bitterness, just simple curiosity, soft amusement. “Does it make you hard for a woman to toss you around like her doll? Or do you like being fucked against the wall?” You made your way slow and gentle further down his jeans, finding his balls and squeezing them.

“You’re not fucking me,” he objected with a weak smile. Yet, he was glad that was on the table. “Yet.”

You shook your head, smiling softly, “Yet”. Precious, delicate, charming Yoongi truly loved being treated like an object. How surprising. “What do I need to do to shut your pretty bratty mouth? Maybe keeping it busy between my legs?”

He purred at the prospect.

“Maybe shutting it with my hand?” You felt shame creep to your cheeks, then let the thought out. “Maybe stuffing it with my panties?” You’d seen it once in a picture on an adult website and the image had never left your mind.

He threw his head back. This had to be a dream. A fantasy. You couldn’t be what he’d been dreaming of for years, and at the same time be the gentle, nurturing presence he had known in the last five weeks. “Please,” he begged again, his eyes rolling shut, his hair falling all over the place as his lips disclosed shyly.

This time, of course, you weren’t afraid. You pressed your mouth to his, not without licking his lips first, coaxing his tongue to peak out and lick up against yours.

His sex was hot, hard, and not too big, but definitely big enough to work with. He was pulsating in your hand already, smooth and needy as he thrusted into your fist. You dreamed about him moving inside you, with that fantastic bubble butt you’d eyed more than you’d like or care to admit. He kept moaning and groaning as you carefully stroked him, trying to accompany his movements with your own. You imagined what this could become if you were stroking him with a bit more lubrication, trying to invent a way to make your hand wet without having to part yourself from him.

You pushed his jeans and underwear to his knees, then moved the hand you’d been using to pin his wrists, letting it climb beneath his shirt to massage his chest, his shoulders caving in beautifully as he pressed harder against the fingers currently pinching one of his nipples. You wished you could see the hollow you knew was now carved in between his shoulder blades, but you simply bent your head forward and kissed it from over his shirt, nuzzling your face against it.

“I’m gonna use lube next time, so I can make it even wetter for you,” you mused. “I bet you’re a picky, fussy thing in bed.” You delivered a trail of kisses up his nape. “I’d love learning everything you like.”

He chuckled and admitted, “I’m afraid I won’t be as picky with you.”

“Then I’ll get very specific about new ways to make you come.”

He turned his head to the side so he could see you in the corner of his eye. “I could… spit in your hand?”

You blinked once, twice. “Sure.”

He grabbed the hand in between his legs, brought it to his mouth and pressed the flat of his tongue against the centre of your palm, delivering a wide, sloppy lick. Your hand was salty with his sweat and arousal, but he was too needy to analyse the taste further as he brought your hand back on his erection.

You stroked and his knees buckled, the both of you smirking and exhaling in unison. He held on for ten, maybe twelve commendable seconds, then crumbled adorably with a weak, soft moan.

He ended up spilling into your hand, your palm stroking even when he started shaking. You let him go only when he sobbed for you to stop; yet he turned his face to the side and kissed your chin, then your mouth, sloppily, and whispered, “Actually, keep—” you understood what he meant and resumed the—

“Sunny, love, fuck! Please, fuck!” His knees wobbled and his cock quivered just once, another shy dribble coming out.

You supported him with an arm around his waist, his lithe physique crumbling over you, his head on your shoulder.

“Yes,” he whispered, completely fucked out, so spent and adorably pliable.

You turned him around and held him, letting him rest his cheek on your shoulder. “You okay, Yoongi?”

“Never been better,” he admitted, voice saccharine and exhausted, before he started to stir. “Fuck, I made a mess.”

You shrugged. “All chill, babe.” You stroked the small of his back. “What do you need, Yoongi?”

He shook his head. “Just hold me please, I’m not sure I can stand on my legs,” he admitted before cackling. “I wasn’t expecting this.” Once more he chuckled. “This is kinda embarrassing to me.”

You pressed your cheek to his hair. “I’ve never done something quite like this either.” You drew small circles on his back. “I don’t know what to do. Or what to say.” You nodded to yourself, waiting for something, some sort of signal that you hadn’t just ruined your friendship with him because you caved in to some preternatural instinct to ruin him.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” he asked, hesitating for a second before looking into your eyes. “I want to make you feel good too.” And next, he looked to the floor, his lips flushed in red, his cheeks a deep crimson.

How dare he act shy after challenging you and letting you torture him like that? “You’re fucking impossible.” You grabbed his chin and made him look at you. “Ask it again. Look into my eyes and ask.”

“Fuck me, please.”

As a reward, you pressed your mouth to his, his hand grabbing your wrist and trying to bring it back to his length; however, you tutted and grinned. “Go upstairs, get ready. I’ll fix the mess you made on me and the floor.”

He puckered his lips and chased your mouth, holding you by your elbow. “Are we okay?”

You kissed him again, reassuring him. “We’re okay. I just need to see you come maybe three times more. Or maybe nine.”

He snickered. “So we’re cool with the idea of this being not platonic, like… at all?”

You stopped mid-breath. “I think this stopped being platonic the day I realised I ran because I wanted to kiss you so bad.”

“I thought you ran because you didn’t like me.” He didn’t care about his softening dick being out and covered in his release. He had more pressing matters at the moment, like your confession.

“I ran because I wanted to press you up against the wall and make out with you and cover your neck in hickeys—”

“Seems like a great idea to me. I’m into that,” he admitted, acting pragmatic.

You smiled mischievously. “Go upstairs and we can make that happen.”

“I need convincing,” he purred, haughty.

The hand that had taken care of him so proficiently was still covered in his slick, and how convenient that was now. Lowering his trousers efficiently, you hit his left ass cheek, a wet squelching sound echoing in the kitchen. As he moaned, you shook your head, grinning just in time as he did. “I’ll give you more if you go upstairs and get all ready for me.”

He pouted and covered himself while you went to rinse your hands and grab a cloth. You marvelled at how, after maybe three or four visits at his house, you could move around so easily. Five minutes and the kitchen was clean, you heading up the stairs, following the mellow music coming from a room barely lit.

There were a couple candles around the room, the smell of vanilla and bourbon drifting around freely, the mild orange halos of the flames contrasting with the full moon just out of the window.

Yoongi was laying on the sheets, as lazy as a white Persian cat, stretched like a hedonist king. His hair melted into the darkness, and his eyes glimmered, dark and luscious, like black magnets, his skin pale, diaphanous and opaque like almond milk.

He wasn’t naked yet, his white underwear the only hint that his skin tone is not the palest.

You stopped by the threshold of his room, and stared at him like you’d never seen him before, never seen a man before, and from the reaction of your body ou do wonder if any of your previous partners really made sense, if you really should have slept with them considering how you are now burning for Yoongi.

You kissed him tonight for the first time, you didn’t have the time to adjust from a platonic to a romantic or outright erotic disposition, and yet this feels the most natural, to the point that you question whether it’s always been desire right from the start.

“Why are you standing there,” he asked, a gentle smile on his face.

“You’re pretty to look at,” you admitted, with a little shake of your head and a helpless smile.

He laughed shyly. “As much as I like being looked at, I have more pressing necessities at the moment.” He rose to his knees, moving closer to the edge of the bed. “Come, it’s your turn.”

You took a couple steps towards him, studying him some more. His chest was fairer than fair, the pink of his nipples perfectly matching the shade of his lips. It felt poetic to say the least. The shape of his torso made you think of Greek statues, balanced, lithe, mythological.

“You know, you seem very tempting,” you told him, suddenly deprived of thoughts, words, just pure instinct left.

“Why are you resisting, then.”

He lured you in, like a mermaid, like an exotic, mesmerising bird of paradise.

He cupped his palms around your waist and pulled you closer, making you kneel on the bed in front of him. “I’m going to dream of you in this dress.”

“I’m going to dream of you up against that wall,” you countered.

“Lovely to feel reciprocated.” His hand grazed your thigh, lifting the hem of your breezy sundress. “This colour makes you look unreal.” He skimmed the outside of your leg, his lashes lowered, his lips agape as he breathed in through his mouth. “LIke you just came out of seafoam.” HIs index finger continued its path upwards, stopping at the frilly hem of your panties.

You exhaled slowly, your breath trembling. Despite being trained to act even during utmost emergencies, actual life-or-death situations, you can’t operate through Yoongi’s touch flooding your system with adrenaline and arousal.

“Are you going to taste like seafoam too?” he said, tracing the hem of your underwear, inquisitive, shifting towards the inside of your thigh, venturing where your heat grew feverish, your core melting and dripping into the fabric. “Like saltwater, here?”

The noise rumbling out of your throat was not entirely human and absolutely, not even remotely, coherent.

He brushed his knuckle against the apex of your labia, which made you respond with a full body shiver, your torso tipping forward before you stabilised yourself with a hand pressed to his shoulder, your palm clammy, your grip urgent at first, then more controlled.

“You’re so immensely beautiful, Sunny,” he whispered with awe, and that is the last thing you see before you let your eyes roll shut, overwhelmed by sensation, by pleasure.

“Can I?” he asked, waiting at your threshold, lingering where the fabric of your panties wears thin and humid.

You nodded, almost mindlessly, your eyes still closed.

“Look me in the eye, Sunny. Show me you want this. Tell me,” he urged you.

When your gaze does meet his, you’re caught in it, like black holes calling you to him, any chance of escape now useless, vain. “Please.”

“Please what,” he murmurs, teasing.

“Touch me, please,” you reply, almost immediately.

“Where?”

“There,” you whine, your voice thin. “Be— between my legs.” The words stammer out of you, and Yoongi rewards you with a flirty smile, tongue peaking out.

“You mean here,” he says, saccharine and yet dark, like molasses.

“Under,” you whisper, tortured by the fact that the barrier of your panties is still there, between his fingers and your feverish skin.

All patience thrown out of the window, you grab his hand, place it right where you want it, beneath the fabric, and sigh once you finally get exactly what you needed.

Yoongi smiles, licking his lips before noting, “just as wet as I’d hoped.”

But the words don’t register: you are already out of this galaxy, eyes unseeing, ears unhearing, your mouth agape in a perfectly round shape, of which Yoongi takes ample advantage.

He traces the rim of your lips with his free hand, then debates whether to slip his fingers inside your mouth. A few shallow gasps tell him enough of what he wanted the most.

“I want to hear you, my little star.” The pet name coerces a whine from your throat. “Won’t you moan for me?”

You do. Of course you do, and Yoongi nods, pleased with himself. “Good girl,” he rewards you, his tone calm and deep, soothing. “The moment I saw you, I thought I was having visions.”

You gasp as he becomes more liberal with his touch: you’d manoeuvred him into touching you, but now he’s doing that unprompted, all on his own will.

“And now you’re here, like dripping sunlight on my bed,” he says, reverently, rapt.

You moan his name and nod, engorged in the shallow gasps of your throat and the silky wet warmth of your core, where his fingers slide in and out, slow, accurate, thorough.

Your hand cups the side of his neck, your eyes desperate as you hold his gaze, imploring him to subside the fire burning down your spine, melting your core and climbing back up with electric shivers across your entire back.

“Kiss me,” you ask, your voice fragile and hoarse.

He stares at your lips, licks his own and observes the wet pink of your tongue as your mirror neurons respond, mimicking him wetting his lips.

This time, he does slip the flat of his thumb in your mouth, watching and craving the way your mouth closes around him, your eyes rolling shut, then your jaw going slack as a clever twist of his other hand catches you by surprise and coerces a broken plea from you. Pleasure burst from you like a pinched balloon, startling you with the unexpectedness.

And Yoongi watches.

He studies you, the way your hips buckle wild over his hand, the way you grip his forearm and push him deeper, until you can feel him pushing against the rim of your cervix, hard and deep where all your nerve endings seem to meet.

It feels like drifting on the surface of the ocean, deprived of all thought, the overwhelming completeness of the universe surrounding you, transforming you into nothing but a recipient of all the sensation the world can offer. A sentient being: the most simple definition of life.

And right now, with Yoongi coaxing every drop of pleasure from you, you are made of pure life. You are radiant and wide-open and all-encompassing. He stares at you, at the look in your eyes, the heaving of your chest.

He nods to himself, so many things making sense all at once. Of course, we reproduce through sex. How can you be so full of life without it eventually spilling out of you?

He gawks your reddened lips, cheeks and chest, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We should get you out of this dress,” he said, dragging his face down the side of your neck, reaching the base of it, nibbling at your collarbone as he starts undoing the buttons. “You’re made of fucking sunshine, Sunny. Sunshine and seawater,” he says reverently.

You’re not sure this is actually happening. You must be hallucinating, because Yoongi pushes aside the front of your dress with his teeth and mouth, then repeats the motion to the strap of your bra, nudging it with his nose, sending electric zings through your shoulder, all the way down your arm, until the thrill reaches your fingertips. And just as you’ve come to terms with him kissing your neck, your chest, your collarbones and your shoulders, his mouth reaches your now bare breast, the precious petals of his lips pillowing your nipple.

He makes quick, wicked eye contact with you before he turns wickeder still, and starts sucking.

You groan a very unfeminine sound, but you’re both too far gone to mock your reaction.

He’s undone the rest of your buttons, and you shrug off your dress, his hands urgently sliding to your back, then pressing to your ribs, pulling you closer to him, to his mouth. He hums in pleasure, his hair caressing your skin like dark silk. You reposition yourself so that your thighs bracket his, and the way your hips and his immediately start a game of tug-of-war drives you insane. It’s like you’ve been training your entire life to make this work, like you’ve always known this, you just needed him to unlock this part of yourself.

You begin to grind against his leg, the friction of his thigh against your clothed core just perfect.

“Perfect,” he says, as if reading your mind, hissing as his sex too finds just the right stimulation against your soft navel. His movements, the slow strokes, pull you even closer to the edge of your entire world. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this before with any other man, be he fictional or real. “You feel divine, Sunny. You feel like Sunday morning.” He grabs the back of your head, nudges into your hair, inhales you, and he seems so lost in you it’s almost poetic. “You feel like sunshine, and breeze and…”

You grip his hair, pull him from the crook of your neck and stare at him, breathless and unfocused. And you just kiss him.

He’s harmless in your arms. Entirely incapable of anything but kissing you. His arms fall at his sides, his hips halt, his mouth is the only moving part of him. He’s like a leaf drifting in your currents, and little does he know the tide has just turned.

You unhook your own bra, take his hands in yours and place them against your breasts, that are now tender with pent-up pressure. You both gasp in the kiss as his palms, soft and silky, make contact with your skin. The way he fondles you feels like second nature. He’s made of nothing but instinct and will, he feels like an arrow, tracing the fastest, most effective way to go from where he is to where you need him to be.

And no matter how much you’re loving your current predicament, you know you need more. You need him inside. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you pull him down with you, drag him on top of you, the kiss undisturbed, uninterrupted. “Naked, please, inside,” you whisper, the urgency in your voice leaving him stunned.

He’s just so pliant. You’re pretty sure that if you asked him to throw himself off a cliff he would, as long as you’d kiss him at the bottom of it.

Yoongi rocks his hips against you, and you both moan, a little lost. That’s when you realise his underwear feels a little bit damp where his tip rests, and that renews your motivation. You roll him over, rising above him, and he’s stunned, staring at your hair.

“Lift it up for me, love,” you tell him, and you’re not sure where all this agency is coming from, but you know you have a list of things you’re going to regret not doing to him — another surprising aspect of what you feel for him.

He arches his hips off the bed, obeying your request, and you slip his boxers off him. And he’s so perfect. Crouching down and tasting him is the first thing that comes to your mind and you don’t even question it. You bend down and you do.

He moans, and you regret not getting the sound recorded.

“Come up here… You’re gonna make a sorry mess of me, Sunny,” he says, and it comes out so embarrassed, and so entertained too. “Let me please you, ____. I’m begging, sweetheart.”

You keep working him lightly, with little touches and small licks, and gentle nudges, your lips drawing his length, your teeth brushing against his flesh as softly as a lover’s whisper. But as you do all that, you slip your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and drag the fabric off your hips, down your thighs, till it reaches your knees, then you readjust yourself so that you can remove the garment entirely.

“Is this the right moment to tell you I’ve done this just once?” He asks.

You freeze. “What?”

“I know, I was very poorly adapted to society. I’m not… I’m not entirely sure I know how this works.”

You frown, but nod anyway. “Okay. This is definitely not going to last, but I’ll make it good. I promise.”

Yoongi bites his lip, again, an embarrassed and amused expression on his fine face. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will,” you reassure him, taking his hand in yours and kissing his palm. And then you place yourself astride him. “But I’m staying on top just to keep you rooted.”

“Thanks,” he says with a chuckle. He looks entirely adorable. You want to eat him, just for a quick second, like a cotton candy bunny.

You’re also sure you don’t want to stretch. You just want to grind and take him inch by inch, using him to ready yourself, feeling your body adapt to him.

When you grip him, he hisses, but refuses to stop watching. The first three inches feel like the most brilliant decision you’ve ever taken, and you move on them for a bunch of seconds, then nod to yourself.

All the way. That��s what you want, and the realisation dawns on you like the first day of summer.

You let yourself slide on him until your butt rests on his hips.

You both exhale with the wonder of those who finally discover the world was built in Technicolor after a life in black-and-white.

“Fuck. Condom. Forgot,” he says through gritted teeth.

“If you’re clean then—”

“Used it that one time,” he reassures you.

“Fuck, good,” you swear, and it is uncharacteristic of you, but he’s making you see stars. He’s thick and blunt inside you, so hot and smooth and his flesh has the perfect give. When you squish him, your inner muscles responding to the divine feel of him inside you, the poor boy hums a long, restrained sound that culminates in a tender gasp. His mouth is wide, his eyes squeezed shut instead. “This… this is what it must feel like,” he whispers.

“Yes, when you’re lucky,” you confess before rolling your hips, making him drag along the most sensitive spot of your inner walls.

“I know I’m lucky. I feel very fucking lucky, Sunny.” His hips jolt and you squeak at the sudden bump, the thrust making you tighten around him. “Dammit, that’s what you do when I push inside you?”

You nod, a roguish smirk on your lips.

He cradles your hips and then holds you still, pushing once again inside you. This time it’s deliberate and thorough, as if he’s searching the right angle, friction, direction. And when he sees your jaw fall, your lips agape, he nods to himself, and repeats the movement, intentful.

You squeeze him, not entirely coherent, and this time the both of you lose reason a little.

It becomes mechanic, natural, a push and pull that requires no thinking and all moving.

“I think I’m close,” he says. “Are you?”

You frown, because you are actually close, but quite surely not as close as he is. “Close, but it’s okay if—

He slips all the way out this time and moves his hand so that his thumb can dip between your folds, tracing the cleft that runs from your entrance to the turgid bud of nerves at the top of your sex.

You moan his name in warning. “This you’ve done more than once, though.” The devil’s in the details and there are only so many details you can know before you’re entirely damned: from the way he’s touching you, you’re probably both destined for a very hot circle in hell. There’s no way you can do this just once, no way you’re going to do this in the quiet. You just let yourself moan, and he chuckles, but the sound is filled with awe.

“If I could bottle the sound, I’d get drunk on it,” he murmurs, and that seems to justify the way he looks barely sober now — nothing to do with the drinks he had at the beach earlier. This one is entirely your own doing.

You lower your hips so that you can grind against his shaft, while his fingers keep working you leisurely.

“I thought I’d done enough of it, but that was before you,” he says. “You feel like warm butter, Sunny. Like damn velvet.”

“I need—”

“Inside. Yes, I know,” he whispers. His tone is knowing, and it clashes with his admitted inexperience.

“How do you know?”

“Because I fucking need inside you too,” is his only explanation. “Or you can make me come this way,” he suggests, “Watch me ruin myself. Bet you’d get high from my utter humiliation.”

You shake your head a little, and bite your lip. The picture he’s painted in your head has nothing to do with humiliation. “It wouldn’t be that. It would be the hottest, sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Then bring it home, love,” he tells you with the flirtiest smile on his face.

So you pick up your pace, focus a little bit more on his tip and reach behind you to cup the rest of him. You slide the head of his dick inside you, work it with shallow, slow strokes, which makes him hiss.

He doesn’t know how he finds the strength, but he manages to pull out just half a second before he reaches his orgasm. Just half a second of rationality before he loses himself entirely.

And you know he’s let go: you can tell by the way his head tips back and he grunts in a way that doesn’t sound like him at all. It makes you shed your skin a little, and you allow yourself out of your shell. You ride him, hips swivelling like never before. You feel like water, and it seems absurd that no matter how much swimming, how much surfing, or how much sailing you’ve done in your life: you’ve never felt this fluid, this liquid before. You’re pure movement, and Yoongi can’t help but stare as you dance on top of him, like rain, like waves, like waterfalls.

You grab at your chest, squeeze your breasts and pinch your nipples as you ride him, your hair like a halo, dancing with your movements. His own hands join yours and you bend forward, pressing yourself against his palm.

He’s still spilling himself under you, his orgasm reaching his stomach and his chest. It’s messy, and yet you’re entirely fascinated by it. You can feel his sex twitch and release itself against your folds, and you marvel at how sensitive your bodies can grow.

It’s with his final thrusts that you finally reach the apex of your pleasure, and you part from him just quick enough to slide him inside you, his hiss going unnoticed as you finally, finally squeeze around him and there you go, tumbling down into pleasure, your downfall glorious and ruinous at the same time.

You want him as close as you can and you just throw your body onto his, taking him to the hilt, gasping at how marvellous it is to be so full, to be this close, this uniquely twined with someone. It is not a tidy or poetic moment, your perspiration and his release mixing together on your and his chest as you embrace. You stare at each other, stupefied by the animalistic nature of your joining, both wide-eyed and desperate. And then you kiss him, like it’s the most obvious answer to this all.

“Are you alright,” you ask him once the kiss fades out, and he nods, his hands caressing the sides of your face, cradling it.

“I’m sure that thing you did when you pulled me back in killed me once or twice,” he confesses. “But overall, I’ve never been better.”

His humour steals a chuckle from you. “I’m sorry about the mess,” you say, apologetic.

He shakes his head with a mischievous smile on his face. “Sit up, Sunny. I have plans.”

You frown, not sure about his intentions. Does he mean ‘plans’ as in the sense that he needs you to leave?

You try to roll off him, a little upset, but he holds you still as soon as he realises you weren’t moving in the right direction. “No. Stay on top, just sit up, love.”

Your frown is still all out, but you do as he asks you. And right then you notice his eyes drifting down your torso, from your sticky, messy chest to your sticky, messy sex.

He brings his hands to the side of your breasts, pushing them together, looks deep into your eyes as he sits up himself, the shift in the angle of him inside you making you gasp. He holds your gaze until he can’t anymore, then dives with his face for your chest, the mess transferring from your boobs to his cheeks. And once he starts licking and sucking, once you feel him twitch inside you, you know the night has just begun.

“Guess this means you’re ready for your third time?” you say, teasing and gleeful.

“After all, they do say ‘third time’s the charm’,” he quips.

And boy, oh boy, aren’t they just right.

September is no longer terrifying. Not as you and Yoongi glide across the linoleum floor of Juniper Hall, his friends — maybe yours too, at this point — stare at you from the refreshment table. The Winery Ball is splendid, as usual, the true event of the end of the season, the closing of another cycle. The Orchard organises it each year, giving a chance for the members of the retirement home to celebrate one evening with their families, but also a way to keep them occupied through the final days of summer, and a kind initiative to include them in the social life of their community. Socially, but also creatively, is one of the best examples of Honeycomb Cove.

Somewhere around the room, Hoseok was also dancing with his now-girlfriend, and you could hear Seokjin’s shrill laughter as he listened to his partner’s winded and absurd stories, her sarcastic — though wildly entertaining — rants.

In another corner of the room, the brightest one, with an arm lamp, Laura was working at a new cardigan in Yoongi’s favourite shade of lavender. She’d become entirely smitten with the guy, and he often visited to keep her company; however, you also suspected he came around to hang out with you, and just maybe to hear some of your childhood stories. Marvin had yet to come to terms with the fact that you were now very happily taken, but his nephew was very glad the matchmaking shenanigans had to come to a much-needed halt. After all, Marvin liked Yoongi very much, and he liked live music even more than that. He was secretly glad you’d found such a perfect match for yourself, though he would never admit that publicly.

Still, the person who enjoyed the music the most was Orla: she and Yoongi had bonded almost immediately, and he did love spending time with her the most. They spoke a little Portuguese together every now and then, and she was becoming rather committed to the idea of reaching a little more fluency before ‘laying to rest for good’, as she said. Yoongi’s eyes would always glow glossy at the way Orla would talk about her declining health and what was left of her lifespan, but the cloud of melancholy would always drift by quickly, and his eyes would light up in determination as he fought to keep her entertained for just one more day.

Like so, your life had changed forever, and in the span of one summer, you had entered a new season in your life, one that would one day lead probably to marriage, and a family. A dog. Kids too, if you were so blessed. Or maybe you would just adopt — both you and Yoongi were rather open to the idea of that.

But first, marriage: you had both been on the same page about that, and he hadn’t made it a secret he had every intention of keeping the engagement rather short.

You stared at your hand, resting on his shoulder as you swayed to the music, his gentle samba playing from the speakers, the sound so familiar as the first time he’d played it for you in his home studio, the melody reminding you of every walk by the rising sun, of every wave crashing at your feet on the shore, of music by the fireplace, of stars making his hair glitter like the ocean at midnight, of making love in the deep quiet of the night, when you knew each other not by sight, but by touch and taste alone.

He’d given you Beatrice’s ring earlier tonight: a bright yellow crystal surrounded by exquisite smaller stones, forming a star. He’d put it on your middle finger, then kissed your palm before he said, “We’ll move it on the right finger when you’re ready.” He’d been confident, and calm and trusting, and you’d felt like the time was right, then and there, but you decided to be considerate, and see how winter would play out. You would return to the Orchard full time in just ten days, but you felt excited, with your truck in Yoongi’s driveway and your scrubs and your knitting supplies waiting for you at his place, in a wardrobe he’d fixed for you.

He’d made you move in with him a month after that first night, with the excuse of making you save on rent, and the promise of letting you split the bills, since you would have felt too much of a freeloader otherwise.

Truth is, he paid the bills in full, and kept your money on the side, just in case you would need it someday — but that’s not something you needed to know yet, and he kept his little secret with a little smugness.

“Have I touched on the subject of how much I love you in this dress tonight?” Yoongi said as his fingers lowered into the low scoop of the back of your dress, chastely caressing the naked skin at the small of your back.

“I know for sure you have elaborated on how much you love me with no clothes on, but the part with my dress on no, you actually haven’t mentioned,” you replied, fond, but also quippish.

You’re rather fond of all the ways your inside jokes have lined up, with the way you’ve found a common sense of humour, and with how sensitive, how aligned you’ve become with each other.

“I guess I have some shortcomings to make up for,” he conceded.

“You can start by saying how much you love him.”

“Oh, an easy one, thank you,” he said before caressing your face, his palm cupping your chin before his lips landed on yours, light and loving. “I love you as wide as the sky, and as deep as the ocean,” he declared, with that little lull in his voice. He’d told you Antonio would always tell Beatrice so before resting his lips on her forehead, holding her. And a few weeks later, he’d barged in the kitchen as you were cooking, excited like a little kid on Christmas morning.

“Found it! I found it!” he’d cheered. He’d dragged you to the living room, where a pile of VHS towered dangerously on top of the coffee table. He grabbed the remote, and rewinded the tape just a little. “Here,” he’d said, his voice elated. He’d held you tight, like you were his teddy bear, his comfort blanket, his lifeline. And with his chin resting over your shoulder, his arms wrapped snugly around you, you’d both faced the screen and he’d pressed play.

The voice that came on was soft, like the sound of wind gushing through the branches of osmanthus trees in the garden. And there was the lull of that declaration, by now so familiar to your ears. With the same pattern of stresses, the same intonation, Antonio proclaimed his love to Beatrice on the occasion of their tenth anniversary, both dressed in white, both crowned in flowers, both barefoot in the garden. Right there, the declaration, like an oath and like a children's rhyme.

“And I will love you true, always. As wide as the sky. As deep as the ocean.”

Your and Yoongi’s eyes had sparkled with unshed tears that night, as you stood there, years after that video had been shot on a cheap camera. It felt powerful, being testimony to a love like that, long gone from the world, but still alive in the memory, and in Yoongi’s very existence.

And now swaying in an improvised ballroom, not barefoot yet — but sometimes soon, with a priest and matching rings and emotional friends — you looked at Yoongi and replied, just as Beatrice had, “As bright as the sun, as soft as the moon.”

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! If you want to know more about this collab, you can head over here!!!

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