#trashlibrary

[mapofthesea]

ceos!rapline x reader, fem!reader, poly!rapline, bi!rapline

genre: smut (pwp), fluff

word count: 6.1k 

summary: having three ceo boyfriends comes with its perks- namely the financial freedom to pursue your artistic talents and always getting the jewelry you ask for- but like everything, your luxuries come at a price. 

a price that just so happens to be arriving in their office to satisfy them at every call.

warnings: this is SMUT! They're all fucking, okay? Everyone is also very in love, rapline are little bi babies. Swearing and tension (related to business things that have the boys pent up), they are all sickeningly in love. Specific smut warnings include: dom!rapline x sub!reader, dirty talk, intentional voyeurism, praise and degradation, oral (m and f receiving), spanking, spitting, hair pulling, grinding (in several varieties), technically public sex but behind closed doors, unprotected sex (hey, don’t do this irl), anal play, double penetration, multiple orgasms, cum eating, overstimulation, aftercare ofc!

an: hi, I’m back to write about the nasty things I dream about sometimes. This one is pretty intense so please read the warnings above carefully, and as always if you're under 18 or uncomfortable with the content pleaseeee do not read it. I do not proofread so if there are typos I apologize! (ps the title is inspired by one of my favorite songs about sex, so do yourself a favor and listen to Natural by The Driver Era if you haven’t!)

“I don’t fucking think I approved that!” Namjoon growls into his phone. You can feel the anger coming off of him in waves as he grips the device in his veiny hand. You admire him for a second; the set line of his jaw, the sexy furrow of his brow. Whoever is on the other side of the conversation speaks rapidly again, likely apologizing, and yours ears strain to catch any context. 

You only get to focus for a few seconds before Namjoon’s stare slides to you. His eyebrow raises and you know immediately what he wants. The carpet is beginning to pinch into your knees anyway so you’re glad for the imminent distraction. 

You were in the middle of a new painting when he called you to his office; hands flecked with dry paint and still in yesterdays’ pajamas but you dropped everything and rushed over. It had been like that as long as you could remember- you more than happy to be at your boyfriends’ beck and call as you got to reap the benefits of their job status. It didn't always end up like this when you visited but there’s no denying the spark of pleasure that rides up your spine as Namjoon silently commands you from above. 

He’s already hard beneath his work pants; the expensive silky material stretching around his impressive length. You clench your naked thighs together and pull on his waistband to undo the button and slide down the metal fly. He offers you nothing but a tick of his jaw as you work and the idea drives you crazy, hips rocking uselessly against the air. 

He sighs, and you can’t tell if it's because of the phone call or because you’ve wrapped your delicate hand around his length, tugging at him gently until you have a firm grasp on the base. 

You’ve done this enough to know that getting right to work will get you what you need faster, and there’s no denying how much you love sucking his cock. 

The head is leaking salty precum and you fight the urge to moan as you lick at it and sample his familiar taste. Wetness pools between your legs and your eyes roll back as you gather more of him in your throat. The stretch is pleasant and grounding; familiar enough that you feel an odd sense of peace wash over you as you swallow around his thickness. 

He drops a hand to your hair to push it away from your eyes, gently tucking the pieces behind your ears. You smile around your mouthful of his cock. Saliva dribbles from your lips into your lap and you flush as if the reality of your situation had just hit. Namjoon ruts his hips, clearly unhappy with your pausing, and you double down. It doesn’t take long for the sounds to become overwhelming, the lewd squelching of your tongue working over his cock that you hope can't be heard over the phone. 

“Is that my job? Or is that not exactly what I fucking hired you to do? I pay you way too much for you to be so god damn stupid.” The venom in Namjoon’s voice makes your head spin. Although the words aren't directed at you, the serious tone of his voice is so familiar that your pussy hums and your hips rock forward desperately; searching for the friction your plush thighs can't provide. 

You whine, hoping to draw his attention enough that he'll end the call, but he just shakes his head and taps his foot. Tears of frustration brim hot behind your eyes and his soften just a bit, pointedly glancing down between your thighs where his foot continues to tap. You pull off of his cock, wiping your mouth as you recollect yourself and try to put together the pieces he’s offering to you. He must read your confusion because he tangles his hand in your hair anew, angling your head down to look below yourself. 

His foot; clad in an expensive, shiny leather boot stares back at you. He taps it again, and your head swims. Is he suggesting what you think he is? Hot anticipation strikes your veins as he speaks again. 

“You’re right. That’s what I want you to do.” You know he's still on the call; as he still only uses one hand to guide you back to his cock, but the double edged meaning of the sentences affirms you. 

Your head spins and speeds up all at the same time as you lower yourself enough that you can keep some of his cock in your mouth at the same time your pussy grazes the material of his shoe. 

It's cold and firm, and your mind goes blank as you rut against it. He flexes his foot to adjust the pressure against your clit and you go wild, heart pounding in your chest as you speed up. Out of all the debauched things you’d done in your life of dating your boyfriends, grinding against shoes worth more than your car payment is near the top of the list. Your stomach tightens with every drag and you’ve all but abandoned sucking his cock; just holding it in the warmth of your mouth as you let out pathetic little moans. 

Your orgasm approaches rapidly, punctuated when you look down to see how your juices leave a shiny, sticky trail over his boot. Your heart stammers and you can feel your oncoming release only seconds away when a loud, reverberating bang ruptures your focus. Namjoon’s cock falls completely out of your mouth as you squeak, but your body is so close to the edge of pleasure that you hips keep moving shamelessly. You have no idea who or what just came into his office; but you can't find it in yourself to give a shit. 

“Oh, fuck! I’m coming,” you grip Namjoon’s pant leg and mouth at the fabric as you bear your weight completely on his shoe and rock yourself to completion. 

White flashes behind your eyes and you shiver, clinging to his strong thigh as tears of relief leak from your eyes. 

“Well this is a pleasant surprise,” Yoongi’s husky voice comes with the gentle touch of his fingers brushing your sweaty hair off of your neck. 

“Yoongi!” You keen, leaning into the touch, still a bit too frazzled to move. Namjoon takes the moment to tease his boot back against your clit and you cry out, hips twitching away from him with a whine. 

“Sensitive, honey?” Hoseok calls, and although you knew he was likely there, the confirmation makes you flush. You turn slowly, unearthing your face from Namjoon’s thigh. 

You can't help but feel worshipped under their gaze. Hoseok is staring openly at your ass, admiring the curve created by your squatted position and you’re sure the sheen of your arousal is shining on the insides of your thighs for him. Yoongi  is closer, kneeling just a few inches away from you on the carpet and you smile, practically falling into his warm embrace. He catches you easily and hums. 

“We didn’t know you were here, love. But you made quite the entrance.” His teasing only reignites the fire inside of you; already ready for whatever other plans the trio might have for you. Yoongi has his hand on your ass in a split second, groping the flesh and spreading you open to the groan of approval from Namjoon. 

The sound of his voice reminds you of his abandoned cock and you glance back at him from Yoongi’s embrace. His cock is slick with your spit and flushed angry red at the tip. 

“Sorry, Joonie.” You pout at his state and his cock twitches in response; prompting him to grab it and give himself a sharp tug. Your mouth waters at the sight and you long to have him in your mouth again, but Yoongi tugs you back to him when you start to move. 

“He can wait.” The dominating current in Yoongi’s voice makes you immediately pliant, lurching forward as his fingers ghost along your sodden pussy. You keen, pressing your breasts into him as your back arches. His chest rumbles with a satisfied hum, and it’s near impossible to miss the feeling of him hardening beneath you. 

You catch sight of Hoseok, who had made quick work of shedding his suit jacket and button down top. His tanned skin glows luminous; the light dusting of hair on his lower stomach tempting you to lick your lips. His belt hangs half undone from the loops; the silver clasp reflecting the light in Namjoon’s office. You reach for him with cute grabby hands and he fights an endeared smile as he strides over to you. Yoongi presses a kiss into the space where your neck and shoulder meet before he surprisingly relinquishes you. 

Hoseok pulls your body upward as if you weigh nothing. He steadies you with a curl of his fingers around your bare hip and you shiver at the delicate touch. Long ago, he made a habit of tracing the delicate silvery threads of your stretch marks- mapping the part of you which used to make you shy away from his affection. Now you lean into the touch readily and he smiles to coax the dimples out from his cheeks. 

“Pretty baby,” his eyes search your own before he kisses the tip of your nose, the cleft of your upper lip, the corner of your mouth...everywhere except your lips. Immediately you pout at him, trying to entice another smooch out of him with the pitiful look. A smirk that makes your stomach roll follows, punctuated by the mischief in his warm brown eyes. 

“You want a kiss?” His voice strikes low and hot through your abdomen. You can feel the ghost of his lips just centimeters from your own and you shiver, nipples standing to attention. 

It’s such an odd feeling to anticipate a kiss from someone you’ve been kissing for so long. You’re no stranger to Hoseok’s tricks; the way he and your other boyfriends relish in watching you squirm as they make you wait for the simple pleasure of your lips meeting their own, but you take solace in knowing that at the end of the day they’re just as affected as you. 

Hoseok is craving this kiss just as much as you are as your heart rate spikes; dreaming of the cosmic feeling that will be born from this quite simple delay. You feel him exhale against your face and only then do you realize your eyes had fluttered shut. You snap them open, eager to watch the moment when he leans in. He smiles, showing off his row of perfect teeth; and then promptly sinks to the ground in front of you.

An affronted gasp falls from your lips before you can stop it. Namjoon laughs heartily behind you, and it only takes a second before he’s blessing your line of sight-finally rid of all the pesky layers of clothes that were hiding him. 

Namjoon is nothing if not disciplined, and his recent forays to the gym have certainly been paying off. His biceps look absolutely delectable, and its impossible to miss the tantalizing trail of muscle that has begun to form at his pelvis, encouraging you to look further to the cock you were forced to abandon earlier. You still itch for him-always itch for him, for all of them- but he seems unbothered by the weight of his stiffened cock for the moment. 

Hoseok’s hair tickles at your upper thigh and you stutter a moan. Seated so perfect and handsome below you, Hoseok has wasted no time in pulling his dress pants down just enough that his cock greets you. It’s hard and weeping, creating a dark stain on the light gray pants he had laid out on the dresser last night. 

“Hobi,” you whine at the sight of him eyeing you from his place on the floor. He raises a playful eyebrow and nods, as to encourage your words. 

“What’s up?” He asks, tracing his fingers along the insides of your slick thighs, never close enough to where you actually need him. “I don’t know what you need if you don’t tell me.” 

Your clit throbs under his words- despite their gentle nature you know he’s not kidding. He really would sit here all night, waiting for you to ask for him to dive into your pussy. Fortunately, he's not the only voice in the room. 

“Fuck,” Yoongi growls, stalking over to the pair of you. His cologne engulfs you as he circles your body like a well trained predator. Now naked, the contrast of his bright red hair strikes even more bold against his milky skin. 

“Little one is clearly too dumb to talk to us today...” his eyes are cool and calculating of your trembling figure. His elegant hands flex as he rounds you again, taking claim at the top of Hoseok’s head. You can feel the man’s breath stutter against your thigh at the touch and it’s oddly comforting to know that all of you are in the same boat of overwhelming attraction to one another. 

Yoongi tuts, throwing a glance over his shoulder to Namjoon, who seems happy to just be watching for the moment, occasionally stroking himself to the show. Your breasts heave with every breath of anticipation. 

“What’s her little pussy telling you, Hobi?” Yoongi’s dangerous gaze slides down between your legs as Hoseok pulls your thighs apart. Happily you spread them just enough that he can get an eyeful of your sodden core. 

Despite having just come a few moments ago you’re more than ready for more- slick with your own arousal and feeling wired to come at the slightest touch. 

“Telling me she’s lonely...” his voice takes on a whining edge and you agree with a moan of your own, nodding rapidly. 

“And what should we do about that?” Yoongi hums. It takes you embarrassingly long to realize he's asking you. There are options here, you know, but the glint in Yoongi’s eye tells you there’s an answer he would be more partial to at the moment. 

“Your tongue,” the word stutters out of you. Yoongi smirks, runs his fingers over his top lip as if in thought. 

“Mine?” 

Your brain short circuits and you’re immediately shaking your head yes, and then no. His brows furrow as a genuine concern breaks his indifferent mask. You swallow around the lump in your throat. 

“Wan’ you and Hobi. Please?” Hoseok moans, and you’re sure that he’s stroking himself as you play this little game with Yoongi. 

Yoongi’s grin returns tenfold. “My needy little slut, huh? Just one can never be enough for that pussy. Always need more, and more.” You expect him to nudge Hoseok aside for room, but instead he circles you once more before sinking to his knees behind you. 

His hot breath ghosts against your ass and your mind instantly runs wild with realization. Your eyes must grow wide because Namjoon coos at you just before the tongues comes to life. 

Hoseok, who had clearly been waiting long enough, takes no preamble and dives right into your pussy, forcing your legs further apart. His tongue immediately presses against your clit, pulsing the nerves with little teasing flicks. Yoongi quickly follows suit, latching his mouth around your entrance and sucking. The room spins with pleasure and your thighs are already shaking before a minute has passed. Your hips have nowhere to go to escape the sensations, and Hoseok and Yoongi’s insistence on pushing further into you means that you can feel their tongues meeting in the middle; overlapping one another with the same fervor as a heated kiss. 

You can't help but look down your body, trying to catch any glimpse of the men working you over with their tongues. Hoseok’s full head of hair blocks your sight  slightly, but through the gaps of his limbs you see a slender, pale hand wrapped around his cock. It’s only now you realize Yoongi only has one hand anchored to your hip, the other presently preoccupied around Hoseok’s cock. You watch him run his thumb over the slit, collecting Hoseok’s sticky pearlescent precum before giving him several languid strokes in the same rhythm his tongue prods you open.

The sight is so erotic that tears spring forward as your hands flail, unsure of whose head to grasp. Your orgasm is just inches away, and you warn them both as such with a shake in your voice. Hoseok redoubles his efforts, the hinge of his jaw working sinfully to tease your clit with the same rapid circles he employs when he fingers you. 

The world blanks as you come, feeling the rush of wetness that gushes out of you being drunk up by Yoongi’s greedy mouth. Your stomach caves as you ride the feeling, tugging on Hoseok’s hair in a futile effort to get him off of your clit. 

He answers with a nip of his teeth and a hearty moan, the combination rocketing you off of the edge of oblivion again. There’s no way to stop the tears as they spill hot and heavy down your cheeks and collect at your chin. Your entire body trembles and if it weren’t for the strong grip of Namjoon’s hands, you surely would have face planted into the plush carpet. He welcomes the weight of your body falling into his, immediately wrapping you in his warmth as your body recovers from the sensations. 

He manages to get you out from between your lovers and cradles you into his desk chair. From here, you have a perfect view of Yoongi’s insistent hand on Hoseok’s cock and the sloppy kiss they devolved into once you left.

“You’re so fucking sexy, did you know that?” He brushes the sweat-damp hair from your shoulder and nibbles at the flesh in earnest. His cock twitches below you and your pussy trembles. He moans heartily and grabs handfuls of your breasts, flicking his thumbs over your sensitive nipples. He hums at the way your breathing increases. 

“Bet that tastes like you.” Even though you can't see his face, you know he’s referring to the sloppy mess of spit and come smearing between them. The idea makes you shiver with a new wave of arousal; and if you weren’t so used to going so many rounds with them you would be seriously worried about the state of your body. 

Hoseok tips his head back and lets out a rattling groan, the clear warning of his incoming release. You and Namjoon let out twin sighs at the sound, and Yoongi’s face curves into a devilish smile as he leans down to capture the tip of Hoseok’s cock in his mouth. It’s only seconds before Hoseok lets go, face flushing bright red as he comes. The instinctive stutter of his hips leaves several glossy streaks of cum across Yoongi’s mouth and chin. 

You squirm in Namjoon’s lap and he takes another heavy, indulgent grope of your tits; conveniently pressing you right against his hardened cock. The sound of Yoongi praising Hoseok becomes white noise as Namjoon angles his hips against you, brushing the head of his cock against your clit. Despite having come so many times already, your pussy has yet to be stretched to the limits you desire. 

“I-in, Joon...” you lift your hips enough that his cock catches on your entrance and he plunges forward immediately. He exhales in a burst against the back of your neck. 

“Sorry baby. Pretty little pussy just wanted to suck me in before I could ask.” He licks a line up the side of your neck, playing with the tender skin under your ear. “Are you ready? Feelin’ okay?” You have to commend him for stopping to ask: carrying concern for your well being and consent even though you can feel his cock throbbing inside you. 

“Yes!” You can't find it in you to say much more, but the animalistic grunt Namjoon makes as he pulls you down onto him makes you feel like you’re on cloud nine. 

The walls of your pussy stretch and accommodate him as he bucks his hips. His fingernails dig into the flesh of your breasts as your head lulls back onto his toned shoulders; relishing in the way your sweaty skin sticks together in the heat of your moment. You finally feel so full, finally able to indulge in the truly brain numb feeling of allowing one of your favorite men on the planet batter your pussy until he’s satisfied. 

“This greedy pussy can’t get enough attention, huh? Never enough mouths and cocks to keep you satisfied?” The force of his thrusts punch the air out of you but you nod in affirmation, mouth hanging open dumbly. “Fucking hell, baby. I’m gonna cum.”

You wish you could see the pinch in his eyebrows, the clench of his jaw; but for now you’ll relish in the fact you get to feel his cock twitch rapidly inside of you until he’s filling you. His hot cum rushes into you with a force that is testament to how long he waited for his release. He keeps you pressed over him until he’s fully drained, moaning your name at the sensitivity of his softening cock lodged inside your throbbing pussy. 

Your head spins and you have to close your eyes in an attempt to anchor yourself back to the earth. Namjoon shifts his hips and you can feel his hot release start to leak out of you.

“Sorry,” he kisses your ear gently as he slips out completely. You instinctively clasp your thighs together to keep his release inside you as Yoongi materializes before you. His bright red hair is mussed and his cheeks are a pleasant pink, as if he’d been in the sun for a few hours. 

If it wasn’t for the streaks of drying cum on his face, he would look angelic. 

Actually, you still think he does anyway. 

“As much as I love staring at you staring at me...” his hands pull at your waist, tugging you off the warmth of Namjoon’s lap. You go easily, feeling pleasant calm flowing through your veins as you stand before him on wobbly legs. He knots his fingers through your already tangled hair, tugging the strands until your neck is bared to him. It burns at the roots but you love it, darting your tongue out to lick at your lips as he gives another experimental tug. Your pussy throbs along with your scalp, and Yoongi moves close enough to you that you can feel his rigid length brush against your stomach.

The hardness of him against you sends your hips forward, grinding his cock between your bodies and relishing in the special kind of torture you’ve made for yourself- literal inches from allowing the drag of his cock against where you need him most. 

Yoongi voices his protest with a groan that reverberates through your chest, sending shockwaves of pleasure between your slick thighs. 

Your breath stutters as his plush lips work at your neck, teeth nipping into the sensitive skin with the intent of marking you black and blue. Sagging under his attention, you return the favor by winding your own fingers into his locks and tugging hard.

A new set of hands joins you, cresting over the curves of your ass. The citrusy scent of aftershave gives the hands away as belonging to Hoseok; who takes no qualms with spreading you open for his greedy eyes. You shutter as he reveals your ass and pussy to him and you shake your hips back at him playfully. He moans as your flesh jiggles under his touch and the sudden burn of a slap fills the room. Your ass cheek stings from the contact but you feel yourself get wetter, pushing back against his strong hand.

Hoseok answers with two more slaps in quick succession and the burn of the impact makes you keen.

“Look so good with your ass all red for me.” He trails his fingertips over the spot where he had just spanked you. Anticipation breezes through your veins as the simple touch leaves only to be quickly replaced by a renewed slap across the sensitive skin that connects your thigh and ass cheek.

Yoongi sucks up your moan with a swift kiss, shoving his tongue into your throat so you have no choice but to let him devour your sounds. You clutch at his shoulders pathetically as Hoseok skims a finger over your asshole.

Even though your eyes are already shut, they roll back into your head at the gentle push of his fingertip. You’re no stranger to the intrusion, but it makes your knees weak every time.

Yoongi relinquishes your mouth to peek around your body, although you have a suspicion he already knew what was happening. His lips are raw, bitten red from your passionate kiss as he cups your face between his hands.

“Gonna let Hoseok in your little ass? Have his cock fill you up?” You nod emphatically as the wet splatter of Hoseok’s spit slides over you, aiding his finger in the deeper glide you desire. He acts fast to add a second finger and sink down to his first knuckle, stretching them apart to open you further. Your chest heaves against Yoongi’s, and he kicks a sinful trail up the curve of your ear.

“You’re gonna look so pretty with his big cock in your ass, honey. Can’t wait to see you all stretched out for us…” you feel as if he’s lit you on fire.

Hoseok has managed to fit three fingers, and the delectable drag of him inside of you is making your head foggy. Pressure mounts in your lower stomach but feels annoyingly far away from satisfaction.

“Yoongi, H-hobi,” the men both snap to your attention; cooing at the watery tone of your voice. Hoseok’s fingers persist in stretching you as you try to work your way through your thoughts.

“I need you in my pussy, too,” hot tears come along with the plead you make to Yoongi, desperate for him to understand the aching need filling you. He chuckles and nods, reaching down between your bodies to stroke himself.

“No surprise that just one cock wouldn’t be enough for your little holes.” Pleasure burns through you as you nod your agreement; anything to get him into action as you feel Hoseok spit on you again.

“You were just on this cock, too. Real fucking slut needing more already.” Namjoon’s rumbling voice chimes in- apparently recovered from his most recent orgasm.

You catch sight of him rising from his desk chair like he’s been reborn: cock glossy with your arousal and a new stream of precum decorating the tip.

The three of them seem to move in an eerie tandem- something that would make you think they’d talked about this beforehand if you didn’t know any better. Hoseok removes his fingers, ignoring your protest as he pulls your body to the floor with him. His skin burns against your own as he positions your ass over his cock; both tortured by the close contact. Your legs are lifted under the knees and spread, baring your pussy to the room and your other boyfriends.

“Fucking can’t wait to wreck you, baby.” He slides you carefully until his cock is pressed tightly against your asshole, the feeling of him twitching there making you even more impatient.

Yoongi stands above you both for a second before kneeling- and you’re grateful for the plush, expensive carpet as you watch his pale knees land on it. His hand stays steady on his cock, stroking himself in little half motions that give away just how hard he’s trying to remain calm. His eyes wander over your shoulder to where Hoseok sits, and you can see them soften as he admires his boyfriend. A sickeningly sweet feeling of affirmed love sweeps through you, and you’re shocked again by just how lucky you’ve managed to become.

Yoongi’s face quickly morphs back into desire as his eyes catch on the way Hoseok’s cock is lodged against you, red and twitching to be inside. You can feel wetness leaking from your pussy downward, making a sticky mess between the two of you that sets you alight.

Not one to be forgotten, Namjoon hovers above you with his watchfully sexy eye, roaming every exposed inch of your skin. His jaw ticks as you rut against Hoseok.

“Go on, Hobi. Wanna see you fill our girl up.” The goading works, and Hoseok is quick to manipulate your body into the perfect position for slipping his cock into you.

Your eyes water at the push but you do your best to relax, focusing on the twin gazes of Yoongi and Namjoon as Hoseok’s cock pushes past your muscles. The stretch is slow and satisfying; and you take a sick pleasure in feeling the way Hoseok’s own body trembles under your own as he bottoms out.

Your mouth lulls open as he starts to bounce you on his cock. Your hands fall useless at your sides but Yoongi is quick to capture them, kissing each palm once before clasping them wholly. The lewd sound of your hips against Hoseok’s fills your head, and a string of incoherent moans is all you can offer them.

Namjoon’s hands find your face as he crouches to your side, giving Yoongi the room to shuffle closer to your waiting pussy.

Your entire body throbs as Yoongi lines up with your entrance and taps at your clit with the heavy head of his cock.

“Please,” you breathe out and cry at the same time: hot tears collecting in Namjoon’s big palms as they roll down your cheeks. The pressure of Yoongi entering you alongside Hoseok’s thrusts creates spots behind your eyes, and you feel your body floating into the overdrive you’ve come to adore. Namjoon grunts with you as you fall into pleasure, allowing your body to be jostled between Hoseok and Yoongi’s strong bodies. 

Namjoon kisses your nose in a deceptively sweet manner even though you know his hand is wrapped around his cock; mumbling little praises against your face as you barrel toward blinding pleasure. 

The boys work in a perfect rhythm so that you never feel empty. Their cocks occasionally meet, running against one another through the layer of your walls.

“Fucking feel so good when you’re so full.” Beads of sweat roll down Yoongi’s neck, highlighting his godly features.

Your stomach flips with arousal, pussy clenching around the lengths inside of you. Hoseok sinks his teeth into the vulnerable skin on your shoulder before he locks you in an embrace with the corded strength of his arms and holds you steady as you squirm. The string of moans that rips from him at your wiggling hints you toward his oncoming release just seconds before his hips still, filling you to the brim. 

“Hobi, fu-fuck!” Your whine is met with a choked sound from Yoongi, who can feel the warmth of Hoseok’s cum inside of you. He keens and leans forward, baring down his hips and meanly stroking his thumb against your swollen clit. His movements rock you back against Hoseok’s softening cock and he moans at the onslaught of sensation. 

It’s becoming harder to stay aware of all the sensations, your body happy to just float between feelings of pleasure without much thought. Your moans leave you with no coherence as Yoongi’s hips kick up yet another notch; rapidly plowing into your pussy. 

“Let me fill up this pussy for you. Make sure you’re nice and stuffed and used up and d-dripping for us-” his voice crescendos into a loud moan, strumming with insistence across your clit. 

Your vision blurs as the pleasure crescendos into a peak, ripping through your nerves. A loud whine rips from your raw throat as Yoongi empties inside of you, meeting the gush of your come with his own. Between his load and Hoseok’s you feel full and heavy, pussy sore but satisfied with the treatment of the night.

“Such a good girl,” Yoongi’s voice floats back to you as he rubs at your thighs softly as he pulls his softening cock out of you. The loss of him inside you makes you whine but you don’t have enough energy left to cross your legs and stop it. Namjoon replaces Yoongi’s hands, shoving your knees apart.

Your bared pussy throbs, leaking Yoongi’s cum onto Hoseok’s skin beneath you. Yoongi groans deep with satisfaction as he watches his release drip out of you, sliding down to meet the puddle of Hoseok’s cum underneath you.  “Fuck, I would fill you right back up again if I had the energy.” Yoongi’s chest heaves and Namjoon moans in agreement. 

“Joonie-” You gasp as you catch sight of his scrunched brow, the insistent twitch of his cock as his nears his edge again.

“What do you want, baby?” His eyes narrow in on you, likely trying to access the sensitivity you’re feeling. You glow under his attention and squirm against Hoseok’s body.

“Joon, please come on me...” Your bat your lashes and he grunts, tugging at the tip of his cock several times in quick succession before he finally comes. He coats your pussy in a new layer of cum, adding to the glistening white. 

Hoseok loosens his embrace and you crumble, all but falling off of his body onto the carpet below. The fabric is surprisingly cool against your heated skin, so you make no real effort to move as you feel the boys move and the gentle sounds of their hushed voices. Hoseok’s hand traces down your spine, forcing you to look his way. His dimple-ridden smile greets you first and you giggle, pouting your lips until he meets you in a kiss. 

It’s grounding- just left of magical as he nips at your bottom lip with a sense of genuine love that melts your heart from the inside out.  “Love you, Hobi.” The sentiment slips from between your locked lips and he smiles. 

“Hey, I love him too!” Namjoon crowds into your vision as well, placing a hand on Hoseok’s naked waist. They share a dimpled smile and then their own sweet kiss. 

Your eyes track Yoongi stalking back to the three of you, boxers back on, with a damp washcloth in his hand. As he gets closer you can see his chest has lost its flush and you smile. 

He says nothing as he nudges Hoseok and Namjoon aside to run the washcloth over your messy pussy. Even though the fancy washcloth is made of the softest possible material, the drag of the fibers is still sensitive on your pussy. 

“Sorry, baby.” Yoongi soothes you as he takes genuine care to clean you up, making sure that everything is gone. Namjoon pecks Yoongi’s temple as he works, and you can only imagine how messy the washcloth is as Yoongi wipes across your ass. 

“Your carpet-” you reach for Namjoon’s arm and trace the line of his bicep. “Sorry about your carpet, Joonie.” He coos and holds your chin between two fingers as he kisses you softly. 

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just call a cleaner...” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Definitely not the worst mess to have on this carpet.” Your face flushes in embarrassment despite how messy the whole night was. 

Hoseok lets out a hearty laugh and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “He just means that nothing will be worse than the time he spilled his leftover chicken parm on the floor...there was sauce alllll the way over-” 

“Oh, shut up!” Namjoon flushes but his hearty laugh gives away his amusement as you finally find it in yourself to sit up, your muscles stretching out. Two pairs of hands come to steady your form and you smile at the protective feeling that washes over you. Even after a long, strenuous night trapped between them, they make you feel nothing short of worshipped after you’re all spent. 

“We gotta stop fucking on the floor,” you groan at the tightness in your neck and Yoongi nods; offering you two hands to get you to your knees. You know that he's immediately going to lead you to the bathroom, and you can’t complain about the amount of love you feel spiraling in your chest.

“You’re right. My poor knees can’t take anymore of this.” Yoongi agrees. You scoff in fake indignation as you travel to the bathroom with him, his arms looped around your naked stomach as he walks behind you as if he’s worried you would spontaneously fall backwards.

“Oh, Yoongi. You’ll never stop getting on your knees, even if Namjoon gets a couch in his office.” He pinches your thigh but stays quiet, agreeing with a sly grin that stays between the two of you. 

[eoieopda]

meet me at the bar (ksj)

You're supposed to be staring down the barrel of the last — and most important — examination of your life, but you only have eyes for your study buddy.

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x AFAB!Reader Type: One Shot | Fluff w/ Smut | 18+ — Minors DNI Word Count: 7.5k AU: Law school, study-buddies, best friends to lovers, highly educated idiots in love CW: Bad jokes, Latin, fingering (v), unprotected sex (p in v), Seokjinnie hits it from the back. A/N: My inaugural Seokjin smut is dedicated to my donsaeng-in-law (see what I did there?) @yoongiphoria, who is now embarking on this stupid, stupid gatekeeping journey IRL. Best of luck, my lil love. I'll be waiting for you on the other side of the war! MJ FIGHTING ~ Big ups to my other lil love, M, for beta reading 💕 I posted an epilogue drabble on 7/26/23. Also: This is written based on my experience in the American legal (educational) system. I was, frankly, too lazy to study up on South Korean law for a fanfic, lol. ⚠️ 18+ only ⚠️ minors will be blocked, on sight. my content is not for you. i do not want to interact with you. please respect my boundaries.

You are not spiraling.

You are a paragon of health and wellness, you tell yourself as you gulp down a mug of coffee that is still far too hot, like you’ll die without it. 

More bitter than the taste on your tongue is the realization that you might die with it —  your third cup in fewer hours. As far as you can tell, though, it’s a win-win situation: You’ll either generate enough anxious energy to finalize your property law flashcards, or you’ll drop dead before you have to review them.

And you won’t have to take that exam…

And you won’t have to pay off your student debt…

Besides, you figure, the stomach ulcer you’re likely inflicting on yourself will be infinitely less painful than dragging your under-caffeinated corpse through yet another day of studying. Another eight, consecutive hours spent forcing forgotten subjects back into your maxed-out brain. 

It’s worth it, you repeat to yourself, though this gauntlet has turned out to be a full-time job that steals, rather than pays. You can faint on top of the finish line, so long as some part of you crosses it.

You should be used to it by now, running a marathon at a dead sprint. That’s all you’ve ever done — push yourself. You attended your first day of preschool and never stopped, never took a breath. Through elementary, middle, and high school; then for four years of university. Going, going, going.

Stumbling through that eighteenth lap around the track, you kept going because — well, being a student was all you’d ever been. That’s your toxic trait, you’ve since discovered. Your concept of self is rooted exclusively within the context of a classroom.

You didn’t know it at the time, but your decision to take the Law School Admission Test — or the HellSAT, as you’ve come to call it — might have been the start of a quarter-life crisis. But you didn’t stop there. No, you took that score and ran with it. Slapped it onto every application as a desperate plea for acceptance. 

When you received your admission letter, you were a bright-eyed twenty-two-year-old with a bachelor’s degree and a vaguely defined dream.

Call it naïveté or call it gravitas, there wasn’t a doubt in your smooth little brain that law school was the logical next step to take. That being intelligent and hard-working made you well-equipped for the challenge that came with pursuing a Juris Doctor. After all, you’d spent nineteen years delaying gratification — what difference would three more make?

Within the first hour of your orientation, you — a professional student — had already learned something new: You were a masochist and, frankly, somewhat of an idiot.

Thankfully, you weren’t alone. 

Sitting — dissociating, more like — at a nearby table was a lanky boy you’d first noticed on your tour of the law building. His glassy-eyed stare was aimed somewhere in the middle-distance, and even though his slightly agape mouth said nothing, it communicated everything. He was the only other person in that atrium who looked the way you felt: scared shitless and riddled with buyer’s remorse. A can crushed under the boot of self-doubt.

It was the first time you and your wobbly knees went running in his direction, but it wouldn’t be the last.

He was so deep in a daze at that moment that he didn’t notice the way you threw yourself into the open chair next to him, didn’t look up at the scrape of wooden legs against the granite floor beneath them. He nearly jumped out of his skin when you announced your presence with words, however. 

It was less of an introduction — the way people in a society tend to greet each other for the first time, ever — and more of a twister. Words whipped through the air at a dangerously high velocity, no syllable ending before you started on the next. Just one breath, a few consonants, and a pair of dark eyebrows shooting up to cower behind his bangs. 

“Was — was that Korean?” He asked when you finally ran out of wind. 

Judging by the way his wide eyes softened, you knew he wasn’t making fun of you. You’d simply scrambled his brain so thoroughly that you’d transcended the known limits of language.

More of a question than an answer, you peeped, “I think so. Maybe?” You wavered with a sigh. “I’m no longer confident that I know any of the things I thought I knew, though. So, um, don’t quote me on that.”

“You’re giving me too much credit. I didn’t catch enough of whatever that was —” He gestured vaguely. “— To even attempt to quote you.”

Within seconds and without knowing, he’d disarmed the bomb ticking away in your gut. He must’ve sensed it, too, because his face lit up so completely that you had to look away. One glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows confirmed that the sun hadn’t reappeared at that time of night. 

That rush of warmth you felt then  — that absolutely insane brightness — was powered exclusively by the grin taking up the entirety of his face. If that megawatt smile alone hadn’t rerouted your oncoming anxiety attack, the distinct, squeaking laugh that erupted out of his chest would’ve done the job. 

You doubled over, either under the weight of your own giggling or with the relief you felt in finding someone equally lost. Eyes swimming with mirth, you wiped wetness from your cheekbone and snorted. “Was that a windshield wiper?”  

“No, that was embarrassing.” 

The tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks went some dizzy shade of pink. 

He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck with one hand and held the other out to shake yours.

“And I’m Kim Seokjin.”

Now, when the door of your apartment flies open without warning, it’s that same savior standing on your threshold. That designation may be melodramatic, but if that brown paper bag contains what you suspect it does, it’s deserved.

Seokjin, patron saint of breakfast sandwiches, flops down on the couch that stretches along the opposite side of your coffee table. From where you sit on the floor — hunched over your notes like a hobgoblin — you reach out your expectant arms and make grabby hands in the space between you.

You see mischief flash in his eyes, but only for a second. In the next, he’s pretending like he doesn’t see you; doesn’t hear your petulant little whines. He extends long legs out over the cushions, clutches the bag to his chest, and lets his head roll back to rest on the couch’s arm.

“Wanna know what I did today instead of practice essays?” He asks, eyes unfocused on the ceiling above.

All you actually want is whatever that smell is. You can’t stop staring at the bag of food in his hands. If you try hard enough, maybe you can summon some sort of psychic energy, make it levitate towards you.

He doesn’t wait for your response. “The math.”

“Huh?” 

You frown; and as you do, you reluctantly shift your gaze from Seokjin’s hands to his face. He isn’t looking your way, but you can tell he’s grimacing based solely on the way his jaw twitches. It’s a miracle he hasn’t ground his teeth to dust over the past three years, given how often he makes that face.

In an attempt to ease the tension in his posture, you tease, “Didn’t we go to law school because we can’t do math?”

He cracks an unwilling smile. A tiny one, but a smile nonetheless. Without turning his head, he extends his arm out in your direction. In the split second it takes for yours to spring forward like a snake, that blessed bag dangles; the scent of sausage, egg, and cheese wafts through the air and restores your will to live. Clutching your prize, halfway to feral, you tear into it without hesitation.

As you bite off more than you can chew, Seokjin prepares his rant with a sigh, “So, consider this.”

“Mmphf,” you advise through a mouthful of greasy bliss.

“Bar exam prep takes eight weeks, right? If we’re only counting business days, that’s forty — forty days, for a minimum of eight hours each.”

He becomes more restless, the more he talks. Heated, he sits bolt upright and turns wild-eyed to you.

Oh, he’s gone full-tilt insane.

“Three-hundred-and-twenty hours, then. And if you think about that in terms of our clerk wages —” He slaps his hands down on his thighs for emphasis. “— at 2,625 won per hour —” 

Then, he points to you, as if the increasing volume of his voice wasn’t already holding you hostage.

“— we’ve sacrificed nearly two million won in income, just by studying for this fucking test.”

You swallow down the last bite of your sandwich, which you downright hoovered while Seokjin took the path of most resistance. After clearing your throat, your interjection overlaps with his next point: 

“Seokjinnie, why didn’t you just double our monthly —”

“That’s after we paid ninety million in tuition, hundreds of thousands on study materials and registration fees —”

You cut him off. “Is this your way of asking me to Venmo you for breakfast?” 

He freezes, caught fully off-guard. Shocked eyes widen like you’re the ridiculous one. “Of course not!”

He waves you off like his thoughtful gesture is no big deal. Then, like he’s tired himself out, he sinks back onto your couch. From his back, he grumbles with crossed arms, “‘M just sayin’ that I’m tired of this shit.”

You can’t help but giggle at the pathetic pout working down the corners of his mouth. “Felt,” you agree, though it feels a little bit like a lie.

Truth be told, you feel more awake now than you did ten minutes ago, and you can’t attribute it to the coffee — not when the evidence so clearly indicates otherwise. 

Over the course of three years, you’ve built up quite the case against yourself. You’ve made the following findings of fact:

Whenever he pops up, Seokjin brings your mood up with him. Even now, as he marinates in anguish on your couch, his presence gives you a reason not to beat yourself unconscious with the four-kilogram prep book that sits beside you on the rug. Makes you hate your circumstances a little less, if only because you share them with him.

And, for a rapidly deflating balloon, you have to concede that Seokjin looks stunning this morning. 

Unlike you and your day-three hair, he somehow had the energy to wash his. The mid-sections of some strands are still damp; the parts that aren’t frame his face in fluffy waves. His shampoo is something fruity mixed with something crisp — grapefruit and mint, maybe? — and it floods your senses, causing question marks to replace any coherent thoughts you might otherwise have. You’d be lying again if you said you didn’t want to find out for sure how soft those tresses really are.

The verdict? 

Well, the jury’s still out, but you know you’re guilty. 

If being down this bad for your best friend isn’t a criminal offense, it should be.

You shake your head to clear it. To smother the flame licking up the inside of your belly, you grab the certified mood killer off the coffee table and hold it up in front of you. Surely, the cure for a sexual tension headache is an eight-centimeter stack of color-coded, neon index cards covered in information you shouldn’t need to memorize in the first place.

“Exam’s in one week,” you say with a shiver.

Seokjin rolls onto his side to look forlornly at you. You are not looking at his bare hip bone, which appears where the hem of his shirt shifts from the waistband of his joggers. Nope.  

You continue the search for the point you’re trying to make. “I can barely spell mortgage, let alone explain what the fuck to do with one.”

“Don’t think I know what land even is at this point,” he sighs. Dejected, he lets his arm go limp. It spills off the edge of the cushion and dangles until his knuckles brush against the rug. “What is this property you speak of?”

Biting back a grin is impossible, so you press your lips together instead. Just like that — just by Seokjin being Seokjin — the hellscape you willingly walked into gets a little brighter. Maybe, you think, you can do this.

You look down for a moment to shuffle up the cards you spent the better part of two days preparing. As you stare down at the staggering amount of knowledge you might be tested on, you can feel the crease returning between your eyebrows. Your grimace is back, too, like a reflex. 

If you make it through this experience without premature wrinkles, you’ll be shocked.

There’s shifting on the couch ahead, but you don’t look up until Seokjin breezes, “From this angle, it almost looks like you’re smiling.”

His arm is no longer dangling off the edge of the couch. His entire upper body is. Knees now hinged over the backrest for balance, he’s upside-down and smirking impishly at you.

He has to know you’re in love with him, right? How could he expect you not to be?

You clear your throat and arch a single eyebrow as a challenge. “What is the rule against perpetuities, Seokjinnie?”

Like you, he can recite it in full at a machine-gun rate of fire. It’s been beaten so far into your heads that you might utter it on your deathbeds, with your last gasping breaths.

“No interest in land is good unless it must vest, if at all, not later than twenty-one years after some life in being at the creation of the interest,” he responds with a smug smile. “Easy.”

It’s your turn to smirk. 

“Great. Now, what does any of that mean?”

Without missing a beat, he fires back, “Does anyone know?”

“Absolutely not. Next question!”

Having had the same day, every day, for seven weeks straight, Seokjin is struggling. He’s spent hundreds of hours on the same routine, feeling beaten down and burnt out, all the while. It goes like this:

Every morning, he wakes up and goes for a run in a feeble attempt to feel something other than dread. After that, he eats a lackluster breakfast, and then he promptly chains himself to his desk. When he finally gives himself permission to get up again, it’s dark out; and he’s too brain dead to check the hundred or so notifications that amassed on his phone during his fugue state.

Scratch that. There’s one person he responds to, no matter what. As far as everyone else is concerned, though, he’s a ghost.

Today is the first day out of the last fifty-five where Seokjin doesn’t feel like his brain is being hydraulically pressed. For the first time in too long, he fell into an old routine; one he’s missed. It started with a shower — and honestly, that was overdue — then, he swung by the café he’s frequented over the past three years. There, he made his usual order.

One iced americano, and one sausage-egg-and-cheese croissant with extra hot sauce.

Before he walked back up the block, he downed the former, but he didn’t touch the latter. The latter wasn’t for him, anyways. None of the breakfast sandwiches he ever stops for are.

The subsequent hours looked semi-similar to the three-hundred-and-twenty he’s already devoted to studying. Well, sort of. To be clear, the subject matter still sucks, and he’s still angry that he has to touch it at all, but he isn’t waiting for the sweet release of death in the same way he has been all summer. 

This might have something to do with the fact that, for the first time in nearly sixty days, he’s not on his own. 

More than that, he’s with you.

Having switched away from covenants, easements, and servitudes, he feels a slightly less stupid. Contract law is a little more straightforward and a little less caked in colonialism. Unfortunately, after six hours of burning all his brain cells on shit like liens, Seokjin has begun his descent into madness. 

The worms are digging in, he can’t focus, and neither of you can stop — fucking — laughing.

“I’ll give you a hint,” you giggle, shifting in your spot on the neighboring cushion. You give his knee a pat that feels a tiny bit patronizing, but that makes his pulse race, nonetheless. “It’s a Latin term.”

He snorts so loudly that you do a double-take, just to make sure it wasn’t a sneeze. You both stare at one another for a beat, then comes the eruption.

“It’s all Latin!” He roars. 

To muffle the way he’s wheezing, Seokjin slaps his hands over his face. It’s already tear-stained from his abject failure to keep his shit together. At least he can attempt to hide how red he knows it is.

Your laugh comes straight from your belly. You double over completely when his comes out in squeaks, hand reaching out to squeeze his forearm. It used to bother him, the sound he made when he truly loses it, but it doesn’t any more. 

How could it, when it makes you cling to him like that?

Wiping at your cheeks, you take a deep breath, then sigh, “Does it help if I give you the translation?”

He doubts it because you just pinched your bottom lip between your teeth, and now, his mind is blank. 

Really, it’s a fucking miracle he graduated at all with you around. You and that face you make when you concentrate have always made it impossible for him to do so. It’s why he wasn’t paying attention in class when this shit was taught in the first place, he realizes now. 

To cool himself down, Seokjin grabs the Camelbak bottle off the coffee table, realizes too late it’s yours and not his — oh, well — and shoves the straw into his mouth. He nods once, firmly, and sucks in as much water as he can. 

It all sprays back out of his mouth when you say:

“Naked promise.”

He had always wondered what his life would look like if it ever flashed before his eyes. Now, he knows. It’s not a montage of his finest moments, the most recent of which would not have made the cut. All he sees is you, wide-eyed, glancing between him and the wet spot that’s now soaking through your sweatshirt.

You press your lips together, probably to keep from laughing in his face. It’s a valiant effort on your part and a kind gesture, but honestly, he doesn’t deserve it. His fingers twitch as he clutches the bottle, wanting nothing more than to dump the remaining water on his face. He embarrasses himself more often than not, but this stings his cheeks like a sunburn.

“I am —” he raises his hands, flustered, “So sorry. I don’t remember waking up in a sitcom this morning, but I, uhhh, clearly did.”

When you stand up, you’re grinning. And not in that scary way you do when you’re about to retaliate for some prank he’s pulled. No, that look on your face is genuine amusement. 

Thank god.

You shrug as you cross your arms over your torso and grip the hem of your sweatshirt with both hands. “All good, Seokjinnie,” you laugh. “This needed to be washed, anyway. You see that coffee stain?”

No. 

No, he does not see that coffee stain because the tank top underneath your sweatshirt is clinging to the wet spot as you tug the top layer up your stomach. He feels bad for staring — really, he does — but fuck, your skin looks soft. Like, so soft that he has to grip his water bottle to keep a grip on himself.

Eventually, your tank top separates from your sweatshirt. It falls back down to where it belongs, to Seokjin’s dismay, and the sweatshirt keeps going. 

“Nudum pactum,” you remind him as you pull the drenched hoodie over your head. Playfully, you toss it at him. It smacks against his chest, splays out over his lap. 

Once more with feeling: thank god. 

You sink back down beside him on the couch, and he can’t help but notice that you’re the tiniest bit closer than you were before. It’s innocent, just your bare knee bumping his shin as you re-cross your legs. Still, it leaves his tingling through the fabric of his joggers when you don’t move away.

The silence surges as it settles, crinkling like static in his ears. He almost doesn’t hear you when you ask him again: “What’s it mean?”

Uhhhh.

“It means —”

Unfortunately for him, the water he just forcibly ejected from his mouth didn’t help him. His throat is dry now, and he sounds strangled, he’s sure. The way you’re watching him so intently doesn’t help one fucking bit, either.

Are you doing that on purpose?

You nudge him physically this time, knuckles connecting gently and playfully with his leg. He wonders if you can hear his heart hammering against the wall of his chest in all of this quiet. You might, he figures, especially when you tuck your hair behind your ear.

Instinctively, his eyes flick down to the length of your neck. Without a curtain of hair in the way, it’s even more exposed skin that he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with. Making matters worse for him, you tilt your head to the side expectantly. His breath catches when he tears his gaze away, back up, and sees the way you’re looking at him now.

You are absolutely — without a goddamn doubt — doing this on purpose.

If that’s the game you want to play, Seokjin can play it, too. He turns away from you to set the bottle back down on the coaster he took it from. As he does, he finally answers your question — the nonchalance he’s faking even sounds convincing.

“It’s an unenforceable promise,” he replies casually. “One with insufficient consideration.”

He rights himself in his seat, stretches a bit further backwards until he’s resting comfortably against the arm of the couch. You hide it well, but there’s a hint of a pout on your lips when you clock the newfound distance. 

Check, he smirks to himself, your move.

A flash of pink slips out. Your tongue wetting those lips before you prompt him more quietly than before, “And consideration is…?”

He slips up, makes the mistake of noticing the rise and fall of your chest as you take measured breaths. So, he sees, you’re buzzing with anticipation, too. He wonders if it’s him that’s having that effect on you, or the circumstances. 

For all he knows, it could be pent up steam that you need to release. Stress weighing down your body that you want to get off.

Fuck, he wants to get you off.

He swallows thickly. “Can’t get something for nothing. There has to be an exchange, otherwise it’s meaningless.”

You say nothing, so he keeps talking.

“Quid pro quo, essentially,” Seokjin adds. He chuckles slightly when he realizes. “See? Told you. It’s all fucking Latin.”

The corner of your mouth twitches at his joke, but you don’t make a sound. The hand that previously pushed against his leg inches closer, just barely. It’s such a small shift that you don’t seem to realize that you’re moving it. 

Maybe you feel that pull, too; the one he’s been fighting since you barged into his life without warning. 

Maybe the consideration has been there from the start; a promise for a promise. I’ll jump if you do. Because it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? Since orientation.

Pulling all-nighters in the library, developing matching caffeine dependencies, getting sick too often from the strain of it all. 

You and him.

Laughing quietly in the back of lectures, cold sweats through cold calls, bitching about unpaid internships while you spend indisposable income at the bar down the block without acknowledging the irony.

There are only two real differences between this night and that first one, he notes.

Now, Seokjin isn’t questioning every decision he’s ever made that led him to this point. He’s not scared shitless, not really. Not when you’re around.

You cut through the silence with a sigh that’s barely more than an exhale, so breathy that your voice dissipates as soon as it hits the air.

“Seokjin.”

He could probably hear a pin if you dropped one — can hear everything you don’t say. It’s all packed tight inside that utterance of his name like gunpowder, locked and loaded. 

So, who shoots first?

You shift again. Now, when you speak, it’s deliberate and in a language he can parse.

“Tell me you want me, too.”

Bang!

His body answers for him, pushes off from where he leans until he can get his knees underneath him. He’s waited three years to kiss you, but he can delay gratification for the brief time it takes to overtake you. Pinned with his palms bearing weight on either side of your head, you wind up caged in and breathless beneath him. His right knee occupies the space between your spread thighs.

Again, it’s a miracle he’s made it this far with you around.

He hums, beyond pleased with the position he finds himself in. “Maybe. Tell me if I got the answer right.”

“Oh my god.” You toss your head back to the extent that you can, which admittedly isn’t far. Your frustration rolls off you in waves, heat palpable. “I’ll kill you, I swear.”

“Sounds admissible to me,” he teases further. He flexes an eyebrow. “Isn’t that an exception to the prohibition of hearsay evidence? Speaks to motive, I think.”

Seokjin has no idea why he’s riling himself up like this. If he could shut up — just this once — he could be kissing you by now. You seem to be aware of that fact, too, because you grip his shirt so desperately, one right move might tear it.

You huff out a laugh despite the circumstances,  “This friendship is over, by the way, in case that’s not clear.”

That tiny smile on your face spreads to his. Not over, he knows, just modified. Amplified, finally. Knowing that, he continues to push his luck. 

“Can I make one more joke?”

“So over!” You emphasize with a wail.

He takes a second to center himself before hitting you with award-winning drama, sincerity dipped in the kind of humor he never misses out on with you: 

“You have adversely possessed my heart.”

Your jaw drops at how stupid that line was, but you reign it in just in time for his lips to crash into yours. 

It almost knocks the wind out of him, the way the pieces fall with force into place. They slot together easily, just like you do. With fingers clinging, the weight of his body molding overtop of yours. 

You kiss him until he forgets what life tasted like without your tongue licking into him, your little moans melting in his mouth — until you break apart, gasping for air. Panting, you ask, “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting on you?” 

He doesn’t, no, not at all. Thankfully, you take his stunned silence for what it’s worth. After relinquishing your grip on his shirt, you bring your hands up to cup his face gently in your palms. 

With you touching him like this, he has no option but to stare down at you. Bit redundant, he thinks, since his focus has always been locked right here, right on you, by choice. Given that, it’s a little funny that he managed to miss every signal you’ve apparently sent him. But really, it doesn’t necessarily surprise him to hear that he’s even dumber than he thought.

You kiss him slowly this time, briefly, before nipping affectionately at his bottom lip. It drives him exactly as crazy as you want it to; makes his cock twitch inside his joggers, makes his brain foggy with a potent combination of fondness and filth.

Do you have any idea how many times he’s thought about this? He’s genuinely wondering because even he doesn’t know. He’s lost count of all the times he’s watched you nibble on your own lip and wished it was his instead. A million or more, if he has to guess.

Seeming to sense the way you've scrambled his brain, you nudge the tip of his nose with yours and giggle.

Seokjin can’t help but grin. “What’s so funny?”

“Thought of a good one,” you answer. Your smirk does his head in. The contrasting, goofy wiggle of your eyebrows squeezes his heart. “Better than yours, I think.”

He kisses you quick and hums, “Oh?”

You nod. 

The suspense is killing him. So is the way your clothed cunt grinds ever so slightly against his thigh. 

Fuck. 

He wants you, he wants you, he wants you. 

“You gonna make me come, Seokjin, or do I have to wait for you to file a subpoena?”

You may have to seek a refund for the prep course you paid for. 

For as long as you can remember, you’ve learned best through application. You could read the same chapter, over and over, and not absorb a word. The same was true with lectures, even more so when they’re pre-recorded rambles by the weirdest adjunct professors known to man. Sure, you may eventually memorize concepts this way, but they don’t sink in deeply enough to stay. You can’t use them in any way that helps you.

To no one’s surprise, no part of your civil procedure lecture sticks until it falls into your lap. 

Strike that. 

Until Seokjin loses his balance in trying to take his pants off, and falls onto your floor with a yelp.

A moment or two passes while you stare at each other in shock, but that dissolves quickly. And so do both of you, right into another fit of laughter that makes your shoulders shake. Then, you jump to your feet and hold your hands out to him.

Seokjin accepts them, though he doesn’t rely on them at all when he stands back up. He seems more than content just to hold onto you, whether or not he needs you to keep him steady. You have no complaints, for once in your life.

Shaking his head, he chuckles, “Venue change?”

“I think —” You hum and kiss the column of his throat. He swallows hard enough that you feel his Adam’s apple bob against your lips. So sensitive.  “This is what they call forum non conveniens.”

He’s having none of that, and you don’t necessarily blame him. As it turns out, the shoe isn’t terribly comfortable when it’s on the other foot.

You’re lifted without warning, bent over his shoulder, and hauled off in the direction of your bedroom before you can even squeak in protest. You drop like a bag of dirt — albeit a beloved bag of dirt — onto your mattress once he reaches it; his lips are on yours to swallow the gasp before it can leave your mouth.

As eager as his mouth are his hands, roaming down the curve of your waist and over your hips. With fistfuls of the pajama shorts you hadn’t bothered to change out of, his head dips down under your jaw. The warmth of his breath is quickly replaced by that of his tongue, flicking a short, languid line along your neck.

“Want you so fucking bad,” he breathes. A shiver shoots straight down your spine and you keen, head crashing gracelessly back against the pillows. “Just like this.”

And he means it — you can feel how true it is with him settled between your spread legs. He presses his hips forward to meet your clothed cunt, cock teasing you through four goddamn layers’ worth of fabric.

His lips flutter against your earlobe just seconds before his teeth graze your flesh. He continues, voice vibrating through his chest to yours, “All the time.”

You outright whimper when he grinds against you a second time. Halfway to crazy, you knot your fingers in his hair and wrap your legs around his back in a silent plea for friction. So hungry for him that it aches.

“Seokjin, need — oh, god.” 

You lose your train of thought the second his hand slides into the gap between your bodies. Long fingers slip below the waistband of your shorts and panties, too. He doesn’t stop there. Not with fingertips whispering over the mound of your cunt, not until he finds you wet and wanting.

So wet that you can hear it when the pad of his index finger runs along your slit.

His mouth curves against your neck, prompting you to shift your head on the pillow. You tilt your neck just enough to meet his eyes. 

To your surprise, he’s not smirking. Not even close. If anything, he looks awestruck. Like he’s finally realizing what he does to you, how your body reacts to him. From the looks of it, that discovery is flipping his whole damn world upside down.

For once, Seokjin doesn’t crack a joke and neither do you. It’s quiet, save for your tiny gasping breaths and the ripple of his fingertip swirling over your clit. Even the moan building in your chest gets the memo. It disappears somewhere in your throat when — fucking finally — that middle finger penetrates you.

And god, he sounds so wrecked when he finally speaks. 

“Tried to imagine it a thousand times, you know,” he murmurs. 

You clench around his finger as it curls upwards, shiver when he starts to stroke the sensitive spot along your front wall. His thumb picks up where his middle finger left off, pressing against your clit in a way that makes you mewl.

Seokjin only stops talking to kiss you deep and leave you dizzy. It’s too brief. If asked, you’d never be able to quantify what amount of time is enough, but you know that wasn’t, so you pout.

Ignoring your little whines, he continues with a hum, “How perfect you’d feel, if I ever got this lucky.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

You laugh as you say it, but you’re dead serious: “If you keep talking to me like that, you’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

Marry me, why don’t you? Beautiful bastard.

“Threat or promise?” 

He adds a second finger; and suddenly, you’re not laughing anymore. No, the strangled sound you make while you grind against his palm isn’t funny at all, but you can’t care about that now. Your focus is stuck on remembering how to breathe. In, out. On the stars blinking behind your eyelids when they give up and flutter shut.

He works you open for him like he’s already attuned, like it’s the fiftieth time he’s finger-fucked you and not the very first. And, quite frankly, it’s embarrassing how little time it takes for him to pull you apart at the seams.

No one has ever made you cum with such little effort. You’re scared to learn what it’s like when he tries.

You catch the triumphant gleam in his eye in the split second before you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He’s earned it, you suppose, so you’ll let him relish the personal record he’s managed to set on his first time out. You might even let him brag about it, so long as he continues to make you tremble like this.

“Shit,” he chuckles low near your ear. 

If he sounds muffled, it’s because you’re still waiting for your system to reboot. He knows this, knows how fucking sensitive you are, and slides his fingers out of you as slowly as possible. Still, those aftershocks throttle you; the unintentional stimulation makes you jolt.

“Yes,” you nod helplessly, squeezing your eyes and jaw shut simultaneously. “Shit is right. Perfect analysis, no notes.”

A chaste kiss is placed on your temple. It’s petal soft and subak sweet, but it functions like a defibrillator. Within a split second, he’s revived you. Eyes now open again, you exhume your face from where you buried it and blink up at him. Warm brown eyes light up when you reappear.

He’s so fucking beautiful that you almost want to avert your eyes. Key word: almost. You’ll drink in the sight of him until you drown, you think.

Seokjin looks concerned. With a shy smile, he checks in: “You okay? We can stop right now if you’re not.”

You don’t know who they are, but you know that they don’t make them like him anymore. Which is a fucking bummer for the rest of the world — just not for you. This one is all yours.

“You quitting on me, Kim?” You let your knee fall inwards to nudge his side, and you pretend not to notice how boneless you still feel. “Didn’t wait all this time to tap out early, did you?”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, nonetheless. His warm palm massages the outside of your thigh affectionately, if only for a moment. Then, he pats his fingertips against the same spot. “Shorts off, champ.”

You follow his instructions and move to shimmy out of them, but not before snorting, “Champ?”

“Fine. Old sport?” He offers with a shit-eating grin. Your shirt smacks him in the face once you peel it off and chuck it at him. He pouts. “Hey!”

“Thanks, I hate it.” 

He tugs his shirt over his head, launches it over his shoulder without looking. Your unabashed stare immediately clocks the slight hint of his abdominal muscles. Lean, but not sharply contoured in a way that looks painful to touch. Soft. Perfect, even.

What lab were you engineered in?

“For someone with so many opinions, you don’t offer many suggestions.” He shoots you a pointed look while he unties the knot at his waistband drawstring. “What’s your proposal?”

You’d love to bite back at him. Really, you would, but he pulls his boxers down alongside his joggers, and every meaningful thought you’ve ever had goes flying out the fucking window. All that’s left is I want you, I want you, I want you.

Automatically, you reach out with a tentative hand, craving nothing more than to feel his velvet length in your hand. To your surprise, he stops you. He catches your hand in his, lifts it to his lips, and brushes a kiss over your knuckles.

“Rain check, baby,” Seokjin smiles against your skin. There it is. That’s the one. “Need to fuck you, posthaste, or I’ll simply pass away.”

You open your mouth to comment; he breezes right past you. He points to the mattress, then to the wall to your left. “On your side, love.”

That works, too.

“Face away from me.”

Never in your life have you moved so fast, all but throwing yourself down where he told you to. As you land with a slight bounce, you mouth to yourself, Posthaste? Nerd.

A second slips by, then Seokjin slips into the space behind you. His lips tickle the back of your neck when he kisses the base of it, causing you to gasp yet again. Maybe that’s just how you breathe when he’s around — like you don’t know how.

His hand drifts down the length of your side, passing over the doughy flesh of your ass. He gives it a squeeze for good measure — because of course he does — but he doesn’t linger, not now.

That hand continues until you feel his fingertips scratch affectionately at the back of your right thigh. He doesn’t need to ask; you lift your leg, allowing your knee to hinge overtop of his hand. Now that his hands are occupied, you offer yours to assist. 

This time, he doesn’t stop you when you wrap your fingers around his length. And fuck, there’s so much of it. Part of you wants to ask where the hell he thinks he’s going to fit all of it, but you’re not a quitter, so you keep your mouth shut. 

Seokjin shivers under your touch, breath catching in his throat so blatantly that you can hear it right behind your ear. 

“Hmmm,” you tease, squeezing the crown gently as you circle your wrist. “Does that work for you, champ?”

His forehead drops against your shoulder. The groan you force out of him is twice as long as necessary, followed by an unwilling laugh. “You’re right, okay? You’re fucking right. It’s awful. Just so fucking bad.”

Your thumb swipes over his leaking tip, smearing the bead of pre-cum waiting for you there. You’re relentless. “Sure you don’t like old sport better? Huh, buddy?”

“Baby,” he warns. There isn’t much heat to it, but it burns white hot in your core anyway.

The stretch of his cock does, too, when you finally stop fucking with him and start letting him fuck you. The breath he holds as he enters you slowly is let out in a shuddered groan when he bottoms out. Perfectly full and fully incapable of teasing him further, you simply melt back against his chest.

He’s careful to start, testing the waters and refusing to push you too far, too fast. You want more, though, you always have. Greedy, you rock your hips back against him to force him deeper into your weeping hole. He takes the hint, fingertips pressing bruises into the underside of your knee as he picks up his pace — and you’re far too blissed to care.

He pistons into you eagerly, deliberate. His hips clap against the flesh of your ass, but the sting of it all can’t compete with the way he splits you open. Makes you reach back to cling to any part of him you can get your hands on, claim whatever you find for keeps. Buried to the hilt, and somehow,  he’s still not close enough.

You’re close, if your fluttering walls have anything to say about it. You’re babbling, too, so lost in pleasure that you can only repeat — over and over — how fucking perfect he is. How perfect for you he is.

Seokjin peppers kisses down the curve of your shoulder as he thrusts. It’s the only real indication you have that he’s at a loss for words, too; that he’s compensating for the quiet. He kisses you with an open mouth, teeth grazing the space he finds, leaves a mess on your sweat-slicked skin.

“Fuck,” he grunts. You mewl. “Can’t stop thinking about —”

“Just like that, please.”

“— how many times I could’ve —”

You wail, “Shit, Seokjin, don’t stop. I’m so close.”

The staccato strokes will be the death of you, you’re sure of it. Thankfully, he doesn’t stop. Not when he kisses the back of your neck again, and not when he murmurs directly in your ear, “— had you like this, if I’d said something years ago.”

Please, please, please. 

It’s all you can say, again and again, as if he isn’t already giving you everything you want before you even ask for it. Responding to every movement you make, fucking into you with precision so that each vein of his cock brings friction where you crave it. Fucking you through your orgasm when it catches you in a riptide and sends you reeling.

“That’s it, baby.” His voice is soothing despite the recklessness of his thrusts. “So good for me. So fucking good.”

You’re still gushing when he snaps his hips forward and stills, cock twitching as he lets himself go inside of you. Still trembling when his head droops forward to nuzzle against your shoulder blade, and when you feel his breathing begin to slow in tandem with yours.

Once he pulls himself out of you, a few moments pass in fucked-out silence. It’s comfortable, if you ignore the mess between your thighs — and you do, for now. Your brain is too busy to waste time on that.

You’re exhausted and bordering on delirious when you say it, but that doesn’t make it any less true:

“I might love you, probably.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t move either, which makes you wonder if he’s fallen asleep with his face smushed into your bare back. But you feel the tiniest exhale through his nose; the kind of laugh you get from him when he’s too tired to be any louder.

His reply is muffled, lips still pressed against your skin, but you hear it perfectly.

For the record, he probably loves you, too.

Epilogue, posted 7/26/23.

final a/n: i have a follow-up drabble planned for these two! stay tuned 🥰

likes are always appreciated, but it's feedback that means the most — whether that's in a comment below, PM, reblog, tags, etc. tysm for reading ✨

tagging: @borahae-k @i-purple-buff-bunni @pamzn @myimaginationsrunningwild @nonbinary-demonbrat @jihopesjoint @cyanide-mustard @xjoonchildx @bbyorchid @persphonesorchid @quarter-life-crisis2 @zelchena @withluvjm @firesighgirl @whatthefsposts @iadelicacy @chimmisbae @cowboylikeyoongi @sailoryooons @axialitae @ugh-yoongi @minholykingofkorea @kookstempo @gimmethatagustd @Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhintothevoid

want to be on my permanent bts taglist? sign up here.

[daechwitatamic]

Shut Up! || A KNJ Drabble

(banner by @itaeewon - thank you jen, especially for the super fast turn-around!!)

Title: Shut Up!

Summary: Once Namjoon’s on a roll about something, there’s really only one sure-fire way to shut him up. Ironically, it isn’t his mouth that needs to be full.

Pairing: Namjoon x reader (no gender mentioned) Genre: NSFW - minors begone!!!!, pwp (who tf am i omg), married!au WC: 1.4k Warnings: language, kissing, oral (m. receiving), maybe a lil dumbification im not actually sure, bodily fluids very present, i guess reader is a bit dom? 

A/N: I DON’T KNOW WHO WROTE THIS, I WAS POSSESSED, THERE IS NO JO HERE. 🙈 

Also, this is ENTIRELY @here2bbtstrash’s fault, or at least this anon’s fault!!!!

Thank you @kookstempo for the beta job!!!!! 🦃 💕💕💕💕

“Oh my god,” you lament, throwing your head back into the plush couch behind it, eyes rolling back, breath escaping you in one short huff. And not even for the good reasons. 

Though… there’s an idea.

“What?” Your husband looks at you innocently, eyes a little wide at your uncharacteristic outburst. “What’s wrong?”

“I love you,” you say, fighting back a smile. His eyebrows raise a little; you’ve been together long enough that he knows this must be coming first to soften a blow. “I love hearing your thoughts. I love that we can share our thoughts with each other.”

“But?” he chimes in intuitively, chin starting to jut, anticipating defensiveness.

You gesture at the tv a little wildly. “But we paused the episode because you had something to say about it forty-two minutes ago. I timed it!”

He blinks at you, like this cannot possibly be true. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, “but the thing is–”

“No!” you cry, tossing the remote onto the coffee table and sitting up to look at him. You have officially hit your breaking point. “Namjoon, no! Please - let me put the show back on.”

“Okay,” he repeats, “but -”

“No!” you shriek, and then you scramble up his tree of a body and press your nose to his, bumping his glasses so they’re slightly askew. Against his lips, you whisper, “Shut up, shut up, for the love of God, shut up.”

His hands come and rest low on your hips, practically on your ass, and he gives your nose a little nudge with his own, his lips pressing to yours - not so much a kiss as a fumble. 

“It’s just that -” he mumbles against your mouth, and you know - you know - he’s fucking with you on purpose, now. He’s hard beneath you already; he knows as well as you do what you’re planning.

“Shut up,” you tell him again, kissing him in earnest this time, your fingers going for the hem of his t-shirt. He takes off his glasses and tosses them blindly towards the coffee table, then lifts his arms so you can pull the fabric around his head. 

You go for his joggers next, and he lifts up eagerly as you slide them and his boxers down in one go. He kicks the black material free from his ankles and spreads his legs a little without you even telling him to, knowing exactly what’s coming.

Five years of marriage will do that; he knows the steps of this dance well, just like you know that the second your mouth is around him, you’re only getting one syllable words out of him until it’s done. It’s the only truly effective way to shut this man up.

You slide your hands up the insides of his thighs, pressing your nails in just a bit as you do. Namjoon hisses, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. You reach for the base of him, purposely brushing your fingertips along his balls on their way by, just lightly enough to leave a tingle, to make him shiver. 

You pump him once, twice, as you settle on your stomach between his legs, and glance up to see how he’s doing. He’s looking down at you, those eyes dark and glinting sharply, and he brushes one hand over the top of your head as he exhales, waiting. 

He doesn’t say a word. What a good boy. 

You lick thick stripes from the base, stopping before the head each time - just to tease him. Just to build it up. He grunts each time you stop short, but when you pump him again - now slicked with spit - he sighs in relief, letting out a wispy, “God, yeah,” on a breath.

You reward him by wrapping your lips around his tip, tonguing his slit for the barest second before sliding further down his shaft, your hand working the part you haven’t reached just yet. 

In all honesty, sloppy blowjobs aren’t usually your thing. You love to go down on Namjoon, love to hear what sounds you can pull from him, love to watch his eyebrows furrow and his adam’s apple bob. But messy, not usually. Special occasions only. 

Tonight feels special. Tonight you have a goal. You want to render this genius man absolutely stupid. You want him to be devoid of any words that aren’t your own name.

You work both hand and mouth over him, the glide smooth as you let spit past your lips on each pass. 

“Fuck,” Namjoon gasps as you tongue the underside of his cock on a downward pass.

You hum happily, setting a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing him down just a bit more each time. When your lips’ seal around him breaks, releasing a wet, sloppy slurping noise through the otherwise quiet room, Namjoon groans above you. 

“God,” he utters again, his voice so low you feel it in your toes, and you lift your eyes to take him in. His chest is flushed dark, heaving. The fingers of one hand twist in the throw blanket on the arm of the couch behind him, the other hovers near you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t want to break the spell. 

You relax your jaw and take him down as far as you can, using both hands to hold his trembling thighs in place as you bring your nose closer and closer to his stomach. Once you’ve taken him as far as you’re able, you hold him there, your throat spasming around him. He whines, which almost makes you laugh, so you release him with a messy pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Shit, shit,” he gasps, the muscles in his stomach rippling beautifully. You take him in your hand again as you catch your breath, let your throat recover for a second. 

You smile deviously, and purr, “Not so much to say now, hmm?”

His eyes fly open, disbelieving, his mouth falling open to gasp his next breath. His eyes flutter closed again as you continue to glide your hand from base to tip and back, and he shakes his head weakly, voice broken as he manages, “N-no. Fuck.”

You take him in your mouth again, hand keeping a steady but lazy rhythm at the base, reveling in the noises that drip from his mouth - desperate pants punctuated sharply by deep grunts as he fights to control himself, the curses he mumbles, barely audible, sharp consonants tripping out of his mouth as his abs flex in time with your movements.

You know he’s close when he starts bucking minutely into the heat of your mouth, staccato grunts morphing into long, legato groans. This is one of your favorite iterations of your husband - fucked out, eyes squeezed shut, sweat rolling from his brow into his dampened hairline, his brain finally silenced as he chases the feeling, chases his high. 

His hand comes to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he moans wordlessly. You take the warning seriously, popping off his tip and speeding up your hand as his feet press into the couch desperately, hips bucking just a little. You’re sure he’d rather come in your mouth, but you’re feeling selfish tonight. You want to see what he gives you.

His moan warbles, volume increasing as his hand tightens in your hair, and then he’s releasing rope after rope of cum; most of it lands on the flat of his stomach, but the last bit dribbles down the side of his softening cock, running over your fingers. Your slow your hand, watching his face carefully, until you can tell he’s spent. 

You give a self-satisfied hum, sitting back on your haunches to admire your handiwork. He opens one eye blearily, a smile coming over his face. 

“Okay,” he breathes, laughing a little. “I’m done talking now.”

eeeeeeep!!!! hope you enjoyed thank you for reading!!!!!

[park-jimin-isnt-real]

𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀

♡ pairing: hobi x reader (best friends/idiots to lovers) ♡ rating: G ♡ genre: fluff, crack ♡ au: diner ♡ tw: n/a ♡ wc: ~0.7k ♡ track: Cruel Summer ~ Taylor Swift: “And I snuck in through the garden gate every night that summer just to seal my fate, and I scream, ‘For whatever it’s worth, I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?’”

♡ summary: It was tradition that each weekend during the summer you and Hobi would go get milkshakes from the local diner to organize your schedules for the upcoming week. It was not tradition for you to kiss him (but you really really wanted it to be).

♡ an: this is such a stupid story XD special thanks to a friend of mine on discord for filling this one out for me lmao here's to you Tempt!! hope you guys enjoy! also happy late birthday to our dear j-hope (and me, we're birthday twins)!!! 14 Valen-tans Days masterlist ♡♡ main masterlist

"You two want the usual?" Seohyeon asked with a smile as you and your best friend, Hobi, walked into the diner. It was your weekly meet-up to synchronize your schedules in your matching bullet journals.

You smiled at the waitress. "Yes please!" She nodded and yelled your usual order back into the kitchen. You and Hobi took your seats in your usual booth, three back from the entrance, Hobi sitting across from you. This had been your Saturday afternoon since your parents were first fine letting you go out on your own.

Hobi had been your best friend since before you could remember. Your parents were friends with his parents, and you lived across the street from each other. You had spent countless playdates and after-school study sessions together. Hobi was even your first date when a bunch of losers made fun of you a few years ago.

You had a giant fucking crush on him and somehow this guy was clueless.

Seohyeon dropped off your large plate of fries that you share together and one strawberry milkshake for Hobi and one vanilla milkshake for you. Hobi took out his journal and pencil case while you shook the ketchup bottle and poured out the condiment.

"You've got your dance competition next weekend, right?" you asked him, pulling your own journal and pens out.

"Yeah, on Sunday," Hobi responded, munching on a fry. "So most of this week is all rehearsal." You nodded, making a note on your page. "Don't you have that volunteer trip middle of next week?"

"Wednesday," you confirmed. You took a sip of your milkshake, relishing in the cold flavor and letting it distract you from your feelings. (It didn't. You just watched him take a large sip from his strawberry milkshake and it made you really want to share it with him.)

Suddenly, an incredibly stupid but slightly genius idea. "Wanna hear something crazy?" You asked Hobi, choosing to doodle sunflowers around the edge of your journal instead of looking at him.

"Sure."

"Jin asked me this week when you and I were gonna go on a date." You felt your face heat up promptly at the lie. You put extra care into the flower doodle.

"Oh, Jin asked you that?" He didn't sound the least bit surprised.

Why didn't he sound the least bit surprised?

"Uh, yeah," you forced out a laugh and brushed your hair behind your ear. "Crazy, right?"

"Yeah," Hobi laughed with you. "Just as crazy as Namjoon asking me the same thing!"

Your smile dropped. "Wait, really?" Your eyes went wide at the thought. Did Hobi know you were lying? Was he just playing along? Or did Namjoon actually suggest that you two officially date?

"Yeah," Hobi said. He had a look in his eyes, despite his smile he was being serious right now. "I told him that I was down, I was just waiting for you."

You couldn't believe what he just told you. You could only stare at him, jaw dropped. I was just waiting for you. The words echoed around your head as you tried to figure out what to do.

After an indeterminate amount of time (you weren't sure) Hobi finally broke the silence between you two. "I can wait longer," he offered quietly, "or, if you don't want—"

"I've been in love with you for years." You blurted it out like the words were on fire and you needed to get them off of you. "I just didn't think—"

"I didn't think—"

"You liked me back." You and Hobi said simultaneously. You covered your face in an attempt to hide the redness.

"Oh my god, we could've been properly dating this entire time," you said into your palms. Hobi laughed.

"And our friends knew the entire time." You peeked through your fingers to see him shaking his head, a bright smile on his face. Well, if you were going to start actually dating, you should tell him the truth.

"Actually..." you removed your hands from your face to take a deep breath. "Jin never said anything to me. I just made it up on the spot." You tried smiling, but it came out more like a grimace.

Hobi bit his lip, trying to hold laughter back. "Namjoon never talked to me either."

For the millionth time during this conversation, your eyes went wide. Then you and your best friend-now-boyfriend burst into laughter.

tagging: @daydreamer-writing

thanks for reading!!

[here2bbtstrash]

✨ announcement: the trash library is OPEN! ✨

hi babes!!! exciting news for you today - we are TRYING A THING!!!

for a little context, this idea came about because i’ve deeply enjoyed getting introduced to some amazing new authors since i’ve started up my fic rec fridays this year! in addition, i get so very excited whenever someone shares something they wrote with me, whether it’s via a tag or a DM. i know firsthand how much vulnerability it takes to share something you've written, so it means the world, genuinely!!! i love getting to read and share y'all's works in this little community 🥺

but! as a person with wicked adhd, i have a hard time keeping up with sent fics when they’re all over the place- buried in my notes, forgotten about in my likes, conversed over in DMs. and then i never read them and feel bad, lol. so i thought we could try a new system!!

all this is to say: i now officially have a tracked tag!! that's right, we are building ourselves a #trashlibrary y’all!! ~party party yeah~ 🥳

join me under the cut for allllll the fun details!! 📚

what is a tracked tag? 📖 it’s just a regular ol' hashtag that you can add to a post (the same way you’d tag #bts fanfic or #jungkook x reader or anything else!) - but this is one i am personally following! that means i'll see everything in the tag and it'll make it much easier for me to keep track of it all, so that i can read all your delicious writing!

so how does this work? 📖 as far as i understand this magical mystical website, you’ll have to stick the #trashlibrary tag on any new post in order for it to show up in the tag. new posts only, unfortunately; editing or reblogging an old post and adding the tag on it won’t work. BUT! if you’ve got a brand new fic to post and you’d like for me to check it out, you can slap that baby at the end of your tags and officially add it to the trash library!!! it will need to be within the first 20 tags in order to actually show up in tumblr search, so pls keep that in mind! 🧐

what should go in the #trashlibrary tag? 📖 i’d like to keep it to written fanfiction specifically about bts, but other than those basic parameters, the world is your oyster! to make things easy, here’s a shortlist of stuff i enjoy in fics - if you write anything featuring ANY of the following, i would LOVE to see it show up in the trash library (but feel free to stick other stuff in there too!):

any member x reader (does my jihope preference need to be explicitly stated at this point 🤣), any combinations of member x member, ANYTHING with queer characters/themes or a diverse reader, POLYAMORY, group sex, HEALTHY kink (well-communicated & safe), unlikeable/flawed/complex characters, role play 🤤, ORAL!!!!!, dom/sub dynamics (preferably soft 🥺), overstim, SEX TOYS, ……cheating 🙈, drug use, sex work, anal play/pegging, experimental sex (trying something for the first time), unlearning shame around the human body and pleasure, forced proximity, hatefucking 😬, darker/more mature themes, semi-public sex, characters that are both horny for and enamored with one another lmao

i do also enjoy myself some tooth-rotting fluff or heartbreaking angst, i’m just less specific about my preferences there 😂 tagged works can be as short as a drabble or as long as you like, and literally ANYONE can use this tag - doesn't matter if it's your first fic or your hundredth, doesn't matter if we're besties or if we've never even so much as talked thru reblogs lmao. i’m up for it all!

will you read and review everything in the tag? 📖 i want to make sure this is explicitly clear from the jump. using this tag is the best way to ensure that i read and possibly review your work, but it is not a guarantee or promise that i will do either. not every fic is for me (WHICH IS FINE AND GOOD ACTUALLY, otherwise the world would be full of nothing but yucky porn 😂) and in addition: i’m just one person, with a whole-ass life, you know?

i will do my absolute best to keep up with this tag, and i'm very excited about it! but i kind of have no idea how much use it will see, and i may very well not be able to get to it all. what i can tell you is that i am much much much more likely to see your stuff if it’s in this tag, vs. lost in some other place that i have already forgotten about because i have 3 brain cells and 0 object permanence lmao.

by using this tag, you are telling me that you have read and understood this disclaimer, and that you can handle your emotions like a grown adult if i miss your fic, or even if it just takes me a while to get to it 💜

okay that's it! 🥺 i hope y'all are pumped - i know i'm excited to see what kind of goodies our library fills up with!!! see you in the stacks 😉

[mapofthesea]

forward!jimin x social media manager!fem!reader

hockey!au

genre: smut, fluff, porn with a hint of plot!

word count: 5.8k

summary: star forward Park Jimin is not only good at the game of hockey, but the game of life. He’s rarely faced with adversity and enjoys the perks of being admired by millions of fans between his sporting and modeling endeavors. To you, he’s nothing but a massive thorn in your side: a reminder of your past life as a puck bunny and your biggest challenge in landing your next promotion. He’s damn lucky he’s handsome.

warnings: arguing, tension from past relationship (they were never Together but they did fuck), swearing, jimin is a smug little shit, jimin with a lip piercing (!!!), hockey talk but no actual game time action, they have Feelings for each other, kind of enemies to lovers but lowkey, specific smut warnings include: penetrative unprotected sex (don’t do this irl!), dom!jimin x sub!reader, slightly bratty reader, degradation (he calls her a slut, she likes it though) and praise, making out/sloppy kissing, fingering (f receiving) oral (f receiving), handjob, hair pulling, hickeys/marking, multiple orgasms, coming inside, slight overstimulation, aftercare ofc

a/n: as always my work is not proof read or edited so there may be some mistakes! Also this is clearly smut so please do not go below the cut if you’re under 18 or uncomfortable with the content noted above. Happy reading!

The warmth of the hotel sheets engulfs you, the expensive feeling silk rubbing gently against your freshly washed skin. You barely know what time it is, but the sleep weighing down your eyelids negates any logic.

An involuntary sigh passes your lips as you feel your spine decompress from the cramped position you had to assume on the plane ride here. Your phone vibrates on the beside table but you skillfully ignore it, snuggling further into the comforter. A sweet lull of sleep starts to envelope you- and then your phone vibrates again. Once, twice, three times, and then the barrage of texts turns into a full blown call, rattling your phone violently.

"Fuck, what?" You yell, throwing the covers off and snatch the phone off of the bedside table. The brightness makes you squint, answering the call without seeing who it is.

"Hello?"

"Oh Thank God, Y/N. I need you to-" the sound of your boss's voice sends anger through your veins. It was his idea for you to travel to this tournament, and now he has the audacity to call you after working hours?

"No, please, Ken. It's late and I'm tired. Whatever the issue is it can wait until the morning."

"It really can't, Y/N. I need you to go talk to Park. Now." You still, heart hammering at the name. You can't imagine what the fuck he would need at this hour, but you're not a babysitter and you certainly aren't giving up your rest for him.

"No, I'm just here to do media for the games. It's not my problem if he needs a handler tonight." Ken sighs and the tension is palpable through the phone line. The silence buzzes through you like a live wire.

"If you don't go talk to him now, your job is gonna be a lot harder than it needs to be in the morning. Please, Y/N. I need someone with boots on the ground to help me. If you get it solved I'll fast track your application for the promotion." Ken's offer hangs over your head. Fuck this capitalist system and the fact that whoever takes the promotion is based more on connection than talent. As much as you despise having to continue to climb the ladder after years of hard work in college and the office, the perks of better health insurance glimmer in your mind.

"Okay, fine. I'm going." Anxiety spikes in your chest as Ken thanks you and hangs up. You vividly remember the last time you were one on one with Park Jimin, and the thought makes your cheeks flame. Suddenly your breezy pajamas feel too warm, and the slightly damp strands of your hair at the nape of your neck itch.

When you started your career in sports media, you never saw yourself working for the same hockey team he plays for. You always saw it as a near impossibility when you moved away from your hometown for the degree- but the universe works in weird and cruel ways that happen to force you into close quarters with a whole gaggle of professional hockey players. You really tried your very hardest to avoid interacting with any of the players on the team outside of working hours, not just Jimin. Although several of them had also flew in today and settled in the same hotel, you made sure to book with a separate airline and get a hotel room on a separate floor. You had no interest in mixing your business with your personal life; it’s nothing but an irresponsible risk.

But here you are now, embarrassing yourself by applying a fresh layer of deodorant before you leave your hotel room. The lavish hallways are luckily empty, and the cool elevator shaft eases the heat crawling up your neck. It’s incredibly nerve-wracking to imagine why you needed to have this intervention, and the idea of how he may answer the door makes you dizzy.

Maybe he’d injured himself? But surely you wouldn’t be the one called to his room in that case. There was always the possibility that he did something to cause a media storm- got into a fight, was spotted robbing a store, maybe it was reported that he did cocaine in a bathroom- but it had only been a few hours since their plane landed, so would he have had time for any of that? And wouldn't covering up a personal blunder be up to his personal manager, not you? Your palms slick with sweat at the possibilities of the mess you’re going to find behind his door.

You hover outside it, staring at the gold plated numbers illuminated by the nearby sconces. It's oddly intimidating to know he's just on the other side of the door; living and breathing and simply existing- perhaps making some kind of erroneous mistake that could ruin his career or basking in the aftermath of that. The wood of the door feels thick and expensive under your fingers as you knock, and it’s so feeble that you can almost guarantee he didn’t hear it. You swear and try again, knocking harder despite your shaking knuckles.

“Coming!” His voice sounds light and airy but it makes lead drop through your stomach. The urge to run away overtakes you and just as you make the decision that no, this isn’t worth the possibility of a promotion, the door swings open.

Park Jimin has no right looking this handsome at whatever ungodly hour you had knocked on his door. His black hair is mussed at the back of his head as if he had just been laying in bed. The softness of his hair is almost enough to weaken you, but the familiar narrowed cut of his eyes runs ice through you. Heat blooms in your cheeks as you blush and internally chastise yourself for the stupid reaction; you were here for a professional reason, so why the fuck was your heart hammering in your chest at a million miles an hour?

"What can I do for you, Y/N?" Jimin's silky voice filters through your hazy mind and you startle, shaking your head to clear the suffocation surrounding you. Alarm bells ring at the familiar cadence of his voice, the way he perfectly crafts the syllables that make up your name.

"Um, I-" your eyes flit around his face; the tempting golden sheen of his skin under the gold casted hallway lighting, the fullness of his cheeks and his pretty lashes and the silver gleam of his lip-ring...

"What the fuck is that?" You practically yell, pulled out of your reverence at his handsomeness as the lip ring registers. It's a bold silver curve, resting temptingly in the middle of his plush bottom lip. It shines as if tempting you to look closer, to touch it, to feel it. Your stomach stirs at the fleeting thought of how the cold metal would pull an addicting contrast between the heated press of his lips.

"This?" He licks at the metal with his tongue and you suddenly feel the need to take a seat. "Got it a while ago, honestly. Off season stuff." He waves his hand nonchalantly as if you'd asked him if he wanted chocolate or vanilla cake. "You like it?" He arches a perfectly shaped brow and leans casually on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He's small and lithe for a hockey player, but you know that he has intimidating strength corded through his arms and the stamina to match.

Dumbly, you nod at his question. You like it a lot. Jimin lets out a heady laugh and you can only imagine how fucking stupid you look right now; slightly damp hair and a flushed bare face, mismatched sleep socks and these stupid lamb pajamas your mom got you for Christmas. Your face blanches at the sudden realization that the shorts were certainly too small for standing in a hotel hallway under Park Jimin's gaze.

"Wait, no, I'm here because Ken told me to come down and talk to you!" You backtrack quickly, pulling at the bottom hem of your t-shirt.

"Awe, come on Y/N, you mean you didn't want to come visit me for old times sake?" His electric eyes travel your bare legs. You grit your teeth and try to find the fire of anger in your stomach-the shield that's allowed you to ward off your feelings for him for so many years- but it's been replaced by the quivering attraction that never quite left.

"N-no, Jimin." You plant your hands on your hips; hoping to instill some of the social media manager persona back into your conversation. "That thing is a liability for you, and for me, it sounds like, because Ken sent me down here to take care of it. You'll have to get rid of it. It's out of regulations for the games." Jimin blinks owlishly, as if he had never considered that the piercing would be out of regulations.

"Really?" He licks the damn piercing again and your greedy eyes soak up every part; the perfect pinkness of his tongue and the way he maneuvers it around the metal in a tantalizing circle that's much too familiar. Your stomach simmers with arousal.

"Fuck, Jimin, yes. It really is out of regulations, and I would assume Ken saw some picture of you with it, and he's pissed and made it my problem because he isn't here yet. So please, for me, take it out for the games." When is this guy ever going to give you a break? You spent your entire teenage years pining for him and half of your college visits home tangled in his bedsheets, and now as a full fledged adult you're begging him to get his shit together so you can get considered for a promotion. "Please, Jimin, can you just do this one thing for me?" The exasperation of the night makes your voice whiny even to your own ears, and you can practically see Jimin's ears perk at the sound. A cheeky grin overtakes his features.

"If I remember correctly, I've done lots of things for you." You don't miss the shift in his voice; the darkened tone that haunted your dreams for months after you vowed to never speak to him again. Suddenly your throat feels dry and you choke on your rebuttal as he takes a confident stride into the hallway. You can smell the clean linen of his cologne and you instinctively close your eyes and take an inhale. Your nose flares and you swallow your impure thoughts.

"Listen." You poke a finger into his chest and immediately regret it; the firmness of his well toned muscles rejecting your jab. "Come on, Jimin. I'm begging you."

His chest shudders under your finger, and he's so close you can feel the exhale of his breath against your hair. You're frozen as he moves, clasping one of your shoulders with strong fingers. His grip makes your skin tingle as he lowers himself to match your stare.

"I seem to remember you being much better at begging, Y/N. Hmm? Want to try that again?"

Arousal lights your veins and your brain whirs into overdrive, screaming at you to follow the animal instinct clawing inside your gut. Unbidden flashes of your past with Jimin run through your mind: the grip of his hands on your plush hips as he drives himself into you, the paths of bruised kisses he left on your tits after hours of teasing them, the reddened claw marks you left on the bronzed skin of his back.

The current of dominance in his words sparks something dormant inside of you; the slumbering brattiness that you had converted into tenacity reborn. You surge up against him, closing the gap with a bruising kiss. He stumbles slightly in surprise but easily recovers, capturing you around the waist as you devour his mouth. The cool metal of the lip ring is just as addicting as you imagined it to be, wedged between the unending warmth of his plush lips. It's fucking addicting to be kissing him again as he pulls you against the hard planes of his body. There's no hesitation in his actions as he shoves his tongue into your mouth and you nipples pebble in response to the liquid heat he elicits in you.

Oxygen becomes useless to you the longer you kiss him. All that matters is the connection of your bodies, the slip of your tongues against one another. Your heart stutters with yearning as Jimin helps himself to a handful of your ass cheeks and you nip at his piercing playfully. A moan reverberates through him and he uses his grip on you to pull you impossibly closer, walking your bodies backward into his hotel room.

The change of scenery shocks you enough that you finally break from the kiss, panting from the exertion. The heavy door slams shut behind you as Jimin pushes it, perhaps a bit too hard. To your wild satisfaction Jimin looks just as winded as you feel. “Fuck,” he croaks the word and you smile, unable to hold back anymore. Something in your mind loosens, and you surge forward to fumble with the tie of his sweatpants. A beautiful moan falls from his lips and for a second you’re sure that the control he never gave you had become yours: that in the years you’d been apart he had shifted into a man who let you take. After so long of playing the sexy and mysterious playboy, Jimin had finally unraveled for you.

But his sudden strength re-emerges just as you begin to wiggle the fabric down his hips, and he captures your wrists under his palm. Forcing your wandering hands away, a familiar gleam of delight at your pliancy shadows his eyes.

“Oh, little girl, you know better than that, don’t you? Or did you forget how this goes for us?” He tuts dismissively but the passion on his face makes your knees weak. “You-“ he shuffles you closer to the king sized bed, “do what I want you to, isn’t that right, Y/N?” Arrogance colors his tone, and you have half a mind to tell him to shove it, but he guides your hands back to his cock and your brain shorts.

He’s hard, twitching under your touch as he holds your hands there, controlling the pressure of your touch. From your seated position on the bed you get a glorious view of the vein in his neck throbbing, and you regret not plastering any bruises onto his neck earlier. “You always were so good with your hands, Y/N. Fuck. Used to drive me crazy thinking about your hands on my dick.” The husk of his voice makes wetness pool between your thighs. It had been so long since you heard him like this but it was just as delicious as before. The pressure he holds on your hands relinquishes but it’s clear what he expects of you so you snake your hands under the layers of fabric dutifully.

You can’t help but tease him a bit, tracing the curve of his balls through the fabric of his expensive boxers. His hips jump forward and he bites out a warning that has you eager to feel the firm hotness of his bare cock in your hand. You shift forward to pull him free, and you keen at the sight of his cock.

A thatch of welcoming dark hair at the base, the length that puts your last boyfriend to shame, the pretty red-tinged head pulsing with a pearlescent shine of precum. Suddenly, you feel extremely empty.

The seam of your pajama shorts presses right where you need it, so you settle for rubbing your thighs together subtly for now. Your hand encases his length, starting with small gentle strokes that you know are doing nothing but driving him crazy. His stomach clenches and trembles as you start pumping him faster, relishing in the little jumps of his cock as your grip gets firmer.

“Feels so good,” the praise falls from him without thought and strikes a hot iron in your stomach, thighs rubbing together without much thought. “Pretty little hand on me like that, fuckin missed that.” The haze of arousal occupies you enough that you don’t allow yourself to overthink anything: instead taking the liberty to rub your thumb firmly over the tip of his cock. The precum aids your glide but you feel a devious idea sneak up on you and you promptly lean forward to spit directly onto his cock. The sound he makes is inhumane and you adore it, gobbling up the strained whimper of your name as he grasps your hair, hard.

Pleasure shoots down your spine at his grip and he grins slyly, calculating eyes shooting down to the quivering of your thighs. You don’t cease your hands, only adding the second to cup at his balls again while he appraises you. “My pretty little slut, spitting on my cock without me even asking.” He holds your hair harder, cocking your head just enough that you can’t look away from his smoldering eyes. “Are you my pretty little slut?”

You were expecting the question: a relic of your college aged trysts, but it still bowls you over like a semi truck.

“Y-yes, Jimin. ‘M your pretty little slut.” He grins so hard that his eyes scrunch and an approving sound rolls out of him. Your pussy throbs at that, hips canting forward as you mindlessly work your hands over his cock. “Do you need some help?” The grip on your hair disappears and you immediately miss it, the sting of your scalp serving as a beautiful reminder. It takes you a minute to decipher what he means, but the way his penetrating stare flickers between your eyes and your center clues you in. The seam of your shorts had been consistently stimulating you but not nearly enough for any kind of relief: you had soaked through them and your panties while Jimin spoke to you.

You pout at him and nod even though he really didn't need more persuasion. Jimin's quick to cup your pussy in his hand, rubbing his palm over the soaked fabric. Your grip on his cock tightens at his touch and he hisses approvingly, pressing harder against your pussy. You grind your hips upward in a bid to get him closer to your clit. The dull pressure of him cupping you entirely only heightens the neediness in your veins.

"Please, Jimin," you whine and petulantly drop your hands from him when he doesn't get the hint fast enough. Jimin arches a brow at you.

"Is this the game you wanna play, Y/N?" Only now do you realize that his hand has stilled as well, the heat of his palm radiating against your wetness. You shake your head, unable to bear the idea of being denied his touch any longer. "That's what I thought," he tuts. "Now be a good girl and keep touching me, and maybe I'll return the favor."

You immediately grasp for him again, making quick work of thumbing the vein running on the underside of his cock. Jimin returns the favor by honing in on your clit through the fabric of your shorts. You work each other in a lustful tandem, sharing moans until Jimin slips his fingers underneath the soaked layers of fabric on you. The feeling of his fingers on your bare pussy sends you reeling, hands doubling their work on him as he circles your clit with a nimble index finger.

"Fuck, Y/N, you're gonna make me fucking cum," his hips stutter wildly under your grip and you smile, dopey on the satisfaction and the energy building in your core.

"Wanna make you cum," you supply, squeezing the head of his cock lightly. Jimin grunts heartily, head tipping back against his shoulders and you know you have him right there. Triumph squeezes your heart as you make quick deliberate strokes across his cock.

You hear him cum before you feel it, the beautiful tone of his voice husked with arousal. His hips stutter and buck against your hand as his cum paints your top and your palm, the sticky wetness oddly satisfying to your lust addled brain. A laugh of disbelief leaves him as your hand finally loosens. His own hand comes back to life and you gasp; surprised by his renewed energy so soon after coming.

His chest heaves as he bares down over you, leaning your body back onto the plush mattress. His eyes skate down to the mess he made of your shirt and a devious smirk decorates his face.

"Hmm, maybe we should get you out of this messy shirt?" His voice is invariably playful again and you can't help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

"Oh, I guess if you insist..." you bat your eyes playfully as he dislodges his hand from your pussy. It leaves you feeling oddly cold, but the gentle tug at the bottom of your shirt distracts you.

"Can I?" The sheepish look on his face stuns you. After everything that had happened tonight, and all of the times he had taken the liberty of stripping you naked before, you're surprised to see the hesitation on his face.

"Yes, Jimin, if you're sure." You cup his face gently, thumbing the delicate metal of his lip ring. He nips at your fingertip and laves at the spot with his sinful tongue. The flush that stains your face is blocked by the fabric of your shirt as he shucks it off; and Jimin's gaze finds your tits immediately.

"So pretty," he pinches a nipple in reverence. "I missed these tits, Y/N. Missed you." You can't be sure if he meant to admit the last part, but hope strikes your heart regardless. He squishes your tits together and jiggles them, and for a second he's transformed back to the boyish college freshman he was when you first started to hook up; high on his new career as an athlete and the fame that came with it.

His tongue laves across the curves of your breasts, biting a bruise into the supple flesh right above your nipple. The pain transforms into arousal in a second, and your hips buck against him in silent question.

"Oh, can't have just half the outfit on, can we?" He dances his calloused fingers along the waistband of your tiny shorts before yanking them clean off, underwear easily going along with them. The rush of cool air that meets your pussy raises goosebumps along your skin.

"Don't worry, baby. I'll get you nice and warmed up again." Jimin cracks a feline smile and settles comfortably on his knees before parting your thighs. Wetness slicks between them and he hums in satisfaction.

His long hair tickles your legs and you already feel so overwhelmed that by the time he puts his mouth on you, your back is arching toward the ceiling. He presses a kiss to your pussy and the cold sting of his lip ring brings tears to your eyes. Jimin parts your lips with his fingers and allows himself to feast, licking you so thoroughly that you think this must be a holy experience.

Surely this is what divine intervention feels like: Park Jimin feasting on your pussy like a man starved, circling your clit with his tongue and teasing your throbbing entrance with his deft fingers. Your body is honed into every move he makes, and each twitch of his tongue and push of his fingers brings you closer to the sweet, blinding edge. Your hips squirm at the overwhelming sensations and Jimin nips at your clit in retaliation, throwing a strong arm over your lower stomach. Effectively holding you in place, he redoubles his efforts and slides two fingers home, stretching your walls at the same time he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks.

The hot wetness of your arousal, his mouth, the slip of his tongue against you, and the shockingly chilled press of that god damn lip ring send you into happy oblivion. An inhumane string of noises rips from your throat as you come, writhing against the sheets as white heat flashes behind your eyelids. You vaguely register Jimin's fingers pushing you through the high as he laps the last bits of arousal out of you.

"There's my pretty little slut," he purrs as you settle. Your thighs twitch as he pulls his hand away to smooth down the hairs sticking to your face. It takes you a few blinks to register the pretty grin on his face, but you return it with ease.

"Never get rid of that thing." You gesture vaguely to his mouth and a puff of laughter runs across your face. He tongues at it thoughtfully, and even though you had just come, your pussy throbs again.

"Funny, about an hour ago you were begging me to take it out."

You slap his chest noncommittally, still weakened from your explosive orgasm. Jimin pecks your forehead and you keen. A softness appears around his edges as he looks down on you; and even in your bare faced, sweaty state you feel adored.

"I missed you too," the words burst forward before you can rethink it. It'd been swimming around in your mind since you accepted your job offer and caught sight of him for the first time in years. Although neither of you were ever bold enough to make it official, there was no denying the magnetic attraction you shared.

"Fuck, I'm so glad you said that. I have so much I wanna talk to you about-" he presses another delicate kiss to the corner of your lips and you grin. "But I am so hard right now, can we please talk later?" He rolls his hips against you and the evidence is clear. Your brain blanks, replacing the fuzzy adoration with sharp, demanding need.

"Uh huh, talk later. Need you now." Jimin makes short work of his shirt at your approval. His instagram modeling presence has made you no stranger to the sight of his bared chest; but the toned muscles of his pecs and abs scramble your mind. His skin nearly twinkles under the light, and whether its a trick of your mind or the evidence of a very fancy moisturizer, you're just happy to be in his presence.

"Flip," he orders, voice devoid of the sweetness it held just moments before. A shiver wracks your spine as you follow his instructions, flipping onto your hands and knees and obediently curving your back. Jimin hums in praise and you feel renewed energy course through your veins.

He traces the curve of your ass, ghosting his touch around the sensitive skin. You can't see him but you can picture the self satisfied grin on his face as he relishes in the smooth skin. The touch of his lips against your full cheek shocks you and you rock forward into the bed. Jimin bites into the flesh firmly and you moan at the feeling of his sharp canines. You can imagine the blooming bruise that will be there by the morning, and the mere idea of the sore reminder of this night makes your core throb.

"Do you-" Jimin's words die in this throat. "Do you have any condoms?" The punch of reality has you sagging into the sheets. Of course you didn't. The last thing you expected was for this night to unfold like it did. Heavy disappointment weighs your heart.

"I didn't bring any, I haven't..." he trails off again and you wait a few breathless seconds for his words before you twist your upper body so you can see his face. His cheeks are flushed a rosy red that's so endearing your heart squeezes. If it weren't for his evident arousal you would think he had just woken up from a long, restful sleep.

"I haven't been with anyone in a while." He gives you a sheepish smile and you nod in understanding.

"Me either." The admission passes between the two of you like calm water, cooling the tension until a storm whips up in Jimin's eyes. His cocky grin returns as he palms himself.

"I'm clean, are you?" You nod, body reacting to his insinuation before your mind can fully catch up.

"I'm on the pill," you breathe the words as if you can't believe them, and Jimin looks absolutely ravenous. He runs two thick fingers up your pussy, gathering the heady arousal that already has you slippery and stretched for him.

"Gonna let me get in you raw, huh?" He shuffles forward until you can feel the tip of his cock pressed against your folds. He holds his cock against you with his thumb as he glides, careful not to enter you prematurely.

"If I woulda known all it took was a few years apart..." you huff a rueful laugh that transforms into a moan as he slips the head of his cock into you.

"Oh fuck-" Jimin wastes no time in sliding in until he is seated fully inside of you. Your walls pulse around him and you can feel drool pooling in your mouth. He takes a handful of each of your asscheeks and pulls your body against his own, a little experiment to see just how greedy your pussy is for him.

An obscene squelch sounds between your bodies and it only spurs Jimin into further action.

"Fucking perfect little ass and pussy swallowing me up." Jimin moves impossibly fast, taking care to sheath his entire cock inside of you hard before pulling out. Your finger nails rake through the comforter as the waves of pleasure ripple through you. Jimin's body encases your own, trapping you under the strength of his muscles and heat of his sweaty skin. With his chest pressed to your back, his cock drives into you at a brand new angle that makes your toes curl with delight. Jimin's sinful lips find a home at the juncture of your neck and he seems more than happy to decorate you with hickeys to match the one on your ass. The addicting drag of his cock pairs with the tickling cold of his lip ring each time his mouth lands on you, and the sensory overload has your stomach clenching.

You have completely lost control of your mouth and allowed the animalistic sector of your brain to take over as Jimin fucks you stupid. His own incoherent grunts vibrate against your neck in fragments. "Pretty...good little slut...fuck..."

Your eyes roll as he slows his thrusts, aiming for the perfect spot that makes your legs jelly. It only takes him a few moments to find it, and the world quickly becomes washed with tears.

You hiccup his name as he steadies a hand around your abdomen, sneakily playing with your clit.

"You gonna come for me, Y/N? Get my cock all nice and wet just like you're supposed to?" He braces his unoccupied hand overtop of you, clutching the headboard with flexing muscles. His presence is suffocating in the best possible way and you feel like you're drowning in Jimin.

"Such a perfect little pussy. So hot and wet for me all the time." His voice wavers and his thumb catches your clit just right. A dark chuckle graces your senses just as you tip into oblivion.

Your entire body contracts and shivers under him as you cum, Jimin's hips driving you forward until you collapse into the comforter in a fit of cries. It feels like you come forever, leaking waves of arousal around Jimin as his hips slap against your own.

"Good job, baby. I-I'm gonna come, you feel so good." You whine and plead for him, ready for the electric feeling of him filling you with his cum. You're still feeling shaky when he comes, driving his hips as far forward as possible as he fills you. Beautiful airy moans leave him as he grinds against you, relishing in the sloppy warmth of your mixed cum.

His hips slow their movement but his mouth never ceases, spilling praise and planting kisses along your back until he's spent. When he pulls out you instantly feel empty, whining as his cum slides out with him. Both of you are too spent to do anything about it, but Jimin watches with hooded eyes from beside you as it leaks onto the comforter. It's scary how suddenly the sleepiness hits you, and you reach near blindly for the man next to you.

You must look exhausted because he coos and pecks a kiss over your nose. "You can sleep here." You giggle and crack your eyes open and find him so close that you can see the irregularities of his teeth as he grins.

"Good, cause I'm not walkin' back to my room now. Even if I could walk, my clothes are ruined." His face flushes at the reminder of your debauchery. He licks his lips and your eyes catch on that damned lip ring again.

"You really will have to take that out for the games," you run your thumb across it again, obsessed with the feeling.

"I know," he whispers, and then his lips are ghosting over your own for permission. This kiss is nothing like the one you shared at the top of the night. It's gentle and slow and punctuated with a deep connection that runs years deep. Despite how much you had done tonight, this kiss feels the most intimate of all.

No more words need to be exchanged as he helps you sit up and walks you to the bathroom with some pajamas from his bag. He patiently waits outside as you pee-both of you agreeing that you weren't quite ready to be that available with one another- and he lends you a bit of his face wash in earnest.

The comforter is stripped from the bed by the time you're back, and he's pulled the extra pillows from the linen closet to accommodate for you. You shuffle under the sheets and are happy to find them just as silky as your own were. Jimin slips in next to you, fully clothed again, and promptly kills the bedside lamp.

Sleepiness overtakes you almost instantly then, and it's so dark that you rely on the pattern of his breath to gauge if Jimin is still awake.

"I'm sorry if I made things weird for all that time, I- I was just scared that I would say the wrong thing." You speak to the surrounding darkness, and for a minute you think that maybe you missed the short window of opportunity. But then Jimin gives a thoughtful hum, shuffling so that he can tuck your body against his chest. His response is muffled by your hair.

"It's okay. We were young and stupid last time. I hope you'll let us try again." Your heart swells and you hum in affirmation and snuggle back against him. "Tomorrow?" You offer, the hazy edge of sleep just seconds away.

"Tomorrow." Jimin agrees before your consciousness drops easily into dreamland.

[eoieopda]

liar, liar (jhs)

Hoseok suspects that you’re “phoning it in” while sexting and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t call your bluff.

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x AFAB!Reader Type: Smut (18+ — EXPLICIT — MINORS DNI!) Word Count: 5K CW: Hoseok POV; cocky, fuckbuddy!Hoseok; soooo much teasing; masturbation with an audience (f); oh, the dirty talk; unprotected sex (p in v); Hoseok hits it from the back; overstimulation; squirting; multiple orgasms, etc. A/N: Inspired by some of the responses to @here2bbtstrash’s horny headcanon ask game 😈 Specifically, this and this.

Hoseok is a lot of things: a connoisseur with a dutifully refined palate; an archivist, collecting your artful nudes in a museum only his face can unlock; an absolute demon in his sexual prime. What Hoseok isn’t is a much shorter list: a goddamn idiot, though you seem to be taking him for one.

He’s not sure how he knows it — maybe he has a sixth sense for this sort of thing — but when he reads your text, telling him how wet you are for him, that’s not the way he pictures you.

Little liar that you are, Hoseok suspects that you’re half-awake in bed, going through the motions while some mindless drama plays in the background. In fact, if he knows you the way he thinks he does, you’re probably elbow-deep in a bag of kkobuk chips.

To your credit, you don’t make it obvious — not in your words, that is. You describe in poetically pornographic detail what you claim to want to do to him; and he’d be lying if he said his joggers weren’t growing increasingly tight with every little obscenity you send his way. You made one mistake, though, and Hoseok can’t let it go.

He could pick your disastrously thick, downright bite-worthy ass out of a lineup — and he knows that the picture you just sent him is one you’ve sent before.

It takes a minute for him to force his eyes off your supple skin and throw himself out of his bed, but Hoseok eventually manages. He tugs on a shirt, then a jacket for good measure, and then he stalks off towards the door to his apartment. Shoes on and keys in hand, he’s on his way to you before he can think once, let alone twice.

When he hits the sidewalk, it’s the fury of a fuck buddy scorned that propels him up four blocks to your place. Then, desperation and aching balls force him to skip the usual, friendly conversation with your doorman as he breaches your apartment building. Finally, with a bit of menace — for zest — his knuckles rap against your door. His jaw is clenched and twitching slightly when you finally answer, looking good enough to eat in your baggy sweatpants and shocked expression.

“Jay?” You squeak out your little nickname for him. Cute. Your frenzied hands then fly up to scrape fly-aways back into the bun sitting crooked on the top of your head. “What are you doing here? My place is a mess right now. I’m a mess right now — I wasn’t expecting company.”

Hoseok smirks, revels in the fact that he’s caught you red-handed, and slips past you into your apartment. Before your brain can catch up to this turn events, he gazes at you through narrowed eyes while his head cocks to one side. At first, he says nothing. He simply lets you simmer; make-up free cheeks burning maroon while your dumbstruck mouth hangs slightly open.

“So,” he snips. Your knees wobble a bit under the heat of his gaze; he knows exactly what it does to you when he plays up the assertive attitude. "It would seem that we’ve got a credibility problem, petal.”

Your mouth closes, but your eyes grow wider with the practiced, twinkling innocence only a guilty person can sell. Hoseok can hear the gears turning in your brain as you try to think up an excuse for sexting him on autopilot. Lucky for you, he’s got all the time in the world to wait while you spin your wheels over the issue.

Lucky for him, granting you leave to answer and toying with you aren’t mutually exclusive.

When he steps closer to you, you inch away until your back bumps against the wall behind you. A tiny gasp escapes; your warm breath fans out over his neck as he leans down to you. You’re not entirely chest-to-chest — not yet anyway — but the consequences your actions had on him earlier are still palpable. He knows you can feel it, too, nudging the space just above your hip bone.

Hoseok, ever the tease, takes the hem of your t-shirt between his thumb and middle finger. Running the tips along the seam there, he tugs so lightly that the movement barely registers. Even still, it’s enough pressure to make your nipples peak through the fabric — just like he’d hoped. Meanwhile, your eyes shake as you stare, unblinking, up at him.

You are so fucking pretty when you shiver.

Pulling just a little bit harder on the end of your shirt, Hoseok leans in even closer. You push up, ever so slightly, onto your toes like you’re waiting to be kissed. He wants to indulge you — he knows you know that — but he’s determined to hold the line. You whine when he turns away at the eleventh hour so that his lips instead hover below your ear.

“You had so much to say over text,” he hums as he fidgets absently with your top. “Can’t help but feel a little neglected, honestly. Where’s all that big talk now?”

With his voice dropped low like that, Hoseok wonders if you feel it vibrate against your neck. You whimper, wordlessly confirming that you do. When he eliminates whatever remains of the distance between you, the tip of his nose bumps your jaw at the same time his swollen dick presses more firmly against your abdomen. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of you swallowing down a moan.

He smirks as you shift. You’re subtle with it, but he knows what you’re trying to do — sidle up closer, get his lips to finally touch your skin. On any other day, you’d win him over in a heartbeat. You’d get him now if you used those honeyed words of yours in person.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts with a disapproving click of his tongue. Doubling down, he holds his hands up and out to the side where you can see them but not touch them, “Not laying a finger on you until you speak up.”

You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth as the tip of his nose once again prods your jaw. Now, that won’t do. “Not gonna give you my lips, or teeth, or tongue, either, if you can’t say that same filthy shit with your whole chest.”

What he does give you is a microscopic roll of his hips. There’s hardly friction at all — no relief. Maddeningly, it just compounds that dull ache you cursed him with. The only benefit Hoseok reaps from that tiny movement is the pout that blossoms on your face when you realize:

Playing stupid games wins you stupid prizes.

“Aren’t you curious?” His gaze drops to your lips for half a moment — long enough for you notice — then his eyes raise again to bore into yours. “About how good you could have it if you weren’t just going through the motions?”

You finally open your mouth. All he gets is his last initial, drawn out and quiet, but still so needy.

“Jay.”

“Nah,” he laughs darkly. The corner of his mouth pulls up into that smug, lopsided smile he knows will fuck you right up. “I’m Hoseok to you tonight, petal — and I don’t give a shit about the state of your apartment, or whether or not you shaved your legs.”

Your frown deepens when he backs away, but goddamn, does your face light up when he starts walking in the direction of your bedroom.

With how expressive you are, you’re unbelievably easy to tease. Any reaction Hoseok could ever want from you is broadcasted in an instant all over your sweet face. He has to bite back an endeared grin before he glances back at you over his shoulder — only to find that you’re still holding the wall up.

“Cat got your tongue and your legs? Damn!”

He’s already crossing the threshold into your bedroom when you finally take your cue to follow him. That adorable, confused crease reappears between your eyebrows when he goes for your vanity instead of the bed set up on the opposite side of your room. Grabbing the stool, he pulls it out and sits down. He then gestures languidly with his palm extended, silently inviting you to sit across from him on the edge of your mattress.

Abundantly cautious, you quietly study his face as you sink down onto your unmade bed. Your voice drips with suspicion when you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Hoseok chuckles with a shake of his head and an admittedly devilish grin. He runs his palms over the thighs of his joggers, praying he’ll be able to shed them soon — just not too soon. “That’s precisely the point, petal.”

His words clearly haven’t sunk in yet, so you cross your arms over your chest and one leg over the other. Then, you wait — albeit not patiently — for an explanation he’s not going to offer.

Hoseok tilts his head to the side as he stares back at you. On the nights when you actually expect to see him, you tend to be more dolled up than you are now. He understands that, but he can’t figure out what you meant when you called yourself a mess. You may not be wearing the fatal lingerie from that recycled photo, but that fact doesn’t make him want to unwrap the gift in front of him any less.

Doesn’t make him want to tease you any less, either.

“Well, then,” he starts simply with a shrug, “Show me.”

You might be genuinely puzzled by this, but then again, you might be fucking with him now, too. You swallow, blink back at him all slow and cute. “Show you what, exactly?”

Hoseok leans back against your vanity and rests his elbows on the tabletop. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he answers, and the way your hungry eyes follow its path isn’t lost on him. Though he won’t show his cards just yet, he’s dying to give you every sick little thing you want — so long as you open that pretty mouth of yours and speak it into existence.

Until then, he’s prepared to coax it out of you.

“Show me how you want me to touch you.”

Your eyebrows raise. That cotton candy blush sweeps over your cheeks again and it takes a conscious effort not to palm his own dick through his pants. He wonders if you taste like cotton candy, too.

A few moments stagger past while the two of you sit at an impasse, simply staring at one another in tension-riddled silence. He’s determined not to buckle, though that little pout of yours would normally have him on his knees by now. He’ll gladly be your toy any other night of the week, but this time, he’s not backing down.

With a tiny huff, you stand up on wobbly knees. Your arms cross over your stomach as you reach for the hem of your shirt, then you pull them back up slowly, taking your shirt with them. It’s not a sight he’ll ever get tired of — not one he ever takes for granted, either — watching the way your tits bounce when their only covering slips up and away.

When it really comes down to it, though, it’s what comes next that really turns him feral.

Your nimble fingers work out the knotted drawstring at the waistband of your sweatpants; Hoseok is all but drooling with anticipation. No late night photo of your ass could ever replicate the effect that the real thing has on him. There’s no comparison, no substitute. He groans without meaning to when that thick fabric slides down your silky thighs and lands with a muffled sound at your feet.

As he suspected, there’s no black lace to be found underneath. Hoseok feels validated, but more importantly, he feels his dick twitch against the confines of his pants when he sees the faint gloss of arousal on the upper-most part of your inner thighs. He tears his eyes away and follows your legs all the way down when you bend to pull your discarded sweats off your ankles.

He’s not sure if he’s capable of speech, so he doesn’t instruct you further. Instead, he opts to observe with a clenched jaw as you sit down on the edge of your bed. Once your bare ass meets the duvet, you push yourself back until there’s enough room for your legs. Your heels come to rest in front of you, but you keep your knees together — still hiding.

Really, he’s on the brink of begging. Hoseok can’t let it show, though. He fixes his dark-eyed stare on you and smirks, hoping one look is enough to prompt those perfect legs to spread. When they actually do, he swallows down a growl.

Fuck.

Your face and your pussy are tied for first, both the most angelic thing Hoseok’s ever fucking seen. Inside his mouth, he captures his tongue between the tips of his teeth to keep it to himself. There isn’t a part of you he doesn’t want to savor. Nowhere on your body he doesn’t want to nip at, suckle and mark.

Leaning your weight onto one hand, you slide the other down your navel. Then, his eyes follow it as it trails over the soft hair he’s told you a thousand times he doesn’t mind; but which is likely the reason you look so self-conscious now. Your hand stops to rest just above your clit and Hoseok doesn’t know if it’s nerves or showmanship that justifies the pause.

“Go on,” he sounds casual when he says it as if this isn’t killing him any less than it is you. “Prove that you meant what you say.”

Finally. Movement.

The tip of your middle finger dips down between your folds, and Hoseok can hear how thoroughly you’ve drenched yourself. He can hear your little mewls, too, as your fingertip wades through your wet heat, then travels back up to your clit. Slow spirals follow, underscored by breathy moans.

“Shit,” you sigh as your eyes flutter and your head falls back. Is that really all you’ve got to say? You push up slightly onto your heels, swirl your hips in microscopic circles opposite to your finger’s ministrations.

Hoseok knows it’s not enough for you. Your greedy pussy is screaming for more; he hears it loud and clear from his spot several meters away. It begs to be filled, knuckle-deep, and craves teasing pressure at an angle that’s difficult for you to meet on your own. He doesn’t move to help you, though. He just lets you try to mimic the way his longer digits make you feel.

It’s frustrating, sitting there with his hands kept to himself. If he’s not going to wield them against you, his only other instinct is to tend to the painfully hard dick leaking pre-cum inside his boxers. Unfortunately, it’s your touch he wants, not his own. Maybe if he gets you talking, you’ll unravel faster and earn a reward.

“I wanna see you finger-fuck yourself,” Hoseok’s gruff voice surprises you and causes your doe eyes to snap open. They lock in on his face, clearly flustered by his assertiveness. “Stretch that pretty pussy for me, petal. Need to know you can take it when I finally let you have my cock.”

You sound like an angel when you sigh like that. Hoseok grits his teeth and swallows hard. It dawns on him then that he may be torturing himself more than he’s torturing you. Every muscle in his body is threatening to mutiny, but he refuses to indulge their cries to move. Thankfully, you do.

As your finger penetrates your hole for the first time, Hoseok’s can’t decide which sound is his favorite: the moan that starts in the depths of your chest and only builds as it exits your mouth, or the squelch of your cunt as you tease yourself. Maybe it’s the slight squeak of the bed frame when you begin to grind down against your hand, pushing your finger in deeper towards your detonator and increasing the pressure of the heel of your hand against your clit.

You whimper his name and that settles it — that little plea is the best noise he’s ever heard. “H-Hoseok!”

At this point, he’d be quick to soothe you, rush over to gift you that orgasm you’re so desperately chasing. Instead, he stays planted in his seat, tilts his head to the side, and hums fondly, “Yes, petal? You wanna cum?”

He gets an eager, desperate nod in response which is nowhere near good enough. Please just learn your lesson so he can fuck you the way you need to be fucked. Just — “Tell me, then. I’ve read your bark; show me your bite.”

You add a second finger, and your head drops forward. The pace increases and — fuck — you’re gushing. Your arousal catches the light as it drips down the length of your fingers and pools in the palm of your hand.

Please, please, please just say what you need.

“Agh!” Your frustration peaks and you wail, panting. A sheen of sweat breaks out on your forehead, matching the slick on your collarbones. “Want to cum. Fuck, I — ah! — I need to cum so fucking bad, Hoseok, p-please. I want to feel you in my stomach. I — mmnh — need you to fill me.”

Hoseok has options. He could continue to sit there, watching you fall apart, and try not to cream his fucking pants. He could break his cardinal rule and impale you on his dick before making you cum twice first. Or, he could tag you out; take care of you and guide you right off the edge.

He gets to his feet before he even settles on a plan. The distance between you closes quickly, and then he wraps his hand around your straining wrist. You crash back against the mattress with relief washing over your face — and you have no idea what that aid is going to look like. He settles on his knees, one between yours and the other on the outside of your right leg.

“Got you, petal,” Hoseok murmurs.

His left hand cradles the back of your neck and pulls you in for a sloppy kiss. As he does, his right hand slips between your thighs. You moan into his open mouth, and he swallows it. He accepts your tongue without resistance, too; the same way your pussy takes his middle and ring fingers. Thoroughly soaked, he bottoms out quickly at the knuckles.

Immediately, he angles his fingers upright, presses the tips against your g-spot, and sets a punishing pace. The babbling that pulls from you is barely louder than current below, but Hoseok gives credit where it’s due: You cry out, clear as a bell, “G-gonna make me cum all over your fingers. Feel so f-fucking good!”

And you do, hard. Your release spills over his hand and soaks the sheet underneath you as you writhe underneath him.

Hoseok kisses you, deep and desperate, but he can’t stop there. He presses his forehead against yours, looks you dead in the eye, and then he begs, “One more, petal. Gimme one more and then I’ll fuck you stupid, I promise.”

You clench your jaw tightly and nod. Thankfully, you don’t make him wait long. He watches your eyes screw shut, then your mouth fall open. When your second orgasm rips through you, you’re too far gone to make a sound. On otherwise dead air, it’s just the flurry of expletives tumbling out of Hoseok’s mouth and the river he’s fucked out of you.

When the aftershocks eventually peter out, you slump back on top of your doused duvet. You throw an arm over your face as you attempt to catch your breath. While you do, Hoseok’s hand finds a new occupation in caressing the curve of your hip. You can’t see the pride in his smile, but it’s there.

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say cum out loud before,” He grins. Your move your arm just slightly, but it’s enough for him to see the one eye you’ve cracked open to glare at him. He gently and repeatedly taps your hip bone with the pad of his thumb until your face dissolves into a hard-fought smile. “Hot as fuck, in case you were wondering.”

You give up your hiding place and let your arm drop down beside you. Better still, you raise an eyebrow and hum, “I wasn’t, but d’you wanna know what I am wondering?”

Hoseok captures your lips in another kiss, though he doesn’t linger the way he wants to. “Sure fuckin’ do,” he says on a weighty exhale. He means it; he’s dying to hear whatever it is you’re about to say.

It’s difficult with the way you’ve melted into your bed, but you still manage to tilt your head to the side. Though he can’t know for sure, Hoseok suspects that the way your tongue glides over your kiss-bitten lips is payback for the way he’d looked at you earlier. He’s certain that this little tease looks far better on you than on anyone else — himself included.

As you speak, you pinch the hem of his shirt between your thumb and middle finger. You trace the seam, tug it with a force that barely makes the fabric flutter but still threatens to knock him out. Shit, the toll you take on him when you use his own actions against him…

“Tell me why you’re not naked yet, Hoseok,” you drawl, letting the last syllable click in your mouth. The wicked glint in your eyes makes his dick twitch; he knows you felt it jump on the top of your thigh. “You gonna fuck me stupid, or are you a liar, too?”

In a frenzy, he grabs both sides of your face and kisses you hard. You open your mouth against his, keening as he licks into your mouth. It’s now that he realizes he was right about something else, too: there’s a faint taste of kkobuk chips that barely registers when his tongue savors yours.

With a melodramatic gasp, he pulls away in order to point an accusatory finger at you, “I fucking knew it!”

It’s clear by the slight furrow of your brows that you have no idea what he’s talking about. In short order, you ignore the self-satisfied grin he’s wearing. Then, you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug. You pull a growl out of him in the process, “Goddamn it. I love it when you do that.”

“Hoseok!” You whine as your restless hands paw at his still-clothed chest. The pout he loves so much takes up residency on your face, shuts him right up. “Clothes off! Please, please, please — I’m dying here.”

He, a bastard, blinks down at you with the most convincing bemusement he can muster at a time like this. He asks, “Dying? For what?”

You don’t bother to respond with words this time. Lips pursed with effort, you wrap your arms around him tight and pull him all the way down on top of you. Undeterred by the weight of his body on yours, your unchecked arousal empowers you to roll until you’ve got him pinned on his back beneath you.

That look in your eyes — that feral one, where your pupils swallow up your irises — tells him everything he needs to know. He lets your rabid hands rip his shirt over his head; his hands drop down until his thumbs hook under the waistbands of his joggers and boxers in tandem. Before he can begin to tug them down, you swat his hands away and take over.

“Shit,” he hums, impressed, “Did I awaken something in you, petal?”

You shoot him a smirk and the way his unrestrained dick leaps at the sight of you makes Hoseok consider the possibility that you’re telekinetic. Amusement clear on your face, you lift a hand to run the top of your index finger along the vein trailing down his length. You shrug, suddenly nonchalant, “You wanna sit here and discuss it, or do you wanna feel that cock twitch inside of me?”

Oh, fuck.

Now unspeakably eager, Hoseok sits up until he’s face to face with you. “Turn around,” he instructs, and you listen.

Once you’re on your knees with your back to him, you lean forward and stretch your arms out on the mattress in front of you. As you wait, head down and perfect ass up, Hoseok is momentarily hypnotized by the subtle way you swivel your hips. The way your cheeks jiggle, even with the slightest shift.

“Liar and a tease,” he sucks his teeth. “You really wanna be my downfall, don’t you, petal?”

You bend your neck to look over your shoulder at him, knowing full well that he dies a thousand times whenever you stare up at him from under your lashes like that. Jesus Christ, you’re a dream. He’d pinch himself, but he doesn’t have the time; you reach back between your spread legs and take his dick in your hand.

Rolling your wrist, you work his tip at a goddamn snail’s pace like you want him to drop dead behind you. He’s unable to keep from groaning, and he can’t stop his hips from rutting forward into your fist, either. You do him the favor of squeezing the crown tighter when you finally do let him go, hand sticky with pre-cum.

“Well then,” you echo his earlier statement with that familiar twinkling innocence in your eyes, “Show me how good I can have it.”

Part of Hoseok is stalling because he knows that he won’t last long. He’s been so impossibly hard for so long now, the way you grip him will have him blacked out and drooling in a matter of minutes. However, the rules he’s made for himself dictate that you have to finish three times before he gets to. And so, with that perverted sense of duty in mind, his hand picks up where yours left off.

You both groan when his tip slides through your folds — goddamn, he wants to drown in you later — but he goes mute the second he finally enters you.

“Oh, fuck. How are you thicker than last time?” you croak because you know his ego hasn’t hit the ceiling yet. Your heads slumps down towards your elbows like you’re dead already, halfway to buried in a mess of sheets. “Swear to God, I’ll get used to this someday.”

Hoseok grins even though you can’t see him do it. The pads of his thumbs find the Venus dimples sitting pretty above your ass. It’s arrogant — he knows this — but he likes to think they were made for him, placed intentionally where his hands can find them when he gets ahold of you.

Rubbing spirals at the base of your spine, he calls, “All good, petal?”

“Fuck me,” you answer.

And he does.

The first thrust tests the waters to make sure you’re actually able to comfortably take him and it’s not simply wishful thinking on your part. You’re impatient, though, and you push your hips back when his second thrust snaps forward. For a moment, Hoseok fears he’s gone blind. Thankfully, it’s temporary; just the haze that overtakes his fucked-out brain whenever he feels your velvet walls squeezing the life out of him.

You match his movements every time he grinds himself into you. Either you’re as desperate as he is to cum, or you know his unspoken rule and intend to kamikaze dive off the edge with him in tow.

Whatever your motivation is, he can’t keep his train of thought on track — not with the way your slick has coated his balls, which slap sickly against your clit when he drives himself into you; not with the sight of your ass bouncing so deliciously against his pelvis, more so the harder he fucks you.

“Thrust are getting a little sloppy there, Hoseok,” you lilt through gritted teeth. Your teasing is interrupted by a breathless moan, but you still persist, “You about to cum, baby?”

He’s holding on for dear life — to your hips, to the last shred of his resolve. He is going to cum, but not before you do.

“N-no. Could do this all night.”

You shriek when his fingers dig deeper into your doughy flesh and slam you down onto his cock; the force of your thighs colliding with his leaves him tingling.

Two things happen in such quick succession that Hoseok doesn’t have time to process them. There’s you, creaming on his cock with a wail. Then there’s you calling him a liar as your cunt flutters around him, forcing him to empty himself completely with a toe-curling groan.

Hoseok collapses in a heap behind you when he finally finds the strength to pull his still-twitching dick out of your pussy. A potent mix of your joint release spills out of you in his absence; he’s only graced with the sight of it in the split-second before you turn around and crawl back over to him. Unceremoniously, you drop yourself into the space next to him and rest your head on his heaving chest.

“So,” he sighs, thoroughly blissed. He glances down his nose at you as he gently unsticks strands of your hair from the layer of sweat on his chest. “What did we learn about mouths writing checks?”

You try to hide your smile when you roll your eyes up at him. You sound exhausted but thoroughly amused when you respond, “Ass better be able to cash them.”

Hoseok pats your ass cheek affectionately, gives it a light squeeze for good measure. “Damn straight, petal.”

[eoieopda]

Yoongi + “runaway bride” I’mma leave this one up to your interpretation bc I know I’ll love it either way and also wanna see what you come up with 👀

oooooooh!!! v excited by this prompt, lol. this is, um, going to hurt kind of a lot at the beginning, but stick with me!!!! also, i accidentally made this >3.3k words….. which i will proofread when i am no longer exhausted 🤪

the one with yoongi and the fucking hydrangeas

ft. POV shift, pining & correlating angst, reader who’s🎵 a runner she’s a track star 🎵, a #nonspon vans product placement, a very unfortunate namjoon (sorry, buddy,) childhood idiots in love

Yoongi sat in a seat chosen specifically for him not because he wanted to, but because he knew how much time you’d sacrificed in writing every place card by hand.

To be clear, he’d never wanted to attend this rehearsal dinner in the first place. Unfortunately, he knew the stakes. That wasn’t something he’d dare to say out loud — especially not to you. Not in that restaurant while you fluttered between tables and shined your warm light on every single guest, one by one. Not ever, because you’d slipped through Yoongi’s fingers the second Namjoon slid that ring on yours.

If, in twelve hours’ time, Yoongi could force his deflated body out of bed, he’d have to watch quietly while you got away for good.

There was nothing he could do about it, either, so he swallowed that grief with a mouthful of bibim nengmyun. He knew it wasn’t the food that tasted so bitter on his tongue; however, on the off-chance that it was, he followed suit with another ill-advised swig of makgeolli.

During the two subsequent hours he sat and stewed at that table, Yoongi had lost count of just how many glasses he’d had. His eyes never lingered on the bottle, sticking instead to you and the smile that didn’t seem to spread beyond the curve of your lips. Every now and then, you’d glance his way — and every time you did, there was a microscopic twinge at the corner of your mouth.

It felt like a signal, something cryptic, but he wasn’t in the proper headspace to begin making assumptions. For the first time ever, you’d hit Yoongi with a look he didn’t know what to do with, and that fact drove him insane. This was what he was afraid of, after all — that the invisible string between you would be re-routed to someone else, and the telepathic link you’d always shared would disappear with it.

Your friendship had started early because your respective mothers had grown up together, and found each other once again as adults with two kids each. Back then, both of your front teeth were missing and — if Yoongi made you laugh too hard at routine, weekend gatherings — banana milk would occasionally fly out through the gap. He was nine-years-old and had no concept of it, but now he knows that he loved you then.

He loved you when you were ten, and you kneed a classmate in the dick for bullying Yoongi on the basketball court. You were two years younger and half his size, but you were a force to be reckoned with.

He loved you when you were fourteen, and a wave of brand new hormones made you a little bit of a fucking nightmare to be around.

At seventeen, twenty-one, still.

Now.

There, while everyone around him clinked their chopsticks against their glasses and Namjoon accepted the crowd’s wordless demand that he kiss you.

Yoongi had done well enough with your previous relationships. None of them made him feel like this, though, and he’d spent two years unable to put his finger on why. Sandwiched at that carefully chosen table between his mother and older brother, it finally clicked: None of them ever threatened to last.

Yoongi had never been a particularly hopeful person, but buried deep in the back of his brain, there had always been a crumb of it. Part of him, however stupid, thought you’d end up together at a dinner like this. All of this was the last nail in the coffin, the alarm clock screaming that it was time to wake up.

Suddenly more nauseous than he’d ever been before, Yoongi scooted his chair back so abruptly that it scraped along the floorboards. Just as quickly, he got to his feet and made a beeline for the exit. Of all the heads that turned to watch him leave, yours was the only one he noticed in his peripheral vision. He could feel your eyes on his back — pictured how confused you must look — and it only made his stomach acid churn faster.

When he finally made it out to the patio behind the restaurant, Yoongi’s suspicions were confirmed: closed for the season. Fitting. He wasn’t in the mood to heed the signs, so he stepped carefully — one leg at a time — over the hip-high metal gate and gulped down sharp, late autumn air. As he did, he begged himself to get his shit together for you, if not for him.

He spent several minutes out there, maybe even hours, sitting on a bare, metal chair and glowering out at the trees at the edge of the property. He hated himself, he realized, for how easily he wasted time. Let it slip by unnoticed while he stood still.

The clock seemed to mock him, ticking faster from behind him as if time was going to outrun him again.

At least, that was his first guess.

Yoongi quickly learned that the clicks weren’t signaling the passing seconds; they were broadcasting the urgent beat of stilettos on brick. So, having figured that his mother had appeared outside to gun him down, Yoongi glanced over his shoulder and braced himself for the be-all, end-all of scoldings.

What he got instead was you and the undeserved concern that caused your eyebrows to furrow.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly once you reached the gate. With your manicured hands on the cold metal, you shivered, but you didn’t seem to notice. “Did you eat too much of the gochujang? I definitely did, and now I’ll be up all night with heartburn.”

Yoongi felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. The memory caught him in a riptide, beat him bloody against the rocks because he could’ve sworn he was sixteen again, stacking old encyclopedias under the headboard of your bed. He’d read somewhere online that, while sitting upright in a chair can exacerbate reflux, sleeping at an angle could help.

He was dizzy when he blinked back at you and saw your lips moving. He had to focus hard to figure out what you were saying.

“You remember that?”

Yoongi struggled to even out his breathing; he had no hope at all of finding the plot he’d lost. “Huh?”

You grinned and it made up for all the stars that had been hidden by grey clouds overhead. “The encyclopedias,” you chuckled, “They worked, you know.”

Yoongi didn’t mean to say it. He knew it before, during, and after it slipped out of his mouth that it was the worst goddamn thing he’d ever done, but he couldn’t stop himself — couldn’t shove the bullet he’d shot back into the gun. With the way it exploded through his chest — I love you — he was surprised that his body was still intact. No viscera sprayed out from the exit wound, no stains appeared on your chic, white cocktail dress.

You opened your mouth but closed it soon after, so clearly stunned by his unsolicited admission that you couldn’t find the words. Yoongi had no expectations whatsoever when it came down to your reaction because he hadn’t meant to provoke one in the first place. Even still, the wounded look on your face was worse than anything he might’ve imagined.

The two of you stood in tense silence for so long that Yoongi’s soul had nearly ejected itself fully from his body.

“That’s not fair,” eventually came your shaky reply. You clenched your fist tight around the top of the gate to anchor yourself and stammered, “Yoongi, that is not — Why would you —”

As soon as he aimed to take a step in your direction, your shock gave way to a scowl that could’ve boiled him alive.

“Why would you dump that at my feet? Tonight, of all fucking nights, Yoongi — seriously?” You snapped, though it sounded like a sob. “What am I supposed to do with this now?”

Now?

He didn’t know how to respond. He was paralyzed, inside and out, and he deserved it. Who the fuck was he, forcing the burden of his feelings onto you?

Selfish. Stupid. Out of time, as usual.

The makeup you always took so much time on started to run alongside your tears. Yoongi had seen you cry before, though he’d always been the reason you stopped, rather than started. He hated every single one of those muddied, black tears because he knew you. He knew you would have worn waterproof mascara if you’d had any reason to anticipate crying on your special night.

“I’m getting married in the morning!”

Your reminder was a dagger flying out of your mouth, sticking him right between the ribs. It stung as images flooded his mind — of you and Namjoon, your guests, and your out-of-season, imported fucking hydrangeas. It hurt even worse to see how badly you shook as you glared at him.

“Yoongi — fuck!”

Before you walked away, your eyes locked on his for a fraction of a second. In that moment, Yoongi promised himself that it was the last time you’d ever have to see his face.

When you were little, you pictured your wedding day like a moment ripped straight out of Cinderella. In your head, you’d wake up to birds singing at your window and mice scurrying around your feet, eager to dress you in a gown of epic and magical proportions. It’d be perfect. For years, you’d been sure of it.

In reality, there was no waking up because there hadn’t been a single second of sleep to begin with. No beauty rest, no sweet dreams of marital bliss — just you, feeling as if you’d swallowed a car battery. It sat heavy in the pit of your stomach, let acid burn all the way up to your esophagus. And it’d been all too easy to toss and turn in your hotel bed, which laid perfectly level on top of a plush, floral rug.

You crawled out of bed without the assistance of altruistic rodents and shuffled your dead weight over to the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. For once, your imagination had been accurate. Your puffy eyes were red in the aftermath of all your tears. They ached above circles so deep and dark that they would’ve alarmed you if you hadn’t expected them.

Namjoon had seen you at what you both believed to be your worst. Neither of you could’ve ever predicted that the Corpse Bride would be the one staggering down the aisle towards him. He’d love you anyway, you knew it, no matter how you looked. But if he knew what you spent all night toiling over…

You shook your head and abruptly turned away from the mirror. There were several of your dearest friends bustling around the room next to yours, all of whom were waiting on you. Swallowing hard, you headed for the adjoining door and promised yourself that the only person you’d let down today would be you.

You lost all track of time when a blur of hands went to work on you. If you’d closed your eyes while you dissociated, you could’ve pretended that your assistants were those woodland creatures you used to dream about. But you couldn’t close your eyes, couldn’t sleep through this part, couldn’t let your mind wander all the way back to that patio.

It’d been terrifying, staring your own heart in the face like that. More than anything, it was confusing because it didn’t look like you expected it would — not like an organ at all, but a person. You’d gotten so good at ignoring it that you couldn’t reasonably expect yourself to recognize it. It knew you, though, and loved you. Apparently, it always had.

As you sat in that hotel room, far away from the patio, you pictured every other moment you wished Yoongi had said what he did. The thousand times you’d thought for sure he felt the same, and all the ways you distracted yourself when you resigned to believing he didn’t. Every person you dated until you finally managed to move on —

“— please, love?”

You blinked rapidly to force your eyes to focus. In front of you, your mother stood with a knowing smile on her face and a sokchima in her hands. You didn’t need to ask her to repeat herself; you took the hint and rose slowly to your feet.

“I was nervous on my wedding day,” she hummed as she pulled the undergarment gently over your head. “Hungover, too, but your grandmother does not need to know that. Frankly, I’m surprised she couldn’t tell with how bloated I was when she helped me get ready…”

The bright scarlet chima followed without so much as a word from you. Your heart slammed helplessly against your rib cage when your mother proceeded to tug the sleeves of your jeogori up your arms. This moment should be special, you thought bitterly. All you wanted to do was cry; to apologize to your mother for your total inability to care while your wedding happened around you, not for you.

Soon enough, you were dressed. Your friends and older sister gushed about how beautiful you looked — the perfect bride — like you weren’t caught in the web of an anxiety attack. Like it wasn’t all wrong, and you weren’t dangling on the precipice of your life’s greatest mistake. Like you hadn’t spent so much of your hard-earned money on invitations and greenhouse-grown, special-ordered fucking hydrangeas.

Like you could catch a fucking breath under all the layers of your hanbok.

Sensing that a moment alone was necessary, your mother kissed your cheek and ushered the others out the door ahead of her. Before seeing herself out, too, she stalled in the threshold, turned back around to look at you, and exhaled through a pause.

“I left your shoes by the dresser,” she chirped.

The gentleness of her tone was reassuring, but there was a faint gleam in her eyes that caught your attention. Before you could ask after it, she nodded firmly once and let the door click shut behind her.

Alone again, your instinct was to do the same thing you’d spent ten consecutive hours doing — burying yourself under pillows and crying until you ran out of tears. But you had run out, which was precisely was the problem. You had no options left, nothing left to do but lean in.

At least, that was your first guess.

Your list of choices expanded by one when you saw the well-worn pair of slip-on Vans your mother had set out for you.

Yoongi sat on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

Only two meters away, a garment bag hung from the hook on the back of his bedroom door. That bag — and the crisp, black suit it concealed — lingered there for weeks in the shadows, untouched since the day he bought it. Even though it hadn’t left its hanger, he felt it smothering him throughout the night. It choked him while one thought ran circles in his sleep-deprived brain:

The reason he bought it was the same reason he’d never be able to wear it.

Sick of the way he’d trapped himself with his thoughts, Yoongi pushed himself to his feet and crossed over to the door. With the way he flung it open, knob slamming against the wall, he’d likely never recover his security deposit. It felt good, though, taking his grief out on that godforsaken suit.

On his way to his front door, Yoongi stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cabinet he hadn’t opened in weeks. As he stared at it, the devil and angel on his shoulders warred over the action he wanted so desperately to take.

Sure, he’d recently — finally — quit at your insistence, but what did that matter now?

He gritted his teeth and shook his conscience off his shoulders with a shrug. Within seconds, Yoongi was on the other side of his kitchen, grabbing an unopened pack of cigarettes and the lighter that lay in wait next to it. He closed his hand tight around it so he couldn’t see the Hello Kitty stickers you’d placed all over the plastic; your attempt to dissuade him from using it in public.

Joke’s on you, he thought as he placed a cigarette between his lips, your plan backfired. Leaving your mark on it the way you had was the only thing that’d kept him from throwing it away — and the only reason he still had a lighter to use at all.

Yoongi opened his front door with one hand as he tried to ignite the lighter with the other. No matter how many time he flicked the pad of his thumb over those little metal ridges, nothing sparked. Defeated yet again, he slumped down onto the porch swing, closed his eyes, and willed himself not to break down over something so stupid.

He had no way of knowing how much time passed as he sat like that. He had no way to tell who those urgent footfalls belonged to, either. That is, not until panted breaths hit his ears and prompted him to open his eyes.

Admittedly, Yoongi had pictured you in your bridal hanbok more than once throughout the years. Half the time, it hadn’t even been purposeful. From first to third grade, you’d rambled to him about your dream wedding on your daily walks home from school. You spoke about it so often, in fact, that even he started thinking about what embroidery a mouse might add to the hem of your chima.

As the pair of you got older, you brought it up less, so Yoongi didn’t think about it often. The image crept up on him, though, once in a while. Every time you brought him as a plus one to your friends’ weddings because you didn’t want to dance alone; and he nearly told you that he’d always want to be your partner.

Or that time you cried through your worst ever heartbreak on his couch, lamented that you’d die an old maid, and never get to wear one.

Even as recently as last night, when he drank half a fifth of whiskey and grieved over the fact that he’d never get to see you wear one.

He couldn’t make heads or tails of the real thing, not with the way you’d doubled over to catch your breath; and bunched the ends up in your fists, presumably to prevent yourself from tripping as you — ran here?

“What did I tell you about the cigarettes?” You puffed, still with your hands on your knees and your face angled at the sidewalk.

Somehow, despite running five kilometers to Yoongi’s doorstep, you hadn’t displaced a single hair from your artfully crafted up-do. Your makeup hadn’t budged, either, which meant that the only sign of your expended effort was the tint of pink on your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

You’d outrun his train of thought in your scuffed, old Vans. Yoongi had to buffer for a moment in order to catch up, but the involuntary smile fighting its way over his mouth didn’t bother to wait. Eventually, he recited your long-suffering appeal, smirking all the while, “They’ll fuck me up, and I’ll have to be wheeled out onto the basketball court in an iron lung.”

“Exactly.”

With one last, deep breath, you returned to your upright position. The second you did, Yoongi was the one choking up.

Rapid blinking did nothing to stop the tears pricking at the inner corners of his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat to the best of his ability, but he couldn’t shake the inexplicable flutter in his chest at the sight of you. You’d always been perfect, but this was —

“Oh, my god,” he croaked, thoroughly melted from the inside out.

Yoongi stood before his brain could signal his legs to do so; or remind his hands not to drop the phone, lighter, and cigarettes he’d been holding. His eyes, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do. He drank in your appearance like he’d spent the last twenty-two years wandering, dehydrated in the desert — and in a way, he had.

You blinked back at him with swimming eyes as if you’d found sanctuary, too. Suddenly aware of what you were gripping, you opened your fists and let the fabric flutter down to the ground. While smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t exist, you asked softly, “Not bad for a bunch of mice, right?”

“Look just like a dream,” he replied just as gently.

Yoongi’s hands, which were thankfully now free, reached out and grabbed yours. You followed his lead as he spun you, twirled under his raised arm until you ended up with your face mere centimeters from his.

“Yoongi,” you breathed. Your eyes danced from his, to his lips, and back again. “If you wait another twenty-two years to tell me how you feel, please pick a time and place that is mutually convenient. I swear to God, I’ll —”

It came out much more easily the second time than the first; and when it did, it felt more like a beginning than a bomb:

“I love you.”

[eoieopda]

Jadie:) i would like to make a request!!

Reader having to spent countless night home alone because Jungkook’s busy working at the studio? They fight and she asks him to love her more than she loves him?

Honestly i feel like JK gets frustrated with fights so he says things that come out in a different way?? Thank you so much!!!!

i went in with the angst on this one 😳 i think most of us have had similar fights before, so i was definitely channeling some of that something here OPE

cw: verbal sparring, major angst, ending is ambiguous/unresolved

By the time his car rolls into the driveway, Jungkook has nothing left to give.

A vampire disguised as a weekday sapped every bit of energy he had left. His reserve tank is empty, and when he’s running on fumes like this, there’s only one way to top up. All he wants — now, then, any time — is to bury his face where your neck meets your shoulder; to revel in your steady pulse and soft breathing; to remember that there’s life here, outside his studio.

He doesn’t waste time getting out of the car, having summoned the last bit of willpower he had to unbuckle his seatbelt and slip from the driver’s seat. Jungkook locks the car behind him and within seconds, he unlocks the door to his home. To you. It feels like forty years have passed since he left that morning, but he can still smell the kimchi from the eggs you cooked.

Did hours always used to feel like decades?

One foot over the threshold, the toe of his boot collides with something in the dark. His eyes strain to see it; and his eyebrows furrow once he does. It’s a weekender. Yours, the one he bought you to take on little getaways when your schedules aligned like planets. It’s packed and ready, but Jungkook can’t put a finger on why that is.

Did he forget about plans again? Fuck. His mind never used to be a sieve, but that’s all it’s been lately. Jungkook has to be careful not to let you slip by.

He toes off his shoes and places them on the mat on the other side of your packed bag. As he heads off to find you, kiss you, breathe you in, Jungkook takes one backwards glance at that weekender. Nothing sparks.

Where were we going again?

There’s rustling down the hall and he follows it. Underneath his timid footfalls, there’s the quiet metallic click of the medicine cabinet door as you close it. Jungkook can’t see you, but he can feel you — you and the upset ebbing outwards from you. Little concentric circles, rage rippling his way like a stone has broken through the surface.

I dropped you, again.

Jungkook reaches the doorway to the bathroom just in time for you to exit. You gasp when you collide with his chest, but that shock dissipates quickly when his hands steady you by your forearms. You clutch the bag of toiletries that you nearly dropped like it’s all you have.

The expression on your face is less obvious now that the surprise is absent — and that scares him.

“Whoa,” Jungkook tries to chuckle to lighten whatever this crushing weight is, but there’s no humor in your affect. Flat. Despondent, like you cried out all you had and there was nothing left to animate your features.

Oh, this is bad.

He needs to fix it, so he tries again, “Where’s the fire, petal?”

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jungkook flipped a switch alright, but it didn’t turn the light in your eyes back on. Ham-fisted and stuck in the garbage disposal as it —

“I don’t know, Jungkook. Where is the fire?” You have that tone when you reply. That rare and terrifying voice where you sound calm, but he can smell the venom hitting dead air.

You, petal, are soft, but you are not calm.

You’re excitable, vocal. Jungkook can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard you speak without your perfect, dizzying rollercoaster of intonation. It’s jarring, it’s whiplash, it’s clear as day that there’s something very wrong here.

What did I do to you?

“I’d love to know,” You carve another slice as you back out of his grip. “Haven’t felt warmth in weeks. What about you, Jungkook?”

He feels concussed, in a way, like this is somehow a sucker punch you’ve hit him with. It feels like a blow when you say his name with that look in your eyes, but Jungkook knows it’s not. He knows exactly where this is coming from and he doesn’t get to pretend otherwise.

Desperate, he tries to hold you, but it’s like running underwater trying to reach you. By the time his lead limbs finally accept the signal and begin to move, you’re skirting around him and out the door.

You’re quick, but so is he. Jungkook’s long strides catch up to you easily, and when you sense him, you wheel back around to look up at him. Now, your face is crumpled and littered with tears. It’s even worse than the nothing you were wearing a few moments ago.

Jungkook pleads, one teardrop away from getting on his knees for you, “Tell me what I missed and I’ll make it up to you, petal. I swear I’ll fix it —”

“That’s the thing, Jungkook,” you sniff as you angrily wipe at your slicked-wet cheekbone. The worst part is that he knows you’re beyond the point of anger when it comes to him; it’s the fact that he’s caught you crying that bothers you the most.

“You miss everything. And you know it, too, because your first guess — your very first thought — was that you must have forgotten about me — again. What does that tell you, Jungkook? What does it say about us that this is an easy assumption for you to make? Because it sounds like a habit to me.”

There’s a montage broadcasting through the silence that settles between you. It’s every ‘I’m sorry I’m late, petal’; every ‘petal, I’m going to be here longer than I thought’; and ‘you don’t have to wait up for me.’ It’s all of those disappointed sighs you tried to swallow when you gave him grace he hadn’t earned.

A soundtrack delineating every instance where you held him up and he let you down.

It’s deafening.

“I just want you —” Your voice gives up on you halfway through your sentence. He knows better than to reach out for you now, but it’s all he wants to do. “I need you — just once — to love me more than I love you.”

There’s that sucker punch.

How could he? How could anyone love harder than you do? It’s impossible, Jungkook thinks, to try to mimic the way your heart holds everyone so completely. Laughable, almost, that no person on their best day could hold a candle to you — even on your worst. He thinks you’re pure magic.

But Jungkook has never been the best at putting the things he thinks into words, so he says, “Petal, I can’t.”

And he can’t backtrack or explain what he meant or beg you to listen because you’re grabbing that weekender off the floor. You’re slinging it over your shoulder, headed to your sister’s for the night. As he watches you leave, Jungkook recalls that there’s one thing he’s even worse at than communicating how he feels:

Sleeping without you.

[eoieopda]

the one with yoongi, netflix, and zero chill

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader Type: Drabble; Suggestive Fluff Word Count: 1.1k Content: fuck buddy!au; birthday boi Yoongs A/N: Nobody asked for this — I just wanted it, lmao. HAPPY (belated) YOONGI DAY ‼️

Of all the texts you might’ve expected to receive from Min Yoongi — of all people —this hadn’t been one of them. A far cry from the anticipated “cum over?” and follow-up “that was intentionally cringe but seriously, get here,” it was one word:

Hey.

Simple, unassuming, shockingly innocuous. A text like this from any other person wouldn’t have set off the shop-lifting alarm in your brain, but this one did. 

Until now, all of your other exchanges had been borderline — if not entirely — pornographic. Yoongi had received enough photos of you in compromising positions to fill a dossier; or the national archives, if your tits were properly classified as subjects of great cultural significance. He wasn’t the type to chat for the sake of it, certainly not without an ulterior motive bulging uncomfortably in too-tight jeans. 

What the fuck?

Unable to square this flagrantly conversational message with its sender, you’d replied to ask if he meant to send it to someone else. He hadn’t, he clarified. Then, doubling down on whatever fast-one he was pulling, he’d asked if you wanted to hang out. No suggestive emojis, no “*bang out, my bad” — just an invitation, sans subtext. 

It was too intriguing to ignore.

You parked in your usual spot on a side street and followed the same path you always did towards his apartment building. By now, there should’ve been shoe prints worn into the concrete from how frequently you’d passed overtop, but there weren’t. You were able to confirm as much because you were finally perceiving that sidewalk in sunlight. Even his building looked different when it wasn’t shrouded in darkness and questionable judgment.

After a quick trip up the stairs, you found yourself on familiar territory: a doormat that said “fuck off.” You snorted, staring down at it, and wondered if it knew how often you’d done the opposite.

You knocked and Yoongi answered; his usual smirk wasn’t present with him to greet you. Instead, he offered you what looked like a genuine smile and nodded his head for you to come inside. If your ears hadn’t deceived you, you might have heard him ask about your day, but they were too busy ringing as if a bomb had gone off nearby. Still shocked, your brain was left to stagger through the aftermath while you trailed off after him. 

At this point, on any other occasion, he would be charting a map of your body by now — before you could even cross the threshold. There’d be a mouth nipping at the underside of your jaw, too. In lieu of small talk, his tongue would be lavishing warmth upon the curve of your neck. This time, though, Yoongi kept his hands to himself — and when he led you further into his apartment, he didn’t make a beeline for his bedroom.

Once more, with feeling: what the fuck?

You’d never seen his living room before, not even in your fucked-out wobble towards the door when your nights with him were over. It was cozy, confusingly soft in comparison to the roughness you knew right down the hall. Plush couch, plusher throw blankets, and multiple bookshelves — all seemingly hand-crafted. To your surprise, they were all full of personal trinkets, and curated works of fiction and nonfiction alike.

It never crossed your mind that he had personal possessions, let alone hobbies. You were shocked to learn that your recurring dick appointment involved a full-fledged person with interests. You coughed, “You read?”

It wasn’t meant as an insult, but it sure as hell sounded like one. Immediately, you winced at your lack of tact.

Just add friendly conversation to the short list of things that mouth doesn’t do. 

When Yoongi blinked slowly back at you, all you could do was anticipate. What quip would he hit you with? What sarcastic remark would fly out of his mouth and how wet would it make you despite your embarrassment?

He chuckled, shrugged, and said, “Guess I do.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. Yoongi’s face didn’t change at all, remaining as airy and unbothered as it was when you walked through the door. He unknowingly left you buffering where you stood, walked around the back of his couch, and dropped down onto the cushions.

You might’ve stood there all night, wondering what sort of wormhole you’d fallen into, but he glanced back over his shoulder at you. It wasn’t expectant, the way he eyed you. In fact, he seemed just as confused as you were.

“You good?” Yoongi asked, eyebrow slightly raised.

You opened your mouth to respond; nothing came out. Am I? Does anybody else smell burning toast? You closed it again without saying a word.

Resigned to this frighteningly domestic fever dream, you padded over to where he was — apparently — waiting and sunk down into the cushion next to him. Though you couldn’t explain why, you left a few centimeters of space in between your thigh and his. Grinding yourself down onto his naked lap was one thing, but this all felt so blatantly out-of-bounds.

Once you were settled into your spot, you watched with suspicious eyes as he turned on the television. He’d begun to scroll through Netflix’s newest additions before you’d bothered to blink.

Yoongi was in the middle of asking you what sort of movies you typically watched when you blurted out: 

“I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

He hit play on whatever choice he’d made and set the remote back down onto his coffee table. “What’s happening is Tazza because you said you’ve never seen it.” He responded easily, like none of this was wildly out of the ordinary. Then, he turned to smile at you again. “It’s a great movie. Probably my favorite, honestly.”

There wasn’t a single coherent thought in your brain, just the sound of sirens and flashing red lights. Is this what he meant when he asked you to hang out? Sitting on his couch, fully-clothed, watching a movie? His favorite movie? The one he knows you haven’t seen?

Maybe that was how normal friendships worked, but this friendship blew your back out on a bi-weekly basis. This friend routinely rearranged your guts, whispered depravity in your ear — and throughout all of that, he noted the distinctly non-sexual shit you mentioned in passing.

Things you didn’t even remember saying.

Using some sort of app on his phone, he dimmed the lights. As the opening scene blared from the screen ahead, he nestled himself down into the couch looking downright huggable. It wasn’t a word you’d ever have attributed to Min Yoongi until now, but there was no other way to process the weird urge you felt to nestle into him.

You didn’t, though. You stayed firmly planted within the bounds of your designated cushion, straight upright with perfect posture you’d never previously exhibited. Still, you were staring and you couldn’t quite help it.

Yoongi could sense it, it seemed. He pulled his gaze off the screen and set his sights on you. And he kept them there, inhaling quietly then exhaling a soft sigh. “It’s my birthday.”

If that was meant to be an explanation for summoning you, it only made matters more confusing. Stupefied, you peeped, “Oh? Happy — um — h-happy birthday?”

He looked shy, which was yet another word you’d never expected to associate with him. Even in the dark, you could see the way his cheeks flushed pink.

Yoongi swallowed, nudging your nearby thigh softly with his knuckles. “I didn’t want to spend it alone.”

[eoieopda]

menace (pjm) — pt. ii

“Be careful with that lip,” he warned in a thick voice dropped low, “Pout like that again, and I might bite it.”

Pairing: Park Jimin x Kim!Reader Type: 2/6 (Mini Series) ⇢ Previous Chapter | Masterlist Word Count: 6.5K Content: (General) Seokjin’s younger sister AU; fuck buddies that hate each other; reader is AFAB & queer; surprise cameo by my current dream girl. (SMUT | 18+) this part is written in sort of an omniscient POV; brat-tamer!Jimin & brat!Reader; oral sex (m); manhandling; spanking; slight degradation & spit kink; unprotected sex (p in v); safe word in place (unused). A/N: Absolutely re-worked a shit ton of this part after “Smoke Sprite” dropped because I needed this cameo to happen 😵‍💫 I'm gonna put the tags in the comments this time because Tumblr has been shitty about them lately, lol.

Immediately after Jimin left you in that green room, dangling off a ledge, you did your best to bury that blush on your cheeks in pressed powder. The lip balm he was wearing when he kissed your temple caused that powder to cling where you didn’t want it, and it left you with two options:

You could uproot the flawless base you’d created prior to his unwelcome arrival, spend time you didn’t have destroying evidence. Alternatively, you could pretend not to notice the faint lip print shining in a shade just slightly darker than the rest of your face. Even if it was more or less invisible to the naked eye, it was a flashing, neon sign to you.

And just like that, his unanticipated crumb of affection made sense. So, you grabbed a makeup wipe from the travel-sized package you brought with you and set back to work.

That motherfucker.

When you’d gathered yourself to the best of your ability, you glanced in the mirror. Still a bit flushed, still a bit shaky, but still deadly. Any other loner you'd run into wouldn’t stand a chance; and though your primary goal was paying off the orgasm debt Jimin had defaulted on, it didn’t hurt to consider how far up a wall it would drive him to watch you weigh your options.

You wouldn’t chalk it up to jealousy, the way Jimin reacted when he saw you convert strangers into acolytes. From where you were standing, that telltale clench of his jaw wasn’t precipitated by your habit of looking at anyone but him. More than anything, his problem likely had to do with the fact that it was you people were staring at — not him. The name of the game was desirability, after all; and Jimin seemed to really fucking hate it whenever you pulled ahead — collected more merit badges in the form of phone numbers.

Of course, he might not have hated it as much if you didn’t love rubbing his nose in it to the extent you did.

Upon walking out into the club’s private bar, the first face you caught sight of was that of your brother. Judging by the way he was sputtering, Seokjin was witnessing your weather-inappropriate outfit for the first time — and he was not handling it well. You rolled your eyes, refusing to give him and the burnt-red tips of his ears a second glance. If you did, he’d be launching himself over bar stools to force you into his winter coat.

Worse, knowing how reactionary he was when it came to you, it was safe to assume that he’d enucleate every wandering eye he found fixated on you. That wouldn’t bode well for the stranger seated at the center of the bar, whose whiskey-warm gaze in your direction was an invitation in and of itself.

Coincidence or kismet, it didn’t matter — the only open spot at the bar happened to be right next to her, whoever she was. She grabbed her clutch off the bar top in front of that unoccupied stool as soon as she saw you headed her way. Despite the distance, you could see the smirk working its way across her lips; and the nearly imperceptible dimple she’d unearthed in doing so.

Target acquired.

When you finally reached her, it was difficult to tell whether the slight tremble in your knees was due to the discomfort of your heels, or the sharp cut of her jaw jutting out beyond the razored edge of her hair. Pretending that it was neither, rather than both, you gestured to the open seat with a coquettish smile, “Saving this for someone?”

The stranger’s voice was deeper than you expected from someone as petite; it left your whole hopeless body vibrating.

“My Valentine,” she said with a dreamy sigh, and it sounded like a song. Mirroring the movement of your finger, she pointed nonchalantly to the stool, silently telling you to claim it. “Lucky for me, I think I found them.”

“Lucky for them,” you corrected, sliding into your seat and title simultaneously. Now with your elbow resting against the bar, you propped your chin up on the heel of your hand and narrowed your eyes thoughtfully. “If only they knew your name.”

The same finger that guided you to your spot raised to flag down the bartender. What else can it do? Killing two birds with one stone, she told the bartender which tab to put your drink on: “Hwang Soyoon —”

“Someak, please.”

“— but naekko works, too.”

It might’ve been the cheesiest line you’d ever heard, but goddamn, was it effective. You accepted your drink with a quick bow of your head, then even more quickly, you took a swig to calm the heat threatening to burn through your cheeks. Once the butterflies in your stomach were sufficiently drowned in alcohol, you set your glass back down on a coaster and picked up Soyoon’s hand in its place.

“You this smooth on the dance floor?” you asked as you tilted your head in the direction of your destination.

In lieu of a verbal response, she got to her feet and, with another smirk, she helped you to yours.

Two drinks and no small amount of shameless, wholly observable flirting later, you and your prize stumbled off the dance floor to reclaim your seats at the bar. Soyoon’s arm likely would’ve remained draped around your shoulders whether your heels hurt or not; but you had no qualms about playing it up, playing right into her hands.

Tragically, with you deposited safely on a bar stool, Soyoon’s hands slipped away — but not before her fingertips slid slowly down the length of your spine, leaving you to tingle hopelessly in her wake. Oh, for fuck’s sake, was it really that easy to get to you?

She ducked down and came in close so you could hear her over the music. “I’m headed for the restroom,” she said, “Don’t run away, yeah?”

Eyes wide and twinkling, you nodded obediently — albeit more enthusiastically than you wanted to let on — and you felt a small crack form in your nonchalant façade. Never were much good with a poker face, huh? Unable to cover it, the corners of your mouth automatically curved downward as she turned away. They didn’t stay there for long.

Several meters away, now unobstructed without Soyoon in front of you, stood Park Jimin. To put it mildly, he was incensed, angst radiating off of him like a smoke signal. His stony gaze pinned you where you sat; and those eyes narrowed further, flashing a shade darker when you raised both middle fingers. They were near to black when you used those neatly manicured fingertips to push the corners of your mouth into a shit-eating grin.

“Smile, fucker!” You mouthed.

Jimin, now positively glowering, held up his own middle fingers in response. This time, he didn’t imitate your smug antics. The look on his face was a bullet, hitting you hard in the chest and causing your body to clench on instinct, and your stomach to flip with anticipation. Oh, you were going to get it for this.

So, you figured, why not push that thorn a little further into his side?

Without stopping to think twice, you rose again to your feet. God, these fucking heels. You swallowed down the pain emanating from the balls of your feet and strutted up to him like it didn’t ache to do so. Unfortunately, none of the heads you turned in the process would suffice.

By the time you were halfway to his small, circular table, Jimin had already looked away. Drink held up to his lips, he sipped and stared coolly off into the crowd. Like you weren’t there, like you weren’t worthy of ongoing attention.

Liar.

He continued looking everywhere else when you slipped in beside him — when you flicked your hair over your shoulder and grazed his in the process — when you failed to conceal the pout beginning to form on your face.

This motherfucker.

Even as you glared up at him, Jimin ignored you. With a huff, you crossed your arms over your chest and shifted your weight from one leg to the other.

You played this game with him constantly but in reverse, allowing him to feel like he was invisible, like you couldn’t be bothered to register his presence. With that ego of his, you knew it stung — and you knew exactly how childish it was to hate the taste of your own medicine.

“You know, it’s rude to leer,” you breezed, “Worse, the optics are a bit… predatory, don’t you think? Weird, lone male shooting daggers at a couple of sapphics?”

He took another sip of his drink, set the glass down, and tilted his head to flutter his eyelashes at you. His tone was dripping in feigned innocence when he replied, “Would the optics be better if I left a pretty girl alone at a bar? What if I did it just to throw myself at someone else?”

You didn’t know why you felt the need to defend yourself, but you did; rushing headlong, right into the pitfall, “I didn’t leave anyone — she went to the restroom.”

Jimin smirked and nodded once over your shoulder, “Well, she’s back now.”

You quickly turned your head to see what he did: Soyoon rolling her eyes while you froze and Jimin waved at her with a frighteningly accurate imitation of friendliness. She was gone again in the blink of an eye, slipping off towards the door, before you could even dream of catching up to her.

Shit. Why were you like this?

“Poor baby,” he cooed with the world’s most patronizing frown. “Gonna pout some more?”

Already cutting your losses, you plastered on a saccharine smile, “Of course not.” Your fingertips whispered over his forearm as you leaned into his ear. With a voice that dripped dark and sweet like honey, you quoted him and watched his pupils blow, “I’m going to make you cry.”

Jimin grabbed his glass and tossed back the liquor that remained without flinching. Then, he leaned down, lips damn near touching your ear, and snapped, “Get your shit and meet me outside in ten minutes. If you’re late, you’re walking.”

You exhaled a laugh through your nose and raised an eyebrow, “Who said I wanted to leave with you?”

With how closely he was standing to you, Jimin had completely shielded you from the throng of people standing nearby. Cloaked in low light, his hand ducked under the hem of your dress so he could scrape his thumb nail over the spot he’d marked earlier with your own wetness.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he whispered darkly with eyes fixated on your mouth. He licked his lips, then emphasized each word: “Ten — minutes.”

Jimin disappeared and left you to stand there with a wildfire tearing through your insides. You waited until you knew he was gone to let go of the breath you’d unintentionally been holding, now a shaky gasp that died as soon as it hit the air.

It took you less than three minutes to race off to the green room and gather your coat, purse, and regrettably large makeup bag. Despite that fact, you made a point to stand a few meters from the club’s exit for what remained of your ten minutes. You stared down at your watch, still aflame, and watched the seconds tick by; smirking as you allowed one extra minute to slip away.

Eleven minutes after you’d parted ways, you slipped past Seokjin and out the back door to find Jimin leaning impatiently against his car with his arms crossed.

“Brave of you,” His tone was light, but his eyes were anything but. “You gonna be like this all night?”

You cocked your head to the side the way he’d done earlier. “I’m not sure what you mean, Park,” you said with your blinking eyes sweet enough to cause a cavity. “You gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me with these?”

He watched you raise your encumbered hands like your cosmetics were made of bricks, and let out a long-suffering groan. Jimin knew you were full of shit; you were the last person who ever needed — or wanted — his help. You were just an unmitigated pain in his ass, always. But he clearly had places to be and people to ruin, and your brattish behavior was once again interfering with well-laid plans.

When he crossed over to you, his footsteps kicked up a cloud of dirt that swirled in weak pirouettes around his ankles. In no time at all, he grabbed the bags you pretended to struggle with and carried them just as easily as you could’ve, if you deigned to lift a finger. He shot you a look that broadcasted: I’m only doing this to get your ass moving.

You giggled meanly as he dealt with your burden and sauntered off to the front seat of his SUV. It took a bit of effort to balance yourself on your fucking heels as you slid onto to leather, but you were immediately grateful to be off your feet again. Once you’d settled, you glanced down and realized how far the hem of your dress had shifted in the process.

In any other circumstance, you’d fix it, cover the dangerous expanse of your exposed, upper thigh. Now, though, you opted not to do a damn thing about it. Instead, you did what came naturally: you made it worse.

With a contented sigh, you kicked off your pumps and rested your feet on his dashboard, bare legs stretched out ahead until they crossed at the ankles. If your brother were here, he’d tell you that you were being rude; and in anyone else’s car, Seokjin would be right. Still, you knew it ate at Jimin whenever you did whatever improper thing you wanted.

You knew the way his cock twitched when he watched you not give a fuck; when you suckered him into doing menial tasks, like tucking your belongings into the backseat of his car. He’d never say so and you’d never ask, but there was no other explanation you could think of for why he gave in. Punctuating your thought, he slammed the back door and made his way to the driver’s seat.

Jimin slid into the spot next to you and immediately clocked the way the skirt of your dress had hitched up. He stared for a moment longer than he likely meant to, then his eyes trailed down your legs to find your bare feet resting on his dashboard.

“Were you raised by wolves?” He waved his hand at your legs with annoyance that only grew alongside your smirk. “Seriously, you’re a fucking animal.”

You let your head roll to your shoulder as you leaned over the center console. “Oh, you cut me, Park.” You teased and poked out your bottom lip out in a put-upon pout.

Adding injury to insult, you threw your hand up to your forehead in your best imitation of his usual theatrics — then, you let it drop. The back of your hand collided with his bicep as it fell; and it remained there long enough for him to reach out and grab it. His fingers encircled your wrist easily, doubling over and gripping hard.

“Be careful with that lip,” he warned in a thick voice dropped low, “Pout like that again, and I might bite it.”

You raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to try. To the contrary, Jimin let go of your wrist and pushed your hand off him so he could slide the key into the ignition. The engine sputtered without turning over, leaving you to wonder if it was going to start at all.

He scoffed, “See? Told you that if you weren’t here in ten minutes, you’d be walking.”

To both of your surprise, you exhaled a laugh — a genuine one, no less — at his little joke. It caught him off guard and caused him to chuckle, too, for just a moment before he stopped abruptly and muttered, “Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

“Like I’ve never heard you say that before.”

You rolled your eyes and then your neck to lean your head against the seat rest. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shoot you an indignant look; but as usual, you ignored it. “Should I just leave then?”

When his exasperation briefly flickered over to confusion, you gestured out the window to a taxi parked nearby. If you ditched him now, you’d be home in five minutes instead of however long this was going to take.

“Patience,” Jimin growled as he wiggled the key and turned it again. “If you could — just once — stop bitching and wait —” The engine roared to life with one last turn of the key. “— you could wipe that miserable look off your face.”

You turned in your seat, genuinely offended, as he pulled out onto the street. “I look miserable?” You laughed hotly, “You look like a kicked puppy every time I see you.”

Jimin’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. “Did you ever think about the timing of that?” He fired back. “You think it’s a coincidence that I look like this whenever I’m confronted with that?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road, but he did remove one hand to point it right at your face, which featured wild eyes and gritted teeth.

“I swear to God, it’s like you were designed in a lab somewhere for the sole purpose of sapping my will to live. How the fuck else does a person end up being this much of a nightmare?” Jimin was nearly shouting now. As his voice raised, so did your heart rate — so did your chest as you heaved forceful, angry breaths.

Though the heat of your seething bodies was starting to steam up the windows, you could still see the shadow of your tiny house approaching quickly from the middle distance. Throwing your arm out, you pointed to the driveway he was about to rocket past and snarled, “Fucking brake!”

Jimin begrudgingly did as you said. Your bodies both lurched forwards. Your seat belt gripped you the same way his arm had earlier, but when you crashed backwards, your back was flush to your seat instead of his chest. Just as suddenly as he’s braked, he whipped his car into your driveway and came dangerously close to your garage door before throwing the gear shift to park.

“You absolute fucking menace!” You smacked his bicep again, harder now, “Are you trying to forfeit my security deposit? Why don’t you just open my wallet a burn every won you find?”

With a grunt, you threw off your seat belt and let the end of it smack against the plastic molding as it returned to its resting place. He did the same, in the same manner you had, but went ahead to criticize you for your roughness.

“I only give a shit about the dents you’re so dead-set on making in my car,” Jimin spat. Turning abruptly to you, his hand darted out, dipped under your left leg, and prompted you to pull your feet down from his dashboard. “Your rental means dick to me.”

You rolled your eyes for the hundredth time that night as you slipped out of your seat, grabbed your heels, and slammed his passenger door shut behind you. Shoving your clenched fist into your coat pocket, you gripped your keys and pulled them out as if you were wielding a knife. Rage still simmering, you stomped barefoot up to your doorstep just to fumble with the lock on your front door.

As you struggled, the key slipped from your fingers and clattered down against the concrete patch below. That pin dropped from the grenade and exploded through the quiet. As you stared down dejectedly at it, your tiny growl came out like a whine.

Before you could snatch it off the ground, Jimin swooped in. “Give it here, crybaby,” he said while shooting you an exasperated look. With ease, he jammed the key into the lock, turned it, and shoved the door open.

The inner doorknob smashed against the wall of your foyer, and you rounded on him immediately. Jimin raised one finger in your face, and it stopped your shout before it could fly out at him. He stared straight ahead of him, positively seething, “If you mention your security deposit again, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”

Beyond fed up, you huffed once more and stomped off over the threshold. You didn’t give a shit if he followed you.

As you tore down the hallway to your bedroom, you didn’t bother switching on any of the lights you passed. You were too busy throwing down your shoes and wrestling out of your jacket; leaving a trail of outerwear behind you as you went. Entirely incapable of caring that you’d created an obstacle course for the boy mere steps away.

Jimin staggered along after you, dodging the various items of clothing you’d left scattered across the hardwood. His jacket and shoes clattered to the ground on top of yours, thudding heavy like his pulse in his ears. Twin tornados as usual, you left a path of total destruction in your wake — every single time.

When he finally reached your bedroom, Jimin was panting. You were sitting and seething on the edge of your bed, trying desperately — and failing — to reach the zipper on the back of your dress. True to form, he leaned against the wall and watched you with quiet amusement but offered no aid.

Truthfully, he liked the idea of you wearing that stupid little number while he fucked you; he’d been marinating in that little fantasy all night. Unlike every other person in that club, Jimin didn’t have to imagine the curve of your ass underneath that red satin. He didn’t have to dream about kissing at your thighs the way the edge of that fabric did when you danced, or sunk down onto a bar stool and crossed one leg over the other.

No, Jimin had no quarrel with that dress — he felt equal to it, rather than robbed by it. He’d been everywhere it had and then some, a million times or more.

As he watched your frustration build, he wondered if you’d give up soon. His dick was swelling uncomfortably against his chinos, and he was beginning to lose his already limited patience. So, apparently, were you. Reaching behind your back, you gripped the sides of your dress in both fists and pulled — hard. You gasped as if it’d hurt you, but Jimin knew it would take much more than that.

There was the unmistakable sound of plastic breaking, and then the familiar look of triumph on your face as you stood. Your dress slipped off you like water and dropped dead in a pool of red at your feet. The mangled zipper was somehow still attached, but its teeth had been pried open. Jimin tried not to look impressed — your ever-present ego didn’t need to be bolstered.

You stepped out of the halo around your ankles and kicked it carelessly aside, vowing silently to replace the zipper tomorrow. You lifted your head, breathing hard, and locked eyes with Jimin. The sight of him standing there, doing fuck all, forced an indignant groan out of your parted lips.

“Why —” You hissed, “Are you still dressed?”

Jimin shrugged noncommittally, knowing full well it would enrage you. “Figured you had a knack for zippers,” He murmured innocently, “Was thinking you could handle mine.”

He was goading you, and you knew it, and you still took the bait. He wanted your animalistic hands clawing desperately at him, and to an extent, he’d get them. But he should have been more careful with what he wished for because he wasn’t ready for you.

You closed the distance between you and pushed the center of his chest — not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for the unexpected force to knock his head back against the wall. You were on one tonight, and for once, he didn’t bite back at you. The look in his eyes admitted that he enjoyed this side of you; that he wanted to see what came of it.

You wasted no time dropping to your knees in front of him and flicking open his belt buckle. Once you had proper access, nimble fingers undid the top button of his slacks, exposing his zipper. You were half-tempted to rip it the way you’d ripped your own — to teach him a lesson — but you didn’t. You inhaled slowly, and exhaled more so.

As sluggishly as you could, you tugged the zipper down. Your knuckle brushed against the side of his cock as it pressed eagerly against the fabric of his trousers and underlying boxer briefs; it twitched at the brief contact. Even more slowly, you slid your fingers through belt loops on either side of his hips and tugged. With the pressure of his pants alleviated, you heard him sigh softly overhead.

It was so stupidly easy to get him hard like this. And on the off chance it wasn’t this easy for everyone, you were an expert at making him like this. You leaned towards the tip, and as you did, you looked up at him from under your lashes. His cock jerked in response, begging for attention you were still refusing to pay it.

You had him, hook, line, and sinker.

Without breaking eye contact, you let your tongue slide out from between your lips. As chastely as a thing like it could be done, you ran it over the tip of his clothed cock, fabric already dampened by pre-cum before your saliva could stain it.

“Fucking touch it already,” Jimin snarled from above you.

You smirked, bumping your chin against the side of him but childishly refusing to put your mouth back on him.

“You begging, Park? Is that what that was?” You pressed up higher on your knees so that his length rested against the center of your throat. If your hypothesis panned out, the vibration of your voice alone might kill him. “If you’re going to beg, you should use your manners.”

He groaned exactly as you predicted he would, letting his eyes screw shut — half blissed, half vexed. With them still closed, his hand reached out and carded gently through the hair at the crown of your head; uncharacteristically soft until he grabbed a handful. The sting at your scalp caused your eyes to water, and your head to tilt back.

Now with half-lidded eyes, Jimin watched the column of your exposed throat bob as he used his free hand to push down the waistband of his briefs — the last barrier between his cock and your mouth. He wanted you full of him if that’s what it took to finally shut you up.

Your index finger traced the vein running along the underside of his length, dragged out another involuntary twitch that burned him up inside. You then switched to your thumb as you went gliding back the way you’d come, and when you finally reached the base of him, your hand teased his balls. Left without words to hurl at you, all Jimin could do was swallow a groan and grip your soft strands tighter.

It was a drag-out fight to keep his eyes open, but he had to if he wanted to watch you kneel in front of him as if you were praying. So perfectly obscene; he’d die a thousand times before you finally took him in your mouth.

You spat in the palm of your hand — unexpectedly crude for a princess like you — and then you began working the length of his dick with alternating pressure. As your small, soft hand pumped him, your mouth surprised him. When you enveloped one of his balls with your mouth, he keened and allowed his eyes to flutter shut again.

As far as Jimin was concerned, there was one use for that bratty mouth, and this was it.

After too few moments massaging his balls with your mouth, you tragically pulled back. The interruption in contact caused him to crack his eyes open and peer desperately back down at you. Under a curtain of dark lashes, your gaze rose to meet his — and then, without warning, you spat directly on his cock. Involuntarily, Jimin’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way as he watched the trail of saliva connect your bottom lip to him.

Oh, fuck you.

Your tongue swirled expertly over his tip while your hand worked over the base of his cock. Try as you might, you’d never fit all of him in your mouth at once — at least, you were sure Jimin assumed so. You hallowed out your cheeks and bobbed your head along as you took more and more of him; earning shuddered moans as you did.

Every now and then, he’d pull at your hair and roll his hips forward, fuck himself a little further into your mouth. You’d feign a whimper as if he was pushing you to your limit, and you let him think so. The sick sound of you pretending to struggle was dragging him close to the edge, but Jimin had no idea what his undoing would truly be:

Smirking to yourself, you wrapped your hands around the back of his thighs to anchor yourself. Undoubtedly confused, you felt him tense in the moment before you pushed further, further, further. Blinking away tears, you noted the way his eyes sparked when his tip slid past your soft palate and touched the back of your throat. They screwed shut as soon you caught him staring and swallowed.

“Ohh, fuck!”

The words sputtered out of Jimin’s mouth the same way his cum shot down the back of your throat. Tensed fingers twisted in your hair as his hips jerked helplessly against the heat of your wide-open mouth. Unable to process any part of what you’d just done to him, he couldn’t seem to get any air in his lungs either — somehow, you’d broken his brain, and his body didn’t know what the fuck to do about it.

You pressed against the front of his thighs as you leaned away from him, eyes still locked. Then, you lifted the back of your hand to your mouth — twisted in some devilish grin — and wiped the spit that had dribbled down your chin.

You little fucking demon.

Jimin hated it when you finished him off during the first round; and you knew it. It infuriated him to no end when you spent him like that — right out of the gate — because he’d have to wait to retaliate. You were well aware of that fact, too. Goddamn menace.

As blissed out as he was with his cock shoved down your throat, he was bubbling over with exasperation in the aftermath. “What the fuck was that?” He panted.

Jimin had so many questions, but he wouldn’t ask you anything further. Who does that? Who planted that idea in your head? Who had you been practicing on, and why hadn’t it been him?

The impish glint in your eyes didn’t dissipate when you shrugged noncommittally — just as he’d done to you, mere minutes before you’d successfully scrambled his brains. Because there was nothing you loved more than weaponizing his own words against him, you sighed with a frown, “Was thinking you could handle me. Nobody busts that fast, though. D’you think you should see a specialist about that?”

Instant gratification came when his arms hooked under your arms and lifted you abruptly from your feet to your knees. So, maybe there was one thing you loved more than firing his bullshit back at him. You tried not to let the excitement show on your face when he spun you around, left you staring down at your bed while you dripped with anticipation.

“Shut your mouth,” Jimin demanded while he took your arms hostage behind you. Evidence of his returning arousal was pressed flush against the small of your back, stoking the fire building in your core. “And lay down on your stomach.”

For once, you did what he said without putting up a fight. Despite the scowl on your face, there was a hurricane inside you that left your mind dizzy, and your panties soaked. Falling into place atop your duvet, you stretched your arms up and under the coolness of your pillows with a sigh. The soft fabric against your cheek and naked chest nearly had you in a trance.

It was a hard slap on your ass that brought you back to the present moment; and ravenous hands tugging down your underwear that kept you there. Your pleasured cries filled every space between his words and his swift smacks, but they went ignored; dead and buried in the fibers of your bedding.

“Why is it —” His warm palm collided with your doughy flesh again and you whimpered, though you tried to swallow it. “— that you look your best — ” He kept his hand still to dull the sting, only to dig blunt fingertips into your ass cheek. “— with your face buried in your pillows?”

You turned to putty in his hands every time he played so roughly with your skin, left little keepsakes behind to remind you where he’d been. If you hadn’t encouraged him to mark you, you suspected he wouldn’t. To his credit, Jimin was much gentler before you stopped letting him be; and as time passed — to your surprise — turning you on seemed to factor heavily into his own arousal.

Not inclined to waste any more time, he leaned over your reddened, stinging backside and grabbed the hands you’d stowed away under your pillows. Though he took care not to ring out your shoulders, he nipped cruelly at one with his teeth as he encircled your wrists with his fingers and jerked them down behind your back. He held them in place with his left hand and brought his right hand expectantly to your mouth.

Jimin didn’t have to say a word for you to hear him, loud and clear. You spit into his hand and, within seconds and without speaking, he pulled away again. In your peripheral vision, you watched in a daze as he pumped his fist back and forth to spread your saliva down his length, rolling his wrist as he worked the tip, bottom lip clenched between his teeth.

Selfishly, albeit predictably, he was more fixated on himself than you – and it drove you mad. You knew better, but you still interjected: “If you’re not going to fuck me, can you get out of my house?”

“Really sealed your fate with that one,” Jimin laughed dryly before smacking his hand down on your ass. As he gripped, he spread your cheeks apart, though his knees on either side of your legs kept you from moving. “Remember to say boksunga when you can no longer handle the consequences of your own actions.”

With that brief reference to your safe word — the one neither of you had used since it was chosen several months ago — he lined himself up at your spit-slicked entrance. The feeling of his tip at your slit caused you to swallow hard; and knowing what was coming next made your stomach flip. Your lips parted in the anticipation of a gasp.

The pressure of him driving himself into you — slowly and conscientiously, but to the hilt, nonetheless — was all but blinding. You needed him to move for you to acclimate to his size, but he stayed torturously still, leaving your shocked walls struggling to adjust. With your legs pinned together the way they were, you felt every vein, every slight curve — but what you still didn’t feel was movement.

“Move, Park,” you hissed through gritted teeth. The stretch brought on by his girth threatened to split you clean in half, no matter how many times he’d entered you before. It was difficult to breathe apart from gasping.

He responded in your own words, mocking the tone you’d taken with him not ten minutes earlier. “Are you begging? If you’re going to beg, you should really use your manners.”

“P-Park, I swear to God —”

He leaned down to your ear and somehow — though you’d have thought it impossible — his cock buried deeper inside of you. One wrong move, and you could kiss your cervix goodbye. In every way that mattered, you were trapped.

“There’s gotta be a please rolling around in that space between your ears,” He teased in a low voice that broke you.

Your swallowed pride burned on its way down. “Please,” you begged, “Please move. I need you to move.”

Satisfied that he’d snuffed out the fight in you, Jimin acquiesced. As he pulled away from your ear, he rolled back — tantalizing but, as you quickly learned, a false front. He pushed back in just as deeply as the first time without ever pulling out completely. The curve of his cock ground against your g-spot; the hands gripping hard at your captured wrists did nothing to stabilize you as you shuddered.

“Is that all it takes to make you go quiet?” His laugh struck harder than his hips did when they snapped forward. “Shit — if that’s the case, then why do I ever stop fucking you?”

Every time his pelvis collided with the flesh of your ass, the sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the electrified air of your bedroom. It was all unholy, but still, you begged God that he’d never stop. He was wrong, though – you were anything but quiet.

To the contrary, you were on the brink of babbling as your cunt gushed around him. With each thrust into your wet heat, Jimin shook another useless thought loose; sent you out of your mind over him.

You’d devolved into a muttering fool by the time your orgasm crept up from the pit of your stomach. When it finally crashed over you, you sensed that it was compensating for the one you’d been denied earlier. Every sensation seemed doubled, and twice as hard to fight.

You screamed as you came — a sound Jimin had never heard from you before — and he was entirely unprepared for it. You came undone around him with a half-sob and forced his release in tandem with yours, cunt squeezing him so tightly that his vision started to blur.

And when the firefight was over, you were both silent. Fucked stupid, neither of you were capable of speech, let alone critical thought.

It was funny, you thought as you re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere, that the only peace you’d ever known with Jimin came immediately after you did.

[eoieopda]

CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE BABY, here have some flowers 💐

here i come with a humble request 🫡

i was thinking of a hobi + secret relationship trope... maybe smutty too if you're up for it lol 👉🏽👈🏽

can't wait for the drabbles you're gonna write omg 😭🤲🏽

what lua wants, lua gets 🫡 tbh i think this is one of my favorite things i’ve ever written, so tysm for unwittingly setting that stage 🫣

the one where hoseok plays with fire

pairing: degenerate!hoseok x afab!reader type: (d) angst, smut (18+) | wc: 1.6k au: secret/forbidden relationship, rival gangs, romeo & juliet kinda vibes 🤫 cw: acknowledgement of membership in street gangs but just to explain the dynamic (no depictions of gang activity); minor threat (not the band, just the potential consequences of their actions); public (ish?) sex; unprotected p in v penetration; not much in the way of foreplay because i’m operating under a word limit, lol; biting, a lil bit; gratuitous imagery of hoseok wearing chains 🫣 a/n: this popped into my head while listening to $20 by boygenius on reeeeepeeeeaaaaat. def check out this song (and the record!) there’s a direct quote from the song in the dialogue, btw. credit for that bolded bit goes to julien thee baker.

There’s a decommissioned junkyard outside of town. It sits within a constellation of run-down warehouses and empty parking lots, and has a gravitational pull all its own. Finding it doesn’t take much, just fifteen minutes on the expressway, two turns at perpetually-blinking traffic lights, and a specific strain of desperation not many will ever know the likes of. It’s desolate and depressing, but despite all that, it’s a sanctuary.

A hill to die on.

You’d spent more time there lately than you’d ever be free to admit. A veritable coffee stain on a map, you’re not sure that its existence on that side street was anyone’s conscious decision. Likewise, you can’t say for certain that the drop of its name would mean anything to anyone. It means everything to you, however, so asking after recognition isn’t a risk you’re willing to take.

You’re risking enough as it is.

As is usually the case, you’re the first to arrive. When you do, you ignore the dirt that kicks up with every step and swirls around your bare ankles; and you keep walking until you reach your usual perch. The bare-bones, American-made t-top sits where it seemingly always has: on cinder blocks. It’s older than you by thirty years or so, but it groans with vigor when you grip hard to the frame, slide your foot over the exposed wheel hub, and hoist yourself onto the hood.

The bare skin on the back of your thighs is chilled instantly by the paint-chipped metal below you. It loses more and more of its smoothness the longer it sits out, exposed to the elements, but then again, so do you. Maybe that’s why this spot is a hard-fought favorite of yours.

Your crows’ nest, your perfect vantage point. A place to sit and play look-out while your eager eyes scan the driveway ahead.

You hear him before you see him, but that’s purposeful. Hoseok kills the headlamp on his motorcycle before he comes anywhere near the junkyard — just in case, baby. The rumble of his four-stroke engine is one you can feel in your stomach long after he shuts it off. Even when he parks that pristine, second-hand Hyosung somewhere only he’d be able to find it again. Still, when he finally steps under the yellow glow of the street lamp — your only source of light, save for the moon — and he’s all you see.

Hoseok keeps his pace casual as he makes his way to you, but his anticipation is visible in his posture. He’s swallowing words, based on the blatant twitch of his jaw. Always clenched to keep from calling out to you, as if the abandoned area wasn’t chosen for its ability to keep your secrets.

With much more ease than you, he jumps and pulls himself up to the car hood to meet you. The metal creaks under the weight of his body, but when it hovers over you, it’s a sigh of relief. A millisecond can’t pass by before he cages your head in between his arms — palms pressed against the dusty windshield — and swoops down to capture your kiss.

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your lips. His tone is low, hushed, and yet still sandpaper-course in a way that screams I mean it. The distance at which his limited words keep you is contrary to the way he holds you — close to the chest like your feelings are as fleeting as moments like this, gently as if you’ll break apart in his hands.

Like he loves you.

Your fingers instinctively thread themselves in his wind-swept hair — no helmet, no surprise there — and now it’s his turn to sigh. Hoseok tries to pull away, likely to gaze at you the way he always wants to, but you claim his bottom lip between your teeth and refuse to let him — this — go.

It sounds so silly without full use of his mouth:

“Baby,” he warns.

You release him with a smirk, brushing the tip of your nose against his. There’s enough fondness in his eyes to drown in and you would, in a heartbeat, if time was ever on your side.

“Good girl.”

The delicate, cuban-link chain around his neck glints in the half-light. Little slivers of silver dance across your own collarbone as it sways in the space between your bodies. A little constellation, guiding you North from your southside trap to a home you can’t have.

You, who can never seem to leave well-enough alone, run the thin, interlocking rectangles between the tips of your thumb and middle finger. You know you shouldn’t, but you pout, “You’re late.”

Hoseok’s expression says more than he does. You hear, “I know,” but you see, “I didn’t have a choice and I never will.”

He grunts when he sits up onto his knees. Wordlessly, he spills over your side and collects into a puddle in the space next to you. Once he settles, he stares up at the sky. You know he’s focused on something even further away.

“Did someone follow?” You ask gently.

Hand slipping easily into his, your fingers interlock. Links in a chain. Never an accessory to be worn in public.

Hoseok’s mouth pulls up slightly at one corner; and you know what that looks means. It means twenty minutes down the drain, shaking a tail before he can make his way to you. It means that, next time, you may need to find a different hiding spot.

The arm furthest from yours is draped over his abdomen. He moves it, and you move to hover in the space he’s cleared for you. Anchored with your knees on either side of his hips, you cup his jaw with the hand not holding his. For you, he lets himself soften, leans into the warmth of your palm.

You don’t normally say the obvious out loud, but reality doesn’t always stay in the cage you try to lock it in. “We’re playing with fire.”

“In another life,” Hoseok replies wistfully while his fingernails scratch — affectionately, teasingly, cautiously — down the expanse of your bare thigh. “We were arsonists.”

When he kisses you a second time, it’s enough for you to forget where you are. No longer in a junkyard on the outskirts of town, no longer on opposite sides of a line in the dirt, no longer trying to shove flowers into the front of a shotgun.

It’s enough.

It’s routine. You hike up the hem of your dress while he unzips his black jeans. Those are pushed down while your thong is pushed to the side; and so is the thought that this is the most of him you can have. You don’t get all of him, can’t lave your needy tongue over all of him, because it’s not safe to love him with all the layers cast aside. It’s practical, promotes a quick getaway in the event one is needed.

It’s enough, you think again, like repetition will make it true.

It’s perfect. Both of you keen when he enters you. Your thighs tremble; your walls grip him tight as they reacclimate to the stretch his cock demands. Hoseok notices your rapid blinking when you settle down on him. He knows without having to ask, kisses you through an ache that isn’t physical at all. It, like him, stays where it’s kept: in the left side of your rib cage.

“Shit,” he grunts. “Feel so perfect, baby — fuck.”

You roll your hips against him, taking him all the way and dragging the curve of his cock over that secret spot inside you. Aren’t they all? His fingernails leave impermanent, crescent indents in your thighs. You try not to care that the moon looming overhead is unapologetically full — and present every night.

There’s a newfound desperation in the way Hoseok clings to you. He digs the heels of his boots into the Stringray’s hood, hands pulling you down onto his cock while he fucks upwards into you. It drives him insane when you swirl your hips with him buried inside you, so you do, smirking like the devil.

You burrow into his neck to leave wet, open-mouthed kisses on any hint of skin you find. As you do, your fingers return to his hair and tie themselves off. If you chain yourself to him this way, maybe you can stay this way.

A quick nip at his neck unearths a groan that makes your cunt flutter around him. Tragically, no sign of you or your teeth is left behind on the side of his throat. Still, you kiss it better, whispering, “Could fuck you like this forever, baby.”

“Oh, my love,” his breath is hot against your ear when he chuckles darkly, “You hear the way your pussy is gushing all over my cock? You won’t last forever.”

His thrusts deepen. Hoseok is dead-set on unraveling you, thread by thread.

“In fact —”

Your teeth pinch his lobe. Hoseok snaps his hips forcefully in response, and your gasp echoes over the rusted squeak of a worn-out suspension. It briefly overpowers the muted slap of his pelvis colliding with the underside of your thighs. It doesn’t compare with his breathless laugh, though, not by a long-shot.

“Little vampire,” he chides you with a grin that takes effort. You mewl when his fingertips press bruises into the flesh of your ass. “Don’t think you’ll last another minute.”

Hoseok is a lot of things; and while frustrating is one of them, wrong rarely is.

It’s white hot, the uncontrolled pleasure burning through your core, and your vision matches when your wildfire orgasm ignites. Fingers searching for purchase grip tight to his jacket. Your heavy head dips forward as you cry out. Like always, you fall apart at the seams over him.

Slumped against him, he envelopes you in his arms as he fucks straight through your high and into his. Spent in every way that matters, you can’t fight off the sob that starts in the pits of your chest and crawls out of your mouth. The shiver down your spine can’t be blamed on the wind.

“Hey,” Hoseok murmurs, petal soft, “Baby, no, don’t cry.”

He takes your face in your hands and leaves you no choice but to look at him. With concern wearing creases into his forehead, he smatters kisses on every part of your crestfallen face. He whispers promises between each as he goes.

It’s okay — We’ll figure this out — I love you — We’ll be alright, you and me — I love you.

And even if it’s not all true, it’s enough.

Enough to keep you going.

Enough to glue your broken pieces back together.

Enough to keep you both from noticing the faint hum of an engine in the driveway.

[eoieopda]

One where y/n is the airhostess on Mr Park's pvt jet : smut

put your tray tables up, fam, we’re in for a wild ride.

cw: 18+ MINORS DNI — not necessarily public sex but there’s obvi a pilot on board not far away so??; one night (flight?) stand; protected sex; jimin’s hand over reader’s mouth to keep her 🤫 quiet 🤫.

When you took this position, there was a thick training manual dropped in your hands that nearly knocked you off balance. That, combined with the rigorous preparatory courses and certification exam, left you ready to respond to just about anything: emergency landings, injuries requiring first aid, heavy turbulence, hijackings…

Unfortunately, no part of your onboarding prepared you for Park motherfuckin’ Jimin.

Your first conversation had been a brief introduction — to yourself, to the pilot, to the procedures you may need to follow if a wayward goose finds its way into the turbines and sends you hurtling towards death’s lap. Throughout what was normally a thoroughly rehearsed and meticulously delivered speech, Jimin’s half-lidded eyes told you he didn’t give much of a shit about a properly-affixed oxygen mask. The tongue that darted out to wet his lips had made it crystal clear: what Jimin wanted on his face was more likely to suffocate rather than respirate.

And you knew damn well that, despite your risk-avoidant training, this was the one instance in which you’d willingly crash and burn.

You did try your best to stay out of temptation’s way, for whatever that fact was worth. The jet was smaller and significantly less occupied than most flights you worked, so your options were limited from the start. Jimin’s presence loomed large, too, leaving you feeling exposed. More afraid of hovering than being sucked out the emergency door, you’d resolved to tuck yourself away in the back most area for as long as you could stand it.

Of course, you’d make rounds to determine whether there was any purpose for you to serve, but you didn’t expect to be of much use — not burning up the way you did when his eyes lingered on you, not with your weak knees trembling like that.

During your first of these rounds, you’d had your second conversation; you’d offered him a drink. The surplus of alcohol on board meant that you were outnumbered three-to-one by bottles, all of which could buy you out of your apartment lease. Jimin had accepted your offer.

In doing so, he’d nodded, shot you a confused expression that landed halfway between a smirk and genuine surprise, and said, “It’d be rude of me to drink alone, don’t you think?”

If girls like you deserve Dom Pérignon, you had to wonder what else made the list. Mercifully, you didn’t have to ruminate for long.

Your third conversation didn’t come where you expected — oddly prophetic, in hindsight. Instead of waiting for you to make your anticipated rounds through the main cabin area, Jimin sought you where you hid. Burning hot under your company-issued dress, your first instinct was to crack a window. Thankfully, you quickly realized that this course of action was ill-advised.

The exit sign floated overhead while he had you effectively caged off by the door. The angel on your shoulder, it begged you to listen, be professional, keep your damn hands to yourself. But the devil was in front of you in a leather jacket and, shit, the weather in Hell must be lovely this time of year.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jimin began, looking entirely unapologetic, “I had a question for you.” He noted the way your eyebrows raised in acknowledgment, then he continued, “I heard that pilots sleep through long flights — autopilot, you know? — and wondered if that was true.”

Oh, you cheeky bastard.

You bit your lip thoughtfully, then sighed, “Couldn’t say. Classified information, you know? Trade secret.”

When you leaned in to whisper the next bit, you didn’t have far to go — Jimin was close enough for you to see your own reflection in his eyes.

“I can tell you that the last layover wasn’t very restful.”

Jimin tilted his head to the side, eyes flicking down to your lips then back again. “Is that so?” He hummed. Your heart nearly rocketed out of your chest when he tucked a flyaway strand of hair back behind your ear.

“So,” your gaze was handcuffed to his as your hand drifted to his belt buckle, “Be a doll and keep the noise down, yeah?”

Jimin was smirking when the hand near you neck was rescinded. Index finger extended, he held it up to his full lips in understanding. If the look in his eyes didn’t already have you gushing, you would’ve been swept away entirely when he twirled that finger in the air, directing you to turn around.

With your palms flat against wall, you bit down on your lip to stifle the moan he threatened to steal when his warm hands grabbed the hem of your pencil skirt and tugged up, up, up. His right hand grabbed the doughy flesh of one ass cheek; the other disappeared from you. As you heard the metallic clink of a belt buckle opening, he hovered over your spine and his mouth found your ear.

“No panties?” came Jimin’s murmur with a low chuckle, “Feels like fate to me.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him it felt like running out of clean laundry for you. You didn’t have to lie, though; the telltale crinkle of a condom packet took up the few decibels you would’ve had to spare. The subdued stretch of latex followed as he sheathed himself.

Then, if you listened closely, you could likely hear yourself dripping as he quoted you, “Now, doll, keep the noise down, won’t you?”

Jimin made silence a near impossibility. Cock in hand, he teased his tip over your drenched folds, flicking upwards to abuse your clit in the process — and you wanted to whine, to beg, to groan like a woman starved. You had half a mind to growl and demand that he stop toying with you; and you opened your mouth to do so.

He slid into you just in time to convert your plea to a strangled gasp.

He was deliberate with his unimaginably deep thrusts, grinding slowly into your heat to avoid the sick squelch of your cunt overtaking the dead air. You whimpered every time his cock ruttted over your g-spot — so much so that Jimin had to pull your back to his chest and place his hand over your mouth.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit —

When you came, pussy clenching tight around his length, you had to clench your jaw, too. Your eyes screwed shut as he continued to bury himself in you with staccato strokes. Knees trembling, your whole body threatened to fall limp to the floor; but he grunted softly in your ear when his climax came for him, and the sound of him coming undone shot you straight up into space.

You were still trying to unscramble your brain when Jimin pulled his softening cock out of you, muttering “shit” as he went. Eventually, you were able to pull your dress skirt back down. When turned around to face him, his face was flushed, having just discarded a tied-off condom in a trash bin built into the wall.

Thoroughly fuck drunk, Jimin looked at you with a blissed-out, lopsided smile, “Is there a kilometer equivalent to the Mile High Club?”

[eoieopda]

menace (pjm) — pt. iii

Pairing: Park Jimin x Kim!Reader Type: 3/6 (Mini Series) ⇢ Previous Chapter | Masterlist Word Count: 5K Content: (General) Seokjin’s younger sister AU; fuck buddies that hate each other AU; reader is AFAB & queer; sort of an omniscient POV; nudity; minor injury/blood mention; (SMUT | 18+) oral sex (f); fingering (v); squirting; and — worst of all — k*ss*ng. A/N: Things are, uh, happening, so this has more plot than porn (comparatively speaking.) Also, I’m trying to cover a lot of time in a few parts, so this is the first time skip — from Valentine’s Day (February, obvi,) to Chuseok (September.) The next chapter will be a flashback because we love a villain origin story in this house 🏠

Your arrangement had three rules, and three rules only.

The first of which was easy enough to follow: no kissing. Either of you could bite, lick, or suck on the other to your heart’s content, but under no circumstances should there be kissing. It was too intimate, too romantic. Too ironic, you’d concede, that Jimin was permitted to put his mouth on anything but yours. Still, it was a line neither of you would dare to cross.

Romance had no business here.

The second rule was that staying the night was only permissible to avoid serious injury or death — or if, in the event of an Act of God, you were otherwise unable to leave.

This came into effect the very first night you went to his house, when the terms of this arrangement were settled. Somewhere between you nagging at him and him tossing you up onto his kitchen counter, the record-breaking storm outside downed a power line at the end of the driveway. And even if that broken pole hadn’t trapped your car where it sat, the flooded street would have.

Otherwise, the deal was that you’d get it in, then you'd get out.

The third rule was the most important because it was created to cover the loopholes of rule number two: no cuddling, ever.

The only thing more intimate than kissing was having someone’s naked body curled against yours while they snored into your skin. This kind of vulnerability was to be avoided at all costs. It was unforgivable — a red card that would result in immediate ejection from the game.

Until now, there had been no violations.

When bright white sunlight hit your freshly opened eyes, you were disoriented. You recognized your own bedroom, of course, but the issue wasn’t where; it was when. Given how soundly you slept, you couldn’t tell how long you’d been out. You could tell that every muscle in your body was staunchly opposed to movement of any kind — up to and including your eyelids, which were still weighed down with sleep.

Instinctively, you rubbed your eyes to see a little clearer. Instantly, you regretted doing so once you noticed the way your day-old eyeliner stained your fingers black. Motherfucker. You didn’t know much, but you knew better than to fall asleep without running through your nightly skincare routine first.

If you ever regained the ability to move, you’d go straight to the shower and get yourself sorted. After the gauntlet you'd survived the night before, you deserved to be surrounded by steam and blissful warmth. Your legs felt as though they’d been encased in cement, however, and you couldn't will them to budge. The rest of you felt heavy, too; but you soon realized it wasn’t your exhaustion weighing you down.

It was the unanticipated arm draped over the curve of your waist.

You jerked when you saw it as if it were a snake primed to bite you. You didn’t intend to flail or to throw your elbow backwards into his unsuspecting chest. You didn’t necessarily feel bad about it, either.

Jimin screamed when your sudden act of violence knocked him awake. Shooting bolt upright, his sleep-laden limbs couldn't coordinate his movements. Unceremoniously and tied in a knot of sheets, he rolled off the edge of your bed to the floor. From your rug, he rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder and huffed, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Initially, your glare focused intently on his face, which had sheet marks pressed into his cheek. Then, you noticed that the stark-naked man sprawled out below you was standing at attention. He gasped when the same realization dawned on him, and his hands flew down to cover himself to the best of his ability. His attempts were laughably futile — even if his hands weren’t so slight, there was too much to hide.

For a moment, your stony expression cracked and you snorted. Immediately, you checked yourself before he got the inaccurate impression that you found his clumsy act of modesty to be cute. With a roll of your eyes, you sighed, “Not like I haven’t seen it before, Park.”

“There’s cock, and then there’s unsuspecting morning dick,” he groaned, his voice like gravel and yet still so childish. “Some shit is not meant to be perceived in the unforgiving light of day.”

You shrugged off his embarrassment, unwilling to hear more of his dissertation on dicks and daylight.

“You know the rules,” you stated simply while you slipped out from under your duvet. Unabashedly nude, you didn’t bat an eye. Jimin didn’t even try not to stare.

You hit him with a pointed look as you grabbed your phone off your nightstand, “When I get out of the shower, you better be gone.”

No parting glance was offered as you stepped coolly around him. You didn’t say anything further to acknowledge him before shuffling out of your bedroom to the bathroom. Once inside, you shut the door behind you and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. The chilly porcelain bit at the undersides of your bare thighs, but you ignored it and waited for the water to heat up to the perfect, scalding temperature.

After an abysmally slow climb, it eventually did; you pulled the switch that brought your shower-head back from the dead. With a rattle, your poor old pipes sputtered in disapproval. Like you, they were too worn out for this level of activity. You’d been meaning to call your landlord about the issue, but you suspected he’d hit you with the usual “it’ll get fixed faster if you do it yourself.”

If you were tall enough to reach, perhaps you might’ve done so by now. Too small and too tired, you stepped under the water and let the heavy droplets pummel your skin awake.

As you ran a loofa down your arms and legs, you were distracted by the swath of marks on your skin. Everywhere you looked, there was some scratch, bruise, or love bite. You wondered if the latter was the right term to use.

The tiny galaxies of blue, purple, and yellow were fueled exclusively by a toxic blend of lust and rivalry, nothing more. Those little contusions were the result of clashing titans, conquering as many objectives on the war map as possible — love had nothing to do with it.

When you finished washing, shampooing, and conditioning, you simply stood still. The steam loosened the tension held tight throughout your body and permitted your foggy mind to wander. You wished it hadn’t because you couldn’t seem to control the direction it took, where it led you and to whom.

There was something different about last night, and you couldn’t put your finger on it.

It wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to spend all night in the throes of absolute depravity. In fact, that’s how you’d spent most nights over the past year. You were both ruthless competitors, both incapable of letting the other have the last word. This was obvious in any of your conversations; but it was most applicable to whatever this was.

You both needed to deliver the TKO, to cause the orgasm so earth-shattering, the other would have to bend the knee. The two of you dealt in power moves and that was the ultimate — but last night didn’t feel like a title fight. So, then, what was it?

Once the heat of the water started to make you unsteady on your feet, you determined it was time to get out. You didn’t want to, however; it was always such a feat to leave a cozy bed to then stumble naked into a cold bathroom. When that dreaded commute was over, it was even harder to leave the warm shroud of steam you’d exchanged it for.

With a put-upon grumble, you grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it tightly around your middle. For good measure, you used a second to sop up the excess water from your hair before spreading a thin layer of moisturizer over your heat-flushed face. You should’ve stayed put, cherished that cocoon a little longer, but you didn’t.

The second you opened your bathroom door, you regretted it. The comparatively frigid air hit you hard enough to force a gasp as you turned and headed for your kitchen. You made a beeline for your refrigerator, pausing only to glance at the monthly calendar pinned to the front of it with a bottle-opening magnet. When you saw the date, your face fell and took your mood with it.

You kept trying to forget the encroaching holiday and for good reason: Seokjin was spending it with his girlfriend at her family’s home in Jeonju. For the first time in your life, you were your own. The idea of spending Chuseok alone in your house made your heart twinge, but there wasn’t a thing to be done about it now. You quickly bottled that impermissible sadness back up and opened the refrigerator.

Oh.

Unsurprisingly yet still disappointingly, it was a wasteland. One half-empty carton of eggs and a lonely block of cheddar cheese seemed to mock you from their spot on an otherwise bare shelf. You’d clearly forgotten to go grocery shopping despite the numerous post-it notes you’d left to remind yourself. With the holiday, the shops would be closed for three days — scrambled eggs would have to do until the weekend.

Ain’t it fun being on your own?

You stood on tiptoe to reach the frying pan, which hung from a hook on the wall above the counter. With a bit more effort than your fatigued limbs were willing to co-sign, you stretched until your fingertips could graze it. Swatting uselessly at it, you wondered how you’d managed to get it up there in the first place. Whatever witchcraft you must’ve previously employed sure would’ve been helpful now.

“Hope you’re making enough for two.”

Your fingers missed the falling pan by a meter, and you nearly jumped out of your skin as it clattered against the countertop, then bounced off towards the floor. It was impossible to tell what scared you more: the sound of angry metal against ceramic, or the disembodied voice laughing at you from behind.

Either way, you snatched the pan off the ground and wheeled around, weapon at the ready. Jimin, who was stretched out on the sofa in your adjoining living room, raised his hands in self-defense.

“Easy does it, puppy,” He teased, “Put down the cast iron before you hurt yourself.”

You glowered at him, filled with a rage only his smug face and that undying childhood nickname could ignite in you. For two decades, people had been needling you with that comparison. Teasing you constantly, pointing out the eager, attention-starved little sister trailing after Seokjin and his older, cooler friends. Until now, Jimin hadn’t been one of them.

Unwilling to expend limited energy on that particular fight today, you smacked the pan down on the surface of the stove. Attitude locked and loaded, you fired off: “Shouldn’t you have left by now? Like, hours ago?”

Jimin shrugged, unbothered, “I was too tired to drive, even if I could walk to my car.”

Ringed fingers traipsed over the joggers clinging to his thighs. Dizzying muscles notwithstanding, you couldn't imagine they'd been put through more of a workout than yours. The indignant look you shot his way seemed not to graze him.

“That’s not an excuse. We have rules, remember?” You turned your back to him and ignited the burner. “The reason this works at all is because we don’t try to play house the morning after. You go and do whatever it is you do; and I go about my day — in peace.”

“It’s Chuseok.”

His abrupt observation stopped you in your tracks. Heaving an exasperated sigh, you rolled your eyes. “So?”

“So, my family is traveling abroad,” He quipped, like this was a sufficient explanation for his continued presence. “There is no ‘whatever it is’ to do.”

As he stretched his arms lazily above his head, a faint trail of dark hair appeared in the gap between his shirt hem and belt. Just as soon as you caught yourself staring, you quickly returned to cracking eggs over the pan. With a dry laugh, you mused, “That sounds like a you problem, not a me problem.”

You’d have been perfectly content to listen to your breakfast as it sizzled. You would’ve loved to bask in the peace and quiet of your lazy morning, but you couldn’t because Park Jimin couldn’t take a goddamn hint. Instead, he kept on prodding.

“Seokjin’s with Chaeyoung, so I know you don’t have shit to do, either.”

With your back to him, Jimin couldn’t see the way your mouth curved into an involuntary frown. He could sense it in your posture, though; your shoulders dipped ever so slightly. For once, he hadn’t been aiming for an exposed nerve — but he’d clearly managed to strike one. He was simply noting that you also had nowhere to rush off to; and no reason to kick him out into the cold just yet.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your unaffected tone tried its best to cover how affected you truly were. Jimin saw right through you and the dismissive wave of your hand. “Presently, or generally.”

From behind you, you heard movement and feared that he was on his way over to you. With a furtive glance out of the corner of your eye, you determined that he hadn’t gotten up — he’d made himself even more comfortable on your couch and kicked his feet up on your coffee table. His voice lilted across your living room to where you stood, in your kitchen. You could hear the shit-eating grin in his words, even if you couldn’t see it.

Unbeknownst to you, Jimin’s teasing was intended to distract you from whatever thought was physically heavy enough to make you slump. “If you had anywhere to be, or anyone to be with, you wouldn’t be cooking yourself a depressing breakfast at three in the afternoon.

Shit, did I really sleep through half the day?

Then, to your horror, you realized that this meant you'd been together for nearly twenty-four hours. That fact felt like a violation even if there wasn’t a purposefully codified rule to break. Maybe, you thought, there should be a fourth one to limit prolonged exposure.

How did he manage to stick like a shadow? Would he ever just give it a rest?

“It’s none of your business what I'm up to because you’re not supposed to be here,” you shot back, mimicking the sing-song tone he’d fired at you. The edge of your rubber spatula scraped along the bottom of the pan, folding and separating the eggs into pieces as they cooked. “Go eat lunch in your own house.”

Jimin’s laughter reverberated through the room. “Why would I? You didn’t make four eggs for one person.”

You froze with your eyes fixed on the uncharacteristically large pile of scrambled eggs before you. It didn’t click until he pointed it out, but you’d unwittingly doubled your usual amount. Why? Surely, you hadn’t done it on purpose. There was no reality in which you’d cook for him.

“Best pull them off before you toast ‘em, puppy.”

Again with that goddamned nickname, reminding you — for the millionth time — that you’d only ever existed within the context of your relationship to Seokjin. Not someone, just someone’s little sister. A pet no one ever seemed to want.

With a smirk, Jimin hoisted himself up off the sofa and meandered over to you too casually, far too comfortable in your space. I really have to stop letting you in here. When he closed the distance between you, he reached over your shoulder and clicked off the burner. Worse still, his hand wrapped around your forearm and guided the pan over to the unused adjacent burner.

Low voice vibrating down your spine, he chided you. “You’ll definitely lose your security deposit if you burn the place down.”

His hand was lingering on your skin, and all you could do was stare up at him, mouth parted slightly like an idiot. You’d refused to look at him much while you cooked, thinking that ignoring him would make him disappear. Unfortunately, because you weren't an infant, you were plagued with object permanence.

And there he still was — permanently.

You eyed the bean-sprout ponytail holding back the longer, upper layer of his hair. It dawned on you for the first time that there was an undercut beneath it; one you’d somehow failed to notice in all the time you’d spent with your fingers tugging at his hair. How long had that been the case?

That haphazard knot at the top was the work of unbothered, unpracticed hands. Spare pieces hung down around his face, which was upsettingly poreless and smooth even though he wasn’t the one with the religiously adhered-to skin care regimen. A fucking Renaissance painting, in living color — in your kitchen.

Park Jimin was disgustingly angelic and it infuriated you, but you couldn't stop looking at him.

“Now, now,” he tutted, derailing your train of thought as he placed his hands on your waist and rudely lifted you out of his way. He did it too easily — like you weighed nothing. Setting you down to the left of the stove, he reached for the cabinet to the upper right. “Stop eyeing me like you want to frame me and hang me above your fireplace.”

Opting to ignore his point entirely, you snatched the plate he held out to you. You hated that he knew where you kept them. “I don’t have a fireplace,” was your nonchalant reply before you used your hip to nudge him back out of your way.

His eyebrows shot up at the audacity of you dumping the entirety of the pan’s contents onto your plate. With your back turned, an impish grin tugged at your lips. You weren’t hungry enough to eat it all yourself, but he needed a reminder on whose house he was in; and what he was and wasn’t entitled to.

“Raised by wolves!” Jimin muttered with a shake of his head. His frustration didn’t stop him from following you as you grabbed a half-empty bottle of buldak sauce out of the refrigerator, though. He was still at your heels when you shuffled off to the sofa.

He took the corner opposite you and turned inward to glare at you as you nestled up against the cushioned arm with a satisfied sigh. Those burning eyes stayed fixated on you as you made a big show of cozying yourself up against the throw pillows. Never one to forgo an opportunity, you gave him something worth watching.

Opening your mouth slowly, you slid your tongue out until the tip of it grazed the bottom of the egg dangling from your fork. Without breaking eye contact, you pulled it off between your teeth. A soft moan accompanied your chewing, as if this depressing mid-afternoon breakfast was the best thing you’d ever tasted. Jimin’s eyebrow twitched as you licked your lips, still refusing to tear your gaze away from him.

Gotcha, fucker.

He’d had quite enough of your little games. Without warning, Jimin grabbed the plate and fork from your hands and dropped them onto the coffee table with a clatter. Your eyes and mouth opened wide and froze that way.

That shocked expression only intensified when he grabbed your ankles in each hand and pulled your lower half towards him. You squeaked as your back slid down the arm of the sofa. Now flat against the seat cushions with your knees hinged over his shoulders, you were left to blink up at Jimin as he smirked down at you.

“Maybe you can finish your breakfast after I’ve had mine,” Jimin purred, leaning down to erase the space between your bodies. With your legs held hostage, his hands were free to push the ends of your towel to the side, out of his way. His pupils were blown as he looked up at you from a curtain of dark eyelashes.

You may have been hungry, but he was ravenous.

Face dipping down between your legs, his hot breath lit you on fire. He fanned the flames, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses up the inside of each thigh before suckling on the delicate skin he found there. The wet heat of his tongue and the sting of his suction caused your eyelids to flutter. You screwed them shut completely and tilted your head back as he continued his way towards your cunt, already dripping with need.

Jimin’s arms bent up underneath you, curling over your hips and forcing you still. You felt the cool tip of his nose brush against your core as those sloppy kisses ceased; and his mouth found what it’d been seeking. With his tongue dipping between your slicked folds, you melted into his arms with a low moan.

“So focused on your own appetite… Did you ever consider mine?” He murmured between flicks of his tongue, “Selfish, really.”

Your mouth was hanging open, but for once, you couldn’t find the words to bite back at him. Instead, you did something you’d never done before: you gave up. Bottom lip pinched tight between your teeth, you let the opportunity drop without any attempt to volley it.

Though you likely assumed that this was all for your benefit — or that he was merely exercising power over you — Jimin would beg to differ. He reveled in the unholy sounds you made as he devoured you. In a rare display of vulnerability, you surrendered yourself completely in moments like this. You collapsed limp and trusting in his arms, except for the hands clinging desperately to his hair; and he could momentarily believe that you were always this open, this inviting.

Like this, you were perfect. You looked it, too, with your high cheekbones flushing a shy shade of scarlet. Even the way your chest heaved was delicate, subtle enough that it felt like a secret meant for him; gentle, though the hammering it prompted in his own chest wasn’t. Still, it felt illegal to steal these glimpses of you like this; so, he attempted to blink the indelible image of your face away and pressed his even closer to your pretty pussy.

Of all the times Jimin had you in this position, it never felt like this. No hesitation, no animosity, just indescribable and uninterrupted pleasure tingling through every nerve — from your curling toes; to the goosebumps erupting on your skin; to the coil pulling tighter, tighter, tighter in your —

“Oh, fuck.”

At his chest-deep groan, you gasped, slapped your hands over your mouth, and screwed your bleary eyes shut. If you couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see you — and you couldn’t bear to look at him. You wouldn’t. You refused to face the mess you’d made of him, or whatever horrified expression he was wearing. The hands over your mouth slid up to cover your eyes.

As he sat back on his knees, Jimin lifted his arm to wipe the remnants of you off his face and onto the back of his hand. You were dripping off his chin, down his neck, to the damp collar of his t-shirt. He was panting, albeit less so than you, but he was beaming. He’d made you cum more times than he could count, but he had never made you cum like that before — and he'd previously considered himself an expert.

He reached up and wrapped his hands around yours, surprised when you allowed him to uncover your face. Cheeks burning pink with embarrassment, you winced when confronted with the sight of your release all over him.

“I don’t — Seriously, I’ve never —” you stammered hopelessly, wanting nothing more than to disappear. If you could, you’d sink completely into the gap between the cushions, never to be seen again, but Jimin wouldn't let you. Embarrassed and near to tears, you peeped, “I’m so sor—”

He let go of your hands and placed a finger over your lips, imploring you to shut up. “That was, without a doubt,” He paused and you withered. Just let me die. “The hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

This floored you and you didn’t know why.

You stared at one another in silent awe for what felt like hours but, in reality, only amounted to a few seconds. Neither of you knew what to do now that you’d made this discovery. The air crackled like static between you, and you each waited on the other to do something.

Jimin could easily tell that no one else had gotten this kind of response from you and secretly, it made him giddy that he was the one to do it. That he was so attuned to you, he could bring you over the edge like that. Before he could talk himself out of doing so, he cupped your flushed face in his hands. Then, without thinking, he pressed his frenzied lips to yours.

For a fraction of a moment, you felt yourself slipping, turning to putty under the surprising heat of his kiss. Then, when you remembered yourself, an alarmed gasp spilled out of your throat. Your fight-or-flight reflex kicked in and you chose both.

Your flailing caused Jimin to lose his balance and fall with a yelp against the arm on his side of the sofa. Simultaneously, your scrambling sent you tumbling off the sofa altogether. Your elbow slammed into the corner of the coffee table on your way down, and you cried out upon impact.

He stared wide-eyed down at you for a split-second, taking in the sight of you clutching your elbow in your opposite hand. You were bleeding — just slightly — and your eyes were starting to swim. Reflexively, Jimin lunged forward to help you, but you recoiled as if he’d burned you.

Just as quickly, his heart swan dove into the cellar of his stomach while his brain tried to square the drastic change in the way you looked at him. The stars in your eyes were gone and all that was left hurt.

“Get out,” your tone was eerily quiet, but unquestionably firm. He blinked back at you, too shocked by your reaction to do a thing. Then, with a voice halfway between a sob and a hiss, you repeated yourself, “Get out of my house, Park!”

Jimin wanted to say something — anything — to fix that broken look on your face, but he could see how much effort you were expending to hold back tears. The more exposed and embarrassed you felt, the worse his presence would make it. So, he called it. He shot you one last, apologetic gaze before he clambered to his feet, slipped into his shoes, and disappeared out your front door.

Even after watching his retreat, you stayed where sat on your floor with your knees hugged to your chest. Your bright white towel would wind up stained, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get up and find a proper bandage. Your elbow looked much worse than it felt — but you felt much worse than you looked. Still dazed, you touched your fingertips to your lips just to find that the heat of his mouth still seemed to linger.

That motherfucker.

The two of you had rules, and in a single day, he’d broken all of them. In one fell swoop, he severed the tightrope you’d been treading along so cautiously; sent you both hurtling towards the dirt. He ruined everything — again — and you fell back into that box you were never permitted to outgrow.

Pathetic little puppy, crying all alone.

Just outside your living room window, Jimin hesitated when he reached his car. He had one hand on the door handle and his keys clutched tightly in the other. He knew he couldn’t stay, but he didn’t feel as though he could go either, so he simply froze where he stood.

Trapped in limbo between what he wanted and what he could have, just like always.

He hoped he would’ve grown out of that gnawing disappointment by now, but those teeth somehow got sharper over time — not duller. To make it all worse, this was the first time he’d seen you in pain that you hadn't specifically requested. The way you looked just then unsettled him deeply. He hated the way you crumpled, how quickly you tore yourself away from him.

It stung — bad.

So much so that Jimin didn’t notice the car driving down your street. He didn’t see its driver, either — unexpectedly in town — nearly hitting the curb upon clocking the familiar frame standing in his baby sister’s driveway.

a/n: i’m as shocked as you are that i updated this within seven days of the last part ☠️ one nap and six hours of writing later, here we fuckin’ gooooooo!

feedback in any form (reblog, reply, inbox, PM) is sincerely appreciated 💕 tysm for reading, my sweet, sweet beans!!!

[eoieopda]

jade. my soulmate. co-parent of our brain cell. the time has come—i have worked up the courage to send you a request.

i am thinking of the absolute love of my life park jimin. like estranged friends to lovers (not necessarily bad blood, just time and life caused distance between them)? fluffy like so fluffy but a hint of angst if you squint?? perhaps song inspo ‘find me here’ by hayley williams???

love u, sending this made me NERVOUS LMAO

OH, BINCH, I AM READY.

As the saying goes, two things in life are inevitable: death and taxes. As far as Park Jimin is concerned, that list is non-exhaustive, woefully incomplete. It fails to account for the one thing he knows is certain.

When he left his apartment that morning, Jimin didn’t necessarily expect to run into you. The Google calendar you once shared had been out of commission for nearly a year; and your paths hadn’t crossed in the meantime. He had no reason to know that your plans for the day included sitting riverside, sipping coffee, and watching the water. Despite that fact, it doesn’t surprise him to find you there now.

It just makes sense.

You’re daydreaming when Jimin sits down next to you. He gets so caught up in that thoughtful crease between your eyebrows that he forgets to make his presence known for more than a few minutes. You don’t even jump when he eventually decides to speak rather than stare. Finding him doesn’t seem to be a shock to you, either.

“Hey,” you sigh as if you’re relieved, and you are all smiles.

Jimin echoes your greeting in that same, soft tone, and it’s easy, like the last time he said it wasn’t twelve months ago. He’s grateful for that — for the lack of theatrics. It isn’t a dramatic reunion; there’s no gasp, no tears, no oh my gods. There’s you and him, falling into lockstep without so much as a stumble.

Glancing down at the travel mug in your hands, Jimin confirms that he knows exactly what he’s looking at. Right above your thumb, he finds the accidental dent you made in the metal when you knocked it off his kitchen counter two years earlier. The sight of it has him warm all over.

He doesn’t have to guess that it’s full of the medium roast from that café up the street, but he does have to ask: “One shot of espresso, or two?”

You grimace and Jimin knows exactly what that look means.

Eyes wide with mirth, he snorts, “Three? Shit. Don’t tell me you’re still staying up until sunrise.”

“Excuse you,” you gasp in feigned offense, swatting playfully at his bicep. Thank god some things never change. “I’ll have you know that I went to bed at midnight last night like a responsible adult!”

Jimin makes a big show of rubbing the spot where the back of your hand collided with his jacket. He relishes the way you roll your eyes at him for doing so. “Responsible is debatable, but I’ll concede that — for you — midnight is impressive.”

“I know, right?” you snicker. There’s a beat, then you blink at him expectantly. “Please clap.”

With your face lit up like that, how could he not?

“Proud of you,” He chuckles as you bow through his applause. And he means it, he really does. Sleep never came naturally to you, yet here you are, willingly going to bed before the moon does.

When it grows quiet again, that feels easy, too. It’s just as comfortable as it ever was, sitting silently next to you. Jimin realizes now just how much he’s missed this. Missed you, missed existing on the same page.

In any other circumstance, with anyone else, Jimin would feel obligated to keep the conversation going. He’d volley small talk until he was exhausted; fill every lull and refuse to let the mood hit the floor. Social interactions have always felt like endurance exercises — but not with you. Not then, and thank god, not now.

You’re looking straight ahead, shoulder leaning ever-so-slightly into his, when you eventually do speak. “Thank you.”

Now, Jimin is surprised.

“I don’t think I said it before I left, so I need to say it now,” you quietly answer before he can ask.

You turn to look at him and find that his eyes are already trained on you. It’s hard to put a finger on it, but there’s more of you now than there was the last time Jimin saw you. The glow you used to have — the one that had started to dim — was back, brighter than ever.

Happiness looks good on you, he thinks.

“I don’t think I would’ve gotten my shit together if it wasn’t for you,” You sigh. Then, you slot your fingers into the spaces between his without any hesitation at all. “I needed to — like, really needed to — but I wouldn’t have seen it if you didn’t point it out.”

Jimin squeezes the hand he didn’t want to let go of in the first place. It would’ve been selfish of him to cling to it back then, but it was a gamble not to. He threw in all his chips and hoped that you were the boomerang he thought you were; that you’d come back to him when you were ready.

You were, and are, a safe bet — one he’d take every single time — so Jimin gambles again.

He leans in slowly and you lean, too. Even though it’s the first time, the way you kiss him back feels natural.

Inevitable.

[eoieopda]

menace (pjm) — pt. iv

Pairing: Park Jimin x Kim!Reader Type: 4/6 (Mini Series) ⇢ Previous Chapter | Masterlist Rating: M (18+) Word Count: 6k Summary: Every villain has an origin story. This is yours. AUs: Older brother’s best friend; fuck buddies that hate each other CW: Reader is AFAB & queer; sort of an omniscient POV?; angst; very self-indulgent reference to Foresight (can you spot it? 👀); and — oh, hey! some of the other tannie boys are here. A/N: We love a flashback moment :') This takes place about a year prior to the first part, fyi. Major thanks to @ressjeon & @mimikookie for fireman carrying me out of a plot spiral 💕 ⚠️ 18+ only ⚠️ minors and ageless blogs will be blocked, on sight. my content is not for you. i do not want to interact with you. please respect my boundaries.

Jeon Jungkook was half-asleep with his face propped up a slack fist when you came through the front door of the book shop like a wrecking ball in a peacoat.

The chime of the bell above the door was no match for the way you sang out to him, and neither were his unsuspecting ears. He snapped to attention so suddenly that he knocked a pile of first editions clear off the counter. He didn’t even try to catch them as they hurtled towards the floor; they’d join the other casualties he’d dropped half an hour earlier. 

Namjoon could kill him for his carelessness later, if he was so inclined. Jungkook just hoped that Namjoon remembered he was helping for free — and not at all because losing a bet meant assisting his senior in preparing the soft-launch of his business. Forced altruism should result in him being cut a bit of slack, he’d decided.

“Guess what?”

The last word of your question was held like a whole note as you walked — skipped, rather — towards him. Your giddy smile was starkly contrasted by the muted, wool coat that fluttered limply as you moved. Eyeing the counter, now free of any obstacles, you hopped onto it and sat cross-legged. When Jungkook was too stunned by your sudden energy to respond, you raised your eyebrow expectantly. 

Hoseok’s head poked out from the back room. Unlike Jungkook, Hoseok was present and accounted for simply because he was a good person. He wiggled his eyebrows as he asked, “Did it finally happen?” 

Since you’d met him earlier that year, Hoseok had wholeheartedly subscribed to this new chapter of your love life. He’d gotten bored of your decidedly unremarkable ex-boyfriend from a few months back, and now eagerly awaited any updates that followed your break-up. You couldn’t blame him because you seemed to be hooked on the plot, too.

Jungkook was lost, but that was news to no one. Hoseok dropped the name of the unknown subject like a bomb, and now his ears were ringing. His eyes widened far enough that he feared they’d fall right out of his skull. 

Before you could answer Hoseok’s initial question, Jungkook interjected, “Park Jimin? You’re joking, right?”

Dumbstruck, he glanced between you and Hoseok, like blinking rapidly enough would make his brain process the information any faster. Like repeating himself will make what he said true — what Hoseok said impossible.

“This is a joke?” 

Jungkook’s expression might’ve looked firm, but his statement was far from declaratory. The unintentional, upwards inflection at the tail end of his sentence came across as judgmental as it was disbelieving. It sounded a lot like, Are you stupid?

You shrugged. Either you didn’t want to answer in earnest, or you didn’t know how to. 

And yes, Jungkook did think you were being an idiot. He wasn’t necessarily wrong for looking at you that way, nudging you back towards reality. But maybe he should’ve given you a five-minute head start before he swallowed your joy whole and shat it back out. So, he swallowed the rest of his words instead.

Hoseok emerged from the back and crossed over to you and Jungkook. Once he did, he flicked the side of the youngest’s skull with a painted — albeit chipped — fingernail. Jungkook accepted it, knowing he deserved it, and he only grunted a little bit in response.

“I’m always shocked not to hear an echo when I do that, Jungkookie.” Hoseok shot you a smirk, and then immediately stuck his tongue out at Jungkook, who was glowering at him. He pressed on, “If you utilized that brain to its full potential, you’d have learned a long time ago that the heart wants what it wants.”

Ah, there’s that hopelessly romantic enabler. It was no longer any wonder why you’d swung by the shop, which was a significant distance outside the bounds of your usual commute home from your office.

“I’m just saying —” Jungkook raised his hands defensively before swatting at Hoseok, who tugged playfully at Jungkook’s ear. 

The elder danced out of the younger's line of fire with a whoop. Jungkook rolled his eyes and swallowed the frustrated grumble building up in his throat.

“— That maybe getting involved with Seokjin-hyung’s best friend is a truly garbage-tier idea. Am I not allowed to point that out?”

You and Hoseok blinked back at him, then simultaneously, you both scoffed, “No.” 

Hoseok smiled and scratched at your shoulder in a silent show of support before returning to whatever task he’d been working on when you came in. Jungkook was left deflated where he sat. The two of you joining forces against him had popped him like a balloon. Poor baby, the voice in his head said, sounding a lot like you.

His tone softened, and his eyes crinkled into his best attempt at a smile. He caved, as usual. “Got a hot date tonight, then, noona?” 

In lieu of a verbal response, you nodded furiously, beaming. He reached up and squeezed your knee as it bounced excitedly within centimeters of his face. Then, without commenting further, he bent over to re-categorize the same novels he’d alphabetized four times already that morning. 

“You’re supposed to ask for details!” Hoseok’s voice called out from the other room. “Honestly, Jungkook-ah, you need to get better at having female friends!” 

With an arm full of books, Jungkook sank back down onto the wooden stool he’d previously occupied. Truly, he didn’t know why he expected anyone to ever let him live. 

“I’m asking for details,” He rolled his eyes and yelled over his shoulder. When he turned back around, you were trying not to giggle. “So, uh, how the hell did this come about?”

You leaned forward and landed a smack on his shoulder, which, for the record, Jungkook did not enjoy. He didn’t enjoy what he knew of Jimin’s reputation, either.

“Could you at least try to give him a chance?” You pleaded, hands clasped in front of you in prayer. “You don’t even know him, Jungkook.”

You were right. Jungkook had never actually interacted with Jimin directly, certainly didn’t have the history with him that you did, but he’d heard a lot about him. The information itself painted a bad enough picture, but it got worse when he considered his source. 

Sources, plural.

The backstory came to him through hook-ups of his that, unbeknownst to Jungkook at the outset, were rebounding off of Jimin’s rejection. Park was patient zero, Jungkook’s study had concluded, and for reasons still unknown to the younger man, Jimin left everyone in worse shape than he found them.

Don’t get him wrong, though. The unhealed part of Jungkook was at least a little grateful for the influx of needy, emotionally unavailable girls in his orbit. He was fine batting clean-up, so long as no one stuck around to call him oppa the next day.

The rest of him — the evolved part —  was wary, especially when it came to you. Jungkook was a few months’ younger than you and nowhere near the helicopter sibling that your actual brother was, but he still felt protective of you. Still feared what damage Jimin could do, intentionally or otherwise; and the way your brother would make it worse.

Jungkook pulled a face that said he wasn’t likely to buy whatever you attempted to sell him. Still, he did what good dongsaengs are supposed to do: kept his fucking mouth shut and listened. 

That clearly wasn’t your specialty, but hey, at least you were endearing.

“He’s sweet, Jungkookie,” you defended. “Honestly, I think my parents like him more than me and Seokjin combined.”

For a second, you smiled sheepishly. Then, you quieted for even longer. When you picked up again, your brows furrowed; and Jungkook could tell by the tone of your voice how deeply you had to dig to say any of the things you were. 

They came out heavy, dropped with a thud between you like all the obscure, antique shit he’d knocked over so far that day.

“I’ve always felt like a shadow around Seokjin, you know? Everyone looks right past me; they always have. Teachers did, friends did, our parents still do.” You looked down at the fingers that fidgeted in your lap. “Jimin’s never been like that. When he’s around, I know I’m not just cellophane.”

Jungkook was well-accustomed to the way you romanticized people, like they were figures of your life’s mythology and not simply assholes off the street. That was one of the things he admired most about you, and hoped to be a little better at himself. It’s also why he continued to bite his tongue when you said:

“I have a really good feeling about this one, Jungkook.”

There was no point in arguing with you when you looked like that, all starry-eyed and hopeful. So, Jungkook demurred, “At least tell me he’s taking you somewhere nice. If you say you’re going to that dumpster bar —”

Hoseok unhelpfully interjected, “Oh, Yang Daehyun’s place? I think that’s where Yoongi-hyung met —”

“I will barf right on this counter,” Jungkook finished, punctuating his warning by rapping his knuckles against the wood below.

Jimin was pacing. 

He stopped knowing what to do with his hands a few hundred steps ago, so he gave up and shoved them into the back pockets of his jeans. As he circled, he shot Taehyung a panicked look that went nowhere fast. Whatever Webtoon he was reading was, apparently, far more important than his friend’s mental health and well-being.

Even without a captive audience, Jimin couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been on a thousand dates —” 

Taehyung interjected with a roll of his eyes, “That’s an egregious mischaracterization.” 

Jimin pulled one hand out of his pocket and held it up, silently begging his friend to save the slut-shaming for later. Though the tone of his voice indicated that he was getting there, Taehyung still wasn’t annoyed enough to pull his eyes off the screen of his phone. He missed Jimin’s plea entirely, stayed unbothered.

Still pacing, Jimin rambled, “And I’ve never gotten nervous. I’ve had to make speeches at massive conferences —”

For the first time, Taehyung glanced up over the top of his phone. A shit-eating grin tugged at his mouth. With a flexed eyebrow, his words nudged Jimin right in the ribs. “Remind me again how wearing a suit and getting day-drunk in a hotel ballroom is a conference?” 

Jimin’s raised hand folded so that his middle finger was on full display. He didn’t stop his movements, though, insistent on soliloquizing despite the interruption: “— and none of that shit has ever bothered me, but now my fucking palms are sweating, and I don’t know how to —”

With a put-upon sigh, Taehyung poured himself from the couch to his feet and stood directly in Jimin’s well-worn path. Assuming his typecast role as obstacle, he gripped Jimin’s shoulders and — without any resistance, whatsoever — backed his friend towards the couch. 

“You’re giving me anxiety,” He scolded, earning a disgruntled sigh from Jimin as he forced him to sit. “You wanted my attention; now, you have it. Just — give the pedometer a fucking rest, and listen, alright?”

It was microscopic, but Jimin’s nod in response was enough of a green light for Taehyung. The former knew the latter was no good at pep talks, and yet, there they both were. Taehyung had to wonder if it was too early for a stiff drink.

“Mechanically, it’s simple. You’ve done the hard part in asking this girl out,” Taehyung conceded calmly. Then, he cracked wide open; he couldn’t help it. He snorted, “Which — I’m sorry —  is still wild to me. I didn’t even know you knew how to do that, for real. Did you get body-snatched or something? Who the fuck are you?”

He almost dodged the hand that flew out to smack him.

“Jesus — okay! Don’t blame me for leaving Monogamous Jimin off my bingo card.” Taehyung threw his hands up, signaling a ceasefire. “Just go, buy her dinner, and make googly eyes at her. This is not a crisis.” 

This gave Jimin pause. His brows furrowed as he chewed his cheek, working to digest Taehyung’s words. With an uncharacteristically small voice, he eventually asked, “What if she doesn’t like the food?”

This was the straw that broke Taehyung’s back. He had to pause for a moment, talk himself out of walking out that fucking door and never coming back. Sure, it was his apartment, but that was irrelevant. If Jimin was intent on being this much of a baby, he could keep it.

“Would this girl have suggested the restaurant if she didn’t?” Taheyung challenged. 

He crossed his arms indignantly, waiting on an answer he knew — on some level —  he’d never get. Jimin shrunk more with every second that passed in silence.

“Would she have agreed to go anywhere with you if she didn’t want to?” Then, with a smirk, Taehyung amended, “Well, maybe she wouldn’t have if she knew you were going to spiral like this.” 

“I’m not spiraling,” Jimin countered meekly. Then, he thought better of it. There was no other way to describe it, and he knew it, as much as he hated it whenever Taehyung proved himself right. “Okay, fine. I’m mildly unzipped, but I walked into a minefield on purpose, so… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything, but his eyebrow raised quizzically. 

It was, frankly, impossible to try and keep up with Jimin’s calendar of dick appointments. While Jimin didn’t make it a point to kiss and tell, he didn’t keep secrets, either — not from Taehyung, at least. He normally folded like laundry when pressed. 

This time, for whatever reason, he’d kept his mouth shut. It was the most tight-lipped Taehyung had ever seen him be, and that hint was the closest thing to a reveal he’d gotten so far. Which, for the record, was a terrible sign.

A sign of the apocalypse, as far as Taehyung could guess.

Jimin whined and slapped his hands over his face. As he dragged them upwards, he pushed his hair back, paused with his fingers still tangled in his strands. His elbows dug into his thighs while he stared absently at the rug, as if he was waiting for it to swallow him whole.

Oh, so, this is bad bad, huh?

“This is not a thing I want to fuck up. I can’t fuck this up,” he admitted, more to himself than Taehyung. Another beat. “And I know I’m going to. Honestly, I think I already have.”

Jimin looked so beaten down that Taehyung could feel it in his own bones. Lead-laced quiet settled on his shoulders, forced him to drop onto the cushion next to Jimin, whose unblinking stare still stuck to the floor. 

And they stayed that way, neither one of them moving, until Jimin dragged his hands back down from his hair. Rubbing harshly at his face, he did the best he could to physically scrub that nagging, needling feeling off his skin. 

“Is there any good way to tell Seokjin that I asked out his sister?”

Oh, fuck.

Taehyung swallowed hard. “Doubt it. Maybe pick out a burial plot first?”

You’d tried on four different versions of the same outfit and wondered how you’d acquired so many fucking turtlenecks. 

After too much time deliberating, you opted for outfit number five — one of four (4) black sweaters hanging in your closet — and tucked the hem into your high-waisted skirt. As you snaked a belt around your waist, you assessed yourself in the mirror, frowning at your hair. 

Of the two hours you’d spent getting ready, half that time was spent toiling over the state of it. Over and over, you asked yourself: down and limp, or up and messy? Neither option was good enough, but the face of your watch whispered that you were running out of time.

In fact, it screamed that you should’ve taken the time to wash your hair earlier, instead of relying on half a can of dry shampoo to carry you through yet another day.

You heaved a sigh and stepped even closer to the mirror to check for any lingering imperfections. The pimple on your chin was, thankfully, invisible under the layers of concealer you’d applied. The tinted lip balm had stayed where it was supposed to, too, which was a miracle, given the number of nervous sips you’d taken from your nearby wine glass.

Unfortunately, your hair was doing a lot of things, and none of them were good. 

You grimaced.

If this was as good as it was going to get, why couldn’t it be just a little bit better?

You glanced down at your watch again and saw that it was 6:45 PM. 

Shit. 

During your sprint to your front door, you made sure to thank yourself for telling Jimin you’d meet him at the restaurant; one of few responsible choices you’d deigned to make lately. If you’d agreed to be picked up as he originally offered, he’d have been sitting in his car outside, dying of boredom and regret, while you turned your closet inside out. 

Black tights caused you to slide across the hardwood when you neared your front entrance. By sheer force of will alone, you stayed standing, every muscle in your body tensing. Huffing out a relieved breath, you wasted no time in choosing between near-identical pairs of Chelsea boots — seriously, why are you like this? — before shoving your feet into them and grabbing your coat from the hook near the door. 

With force, you snaked your arms into the holes, jerked the front door open, and stepped face-first into a cold so cruel, it bit your cheeks without mercy.

“Motherfucker,” you hissed, hands already frigid and aching as you struggled to lock the door behind you. 

Winters in the city were mild, more often than not; but this cold snap was making you snap, and part of you regretted agreeing to leave the house in the first place. Was anybody worth braving this frozen hellscape?

Don’t do that, you admonished yourself. Don’t act like you don’t want this.

The tears forming in your wind-whipped eyes would soon be the least of your worries, thanks to the boot heel that failed to find purchase on the slick surface of your driveway. Instead of your stinging cheeks, it was your tailbone that demanded immediate attention, having taken the full impact of your fall.

You yelped, more so out of surprise than pain, “Motherfucker.” 

Colder than before and with a wet spot soaking through the fabric of your skirt, you rubbed gingerly at your aching ass and scrambled to your feet.

It certainly didn’t help, but it didn’t hurt, either: You growled at the ground, “Get absolutely fucking fucked,” as if it might animate and apologize to you.

The scowl didn’t leave your face as you penguin-walked carefully to your car, ripped the driver’s side door open, and dumped yourself unceremoniously behind the wheel. The weight of your body against the seat only meant that the chilly dampness of your outfit intensified. Worse, you had the sneaking suspicion that your clumsiness had caused the back of your tights to run.

Caving to self-indulgence, you threw your head back against the seat and permitted yourself one (1) petulant, childish whine before re-committing to acting your age.

“Motherfucker!”

The drive wasn’t as treacherous as your walk to the car had been, though the city’s recent rainy spell left enough ice in its wake to keep those far smarter than you off the roads. To your surprise, the streets were clear once you made it downtown, with very few people meandering the sidewalks. It all felt ominous, parking in a ghost town, but you ignored that apprehension long enough to score a metered spot directly outside the restaurant. 

Maybe the universe is making it up to me, you thought as you slipped out of your seatbelt, out the door, and off the street. Maybe good things do happen to mediocre people.

Stepping inside the restaurant, the warmth enveloped you so sweetly, you nearly moaned. The fireplace crackling off to the side was meant to create ambiance, but it nudged the primal part of your brain that yearned to curl up in front of it. Shaking your head to clear those feral thoughts, your narrowed eyes scanned the room for any sign of Jimin.

It didn’t strike you as odd when you didn’t spot him. Jimin was a lot of things, but punctual had never — ever — been one of them. You couldn’t have reasonably expected to find him, anyways, not at your usual, early arrival.

After being informed of your party of two, the host led you to a small bistro table in the far corner. They bowed before leaving you to your own devices, giving you the space to fuss blindly with your appearance before Jimin would eventually walk in. No matter how many times you smoothed your fingers over your flyaways, you still felt their abject refusal to play along.

He’s seen you with braces, you reminded yourself. He was there for your tragic, dresses-over-jeans phase in the mid-aughts. He knows what your yearbook photos looked like, and he still wants to take you out.

You turned ever so slightly toward the door and crossed one leg over the other. Then, you placed one elbow on the white tablecloth, rested that hand delicately in the space below your jaw. It was your best approximation of desirable nonchalance, and you were sure you either looked ridiculous or extremely chic. Internally, you crossed your fingers and prayed it was the latter.

Jimin made plans with one Kim and wound up burdened by the other.

Under normal circumstances, it wasn’t a problem when Seokjin showed up on Jimin’s doorstep without warning, or let himself inside. It wasn’t uncommon for Jimin to come home from somewhere and find Seokjin already there, sitting on his couch and shouting at the television. Jimin’s life had always looked like that, for as long as he could remember. Like being an only child didn’t mean he lacked a brother.

That thought made nausea swirl in his stomach as he glanced between his watch, his couch, and the person lounging on it.

For once, Jimin was committed to being where he needed to at the time he was supposed to. A part of that promise was based on the fact that he was too eager to wait; but the majority of his dedication ran deeper than that. He was dead-set on proving to you that he could honor plans — that, when it came to you, he was a person that would show up.

And then your brother’s car blocked him in his driveway and kept him from leaving an hour early, like he’d told himself he would. Just in case.

Trapped, Jimin told himself he still had time. He could still beat you to the restaurant, still be there to pull out your chair the way your father always did for your mother.

Jimin knew that, outwardly, you always rolled your eyes at gestures like that — what’s the implication, that I can’t do it myself? — but he registered the way fondness twitched at the corner of your mouth. He caught all of those micro-expressions, studied them quietly from the other side of your family’s dining room table for — shit, two decades?

You never caught him staring, though, not once.

He suspected that you’d gotten used to being overlooked. Maybe, he figured, you stopped bothering to check if anyone glanced your way in the rare moments where you piped up. Jimin stayed quiet, for the most part, because the older boy sitting next to him picked up the slack your parents had dropped when they dropped you. 

Seokjin saw everything, was everything — to everyone. Jimin owed him more than anyone else for the way he dragged Jimin through school by the scruff of his neck. Seokjin’s nagging forced Jimin to buckle down and graduate, and once he did, Seokjin kept pushing. He hooked Jimin up with a job at his consulting firm, kept his toes in line long enough for Jimin to grow the fuck up.

Shit. 

Would he have gotten anywhere in life without your brother?

Your brother spoke for the first time in a minute, and the sudden addition of his voice made Jimin stop fidgeting with his fingers in his lap.

“You look nice,” Seokjin said, having finally, actually perceived his friend on the other side of the living room.

He sounded surprised to find Jimin there — or maybe, he was just surprised to see him dressed up for once. Suspicion caused his eyes to narrow, but it was peak shithead behavior that made him smirk. “Big plans tonight, Jiminie?”

Jimin was this close to throwing up all over his lap. He clamped his jaw shut, offering a nod instead of a verbal response.

He needed to spit it out. He needed to rip the bandage off and deal with the situation on the front end because he knew how fucked it would be to try to fix it in the aftermath. If he could float the idea now — ease Seokin into it, give him fair warning — then they’d likely be fine, right?

Jimin picked at his cuticles. He was unable to stop himself, even when he remembered you — years ago, after elbowing him in the ribs — telling him it was a bad habit. His heart did a stupid little somersault at the memory, though his anxiety squeezed his lungs with a lot more force. He swallowed, throat gravelly.

“Yeah, actually.”

It surprised him when the words slipped out, so much so that he blinked in stunned silence for a beat.

Seokjin capitalized on the quiet without knowing what he’d derailed. He scoffed, “I hope they’re not with Chan’s sister. From what I heard, you’re lucky he didn’t make you swallow your teeth.”

Oh.

“What exactly did you hear?” 

Jimin did his best to keep the anger out of his tone, but he wasn’t confident that he succeeded. What he was, was sick of that goddamn narrative. It spilled over each sphere of his life, and the stain it left was ugly, even if it wasn’t deserved. Still, he maintained that a person doesn’t need to be a saint to be a decent human being. 

Didn’t that count for anything?

Every single person he’d ever fucked around with was a placeholder; and every single one of them was told, right out of the gate, that nothing was coming out of whatever it was they did together. He made his position clear from the beginning — every time — and he didn’t let a single person get closer to him until they confirmed that they had no expectations. 

Didn’t grab drinks, didn’t share meals, didn’t spare a touch unless they knew what they were signing up for: A dead-end, ultimately, but a nice trip.

They all said they understood, but they never actually did. Hurt their own feelings by exaggerating their place in his life, cried and talked shit about him when he tried to remind them where they stood. He wasn’t responsible for their reaction; he was transparent. Cellophane. 

Reality notwithstanding, everyone looked at Jimin like he was intentionally leaving a trail of casualties behind him. And, really, what was he supposed to do about it, if he’d only ever been honest? 

If he didn’t find somewhere to be — someone to be with — his twenties would look just like his teens: him, holed up in his room alone; him, with his fingers itching to call you up; him, chickening out the second he felt brave enough to pick up the phone.

He reached the big age of twenty-seven before he stopped running away from you.

Seokjin said it lightly and with a smirk, but it hit Jimin square in the chest. “I heard that you’re a menace.”

This wasn’t the first time you’d shown up unannounced on Jungkook’s doorstep. In fact, you’d done it so many times, you’d both lost count. 

When he answered the door all those times before, you never looked like you did now — like you’d spent half an hour crying in your car but were pretending you hadn’t. He immediately clocked the way your mascara had clumped ever so slightly on your bottom lashes, but he followed your lead and pretended he hadn’t. Instead, he ushered you inside while the corners of his lips pulled down into a frown.

You expected to find Hoseok on his couch, and you were faintly disappointed when his usual spot was empty. 

Oh, you remembered, it’s only 8:00.

Every Friday night was movie night for the three of you, but it never started until Hoseok’s studio hours ended at 9:30. Part of you was relieved to have beaten him here, though you felt guilty about it. He may have been more excited about your budding relationship with Jimin than you were, and you knew you couldn’t handle the disappointed look he’d try and fail to hide.

You could, however, handle whatever “I told you so” Jungkook was likely to hit you with.

You let Jungkook guide you into the corner of the sectional that you normally occupied on nights like this. Well, on the nights you didn’t have plans — or, more specifically, the ones where your plans actually came to fruition. 

Slumping dejectedly into the plush cushions, you tugged at the throw blanket that was draped over the back of the couch. The heavy fabric hit your lap with a muffled thump, but within seconds, it was draped over the back half of your head and both your shoulders.

Jungkook blinked at you as if he was trying not to laugh. “You — uh,” He missed his objective by a mile and snorted slightly, “You look like a little wizard with the —” He gestured over at you, and when he couldn’t recall the final word of his joke, he began snapping his fingers. “The — umm —”

“Cloak,” You mumbled with a sniff.

He snapped his fingers one last time, then brandished a single finger-gun at you. “That’s the one.” 

You wanted to give him the laugh he’d earned, but you felt too crushed to be light-hearted. The amused twinkle in his eyes disappeared, and instead, they creased with concern. His voice was gentle, careful.

“Didn’t go as well as you hoped, huh?”

“It didn’t go at all,” You wiped roughly at your cheek with the back of your blanket-coated hand, but it was no use. You’d been caught red-eyed and red-handed.

“He didn’t show. I waited an hour, but then the host said he needed the table. All those people watched me wait there, alone — only to get up, alone — because people with actual dates had to sit down. Don’t think I’ve ever been so fucking humiliated in my life.”

Jungkook’s jaw was clenched so tightly, you could see the emerging vein twinge in his neck. He was wracking his brain for something soft to say to you, you knew, but all he could come up with was:

“Give me his address. He and I need to have a chat.”

You sniffled again and shook your head; he pressed further. “Seriously, I’m going to knock him on his ass. What the fuck is wrong with this kid?”

“Jungkook,” you started, though he cut you off before you could finish.

“Don’t Jungkook me. That’s bullshit, and you didn’t deserve it.” He snapped. When your eyes widened at his terseness, he gave your knee an affectionate squeeze and sighed, “I’m sorry. I just —” 

The more he mulled it over, the angrier he got. His tone switched mid-sentence. 

“— He didn’t even call?”

You shook your head before dropping it to rest against Jungkook’s shoulder. Quietly, you admitted, “Left me on read when I started asking what was happening. Screened my calls, too, I think.”

Thankfully, you were only aware of how pathetic you sounded; you didn’t have to see how pathetic you looked. You could see Jungkook, though, out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t spend much time around Seokjin, but the identical way anger made their eyes go dark was uncanny.

“I’m choosing violence, I swear to God,” he said through gritted teeth. 

You offered, “The unhealed part of me left a pretty cruel voicemail, if that does anything for you.”

His eyes flicked over to the corner, where he’d dumped his gear after his recreational team’s hockey game earlier that week. He joined in the first place to let off steam, he’d told you, but it clearly wasn’t enough. His anger rolled off of him in waves, warmed you next to him from the outside in.

You rolled your eyes half-heartedly. “Violence isn’t the answer, Jungkook. What do you want me to do, take that stick and beat him with it until he apologizes?”

He didn’t answer, and that didn’t sit well with you. You were about to call him out on his alarming behavior, but he shook off whatever took hold of him, and looked back at you. Noting the way his jaw still clenched, you nudged him with your elbow until his posture relaxed; and he rested his cheek on the top of your head. 

The two of you sat like that, silently, for several minutes before his grand plan came to him so suddenly that he jolted. The unexpected movement caused your heart to skip, caused his hand squeeze yours excitedly. 

“You know what’ll hurt more than a hockey stick?”

You scoffed, confident that you’d guessed where his train of thought had sped off to, “Chaining him to the back of your motorcycle and driving off into the sunset?”

For a brief second, you saw Jungkook’s eyes light up. To your surprise, he didn’t stop to consider your absurd proposal, instead flying right past it.

“The only thing I can think of that hurts more than being stood up, is getting strung along.”

His explanation came at a frantic pace, but you visibly struggled to keep up with his genius. He patted the back of your hand eagerly, as if to say, check this shit out. 

“How many times have you complained to me that the dudes you fuck don’t give a shit about you? That everything’s always about sex, and it makes you feel like garbage?”

Jesus Christ.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “When you said you were choosing violence, I didn’t think you meant me.”

Jungkook breezed past you with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Revenge is best served cold, right? So, be cold.”

You looked pointedly at him, sharp enough to stab him, but he beat you to the punch: “I know, it’s straight from Jeon Jungkook’s asshole playbook. I know. It’s an objectively, unquestionably horrible thing to do to someone, but nothing gets someone’s attention like ignoring them completely.”

Clearly, he wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted from you. He shifted away from your side to sit up on his knees, facing you. From there, he gestured wildly with his hands, as if additional emphasis was what you needed to buy in. 

“You can get his attention, have him trailing after you like a stray dog, and then you can slam the door in his face.” Jungkook wiggled his eyebrows, beyond pleased with himself. “Ouch.”

You chewed thoughtfully on your bottom lip as you processed Jungkook’s master plan. It was diabolical and, more importantly, the complete antithesis of how you’d decided to move through the world. 

Your heart was always pinned to the cuff of your sleeve because you chose to put it there, to let people in, let them see you. For as long as you’d known Jimin, you wanted to let him in. Wrote it in your fucking diary as a kid, praying that neon, gel ink could manifest it. Wasted wishes on it every year when you blew out your birthday candles, while he was off in the next room with Seokjin. Hoped that, eventually — someday —  he’d see you looking up at him.

And then it happened.

Everything you wanted fell right where you could reach it. Your casual texts back and forth turned into late night phone calls. In turn, those turned to video chats, into plans. Then, he asked you to dinner, and you gushed to all your friends that he was nothing like what they’d heard about him.

How fucking stupid you must have sounded.

The anger churned in your stomach like acid, and it threatened to burn a hole right through you. 

Jungkook was right. 

You’d always been committed to being whole-hearted, and it was exhausting to keep gluing yourself back together every time you broke. So, if someone was going to fall to pieces this time, it wasn’t going to be you.

“You have to be careful, though. If you get in too deep, you’ll just end up hurting yourself.”

Jungkook’s voice crashed through the maelstrom in your mind, startling you.

He continued his warning, “You cannot catch feelings while executing this kind of operation — trust me.”

“And how do I go about avoiding that?” You asked.

“You have to have rules.”

likes are always appreciated, but it's feedback that means the most — whether that's in a comment below, PM, reblog, tags, etc. tysm for reading ✨

tagging: @borahae-k @i-purple-buff-bunni @pamzn @myimaginationsrunningwild @nonbinary-demonbrat @jihopesjoint @cyanide-mustard @xjoonchildx @bbyorchid @persphonesorchid @quarter-life-crisis2 @zelchena @withluvjm @firesighgirl @whatthefsposts @iadelicacy @chimmisbae @cowboylikeyoongi @sailoryooons @axialitae @ugh-yoongi @minholykingofkorea @kookstempo @gimmethatagustd @Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhintothevoid @mgthecat

want to be on my permanent bts taglist? sign up here.