bngtanah

There's a lot going on here eventually i will be completely caught up. i have a lot to reupload! Proud Member of: ⇢☆houseofddaeng

[bngtanah]

✩°｡⋆Bittersweet Yuletide ⋆｡°✩

The Honeybear Series, Part One summary: you and carmy grow up on opposite sides of a broken fence, spend most of your lives becoming inseparable, and waste nearly two decades pretending friendship is enough. then, one christmas, he finally lets himself choose you. without telling you he has already chosen to leave. (14k) characters: carmy berzatto / black!fem!reader, michael “mikey” berzatto, natalie “sugar” berzatto, donna berzatto, richie jerimovich, pete contents: childhood friends to lovers, neighbors to best friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, pre-canon / canon divergent, the berzattos adopting you before anybody can stop them, carmy is autistc pls, emotionally constipated carmy, christmas at the berzattos’, hurt/comfort, family dysfunction, anxiety, fear of abandonment, miscommunication with actual consequences, yearning severe enough to qualify as a medical condition, explicit smut 18+ (first time together, oral sex, protected sex, touch-starved carmy, tenderness and laughter during sex), and then, because he is still carmen berzatto, angst immediately after the good part, can you believe I've been working on this since fishes/forks???

Your connection to Carmen Berzatto never had a clean beginning.

People liked beginnings: a date, a first conversation, a moment you could point to and say, there, that's where it happened. You never had one. It grew instead the way ivy grows: slow, sideways, patient, finding every crack in a foundation before anyone thought to check for damage.

Maybe it started with the moving truck that backed into the driveway next door when you were seven, its ramp cracking against the pavement loud enough to rattle your bedroom window. Or maybe it was the loose board in your father's fence, the one he kept meaning to fix until everyone quietly stopped expecting him to — until it stopped being broken and became a doorway instead. By the end of that first summer, children crossed through it often enough that neither family bothered asking whose yard they were standing in.

However it happened, one afternoon became another, and then another after that, until your life and the Berzattos' had grown around each other the way roots do underground; out of sight, impossible to separate without tearing something.

Your parents were careful people. Everything in your house had a place. Shoes came off at the door. Music stayed low. Arguments, on the rare occasion they happened, stayed private. Your mother folded fitted sheets so neatly they looked store-bought, and your father mowed the lawn every Saturday whether it needed it or not. Being one of the only Black families on a block that ran mostly white and close-knit bought your household a certain careful, watchful respect — the Berzattos, for their part, never learned how to do boundaries with anyone, careful or not.

Next door was another country entirely. The Berzatto house breathed with its mouth open. Doors slammed. Pans clanged. Donna laughed loud enough for three houses to hear before bursting into tears over something nobody else had noticed. Mikey shouted from room to room instead of walking the ten feet it would have taken. Richie seemed to materialize wherever someone was already yelling. Natalie spent half her childhood trying to keep plates from breaking and the other half pretending she wasn't.

And Carmen was quiet. Not shy, exactly,  he simply existed at a different volume than the rest of them. While Mikey was the sun everyone orbited, Carmy lingered at the edges of things, watching. You noticed him because he noticed things: the sparrow trapped in your mother's tomato netting before anyone else spotted it, the smell of your father's brisket smoking six hours before dinner, the exact moment you stopped pretending to read your book and started watching him practice kickflips in the driveway. He never waved. You never called out. Somehow that counted as conversation.

You were the sort of child who repaired things no one else thought worth saving. You kept a cigar box full of broken jewelry because the clasps still worked. Pressed maple leaves between encyclopedia pages until they dried flat enough to frame. Carefully glued porcelain figurines your grandmother swore were too chipped to bother with. When adults asked why, you never had an answer beyond I don't like throwing things away. Years later, someone would give that instinct a name;  conservation, archival repair, a graduate degree, white cotton gloves, humidity-controlled storage; but at seven it simply meant your bedroom was full of objects waiting for another chance. You suspected people deserved the same courtesy. Especially the strange, quiet boy next door.

The first thing Carmy ever gave you wasn't a toy. It was information. He knocked on your back door one August morning, hands shoved deep in the pockets of an oversized sweatshirt despite the heat, and when your mother answered, he stared determinedly at the welcome mat. "There's a cat," he said, and paused, like the sentence cost him something. "A three-legged one." Another pause. "Behind your garage." Then he walked away before she could ask a single follow-up question. You found the cat asleep beneath your father's workbench fifteen minutes later. Your parents took it to a veterinarian. It lived another nine years, and you never forgot who'd found him.

That became the shape of your friendship, plain sentences traded like currency. There are mushrooms growing behind the shed. You left your library book outside. Mikey’s making ribs. "Good. Can I come over?" you'd ask, and he'd just nod, and that was enough. You learned, early, that with Carm an invitation rarely needed more than a single word to carry it.

Mikey, for his part, decided almost immediately that you were his kid now.

He was old enough to hover somewhere between older brother and neighborhood menace, forever appearing exactly where he wasn't supposed to be. He taught you how to skip rocks badly, insisted every decent hot dog needed sport peppers whether you liked them or not, and once convinced both you and Carm that the abandoned lot three blocks over was haunted simply because he thought your horrified faces were funny.

One humid July evening he found you and Carm sitting on the flat stretch of the Berzattos' garage roof, splitting a paper bag of potato chips while watching fireflies drift over the alley.

"You two trying to give me a heart attack?" he called up.

Carm didn't even look over the edge. "No."

"Looks dangerous."

"It's not."

Mikey stood with his hands on his hips for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, before disappearing back into the house. He returned five minutes later carrying three bottles of root beer and ordering the two of you to scoot over, and the three of you watched the sun sink behind the garages without saying much of anything, until Donna leaned out the back door and shouted for all three of you with increasing volume, and Mikey sighed theatrically and climbed down first.

Years later, when people asked why you were always at the Berzatto house, nobody could quite remember a time when you hadn't been.

Years passed without either of you asking permission for any of it. You learned how Donna liked her coffee on the mornings she was able to drink it. You learned to braid Natalie's hair before school because she could never manage the back herself, your fingers working deftly through hair so different in texture from your own that it had taken you all of one summer to learn the trick of it. You learned to step over Richie when he'd fallen asleep on the living room carpet after one too many beers with Uncle Jimmy. Somewhere along the way, Donna started calling you one of hers. Your parents stopped correcting her.

It was Mikey who named you, though he would always insist the answer had been obvious. Your mother called “Honey” across the yard one afternoon while Mikey chased Carmy with a garden hose. Carmy had been Bear for years by then, the family nickname following him from room to room whether he answered to it or not. Mikey looked from you to him—Honey and Bear, together as usual—and laughed as though he had discovered something everyone else had missed.

“Honeybear.”

Carmy stopped running long enough to groan. You told Mikey you hated it. He used it again at dinner, then the next morning through the gap in the fence, and within a week everyone in the Berzatto house had adopted it. The name stuck because it had never described only you. It named the two of you as Mikey had always seen you: arriving together, leaving together, one rarely far behind the other.

Somewhere over the years, the rules everyone else seemed to carry around each other quietly dissolved between the two of you. You bumped shoulders to get his attention instead of saying his name. He caught your backpack before it slid off your shoulder, adjusted the hood of your coat when Chicago wind blew it crooked, or nudged your elbow away from a closing gate without interrupting whatever either of you had been talking about. If flour dust clung to his sleeves after a bakery shift, you'd brush it away absentmindedly while he kept explaining whatever recipe had gone wrong that day.

Neither of you thought much about it. Physical closeness had become another language you shared, no stranger than sitting in comfortable silence or passing books back and forth over the fence. It belonged to years rather than intention.

The next morning he appeared at your back door before breakfast holding the skateboard up like evidence. "I fixed it," he announced. Two ugly metal plates had been bolted across the crack. It looked terrible. It would never ride the same again. You grinned anyway. "It'll work," you told him, and he looked strangely pleased that you'd said that instead of anything about how it looked. Years later, standing over four-hundred-year-old manuscripts repaired with Japanese tissue so fine the seams disappeared under magnification, you'd remember that board and understand something you hadn't had words for yet: not every repair had to be invisible. Sometimes surviving was enough.

Long before he started buying you Christmas presents, Carm brought you things. Never with any ceremony. He'd appear beside you on the back steps, place something in your lap, then continue whatever conversation you'd already been having.

The first strawberry that ripened in Donna's garden. A smooth skipping stone shaped like Saturn. A newspaper clipping about an exhibit at the Art Institute. Burnt croissants from the bakery because he knew you'd eat the mistakes before anyone else could throw them away. Once, he handed you a bent teaspoon he'd rescued from work because the handle had been twisted into an elegant spiral by accident.

"Thought you'd like it," he said. You did.

It took years to understand those objects were their own kind of sentence. I saw this. It made me think of you.

By high school, people had started assuming the two of you were dating, mostly because neither of you ever seemed to be anywhere without the other. You studied in your backyard; he sketched. You read; sometimes neither of you spoke for an hour at a stretch, and your mother would slide the screen door open just long enough to ask if either of you wanted lemonade. You both always did.

Once, during sophomore year, a girl from your chemistry class leaned across her lab bench and asked, with the particular bluntness of a fifteen-year-old, whether the two of you were a thing. You followed her gaze across the cafeteria to where Carm sat at his usual table, laughing, or trying to, laughter always looked a little surprised on him. Like he hadn't planned for it.

"No," you told her.

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure."

She just shrugged. "He looks at you." "Everybody looks at everybody," you said. "Not like that," she said, and smiled like she knew something you didn't. You spent the rest of the afternoon trying very hard not to notice. You failed.

The almosts started around seventeen, so small you could have mistaken any one of them for an accident; his knee pressing against yours beneath the bleachers during a rainstorm, his fingers lingering half a second too long when he handed you a coffee, the two of you standing closer than you needed to while looking at Christmas lights because the sidewalk was crowded and neither of you moved to fix it.

There was a rooftop graduation party where everyone else eventually drifted downstairs for more drinks, leaving the two of you alone under a sky the color of old denim.

"You ever think about leaving?" he asked.

"Sometimes."

"Where would you go?"

"London. The British Museum." You bumped his shoulder with yours. "What about you?"

He looked out over the neighborhood — the roofs, the streetlights, the fence between your houses that hadn't mattered in years — and said, so quietly you almost missed it, "Anywhere."

He turned toward you. You turned toward him. There was wine on his breath and the city humming somewhere below, and his eyes dropped to your mouth in a way that made your heartbeat stumble over itself.

"Honey—" he started.

"Carmy!" Mikey's voice came exploding up the fire escape before he could finish. "You seen Richie's dumb ass?"

Carm shut his mouth, jaw working for a second before he managed, "No."

"Well if you do, tell him he's an asshole!"

"Will do."

The rooftop door slammed shut again. Neither of you moved for a long moment. Then you smiled. "So." "So." "You were saying?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Forgot." 

He hadn't. Neither had you.

By the time you were twenty, nobody knocked anymore. Your father replaced the loose fence board twice; twice, somebody took it back out. The second time, he stood at the kitchen window looking through the neat gap between the yards and sighed, "I'm outnumbered."

Your mother didn't even glance up from her crossword. "You have been for years." The fence stayed exactly as it was after that.

You earned your degree one careful requirement at a time — paper chemistry, bookbinding, pigments, humidity, insects, the strange comfort of bending for hours over something centuries old, repairing damage one fiber at a time. Whenever anyone asked what conservation actually meant, you learned to smile through the same three corrections: no, you didn't write the books; no, you didn't appraise them; no, you couldn't tell them if their grandmother's Bible was worth anything. People usually looked disappointed. Carm never did. He wanted to know everything.

By then, your life had begun to extend beyond the two neighboring houses. You moved into an apartment with bad water pressure and good afternoon light, filled it with books, half-finished repair projects and furniture your parents politely called eclectic. You had colleagues who knew you as the woman who could spend six hours matching a missing line of gilding and still remember everyone’s coffee order, friends Carmy had met only in passing, invitations and deadlines and ordinary adult habits that did not include him at the center. None of it loosened the old bond. It only meant that when you crossed back through the gap in the fence, you were returning by choice rather than because you had nowhere else to go.

You were sitting on the hood of his car outside a twenty-four-hour diner once a few beers deep, sharing a basket of fries because neither of you had much money that month, when he finally asked.

"So. Wait." He turned the thought over like he wasn't sure it was worth saying out loud. "You repair paper."

"Among other things."

"But how?"

You stole one of his fries instead of answering right away. "Very carefully."

"No, seriously."

"I am serious."

He leaned back against the windshield, genuinely stuck. "I don't get it."

"No kidding," you laughed.

He pointed at the crumpled receipt sitting between you on the hood. "Show me."

You picked it up, held it toward the streetlight. "It's wood pulp. The fibers are damaged, here — see?" and tore the receipt clean in half.

"What the hell?"

"Trust me."

From your bag you pulled a tiny envelope of Japanese tissue, a small brush, a little jar of wheat starch paste. He watched, arms crossed, deeply skeptical, as you worked in the orange wash of the streetlight. Patient, unhurried, the way you did everything that mattered. Five minutes later you handed the receipt back. He turned it over. Held it up to the light. Ran his thumb across the seam.

"...Shit."

"Mm."

"It doesn't even—" He looked again, closer. "How?"

"Practice," you said, and shrugged like it was nothing, though it had taken you two years of graduate coursework to make it look that easy.

He stared at the repair another full minute before folding the receipt with almost ridiculous care and tucking it into his wallet.

"You keeping that?" you asked.

"You fixed it."

"So?"

"So."

His gifts changed by then. The burnt croissants became proper ones once he started working real shifts at the bakery. He stopped bringing you flowers entirely after discovering pollen made you sneeze, and gave you a fountain pen instead, then a pair of cotton handling gloves when yours wore through at the fingertips, then a first-edition restoration manual he'd found in a used bookstore because you'd mentioned wanting it exactly once, months earlier. You never asked how much any of it cost him. He never asked why you sometimes looked like you might cry over a fountain pen.

Kitchens swallowed him whole in ways few other people understood. Sometimes he disappeared for three or four days at a time once bakery work became serious. You learned not to chase after him. The first few times you'd knocked on his door, Donna had simply shrugged and said he was sleeping before another shift. After that, you convinced yourself he wanted to be left alone whenever life became too much. You respected the silence because you thought it was kindness. Years later, Carm would admit those had usually been the weeks he'd wanted to see you most. He simply couldn't make himself knock on your door first.

People assumed the two of you would eventually figure it out. Richie certainly did. He caught you eating a sandwich behind The Beef on your lunch break one afternoon and lit a cigarette before he'd even finished sitting down. "You know what's hilarious?" he asked, already grinning like he knew you weren't going to like the answer.

"No."

"You two."

"We're not doing this."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was," he admitted, unbothered. "You've been in love with each other since you were barely potty trained."

"We're friends."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England."

You pointed your sandwich at him. "I mean it."

"So do I." He took a long drag, considering you the way he considered everything, like it was a 

bet he'd already won. "You know what's gonna happen? You two're gonna spend another ten years making eyes at each other."

"We don't make eyes."

"You absolutely make eyes."

"We don't."

"You wanna know how I know?"

"Not particularly."

"'Cause nobody else looks at Carm like he's—" he searched for it, found it, savored it — "worth waiting for."

That shut you up. Richie noticed. He always noticed. He flicked his ash into an empty coffee cup and let the silence sit there, satisfied, until you finally walked away without arguing the point any further.

Looking back, it was almost impossible to point to the exact moment friendship stopped being enough. There was no single glance that changed everything, only years of accumulated almosts and the growing awareness that both of you were choosing not to name them.

The first time Carmy kissed you happened three weeks before Christmas in the stairwell of an apartment belonging to someone neither of you knew particularly well.

You had gone because a colleague from the museum was leaving for a fellowship and had threatened to make your final weeks together unbearable if you skipped her party. Carmy had gone because you asked, though he spent the drive insisting he would stay for one drink and leave before the apartment became crowded. By the time you arrived, people were already sitting on the floor, coats buried the bed in the spare room, and someone had put on music loud enough that conversation required leaning close.

Carmy lasted forty minutes.

You saw the moment the room became too much. His answers shortened. His shoulders rose. He moved nearer the wall without appearing to move at all, nursing the same beer while watching the traffic between the kitchen and living room. You would have gone to him if Adrian had not touched your elbow at exactly the wrong time.

Adrian worked in exhibition design and had been asking you to dinner for nearly a month. He was attractive in a straightforward way, easy with people and uncomplicated about wanting things. When he leaned close to ask whether you wanted air, you knew Carmy was watching before you looked.

That knowledge should have embarrassed you.

Instead, you let Adrian’s hand settle at your waist.

Carmy looked away so sharply that the movement felt like an answer.

You followed Adrian onto the fire escape, listened to him tell a story you barely heard and laughed in the correct places while resentment gathered beneath your ribs. For years Carmy had been allowed to watch, to remember, to bring you gifts and stand too close and become silent whenever another man showed interest. Everyone treated his jealousy like evidence of a love too delicate to confront. Meanwhile, you were expected to interpret restraint as devotion and wait for him to decide whether you were worth risking the friendship.

Adrian bent toward you.

You turned your face before he could kiss you.

“I— Sorry,” you said.

He stepped back at once. “Carmy?”

The bluntness startled a laugh out of you.

“Is it that obvious?”

“To everyone except him, apparently.”

You should have defended Carmy. Habit nearly made you. Instead, you looked through the window and found him standing exactly where you had left him, staring at the bottle in his hand.

“I need to go talk to him.”

Adrian nodded. “You probably do.”

Carmy was no longer in the living room when you returned. His coat remained beneath the others, so you checked the kitchen, the bathroom line and finally the building’s narrow front stairwell. He stood one landing below the apartment, both hands braced against the railing, looking down through the center of the stairs as though calculating the distance to the lobby.

“You leaving?”

He glanced up. “No.”

“Your coat’s upstairs.”

“Was getting air.”

“There’s a fire escape.”

His mouth tightened. “Looked occupied.”

You descended until you stood on the same landing. The music came through the apartment door as a distant pulse, softened by plaster and two flights of stairs. Carmy would not look directly at you.

“Adrian went home.”

“Okay.”

“He asked me to dinner.”

Carmy’s jaw moved. “You going?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“He seems like an asshole.”

“You barely talked to him.”

“Enough.”

“He was polite to you.”

“Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Neither does watching someone all night, apparently.”

That brought his eyes to yours.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been staring at him since he walked in.”

“I haven’t.”

“You nearly snapped the neck off your beer when he touched me.”

Carmy looked down at the bottle still clenched in one hand. His grip loosened.

“He was all over you.”

“He put one hand on my waist.”

“Yeah.”

“You touch me all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

He had no answer that did not require admitting the thing both of you had spent years stepping around. His gaze dropped toward the floor, and something in you finally exhausted itself.

“You're not allowed to be jealous of a life you refuse to participate in.”

Carmy’s head lifted. “I participate.”

“No. You hover. You remember every detail and hate every man I date and then disappear into work before I can ask what any of it means.”

“I don’t hate everybody.”

“You hated Daniel.”

“He was a wall street douche!”

“He worked at a credit union.”

“Same vibe.”

Despite yourself, you nearly smiled. The feeling passed.

“I let Adrian touch me because I knew you would watch,” you said.

Carmy went still.

The confession was not flattering. It made you feel younger than you were, petty and tired and far too aware of the power his attention still held over you. You kept going anyway.

“I wanted you to hate it. I wanted you to do something besides stand in a corner looking miserable and make me feel like shit for noticing.”

His breathing had changed.

“You could’ve told me,” he said.

“I am telling you.”

“No, before.”

“I have been telling you for years. I sit beside you when there are six empty chairs. I call you first. I find you every time you leave a room. I keep making space, and you keep acting like taking it would be some kind of theft.”

“Honey—”

“I’m not stupid, Carmen.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then don’t make me say it for you.”

The stairwell fell quiet except for the building’s old radiator knocking behind the wall.

Carmy looked frightened. Not of you, exactly. Of the fact that the distance between wanting and being known had finally collapsed.

“I don’t know how,” he said.

The answer was barely audible.

You believed him. That did not make it enough.

“It is not enough to hate everyone else,” you said. “You have to want me out loud.”

His face tightened as though the sentence hurt.

“I do.”

Your breath caught.

Carmy looked toward the apartment door, then down the stairwell, every escape registering before he forced his attention back to you.

“I want you,” he said, rougher now. “I think about you all the fucking time. When I’m working. When I can’t sleep. When somebody says something and I know what you’d say back before they finish.” His hand dragged once over his mouth. “I don’t know what happens if I do something about it.”

“Neither do I.”

“What if it ruins—”

“You are already ruining things.”

The words landed without cruelty because both of you were too tired for performance.

Carmy stared at you for a long second.

Then he crossed the small distance and kissed you.

There was nothing tentative about the first impact. His free hand caught your jaw, the beer bottle knocking softly against the railing as he pulled you toward him. Surprise held you still for half a breath before your fingers closed in the front of his shirt and you kissed him back with every year of waiting sharpened into anger.

Carmy made a broken sound against your mouth.

The kiss turned clumsy almost immediately. His shoulder struck the wall. Your teeth caught his lower lip. One of you laughed, though the sound disappeared when he kissed you again, slower this time, learning what the first rush had not allowed. His thumb moved beneath your ear. Your hands slid around his waist, finding the familiar body beneath unfamiliar intent.

When his mouth left yours, it traveled to your jaw and stopped there. Carmy stood with his forehead against your temple, breathing hard.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Did I—”

“Stop.”

He lifted his head.

“Do not start apologizing because I kissed you back.”

His ears had gone red. “Wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Maybe.”

You kissed him again before he could retreat.

This time his hands settled at your waist, then moved with more confidence when you pressed closer. The stairwell was cold. Music thudded through the door above you. Somewhere on the ground floor, the outside door opened and voices entered the lobby.

Carmy pulled away first.

You felt the withdrawal before you understood it and tightened your hands in his shirt.

“What?”

“We’re drunk.”

“I had two glasses of wine.”

“I had more.”

“You are not drunk.”

“Close enough.”

The answer frustrated you because it was responsible and because you wanted him too badly to appreciate responsibility.

Carmy looked at the stairwell around you. “And this is fucked.”

“The hallway?”

“We’re in public.”

“We are in an empty stairwell.”

“Somebody’s coming up.”

Footsteps sounded below, proving him right.

You released his shirt reluctantly. Carmy moved aside, putting a careful foot of space between you just before a couple rounded the landing. They passed with quick, knowing smiles and disappeared into the apartment.

Neither of you spoke until the door closed behind them.

Carmy looked at you. “I don’t want the first time to be because I got pissed at some guy and followed you into a stairwell.”

“I followed you.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Try to contain your delight.”

His mouth shifted.

You touched the damp corner of his lower lip where your teeth had caught it. “There will be a next time.”

It was not a question.

Carmy’s eyes darkened.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” You let your thumb rest against his mouth. “And next time, don’t stop.”

For the next three weeks, neither of you knew how to behave.

Carmy kissed you once behind The Beef after a late shift, quick and hungry, then spent the following day acting as though speaking too loudly might cause the world to notice. You sat too close in your parents’ kitchen. His hand found your lower back in crowded rooms and remained there longer than necessary. Every goodbye took several minutes because neither of you seemed able to decide whether another kiss would make things easier or impossible.

No one announced what had changed. Mikey watched the two of you with open satisfaction. Sugar became unusually interested in leaving rooms. Richie took one look at Carmy’s split lip the morning after the party and laughed until Tina threatened him with a knife.

The uncertainty did not diminish the wanting. It concentrated it.

Then Christmas arrived.

The Berzatto house had reached that particular stage of Christmas where every horizontal surface had something balancing precariously on it. A half-frosted tray of cookies sat on top of the microwave because someone had run out of counter space. Coats overflowed the hooks by the front door, sleeves trailing onto the hardwood. Somewhere in the living room an uncle was shouting over a football game no one was actually watching, while Donna yelled back from the kitchen about a pot nobody else had noticed boiling over.

You stepped around three open gift bags and nearly tripped over Pete, who was crouched beside the tree trying to reattach a loose string of lights.

"Sorry," he laughed, scooting out of your way.

"You've said that six times tonight."

"I’ve lost count."

"You don't have to apologize every time I walk past you."

"I probably will anyway," he said, so cheerfully that you gave up on the point and left him to his battle with the lights.

Natalie was halfway through wrapping a box that had somehow become more tape than paper when you wandered into the dining room.

"Need a hand?"

"Not unless you've got a miracle in your pocket," she said, not looking up.

You picked up the roll of tape. "Who's this one for?"

"No idea anymore." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Richie mixed the tags up."

You laughed. "Of course he did."

"He’s the absolute worst."

She finally looked up at you then, taking in the untouched parcel tucked beneath your arm, and her expression shifted into something more pointed. "You still haven't found him."

"Found who?"

"Honey."

“Who says I’m looking for someone?”

"Mm." She smoothed one last piece of tape across the wrapping paper without further comment. 

"He's upstairs," she said eventually, with a shrug that wasn't really a shrug.

You reached for the tape dispenser beside her, turning it over in your hands. "You okay?"

"Yes."

"You've been wrapping presents for like forty minutes."

"It feels longer."

"You've wrapped the same one twice."

"That explains the tape." Natalie finally stopped moving, only for a second, long enough for you to notice, before she smoothed the paper flat again. "It's Christmas," she said, like that answered everything, and you nodded once, because it did.

The staircase creaked beneath your weight in the familiar way it always had, the old wood protesting every careful step. The noise of the party softened the higher you climbed—laughter, clattering pans, Donna’s unmistakable voice rising and falling like a tide—until the second floor swallowed you whole. Up here, the world narrowed to the hush of winter light spilling through the narrow window at the end of the hall, the kind of quiet that made your pulse feel loud in your own ears.

Carmen’s door was pulled almost closed. You knocked once with the back of your knuckles. No answer. After a moment, you nudged it open just enough to slip inside.

He stood at the window, both hands shoved deep into the pockets of his fleece, his shoulders drawn tight beneath the fabric. The glass had fogged where his breath met the cold pane, obscuring the view of the backyard—and the fence that had divided your lives for as long as either of you could remember. Snow had started again, drifting lazily, as if the world outside had paused just for you.

"You know," you said quietly, "most people hide in rooms with better heating."

He glanced over his shoulder. The tension in his face eased almost immediately, like a held breath finally released. "Hey." The single word carried more relief than greeting, as if he’d been waiting for the sound of your voice to settle something inside him.

You shut the door behind you, muffling the party until it was little more than a vibration beneath the floorboards. The room was exactly as you remembered: unmade bed, cookbooks stacked precariously on the desk, sketchbooks piled beneath the radiator, jackets draped over chairs instead of hung. A younger you would’ve started tidying without thinking. But tonight, you only crossed the room and leaned against the edge of his desk.

"They’re looking for you."

"I figured."

"Mikey’s buying you about ten more minutes."

A corner of his mouth twitched. "I owe him."

"You owe him a lot of things."

"Yeah."

Silence settled between you, no longer innocent enough to call comfortable. Since the party, every quiet moment had carried the memory of his mouth and the unfinished promise you had left between you. Neither of you had mentioned it directly. Neither of you had managed to forget.

Outside, the snow caught the orange glow of the streetlamps, each flake drifting so slowly it seemed suspended in time. You followed his gaze for a moment before looking back at him. 

"You alright?"

He took longer than usual to answer. "Just loud."

"Makes sense." You’d found him in this room a hundred times before—on birthdays, Thanksgivings, the Fourth of July—any gathering that swelled beyond what he could bear. No one chased him anymore. No one except you.

Without thinking, you reached into the pocket of your cardigan and pulled out the small parcel you’d carried all evening. "Don’t get excited. It’s just the usual."

His eyes flicked to the paper, then back to your face, as if he’d forgotten, for a second, that this was tradition. His thumbs worked at the linen tape too carefully, the kind of careful that was really just stalling. When he finally peeled it back, his breath caught.

Inside lay the professional drawing kit—the charcoal stumps, the blending tools, the heavy, high-tooth paper that could take the weight of his hand without tearing. His index finger traced the black buckram spine of the pad, and for a moment, he didn’t speak at all.

"The art store," he said, voice rough. "On Clark." He cleared his throat. "You said the heavy stock was a waste of money."

"You said that," you corrected softly. "I told you to buy it."

"Yeah." A short, sharp breath through his nose. He set the kit down like it might shatter. "Yeah, you did."

He reached into his fleece pocket and pressed a small, weighty box into your hands without quite looking at you. The wrapping was textured black paper, tied with a silk ribbon from the jeweler downtown. Your fingers trembled as you undid the knot.

Inside, on a bed of black velvet, was a silver chain holding a single freshwater pearl; irregular, lopsided, the grain of its shell still visible.

"How did you—" You stopped, looking up. "That was October."

He shrugged, too fast, his eyes flicking to the corner of the room. "You looked at it. For a long time." A beat. His jaw worked once before he forced out the rest. "Said it was gaudy. You do that. When you want something. Talk yourself out of it."

A dry, choked laugh escaped you. "Jesus, Carmy."

"Can I?" He nodded at your neck, his hands already half-raised, as if he’d asked too late to be asking now.

You nodded, lifted your hair. His fingers were freezing against the nape of your neck, his knuckles scraping your skin twice before he managed the clasp. A small, frustrated breath escaped him on the second try.

"Smooth," you murmured, biting back a smile.

"Shut up." No heat in it. His ears had gone red.

The pearl settled into the hollow between your collarbones, a cold point against your skin. When you turned back, he hadn’t retreated. His hand stayed by your throat, his index finger hovering just above the chain, as if he wasn’t sure it was still allowed to be there.

The silence stretched, suddenly thick and difficult to breathe through. You had spent most of your lives guarding the margins. One kiss in a stairwell had already ruined the old geometry; now every inch between you felt chosen.

Neither of you moved. The radiator ticked. Somewhere below, a door slammed and someone laughed too loudly, but the sounds reached you only as a muffled vibration through the floor. His thumb traced once along your jaw, then again, slower. Your pulse hammered beneath his hand.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said.

Carmy’s gaze stayed on your mouth. “I’m standing right here.”

“You know what I mean.”

His jaw worked. “Every time I’m near you, I think about the stairwell.”

“That was the idea.”

A breath left him that might have been a laugh. His finger moved from your jaw to the pearl resting at your throat.

“I keep thinking about what you said.”

“Which part?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Next time.”

The words sent heat through you so quickly that your grip tightened in the front of his fleece.

“You stopped last time for good reasons,” you said.

“Doesn’t feel like it now.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Like I’ve been waiting three weeks to get you alone.”

You pulled him the final half inch closer. “You have me alone.”

Carmy became very still. “Honey.”

There was fear in the way he said it, but not uncertainty about wanting you. That had already been settled between you.

“If you need me to say it again, I will,” you told him. “I want you. I’m not confused. I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and pretend this was a mistake.”

His face changed at the word tomorrow, something closing too quickly for you to catch.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

Before you could press, his forehead dropped against yours. His breath was unsteady.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he said.

“Then stop trying to make it perfect.”

His hand slid into your hair.

When he kissed you again, there was no testing left in it. The first contact was slow only because he was trying to hold himself back; then your mouth opened beneath his and something in him gave. His other arm hauled you flush against him, and a low groan worked loose from his chest when you kissed him with the same certainty you had carried since the stairwell.

His hands didn’t stay still after that. They moved with a kind of desperate, searching purpose—fisting in the back of your sweater, dragging up the curve of your spine like he couldn’t decide where to put them first. He walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of the mattress, and even then, he didn’t stop kissing you—jaw, throat, the soft skin just beneath your ear—his breath ragged, as if he’d used up every word he could manage and there was nothing left but this.

You sank onto the mattress slowly, in stages—his weight coming down over you by inches, like he was still checking, still leaving room for you to change your mind. The room had gone fully dark except for the blue wash of snowlight through the window, indifferent to the way your heart was trying to climb out of your throat.

The cold press of the pearl against your collarbone was a small, insistent reminder of everything that had led to this moment. His hands fumbled with the button of your jeans, more nerves than skill, and you laughed—startled, breathless.

"This is so stupid," you said. "You’ve seen me in a swimsuit since I was six."

"Yeah, well." His ears went red again, visible even in the dark. "Never seen you not in one."

That got a real laugh out of both of you—the kind that cracked something loose in the room, familiar and easy because you had spent most of your lives knowing each other before wanting became this impossible to ignore. But the laughter faded almost as fast as it came, replaced by the careful, unhurried way his hand finally found the bare skin of your waist for the first time.

When he pulled your sweater over your head, he didn’t rush for the clasp of your bra. He sat back on his heels for a second, breathing hard, his ink-stained hands resting flat against your ribs, as if he needed a moment to catch up with what was actually happening. His eyes moved over you slowly, deliberately, in the low light—not performing, just looking, the same unhurried attention he gave a dish before he decided it was right.

Your fingers found the raised line of the scar along his ribs before you meant to go looking for it—the fence, age eleven, the summer you’d held your cardigan against the cut the whole ride to the ER while Donna ran two red lights.

"I remember this," you murmured.

"You should." A ghost of a smile. "You gave me this."

"That was the fence."

"You dared me."

"You didn’t have to listen."

"Yeah, I did." His voice had gone quieter, more honest than the joke required. "Always have."

He didn’t answer with words this time. His hands hooked into the waistband of your jeans, dragging them down slow, his eyes following the movement like he needed to watch it happen to believe it was real. When his mouth found the inside of your thigh—open-mouthed, unhurried—you felt more than heard the low sound he made against your skin, something reverent, almost helpless.

"Carmy—"

"Lemme." Barely audible. His hands spread your thighs wider, and when his mouth finally found you, direct and unhurried, the sound that tore out of you had nothing careful left in it. He worked slow at first—testing, deliberate—before the rhythm found something surer, his tongue circling and pressing in a way that had your hips rocking up to meet him before you could stop them. His hands gripped your thighs to hold you open, and every time you tried to close around him, he just held you wider, relentless and unhurried, until the pressure building low in your stomach turned sharp and insistent.

"Carm, I’m—"

"Yeah." His voice vibrated against you, wrecked and low. "I got you. Let go."

He didn’t let up until you came apart against his mouth, back arching off the mattress, both hands fisted hard in his hair. He worked you through it, slow and deliberate, until the aftershocks left you boneless, and only then did he lift his head, mouth wet, eyes dark, dragging himself back up your body to kiss you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

The clumsiness didn’t leave the room, but it turned into something deliberate. His hands braced against the mattress on either side of your head, his knuckles white. He dug a condom from his wallet, his teeth tearing the wrapper with a sharp crinkle that sounded obscenely loud in the small room. You took it from his shaking fingers and rolled it down slow over the full, heavy length of him, your eyes fixed on his jaw as it went rigid under your palm.

"You’re staring," he muttered, voice strained.

"I’m allowed." Your thumb traced the vein along his length. "I’m making up for lost time."

That did something to his face—not quite a smile, something rawer than that—right before he notched himself against your entrance and pressed in, slow, immense, the air catching hard in the back of your throat. He filled you by degrees, each inch drawing a broken sound out of both of you, until he was seated fully inside you, thick and deep. For a moment, neither of you moved at all, just breathing through the impossible fullness of it, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck—honey." Just that. Like it was all he had room for.

He held there, hips flush against yours, and you could feel the slow throb of his pulse everywhere your bodies joined. When he finally started to move, it wasn’t the careful testing rhythm from before. He drew almost all the way out, slow enough that you felt every inch of the slide, before sinking back into you to the hilt, again and again, each thrust pulling a fresh, wrecked sound from his throat. His hands gripped your thighs, angling your hips to pull you into every movement, like he was trying to imprint the shape of you into his memory.

"You feel—" He cut himself off, jaw working, and tried again, quieter, rougher. "So—Christ, honey. Been thinkin’ about this." A broken laugh, more air than sound. "Longer than I should say."

"Yeah?" Your nails dragged down his back. "How long."

"Don’t." He groaned, his hips stuttering. "Don’t make me do math right now."

You arched up to meet him, your own voice fraying at the edges, unguarded in a way you rarely let yourself be. "Carmy…"

"I got you." His hand slid beneath you, angling your hips higher, and the new angle punched a sound out of you that you didn’t try to hide. "Right there? Yeah—fuck, Honey, right there."

The pace built past careful into something more urgent, the old bed frame knocking softly against the wall, your legs locking around him, his name breaking apart in your mouth every time he drove deep. He shifted his weight, one hand sliding between your bodies to find where you were still sensitive from before, his thumb working in slow circles that matched the drag of his hips. The pressure that had barely settled after the first time began building again, sharper now, doubled. You felt the pace stutter in him, the low sounds against your throat turning ragged and uneven, both of you chasing the same edge now instead of one waiting on the other.

"Together," he managed, barely words at all. "C’mon, honey, I got you—together—"

The pressure crested low and tight, and when it finally broke over you, he followed almost immediately after, a rough groan tearing out of him into your hair, his whole body going rigid before he collapsed his weight into you. Both of you breathed like you’d run a marathon, like the air itself was too thick to pull into your lungs.

Afterward, he didn’t roll away. He stayed heavy on top of you, his face buried in your hair, both of you sweating despite the draft coming off the window. The smell of him filled your nose—not just the cologne, but the permanent undercurrent of the bakery that lived in his skin: yeast, flour, old vanilla, things that never fully washed out.

"Hey," you muttered, shifting your hips beneath him. "Dead weight, Carmy."

He let out a weak huff, but instead of rolling away, he only shifted his weight to the side, his arm sliding beneath you to pull you flush against him. His other hand found your waist, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin, like he was memorizing the shape of you all over again. You could feel his heartbeat against your ribs, steady but still a little wild, as if it hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that this was real.

You turned your head to press a kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt and the faintest hint of sugar on his skin. His breath hitched, and his fingers tightened against your hip, as if he were afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on.

"Stay," he murmured against your temple, his voice rough. Not a request. A plea.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you tangled your legs with his, your toes brushing against his calf, and let your fingers trace the line of his collarbone, the dip of his throat, the scar along his ribs. Every touch felt like a confession, a promise. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and you could feel the way his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your exploration, like he was trying to commit the sensation to memory.

He pressed his lips to the top of your head, then lower, to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—small, lingering kisses that felt more intimate than everything that had come before. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing against the pearl he’d given you, as if to remind himself that it was real, that this was real.

He pulled you even closer, if that were possible, his chin resting on the crown of your head. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need. The quiet between you wasn’t empty—it was full of everything you’d never said, every glance you’d averted, every touch you’d denied yourselves. Now, it was all here, wrapped up in the way his fingers traced the curve of your spine, in the way your breath synchronized with his.

Eventually, his hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pressing your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. You could feel the steady thump-thump-thump beneath your skin, as if it were trying to beat in time with your own.

"Most of our lives," he said quietly, his voice thick. He gestured vaguely between you, as if the space itself could explain what he meant. "All this time, and I still don’t know how to do this right."

You tilted your head up to look at him, your lips brushing his jaw. "You’re doing fine."

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. There was something raw in his gaze, something that made your chest ache. "I’ve dreamed about this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "A thousand times. But none of them…" He swallowed. "None of them felt like this."

You didn’t let him finish. Instead, you pulled his face down to yours and kissed him, slow and deep, your free hand sliding into his hair to hold him there. When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling.

"Better?" you asked, your voice soft.

His answer was a kiss to the tip of your nose, then your lips again, lingering this time, like he was savoring the taste of you. "Yeah," he murmured against your mouth. "Better."

The room was quiet except for the sound of your shared breathing and the distant hum of the party downstairs, a world away. His fingers returned to tracing patterns on your skin—your shoulder, your collarbone, the sensitive spot behind your ear—and you let your eyes drift shut, letting the warmth of him, the rightness of him, wash over you.

Downstairs, the front door finally slammed, the loud, lingering farewells of your parents and the rest of the uncles echoing up the floorboards. They’d assume you’d walked home early or crashed on Sugar’s floor—a lie you’d used since high school. But for the first time, the deception didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a secret, something precious and just yours.

You let your fingers drift down to the small of his back, pulling him even closer, if that were possible. His skin was warm, his breath steady against your neck. You could have stayed like that forever—entwined, unhurried, finally his in a way you’d both pretended not to want for too long.

And when sleep finally pulled at the edges of your consciousness, it wasn’t to the sound of graphite on paper, but to the quiet, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, and a quiet “Honey” pressed against your hair with the weight of a vow.

The old wool quilt had slipped almost entirely from the bed during the night. What remained lay twisted around your calves, its rough edge scratching bare skin whenever you moved. Beyond it, the room had gone gray with morning. Frost clouded the window above Carmy’s desk, thinning near the corners where weak winter light pressed through, and the radiator beneath it had stopped making noise sometime before dawn.

Cold reached you gradually. First along your shoulder, then down your back where the air touched skin that had stayed warm beneath Carmy only hours earlier. You drew the quilt higher and rolled toward the heat beside you.

Carmy was already awake.

He lay flat on his back in the black hoodie he had pulled on sometime during the night, one arm bent beneath his head and his eyes fixed on the old water stain spreading across the ceiling. Nothing about him looked rested. His jaw remained too tight, and the hand resting over his stomach had curled into the fabric as though waking beside you had given him something else to survive.

The mattress groaned when you shifted closer.

His eyes moved immediately toward you.

“Morning,” he said.

Sleep had worn his voice down to something rough and intimate. You smiled before you could stop yourself and pulled the quilt over your shoulder.

“Your bed still sounds terrible.”

“It’s old.”

“You fell out of it in fourth grade.”

Carmy’s mouth moved at one corner. “I remember.”

“You cried so hard Mikey thought you broke your arm.”

“My wrist was fucked.”

“You were nine, Bear.”

The name softened something in his face. “You were bossy.”

“You liked being taken care of.”

His gaze dropped to the space between you. “Still do.”

The admission came quietly enough that you might have missed it if you had not spent most of 

your life listening for the things he could barely make himself say.

You reached beneath the edge of his sleeve. His skin was cold.

“You’ve been awake long?”

“A while.”

“How long?”

“Since it got light.”

“You could’ve woken me.”

“You were sleeping.”

“That is usually what people do over night Carmen.”

His fingers caught yours beneath the quilt but did not hold them. “Thought you might leave before I woke up.”

The humor left the room.

Carmy gave the confession to the ceiling rather than to you. He looked braced for the answer, as though your presence beside him might still be an accident the morning could correct.

You pushed yourself onto one elbow. His curls were flattened on one side, still disordered from your fingers the night before. In this room he looked close enough to the boy you had known that tenderness rose through you before anger had any chance to follow.

“I wasn’t going to leave.”

“You could’ve.”

“I could have. I didn’t want to.”

His jaw worked.

“I didn’t know what this would feel like after,” he said.

“Neither did I.”

“Thought maybe you’d wake up and decide it was a bad idea.”

You touched his face. Carmy leaned into your palm before he could seem to reconsider the movement.

“Last night was not something I did because you were upset,” you said. “It was not me taking care of you.”

His eyes returned to yours.

“I wanted you. I wanted that before the party, after the stairwell and every day you spent pretending the kiss had not changed anything.”

Carmy covered your hand where it rested against his cheek. “I wanted you to stay.”

“You could have asked.”

“I did.”

“You told me to stay while you were still inside me. I am not sure that counts.”

Color moved across his face.

You slid closer and drew one of his hands beneath the quilt, placing his palm against the warm skin of your stomach. His fingers spread slowly.

“You are allowed to want me here,” you told him. “You are allowed to say it before you get desperate.”

Carmy’s thumb moved beneath your ribs. “Stay.”

You studied his face.

“Today,” he added, as though the smaller unit of time made the request survivable. “Stay today.”

“I was already planning to.”

His shoulders lowered by a fraction.

You kissed him then, gently at first. Carmy’s mouth was warm and soft with sleep, his hesitation lasting only until your thigh moved over his. His hand slid from your stomach to your waist, drawing you across him. The hardness beneath his sweatpants pressed against the inside of your leg.

He froze.

“Sorry.”

You drew back. “For having a body?”

His ears reddened.

“Carmen.”

“I don’t want you thinking I expect—”

“You have spent the last five minutes deciding what I think again.”

His mouth closed.

You touched the line of his jaw. “Ask.”

Carmy looked at you with an expression that was equal parts desire and alarm.

“Do you want to?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He kissed you again before the word had fully left your mouth.

The second time was slower, not because either of you wanted less but because morning had removed the desperate sense that the chance might disappear if you paused. Carmy pulled the hoodie over his head while you pushed his sweatpants down his hips. The mattress complained beneath every shift of your bodies, making you laugh against his neck.

“It held last night,” you said.

“Barely.”

“It held you when you were nine.”

Carmy laughed, warm and startled, before catching your mouth again.

His hands moved over you with the confidence of recent memory, tracing the path they had learned only hours before. He checked the tenderness between your thighs with careful fingers, watching your face until you drew him closer and told him you wanted more than caution. When he reached toward the floor for his pants, you caught his wrist.

“What?”

“Wallet,” he said, still breathing hard. “Condom.”

The word grounded the moment. You released him and watched him retrieve it, grateful that desire had not made either of you careless or left the choice unspoken. Carmy tore the wrapper open, then stopped with the condom pinched between his fingers.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sore.”

“A little. Go slowly.”

He nodded.

You rolled the condom over him yourself, enjoying the way his jaw tightened beneath your hand. Carmy settled between your thighs and entered you by degrees, pausing whenever your breath changed until the ache softened into pleasure. There was no need to relearn everything from the night before. You guided his hips, told him when the angle was right and pulled him down when he tried to hold too much of his weight away from you.

“Closer,” you murmured.

“Don’t wanna crush you.”

“You are not that heavy.”

His expression suggested offense, but he obeyed.

The rhythm remained unhurried. You kissed the scar along his ribs when he shifted above you, then his throat, his jaw, every piece of him you had known in one form and were learning in another. Carmy buried his face near your neck when pleasure made language difficult. The sounds he allowed you to hear were rough and unguarded, far more intimate than any polished praise could have been.

When your body began tightening around him, his hand slipped between you.

“Here?” he asked.

You guided his thumb. “A little slower.”

He listened.

The orgasm came gradually, drawn out by the careful roll of his hips and the steady movement of his hand. You held his face close as it moved through you, your breath breaking against his mouth. Carmy followed soon after, shuddering above you with 'Honey' caught low in his throat.

The room remained cold beyond the quilt, but his body covered yours, warm and damp and real. 

You ran your fingers through the curls at the back of his head until his breathing settled.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Sore?”

“Manageable.”

Concern gathered anyway.

You caught his chin. “Do not turn good sex into a medical emergency.”

His mouth twitched. “It was good?”

“You’re fishing.”

“I’m asking.”

“It was good.”

“Better than last night?”

You stared at him.

Carmy looked immediately embarrassed by his own question. “Never mind.”

“You competitive about sex now?”

“No.”

“You want a scorecard?”

“Shut up.”

You laughed as he hid his face against your shoulder.

After he withdrew, he tied the condom and wrapped it in tissue before placing it in the wastebasket with such deliberation that you nearly teased him again. Instead, you let him clean you gently and pull the quilt back over both of you. When he settled beside you, you fitted yourself against his chest and draped one leg across his.

His arm closed around you without hesitation.

For several minutes, you listened to the house waking beneath the floorboards. A cabinet opened. Water ran through the pipes. Donna called for a pan she had almost certainly misplaced herself. Someone—Mikey, judging by the heavy tread—crossed the hallway and stopped near the bottom of the stairs.

Carmy’s body tightened.

“He is going to know,” you said.

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“The bed has been filing reports all night.”

Carmy covered his eyes with one hand. “Fuck.”

You laughed against his chest.

A knock landed against the bedroom door.

“Breakfast,” Mikey called. There was a pause long enough to become deliberate. “Whenever everybody’s decent.”

Carmy groaned.

Mikey’s footsteps moved away.

You lifted your head. “He was restrained.”

“He’s saving it.”

“Probably.”

Carmy looked toward the door, then back at you. The earlier warmth in his face faded beneath something more serious.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

Your hand stilled against his chest.

“What?”

His mouth opened.

From downstairs, Donna shouted his name with enough force to rattle the vent.

Carmy flinched.

You watched his attention fracture between the room and the house below. “Is it bad?”

“No. I mean—no, it’s not bad.”

“Then tell me after coffee.”

The relief that crossed his face was too quick, and you mistook it for gratitude that you had not made him talk while half dressed in a freezing room.

“After coffee,” he repeated.

You kissed him once, then climbed out of bed in search of your clothes.

Carmy watched you move around the room with an expression you would not understand until much later.

You went downstairs first.

Arriving separately was meant to preserve some small illusion that nothing unusual had happened. It was not a convincing plan. Carmy needed another minute to find his shirt, and you needed one alone in the bathroom to make your curls look less like someone had spent half the night pulling them through his fingers.

The kitchen was already warm. Butter hissed in a pan, the windows had fogged above the sink and Sugar stood at the stove in yesterday’s clothes, moving scrambled eggs slowly through the heat. Mikey leaned against the counter near the coffee machine with both hands around a mug.

His eyes lifted when you entered.

Recognition arrived almost immediately.

To his credit, he kept it to himself.

Sugar looked over too. Her gaze moved across yesterday’s sweater, your face and the pearl resting at your throat before returning to the eggs.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Eventually.”

The corner of her mouth curved.

You crossed to the cabinet and took down two mugs.

“One for Carm?” Sugar asked.

“He’ll want one.”

Mikey raised his eyebrows over the rim of his coffee.

You pointed at him. “Behave.”

“I am behaving.”

“That is not your usual face.”

“This is my Christmas face.”

“It looks smug.”

“Christmas brings me joy.”

Footsteps creaked along the stairs before you could answer. Carmy entered wearing his black hoodie again, his curls damp where he had tried to flatten them with water. The effort had made the rest stand up more noticeably.

His gaze found you first.

Something quiet passed between you, warm enough that Sugar looked down at the pan and Mikey’s smile spread slowly across his face.

“Don’t,” Carmy said.

Mikey held up one hand. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was gonna say Merry Christmas.”

“You already said it yesterday.”

“Holiday lasts all day.”

Carmy ignored him and came to stand beside you. His hand settled briefly at the small of your back as he reached for the coffee you had prepared. The touch lasted less than a second. It was enough.

Sugar slid a plate onto the counter. “Sit. Both of you.”

Carmy looked toward you. “You eating?”

“Yes.”

He took the seat beside yours.

Mikey watched the two of you for another moment, humor giving way to something gentler.

“You okay, Honey?” he asked.

The question was for you alone. Not a joke about thin walls or years of waiting. He wanted to know whether his brother had been careful with something Mikey understood mattered.

“I’m good.”

Mikey studied your face, then nodded.

“Good.”

That was all.

Carmy’s knee pressed against yours beneath the counter and remained there. He ate with one hand resting beside your thigh, close enough that your fingers could brush his when you reached for the salt. Sugar talked about a serving tray Donna had misplaced. Mikey claimed Richie had moved it. Richie shouted from the next room that he had never touched the thing in his life.

For a few minutes, the kitchen returned to its ordinary shape.

Then Carmy leaned close enough for only you to hear.

“Can we talk after this?”

You glanced at him. The anxiety from upstairs had returned, visible in the tightness around his mouth.

“Of course.”

Donna entered before he could say more, carrying a bundle of dish towels and demanding to know why everyone was sitting while there was still food to finish. The room expanded around her immediately. Sugar rose. Mikey took the towels. Carmy stood too, caught between you and the work being handed to him.

You touched his wrist.

“Later,” you said.

He nodded.

The answer did not settle him.

It should have warned you.

Instead, you let the morning carry you forward. You helped Sugar. Carmy moved through the kitchen beside you, occasionally touching your back as he passed, each small contact feeling like confirmation. Mikey teased him only once, asking whether he planned to stare at you all day or eventually chop the onions in front of him.

Carmy picked up the knife.

“I can do both.”

Mikey’s face opened in delighted disbelief.

You threw a dish towel at him before he could turn the sentence into family history.

The day carried on the way Christmas always did in the Berzatto house—too loud, too warm and crowded with more food than the number of people present could reasonably finish. Someone was always opening the oven. Someone else shouted from another room about a serving spoon no one could find. Uncles argued over the Bears with the gravity of men negotiating a ceasefire. Donna cried once at the sink and again when Sugar found a photograph from 1997 beneath a stack of takeout menus.

Carmy tried to get you alone twice.

The first time, Donna intercepted him with a roasting pan before he crossed the kitchen. The second, Richie opened the back door just as Carmy tried to catch your attention and demanded help carrying beer from the trunk. Each interruption left him more tightly wound. He tore a paper napkin into thin strips during lunch and forgot the coffee cooling beside his hand.

You assumed the conversation waiting between you concerned the two of you. Perhaps he wanted to decide what to tell everyone, or whether last night made you a couple after years of refusing the word. The possibilities made you nervous, but not frightened. Carmy had kissed you in front of the Christmas tree when no one was looking. He had brushed his thumb across the pearl each time he passed you. Once, while Donna argued with Cicero near the stove, he caught your hand behind his back and held it there until the shouting moved elsewhere.

By midafternoon, even those small touches had stopped.

You found him in the dining room carrying a bowl he had already delivered once. He set it near the wrong plates and stared at the serving spoon as though he had forgotten its purpose.

When you touched his arm, he startled.

“You’re making me nervous,” you said.

His eyes moved toward the clock. “Can we go outside?”

The words came with such visible effort that you put down the stack of napkins in your hand.

“All right.”

Carmy retrieved your coat before his own. He held it while you pushed your arms through the sleeves, fingers catching once in your hair before he freed it from the collar. The gesture was gentle enough to make the dread in his face feel worse.

Outside, the cold had sharpened toward evening. Snow traced the edges of the steps and lay thin across the crooked fence between the yards. Your parents’ porch light had already come on next door. You had planned to sleep in your childhood room rather than drive back to your apartment after wine and Christmas noise; from the Berzatto steps, the quiet house looked close enough to reach in a few seconds.

Carmy sat beside you with his elbows on his knees.

For a moment, he said nothing.

You waited until the cold began entering through your coat.

“Whatever it is, say it.”

His hands clasped more tightly.

“I got the callback from New York.”

The first feeling that moved through you was pride. It arrived instinctively, before fear had time to follow. You knew what the restaurant meant and how hard he had worked to be considered there at all.

“They offered you the position?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s incredible.”

Carmy looked at his hands.

The absence of happiness in him changed the shape of the news.

“When do they want you?”

His throat moved.

“Next week.”

The pride inside you dropped so quickly it felt physical.

“Next week?”

“Seven days.”

You looked across the yard toward your parents’ kitchen. The curtains stood open over an 

empty, warmly lit room.

“When did you find out?”

Carmy did not answer.

You turned toward him. “When?”

“Yesterday morning.”

The cold seemed to enter you all at once.

He had known before the gifts. Before the pearl. Before you followed him upstairs and reminded him of the promise made in the stairwell. He had known while you undressed him and while he asked you to stay.

“You knew before last night.”

His eyes closed briefly. “Yeah.”

“Before we slept together.”

“Honey—”

“You had this in your pocket the whole time.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“You nearly did this morning.”

“I tried.”

“After.”

The single word stopped him.

Your voice remained quiet because anything louder would have broken.

“You waited until after you had given me the necklace, after we had sex, after I woke up 

believing we had finally begun something. You knew every one of those moments had a deadline I could not see.”

“I didn’t want it to be a goodbye.”

“There was a goodbye inside it whether you wanted one or not.”

Carmy looked at you.

“You knew that,” you said. “You decided I didn’t need to.”

“I wanted one night that was only ours.”

“Last night was mine too.”

His face went pale.

“You did not get to choose what information I was allowed to have before I gave that to you.”

“I wasn’t trying to take anything.”

“But you took the choice out of it.” Your eyes had begun to burn. “Maybe I still would have gone 

upstairs. Maybe I would have needed time. Maybe I would have told you to go to hell. That answer belonged to me.”

Carmy dragged both hands over his face. “You’re right.”

The concession did not make the hurt smaller.

“I was scared you’d leave before we ever—” He stopped. “I wanted you.”

“You have wanted me for years. You still found a way to make wanting me something you managed alone.”

He flinched.

You stood because remaining beside him had become unbearable. The air rushed into the narrow space your bodies had shared.

“So what happens?” you asked. “You leave in a week, and we call last night enough?”

“No.” Carmy rose too quickly, his shoe slipping once against the frosted step. “I want you to 

come with me.”

You stared at him.

The sentence should have sounded like hope.

Instead, something in the speed of it made dread move down your spine.

“What?”

“There’s a place two blocks from the restaurant. Two bedrooms. It’s not great, but the rent’s 

not—”

“You found an apartment.”

“I looked at one.”

“For both of us.”

“I didn’t sign anything.”

The distinction made heat rise into your throat.

“And there are museums,” he continued. “Archives. Universities. I asked the chef, and he knows 

somebody whose wife works at—”

“You asked strangers about my career.”

Carmy stopped.

The yard became terribly quiet. Through the wall behind you, the heating system turned on with 

a low mechanical hum.

“I was trying to make sure you had something there,” he said.

“You were making sure your plan worked.”

“No. I wanted to know it could be real.”

“You still haven’t asked.”

The realization crossed his face slowly.

“You told me about a two-bedroom. You researched places I could work. You decided there was 

room for me and arrived at the part where I agree.”

“You have a choice.”

“After you built everything around the answer you wanted.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You thought if you removed enough obstacles, I would have no reason to refuse.”

“I thought you might want it too.”

“I might have.”

Carmy went still.

The tears finally slipped hot over your cold cheeks.

“If you had come to me yesterday and said you had an offer and wanted to talk about what it meant for us, maybe I would have gone. Maybe I would have asked for a month. Maybe I would have said no.” You wiped your face with the heel of your hand. “We will never know, because you did not let me be part of the decision.”

“I trust you.”

“You trust me to follow you.”

His face folded.

You did not want to hurt him. Some old instinct still wanted to take his hand, explain his own fear back to him and soften the consequences until he could bear them.

You kept your arms at your sides.

“You remember everything about me,” you said. “What I eat. What books I want. Which necklace I looked at in October. But remembering my preferences is not the same as respecting my future.”

“I wanted a future with you.”

“Then you should have spoken to me before you furnished it.”

Carmy looked as though the words had struck him.

“I’m trying now.”

“You’re telling me after the job, the apartment and last night.” Your voice lowered, exhausted by the anger carrying it. “You keep giving me decisions after you’ve made them.”

For several seconds, he could not speak.

Then he said, “I love you.”

Plainly. No stairwell noise, no mouth against your hair, no unfinished sentence you had to translate for him.

You had imagined those words from Carmy for most of your life. You had never imagined they would make you feel this lonely.

“I love you too,” you whispered. 

Carmy stepped toward you.

You moved back.

The small retreat stopped him more completely than shouting could have.

“Please don’t touch me.”

His hands fell to his sides.

“I have to go.”

“Wait.”

You turned toward the yard.

“I can fix this,” he said behind you.

You stopped with one hand against the fence opening and looked back at him. He stood 

beneath the weak porch light, hood fallen away from his head, looking frightened and young and exactly like the boy you had spent half your life trying to understand.

“You can’t  fix a decision by making another one for me.”

Carmy’s mouth opened.

You crossed through the gap before he found an answer.

The back door of your parents’ house waited only a few yards away, but the thought of stepping into that quiet kitchen while everyone was still next door felt impossible. Your overnight bag sat in your childhood room. Your car was parked out front. You could have gone inside, locked the door and let the house hide you until morning.

Instead, you passed the steps, went through the side gate and onto the sidewalk.

You made it half a block before Mikey called after you.

“Honeybear—hey.”

You closed your eyes.

His footsteps approached at a jog. He had thrown a jacket over a thin T-shirt, and neither shoe was tied properly. Cold had already reddened his face.

“Jesus. You trying to outrun the whole neighborhood?”

You looked away.

Mikey took in your wet cheeks, the tension in your shoulders and the way you held your coat closed with both fists. The humor left his face.

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

He moved beside you rather than blocking your path and matched his pace to yours. For several seconds, the only sound was your boots against the frozen sidewalk.

Then he asked, “Was it Carm?”

You did not answer.

Mikey looked back toward the house. “He told you about New York.”

You stopped.

“You knew?”

“Not that he got it.” The answer came quickly. “I knew he was waiting to hear. That’s it.”

You studied him, trying to decide whether another piece of your life had been sitting in someone else’s hands.

Mikey saw the fear in your face.

“I swear, Honeybear. I didn’t know.”

Your shoulders lowered by a fraction.

“He wants me to go with him.”

For one second, Mikey looked relieved. Then he understood that the sentence was not good news.

“How’d he ask?”

A broken sound escaped you, almost a laugh.

“He didn’t. He found an apartment. He asked people about jobs for me.” You wiped angrily at your face. “He knew before last night. He knew he was leaving, and he didn’t tell me until after.”

Your voice failed.

Mikey’s face went still.

“Jesus Christ, Carm.”

“I feel so stupid.”

“No.” The word came sharply enough to stop you. “Don’t do that.”

You looked at him.

“You trusted him,” Mikey said. “That is not stupidity.”

The gentleness in his voice loosened what little control you had left.

“He could have told me,” you said. “I would have listened. I might have gone.”

Mikey nodded once. “He should’ve asked.”

Your breath hitched.

He opened his arms.

“C’mere.”

You went to him.

Mikey wrapped his jacket around both of you as much as he could and held you against his 

chest. The embrace carried the same uncomplicated safety it had when you were children, when a bicycle chain snapped or pavement opened your knee and he appeared before either set of parents had time to notice.

He did not soften Carmy for you.

He only held you.

When the shaking slowed, Mikey drew back enough to see your face.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” he said.

You gave a weak nod.

“And he loves you.” Mikey’s jaw tightened before he added, “That doesn’t make him right.”

You looked down at the pavement.

“I don’t know what happens now.”

“You don’t need an answer tonight.”

He slipped one arm around your shoulders and walked you back toward the neighboring houses. He did not steer you toward the Berzatto porch. He took you to your parents’ house, where the light over the front steps cast its familiar yellow circle across the snow.

“You want me to come in?”

You shook your head. “My parents are still next door. I was supposed to sleep here tonight.”

“Okay.”

“I need to be alone.”

Mikey remained at the bottom of the steps while you climbed.

“Honeybear.”

You looked back.

“You don’t owe him New York,” he said. “And you don’t have to forgive him on his schedule.”

The words settled more slowly than comfort.

“I’m trying to believe that.”

“That’s enough for tonight.”

From the porch, you could see Carmy’s upstairs window across the narrow strip of darkness between the houses. The curtain remained open. His old bed sat unmade beneath the frost-clouded glass.

That morning, you had believed waking there meant the two of you had finally stopped leaving each other behind.

Now you understood that Carmy had already been preparing to go.

Mikey waited until you unlocked the door.

You entered without turning on the lights. Your overnight bag sat at the foot of the stairs, exactly where you had left it before crossing next door that afternoon. The house received you in silence, familiar rooms holding their shapes in the dark.

Behind you, Mikey remained on the porch until the lock clicked.

Through the front window, you watched him cross the lawn and disappear into the Berzatto house.

Carmy never came out.

For once, you were grateful he had let you go.

You were no longer certain you would follow when he left.

[hobipowers]

(cr. ouranxingg)

[bngtanah]

I’m (not) With The Band. | 15

summary: Adrienne is an indie producer who is hired to help co-produce BTS’ next album alongside their resident producer; Suga. Despite the initial opposition on both ends, the pair spend time together, share a few stories, dreams and aspirations and begin to hit it off really well. Wrapped up in the whirlwind of late nights and heated disagreements and reconciliations, Min Yoongi and Adrienne Rolle find themselves growing closer and closer. One night they decide to cross the barrier between personal and professional and do their best make a relationship work against all odds.

prologue pairing: idol!Yoongi  x black!OC word count: 4.4k genre: drama, romance warning: relationship tension, workplace relationship, secrecy, sexual attraction, ambw, fluff, online bullying, anxiety, explicit language.

Tokyo had become a closed circuit.

Hotel. Studio. Hotel. Studio. Repeat. Like the city itself had conspired to collapse into a tunnel with no exit, no windows, just a single, blinding light labeled deadline . Adrienne moved through it like a trained animal, hitting her marks with precision. Wake. Dress. Don’t think too long in the mirror. Step into the elevator. Enter the studio like it’s not eating you alive.

The unit had declared themselves a “united front,” and in most ways, it was true. On paper, at least. Yoongi was relentless. Jimin, dependable. Jungkook, quietly protective. Even Jin, in his orbiting way, made sure she was seen. But inside the walls — the real ones — the ones she had built to survive, the ones the industry had weaponized against her — the cuts had already started.

Yoongi showed up to the studio before her every day. Never said it aloud, but it was understood: if there was anything off, anything out of place, he’d catch it first. He walked the space like a bodyguard before a performance. Checked the whiteboard. Double-checked the production notes. Coordinated the day’s workflow with clinical efficiency. His voice had taken on a quality she’d never heard before — not cold, exactly, but decisive. Sharp. Any conversation that didn't serve the project, or her, was deflected, redirected, or shut down.

He didn’t say I’m protecting you. He didn’t need to.

At first, she’d been grateful. Relieved, even. But after a week, the protection started to feel like surveillance. Like she had been placed in a pressure-sealed chamber where the only acceptable emotion was productivity. No breath, no cracks, no room for fear or fatigue or fuck-ups. Just the music.

But the pressure wasn’t coming from them.

It was coming from the inside.

It started with a single, throwaway comment from Producer Park. A senior legacy figure in the label. The kind of man who wore his history like armor — who’d built a career on being unmovable.

Adrienne had just locked a synth line she liked — textured, minimal, just a little off-kilter. Something that sounded like memory fraying at the edges. She was deep in it, headphones on, when he leaned in over her shoulder without warning.

"Interesting choice," he said. “Very... Western.”

There was nothing inherently wrong with the words. But they landed like a slap.

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t turn around. “The international market responds to layered tones. It’s strategic.”

He hummed like he was being generous. “Perhaps. But sometimes, simple and melodic lands better with our core fans. Less cerebral. More emotional.”

She let the silence sit between them. Let it hum with all the things she wasn’t going to say.

It’s not about the melody, is it? It’s the fact that I’m here, doing this at all.

Yoongi was on the other side of the room, deep in something with Sejin, completely unaware. And Adrienne? She added it to the pile. The paper cuts. The kind that bled more in the dark.

Later that afternoon, someone "forgot" to include her in the studio’s group lunch order. A junior assistant, eyes wide with manufactured guilt.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I completely blanked. It’s been such a busy day—"

Adrienne smiled. Tight. Hollow. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

But she knew what would happen if she made it a thing. She’d be called difficult. Emotional. Aggressive. The foreigner with an attitude.

So she swallowed it. Again.

And again.

And again.

She didn’t tell Yoongi. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew exactly how he would react. And right now, she needed him clear. Focused. Not burning the studio to the ground over microaggressions she could technically survive.

Instead, she came in every day and did the work. Pushed her voice until it cracked, then recorded through the cracks. Accepted critiques that were never critiques. Just knives with soft handles.

Yoongi thought he was shielding her. And in some ways, he was. But he didn’t know where the real wounds were.

He was fighting dragons.

But she was dying from poison in the drinking water.

Yoongi hadn’t slept properly in a week. Not real sleep. Not the kind that folded you down into the mattress and left you weightless. His nights were fractured things. Shallow stretches of unconsciousness between studio runs and strategy meetings, between tracking vocal layers and trying to convince PR not to run another preemptive statement.

He lived in caffeine and compression timelines now. Blood replaced with coffee and adrenaline. He didn’t need rest. He needed results.

The pressure had calcified into purpose. Get the album done. Keep her safe. Finish what they started.

Everything else was noise.

In the studio, he was sharper than ever and relentless in a way that even surprised himself. He cut through bad takes and weak pitches with surgical precision. He kept her fed, hydrated, shielded. When something even hinted at being overwhelming; an overlong meeting, an underprepared coordinator, he shut it down before she had to lift a finger. His instinct to protect her had turned into strategy, into control.

He arranged their sessions meticulously, stacking the day to create maximum output with minimum friction. She never asked for it, but she hadn’t pushed back either. He told himself that was confirmation. That she needed  his structure, his planning, the wall he was building around her, brick by carefully measured brick.

He knew the others saw it too. Jimin made a quiet point to check on her in the mornings. Namjoon made sure to include her name in praise during staff meetings, so the higher-ups didn’t forget who was shaping half the album. Jungkook lingered after vocal tracking, hanging back like a watchdog in a hoodie.

It filled Yoongi with something close to pride. This was what it meant to be a team. This was the line in the sand. They were holding it.

And still, sometimes (usually when she thought he wasn’t looking) he caught it. A shadow across her expression. A silence that felt deeper than exhaustion.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

He told himself it was stress. Fatigue. The intensity of the work. She was holding up, she was here . That had to mean she was okay.

He didn’t see the slow shift in her posture after meetings. The way she’d flinch when someone else spoke over her. The way her smile turned more rehearsed, more careful. He chalked it all up to pressure. Expected it. This is what it means to be great , he told himself. This is the fire we walk through to get there.

But there was something else underneath. Something he didn’t know how to name.

He noticed Producer Park’s sudden interest but he misread the shape of it. Park had always been territorial, allergic to innovation. Yoongi had gone head-to-head with him a dozen times over creative direction. This was nothing new.

If anything, he thought Park’s skepticism of Adrienne was a mark of respect. You don’t challenge what you don’t take seriously. It didn’t occur to him that what was happening wasn’t about her work. Not really. He didn’t hear the way “Western” hit different when it was aimed at her.

He didn’t hear the quiet violence in that word.

He missed it.

And that was the real failure. Not the war he was fighting for her — but the smaller one he couldn’t even see.

The hallway was quiet in that late-night way only hotels could master, scrubbed sterile and humming low with machinery no one ever saw. Hoseok walked with his hoodie up and headphones in, not listening to anything, just using the wire as an excuse not to talk. He had just left the gym, sweat drying cold against his skin, the ache in his legs a dull, welcome burn.

He wasn't even sure what he was trying to work off. The tension. The weight. The static that had crept into all their interactions lately, like someone had turned the dial on the whole world just slightly too loud.

As he turned the corner near the staff elevator, voices pulled him out of his thoughts. Two. Low. Not urgent, but close. He slowed, pressed his back to the wall instinctively, the way you do when you aren’t supposed to be listening but can't stop yourself.

Choi’s voice was the first one he recognized, even and professional, the rhythm of someone used to giving bad news with soft edges.

“…the publisher backed off. Legal pressure helped, but the files are still out there. We’re just plugging leaks at this point. Whack-a-mole.”

A sigh. Then another voice, heavier, older, sharpened with something bitter.

“It’s a mess,” Producer Park muttered. “All of this, over her.”

Her. It hit Hoseok’s bloodstream like a cold splash of water. He didn’t breathe.

“I told Bang PD from the start,” Park went on, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Bringing in an outsider was always going to be a risk. These foreigners, they don’t work like we do. They have different priorities. Different standards.”

Choi didn’t immediately push back. Her silence rang louder than Park’s words.

“Yoongi’s too close,” Park continued. “You can see it. He’s let her in too far, and now the whole project is unbalanced. She’s got him twisted. Look at how he talks about her songs. Look at how the others coddle her. This wasn’t supposed to be a daycare. She’s not even Korean. She doesn’t understand the core of what we do here.”

It wasn’t just criticism. It was dismissal. Erasure. Park wasn’t talking about creative process anymore. He was talking about Adrienne’s right to exist in the space at all. And there was something in his voice that made Hoseok’s fists curl without permission.

“She’s talented,” Choi said eventually, her voice stiff. “Namjoon said her bridge on the title track changed the whole direction of the album.”

“Maybe. But talent isn’t everything. Not when it’s loud. Not when it disrupts the tone. Her music doesn’t carry han . It lacks subtlety. It’s too much. She’s too much.”

Hoseok took a step back, chest tight, nausea creeping up his throat. He slipped away before they could see him, the corridor stretching cold and endless in front of him. His legs carried him back to his room automatically, but his mind was still stuck in that hallway. In that moment.

He had always known Adrienne was under pressure, that the whispers around her weren’t just internet noise. But now the shape of it was fully visible. The ugliness was out in the open.

And for the first time, Hoseok felt truly powerless.

He couldn't tell Yoongi. It would ignite him. He would burn the whole building down and the fire would take Adrienne with it. He couldn't tell Adrienne either. It would only break her heart more than the system already had and confirm what he knew she already feared — that the walls were closing in.

So he kept it to himself.

Locked it down tight.

And with the weight of it sitting heavy on his chest, Hoseok did the only thing he could do.

He stayed close.

The first time it happened, she almost convinced herself it was an honest mistake.

A corrupted hard drive. A junior engineer’s panicked expression. A brittle apology, all breathless regret and fast blinking. “We’re so sorry, Adrienne-ssi, I don’t know what happened. It just… glitched.”

It was one of the external drives Yoongi had labeled for her exclusive use. Two weeks of work: synth layering, harmony tracking, a stripped vocal arrangement she had finally started to like — all wiped. Gone.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t even flinch. She just nodded once and asked for a replacement drive. Then she sat at her workstation for twelve hours straight and rebuilt the tracks from memory, every note a defiance, every correction a middle finger.

But the moment stayed lodged in her like a splinter. Not because of the error itself — things like that happened in any studio — but because of what followed.

Nothing.

No check-in from the engineer. No explanation from the department head. No acknowledgment of the inconvenience, the delay, the exhaustion. Just a quiet silence that dared her to say something. A silence that said, You're lucky to be here. Don’t make it harder than it already is.

After that, the frequency changed.

Lunch orders started getting “accidentally” misrouted. Meeting invites came late or not at all. Notes from producers that were normally circulated to everyone in the studio seemed to skip her entirely. If she asked, someone would laugh and say, “Oh, didn’t you see the update? Sorry, thought you were copied.”

They were small things. Easy to explain away. But she could feel them accumulating. Shifting the center of the room until she was no longer in it.

She began to eat more meals in her hotel room. Not because she wanted to — but because the weight of trying to pretend she belonged in the shared kitchen, with its chatter and cliques and coded language, was more exhausting than the isolation.

Even her own presence started to feel like an interruption. An unwanted footnote.

And Yoongi didn’t see it.

He saw the war as a front-facing battle. Public-facing, press-facing. He was fighting in headlines and meetings and press briefings. He had no idea that the air she was breathing had gone thin, that the people around her had stopped meeting her eyes.

When Park publicly critiqued her demo — the one she and Yoongi had labored over for days — it was so casually brutal it took the breath right out of her lungs.

“Technically proficient,” he said, tilting his head like he was doing her a favor by being polite. “But it lacks soul. Feels like it’s trying too hard.”

The words landed like a slap in front of a full room. She had seen Park ignore tracks that were half-finished, let entire bridge sections slide because a male producer had asked for “a vibe check.” But for her, it was a public bloodletting.

Yoongi had gone stone-cold beside her, posture snapping upright like a sword drawn. “Actually,” he’d said, voice low and dangerous, “it’s the most honest thing on the album. And if you can’t hear that, you’re not listening.”

The silence in the room was long and uncomfortable.

Yoongi had thought he was defending her. And maybe he was. But the impact wasn’t a shield — it was a spotlight. A flare of attention that only made her more visible. More alien. And even more alone.

The music was still her only refuge.

In the quiet of the night, long after the others had left the studio, she would sit alone with her headphones and try to stitch herself back together through the work. Her favorite parts weren’t the high-impact songs, the ones the press would latch onto. They were the quieter interludes. The brief, almost cinematic transitions between tracks. The places where the story was told not in lyrics, but in textures — a trembling piano loop, a whisper of harmony tucked behind the beat.

She lived for those seconds. Because in those moments, she wasn’t Adrienne the scandal. Adrienne the foreigner. Adrienne the burden. She was just… a musician.

But every morning she had to face the building again. Every polite smile from a staffer came with a lingering look she couldn’t decode. Every hushed conversation that ended when she walked in scraped a little deeper.

Yoongi still brought her coffee every day. Still shielded her from nonsense meetings, still watched her with that intense, silent focus that made her feel like the only person in the room. But even his protection had become something complicated. Something sharp-edged.

He started speaking for her more in creative meetings. Started “correcting” the tone of her notes before she even finished them. Not because he didn’t trust her — but because he was trying to preempt the criticism.

He didn’t realize he was sanding her down to something she wasn’t.

And still, she didn’t tell him. Couldn’t. Because she knew how hard he was trying. And because somewhere inside, a small, wounded voice was starting to whisper that maybe it wasn’t just them.

Maybe it was her.

Maybe she didn’t belong here after all.

It was sometime after midnight when she finally gave in and opened her photos app.

She should have been asleep. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. There were stems waiting for her in the Dropbox, harmonies that needed layering, and a synth line she couldn’t decide whether to double or scrap entirely. But none of that mattered right now.

All that mattered was the quiet ache in her chest that hadn’t let up since the studio door had clicked shut behind her.

The room was cold, overly sterilized by hotel air-conditioning that never quite turned off. Her untouched dinner sat on the tray by the window, long gone cold, condensation pooled under the water bottle. Her laptop, still open, played a silent YouTube tab she’d clicked hours ago and never watched.

She scrolled.

The photos weren’t even new. They were screenshots from Danielle’s Instagram, ones she had already seen and liked with a heart emoji and a fire emoji and a comment that read “my goddess, my hero, my big sister ❤️” like everything was fine.

But they didn’t look fine now.

Danielle, radiant in her third-trimester glow, surrounded by pastel balloons and plates of coconut cupcakes, holding a tiny, floral-print onesie with Zoe's name on it. Laughter. Brown bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Smiles wide enough to be heard through the screen. A life.

A home.

Adrienne had missed the whole thing. The baby shower. The ceremony. The chance to be there, to lay hands on the belly that carried her niece. All traded for what? Silence. Suspicion. A hotel suite that smelled like bleach and overcooked rice.

Her throat burned.

Before she could think too hard about it, she opened her contacts and tapped Danielle’s name.

The phone rang three times.

“Andy?” Danielle’s voice was warm, still heavy with sleep but instantly alert. “Is everything okay?”

It took Adrienne a second to speak. She stared at her reflection in the dark window, phone pressed to her cheek like a lifeline.

“Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah, I just… I wanted to hear your voice.”

Danielle exhaled, something fond and familiar sliding into her tone. “I was just dreaming about chicken nuggets. Like, the good ones. The cafeteria ones from middle school.”

Adrienne let out a small, choked laugh. “You’re not even pregnant anymore, why are you still craving things?”

“Because my baby had excellent taste.”

There was a brief silence. Not uncomfortable, just full.

“You okay?” Danielle asked again, quieter this time. “You sound tired.”

Adrienne closed her eyes. The truth came up like a wave, huge and wild, begging to crash.

I’m tired in a way I don’t know how to fix. I’m disappearing by inches. There are people here who don’t want me in the room. I don’t think I’ve been touched in a kind way that didn’t come from Yoongi in weeks. I miss home. I miss being seen.

But she couldn’t say any of that.

Not when Danielle was already carrying so much. Not when she was glowing with the love of bringing new life into this world. Adrienne couldn’t — wouldn’t — spill her black ink into that kind of joy.

So she swallowed it. Tucked it somewhere deep.

“I’m okay,” she said, forcing her voice into something light. “Things are actually… going well. It’s intense, but it’s good. The work is some of the best I’ve ever done.”

“Yeah?” Danielle sounded hopeful, which made it worse. “Are the guys still looking out for you?”

“They’ve been incredible. Yoongi’s… he’s been amazing. Like a one-man security team-slash-producer-slash-therapist.”

“That’s my girl.” Danielle’s voice turned soft, teasing. “Falling for someone with range.”

Adrienne laughed. It was real, for a second. Then it burned out.

They talked for another fifteen minutes. About the baby (still an infant, not doing much), about Danielle’s newest weird craving (red licorice and pickled eggs, which Adrienne tried very hard not to react to), and about a half-hearted plan to FaceTime sometime soon.

Adrienne kept the smile in her voice. Let Danielle hear the strong, thriving version of her. The version that could still be a role model, a pillar, a sister.

By the time they hung up, the phone screen went dark in her hand, and the silence that followed was thick and brutal.

She had lied.

Not a white lie. Not a protective fib.

She had lied, straight through her teeth, to the one person in the world she had never lied to before. Not even once. And now the lie sat in the room with her, heavier than grief, colder than exhaustion.

The truth wasn’t safe to speak aloud anymore. Not even here. Not even to the person who’d once held her hair back when she threw up on her birthday. Who had walked her through the trauma of her first breakup. Who had flown across an ocean when Adrienne lost her scholarship and felt too ashamed to go home.

That distance had been circumstantial. This one was deliberate.

She had built this wall herself. A fortress of silence and pretend victories. And now she was stuck behind it, alone.

The loneliness hit her so hard she had to curl in on herself just to breathe.

He didn’t knock. He never knocked anymore.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m., and the hallway lights outside Adrienne’s room flickered low and yellow. The hotel was silent, save for the hum of vending machines and the soft shuffle of his own sneakers against the carpet. His shoulders ached from hours hunched over the mixing desk, but he barely noticed. His mind was on fire. Not frantic. Not chaotic. Just bright. Like something had finally clicked into place after days of feeling stuck underwater.

He had it. The bridge.

It had come to him like lightning, sudden and merciless. A perfect, aching run of chords that bent toward Hoseok’s verse and snapped clean into Namjoon’s without losing the thread. It was balanced, bold. It felt inevitable. A tether. It was the piece they’d been circling for weeks.

He unlocked her door and stepped in.

“Andy,” he called softly, already smiling. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

But the room didn’t answer him back.

The lights were off, the curtains drawn. Adrienne was curled on the corner of the bed, still dressed, laptop open but asleep or nearly there. He could tell from the angle of her body that she hadn’t moved in a while. Not really. Not since he left.

There was a room service tray on the console, covered but untouched. The condensation on the water glass had pooled into a perfect ring. The place smelled like takeout steam and cold linen and something else he couldn’t quite name.

She looked up at him when he came closer. Her face was bare. Not just of makeup, but of expression.

His smile faltered.

“I got it,” he said anyway, voice low with triumph. “The bridge. It’s done. It’s clean and weird and bold and—hell, it’s us. You’ll hear it and know.”

He waited.

She didn’t say anything for a long beat. Then she nodded. Slow. As if the motion cost her something.

“That’s great, Gi,” she said softly.

Not sarcastic. Not dismissive. But also not… present.

Yoongi dropped his bag by the door and moved toward her, kneeling at the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, eyes glancing somewhere near his shoulder. “Nothing. Long day.”

He hated that phrase. It always meant something worse.

He reached for her hand, found it cold and limp in his. She let him hold it, didn’t pull away, but her fingers didn’t tighten around his either.

Yoongi’s mind scrambled. He had done everything right. He’d cleared her schedule. Argued with staff. Thrown himself between her and every executive with an agenda. This project was clean now. Sharp. Their best work. The album was shaping up into something transformative. Something undeniable.

And Adrienne looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“We’re almost there,” he said, desperate to share what he was feeling. “The title track’s done. Once it drops, once they hear it—they’ll shut up. All of them. The whole fucking world.”

She just looked at him.

No spark. No fight. Just something tired, and quiet, and far away.

He moved closer. Brushed a hand across her cheek, trying to will something back into her. “A little longer, okay? We finish strong. We put it out, and we get to be proud of what we made.”

Adrienne smiled then, but it was the kind of smile that belonged to a woman drowning politely in a crowded room. Not because she couldn’t scream, but because screaming would make everyone else uncomfortable.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He pulled her into his chest. Felt her tuck herself under his chin, arms winding around his middle like muscle memory. He stroked her back, slowly, like it would undo whatever had frayed. Like touch could fix what language hadn’t.

She let him.

And he thought: this is enough. This is how you hold someone through the worst of it.

But as Adrienne rested her head on his chest, closing her eyes and breathing in his familiar scent, she felt a profound and devastating sense of loneliness. She was in the arms of the man she loved, a man who would go to war for her, and she had never felt more alone in her life. The thought, once a fleeting whisper, now became a clear, solid resolve in her mind.

I can’t stay here.

She would finish the album. She would give him this victory, this masterpiece they had forged in the fire. And then, she would go home. It was the only way to save herself. And, she thought with a heartbreaking pang of clarity, it was probably the only way to save him, too.

[bngtanah]

I’m (not) With The Band. | 14

summary: Adrienne is an indie producer who is hired to help co-produce BTS’ next album alongside their resident producer; Suga. Despite the initial opposition on both ends, the pair spend time together, share a few stories, dreams and aspirations and begin to hit it off really well. Wrapped up in the whirlwind of late nights and heated disagreements and reconciliations, Min Yoongi and Adrienne Rolle find themselves growing closer and closer. One night they decide to cross the barrier between personal and professional and do their best make a relationship work against all odds.

pairing: idol!Yoongi  x black!OC word count: 5.2k genre: drama, romance chapters: prologue| o1| o2| o3| o4| o5| o6| o7| o8 [m]| o9| 1o| 11| 12| warning: relationship tension, workplace relationship, secrecy, sexual attraction, ambw, fluff, online bullying, anxiety, explicit language.

For a single, silent moment, the world stopped. The words didn't register. They were just shapes on a screen. Then, the meaning crashed into him like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. A cold, metallic dread flooded his veins, instantly banishing the warmth and peace of moments before.

His thumb, trembling, clicked the link. The pictures loaded. Namjoon and Adrienne. Walking. Talking. Hugging. The way the photos were framed, cropped, angled—it was deliberate. Malicious. It was a construction, a lie built from fragments of truth.

His first emotion wasn't jealousy. It was a pure, white-hot, volcanic rage. A rage so intense it made his vision swim. This was an attack. Not on Namjoon, not really. This was an attack on her . They were feeding her to the wolves. A foreign woman, a talented creator, reduced to a “mysterious female,” a faceless conquest for an idol. They had erased her identity, her artistry, and painted her as a homewrecker.

His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. Who? Who had done this? A rival company? Sasaengs? It didn't matter. They had crossed a line. They had hurt his Adrienne.

His mind worked with a chilling, furious clarity. He thought of her in her room, probably still sleeping peacefully, completely unaware that her world was being set on fire. The image sent a fresh surge of protective fury through him. He had to get to her. He had to be the one to tell her, to shield her before the anonymous poison of the internet could reach her.

He was already out of bed, pulling on the dark clothes he’d discarded earlier, when his phone rang. It was Sejin.

“Hyung,” Yoongi’s voice was dangerously calm, a low growl that belied the storm raging inside him. “What’s the official response?”

“We’re drafting it now,” Sejin’s voice was tense, all business. “Denial, of course. Threatening legal action for defamation and invasion of privacy. But the photos are out there, Yoongi. It’s already spreading.”

“I don’t care about the spread,” Yoongi snapped, his voice like ice. “I care about her safety. Is there security on her floor?”

“Yes, we’ve already posted someone. No one gets near her room.”

“Good.” He thought of Namjoon. The poor bastard. He’d walked right into a landmine, his only crime being a decent, kind-hearted man. This would be a nightmare for him as the leader. But Yoongi’s primary, primal focus was singular.

“I’m going to her room,” he stated, not asking for permission.

“Yoongi, wait. We need to handle this carefully. You being seen going to her room right now…”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about being seen,” he snarled, all pretense of calm gone. “Someone just declared war on my… on our producer. On a member of our team. I’m going to be with her. You handle the press.”

He hung up before Sejin could argue, his heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and dread. He shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his cap, and stalked towards the door. This was the nightmare he had always feared, the collision of his private happiness and his public life. But it hadn't come from his own actions. It had come from a lie. A lie he was going to help her burn to the ground.

The knock on her door was sharp, insistent, tearing through the quiet fabric of her peaceful morning. Adrienne frowned, setting down her coffee cup. She moved to the door, her plush robe cinched at her waist, and peered through the peephole. Hoseok. His face was a mask of anxiety.

She swung the door open. “Hobi? What’s wrong?”

His words came out in a rushed, low torrent. “Noona, have you looked at your phone? Or the news?” He was practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“No, why?” The knot of unease in her stomach tightened into a cold fist. “Hoseok, you’re scaring me.”

“Just… check your phone, Andy. And don’t leave your room. Yoongi-hyung is on his way.” And with that, he was gone, a flash of frantic energy disappearing down the hall.

Her hands were trembling now. Yoongi is on his way. The words echoed in her mind, laced with an ominous dread. She stumbled back to the bedside table, her tranquil bubble irrevocably popped. She picked up the phone.

The screen was an explosion of digital violence. Missed calls, texts, notifications. Her eyes landed on a headline from a major entertainment site. Her own name stared back at her.

She clicked.

The first photo was of her and Namjoon, walking. The caption called her a “mysterious foreigner.” The second photo, the hug, was labeled “an intimate embrace.” The article was a masterpiece of character assassination. It wasn't just speculation; it was a narrative. She was an opportunist, a schemer who had used her position to seduce the group’s leader. They questioned her credentials, insinuated her work was subpar, her success unearned.

A wave of dizziness made her sit heavily on the edge of the bed. This was a nightmare. She scrolled down, against every screaming instinct in her body, to the comments section.

The words were like acid.

taetaeluvr_97 · 3m Who is this black girl? She’s not even pretty. ↳ yoongislawyer · 2m Imagine thinking beauty is your business. Sit down and stay mad. bts4eva_jin · 5m Figures she’d go after the leader. She probably slept her way into the job. namjoonswife_kor · 10m Namjoon deserves better. He should be with a nice Korean girl. ↳ mono_verse · 7m Namjoon deserves happiness. Maybe she makes him smile—unlike this thread. kookie_cutieee · 15m She looks like a cheap gold-digger. Send her back where she came from. minyoongifairy · 20m I bet her music is trash, that’s why they needed to hire her, lol. She’s a diversity hire. ↳ healingbeats · 17m She literally produces her own music. Y’all are loud and wrong.

It was a tidal wave of pure, unfiltered hate, aimed directly at her. Every insecurity she had ever harbored about being an outsider, about being good enough, about her race, her gender, was being thrown back at her, magnified a million times. The violation was absolute. It felt like they had reached through the screen and stripped her bare, leaving her exposed and raw for the entire world to mock and tear apart.

But beneath the crushing weight of venom, a flicker of light pierced the darkness. Amid the flood of bitter voices, a few rose in fierce defense — sharp and unwavering. Their words were fewer, but they burned with a steady heat, wrapping around her like a fragile shield.

A sob, thick and ragged, tore from her throat. This was what Yoongi had been afraid of. This was the beast he tried to keep at bay.

The door to her room burst open with such force that it slammed against the wall. Yoongi stood there, a whirlwind of furious energy, his face pale, his eyes blazing. He saw the phone clutched in her white-knuckled grip, the tears streaming down her face, and the rage in his expression melted into a look of profound, heart-wrenching pain.

He crossed the room in two strides, his hands coming up to gently pry the phone from her fingers, tossing it onto the bed as if it were contaminated. He framed her face with his hands, his touch a desperate, grounding force.

“Andy,” he breathed, his voice a raw, broken thing. “Don’t look at it. Please, baby, don't read that trash.”

“They hate me,” she whispered, the words fractured by sobs. “Yoongi, they hate me. They said… they said…”

“I know what they said,” he growled, pulling her into a crushing embrace. His arms were a fortress around her, and she clung to him, burying her face in the solid warmth of his chest. He held her, rocking her gently, whispering furious, comforting words into her hair. “It’s lies, Adrienne. All of it. Vicious, calculated lies. They’re scum. They’re nothing.”

He held her for a long time, letting her cry, his own silent fury a palpable heat against her. When her sobs finally subsided into shuddering breaths, he pulled back, his dark eyes searching hers.

“What do we do?” she asked, her voice small and hoarse. “The company… Namjoon… my sister called…”

His expression hardened, his focus shifting from comfort to command. “First,” he said, his voice low and steady, “you need to listen to me. This is not your fault. None of it. Do you understand?” He waited until she gave a small, shaky nod.

“Second, we don’t let them win. Panicking is what they want. The company is handling the official side. Sejin and Namjoon are already working on it.” He took a deep breath, his resolve solidifying. “What matters, right now, is this.” He tapped his own chest, then gently touched hers, right over her heart. “Us. They can’t touch this.”

He looked at her, truly looked at her, seeing the deep wound they had inflicted. The fear, the humiliation, the violation. And his love for her, fierce and protective, surged with the force of a tidal wave. He had been so consumed with the fear of their own relationship causing a scandal that he had never imagined a lie could be so much more destructive.

“You are the most talented, brilliant, and beautiful woman I have ever known,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely showed. “You are not a ‘mysterious female.’ You are Adrienne Rolle. A phenomenal producer. And you are mine.” The last word was a possessive, protective growl. “I was a coward before. I was afraid of what the world would think, what it would do to us. Not anymore. Fuck the world.”

He pulled her hand into his, his grip firm, a lifeline. “They picked the wrong people to mess with, Andy. We’re going to get through this. Together.”

She looked up at him, into the blazing conviction in his eyes. The fear was still there, a cold snake in her stomach. But for the first time since she’d picked up that phone, it wasn’t alone. Beside it, a new feeling was taking root. A shared strength. A defiant, burning anger. A love that felt not like a fragile secret, but like an unbreakable shield.

She squeezed his hand back, her fingers lacing through his, a silent vow.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice finding its first sliver of steel. “Together.”

The world outside her hotel room had become a low, menacing hum, a beast stirring in its sleep. Inside, there was only the sound of Yoongi’s breathing and the frantic, unsteady beat of her own heart. The initial storm of tears had subsided, leaving behind a hollowed-out landscape of shock and a cold, simmering rage. He hadn’t left her side. After his furious, protective declaration, a quiet, focused energy had taken over him. He’d ordered her a pot of hot tea from room service, his voice on the phone deceptively calm, a general marshaling his resources. He’d taken her phone and placed it face down on the far side of the room, a silent command she had no intention of disobeying. For now.

“Drink this,” he said, his voice soft as he pressed the warm ceramic mug into her hands. His anger hadn't vanished; it had simply been banked, forged into a shield around her. He sat on the edge of the bed, not touching her, but his proximity was a palpable force, a silent promise of solidarity.

“What’s happening out there?” she asked, her voice raspy. The tea was chamomile, its scent a ridiculously gentle counterpoint to the violence of the situation.

“The company is in lockdown,” he said, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall, his mind clearly working through a dozen different scenarios. “Sejin—our manager—is coordinating with the legal team. They’re tracking the origin of the photos. They believe it was a targeted leak, not a random paparazzo.”

“Targeted?” The word sent a fresh chill through her. This wasn’t just bad luck. Someone had wanted to hurt them. To hurt her .

“To destabilize us before the new album. To create chaos.” He finally looked at her, his eyes dark with a grim certainty. “It’s a common tactic. They just… they used you and Namjoon as the ammunition.”

The casual way he said Namjoon’s name, without a trace of the jealousy that had poisoned the air between them just days ago, was a profound relief. The external enemy had obliterated their internal strife.

“How is he?” she asked quietly. “Namjoon, I mean. He… he doesn’t deserve any of this. He was just being kind.”

A muscle ticked in Yoongi’s jaw. “He’s the leader. He knows what this means. He’s strong. He’s probably in a meeting right now, blaming himself for the whole damn thing, even though he did nothing wrong.” He sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of their shared history. “He’ll be worried about you.”

Before Adrienne could process the complex web of guilt and responsibility that entangled them all, there was another knock on the door. It was sharper this time, more official. Yoongi was on his feet in an instant, positioning himself between her and the door.

“Who is it?” he called out, his voice low.

“It’s Sejin. I need to speak with both of you. And Namjoon is with me.”

Yoongi’s eyes met Adrienne’s. The first test. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod, a silent message: We face this together. He opened the door.

Manager Sejin was a man who seemed to thrive under pressure, his face a mask of calm professionalism, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed the stress of the last few hours. Standing slightly behind him, looking deeply uncomfortable, was Namjoon.

His gaze found Adrienne’s immediately. The apology was written all over his face—in the slump of his broad shoulders, the pained expression in his intelligent eyes. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world. Adrienne felt a pang of sympathy so sharp it almost overshadowed her own pain.

“Can we come in?” Sejin asked, his eyes flicking from Yoongi’s defiant posture to Adrienne, who was still huddled on the bed.

Yoongi stepped aside, a silent concession. The room, which had felt like a sanctuary moments before, suddenly felt small and crowded, thick with unspoken apologies and strategic imperatives.

Namjoon stepped inside, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He didn’t look at Yoongi. His focus was entirely on her.

“Adrienne-ssi,” he began, his voice rough with regret. “I am so, so sorry. I can’t even begin to tell you… If I had known anyone was watching, I never would have… I put you in this position. As the leader, as your friend… I failed to protect you. I am truly sorry.” He bowed his head, a gesture of profound remorse.

Before Adrienne could respond, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that his kindness was not a crime, Yoongi spoke.

“It wasn’t you, Namjoon,” he said, his voice flat and hard. “You were a target, same as her. This was an attack. Don’t take the blame for the enemy’s actions.”

The words hung in the air, a declaration of alliance that shifted the dynamic in the room. It wasn’t Namjoon’s fault to be forgiven; it was a shared battle to be fought. Namjoon looked up, a flicker of surprise and gratitude in his eyes as he met Yoongi’s gaze. It was the first time they had truly looked at each other, and in that look, a silent understanding passed between them—a mutual respect for the roles they now had to play. Yoongi, the fierce protector of the woman he loved. Namjoon, the burdened leader of the family under siege.

Sejin cleared his throat, bringing them all back to the grim reality. “We don't have much time. Bang PD-nim wants to see the three of you in the conference suite on the top floor. Now. We need to establish the official strategy.” He looked at Adrienne, his professional gaze softening with a hint of human sympathy. “Are you ready for this, Adrienne-ssi?”

Adrienne looked from Namjoon’s pained face to Yoongi’s resolute one. She took a deep breath, the chamomile tea doing little to soothe the fire in her gut. She stood up, pulling the hotel robe tighter around herself. “Give me ten minutes to get dressed,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’m ready.”

The conference suite on the top floor of the Capitol Hotel Tokyu was a sterile, soundproof box of corporate power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic, god-like view of the city, but no one was looking at it. The long, polished mahogany table was littered with laptops, smartphones, and half-empty cups of coffee that had long gone cold.

Bang Si-Hyuk sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. To his left was Choi, the head of their legal department, a sharp woman with tired eyes who was speaking in rapid-fire Korean. To his right was the head of PR, a younger man named Kenji who looked like he hadn’t slept in 36 hours. Manager Sejin stood by the window, his phone pressed to his ear.

“…the initial IP traces are inconclusive but point towards a burner network, likely originating from a known anti-fan café with connections to a rival entertainment company’s more… zealous followers,” Choi was saying, her voice crisp. “The photos themselves are professional-grade, taken with a long lens. This was planned. They likely had multiple teams tailing the members.”

Kenji, the PR head, chimed in, his voice strained. “The narrative is already cementing online. ‘Foreign producer seduces leader.’ It plays into every negative stereotype. The hashtag #NamjoonDatingScandal is trending number one in Korea and Japan. But worse, #AdrienneOut is starting to gain traction among the more toxic solo stans and nationalist forums.”

Bang Si-Hyuk held up a hand, and the room fell silent. “What about the brand partners?”

Kenji winced. “Samsung has called. So has Hyundai. They’re ‘monitoring the situation.’ The clause in their contracts about ‘behavior that brings the brand into disrepute’ is vague, but this is exactly the kind of thing they worry about. No one has pulled out yet, but they’re nervous. The stock took a 4% dip at market open.”

A heavy silence descended. This was no longer just about a PR fire. It was about millions of dollars, years of carefully cultivated brand image, and the stability of the entire company.

“Our official statement is ready,” Choi said, pushing a tablet across the table. “A firm denial. We categorize it as a malicious invasion of privacy and a defamatory attack. We announce our intention to pursue all available legal avenues against the original publisher and any individuals spreading false rumors. Standard procedure.”

“It’s not enough,” Bang said, his voice quiet but carrying immense weight. “A denial is a defensive posture. We need to go on the offensive. We need a counter-narrative.” He looked up as Sejin ended his call.

“They’re on their way up,” Sejin confirmed.

Bang Si-Hyuk nodded. “Good.” He turned his gaze to the others. “This crisis has two fronts. The public and the personal. The public front is our job. We will control the message. We will fight the legal battles. But the personal front… that depends entirely on them. On their resilience, their unity.”

He looked out at the sprawling city below, his expression hardening. “They tried to fracture us by creating a lie about a division between our leader and our team. Our response will be to show them unbreakable unity. We will accelerate the work. We will show the world that this team is focused, stronger than ever, and creating the best music of their lives. We will not be distracted. We will not be broken.” His gaze sharpened. “Their attack was meant to be a fire. We will use it as fuel.”

Walking into the conference suite felt like stepping onto a stage. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and high-stakes tension. Bang Si-Hyuk sat like a king at the head of the table, flanked by his lieutenants. Adrienne’s steps faltered for a second, the sheer corporate power in the room an intimidating force. Then she felt a hand on the small of her back. Yoongi. He hadn't said a word, but the touch was grounding, a silent reminder that she wasn’t walking in alone. Namjoon walked a respectful foot ahead of them, his posture rigid with the weight of his leadership.

“Sit,” Bang said, his voice calm, gesturing to the three empty chairs directly opposite him.

They sat in a line: Namjoon in the middle, Adrienne to his right, Yoongi to his left. A council of the accused.

Bang Si-Hyuk’s gaze was penetrating as he looked at each of them in turn. He started with Namjoon.

“Namjoon-ah. Tell me what happened on that walk.”

Namjoon met his boss’s gaze without flinching. He recounted the morning with a quiet, factual precision—the conversation about music, the gentle rejection of his feelings, the friendly, consoling hug. He left nothing out, his honesty a clear, clean line through the messy speculation. When he finished, he bowed his head again. “It was a moment of poor judgment on my part to initiate the hug in such a public space. As leader, I should have been more aware of our surroundings. I take full responsibility for the consequences.”

“There is no blame here, Namjoon,” Bang said, his tone firm, cutting off any further self-flagellation. “You were a victim of a planned attack. Your only ‘poor judgment’ was in underestimating the malice of our enemies.”

His gaze then shifted to Adrienne. It was softer now, but no less intense. “Adrienne-ssi. First, on behalf of the company, I want to apologize. We brought you here to be a creative partner, to be part of our family. We failed to protect you from the worst aspects of this world. No one should be subjected to the kind of violation you have experienced today.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely. Pity was the last thing she wanted. “Thank you, PD-nim,” she said, her voice clear. “But I don’t need an apology. I need to know the plan.”

A flicker of respect, of approval, crossed Bang Si-Hyuk’s face. He nodded. “Good. That’s why we’re here.” He then looked at Yoongi, who had remained silent, his body a coiled spring of controlled fury. “Yoongi-ah. You have been quiet.”

Yoongi leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “What do you need from us?” he asked, his voice low and direct. “Tell us the strategy. We’ll execute it.”

Bang Si-Hyuk outlined the plan with military precision. The legal action. The official denial. Then came the new rules.

“For the foreseeable future, there can be no public interaction between Namjoon and Adrienne. None,” he stated, his gaze sweeping over both of them. “In group settings, you will maintain a professional distance. We cannot give them any more ammunition. The optics must be impeccable.”

He then looked at all three of them. “This will be hard. You will be under a microscope. Every glance, every word will be scrutinized. But you cannot let it affect the work. In fact, we are going to do the opposite.”

This was the counter-offensive.

“We are moving up the production schedule,” he announced, the words dropping into the silent room like stones. “The final tracks need to be delivered in two weeks. The music video concepts will be finalized by the end of the week. We will release the first single ahead of schedule. We will show the world that this incident, this attack, has only made this team more focused, more creative, more powerful. Our work will be our answer. It will be our weapon.”

A new, immense pressure settled over Adrienne. Two weeks. It was an impossible deadline. But as she looked at the determined set of Bang Si-Hyuk’s jaw, she also felt a surge of defiant energy. He wasn’t just talking about damage control. He was talking about fighting back with the only thing that truly mattered: the music.

“We can do it,” she said, the words out of her mouth before she’d fully considered their weight.

Yoongi nodded beside her. “We will.”

Namjoon looked at his two friends, at their united front, and a sense of pride seemed to burn away some of his guilt. “We won’t let you down, PD-nim.”

“I know,” Bang said. He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “Now, go. You have an album to finish.”

Back in the suffocating quiet of her hotel room, the adrenaline from the meeting began to fade, leaving her feeling raw and exposed. Yoongi had walked her to her door, his hand lingering on her arm for a moment. “Get some rest,” he’d murmured. “I’ll order you dinner. Don’t look at your phone.”

She had nodded, but they both knew it was a promise she couldn’t keep.

For an hour, she paced the room, the company’s strategy replaying in her mind. The work will be our answer. It was a powerful idea, a noble one. But it felt distant, abstract. The attack hadn’t been on her work. It had been on her . On her identity, her body, her right to simply exist in a space.

She needed to understand the full scope of the battlefield. She needed to see the enemy she was supposed to be fighting.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she walked over to the far side of the room and picked up her phone. Her hands were steady now. Her heart was a cold, hard knot in her chest.

She didn't just read the articles. She delved into the digital trenches. She went to the forums, the fan cafés, the anonymous message boards. She used the translate function, the rudimentary grammar doing little to soften the blows.

The hatred was a living, breathing entity. It was creative in its cruelty. There were manipulated photos—her face crudely pasted onto pornographic images. There were detailed, fictionalized accounts of her “seduction” of Namjoon. There were threads dedicated to analyzing her physical appearance, picking apart every feature with a casual, dehumanizing racism that made her stomach turn. They called her an "it." A "thing."

They dissected her work, claiming she was a fraud who was stealing credit from the "real" producers. They dug up her old Soundcloud, leaving disgusting, threatening comments on tracks she had written years ago in the safety of her bedroom. They had found her sister’s social media profile. Danielle’s page, usually filled with joyful posts about her pregnancy and her students, was being spammed with snake emojis and messages telling her that her sister was a whore.

A strangled sound escaped her throat. This was the true violation. They had breached the walls of her present and poisoned her past. They had reached across the ocean and were now harassing her pregnant sister.

Her phone rang, and the caller ID flashed a picture of Danielle, smiling, her baby bump prominent. Adrienne’s finger hovered over the screen. She couldn’t let her sister hear the brokenness in her voice. She had to be strong. She took a deep, ragged breath and answered, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel.

“Hey, Dani!”

“Andy? Thank God. I’ve been trying to call you for hours. What the hell is going on? Your company released some statement, and my Instagram is going crazy. People are saying the most horrible things. Are you okay?” Danielle’s voice was a frantic whirlwind of concern.

“I’m fine, Dani, I promise,” Adrienne lied, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “It’s just… it’s a stupid, fake rumor. You know how crazy fans can be. The company is handling it. It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing, Andy. The things they’re saying about you… about your work…”

“It’s just noise,” Adrienne insisted, her voice gaining a brittle edge. “Please, just block them. Don’t read it. It’s not real. How are you? How’s my niece?” She desperately tried to steer the conversation away from the firestorm.

They talked for a few more minutes, Adrienne keeping up the facade of nonchalant resilience, her heart fracturing with every lie. When they hung up, she finally let the phone drop from her nerveless fingers. She curled into a tight ball on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees, and for the first time, she didn't cry. The pain was too deep for tears. It had crystallized into something else. Something hard and cold and sharp.

Yoongi knew she would look. He had seen the defiant spark in her eyes when he’d told her not to. He gave her an hour, an hour he spent pacing his own room like a caged animal, before he couldn’t stand it any longer.

He used the key-card Sejin had quietly given him and let himself into her room. The sight that greeted him stopped him cold. She was on the bed, curled into a tight, fetal position, staring blankly at the wall. The glow of her phone screen illuminated the tear tracks on her face, though her eyes were dry. The air in the room was heavy with a profound, desolate silence.

He didn't speak. He walked over, gently took the phone from her hand, and set it on the nightstand. Then he climbed onto the bed behind her, wrapping his body around hers, his arm coming to rest securely around her waist. He didn't offer empty platitudes or tell her it would be okay. He just held her, absorbing the tremors that wracked her small frame, his presence a silent, unwavering anchor.

They stayed like that for a long time, the silence stretching, filled only by the sound of their breathing. Finally, she stirred, turning in his arms to face him. Her eyes were different. The vulnerability was still there, but it was overshadowed by a new, chilling hardness. The soft, creative soul he had fallen in love with had been forced to grow armor.

“They went after my sister,” she whispered, her voice devoid of emotion. It was a simple statement of fact, but it carried the weight of an unforgivable sin.

Yoongi’s jaw clenched so hard he thought it might crack. “I know,” he said, his voice a low growl. “The legal team is already on it. They will find them.”

She nodded, but her gaze was distant. She pushed herself up, away from his embrace, and walked over to her laptop, which was sitting open on the small desk. She sat down, her back to him, and her fingers began to move across the keyboard, opening her music production software.

He watched her, a sense of awe and fear coiling in his gut. She wasn't breaking. She was reforging.

He got up and walked over to stand behind her. On the screen was the project file for the gentle, spring-like melody she had been so excited about just yesterday. He watched as she highlighted the entire delicate piano arrangement.

And deleted it.

In its place, she started building a new foundation. A deep, distorted bass line, aggressive and menacing. A drum pattern that wasn't a heartbeat, but a war march. The chords she began to lay down were minor, dissonant, filled with a beautiful, righteous fury.

This was her answer. This was her weapon.

He reached down and placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. She didn’t flinch. She leaned back into his touch, her eyes never leaving the screen. He saw his own reflection in the dark glass, his expression grim, determined.

This event had changed everything. It had nearly broken them apart, and then it had fused them together with the heat of a shared battle. It had wounded her, but it hadn’t destroyed her. It had given her a new, darker voice.

And he, Min Yoongi, would be there to help her amplify it until it was the only thing the world could hear.

[love4hobi]

welcome back, my love ♡

[nikonladyz4]

The members dancing to JH performing Mic Drop.

[hobipowers]

As long as I can move, I will perform for you. 💜

[bngtanah]

how ya'll feeling about killin' it girl?

[bngtanah]

I’m (not) With The Band. | 13

summary: Adrienne is an indie producer who is hired to help co-produce BTS’ next album alongside their resident producer; Suga. Despite the initial opposition on both ends, the pair spend time together, share a few stories, dreams and aspirations and begin to hit it off really well. Wrapped up in the whirlwind of late nights and heated disagreements and reconciliations, Min Yoongi and Adrienne Rolle find themselves growing closer and closer. One night they decide to cross the barrier between personal and professional and do their best make a relationship work against all odds.

pairing: idol!Yoongi  x black!OC word count: 4.4k genre: drama, romance chapters: prologue| o1| o2| o3| o4| o5| o6| o7| o8 [m]| o9| 1o| 11| 12| warning: relationship tension, workplace relationship, secrecy, sexual attraction, ambw, light angst, implied intimacy, paparazzi, anxiety, explicit language.

The first hint of dawn, a faint bruised purple, was just bleeding through the heavy hotel room curtains when Yoongi stirred. A physical lightness settled in his chest, so unexpected it made him pause, a foreign sensation after days of tightly wound anxiety. Adrienne was still asleep beside him, her head tucked into his shoulder, the soft puff of her breath a rhythmic whisper against his neck. The tangled sheets, the faint scent of her shampoo and their shared intimacy, anchored him to the present moment. He watched her for a long moment, the curve of a smile softening his lips, committing the peaceful sight to memory. The worries of the past week – the sharp words, the suffocating silence, the creeping fear – seemed to dissipate like morning mist, eclipsed by the warmth of her presence. As gently as he could, a practiced grace belying his usual sleep-addled movements, he slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle her awake. He gathered his scattered clothes, moving like a shadow across the plush carpet, and let himself out, the quiet click of his door barely audible in the pre-dawn stillness. 

Hours later, the morning light streamed brightly into Adrienne's room, painting golden stripes across the floor. She sat at a small table, a half-eaten breakfast scone on her plate, a sense of quiet contentment settling over her that hummed deep beneath her skin. The memory of Yoongi's touch, the shared laughter, the raw honesty of their confessions, still warmed her from the inside out. A short buzz from her phone pulled her away from her daydream and down to her cellphone. It was Namjoon.

Joon: Hey, are you busy? Was thinking of going for a quick walk to grab some fresh air before the afternoon meetings. Want to join?

Adrienne's gaze drifted to the window, watching a flock of pigeons wheel against the crisp Tokyo sky. A public walk still brought a flicker of nervousness – the ever-present threat of a camera, a watchful eye. But Namjoon had been so genuinely kind, so understanding on the flight. She valued their easy conversations, the way he engaged her mind. Besides, a brisk walk in the fresh Japanese air sounded undeniably appealing after days cooped up with emotional turmoil. A small smile touched her lips as she typed her reply.

Andy: Sure! Give me 5 min.

She quickly pulled on a light jacket, grabbing a black face mask almost out of habit, though the mild morning air felt clean against her skin. When she reached the lobby, Namjoon was already there, leaning casually against a polished pillar, dressed in a comfortable hoodie and jeans, his own mask already in place. He straightened as he saw her, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a warm, dimpled smile that reached them even over the mask. Together, they stepped out into the bustling Tokyo streets.

The city was already alive, a symphony of muted sounds. Distant traffic, the murmur of early morning commuters, the occasional chime of a passing shop. They walked for a while, the conversation flowing as easily as it had on the plane. Namjoon, thoughtful as he always was, asked about her current creative blocks, the frustration of finding the right melody for a particular verse. He listened intently, head cocked, offering profound insights into the lyrical structure, his words hitting just the right note of encouragement and intellectual challenge. Adrienne found herself speaking freely, her mind engaged, the rhythm of their conversation a welcome distraction from the usual demands of their schedule. The sun climbed higher, warming her face, and the brisk air invigorated her, a tangible reminder of the world outside her emotional confines.

"You know," Namjoon began, after a comfortable stretch of shared silence, his voice dropping a little, a hint of vulnerability softening its usual clear tone, "You’re really easy to talk to. I feel like I can tell you anything." He paused, turning to face her fully, his expression earnest, his brown eyes searching hers. "I… I don’t normally open up to people like this, Adrienne. I…I feel like we’re really getting closer and…”

Adrienne's steps faltered, her heart doing a strange, sympathetic flutter in her chest as if she could sense what he would say next. Her mind, unbidden, flashed to Yoongi, his sleepy face just hours ago, the solid weight of his arm around her. She liked Namjoon; he was kind, brilliant, a rare soul in an often-superficial industry. But her heart, a fierce, protective ache, was already irrevocably taken. She chose her words carefully, gently, hating the hurt she knew they would cause.

“Joon,” she began, reaching out to lightly touch his arm, her voice soft with genuine regret. "I value our friendship so much. You’re literally one of the best people I’ve ever met, and I love working with you. And  I feel like I can talk to you about anything." She saw the subtle flicker of disappointment in his kind eyes, a slight tightening around his mouth, and a pang of sorrow went through her, wishing she could spare him the hurt. "But… that’s what it is, for me. A really, really special friendship. I… I’m not looking for anything more right now."

Namjoon’s shoulders slumped slightly, a slow, weary exhale escaping him. But he was a man of grace, and he was quick to recover. He nodded, forcing a small, slightly crooked smile. “I understand. Thank you for being honest, Adrienne. I appreciate that.” He looked away for a brief moment, collecting himself, then back at her, his dimples appearing with more effort, a touch of his usual composed cheerfulness returning. “Friends it is, then.”

The rest of the walk back to the hotel was a little quieter, the easy flow of conversation replaced by a comfortable, if slightly melancholic, silence. Adrienne still felt a pang of guilt for the disappointment she’d caused, but she knew honesty was the only path. When they reached the grand entrance of the hotel, Namjoon paused.

“Well, I’ll see you later at the meetings,” he said, his voice regaining some of its usual rhythm.

“Yeah, see you, Joon.” Adrienne offered him a grateful, soft smile.

Namjoon then did something unexpected, a small gesture of genuine camaraderie. He pulled her into a quick, comforting hug. It was entirely platonic, a gentle embrace between friends, a silent acknowledgment of his disappointment, perhaps, but devoid of any lingering romantic intent. Adrienne returned it, a soft pat on his back, a silent thank you for his understanding. As they pulled apart, Namjoon gave her one last small smile, turned, and headed through the sliding doors of the hotel, his figure receding into the bustling lobby. Adrienne watched him go, then turned towards her own side, a sense of relief washing over her that she'd handled the situation with integrity, even if it had caused a moment of sadness.

Neither of them saw the faint glint of a camera lens from across the street. Neither of them heard the quiet, almost imperceptible click of a shutter as figures, clad in black, rapidly lowered their phones, their faces obscured, their purpose chillingly clear.

 The change was almost immediate, a palpable sigh of relief rippling through the hotel staff and even the members themselves. The heavy, oppressive tension that had clung to Yoongi and Adrienne like a shadow for days seemed to have evaporated overnight, replaced by a tangible warmth that seeped into every corner of their shared workspace.

During the morning’s production meetings, the shift in Yoongi was undeniable. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, actively engaged, his familiar biting attitude  tempered with a new, easy going demeanor. He made eye contact with Adrienne frequently, his gaze softening gently each time, even sharing quick, almost secret smiles across the long conference table. Silent exchanges that spoke volumes, a private language only they understood. Adrienne, in turn, felt a profound lightness she hadn't realized she’d been missing. Her shoulders were less hunched, her brow less furrowed. She found herself laughing more easily, a clear, unrestrained sound, and contributed ideas with renewed enthusiasm, her voice clearer, her expressions more open. 

Hoseok was one of the first to acknowledge the shift, and certainly the least subtle. During a short lunch break, he sauntered over to Yoongi, who was quietly reviewing a draft track on his laptop. Hoseok clapped him heartily on the back, a wide, sun-like smile beaming on his face. "Hyung! You finally got some sleep, huh?" He chuckled, then leaned in, winking at Yoongi, before glancing pointedly at Adrienne, who was chatting with a stylist nearby. A silent congratulations passed between the two friends, a shared understanding without a single word. Yoongi just grunted, but it was an affectionate sound, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips, a rare sight in the past week, and a clear signal of his contentment.

Namjoon, perceptive and discerning, observed the subtle shift from a distance. He noticed the casual way Yoongi’s hand would rest for a fraction longer on Adrienne’s arm as they passed in the hallway, the relaxed angle of their shoulders when they stood near each other, the easy flow of their quiet conversations. When Adrienne had returned from her walk with him earlier, a quiet, unspoken moment had passed between them, a shared understanding in their eyes, before Namjoon, with a slight nod, had turned his focus back to his work, respecting her choice. Now, seeing the undeniable ease between her and Yoongi, he didn't know how he hadn’t seen it before. It was obvious now that he was looking for it. He gave Adrienne a small, supportive smile when their paths crossed by the coffee machine, a clear signal that there were no lingering hard feelings, only understanding.

The rest of the staff, who had been tip-toeing around the two producers for days, also noticeably relaxed. The studio no longer felt like a minefield where every word could trigger an explosion. Jokes were shared more freely amongst the entire team, creative ideas flowed unhindered, and the underlying current of anxiety that had made everyone hold their breath had finally dissipated, replaced by a harmonious, productive energy that made their work feel less like a chore and more like a shared passion.

Later that afternoon, the main recording studio was alive with the raw energy of a new track. The boys were in the vocal booth, laying down intricate harmonies for a B-side, their voices blending seamlessly through the high-end microphones. Adrienne stepped into the control room, her movements light, a hum of satisfaction in her chest. She gave nuanced notes to Jin and Jimin through the mic, adjusting a harmony here, suggesting a different inflection there. The heavy soundproof door opened quietly. Yoongi walked in, a small, almost shy grin playing on his lips, a look she hadn't seen in days. He nodded at Adrienne, his eyes lingering for a beat longer than usual, then went straight to the control panel. He adjusted levels with familiar, confident ease, his fingers dancing across the mixing board. The previous night’s intimacy still hummed between them, a silent current of warmth and understanding that pulsed beneath the surface of their professional interactions.

After the recording session wrapped, the air still thrumming with creative energy, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook lingered in the practice space of the studio, stretching out their limbs and chatting, their post-recording high still buzzing through them.

"Noona," Jimin called out, his eyes sparkling with mischievous delight as he caught Adrienne's eye. "You spend so much time behind the mixing board, you should learn some of our choreo! Get your body moving!" He bounced on the balls of his feet, already halfway into a dance warm-up, a boundless energy.

Adrienne laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that echoed pleasantly in the large room. She shook her head, already anticipating the inevitable awkwardness. "Oh, I don't think so, Jiminie. My dancing is strictly for my shower. And usually involves singing into a shampoo bottle for a mic."

"Nonsense!" Taehyung chimed in, crossing the room in three long strides to grab her hand playfully. "Come on, just a simple part. It's good for creativity!" He tugged gently.

Jungkook, always up for a challenge and eager to impress, joined them, a wide, confident grin on his face. "We'll teach you the easy part." He began to demonstrate the powerful, sharp movements.

Before she could offer another protest, Adrienne found herself being gently but firmly pulled down the hall and to the center of a spacious practice room. A playful squeak escaped her lips as they positioned her between them. Yoongi, who had been slowly following the group, paused as they entered the room, his movements slowing. A soft, indulgent smile spread across his face as he leaned back against the cool wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene unfold. He knew Adrienne was a bit self-conscious about her dancing, her movements more suited to a pen and paper than a stage. But seeing the younger boys so enthusiastically pull her into their world, completely uninhibited, a quiet warmth bloomed in his chest. It was a familiar, comforting sight, but today it felt even more precious, a testament to their newfound peace.

Jimin and Jungkook stood on either side of her, breaking down the choreography piece by agonizing piece. "Okay, so it's a confident swagger, like this," Jimin demonstrated, his movements fluid and sharp, a dancer's effortless grace. "Then, BAM! Drop the mic!" He punctuated the move with a sharp, imaginary throw, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.

Adrienne, giggling despite herself, tried her best to mimic their powerful yet precise movements. She stumbled, she swayed, and her attempts at the "mic drop" were more of a polite lowering of an imaginary object than a defiant, mic-shattering throw. The boys, however, were merciless in their encouragement, cheering her on, laughing with her, never at her awkwardness.

"Higher, Noona! Feel the attitude! Imagine you just dropped the hottest track of the year!" Jungkook encouraged, demonstrating with exaggerated flair, his whole body imbued with the confident swagger of a global superstar.

Taehyung from his side took her hands, gently guiding her through a few steps, his touch light and encouraging. "Imagine you just laid down the sickest beat, and now you're showing everyone how it's done! Let the music move you!"

Yoongi watched, a quiet admiration blossoming within him, softening the usual intensity of his gaze. He saw Adrienne's initial hesitation melt away, replaced by genuine enjoyment and a surprising determination. Her skin was flushed with effort and suppressed laughter, her hair coming loose from its bun, and her unrestrained laughter filled the cavernous room, a sound he cherished. She wasn't a dancer, not by any professional metric, but her willingness to try, to be vulnerable and playfully embrace the moment, was captivating. He loved seeing her like this, relaxed and joyful, unburdened by worries or arguments. There was a bright, vital spark in her eyes that mirrored the one he felt igniting in his own heart. It was a stark, beautiful contrast to the guarded, hurt woman she had been just a day ago. This was the Adrienne he loved, truly, deeply.

After a few more hilariously valiant attempts, Adrienne dramatically collapsed onto the floor, breathless and laughing so hard her sides ached, her head falling back against the cool linoleum. "Okay, okay, I think I'll stick to making the music. You guys have this whole dancing thing down a little better than I do."

The boys roared with laughter, their camaraderie infectious, and helped her up. "You did great, Noona!" Jimin insisted, though his eyes still held a hint of mischievous amusement.

As the younger members eventually headed out, their energy fading into the hallway, the studio quieted, the lingering echoes of their laughter softening. Yoongi walked over to Adrienne, a tender smile still on his face, and offered her a fresh water bottle. "Hmm," he hummed, a playful glint in his eyes, "your mic drop needs a little work. Maybe I could give you private lessons?" His voice dropped to a low, suggestive rumble.

Adrienne giggled, accepting the water and moving to sit up. An easy smile spread across her lips. "And just what makes you think you’re qualified to teach me?”

Yoongi leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, husky murmur meant only for her. "I'm qualified because I know your rhythm, better than anyone." His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles where their hands met. "And I have a feeling I could teach you a lot more than just a mic drop." His gaze was intense, a flicker of desire in his eyes that made her breath catch.

He watched as her cheeks strained with a wider smile. "Is that so, Professor Min?" she whispered back, leaning into his space. The air around them crackled with unspoken tension, a delightful hum he felt resonate between them.

He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that vibrated in the quiet space between them. "That is so, Ms. Rolle. And you’re lucky, my private lessons usually have a very exclusive enrollment."

Adrienne’s eyes rolled back as she laughed, playfully hitting his chest. “Please shut up.” Yoongi did, choosing to pull her hand closer instead. Bringing it to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.

Later that evening, as the last of the official meetings for the day concluded, Adrienne found herself walking beside Yoongi down a bustling hotel corridor. His presence felt natural, comfortable, a warmth radiating from him that seemed to draw her closer. They discussed the day's progress, the subtle shifts in the album's direction, but their conversation was laced with the unspoken intimacy they now shared. Their shoulders occasionally brushed, a fleeting touch that sent sparks through Adrienne. She noticed his hand hover near hers more than once, as if contemplating lacing their fingers together, only to retract slightly, a silent reminder of the eyes that might be on them.

As they reached the elevators, Yoongi turned to her, his gaze soft. "I'll see you for dinner, right?" he asked, his voice low, a question that was also an unspoken expectation.

Adrienne smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile. "Wouldn't miss it."

His lips curved into a small, pleased smirk. "Good." He stepped into a waiting elevator, his eyes holding hers until the doors began to slide shut, leaving her with a lingering sense of anticipation.

As the vibrant hum of Tokyo's night began to seep into the hotel. Adrienne felt a ripple of nervous excitement anticipating dinner with Yoongi. They’d planned to sneak away, finding a quiet, out-of-the-way restaurant to truly celebrate their reunion. The very act of it felt thrillingly illicit, a secret stolen moment in a public world.

Just as Adrienne was applying a light gloss to her lips, her phone vibrated on the vanity.

Yoongi: Meet me at the staff exit in five. Dark clothes, cap. Don’t bring your phone to the restaurant.

A shiver of anticipation, mixed with a sliver of caution, ran through her. He was taking this seriously. She pulled on a dark hoodie, a baseball cap, and slipped out of her room, her heart thrumming a frantic rhythm.

Yoongi was waiting, a dark cap pulled low over his eyes, a large, dark jacket obscuring his frame. He looked like a phantom in the dimly lit corridor. He nodded curtly when he saw her, his hand briefly touching her elbow, a silent signal of reassurance and urgency. They slipped out into the cool Tokyo night, melting into the passing crowds like two shadows.

The restaurant was a small, intimate izakaya tucked down a narrow alley, its entrance marked only by a faded red lantern. Inside, the warm glow of paper lamps cast soft shadows, and the gentle murmur of Japanese conversation provided a comforting anonymity. They settled into a corner booth, the low wooden table a shield between them and the few other patrons.

"This is perfect," Adrienne whispered, pulling off her mask, a genuine smile gracing her lips. The aroma of grilled skewers and soy sauce filled the air, rich and inviting.

Yoongi, too, shed his disguise, his eyes softening as they met hers across the table, reflecting the warm lamplight. "I thought you'd like it." He reached across, covering her hand with his, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles. The contact was electric, a comforting weight that grounded her. "It's good to be here, with you, like this. Without... everything else." His gaze held hers, a silent affirmation of their shared escape.

They ordered, their voices low as conversation flowed easily, picking up threads from the morning, the night before, and the weeks they’d been apart. They shared stories and funny anecdotes from their childhoods, vastly different in location, yet surprisingly similar. They talked about the nuances of new melodies, the frustration of writer's block, and the absurdities of their demanding schedules. Every touch, every shared laugh, felt magnified, a testament to the emotional distance they'd overcome. Yoongi found himself leaning closer, his elbow on the table, his eyes never straying far from her face. Adrienne, in turn, blossomed under his attention, her guard completely down. The food was delicious, the sake warm, its subtle sweetness enhancing the evening. The outside world, with its demanding schedules and watchful eyes, ceased to exist within the cozy confines of the izakaya.

They ate slowly, savoring each bite, each stolen moment. Yoongi refilled her sake cup, his fingers brushing hers, and she felt a tremor go through her. He recounted a hilarious incident from a past tour, his quiet laughter rumbling in his chest, making her giggle until her cheeks hurt. Adrienne shared her anxieties about a new lyrical challenge, and he listened intently, offering not just solutions, but understanding. As the evening deepened, the warmth from the sake and the sheer comfort of his presence settled over her, a contentment so profound it bordered on euphoria. Their hands rested on the table, fingers occasionally brushing, then intertwining, a silent language spoken between them.

Eventually, the quiet murmur of the izakaya began to wane, and they knew their stolen time was drawing to a close. Yoongi signaled for the bill, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on the back of her hand. The thought of returning to the hotel, to the separate rooms, brought a pang of reluctance.

"Let's walk back," Adrienne suggested softly, craving a few more moments of their shared anonymity.

Yoongi nodded, a silent agreement. They paid, donned their disguises once more, and stepped back out into the cool, quiet streets, the city now a hushed canvas of neon lights. They walked arm in arm, their shoulders brushing, their steps in sync. The simple act of strolling through the night, side by side, felt like a luxury, a symbol of the normalcy they yearned for.

Back at the hotel, they navigated the quieter back corridors with practiced ease. When they reached Adrienne's door, she paused, turning to face him. The warmth of the evening lingered between them, a sweet, heavy scent.

"Thank you, Yoongi," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Tonight... was everything."

He reached out, cupping her face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking her jawline. His eyes were dark, full of a tenderness that made her heart ache. "It was.” He leaned in, his lips brushing hers, a soft, lingering kiss that deepened slowly, full of unspoken promises and a fierce longing.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against hers. "Goodnight, Adrienne," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

"Stay," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the plea was clear in the way she clung to his shirt.

Yoongi closed his eyes for a moment, a groan rumbling in his chest. "God, Andy, I wish I could. You know I do." He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumbs brushing her tear-stained cheeks. "I can't. Not tonight. I have to..." His voice trailed off, the weight of their schedules a palpable presence.

Adrienne nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on his. He leaned in again, capturing her lips in a deep, desperate kiss that conveyed every unspoken word, every ounce of longing and regret. Their breaths mingled, their hearts pounding a frantic rhythm against each other.

When he finally pulled away, a visible effort, he kept his eyes locked on hers. "Close the door, Andy." His voice was rough, strained with suppressed desire.

Adrienne didn't move for a beat, a playful glint entering her tear-filled eyes. "I don’t think you really want that…" she teased, a soft, breathless laugh escaping her.

He let out a short, frustrated chuckle, shaking his head. "Yes I do, you little tease. Close the damn door."

She sighed dramatically, a reluctant smile playing on her lips. "Fine. Goodnight, Gi." With one last lingering look, she slowly closed the door, the soft click echoing the finality of their separation.

Yoongi stood there for a long moment, the warmth of her lips, the echo of her laughter, still vibrant on his skin. He turned and headed to his own room, the memory of her, a sweet ache, already settling deep in his chest.

He stripped down to a pair of sweats, the lingering scent of sake and grilled fish mingling with Adrienne's faint perfume that still clung to his clothes. He slid into bed, the sheets cool against his skin, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He was just drifting into a peaceful sleep, the image of Adrienne’s smile filling his mind, when his phone, resting silently on the bedside table, vibrated. Then again. And again.

A groan escaped him. Usually, he’d ignore it. But the rapid, insistent buzzing felt different, urgent. He reached for it, his eyes still heavy, and squinted at the screen. Multiple notifications blinked at him. Texts from his manager, and from a flurry of unfamiliar numbers. He swiped open the lock screen, his thumb brushing over the news aggregator.

Headline after headline blared at him, stark white letters against the dark screen, illuminated by the phone's harsh glow. His heart seized, a cold dread washing over him, instantly banishing all warmth and sleep. The first headline was the clearest, biggest, chilling him to the bone:

BREAKING: BTS LEADER NAMJOON CAUGHT WITH MYSTERIOUS FEMALE PRODUCER IN TOKYO! EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS REVEAL PRIVATE MEETINGS AND INTIMATE INTERACTIONS

[bts-trans]

250611 BTS' Tweet

잡으러 왔습니다💜

We've come for you💜

Image Translation: Don't worry, we’ll be back for you soon.*

(T/N: *This is the same message written on the mirror before Jimin & Jungkook's enlistment, seen here.)

Trans cr; Aditi @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS

[bts-trans]

250611 V's Instagram Stories

Thank you 🖤

Picture: [T-shirt] Welcome.

[Everybody else's t-shirt, their respective names at the bottom] Are we still OO? -Hyungsik/Woosik/Seojun-

[V's t-shirt] We're still OO! -Taehyung-

Let's all stay healthy and be happy?

Trans cr; Aditi @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS

[bngtanah]

I’m (not) With The Band. | 12 [m]

summary: Adrienne is an indie producer who is hired to help co-produce BTS’ next album alongside their resident producer; Suga. Despite the initial opposition on both ends, the pair spend time together, share a few stories, dreams and aspirations and begin to hit it off really well. Wrapped up in the whirlwind of late nights and heated disagreements and reconciliations, Min Yoongi and Adrienne Rolle find themselves growing closer and closer. One night they decide to cross the barrier between personal and professional and do their best make a relationship work against all odds.

pairing: idol!Yoongi  x black!OC

word count:genre: drama, romance, light angst, sweet smut

chapters: prologue| o1| o2| o3| o4| o5| o6| o7| o8 [m]| o9| 1o| 11| 12|

warning: relationship tension, workplace relationship, secrecy, sexual attraction, ambw, light angst, penetrative sex, anxiety, explicit language.

Anger had a way of eating away at you the longer you let it simmer, it seeped into your bones and heart so slowly, so persistently, that it transformed from righteous rage into a dull resentment before you even noticed. Though Adrienne and Yoongi saw each other nearly every day leading up to their trip to Japan, it had been over a week since they spoke. They sat in the same studio, sometimes just inches from one another, yet they worked separately and barely exchanged more than a few sparse sounds of approval, the occasional shared glance at a screen, or the soft clicking of a mouse.

Adrienne wasn’t sure why she harbored such lingering resentment. She had more than enough time to process the argument and found herself feeling much more sympathy for her boyfriend than before. She understood the immense pressure he was under, the fear he had of jeopardizing everything he’d worked for. Yet, despite that sympathy, she refused to tell him. Not while he still scowled whenever she came into his view and made a concerted effort to spend as little time alone with her as he reasonably could. Yoongi took it upon himself to ask for auxiliary in-house producers to work with them “to help with the workload,” he’d said with a bland face, but Adrienne knew exactly what he was up to. He obviously wanted to prolong his upset, to reinforce the distance between them, and she decided to grant him that freedom without resistance. If he wanted a chance at saving their relationship, he would have to approach her, not the other way around. Her pride, just as much as his, was firmly rooted.

Their petty game of cat and mouse continued until the trip to Japan. The air in the terminal, usually buzzing with the easy camaraderie of the group, was thick with unspoken words between them. Though the rest of the group and staff seemed to be in high spirits, laughing and bantering as cameras filmed their pre-flight antics, the tension remained palpable between Adrienne and Yoongi as everyone moved through the airport and onto the plane. Yoongi, for his part, was a silent storm. He moved through the crowds with a grim set to his jaw, answering direct questions with curt nods or single words, his usual dry wit completely absent. Even a casual remark from Jin about his quietness was met with a glare that quickly sent the older man retreating.

It took a few minutes for everyone to find their seats and wrap up filming the boys as they began their journey. Once filming concluded, the staff, including Andy, moved through the aisles to find their own assigned seats. The space between Adrienne’s eyebrows knitted together when she looked down at the seat number on her boarding pass. It read ‘4B’; directly next to Yoongi, making her frown immediately. Her eyes caught his for a brief moment when Adrienne was nudged forward by the passenger behind her. The way Yoongi huffed, a soft, exasperated sound, then deliberately turned his back to her, leaning his head against the window, reignited her anger.

Fist clenched in annoyance, Adrienne turned to shake the shoulder of the closest person she recognized in an alternate aisle. “Switch seats with me,” she demanded, making it clear her statement was not up for debate. Her sudden appearance made Hoseok flinch, slumping back against his seat with a hand pressed tightly against his heart.

“Ah! Andy-noona, you scared me,” he muttered once he could process her question and respond. “Why do you want to switch seats with me?”

Adrienne sighed, a quick, exasperated sound. “That’s not important… can you just… please?” She spoke her last word in a nearly silent whisper, and Hoseok frowned at the genuine pain he detected in her voice. He glanced over at Yoongi’s stiff back, understanding dawning in his eyes. Without further protest, he nodded and gathered his things, stuffing them back into his carry-on, then moved around Adrienne to allow her to take his seat.

“Thank you so much!” She beamed and quickly squeezed his hand as he moved to leave the aisle. Adrienne had handed him her boarding pass, and Hoseok exhaled slightly when he noticed where her seat was located, finally realizing why she was so adamant to switch with him. He remained silent as he began to unload his items again, shaking his head with annoyance at Yoongi’s rigid stillness while he clattered around him, then sank into the seat with a heavy sigh.

Yoongi’s head perked slightly once Hoseok settled, likely realizing the person next to him wasn't Adrienne. “Don’t you think you’re being a little… childish, Hyung?” Hoseok finally said once the young man next to him had turned to face forward again. He kept his voice low, just for Yoongi’s ears, leaning in slightly.

Yoongi’s face remained an aggravated scowl, deepening when he registered Hoseok’s words. He merely grunted, turning his head further towards the window. “Mind your own business.”

“It is my business when it affects everyone,” Hoseok retorted, a firm edge to his tone. “You missed the meeting with PD-nim because of this, and now you’re bringing your mess onto the plane. It’s affecting the atmosphere, Hyung. You need to talk to her.”

Yoongi just shrugged, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes. Hoseok sighed, knowing pressing further now would be useless.

Meanwhile, Adrienne had settled into Hoseok’s vacated seat, which happened to be next to Namjoon. Namjoon looked up from the book he was reading, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. “Oh, Adrienne-ssi. I thought you were sitting with Yoongi-hyung?”

Adrienne offered a weak smile, quickly turning her gaze to the window. “Uh, no. Just… decided to switch it up.” She could feel Yoongi’s gaze, or imagined she could, even from rows away. She desperately hoped he hadn’t heard anything.

Namjoon nodded, perceptive as always, but didn’t press. “Well, I’m glad to have you here. This is a good book if you’re looking for something to read.” He offered, holding up the cover of a philosophical text.

“Maybe later,” Adrienne replied, still feeling prickly, but a sense of relief washed over her. At least Namjoon wasn't going to pry. They settled into a comfortable quiet for a while, Namjoon occasionally glancing over at her, sensing her subdued mood. After some time, he gently nudged her arm.

“Everything alright, Adrienne?” he inquired, his voice soft with genuine concern.

She exhaled a little more deeply than she intended. “Yeah, just… work stuff. You know how it is. Deadlines, creative blocks.” She gave him a practiced, weary smile, trying to deflect.

Namjoon hummed in understanding. “It can be tough. But you’re brilliant, your work is always so fresh. Don’t let it get to you too much.” His words were gentle, genuinely encouraging, and Adrienne found herself relaxing a little. He was easy to talk to, a comforting presence that didn't demand explanations or challenge her emotional state. They talked for most of the flight, about music, about creative processes, about the pressures of their jobs, a surprisingly easy and flowing conversation that was a welcome distraction from the heavy silence she'd shared with Yoongi for days. Unbeknownst to them, Yoongi, a few rows back, had been stealing glances over his shoulder more times than he cared to admit, his frown deepening each time he saw Adrienne laughing softly at something Namjoon had said.

Upon touchdown in Japan, the whirlwind began. The boys were immediately swept into a series of meetings, interviews, and preliminary photoshoots. Adrienne, meanwhile, accompanied the staff to get checked into their hotel and begin setting up their temporary studio space. Later that afternoon, back in the brightly lit studio, the tension, though no longer directly between Adrienne and Yoongi, was a palpable undercurrent.

“Are we still waiting on Yoongi-ssi for this section?” a junior producer asked, looking at Adrienne as she adjusted a track on the monitor.

Adrienne didn’t look up. “It’s fine if he has to record. I can work on it alone. I don’t need him… for this part.” Her tone was sharper than she intended, and she felt the air stiffen. The junior producer quickly nodded and busied himself with something else, exchanging a quick, awkward glance with another staff member. It was becoming harder to pretend everything was normal.

Later that evening, after a particularly grueling day of meetings and preparations, Hoseok found Yoongi hunched over a laptop in a quiet corner of the hotel’s business lounge, a half-empty coffee cup beside him.

“Hyung,” Hoseok’s tone was softer than usual, but firm. Yoongi barely grunted in acknowledgment. “We need to talk. This… this can’t go on.”

Yoongi finally looked up, his eyes tired but sharp. “What can’t?”

“This whole… silent treatment. It’s obvious, Hyung. Everyone’s walking on eggshells. You knew something like this would happen, didn’t you?” Hoseok sat down opposite him, his expression serious. “The pressure we’re under, the deadlines, it’s not fair to the team to have this kind of atmosphere. And it’s not fair to her, or to you.” He leaned forward. “You need to break up or make up, Hyung. Either way, you have to go and talk to Andy. Properly.”

Yoongi bristled, his first instinct to retort, to lash out at Hoseok for interfering. But the truth in Hoseok’s words cut through his pride. He did want to talk to her. He hated this distance, the way her absence from his immediate orbit felt like a constant ache. He grumbled, pushing himself away from the table. “Fine. But if I get caught, it’s on you.”

Hoseok just gave him a small, knowing smile. “Just talk to her, Hyung.”

Yoongi found himself standing outside Adrienne’s hotel room a few minutes later, his hand hovering over the door. He knocked, a soft, almost hesitant rap. He heard movement inside, then silence. He knocked again, a little louder.

“Who is it?” Adrienne’s voice came from inside, muffled.

“It’s me,” Yoongi replied, his voice rougher than he intended.

Another pause. “What do you want?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, do you really want me to get caught outside your room at night? Just open the door, Adrienne.”

The lock clicked, and the door opened a crack. Adrienne peered out, her eyes still a little wary, but she eventually swung the door open fully. She was dressed in comfortable sweats, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, and she still looked beautiful, even with a faint redness around her eyes. She stepped aside, but remained guarded by the door, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression dared him to cross the threshold.

Yoongi stepped inside, the click of the door closing behind him echoing in the small room. He looked at her, standing there, defensive and hurt. He knew he deserved it. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, his eyes fixed on hers as he struggled to find the words.

“You said you wanted to talk… so talk.”

"Adrienne," he began, his voice low and raspy. "I'm an idiot. I know what I said was fucked up but..." He dropped his gaze to his hands. "When Bang PD was tearing into me, all I could think was… everything was crumbling. My career, my future, everything I'd built. And instead of owning that, I just shoved it all onto you. That wasn’t fair." He met her eyes again, raw with regret. "Especially... that 'control' bullshit. No excuse. It came from my own panic, not because I actually think I have any right to control you. You're so strong and independent... It's one of the things I like most about you. I'm so sorry. I know it hurt. You were right to be angry. I was wrong. Completely."

Adrienne watched him, her arms still crossed, her expression slowly softening as he spoke. The raw honesty in his eyes finally broke through her defenses. She saw the familiar panicked, overwhelmed look he got when he was stuck on a difficult composition. 

"You're right," She uncrossed her arms, but her posture remained defensive. "It was bullshit. The worst thing you've ever said." Her voice was flat, sharp with old pain. "I mean you called me a 'distraction,' said I 'didn't understand'...like I don't understand exactly how this works." A tremor ran through her. She took a shaky breath, her voice gaining a quiet steel.

"But I also saw you out there today, struggling. I know the pressure you're under, I know what this album means to you." Her eyes softened, but held his gaze. "But you need to understand my sacrifices. Missing my sister's birth is a big fucking deal. It's family. It's everything." Her gaze hardened. "I'm not here to be 'managed,' Yoongi. I'm here because I like you. Because I believe in us. But if that's not what you see... if I'm just a mistake..."

Yoongi immediately stepped forward, closing the gap between them, his eyes wide with desperate terror. “Never. Not a mistake. God, Andy, no.” He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him. "I never regretted a second. I was scared, yes. Scared of failing, never scared of you." He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his hands reaching for hers, his thumbs stroking her knuckles. "You're not a distraction. You're... you're what makes any of this tolerable. You make me happy, you inspire me." His voice dropped, raw. "Losing you? That was the mistake I almost made. I know what you're giving up. I hate that I'm why you’ll miss it. I don't know how to do this. How to balance it all. But I want to learn. With you. Please, Adrienne. Just... try again. With me.."

Adrienne’s eyes welled up again, but this time they were tears of relief. She nodded, a small, watery smile on her face. "Yeah, Gi. We can try again."

As Yoongi pulled Adrienne into his arms, the world outside them dissolved. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply, memorizing her scent. The days of separation melted away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief and longing.

Adrienne clung to him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as if he might vanish if she let go. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against her chest, a rhythm that echoed the love and connection they shared. His breath was warm against her neck, each exhale sending shivers down her spine, igniting a fire within her.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you," Yoongi murmured, his voice muffled by her hair. His arms tightened around her, as if he could merge their very souls.

Adrienne's heart swelled, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She pulled him even closer. "I think I do." Her fingers tangled in his shirt, anchoring herself to him, afraid to let go.

Yoongi pulled back slightly, his hands cupping her face as he gazed into her eyes. The intensity in his gaze made her heart race. His thumbs brushed against her cheeks, wiping away the tears she hadn't realized had fallen. "Andy," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I never want to be without you again."

Adrienne's breath hitched at his words, her body trembling with the depth of her emotions. She leaned into his touch, her hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders. The scent of his cologne, familiar and intoxicating, wrapped around her, drawing her deeper into his embrace. "Treat me right, and you won’t have to be," she whispered, her voice trembling with need.

Yoongi leaned in, capturing her lips in a tender, desperate kiss. It was slow and deep. Adrienne's hands slid up his chest, her fingers gripping his shoulders as she pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating in sync.

Yoongi's hands moved from her face, trailing down her neck and shoulders, his touch igniting a trail of fire on her skin. Adrienne's body responded instinctively, arching into his touch, her hands exploring the contours of his back.

Their kisses grew more urgent. Yoongi's hands slid under the hem of her shirt, his fingers tracing the soft skin of her waist. Adrienne gasped at his touch, her body trembling with anticipation.

"Is this okay?" Yoongi whispered against her lips, his voice rough with desire, laced with concern.

Adrienne nodded, her breath coming in short gasps. "I need you, Gi. Please."

Yoongi's eyes darkened with desire, and he leaned down to capture her lips in another searing kiss. His hands moved with newfound urgency, exploring her body. Adrienne's fingers fumbled with the hem of his shirt.

Articles of clothing were discarded in a trail from the door to the bed. The cool air of the room brushed against their heated skin, making them shiver with anticipation. They stood for a moment, drinking in the sight of each other, their bodies flushed with desire.

"You're so beautiful, Andy," Yoongi murmured, his voice filled with awe. "I don't know how I got so lucky."

Adrienne smiled, her heart swelling with emotion, and she reached up to pull him down for another kiss. "You are so sweet, baby," she whispered against his lips. "But I really just want you to fuck me."

Yoongi's eyes locked with hers, an amused grin spreading across his lips. Without another word, he slowly guided her to the bed, their bodies entwining as they fell onto the soft sheets.

Yoongi's hand trailed down Adrienne's body, his touch feather-light yet charged with an electric intensity. He paused at the juncture between her thighs, his fingers tracing delicate patterns that made her breath hitch. Adrienne's eyes met his, dark with desire, and she gave him a silent nod of consent.

Yoongi's fingers slid through her wetness, teasing her before gently pushing inside. Adrienne gasped, her body arching into his touch, her fingers gripping the sheets beneath her.

"Fuck," Yoongi murmured against her lips, his voice rough with emotion. "You feel amazing."

Their gazes remained locked. Yoongi's fingers moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a soft moan from Adrienne's lips. She could feel her body responding, her legs quivering slightly as he found a pace that made her heart race.

"You've been driving me crazy," Yoongi confessed, his voice rough with desire. "I've missed this. I've missed you."

Adrienne's hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. "I've missed you too, Gi. So much."

Their kisses were fevered, a tangled dance of tongues and lips. Yoongi's free hand explored her body, his touch igniting a trail of sensations that left her breathless. She could feel the roughness of his calloused fingers against her soft skin, the contrast sending sparks of pleasure through her.

"Gi, please," Adrienne whispered, her voice trembling with need. "I need more."

Yoongi's eyes darkened with desire, and he nodded. He shifted their positions, his hands guiding Adrienne beneath him. She lay back against the soft sheets, her legs spreading wide and inviting. The cool air of the room brushed against her heated skin, making her shiver with anticipation.

Yoongi hesitated for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of her, her body flushed with anticipation. The desire in her eyes was his undoing. With another nod from Adrienne, he slowly pushed himself inside her. Both of them moaned at the sensation of their bodies finally connecting after so long apart.

Yoongi's thrusts began slow and deliberate. "Andy," Yoongi murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "I love you so much."

Adrienne's eyes welled with tears, and she pulled him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist. "I love you too, Gi. So much."

Gradually, their rhythm picked up speed, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. The room filled with soft gasps and moans, the rustle of sheets, the pounding of their hearts.

"You feel so good, Gi," Adrienne whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "Don't stop."

Yoongi's hands explored her body, his touch igniting a trail of sensations that left her breathless. "Never," he murmured. "I never want to stop."

Their movements grew increasingly urgent, a frantic dance of desire. Adrienne's fingers dug into Yoongi's back, her nails leaving trails of fire in their wake. Yoongi's hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer as he drove into her with a desperate need.

"Gi, I'm close," Adrienne gasped, her body trembling with the force of her impending release.

Yoongi's eyes locked with hers, and he nodded. "Me too, Andy. Come with me."

With a final, desperate thrust, they were both lost in a wave of ecstasy that left them spent and breathless. They collapsed onto the bed together, their limbs tangled, their hearts pounding in unison. Yoongi rolled onto his side, pulling Adrienne close and burying his face in her hair.

Yoongi kissed the top of her head. He drew in a long, shaky breath. "You're amazing." His voice was soft. "I was so afraid I'd fucked this up."

Adrienne snuggled closer, her eyes drifting shut. "You scared me too, Gi." She paused, then added, "...you know you said it right?"

He hummed, a low sound of contentment. "Said what?" Even as he asked, he knew. He felt the blush creep up his neck, a rarity for him.

"Yoongi~," she teased gently, nudging his chest. "That you love me. You’ve never said that before."

Yoongi tightened his arms around her, burying his face deeper in her hair. "I meant it. Every single word." He chuckled softly. "It just kind of... fell out. You know, you really make me lose myself sometimes, Adrienne."

She laughed, a soft, contented sound against his skin. "Good. You need to lose it more often… I meant it too, by the way." She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes shining. "I love you, Yoongi."

He gazed at her. "I love you too, Andy." He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips, a lingering, soft touch.

A moment of quiet passed. Yoongi slowly extracted himself from their embrace, the cool air bringing goosebumps to his skin as he moved to the bathroom. He returned quickly, two small washcloths steaming gently in his hands. Adrienne watched him, her eyes tracing his movements as he approached the bed. Her cheeks warmed slightly as he carefully, tenderly, cleaned her up, wiping away any excess fluid from her thighs. She hissed softly as he carefully moved her for a better angle, then sighed, sinking back as he finished.

"About Hoseok..." Her voice was a little hesitant as he settled back beside her, pulling her close again. "He knows, doesn't he? About us."

Yoongi sighed, a relaxed exhale. "He probably does. He's smart, and observant. He's been watching me glare at you for a week." He paused, then added, his voice low, "But don't worry about Hobi. He's... he's like a brother. He wouldn't say anything. Ever."

Adrienne hummed, still a little thoughtful. "I know you trust him. But this... this is a lot to keep quiet."

"He understands," Yoongi reassured her, his thumb stroking her arm. "More than anyone. We've been through too much together. He knows what's at stake. He's just worried about me... about us. That's why he pushed me to come here."

"Wait, he made you come here?" She gasped, holding a hand to her chest in mock shock. "Were you just planning on ignoring me the whole time we’re in Japan?"

"Aish, woman," Yoongi groaned, his head falling back in playful annoyance, the kind that only Adrienne could coax laughter out of him. "I wanted to make up with you on the flight over, but you walked away!"

"I walked away because you were ignoring me!" Adrienne retorted, pushing herself up on her elbows to truly look down on him, a playful glint in her eyes.

Yoongi rolled his eyes then, waving his hand noncommittally as if to wash away all the awkwardness of the past few weeks. "Alright, alright, we both made mistakes. Let's leave it there, baby." He added, pulling Adrienne close to his chest again.

She didn’t argue this time, a soft scoff puffing up her chest for a few seconds before she melted against him, allowing herself to feel a sense of calm that had eluded her so distinctly in recent nights. "You know, you probably can't stay the whole night, can you?"

Yoongi chuckled again, a deep rumble in his chest. "Relax. I'll get up before dawn. I'm on the same floor anyway, just a few doors down. No one will ever know." He pulled her closer still, as if to prove his point. "Unless you want me to leave now?" His voice was laced with a teasing challenge.

"Never," she whispered, burrowing deeper into his embrace. "Don't you dare."

A natural, practiced quiet fell between them. Yoongi's hand gently ran up and down her back, tracing patterns on her skin. "You mentioned your sister earlier," he said, his voice quiet. "The baby... next month. What's she like? Your family?"

She shifted against him, a subtle relaxation in her posture. He'd never asked much about her family before, always cautious of stirring up homesickness. Now, as she settled deeper into his embrace, the question felt right. "She's... everything. My whole family, really. Our parents died when were younger so she's always been there to take care of me" A soft, wistful smile touched her lips. "She's always been the more responsible one. She's a kindergarten teacher back home. It's going to be so strange, seeing her with her own baby." A sigh escaped her. "I just wish I could be there."

Yoongi squeezed her, placing a comforting kiss on the crown of her head. "I know, Andy. I hate that you'll miss it. It's a huge sacrifice." He leaned down to kiss her hair again. "Tell me more about her. About them. About your home."

Wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the hotel room, Adrienne began to speak of her life before Seoul. Yoongi listened, his touch a comforting anchor, forging a deeper bond between them.

[bngtanah]

I’m (not) With The Band. | 11 [m]

summary: Adrienne is an indie producer who is hired to help co-produce BTS’ next album alongside their resident producer; Suga. Despite the initial opposition on both ends, the pair spend time together, share a few stories, dreams and aspirations and begin to hit it off really well. Wrapped up in the whirlwind of late nights and heated disagreements and reconciliations, Min Yoongi and Adrienne Rolle find themselves growing closer and closer. One night they decide to cross the barrier between personal and professional and do their best make a relationship work against all odds.

pairing: idol!Yoongi  x black!OC word count: 4k genre: drama, romance, smut chapters:prologue| o1| o2| o3| o4| o5| o6| o7| o8 [m]| o9| 10| 11| warning: smut, workplace relationship, slow burn, sexual attraction, ambw, developing relationship, light angst, mid writing tbh.

Yoongi was not sure how they ended up here. His fingers trapped in a labyrinth of Adrienne's braids and her head bobbing back and forth so furiously between his legs he thought she would sprain her neck muscles. 

He knew that there were much more responsible ways for them to be using their time. The album deadline was fast approaching and they were nowhere close to being finished. The little time they had to work should have been spent actually working, not with Adrienne on her knees making Yoongi forcefully ball up a fist of her hair to stop himself from screaming her name so loudly anyone on their floor could hear.

Yoongi knew this, but he seemed to lose all sense of himself when Adrienne was around. Least of all when she touched him and he had no defense against her lips whenever they came in contact with any part of his body. “Ah, fu..ck...” he groaned, his body shuddering with delight when her delicate hand gripped his length with more pressure then fluttered downward to lightly cup and squeeze his balls. Yoongi fought harshly against the urge to groan with pleasure, still wanting to stay as quiet as possible. A hope that was quickly dwindling the longer Adrienne bobbed between his leg and the closer he came to releasing himself inside her mouth. Throwing an arm up to rest over his eyes, his other hand clasped even tighter onto the back on Andy’s head. “Shit. shi-shi-shi-”

With the sounds of her mouth slurping on him bouncing off the walls of the padded studio and the mind-blowing sensations of her warm mouth wrapped around his twitching dick, Yoongi felt like the luckiest man in the world — of course, any thought of the work they came here to do was now completely gone from his mind. When she massaged his balls again, his back arched forward, toes curling under in his worn-in converse. “Andy, Andy.” He stuttered, torn between making her stop and letting her continue. A tentative hand gently pushed on her shoulder to stop her actions and make her look up at him. “Come here,” he breathed, once her mouth was no longer around him. “I want you to ride me, baby.”

Yoongi shuddered when her lips popped off the head of his length and she took him into her hands instead, pumping up and down lazily, “What if I don’t want to?” She murmured and leaned upward to quickly peck his lips, her brown eyes twinkling with mischief when Yoongi’s cheeks flushed with color.e “Watching you get all worked up is too entertaining to stop now.” Her lips pressed against the side of his neck and her nose nuzzled underneath his earlobe, Yoongi smirked and curled his fingers around a few of the curls that spooled around her head. 

“I know you’re wet Andy,” He groaned, shifting his hips in a failed attempt to move away from Adrienne’s touch. “Let me take care of you.” The way her knees pressed together with earnest and the visible hunger in her eyes when he playfully tugged her head backward made Yoongi chuckle and pull Adrienne toward him and smother her mouth a searing kiss, assuming that she was giving in to his request until her grip around his length tightened and his entire body flinched. Adrienne softened her hold and smoothed her free hand up his chest before pressing her lips to his ear.

“You can take care of me when I’m done with you.” She whispered with a gentle giggle before slinking back down to her previous position and taking Yoongi into her mouth again.

His head fell back into the cushions of the sofa and he decided there was no use in fighting, she would have her way with him no matter how many times he tried to dissuade her. And have her way she did, it hardly took any time for Yoongi to see stars once her head was between his legs again. Her head bobbing back and forth at twice the speed before. Andy glided her hands over him in time with the movements of her mouth and groaned along with Yoongi when he sunk his head deeper into the cushions behind and moaned into the air above him.

"Aish...ah fuck" He muttered and grabbed a fistful of Adrienne's hair for leverage as he pumped his hips faster towards her mouth. Adrienne released her grip on his length to swat his hands away after a moment and the devilish glint that glistened in her eyes when he looked down at her made Yoongi gulp. 

Instead of stopping herself like he thought she planned to, this time she pushed her head forward. Taking him as deeply as her anatomy would allow and the hoarse groan that emerged from the back of his throat took Yoongi by surprise. He could feel the soft, warm flesh that enveloped the head of his length grow tighter and tighter until it was met by what had to be the very back of her throat. His orgasm ruptured through him with a previously unknown urgency when she purposely swallowed and constricted her throat muscles around the head of his engorged cock. 

“Mother-Fucker!” Yoongi exclaimed, loud and inconsolable as his hips jerked forward and he became lifeless putty in Adrienne’s hands, emptying himself in wave after wave until he had nothing left to give. Once his body went lax, he melted into the couch, wanting more than anything to repay Andy the immeasurable kindness she had just paid him but not being able to find the energy to do so. Not even when she sidled up next to him placed a suspiciously chaste kiss on his cheek, the smug grin on her lips making him want to ravish her even more.

“Where did you learn that?” Yoongi groaned exasperatedly, still trying to move his lifeless limbs when Adrienne rested her head on his shoulder and smiled like a maiden with a secret.

“I had a life before you, Gi” She replied with a grin “Did you like it?”

“Fuck, yes” Yoongi breathed and moved forward, finally regaining feeling in his lower body. His lips latched on to any patch of Adrienne’s he could reach and he grinned when her arms looped around his neck. His sculpted hands meandered all over her body, his ego becoming submerged in revelry each time Adrienne moaned and sighed with pleasure against his ears.

A series of frantic knocks echoing against their studio door made them both freeze in place and strain their necks toward the source of the sound.

“Ignore them, whoever it is will go away.” Yoongi grumbled and put his lips back on Adrienne's neck.

“It sounds important... we should at least see who it is.”

Yoongi groaned and pulled back, “All right, I’ll-”

“Not you!” Adrienne snickered “You don’t have pants on.”

Visibly reluctant, Adrienne pushed Yoongi backward and did her best to fix her clothing and hair, mostly succeeding at hiding the physical evidence of the last few minutes before cracking the door open just enough to see a pensive and slightly irritated Hoseok stumble backward a few feet once catching her gaze.

“Ah, Noona! I thought Suga-hyung was here, have you seen him? We have a meeting and no one has been able to reach him.”

“Um, yeah I-” Before Adrienne could finish her sentence Yoongi was at her side and opening the door as widely as he could, his forearm lazily resting against the edge. He’d cleaned himself up in a rush, though there was still a faint hint of pink, flushed skin gathered around his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“I’m working,” Yoongi grumbled in a gravelly voice.

Hoseok paused for a split second to really look over Yoongi’s face when he spoke, then over to Adrienne who was already shrinking back into the room. He subtly nodded to himself then cleared his throat and addressed Yoongi by meeting his gaze.

“We had a meeting with Pd-nim thirty minutes ago,” He began, cautiously choosing his next words “Everyone’s been calling and looking for you... have you been here the whole time?”

“Mhmm,” Yoongi replied and mussed up his hair, blonde strands freely framing his forehead “I must have had my headphones on”

“We called a lot...”

“I turn my phone off when I'm working, it’s less distracting. Are you done questioning me now? Aren’t we late for a meeting?” Yoongi snarled and brushed past Hoseok, heading toward the boss’ office. 

Adrienne had already taken her seat back at the computer desk, trying her best to pretend she was not eavesdropping, but the way she absentmindedly opened and closed folders would have betrayed that notion immediately if anyone was watching her. She exhaled in relief once Yoongi had left the doorway and Hoseok wasn’t allowed to pry any further. Her shoulders relaxed for all of two seconds before she heard Hoseok clear his throat behind her.

“This meeting is for you as well, Noona,”

“Me?” Adrienne replied with genuine confusion before whispering “Why?” in a hushed breath.

Hoseok nodded twice then turned on his heels and followed the same path that Yoongi headed down a few moments ago. Adrienne took the time to gather herself and attempt to shake the nerves out of her body before quickly catching up to both of them.

Bang PD’s office was not a sizeable space. It was a healthy size as far as offices were concerned but there was a limit to how many human bodies could fit comfortably in the area before claustrophobia became a plausible issue. With all the band members, their dance teacher and a few managers spread around, Adrienne wished she could shrink down when all of their eyes snapped in her direction once the door opened.

“Ah, it’s nice for both of you to join us” Bang Shi-Hyuk commented once Yoongi and Adrienne stepped inside, Hoseok closing the door behind them.

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi spoke up and accompanied his apology with a deep bow that Adrienne quickly mimicked “I lost track of time while we were working, my headphones must have been too loud.” 

Adrienne balked and sank down against the wall, too embarrassed to offer any additional explanation. Of course, she hadn’t known about the meeting but Yoongi would have been here on time if she didn’t insist on seducing him for her own personal pleasure. She didn’t like forcing Yoongi into this position, having to lie to his boss to protect himself and her by extension as a result of a decision she made.

“Speaking of the album,” Bang started with a huff “That is a major concern of today’s meeting. We’ve fallen far behind schedule and it's beginning to cut into your other commitments.” 

Yoongi’s lips parted as if he was about to respond but Bang raised his palm toward him and continued speaking. “When I gave you this opportunity, I thought you were ready to spearhead this amount of responsibility but now... I’m rethinking that, Yoongi. I don't know what you've been doing but I'm starting to question if you know what your priorities are.”

Adrienne watched Yoongi's face intently from her position just a few feet behind him. His jaw clenched so tightly it made the muscles his neck bulge outward. Tentatively, she reached for his hand knowing that they were hidden well enough to not be noticed if she held his hand. That was the plan, anyway, but the second her fingertips brushed against his skin Adrienne felt Yoongi forcibly snatch his hand away and shoot her a look that she had never seen before. It made her stop in her tracks and immediately pulled both of her hands back to her side.

“As you all know we planned to tour Japan next month, hoping to build up promotion for the upcoming album. An album that has not been finished yet. So, after meeting with your managers we’ve decided it would be best to work on trying to finish the album simultaneously. I know this will be hard on everyone but we’re counting on you to pull through and make this go as smoothly as possible.”

The room was silent before Namjoon set the tone by immediately bowing his head and addressing Bang on behalf of the group. “Of course we will, PD-nim” he replied quickly nodding along when the rest of his band members voiced their agreement. Yoongi, however, remained silent and still as the group of bodies began filing out of the room. His neck never wavered as he stalked past Adrienne and refused to meet her pleading gaze on his way out. 

“Adrienne, Yoongi. Wait a moment,” they both craned their heads in Bang Shi-Hyuk’s direction. He looked pensive for a few moments before he cleared his throat and beckoned the pair of them closer to his desk. “I want both of you to know this wasn’t an easy decision.”

Adrienne nodded, unsure of what else she could possibly say in response. Yoongi, however, was stiff as a board, refusing to budge an inch. 

“I know we originally agreed for you-” he motioned to Adrienne “To take the entirety of next month to visit your family but we need you to stay in Japan as well. I’m no longer certain my confidence in Yoongi is well placed.” He paused for a moment, obviously frustrated with the choice of words. He groaned softly, rubbing the palm of his hand down the length of his face before speaking again “I’m sure both of you are working as hard as you can but I need you to try harder. Can you give me your word that we can have this album completed for review by the end of this month?”

“Yes sir, of course” Adrienne yelped and Yoongi nodded, unable or unwilling to respond with words.

Shi Hyuk sighed and then dismissed the pair, both of their petite bodies moving out of his office at breakneck speeds. Adrienne trailed behind, waiting until they were safely within the confines of their studio to attempt addressing Yoongi again. 

“I...I’m sorry Yoongi, that felt terrible. I can’t imagine what..” Adrienne reached forward for his hand, her index finger gently stroking against the backside of his palm when he moved past her, hoping that it would stop him but he kept stomping forward. He flopped himself down in front of the computer and immediately slapped a pair of headphones over his ears as if Adrienne wasn’t even in the room, let alone speaking directly to him. Adrienne exhaled deeply, attempting to keep her attitude in check before she tried to speak again, knowing just how easy it was for this ‘conversation’ to dissolve into a shouting match.

“I know you’re probably annoyed and you have every right to be, we are way behind schedule but giving me the silent treatment isn’t going to make either of us work any faster so can you just talk to me?” Adrienne placed a hand on his shoulder and nearly stumbled backward as he violently jerked backward then finally turned to face her. He was visibly upset and the entirety of his face, including his ears, fading from its regular fair color to a washed out red as he ripped the headphones off his head and tossed them to the side before starting to respond. 

“Talk about what Adrienne?” Yoongi growled from his seat “The fact that you’ve been distracting me since the beginning of this project and now we're so far behind my fucking boss thinks I can’t handle the responsibility?” His hands gripped the armrests of the plush armchair tightly  “Or about the amount of times you’ve dragged me away from this room knowing how much our backlog was building up?” Yoongi sharply sighed and pushed himself back against the cushions of his armchair,  veined hands pressing into and smoothing down the length of his face “This job may mean nothing to you, you have something to go back to once this is all over but this is very serious for me. It’s my life Adrienne...If you can’t understand that then maybe coming here was a mistake.” With his last word, Yoongi swiveled back toward the computer, ignoring the small sniffles that muttered from behind him.

Though there were tears stinging the corners of her eyes Adrienne’s lips and facial expression had contorted into a scowl so heavy she was barely recognisable “Do you think you’re the only one that’s making sacrifices for this job?” Adrienne whispered, knowing that it was entirely too easy for someone to listen into their conversation if they were determined to do so. “My sister, the only family I have in this world is having her first child next month and I am going to be an entire ocean away catering to the needs of some fucking boy band that doesn’t even think I’m good enough to be here-”

Yoongi huffed a sigh and moved to retort, “You kno-”

“Do not interrupt me, I’m tired of hearing you talk down to me like I’m your pet. My opinion and my time is just as important as yours. I am sorry if you feel that I’ve been monopolizing your time, but you were a willing participant here Yoongi, I never made you do anything you didn’t want to.” Adrienne hissed a whisper, trying not to yell at him the way she so desperately wanted to. Once she was silent for a few seconds Yoongi moved to speak again, his entire body conveying just how much he was over the conversation.

“Don’t worry about it Andy,” He replied flatly, “It’s my fault really, I should have had more control over you from the beginning.” 

“I’m sorry…? Control...me? What the fuck makes you think you can control me? Y’know what don’t answer that” Adrienne swiftly held her hands up in front of her face and backed away with a full step backward “Fuck you.” She muttered and moved around to gather up her belongings and bolt out of the studio.

Tears flooded her eyes and easily obstructed her view as she stomped her way down the hallway, heading in any direction that took her away from that cramped studio. A warm body nearly bowled her over while she tore down the hallway, if not for the pair of hands that grasped her biceps tightly as she fell backward Adrienne would have landed flat on her ass.

“Ah, Noona. Are you oka..y?” A familiar voice, clear as a bell and sweet as a sugar made Andy pick her head up and furiously attempt to wipe the tears away from her eyes. Hoseok’s forehead wrinkled just slightly when she nodded quickly and stepped away, his eyes scanning her from head to toe.

“Are you sure? You don’t look okay.” 

“I’m fine Hoseok, don’t worry” She tried to sound cheery, even forcing what she thought was a reassuring smile on to her face. Her shaky lips pulled up to the sides much too high, and she ended up looking more crazed than anything else.

Hoseok hummed and folded his arms in front of him, looking pensive but refusing to push her any further. “All right,” He replied after a lengthy pause “Hey~ I was just about to go for a walk. Wanna join me?”

The shorter girl sighed, knowing in her heart that the last thing she wanted to do at that moment was go anywhere and be forced to talk to anyone. Even if that someone was Hoseok, she wanted to be alone more than anything else but the way Hoseok smiled at her, so earnest and caring. Andy didn’t have the heart to blow him off.

“Sure, I guess I could use some air” She sighed and adjusted the large bag on her shoulder, politely shaking her head and moving it in his direction when Hoseok held out his hand and offered to hold it for her.

They walked outside in silence, heading a few blocks away from the BigHit building in a uniform stride with only a few prodding questions from Hoseok floating up into the air and dissipating like the rain. Adrienne tried her best to engage when he looked at her with concern written all over his features, it wasn’t her intention to be so cold toward him but she couldn’t shake the image of Yoongi practically snarling at her from her mind. Hoseok rested a hand on her shoulder and Adrienne jumped backward so drastically he immediately put both his hands up by his head to ensure that he meant her no harm.

“I’m sorry, Hoseok….” Adrienne quickly replied, a hand pressing to her own frantic heartbeat “I’m a little distracted right now with... work.”

Hoseok nodded, slowly lowering his hands until they were by his side before stuffing them into his pockets and tapping his foot against the ground a few times. He pursed his lips together for a few seconds, his mouth pouting downward into a recognizable triangular shape before he jutted his head to the side and gestured for Adrienne to follow him again.

“You know... Yoongi-hyung can let his emotions get the best of him sometimes...” He started, carefully speaking as he walked a few steps ahead of Andy, his gaze remaining forward as Adrienne’s head snapped upward and began stammering.

“I-I don’t think I understand you, Hobi...”

Hoseok ignored her and kept moving forward, his neck defiant and stiff, “He can be grumpy and brash and say things that he normally wouldn’t when he’s angry but that never means that he’s stopped caring.” He stopped short and quickly turned on his heels to face Adrienne head on, the same earnest smile gracing his lips as he glanced over her face “Or that he’ll stay mad for too long, I don’t know what he said or why he said it but trust me on this. He cares about you Noona, a lot.”

Adrienne, completely stunned to silence, tripped over her footsteps just seconds after Hoseok stopped and looked up at him. The way she saw she had just two options; lie or be truthful with someone she had come to consider a dear friend over the past months. Her eyebrows grew closer together as she looked at him, really looked, once again. The honesty and genuine concern was written all over his face and it made Adrienne’s eyes well up with tears all over again. 

“... Hobi” She croaked, a half-hearted smile ticking up the left side of her lips “How do you know? Did he tell you?”

Hoseok shook his head and opened his arms, gesturing for Adrienne to walk into them, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders once she did and used the back of his sleeves to wipe away a few of the tears that still streamed down her cheeks. “I’ve known Hyung for a very long time now, there isn’t much he can hide from me. I can see it every time he looks at you, it’s…” He stuttered for a moment then looked down at Adrienne with a sad smile.

“It isn’t my place to say,” he sighed, the palms of his hands smoothed over her shoulders and squeezed her biceps reassuringly for a few seconds before he took a step backward and smoothed his hands back into his pockets.

“You should talk to him, when you feel like it. Whatever it is, I’m sure you can work through it.” 

He hardly waited for a response before shoving her bag back into her hands and giving her an enthusiastic wave then heading back toward the Bighit building, claiming to be late for practice but Adrienne was sure he didn’t want to risk being caught outside with her right after they stopped hugging. Even with a face mask it was hard not to recognize him by his hair alone.

Adrienne adjusted the collar of her jacket, smoothing the lapels down against her skin to warm herself from the bolstering wind. Even though Hoseok’s words had soothed the burn of Yoongi’s fiery reaction from earlier Andy wasn’t sure she was ready to see him again and have the conversation they so desperately needed to have. Not today.

Maybe not tomorrow either. For now Adrienne swiveled on her feet, hitched her backpack higher on her shoulders and headed home. Rehearsing a way to explain to her sister that she would miss the birth of her child.

[sugables]

[180526] yoongi @ music core 🍭

[bngtanah]

I’m (not) With The Band. | 1o [m]

summary: Adrienne is an indie producer who is hired to help co-produce BTS’ next album alongside their resident producer; Suga. Despite the initial opposition on both ends, the pair spend time together, share a few stories, dreams and aspirations and begin to hit it off really well. Wrapped up in the whirlwind of late nights and heated disagreements and reconciliations, Min Yoongi and Adrienne Rolle find themselves growing closer and closer. One night they decide to cross the barrier between personal and professional and do their best make a relationship work against all odds.

pairing: idol!Yoongi  x OC word count: 3k genre: drama, romance, smut

chapters:prologue| o1| o2| o3| o4| o5| o6| o7| o8 [m]| o9| 10| 11|

warning: smut, workplace relationship, slow burn, sexual attraction, ambw, developing relationship, light angst, mid writing tbh.

“You’re late.”

Yoongi spoke, deadpan, from his seat on the edge of the couch as Adrienne came bumbling into the studio. With her laptop and other miscellaneous electronics cradled in her arms, she panted hard and leaned against the doorway to catch her breath.

“I know,” she finally huffed. “I overslept… and I had to run all the way here. Don’t be mad.”

Yoongi smirked and shook his head. “I’m not. You’re lucky the van had a flat tire today; we would have left without you.”

“Oh, does that mean I can sit? Thank God, my legs feel like jelly,” Adrienne sighed and shuffled forward, groaning heavily once she was finally seated next to Yoongi on the couch and dumped her laptop and backpack off to the side. “Where’s everyone else?” she asked, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Interviews, taking pictures… I don’t know,” Yoongi replied with a slight yawn and an arm around Adrienne’s shoulders.

“So you’ve just been sitting in here waiting for me?”

Yoongi pursed his lips and gave Adrienne a sideways glance. “I was working.”

Adrienne glanced behind her at the studio computer that looked untouched and then back toward Yoongi with a teasing smile. “On what? The computer isn’t even on,” she chuckled.

“… Lyrics,” Yoongi answered after a moment’s pause. He was usually a pretty good bluff. His stoic and often sarcastic personality helped with that less than desirable quality of his, but as usual Adrienne seemed to disarm that in him. He found himself stuttering and fumbling over his words when he wasn’t even trying to deceive her.

“Mhm, sure. Writing down imaginary lyrics in your imaginary notebook, with a make-believe pen?” Andy queried and leaned in closer, snuggling against his neck.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Maybe I was waiting for you to show up because maybe I wanted to see you alone before everyone got here.”

“I know.”

“If you know that, why do you need to hear me say it?”

“Because I’m needy,” Adrienne giggled and nipped her teeth against Yoongi’s skin, making his soft pout break down into a genuine smile.

When Adrienne leaned forward to rest a hand against his chest, Yoongi pulled her to him gently. And kissed her, slowly and tenderly as if they had all the time in the world. In the past few weeks, they barely had a moment to themselves without someone passing through the studio to record or give input on one of the songs they had yet to finish. Yoongi missed having Adrienne all to himself and being able to touch her and talk to her the way he wanted to. They’d only been together officially for a few weeks, but insufficient privacy and intimacy were beginning to get to him. He enjoyed the playful teasing and unbridled tension that sparked between them just a short time earlier, but Yoongi was glad to finally get to this part.

He loved kissing Adrienne, how warm and soft her lips were, how her smaller frame felt against his larger. He moved one hand to the small of her back, letting go of her arm and pulled her up so that she was totally seated on his lap, his mouth opening and their tongues entwining, a spark of electricity jolting down both of their spines at the intimate contact. Part of Yoongi realized he could just do this all day and all night, kiss Adrienne on this couch like they were the only two people in the world and have that be the end of it. He never had to see her undressed again if it meant that she could melt in his arms the way she was now.

Of course, that didn't mean that he didn’t want to. And he was reminded of just how long it had been since he had the privilege of seeing her naked when he felt her hips slowly move against his crotch. The movement was tentative and brief, as if she was testing the waters and gauging his reaction before actually attempting to arouse him. Yoongi smiled against her lips, feeling reassured she was feeling the same amount of desire for him as he had for her.

“What are you doing, Andy?” he asked, half-chuckling and pulled back to gently kiss along her jawline.

“You know, Gi,” she answered softly, almost sounding coy as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Don’t you miss me? I miss you.”

Yoongi groaned when she rolled her hips once more, this time with deliberate effort, and raked her fingernails against his scalp.

“Teasing me?” Andy breathed, and Yoongi wrapped an arm around her lower back, pulled her closer to him, and smothered her neck with his lips.

“Don’t you wanna see me come for you again, Yoongi?” His body responded before he could, breath hitching and a possessive, almost primal, growl forming in the back of his throat as he captured her lips again, cutting off whatever she planned on saying next. He swallowed every short moan and sigh of pleasure that dared escape her lips. Yoongi needed to silence her, knowing that if he didn’t, he would have taken her right there on the sofa. The knowledge that they had no time to fool around didn’t stop him from groping her body, however, his hands roughly gripping the smooth skin of her thighs. He just barely resisted the urge to move any further up and underneath her skirt, though they both clearly wanted him to.

Bbzzzzzzz

The vibrations of Yoongi’s cellphone in his pocket startled them both, and Yoongi seriously considered ignoring it for a moment. The taste of Adrienne’s lips was much more interesting than whomever could have been on the other end of that phone call. Reluctantly, he allowed his better judgment to guide his actions and pulled back from Adrienne to answer the call.

“Hmm… it’s here? Okay, I’m on my way.”

With a petulant frown, Yoongi held Adrienne’s gaze for a few somber seconds before pressing a quick kiss to her lips and moving her back onto the couch.

“I hate your job,” Adrienne grumbled as she began gathering her possessions together and standing up. A humorless chuckle parted Yoongi’s lips, and he pulled her close to his side by her waist to place a gentle kiss against her cheek.

“You’re not the only one.”

Being sardined in a car full of attractive men may have been a dream for some women, but for Adrienne it felt like nothing short of a nightmare. Especially when they were all sleep-deprived, grumpy, and all she wanted to do was cuddle up next to her boyfriend and go back to sleep. But she couldn’t do that without causing a scene and possibly putting her contracted job on the line. With all this and the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from touching him at the forefront of her mind, Adrienne opted out of sitting next to Yoongi on the ride to the first of many photo shoots that day.

She was nestled between Taehyung and Hoseok, who were both asleep and gently wheezing against her ears. The dueling chorus of their snoring was a nice distraction for her to stop herself from turning around to bother Yoongi, who she knew was sleeping soundly as well. Adrienne was tired too, but she had a melody in her head that refused to allow her to close her eyes. Her short intimate moment with Yoongi that morning inspired her to rearrange the melody for a song they were almost finished with. She knew he would hate her for changing something at the last minute yet again, but Adrienne really couldn't help herself.

Earbuds lodged in both ears, Adrienne nodded along to the unfinished beat pouring through them. She was so engrossed in the interface in front of her, Adrienne hardly noticed Namjoon attempting to get her attention until he tapped her knee.

“What are you listening to?” He asked once she could hear him.

“Something I’m working on,” Adrienne replied with a fake frown.

Namjoon perked slightly in his seat at the mention of new music; he was the only one that didn’t seem overly tired. “Can I listen?”

“Mmm, I dunno…” She placed a finger against her chin as if she was contemplating something. “I wanted it to be a surprise for everyone.”

“Aw, c’mon Adrienne, just one listen,” he pleaded, even going so far as to press his hands together as if he was genuinely begging her.

Adrienne giggled, handing over her laptop with the earbuds still attached. “Fine. But this is only because I like you. Don’t tell the other boys.”

She ended her statement with a playful but innocent wink, completely unaware of the faint blush that colored Namjoon’s cheeks as he pressed the earbuds against his ears and began nodding along slowly. Adrienne couldn’t place the feeling of slight nervousness that ensued after Namjoon went silent; having someone else critique or even just listen to her work without it being completed was always a nerve-wracking experience.

“I like it,” Namjoon exhaled after what seemed like ages, handing back Adrienne’s laptop with a broad smile that made his dimples sink even deeper. “It’s… what’s the word… sweet?”

“Thank you,” Adrienne explained in a whisper, she wanted to avoid waking anyone up. “I was going for something like… spring. Like that fresh feeling you get when you’re starting a new relationship and everything at the beginning is just exciting and bright.” The way Adrienne’s face lit up betrayed her desire to conceal the fact that she was speaking with personal feeling, and Namjoon chuckled softly.

“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” he commented cautiously.

“I am…” She nodded then stiffened her back and added, “P-past experiences. I don’t think I could date anyone now even if I had the time. How do you explain getting up at 4 in the morning to travel around the city with seven men twice a week?”

Namjoon chuckled, finding her explanation cute and somewhat outlandish. Then a small lull of silence fell between them, and Namjoon’s mouth was moving before he had the chance to think about what he was asking.

“So… is time the only thing keeping you from seeing anyone?”

He had no idea where this sudden burst of confidence and curiosity had come from, but the way Adrienne shyly ducked her head down and pressed her hands to her cheeks before answering made him think his random question may have been a good way to turn the conversation in his favor. It was a simplistic way of thinking, but he was only human after all.

Adrienne, meanwhile, was simply trying to think of a way to deflect his questions without turning into a babbling mess. She was a terrible liar, and having to actually deny being with Yoongi made her feel uncomfortable. Why was he asking her about dating so suddenly anyway? This was hardly the time and place for this type of conversation.

“B-basically, I mean, I guess it might work with the right person, but I’m focused on my music right now,” Adrienne finally managed to spit out, cheeks burning red.

“But… say there was someone that was interested in you and they didn’t mind your work schedule. Maybe they even had a schedule just as crazy. Would you consider that?”

Namjoon rambled and became more eager with his choice of words the longer Adrienne let him talk. She was barely about to formulate a response to what seemed like an interrogation coming from the leader of a group that had the potential to fall apart at her hands. The furthest thing from Adrienne’s mind was that Namjoon might be making reference to himself, and not trying to subtly hint at her relationship with Yoongi. Adrienne’s moist palms gripped the edge of her laptop tighter, and she sank her front teeth deep into her bottom lip, desperately trying to think of a response. Just as her lips parted, she felt a body stir next to her, and the words that came from Hoseok’s lips almost made her sigh with relief.

“Why are you so concerned about her dating, Namjoon?” He asked. Obviously, he wasn't sleeping quite as soundly as Adrienne had thought. Hoseok quickly sat up once he realized just how much of his body was leaning against Adrienne’s side and cleared his throat, pointedly looking to Namjoon for a reply.

“I’m not concerned!” Namjoon countered. “Just curious, I guess. I mean, I-… shut up, Hobi.” Namjoon huffed and sounded defeated as he adjusted his position to face forward again. The smug smirk on Hoseok’s lips fell once Adrienne turned to face him, and he snapped his head in the opposite direction to avoid catching her gaze. It was an odd gesture, considering how comfortable Adrienne thought they were; something like eye contact had never been a problem before. She contemplated asking him about it for a moment, but Adrienne really didn’t have the desire to push him for an explanation. There was no reason to risk another heart attack so early in the day.

Later that night, 11:00 pm

Despite Andy’s reassurance, Yoongi was not having a great time. She had somehow convinced him to ignore the mountain of work that was past due for both of them for just one night and go dancing with her. The DJ was terrible and annoying, the hordes of pretentious and desperate twenty-somethings that seemed to frequent this place were less than amiable company, and apparently all of them were freakishly tall, judging by the amount of times he had been elbowed in the back of the head without even a small apology. Countless complaints had taken up residence on the tip of Yoongi’s tongue since the moment they stepped into the club, but Yoongi held back for the sole fact that Adrienne seemed to be enjoying herself.

That could just be due to the fact that she was a much more pleasant person than he was most of the time. Even if she wasn’t having the best time, there was no way you’d be able to tell just by looking at her face, especially not now while she laughed loudly, each of her pearly white teeth gleaming, at something Taehyung had said along with the rest of their small group. Hoseok, Taehyung, and Jungkook had somehow weaseled their way into what was supposed to be a private night out for Yoongi and Adrienne. Yoongi suspected Hoseok only tagged along to act as a chaperone, judging by the amount of times he attempted to redirect Adrienne’s attention whenever Yoongi hovered nearby. Tae and Jungkook apparently just wanted an excuse to go clubbing.

Yoongi sniffed, adjusting the watch on his wrist and bringing a bottle of beer to his mouth. He hadn’t been paying attention to anything anyone was saying, his attention focused solely on coming up with a bridge melody for their latest track. Hearing Adrienne squeak softly to get his attention made him look up from the ground and raise an eyebrow to silently question what she wanted. They were alone now, with Taehyung and Jungkook having found people more interesting to smother with attention, and Hoseok leaving to head home. Probably convinced the two other members would be enough to prevent Yoongi from making a public mistake.

“You’re not having fun,” Adrienne stated and leaned against the bar where Yoongi sat.

“What makes you say that?” Yoongi replied, sounding genuinely surprised. She was correct, of course, but he thought that he was hiding his distaste well.

“You’ve been nursing that beer for half an hour,” she started, “And you’ve looked annoyed since we got here. Look, if you don't want to be here, we can go back to work.” Adrienne sighed and stepped forward so that her body was slotted between Yoongi’s legs. “I just wanted to spend some time with you in a place where we don’t have to look over our shoulders like we’re doing something wrong.”

Adrienne frowned, and Yoongi felt his heart twinge. Tonight was one of the few times he and Adrienne had the chance to be out in public as an actual couple, and all he was doing was making her upset. Yoongi shot back the remainder of his beer and rested the empty container on the bar before wrapping his arms around Adrienne’s waist and pulling her closer.

“Sorry,” he replied in a cute voice that made Adrienne visibly grimace and attempt to push herself away from him.

“Don’t do that,” she groaned. “You know I hate when you do that.”

“You love it when Hobi does it!”

“Hoseok does it well! Aegyo doesn’t suit you, Gi,” Adrienne giggled, and even though he was moderately offended by her rejection, Yoongi was just happy she was no longer frowning.

“There’s my girl,” Yoongi smiled, hooking his index finger under Adrienne’s chin and pulling her forward to him. “Can I be honest with you?” he muttered against Andy’s lips, and she nodded.

“I hate this place,” he said with a dry laugh, which made Adrienne pout softly.

“Fine, we can leave, but you have to dance with me.”

Yoongi groaned audibly and rested his forehead against Adrienne’s now folded arms, but she was not deterred.

“You’ve been dancing with Taehyung all night; can’t you find him?”

“I don’t want to dance with Tae, I want to dance with my boyfriend.”

Yoongi kissed his teeth, looked up at Adrienne one last time before pushing himself off the barstool. He smiled when Adrienne did and turned to the bartender to order a bottle of soju before allowing himself to be dragged into the middle of the dance floor. In theory, Yoongi didn’t have a problem with dancing; it was nearly fifty percent of his job after all. He did, however, have a problem with being judged and watched over like an animal in a zoo; and that was exactly what he felt like whenever someone’s head turned to catch a second glance while he and Adrienne meandered their way through the crowd. She was far from the only foreigner in the club that night, and her small stature allowed her to go almost unnoticed when she was alone or in a group. But the fact that she was holding his hand suddenly made her something to be gawked at and questioned silently as she moved past every bigoted person that happened to be in attendance that night.

It was truly an exercise in self-control for Yoongi to stop himself from connecting his fist to the jaw of the next person that looked at them and whispered something to the person next to them. Instead, he chose to take a swig of soju to quell his annoyance and hold Adrienne’s hand even tighter until they came to a stop, and the feeling of her sliding her arms around his neck brought him back to reality. A sense of calm washed over him when he could finally refocus on the reason he was here in the first place, and Yoongi felt the small smirk he had been fighting evolve into a wide grin that spread across his entire face as the couple swayed together, ignoring the pulsating beat and everyone else around them.

“Are you drunk already?” Adrienne teased, taking the bottle of soju from Yoongi’s hands and taking a sip.

“I’m not drunk, I’m happy,” Yoongi replied simply, still smiling from ear to ear. “You make me happy.”

Adrienne’s lips, still curled around the bottle of soju, ticked upwards in a quick smile before she took another swig and lowered it to her side. Without a word, she wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him down to her lips in a sweet but quick kiss before resting her chin on his shoulder and nuzzling her nose against his neck.

“You make me happy too.”

Several songs and bottles of soju later, Yoongi and Adrienne were finally exiting the club, leaving behind the two younger friends that had accompanied them in the beginning. At least, they assumed they were leaving them behind. Truthfully, neither of them had been spotted since Hoseok left and the group split up hours earlier. The whereabouts of Jungkook and Taehyung were the last thing on Yoongi’s or even Adrienne’s mind as they stumbled out onto the sidewalk with Adrienne holding onto Yoongi to steady her steps. They both had the same amount of alcohol, but Yoongi made the sensible decision to follow every shot he took with a drink of water to avoid a hangover in the morning.

Adrienne did not.

Which is why her voice could be heard blocks away as Yoongi attempted to walk her home without being noticed. It was both a blessing and a curse that his company had set her up with an apartment so close to their building. It was late, but Yoongi knew there was never a time when the BigHit building was totally free of sasaeng fans looking to catch a glimpse of their favorite idol.

He contemplated taking a longer route just to avoid going near the building at all, but his concern about getting Adrienne home quickly heavily outweighed his desire to not be bothered by crazed fans. By some small miracle, the pair managed to get back to Adrienne’s apartment in one piece. She was still slightly tipsy, but the walk in the open air seemed to sober her up enough so that she was no longer singing unfinished melodies at the top of her lungs when they neared her apartment building.

“Are you going to leave?” He heard Adrienne yell from her bedroom as he stole a bottle of water from her refrigerator.

He nodded once she could see his face and leaned against the doorway of her bedroom.

“Do you have to? Can’t you just say you slept in the studio again?” Adrienne shuffled her sheets around to create an empty space, but Yoongi didn’t move, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to leave if he chose to take just one step over the threshold of her bedroom.

“That only worked because I had Hobi to cover me last time,” he sighed, watching Adrienne pout. “And it’s too easy to guess where I am this time. Taehyung and Jungkook… those two idiots don’t know how to keep a secret; they’ll talk as soon as they get home.”

Adrienne frowned again and got up. Yoongi tensed as she walked toward him since he was unable to read the expression on her face. She looked… pained, but there was also something there that he couldn’t pinpoint. His anxiety calmed when instead of pushing him out like he thought she would, she lazily placed her arms around his torso and pressed her cheek to his chest. He looked down at her when she shifted her head, assuming that she was going to say something. Instead, he was met with a more pointedly pained expression and Adrienne forcefully pressing a hand against her mouth.

“Are you oka-”

Before he had the chance to finish his question, Adrienne was stumbling backwards and scrambling to find her bathroom. The sound of her retching echoing against the tiled walls of her bathroom answered any questions Yoongi might have had, and he quickly followed after her, trying his very best to stop himself from laughing at the sight of Adrienne groaning into the toilet bowl and trying to keep her hair out of her face.

When he’d finally composed himself, he kneeled next to Adrienne and pulled every stray and unruly curl out of her eyes while rubbing her back as she lurched forward again.

“You drank too much,” he said, not expecting a response, and Adrienne only glared up at him when she could hold her head up again. After a few minutes passed with nothing forcing its way back up Adrienne’s throat, Yoongi guided her back to her bedroom and gently pushed her down onto the mattress, giving her a sip of his water to rinse.

“You should drink more water and get some rest, Andy,” Yoongi commented softly as he took a seat on the edge of her bed and brushed some hair away from her face. He stood up silently and disappeared to Adrienne’s adjoining bathroom, then returned a few moments later with a small damp makeup wipe in his hand.

“What are you doing?” Adrienne asked when he sat down again and began moving toward her face.

“Your makeup is smeared,” he answered simply and lightly wiped the cool cloth against Adrienne’s cheek. It took more than a few swipes for Yoongi to finally notice there were tears streaming down her face even though she was smiling.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi asked and shot up, immediately feeling panicked. “Did I hurt you?”

“You like me.”

Those three words gave Yoongi pause, and he exhaled sharply, waiting for her to explain the meaning behind her statement. When she didn’t, Yoongi kneeled next to where she lay and pulled a hand away from covering her face.

“What are you talking about?”

“You like me!” Adrienne repeated once more before wiping away a stray tear and clearing her throat. “I promise, I’m not just saying this because I’m drunk. But… I feel like I’ve been pushing you since we started this whole…”

“Relationship…?” Yoongi interjected, and Adrienne pressed her lips together gently.

“I pushed you into admitting you have feelings for me. I pushed you into making a move. I pushed you into a corner to be with me. Hell, even tonight I pushed you into slacking off and taking me out. It feels like all I do is push and push, and it’s exhausting, Yoongi. I never know if you’re doing something because you want to or because I’m pushing you.”

Yoongi sighed, holding Adrienne’s gaze as he attempted to gather a response. He had always hoped his actions would make up for what he didn’t say. He didn’t need to constantly reinforce how he felt about Adrienne because he showed her exactly what he felt by what he did. Wasn’t that enough?

“Andy. Please listen to me carefully. I only ever want to say this once,” Yoongi began, his palm cradling the swell of Adrienne’s cheek before he continued. “I like you. I'm not good at expressing myself. I find it difficult and awkward to talk about my feelings unless it’s for my music, but you should know that I like you. I like the way you light up a room just by walking into it and how you can turn a simple piano chord into a beautiful score of music. I even like how pushy you are,” Yoongi chuckled softly as Adrienne playfully bit down on his thumb. “You push me toward good things. I don’t want you to stop.”

Adrienne huffed loudly and rolled over so that she was now lying on her back. “I wish you would have said that three weeks ago. I would have gotten so much more sleep.”

Yoongi looked over at her once more, standing to his feet and leaning over her, both of his hands on each side of her face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his lips pressing gently to hers. “I’m sorry that I’m a shitty boyfriend,” he added, a kiss on her jaw accompanying it. “I’m sorry that I made you feel like I don’t like you,” he whispered with a kiss on her neck. His mouth moved further down to her collarbone, and Yoongi barely stopped himself from pushing the collar of her top over and sucking hard. Adrienne’s hands pulled him down to her body, bringing them as close as possible.

“I really can’t stay tonight,” he moaned, his hips rolling down into hers. “You keep saying that and not leaving,” Adrienne retorted, and Yoongi chuckled softly at her accurate observation.

Yoongi was done pretending that he had any intentions of leaving anytime soon and captured Adrienne’s lips with another kiss, taking his time to taste and swallow every moan and languid breath that escaped her lips. The final test of Yoongi’s will began the moment he leaned back to catch his breath, his head tilting to the side as he stared at Adrienne sprawled on the mattress. He had every opportunity to stop right there and give himself enough time to get back to his dorm undetected. Unfortunately, there was no way he could make himself leave Adrienne as she was now, panting for breath and practically begging to have him take her. What kind of boyfriend would he be to deny her? Yoongi sucked in a quick breath of air as she wiggled out of the pair of sweatpants that covered her legs and echoed her soft moan as he coaxed her panties off her hips, keeping his gaze on hers the entire time.

Adrienne’s thighs cradled his weight as he lowered himself on top of her again, pecked her lips and licked hot stripes up her neck. “Ah… shit,” Adrienne whispered when his hands moved down her body, searching for her warm folds until he found just what he was looking for. He easily slid two fingers past her entrance, and Adrienne groaned loudly as he stroked her from the inside. His pace slow and deliberate.

“You’re so fucking wet. I barely touched you,” Yoongi teased and seized her mouth again. His thumb massaged her clit while his index and middle fingers stroked her slippery walls. He pulled away slightly to get a better view of her face. Staring at the varying expressions that crossed her face, gauging her reaction to what he was doing, how it felt for her. Even here, he took pride in his work, smirking gently to himself whenever her body jolted or she moaned his name when words failed her. Adrienne’s nails used his forearms, back, and any part of his body she could reach to say the words she couldn't.

Yoongi added another finger and sank his teeth into his bottom lip when her eyes rolled backward before snapping shut. “Ride my fingers, Andy,” he said sternly, the command spurring Adrienne’s hips to piston faster. “Fuck, Yoongi. I want you inside of me,” Adrienne whispered between pants of breath, but Yoongi ignored her requests. His fingers kept at their work, and her hips bucked back and forth as her feet lifted from resting on Yoongi’s calves and were now suspended in mid-air. Sounds of inexpressible pitch streamed in an embarrassing frequency from her mouth as Yoongi’s torturous digits worked her middle.

“Open your eyes, Andy,” Yoongi grunted, the roughness of his tone betraying just how much self-control he was exercising at that moment and just how close he was to snapping. “I want you to look into my eyes when you come for me.” Adrienne nodded, unable or unwilling to verbally respond, and Yoongi knew exactly why. “Your cunt is squeezing my fingers.” Yoongi sighed, and Adrienne barely whimpered in response.

“I’m gonna come,” she panted, and Yoongi showed no mercy. His fingers drilled her then rubbed her clit with just the barest touch and reveled in the way she came undone beneath his touch. Her toes curled, back arched, and Yoongi thought for just a few seconds she stopped breathing before she finally exhaled and moaned his name. Thighs shaking, chest rising and falling too rapidly, Adrienne jerked as an heavy orgasm slammed into her. Yoongi smiled to himself, still stroking her gently as she worked her way back down to earth and leaned forward to kiss her breasts through her shirt.

A sigh left Adrienne's lips as his fingers did, and Yoongi lay down beside her. They stared at one another for a while, silently admiring each other's features. Adrienne’s half-lidded gaze widened when Yoongi drew his fingers, still slick with her juices, into his mouth.

“Hmm,” he hummed in approval before pushing himself upwards and shuffled towards the edge of the bed. He felt Adrienne reach for his hand, and he smiled, smothering her lips in another tender kiss then standing to his feet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Andy. Get some rest.”

[bngtanah]

I’m (not) With The Band. | o9

summary: Adrienne is an indie producer who is hired to help co-produce BTS’ next album alongside their resident producer; Suga. Despite the initial opposition on both ends, the pair spend time together, share a few stories, dreams and aspirations and begin to hit it off really well. Wrapped up in the whirlwind of late nights and heated disagreements and reconciliations, Min Yoongi and Adrienne Rolle find themselves growing closer and closer. One night they decide to cross the barrier between personal and professional and do their best make a relationship work against all odds.

pairing: idol!Yoongi  x black!OC word count: 3.5k genre: drama, romance, light angst. chapters:prologue| o1| o2| o3| o4| o5| o6| o7| o8 [m]| o9| 10| 11| warning: fluff, workplace relationship, kissing, sexual attraction.

“Are you leaving already? "

Yoongi paused in the middle of putting his jeans on. He turned his head around and cursed himself silently for being so noisy that she’d woken up. He didn’t really want to leave in the middle of the night without saying goodbye but he also didn’t want Adrienne to wake up while he was leaving. He planned on leaving a note and just slipping out the front door before she had the chance to notice that he was gone. He didn’t want her to get up so early knowing that he would be leaving in the middle of the night in order to get back to the studio before his band members came to pick him up. Though, Adrienne losing sleep was only a small part of the reason why he didn’t want her waking up while he was trying to make a quick escape. Seeing her there with her sheets barely covering her naked body and her hair sticking up in all sorts of ways that made him want to forget about preparing for work and spend the rest of the day in bed with Adrienne… That was what Yoongi feared the most about her waking up before he had the chance to go. If she did ask him to come back to bed he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say no.

“Uh, yeah,”  He finally answered as he zipped up the front of his jeans “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Why not? I’d rather get to say goodbye than wake up to an empty bed” Adrienne smiled softly and wrapped herself around the pillow Yoongi slept on. “You’re getting picked up from the studio?

“Yeah. I should head over before they get there” Yoongi nodded and pulled on his jacket then headed for the door. 

“Wait.”

Adrienne’s voice made Yoongi stop in his footsteps and look back at her.

“I don’t get a kiss goodbye?”

His cheeks flushed a light shade of pink and Yoongi was glad for the darkness to cover his expression as he sheepishly moved back over to where Adrienne laid. He muttered a soft apology before hovering over Adrienne and leaning forward to softly press his lips against hers. Adrienne met him halfway and barely brushed her lips against his before pulling him down so that he was practically laying on top of her which gave Yoongi room to run his hands up and down her sides and inadvertently deepen their kiss. Adrienne whimpered slightly when his hand accidently brushed against her bare nipple and Yoongi pulled back somewhat abruptly.

“Sorry,” he stated quickly and stood up “Uh, we’re meeting at the studio later today right?”

Adrienne nodded slowly and raised an eyebrow. 

“Good, we should talk then."

“Okay...bye.”

Yoongi waved quickly and stepped toward the door once again, granting Adrienne once last glance before he left the room and silently closed the door behind him.

Adrienne frowned slightly watching him leave. Her bed being empty was she had grown accustomed to over the past few months but that was completely forgotten once Yoongi was laying next to her. It had only been one night, and he had only been gone for a few minutes but she already missed having his warmth next to her. The soft, raspy he snored and how his body completely covered her during the night. Almost as if he was trying to protect her even in his sleep. This small fact didn’t need to be explained but. Adrienne was smitten.

Thoughts of Yoongi and their encounter the night before dominated Adrienne’s thoughts as she drifted back into sleep until she was jolted awake by the sharp ping of her cellphone on the other side of the bed. Groggily, she reached for the device and blindly answered. Not realising it was a video call. And that she was still very much naked.

"Yeah?” Andy growled groggily into the receiver held loosely against her face.

“Hey little on- Girl, are your tits out?”

“Dani?” Adrienne snorted and then looked down at her uncovered body with a groan.

“Do I want to know why you’re still in bed-probably naked- in the middle of the day?” Danielle asked, judgement heavy in her voice.

“A woman can’t be naked in her own house?” Andy retorted with a laugh, hoping to avoid a discussion she really didn’t want to have.

“That’s not what I asked, Adrienne.”

“You might not like the answer,” The younger girl yawned and finally moved to cover herself,  holding the phone at an arm's length so that she could see her sister’s face completely “I had some…company last night.”

“Finally!” Danielle exclaimed and clapped with one hand “I was getting worried about you going into a dick drought over there.”

Adrienne rolled her eyes playfully but laughed right along with her sister.

“Was it that good? Is that while you’re still laid up in bed?”

Adrienne didn’t answer and, just as any sister would, Danielle knew that she already had the answer to her question.

“I’ll take that as a yes, so who was it?”

Adrienne paused, juggling whether or not she should be honest with her sister. She didn’t think that spending the night with Yoongi was a big deal but knowing Danielle there was no way she’d feel the same. Especially given Adrienne’s past history with coworkers.

“Uhm...Yoongi.” Adrienne replied.

“...The guy you work with? Oh, Adrienne haven’t you learned your lesson yet?” Danielle croaked and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“It’s not like the last time” Adrienne countered, “We...talked.”

“So, you know exactly what the status of your relationship is right now?”

“....Yes.”

That was a lie and Danielle knew immediately. She rolled her eyes deeply and shook her head. Adrienne knew that her sister was doing her best to hold whatever she wanted to say inside for Andy’s sake and probably the sake of her baby. Any unnecessary stress could still be potentially harmful to the unborn child even if she was inching closer and closer to her due date. 

“Look, I’m not going to lecture you” Danielle started after collecting her thoughts “You are a grown woman and obviously you’re going to do what you want regardless of what I think. Just promise me you’re being safe, okay?”

“Okay,” Adrienne replied in a small voice, plucking at some of the fluff on her comforter. “Enough about me. Tell me what’s going on at home.”

Danielle sighed and placed a hand on her round stomach “I am so over being pregnant, I know I’m not due till next month but I’m ready to be induced tonight.” She groaned loudly and tried to maneuver her body in a comfortable position. Adrienne held in a snicker as she watched her sister roll onto her side.

“It can’t be that bad, Dani. You’re bringing life into the world!”

“At this point I just want to be done with the whole thing, everyone’s really excited about you coming next month though!”

“Who is everyone? You, Lloyd and my unborn niece?”

“You also have friends, we’ve all been worried about you over there. I hope you’re doing okay.”

Danielle’s eyes softened as she watched a smile spread across Adrienne’s lips. It wasn’t easy being away from her family but Adrienne could honestly say that she really was doing okay. No one could ever replace her sister but she had found a surrogate family in the boys and Yoongi. She was doing better than okay.

“I really am.”

The siblings talked for hours, right up until the moment Adrienne had to leave for her studio appointment. She felt bad about keeping her sister up so late but according to Danielle she hardly slept during normal hours now that her due date was only a matter of weeks away. So that was, at least, somewhat comforting. Sadly though, Adrienne had to say her final goodbyes to her sister as she headed out the front door of her apartment. Not before assuring Danielle multiple times that all of the plans for her trip next month were finalized and ready to be executed. Despite the fact that her promise wasn’t entirely true. She did have intentions of visiting next month in order to be there for her niece's birth but she still hadn’t bought her ticket or asked for the time off with the company.

The album was slated to be completed in the coming weeks and Adrienne didn’t really see any obstacles stopping her from keeping her promise. From her perspective it was just a matter of asking permission.

Yoongi spent his entire morning pushing himself to stay awake and alert on ounces of coffee and nothing but fumes. He had managed to get a few hours of sleep at Adrienne’s apartment but only closed his eyes for a few moments when he arrived at the studio. The minute he sat down and rested his head on the back of the couch, his phone was buzzing with text messages from the managers and Namjoon telling him to come outside as quickly as possible. The exhaustion on his face was noticed but expected by everyone once he got in the van, so luckily no one questioned why he didn’t just come home when he was done working. It wasn’t particularly unusual for Yoongi to stay later in the studio when they were preparing for an album but he’d stopped actually sleeping in the studio once they moved out of their one bedroom dorm.

He huddled up into a corner as soon as the van door shut and tried his best to get some rest while they were en route and between takes of the photo shoots they had scheduled for the day. Fortunately enough, the majority of their schedule for the day was photo shoots with only a few group interviews so Yoongi didn’t have to do much talking. It was one of the few times he appreciated how talkative and distracting his fellow band members were, with all of them being loud like usual no one noticed him practically falling asleep in the background.

Well, no one except Hoseok. He knew that that Yoongi definitely did not spend his entire night in the studio and the faint red marks scattered around his neck confirmed all the suspicions that Hoseok had about what really happened last night. Instead of questioning him in front of everyone like he wanted to, Hobi waited until they were on their way back to the studio an sidled up next to him while the group dispersed into their own activities. Namjoon had a meeting with the staff. Jin, Taehyung and Jungkook headed for the recording studio and Jimin went in the direction of the dance room, expecting Hoseok to follow him like usual. Hoseok however, trailed behind Yoongi until they were both alone in the hallway just outside the studio room.

Yoongi, completely unaware of the younger male following him, flinched slightly when Hoseok started walking in stride with him and leaning closer to his neck.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asked with a scowl..

“Me? Nothing, just wondering what happened to your neck.” Hoseok answered plainly. “Something happen on your ‘walk’ last night?”

Yoongi stopped for a second to give Hoseok a sidelong glance before moving forward and slouching his shoulders., “No.”

“You sure? Looks like something happened to your neck-”

Yoongi exhaled sharply, squared his jaw and pushed Hoseok forward into the empty studio room and slammed the door behind them both.

“Do you you have something to say Hoseok?” Yoongi snarled, cornering Hoseok until he was backed against a wall. Hoseok was a few inches taller than him but he knew all too well that Yoongi didn’t need height to intimidate.

“I know you didn’t come back here after we ate last night,” Hoseok answered, honestly trying to as respectful as possible.

“What’s your point?” Yoongi countered, backing away just slightly.

“Hyung,” Hoseok slumped his shoulder down and paused to gather his thoughts before continuing “I’m not the only one who’s noticed how….friendly you and Andy are with each other. Don’t think I’m accusing you of anything, but last night may not have been your best decision, what if someone saw you going into her house? Everything we’ve been working so hard for years would be gone.”

Yoongi wanted to be angry, he wanted to scoff in Hoseok’s face and tell him just how incorrect his assumptions were but he knew he wasn’t lying and all the fears he vowed to let go of just the night before came rushing back to him in an instant. He knew that he wasn’t just jeopardizing his own career by acting so recklessly with his feelings toward Adrienne, he was putting the future of everyone of his bandmates on the line without them even being aware of it. It wasn’t fair to them and Yoongi understood that. But it was too late to go back now. He sighed and walked away completely from Hoseok, taking a seat at the desk and mindlessly tapping keys on the keyboard in front of him.

“I understand why you might be concerned,” He spoke up after a moment's silence “I did go to Andy’s apartment last night but it was just to apologize, I said something to offend her in the studio yesterday and….the specifics aren’t important. You don’t have anything to worry about I wouldn’t put everyone else at risk for something so selfish.”

Hoseok pouted, knowing that his friend was not telling him the entire truth but also knowing that trying to push him to confide in him would only make him pull further away. They had been friends long enough for Hoseok to know that he wouldn’t lie to him without a good reason. It was because he knew this that he allowed himself to believe Yoongi’s version of events, only nodding and adjusting the beanie on his head as he moved for the door.

“Okay, Hyung. I trust you.”

Yoongi moved to answer him but the sound of the doorknob jostling and seeing Adrienne appear in the doorway, practically beaming, made him sink further into his seat and snap his lips shut. 

“Hobi!” Adrienne grinned, “This is a surprise, are you recording something today?”

Hoseok gave Adrienne a polite smile before shaking his head a few times and moving past her,out into the hallway “No, no I’m leaving, don’t wanna be in the way.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Adrienne asked Yoongi once the door closed behind Hoseok and they were alone. Yoongi shrugged and turned back the computer, unable to look Adrienne in the eye and suddenly feeling very self aware of his actions.  Adrienne didn’t feel the need to push for an answer and tossed her belongings onto the couch before focusing her gaze on the back of Yoongi’s head. He wasn’t really paying attention to what she was up to behind him but he froze in his spot when he felt Andy come to behind him and wrap her arms around his shoulders then wigggled her way into his lap and barely moved an inch when she pressed her lips against his own.

“Okay...what’s wrong with you?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“You’re being weird.”

"I…” Yoongi sighed and pushed the office chair back a few inches “We should talk Adrienne, about last night.”

The slight smile on Adrienne’s lips immediately fell when Yoongi finally met her eyes and said the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear. “I knew this would happen,” She muttered softly and pressed both of her hands to her face.

“You knew what?"

“That you were going to react this way,” Adrienne pushed herself off Yoongi’s lap “With regret about what happened between us last night.”

“I don’t- Why do you think I regret it?“

“You were sneaking out of my apartment in the middle of the night, you were hesitant when I kissed you goodbye and you didn’t even kiss me back just now. What else am I supposed to think Yoongi?”

Yoongi reached for Adrienne before left him completely but she was already seated on the couch by the time he fully extended his hand. There was an aura of sadness in the way her shoulders rolled forward and Yoongi cursed himself for not being able to express what he was honestly feeling with more ease. He had no problem turning his emotions and feeling into music that anyone could relate to. But being with someone he genuinely cared about seeing them face to face and trying to turn all the abstract thoughts in his mind and on his heart into something understandable was almost impossible.

Instead of trying to find the perfect thing to say Yoongi exhaled deeply and rolled the office toward the couch so that he directly facing Adrienne. He pulled her hands between his and pressed his lips to her knuckles for a few seconds.

“Andy, I don’t regret anything that happened last night” He began, “I meant what I said about wanting to be with you, as far as I’m concerned you’re mine. But I wasn’t lying about not being good to you, it hasn’t even been a day and I’m already making you sad and I hate not knowing what to say to you.”

Adrienne raised her head up, looking at Yoongi instead of the ground, she examined his features while he spoke and the vulnerability in his eyes as he searched for his next word. He really did appear to be struggling with figuring out just what to say and while she appreciated his honesty she couldn’t help but notice how many times he used the word ‘I’.

“Do you think you’re the only one that might have reservations about this, Gi?” Adrienne was asking a rhetorical question but Yoongi shook his head anyway, “I know we don’t know each other that well and we’re going about this in kind of a backwards way but I understand what kind of person you are. What you do means a lot more to me that what you say and I don’t expect you to always say the right thing.” Adrienne smiled softly and stood up again, pushing Yoongi’s chair backwards so that she could sit in his lap again and he wrapped his arms around her once she did. “This is new and scary and we’re both taking huge risks with our careers but I really like you and I want to see where this goes so I’m willing to take that risk...are you?”

Yoongi was stunned to silence, amazed at how the petite girl in his arms had managed to summarize everything he wanted to say in just a few sentences. He still had his concerns about just how they would manage to hide their budding relationship from everyone else when there were already eyes on them but that was a bridge they could cross when they came to it. No one had any concrete information and rumors buzzed through the company all the time. For Yoongi having Adrienne by his side was more than worth being the subject of some trivial gossip.

”Yeah, I am.” Yoongi replied with a small nod as he tightened the hold he had on Andy’s waist, pulling her closer to his chest.

“Good,” Adrienne said with wide grin, leaning forward to kiss him once again.

He reciprocated this time around, controlling the pace of their kiss so that it was slow and gradual. Everything he couldn’t say with words he poured into his kiss, somehow trying to convey exactly how much he appreciated her understanding him in that moment. He deepened the kiss into a more passionate one as Andy moved her hands through his messy hair, making him growl with encouragement. 

Adrienne pulled herself as tight around him as possible, making him feel her body.  The brunette could most definitely feel the faintest hint of an erection pressed up against her bottom, letting out a small gasp against his lips that soon turned into an unexpected moan. One one hand, she was pleased with his reaction since it cleared away some of the doubts and questions that had been lingering in the back of her mind. But she also knew that this was no time to be getting carried away. They were at work, in a public place where anyone could catch them and she hadn’t thought to lock the door when she came in. Reluctantly, she pulled herself back and brought them both to their senses.

“Sorry,” Yoongi muttered.

“Stop apologizing for kissing me” Adrienne replied with a small laugh “That reminds me though, I got you something today.”

Yoongi contorted his features as if to question her but Adrienne was up and moving over to the couch to shuffle through her purse before he even attempted to ask her anything. When he swiveled the chair to look her way a small box of condoms landed on his lap, which made him press a hand to his face and the tips of his ears turn red.

“We took a chance last night but I don’t want that to happen again, did you know they make you see a doctor just to get a plan b pill?  I could barely understand half the questions and somehow I still felt embarrassed, anyway keep those I want us to be safe and you don’t make enough money for me to trap you with a baby yet.” Adrienne teased and Yoongi did his best to fight back a smile.

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