synopsis ▸ a flooded hotel room leaves you nowhere to go except to the one person you least want to seek help from. but it just might force you to confront feelings neither of you are ready for—or even privy to.
δ — sfw, suggestive, hurt/comfort, fluff, nuisances to lovers, confessions, one bed trope, oh no my room flooded i must share a room (and bed) with you ji, jiung is kind of mean tho, kissing and lots of it
ᯓ an — okay after this jiung is officially going to be put on hold i need to give the other boys some love also this was lowkey very self indulgent but also it's very cheesy corny cliche, enjoy
MASTERLIST
Asking Jiung to let you sleep with him might be a terrible idea.
But your room is flooded, the hotel’s completely booked, and Keeho’s—you don’t even want to think about it.
Even if he never really saw eye to eye with you (to be fair, neither did you with him) he should have some ability to show you a bit of mercy… right?
But then he opens the door and looks at you with such a deadpan look of displeasure that you realize maybe not and nearly tuck tail and leave.
“What is it?” He asks, and you’re reminded quickly that that’s not an option.
“My room flooded.”
His eyes widen for a split second, alarmed before his expression quickly schools back to its usual impassive. There’s an awkward pause that follows. Then, “I fail to see how that’s my problem.”
Your shoulders slump, just a little (a lot) disheartened at his snippy tone. You’d think years of being in the same group would make him a little warmed to you. But he never did make it easy for you to give him a reason to be.
“The hotel’s completely booked out.”
“Then—“
“Keeho’s got his girlfriend over.”
Jiung blinks at you as he comes to the only conclusion this situation is bound to have. You clutch your Pikachu plushie, the one Shota won for you years ago, closer to your chest in anticipation.
You half expect him to just shut the door in your face. But then he steps aside and opens it a little further while looking entirely unhappy about having to do so.
You roll your eyes but bite your tongue. Not enough apparently because the words tumble out anyway as you step into the room.
“Try looking a little more upset about it, that might get the point across.”
The door shuts a tad too loudly behind you.
“Of course you would complain when I do something nice,” you hear him grumble under his breath as he passes you, sidestepping you so pointedly that you’d think you were carrying a disease.
You can only scoff, watching the back of his grey hoodie as he moves through the room for his suitcase at the other end.
“Like you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart,” you grit through your teeth, your ducky slippers squawking angrily as you pad over to the bed and plop down on the edge.
“I’m doing this so you won’t go crying to the manager about how I’m bullying you,” he sneers as he fishes out a black t-shirt then reaches for the hem of his sweater. “Again.”
Your mouth snaps open to snipe right back and remind him that he’d ‘constructively criticized’ you to the point of tears but the words die right on your tongue as Jiung pulls the hoodie off his body, leaving his well-toned, lean-muscled, intricately inked skin exposed for your eyes in all their pallor glory.
He seems none the wiser to your slack jaw and dazed eyes as he tugs his shirt on, muttering something about ‘ungrateful brat’ but you’re honestly not listening because you’re too busy thinking about holy shit, does boxing really do that kind of a wonder for someone’s body, and, is it getting hot in here?
You’re only snapped out of your quickly flitting brain by his snippy tone.
“Guess I’ll take the floor,” he grumbles as he starts gathering the extra blankets in the hotel dresser.
You blink yourself back to your body—when did you start floating away?
“Huh?” You ask intelligently. “What? No, just take the bed.”
He pauses as he turns back to face you, arms full of white fluffy cotton that you kind of want to crawl into. Or is it his arms…
“You’re going to take the floor?” He asks.
“What?” You ask again, and Jiung gives a look that promptly makes you feel stupid so you scramble to explain. “It’s a queen bed.”
“And?”
“…it can fit two adults with extra space to—mmph, hey!”
The pillow to your face jostles you hard enough that you nearly get toppled onto your back.
You scramble to right yourself, grabbing the pillow and chucking it back to him but he dodges it easily as he starts to fix a makeshift bed on the empty floor space by the bed.
“That was so unnecessary!” You cry as you frantically pat down your hair.
“It is if you keep saying dumb things,” he states simply.
“Why is sharing a bed dumb? Are you really that immature?”
“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I don’t want to be in that close proximity to you?”
Well. That stings. And it shuts you right up.
You’ve always been like oil and water, always wanting different things, always pulled in different creative directions, always had different ways of operating.
But honestly, you thought it was just that. That you just didn’t mesh well, and that’s okay. Not everyone needs to get along.
But you never thought that Jiung might just simply not like you to the point that being near you is past his boundary of comfort. And that realization actually sort of… hurts.
You know the silence stretches on for too long that you just stare at him, watching him make his little bed and crawl into it, as if he said nothing remiss.
This new feeling in your chest is strange and uncomfortable, like it’s a tangible thing pulling at itself. So you look away, push yourself to the farthest end of the bed from him, and crawl under the blankets in hopes that being away from him might remedy it a little.
It doesn’t.
Even after you turn off the lights and toss and turn for what feels like an hour, maybe two.
You can’t help it—his words keep ringing in your ear. And that feeling in your chest keeps pulling tighter and it’s honestly getting a little hard to breathe.
Does he even understand the gravity of the words he’s said? Does he even care?
You haven’t heard a single sound from him, so you have your answer. There he is, sleeping peacefully in his little dreamland where you don’t exist.
When did it get so bad? Did you push his buttons too far? When was the tipping point and how did you not see it happen?
You’d always had trouble with him but you never hated him. You hoped that it was all just a silly preamble to something of a meaningful friendship that might grow a few years down the road.
You don’t realize when your hands start shaking. When your eyes start watering. When your breaths start trembling. Or when those quiet little sniffles start escaping you.
You clench your fists and dig your face into the pillow, mentally cursing yourself for being so affected.
You’re not affected. Especially not by the likes of Jiung, the asshole. The asshole who you hate to admit has been finding himself taking a lot of your headspace lately.
Well at least it’s clear now you’ve been in none of his.
These morose thoughts prattle around in your head, then infest you slowly until they’re clinging to you like a second skin.
When the bed dips behind you, your heart stops.
You freeze, breaths caught in your throat. The room pauses like a reel stuck on a terrible frame. You pray he’s only sleep-walking.
“I didn’t mean that.”
The deep timbre of his voice does wonders to start prying off that infestation. You hate that it’s so simple, that he can so easily bring you down.
You don’t want him to. So you take a deep breath to keep your voice from shaking, and you push away. “Sure you did.”
There’s a pause, one that keeps your skin on edge.
“Not… in the way that you think.”
Now you’re just confused. “What does that mean?”
“My feelings towards you are complicated.”
“…what does that mean?”
He clicks his tongue, a habit of his that always was pointed to you, to berate you in some way. Right now you don’t really mind it.
“I just said it’s complicated,” he huffs behind you, and you feel the puff of breath bristle the hair at the back of your neck.
Only then do you become aware of how close he is, and the heat of his body behind you burns more present somehow.
“Wow,” you deadpan, trying to shake off that prickling feeling that starts to grow under your skin. “You make me cry and you can’t even explain yourself.”
He lets out a long suffering sigh. It makes you smile despite your turmoil, wondering if his face is scrunched in that way it always is when he’s fed up with you. You’re just glad he can’t see it.
“It’s not that I hate being around you.” A pause. “Well, I do.” Before you can start crying again, he barrels on. “But only because… it drives me crazy.”
Well, you might start regardless. “I get it, I’m crazy, you don’t have to keep saying it I believe you—“
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The world around you feels like it’s about to implode in on itself. The room feels like it’s caving in on you. Your brain feels something similar, before it stutters and crashes and goes completely silent.
“Or… at least have very strong feelings for you.”
You take in the breath that’s been refusing to reach you, but it fills your lungs shakily and without commitment to actually helping you function.
“You’re sure it’s not hate?” You ask, because no part of you can believe the words uttered from his stupidly pretty lips. Lips you wish you could see right about now. Just so you can confirm that he’s actually talking and this is not the little devil on your shoulder playing terrible tricks on you.
“It could be,” he admits solemnly. “Because I really want to push you off this bed right now.”
You whip around, immediately offended at his smug little face. You completely miss the nerves lingering in his gaze as it drops for a split second.
“Go ahead.” You glare. “I’ll bring you down with me.”
“I won’t stop you.”
When his eyes meet yours, the moment sobers and you’re quickly reminded of… reminded of…
“I mean it,” he says softly, and you’re reminded of just what it was that had blown your whole world open mere moments ago. “I can’t stand being around you because I can’t stand the thought that you don’t want me the way I want you.”
The honesty of his words, the low timbre of his voice, the solid weight of the night that blankets you—it makes something in your chest settle. Something at peace.
You recall all his snarky remarks about your dancing. You recall the way he always lingered after every practice to help you, armed with condescension and something else you missed entirely. Something you’re seeing now.
You recall those begrudging ‘hbd’ texts, those little frog plushies that would show up in random crevices of your dorm room at odd times of the year. You recall his insults and how they weren’t really insults at all—adoration disguised under disgust, maybe.
You recall the little box of tiramisu always delivered to your door after you’ve had a bad day. You just assumed it was Intak. But now you're realizing you only ever mentioned it being your favourite indulgence around Jiung.
You recall wishing every day that these little things led to something—to Jiung. You recall how you’d look forward to the next moment with him that you’d get to torment him. That you were happy for every little reaction you’d invoke from him. You just didn’t realize why. Until now.
The smile that grows on your lips is entirely his fault. “Who said anything about that?”
“You,” he deadpans. “Multiple times.”
You scoff, hitting his arm without real punch but you let your hand linger there on the soft cotton of his shirt.
“Only because I thought you hated me all this time,” you murmur, the honestly stripping you bare of all your typical bells and whistles.
“Well,” he starts, slowly mirroring the smile on you. “There have been some grave misunderstandings it seems.”
“I suppose…”
“But it’s not unfixeable,” he says, suddenly looking every bit of nervous that you’re feeling. “Right?”
You hum in thought, half heartedly tugging on a loose string on his sleeve. “True. You can start now.”
He raises a brow at you. “Shouldn’t it go both ways? We’re both at fault for this.”
“Mm… Nah. You go first.”
You bite back your laugh at the glare he fixes you with. You don’t even get the chance to say you’re kidding before suddenly there’s arms around you, tight and strong, and you’re being manhandled against your will.
Your fight dies down when he holds you close to him, your back to his chest. When you realize the position you’re in and melt in his hold (completely against your will), the tension in his body leaves all at once and he buries his face in the back of your hair.
“Better?” He murmurs into it, his honeyed voice a living thing inside your skull. His arms twist tighter around your waist and send your stomach into fluttery knots.
You lean into the touch, letting your hand brush over the warm skin at his wrist.
“Could be better,” you say as more of a breath.
When his lips brush against the spot under your ear before pressing against your skin, warm and lingering, your breath hitches in your throat.
“How about now?” He whispers, breath feathering down your neck.
You swallow down your thrumming heart, tilting your head towards him just a bit but you still can’t bring it in you to look at him just yet.
“Getting there,” you try to tease, but it falls weak.
He chuckles lightly against you, before pressing his palm against your stomach as if holding you to him so he can trace the ghost of his lips down the line of your jaw, caging you in with his body.
He settles at the base of your chin, biting down with his teeth.
Your eyes snap open at the quick burst of pain, and you turn to glare at him but he takes that chance instead to seal his lips over yours.
It feels like you’re falling, again and again, as his lips move over yours. It’s slow, hesitant, a little timid.
But when you sigh into the warmth and move your lips in tandem with his, he presses in.
His hand comes up to your jaw to hold you in place as he dives. Searching, as he indulges in the taste of you on his seeking tongue, a quick, wet slide that teases your lower lip and leaves your stomach burning.
The sound he makes against you when you meet the next swipe of his tongue with your own makes you lose all your inhibitions.
You push back, and he goes under your palms as you turn and slide your body over his, never once severing where you’re connected. You’re practically devouring him now, legs straddling his lap, palms pushing his sturdy chest into the mattress, lips parted enough to let your tongue slide against the seam of his lips.
He gives with a little moan, accepting your tongue with a soft gasp and his hands clutching onto your hips. He pulls you in flush, solid warmth against your already heated body.
Your tongue maps his pliant mouth, seeking home and staking claim. It leaves him panting under you, little grunts and sounds spilling from his lips.
“So noisy,” you coo against the wet heat of his open mouth, his damp breathing marring your slick lips.
He whimpers, lifting his head and leaning up, already seeking your kiss again. “Wanted this for too long,” he muffles against you, slurred and almost unintelligible as his tongue flits out for another taste of your lips. Like he can’t go without it for even a few seconds.
You take a shaky breath to ease the tempest those words brew inside your chest. You peck his lips to soothe him over for another moment. “I can see that,” you hum, giggling softly when he eagerly captures another needy kiss.
“Don’t tease,” he whines thinly.
You kiss him deep and slow, easing him down to the pillow again before you reroute. “Not possible,” you hum against his jaw, trailing hot, wet kisses down the sharp cut then flitting down his neck. “You’re too cute.”
He lets out an angry little puff of breath, digging his nails into the fabric of your shirt. “Thought I was an ogre.”
You snicker against his skin, recalling that time you’d petulantly called him a shrimpy ogre when the concept looks for the Killin’ It era were revealed during a meeting with the company head. And about a few dozen others.
“Still are,” you state, lifting to grin down at him. “This doesn’t change anything.”
When you take in the sight of him, starry eyed as he stares up at you in a daze, kiss bitten lips parted as he pants for air, pale skin flushed a pretty scarlet over his cheeks and down his neck, you think to yourself, huh—this might change one thing.
You watch as that distant, hazy look in his eye turns sharp and pointed.
And then he’s got an arm around you, flipping you onto your back like it takes no effort before he sets himself on top of you, slotted right between your parted legs.
That starry look is gone, pupils blown wide with a dark, heated desire that leaves your taunts withering on your tongue.
He places his hands on your stomach, searing through your shirt as he slides them down just to drag them back up, underneath your layers this time.
You gasp as the heat seeps directly through your skin and pools low in your belly, his eyes snapping down to catch the movement.
Man, we have got to stop treating art like it has an expiration date. That show stopped airing? Doesn’t mean it can’t haunt your every waking thought. Everybody’s into this album, but you don’t have the energy for new music right now? It’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready. That movie’s fifty years old and indie as shit? Incredible, you have the chance to share it with folks who might never otherwise feel that particular punch of delight. Books don’t go bad. Shows inspire fandoms decades after they’ve wrapped up. We’re still looking at cave paintings and statue work from ancient times and letting the joy of creation bring tears to our eyes. That’s the point of art. It’s as close to immortality as we ever get. Why try to give that magic a shelf life?
genre: fluff
summary: When a forgotten phone brings you face to face, you discover he’s seen more than you thought—and has more to offer than you ever expected.
warnings: kissing, physical touch, emotional vulnerability, slow burn
pairing: idol!k x fem!reader
wc: 1k
a/n: hi everyone, it’s been a while—I know. This past month was something I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. I was physically and emotionally drained, and honestly, it took everything in me to get through it. But I’m back now. And I’m really hoping I’ll have more time to write for and interact with all of you again. Thank you for being patient.
It started with a phone.
Or more accurately, it started long before that—somewhere between the nights you stayed late rehearsing by yourself and the silent eyes that watched from the shadowed hall just outside the door.
You didn’t know he’d been watching. Not at first.
The only thing you knew for sure was that your phone wasn’t in your bag.
You patted down every pocket, dug through your things with increasing panic, even circled back to the hallway. Still nothing. Practice room 3, the one you always borrowed after hours, had already gone dark by the time you returned, your heart sinking.
But when you walked in, the lights were on.
And K was there.
He held your phone in one hand, brows drawn slightly as he glanced up. “I figured you’d come back.”
You stopped in the doorway, confused. “You… found it?”
“I heard it buzzing after you left.” He lifted it toward you. “You left your lock screen open. I saw your name.”
“Oh,” you said, your fingers curling against your palm as you walked forward slowly. “Thank you. I didn’t even realize I’d—”
“You dance here every night,” he said, his voice quiet, cutting through your words in the softest way possible. “You always stay after everyone’s gone.”
You froze, fingers brushing the back of your phone before you took it. “You… noticed?”
“I always notice.”
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it didn’t hold weight. But it did. You felt it in your ribs, like something shifting into place.
K stood there for a moment, looking at you. Then, voice a little gentler: “You practice more than anyone I’ve ever seen. Even when there’s no one to see it.”
You glanced down. “I just… I don’t want to fall behind.”
“You’re not,” he said. “But I get it. That drive. That fear.”
You looked up, and his eyes held yours like he’d been waiting for you to finally see him clearly.
“Do you want help?”
You blinked. “Help?”
“I’ve seen your choreography.” He said it simply. “It’s good. But you look like you’re dancing alone. You’re not supposed to.”
You wet your lips, hesitant. “You’d really… teach me?”
He tilted his head. “If you’ll let me.”
That night, you didn’t leave.
K dimmed the lights, just enough to take the edge off the fluorescent glow. The mirror caught his reflection in soft shards as he pulled his hoodie off and stepped toward you in a tank top and sweats, his hair slightly tousled.
“You lead,” he said, “and I’ll follow. Then we’ll switch.”
It was simple, at first—mirroring steps, matching rhythm. He moved cleanly, with purpose. You’d watched him dance before, sure, but it wasn’t the same as dancing with him.
Every time he stepped toward you, it felt like your breath shortened. Every brush of his hand near yours, every shared glance in the mirror—it all lit something in your chest that you weren’t ready to name.
He was close, but never too close. Sharp, but never harsh. When he corrected your posture, he did it with a featherlight touch on your lower back. When you stumbled, he steadied you with just a glance.
“You have good instinct,” he said, panting slightly between reps. “But you don’t trust your body yet.”
You looked down. “I’m trying to.”
“You don’t have to try alone.”
You turned to look at him, and his voice softened. “I meant that.”
The room felt heavier than before, weighted with the warmth between you.
You looked up at him, a question forming on your tongue, but then he reached forward and offered his hand.
“One more time?”
You nodded, letting your palm rest in his. It was warmer than expected—solid, steady, grounding. He spun you gently into place, guiding you through the start of the routine, but slowed his steps enough that it no longer felt like performance. It felt like conversation. Like something private.
Your eyes flicked up to meet his in the mirror. He was already watching.
Something buzzed low in your chest, something you couldn’t push down anymore.
You swallowed. “You’re the last person I expected to care about someone like me staying late to practice.”
K turned, fully, facing you. “Then you haven’t been looking closely enough.”
Silence stretched.
He stepped in, just enough for you to feel it — the tension, the pull.
“I’ve seen you more times than you think,” he murmured. “But I never said anything, because I didn’t want to mess it up. You looked so determined. So lost in your own world.”
“I thought I was invisible.”
“Not to me.”
Your breath caught.
His fingers brushed yours again — lightly, hesitantly — and this time you didn’t move away.
“You came back for my phone,” you said, voice low.
“I came back for you.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and honest and real.
You barely had time to react before he leaned in — slow, deliberate — like giving you time to back away.
You didn’t.
His lips touched yours, featherlight at first, then firmer when you leaned into it. His hand found your jaw gently, thumb grazing your cheek as he deepened the kiss. It was soft but purposeful — like he was pouring everything he hadn’t said into the space between you.
It felt like time stopped.
Like the room quieted, holding its breath.
His forehead rested against yours when he pulled away, your eyes still closed.
“That was...” you whispered.
“Me saying thank you,” he murmured. “And I like you. In case I wasn’t obvious enough.”
You laughed, breathless, your hand still curled in the fabric of his shirt.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Then here’s me saying it back.”
And you kissed him again.
Slower this time.
Like it was yours now, too.
That night, you didn’t dance to be seen.
You danced with someone who already had.
It all started with a bad joke and a bottle of Tanqueray.
Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader | Darksided AU
Type: One-Shot / Prequel to darksided (no. 2) & blindsided (no. 3,) but can be read as a stand-alone fic.
Word Count: 11.3K 😳
Content: SPICY FLUFF (18+ or else - oral (m receiving) and penetrative, protected sex (p in v)); strangers to lovers au; POV switches; discussion of anxiety and negative self-talk; alcohol consumption (primary setting is a bar); tteokbokki; and just the cutest fucking duo. ft. Seokjin and a surprise cameo by reader's cat.
A/N: The origin story for my beloved babies, which takes place in 2016 (and uses Korean age, fyi.) I found this photo after I finished writing and nearly fell tf over because this was the Yoongi in my brain; jacket and all, omfg. My actual note (and tags) will be at the end! 💕
Listen to the playlist here. Read Interlude: Sunrise drabble here.
Min Yoongi wanted it on record that he tried.
When Seokjin pushed, and pushed, and pushed Yoongi to ask out that girl, he did. She was someone Seokjin knew from somewhere, and she seemed nice enough. All Yoongi really knew about her was that she was pretty, though he hoped to learn that this was the least interesting thing about her.
If nothing else, Yoongi proceeded out of spite. He wanted nothing more than to shove it in Seokjin’s face that he was capable of being a normal, twenty-four-year-old man. He wanted to prove to Seokjin — and to himself, if he were being honest — that he wasn’t a borderline-reclusive workaholic.
Or, at the very least, he wasn’t exclusively a borderline-reclusive workaholic. He did want to get out and meet new people; just in negligible and infrequent doses.
It had been so long since Yoongi last went on a date that three (3) generations of iPhones had come and gone. Children who hadn’t yet been born were now entering pre-kindergarten, making macaroni art with the motor skills they’d obtained during his romantic sabbatical. It was embarrassing; it was depressing; and it all piled up at his doorstep, barricading him inside his apartment.
There was a vicious cycle at play, making matters worse. It casted Yoongi as the lone sock, swirling and drowning inside his washing machine brain. The plot was as stupid as it was repetitive:
Relentless schedule aside, Yoongi didn’t date because it made him anxious. Then, he’d become more anxious because he wasn’t dating. Ultimately, he’d end up too anxious about his anxiety to address the thing that caused it in the first place. And around and around and around he went.
Why the fuck did people subject themselves to this on purpose?
Asking her out was the simplest part. With a quick text and an emoji — the latter of which Yoongi deliberated over for far too long — he’d knocked the ball into her court. She’d responded within minutes, which he assumed was a good sign. Saturday night, they’d decided, at eight o’clock.
Unfortunately, no part of what came next was easy.
Yoongi had spent the four subsequent days in a tailspin. Spiraling over where to take her, what to wear, and what the fuck to talk to her about. In the few interactions they’d had before, all she seemed to do was pepper him with questions about his career. Like everyone else, she was fascinated by Yoongi: the Concept.
Whether or not she cared about Yoongi: the Person was yet to be determined.
Worse, after three years in the public eye, Yoongi worried that he’d lost track of what once made him relatable. That boy from Daegu — with a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly — was traded in for a luxury model. He no longer had to debate between purchasing a meal or a bus ticket home from work because he was now loaded and living in Hannam-fucking-dong.
Ugh.
People looked at him with stars in their eyes, but he could never tell if anyone truly saw him. And even if someone did, what was left to see, anyway? Yoongi doubted that he could pick himself out of a lineup now.
Eventually, after three nights of tossing and turning, Yoongi had landed on something that felt meaningful. He would take this girl to a hole-in-the-wall that he loved dearly, which sat relatively unnoticed in a lesser-traveled pocket of Seoul. It was quiet and unassuming, but had a life of its own.
As far as Yoongi could see, it was the perfect place to find the parts of himself that’d dropped on his rapid, record-breaking ascent. Decidedly unremarkable but worth it, nonetheless. There, she could get to know the person behind the persona. Maybe she’d even come to like who he actually was.
Before heading out, Yoongi had pitched his plan to Seokjin and received a thumbs up in response. Unfortunately, her reaction came from two knuckles down. Her departure followed less than sixty seconds after her arrival. She’d fled so quickly, in fact, that she managed to flag down the very same cab before it could clear the block.
Through her window, she’d shouted out her scathing review: Yoongi was cheap; she would never drink bottom-shelf liquor with him in a glorified dumpster; and she both expected and deserved better because he could access better. Yoongi had stood stunned on the sidewalk as she disappeared — likely forever — in a cloud of exhaust.
Somehow, it felt like that cab had run him over as it peeled out.
To be clear, none of this was painful because Yoongi was disappointed; he wasn’t, not in the slightest. Good fucking riddance. It was worse than that. He felt validated, and he knew exactly how fucking sad that was.
See? Told you so, he’d thought bitterly to himself. Then, immediately, Yoongi criticized himself for being too critical. Hypocrite.
So, there he stood.
If Yoongi followed his instinct and went home, he could rebuild his barricade and watch several episodes of Chopped before passing out alone in his bed. A productive night, despite its fruitless start. But then, he realized, he’d have to answer when Seokjin inevitably called to ask what the fuck went wrong.
Fuck it.
Yoongi shrugged to no one but himself. He then slipped from the sidewalk, through the dumpster’s front door, and straight to the bar. Slumping down onto a leather-topped stool, he rested his elbows against the mahogany countertop and dropped his dejected chin in his hand.
Is this rock bottom? He wondered, Drinking in a bar alone on a Saturday night?
Within seconds, there was a loud crash several meters away. Yoongi jerked his head towards the source of the sound, but he saw nothing. His brows furrowed. All was quiet until a whine erupted from the doorway to the back room.
“Shit, shit, shit!"
Upon standing, Yoongi pressed his hands against the bar and leaned forward to investigate; equal parts concerned and nosy.
On the ground in the doorway, he found shattered remnants of what was once a bottle of Tanqueray. Crouching above the pine-scented wreckage, plucking chunks of glass off the hardwood, he found you.
Yoongi immediately grimaced at your chosen method of disaster clean-up. There was already a bandage wrapped around your finger — with a Hello Kitty pattern, he noted — that confirmed your ongoing battle with clumsiness.
You didn’t need to add to that collection and he couldn’t watch in good conscience while you made that outcome more and more likely.
Mind made up, he crossed quickly to the side of the bar he had no authorization to be on. As soon as Yoongi reached you, he saw the nearby bucket labeled “broken shit.” Then, he clocked the small hand-brush and dustpan resting against it. Wasting no time, he grabbed all three; and without a word, you allowed him to carefully usher you out of the way.
Crouching down the way you had, he began to sweep the broken shit into the dustpan. Too preoccupied to glance up, he asked without looking, “Are you okay?”
When you didn’t immediately respond, Yoongi’s eyes quickly rose to find you with strawberry-pink cheeks and wide, vaguely horrified eyes, and —Shit, was he staring?
Say something. Say anything. For fuck’s sake, Yoongi, at least smile so she knows you’re not angry.
What he landed on looked more like a grimace, he was sure of it, and it didn’t seem to fix that look on your face.
“I’m so sorry,” you squeaked once he finished dumping the glass into its designated receptacle.
You didn’t give him a chance to tell you that an apology wasn’t necessary, opting instead to rattle off your perceived sins at an alarming rate:
“I think I’m the only bartender in Seoul that’s this bad at tending bar. I mean, I didn’t even know anyone else was here — because I wasn’t paying attention — and now you, the patron I’m supposed to be serving, are cleaning up after me. It’s definitely supposed to be the other way around —“
A smile was twitching at the corner of his mouth that he couldn’t prevent. Without a door into the so far one-sided conversation, Yoongi had to jump through the window you created when you finally drew a breath. “Have you got a mop?”
Based on the way your eyebrows knit together, you’d been thrown entirely for a loop. You re-opened your mouth, likely to apologize for not following the sudden twist. Yoongi refused to allow further self-flagellation, though.
Classic Yoongi: demonstrating more compassion for strangers than he ever shows himself.
“For the gin,” He chuckled softly as he gestured down to the puddle at his feet. Suddenly and baselessly bold, he shot you a playful look and tacked on, “And for all the words you just spilled.”
The aforementioned eyebrows shot up as your jaw dropped further. Thankfully, it was amusement and not offense glittering in your eyes. Pretty. As you crossed your arms over your chest, you tilted your head and sized him up with a quick glance.
If this was a test, he was determined to pass.
“Maybe,” you hummed.
Yoongi wanted to volley your nonchalant tone, but he couldn’t swallow the laughter bubbling up from his chest. He was grinning like an idiot; there was no denying it. “Maybe?”
Your eyebrow twitched ever so slightly, the perfect overture to the mischief on your lips. When you replied, that microscopic smirk never faltered: “Let’s say, for arguments’ sake, that there is a mop.”
A manicured finger was held up to stop Yoongi from interjecting.
Mystified, his poor brain tried to crunch the numbers. Statically, it made no sense that — out of the thousands of people he’d met in his life — he’d never come across someone quite like you. In a matter of minutes, you’d pirouetted from adorable, to self-depreciating, to coy and confident.
All-encompassing, all electric, you moved through tone shifts far more gracefully than you did through the bar.
And if he’d done the math right, this was the first interaction he’d had in recent memory that didn’t deplete his energy. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Gazing at you, Yoongi began to wonder if this was how extroverts got to feel as they moved through the world. Like it gave back more than it took. Lucky bastards.
Once Yoongi was thoroughly disarmed, you continued breezily, “Hypothetically speaking, would you let me be the one to use said mop? After all, it’s both my job and my mess.”
“Hypothetically?” He repeated, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Your eyes narrowed further as he paused to formulate a counterpoint. Meanwhile, Yoongi’s involuntary smile spread in a straight line across his face.
You’re a goddamn delight, full stop.
“Assuming, for the sake of this argument, that I do concede the mop in question —” Yoongi raised an eyebrow, “— How could I be sure that you wouldn’t hurt yourself? After all, you did just try to clean up broken glass with your hands.”
If this had been a gun fight and not banter behind a bar, you would’ve shot him dead. Like lightning, you quickly unraveled your arms and held your hands at the ready. That effervescent grin of yours might be his undoing instead.
Eyes alight, you threw down the gauntlet: “Gawi, bawi, bo?”
Never before in your life had you played rock, paper, scissors, and lost at every single turn. You’d also never requested a rematch for every loss before, continuing the game into perpetuity; but you had a hypothesis to prove and a perfectly unique smile to make wider.
No matter what you threw, he’d offered a gesture to counter it. If his eyes hadn’t gotten wider and wider with shock as it just — kept — happening, you would’ve simply decided that he was psychic. A mind-reader, predicting your every move before you’d even settled on it yourself.
Spooky.
At the start, his amusement had been more or less concealed. Withheld, even, like it was dangerous to grin with every single one of his teeth. Eventually, though, his shoulders shook the way yours did; and mirth pooled in the corners of his eyes as he wheezed through laughter with you.
You didn’t know him, but still, you couldn’t help thinking: there he is.
At some point during your unending match, he doubled over to catch his breath. Seizing the element of surprise, you’d darted into the storage room before he could’ve stopped you. When you reappeared with a mop and bucket in tow, you’d immediately begun to address the mess you made. It took a few moments of buffering for him to realize what you’d done.
That time around, he hadn’t shouldered your burden for you and thank god for that. First impressions were never your strong suit, and you were already starting from behind. Always too much, you couldn’t be useless, too.
Instead, he’d simply resigned himself to swapped names and spiked blood pressure as you struggled — stubbornly and independently — to dump the contents of that yellow, wheeled mop bucket into the utility sink. Standing quietly out of your way, Yoongi had looked close to proud when you managed to do it all without spilling a drop.
See, you’d thought, I’m verifiably Not Useless!
Once the evidence of your clumsy crime had been disposed of, you’d returned the cleaning supplies to their rightful space in the storage room’s closet. Similarly, you and your patron returned to your rightful places: him on his stool at the front of the bar; you, finally fixing him a drink behind it.
Ardbeg, single malt, neat.
After sliding the glass across the mahagony to his waiting hand, you glanced towards the front entrance. As usual, there were no pedestrians wandering this way; no cars on the street, either. The only quiet part of Seoul — especially on a Saturday night.
The bar routinely bordered on empty, but it had some magical quality to it: Nobody you saw inside for the first time seemed to be there for the first time. This was especially odd because it wasn’t a place anyone went to, just a place they ended up. Nobody’s first choice, it was a last resort only visible to people who knew where to look for it.
Yoongi was the first one to speak, unknowingly putting an end to your mythologizing. You just barely flinched at the surprise of his voice, but he managed to catch it. Then, he conducted a brief yet careful study of your face to determine whether you were simply jumpy, or experiencing some sort of medical event.
A gesture like that, done in passing, shouldn’t have meant so much to you. Really, all he did was look at you. It felt like more than that, though, because it was the second-kindest thing anyone had done for you in months — and it occurred merely twenty minutes after the first-place winner.
Now, that’s depressing.
“I haven’t seen you in here before,” He hummed, “I only ever run into Yang Daehyun-nim, though it’s been a minute. Honestly, I don’t even know if he’s still around. You know him?”
“Yes, absolutely. He’s my husband.” You deadpanned and Yoongi nearly choked to death on his drink.
You were, of course, fucking with him. The man in question was swiftly approaching ninety, but he looked twice as old. You successfully maintained your ruse until Yoongi’s tongue breached the barrier of his lips and gathered his runaway whiskey.
Where am I? Who am I? Is that legal?
Yoongi simultaneously picked up the joke and his glass. He raised both with pure amusement on his face, “Cheers to the happy couple, then.”
Never one to raise a toast empty-handed, you quickly dumped what little remained of a nearby soju bottle into a shot glass. His eyes sparkled as he watched you race to catch up; even more so when you leaned in to clink your glass against his.
Oh, so he’s pretty pretty.
“To the happy couple,” you echoed.
With both of your drinks dispatched, you grabbed the bottle of Ardbeg to top him up. Expensive taste, you noted, not the low-rent version you were destined for.
If Yoongi hadn’t shown up to order it, that bottle would’ve continued to gather dust on the top shelf. Like you, none of your regulars had the capital to even glance that high. Granted, the sample size was abysmally small at only three (3) people, but the point still stood.
Until Yoongi mentioned Daehyun, you couldn’t think of a single reason why your employer bothered to keep anything like that in stock. Now, that piece seemed to fit. Still, you were puzzled as to why Yoongi would come to a dive like this to drink liquor like that.
Clearly, the man sitting in front of you contained multitudes.
At the exact moment you asked how long he’d been coming here, Yoongi wondered when you joined the staff. Your respective answers came simultaneously, too. His six years easily dwarfed your eight months.
True to form, you joked that he was more qualified to tend bar here than you were. He said his only relevant skill was cleaning broken glass.
It made you sad in some stupid way to realize that you could’ve met a hundred times over by now. Had more conversations like this, haunted the joint jointly rather than on your own. Truthfully, though, you were at least semi-soothed by the timing.
You were a horrible bartender now, but you’d been even worse before. He might not have survived this long.
Once again, Yoongi set your runaway train-of-thought back on track. “Eight months ago.” He took a sip, then he asked, “Is that when you moved to Korea?”
It was a simple question, certainly not an offensive one. The reason it nearly bowled you over was that no one had ever bothered to ask. Nobody seemed to notice the non-native accent that occasionally appeared when you spoke — not unless you referenced its existence first, that is.
Even then, people forgot. You wished you were confident that they simply got used to it, but you had the sneaking suspicion that nobody really listened when you spoke. After all, no one had a reason to give a shit about you, so long as you kept their glasses full.
The weight of your curiosity caused your head to tilt to the side. You allowed a tiny smile to spread as you asked, “What gave me away?”
“Don’t get me wrong —” He held up his hands to prevent a reaction you’d never dream of giving. “It’s not obvious. You’ve got a better grasp than some of my friends do — which is kind of sad, actually. They’ve lived here their whole lives.”
He gifted you a reassuring smile, then came the true prize: he licked his lips absently before speaking again. You had to clench every single muscle in your body to keep from swooning.
That cannot be legal.
“I noticed it earlier, but you were already embarrassed. I didn’t want to risk making it worse.” Yoongi still looked like he was afraid to hurt your feelings. “When you word-vomit — like you did earlier — your consonants sound like they would in English.”
This linguistic assessment didn’t surprise you; it was dead-on. It didn’t embarrass you, either, but you blushed nonetheless. Without thinking, you mused, “Makes sense that you’re the first to say something. You spend more time overseas than most, right?”
For a split second, you swore you saw Yoongi frown. A little twinge, one you would’ve missed if you weren’t so fixated on his every micro-expression. If you could have, you would’ve hit the rewind button and reverted back thirty seconds.
Was it off-limits, finally acknowledging that you knew who you were dealing with? Did it bother him that you did know, and proceeded to speak to him like the glaring disparity between the two of you didn’t matter? Did it matter?
“You mean to tell me —” He started quietly with a flex of his eyebrow. You feared the worst, even though Yoongi didn’t strike you as the type to make your failure to fawn a problem. “— That the place you lived before wasn’t under a rock?”
As soon as he saw your expression morph from panic to blatant relief, his eyes crinkled until every one of his facial features contributed to his smile. It was difficult to process how an expression that gentle hit you like a punch, but it did, and you felt a bit dizzy.
Professionalism be damned, you cracked open another bottle of soju and filled not one, but two glasses. Yoongi smirked — likely unsurprised by your willingness to drink with him on the clock — and easily accepted the shot you slid his way.
“To the worst bartender in Seoul,” You cheered as you raised it.
He rolled his eyes at your self-depreciation, but followed your lead without any meaningful resistance. Like it was choreographed, you both downed your shots in unison. Straight, no chaser. Just the slight burn in the back of your throat and the very first thing your scrambled brain could think to say:
“Do you want to hear a joke?”
Yoongi was clearly stunned by your sudden maneuver, but you didn’t wait for him to co-sign your antics. You cleared your throat like you were about to say something worth hearing, then you warbled, “Knock, knock!”
You expected him to pause again; or worse, to leave you hanging entirely. It was, frankly, stupid how much of an effect the latter always had on you. You were a demented scientist and your bad joke was a litmus test, ready to reveal on the front-end what kind of person Yoongi really was.
Translation: Tell me now if I’m too much. I’m always too much.
“Who’s there?”
He didn’t hesitate. There was no blink of an eye, no breath taken in between your call and his response. This time, it was you who needed a split-second to buffer.
When your brain finally reloaded, you peeped, “Cargo.”
“Cargo who?” Yoongi asked slowly, growing visibly suspicious about where this stupid, stupid road was leading. Somehow, he looked as amused by you as he did continually bewildered.
Springing the trap, you accentuated your shitty punchline with a sing-song tone and pantomime for emphasis, “Car go beep beep!”
Nobody had ever — ever — looked at you the way Yoongi did when you concluded your comedy routine. As if your teary-eyed grin and raucous laughter were something beautiful; and your presence alone wasn’t killing off one, sorry brain cell for every minute that passed.
“Knock, knock,” Yoongi volleyed with a soft chuckle, and without breaking eye contact.
As if you weren’t too much.
Yoongi needed a minute to take inventory.
When he left his apartment at a quarter-til-eight, he was headed out for his first date in a long damn time. It was Seokjin’s setup and that girl’s letdown. For Yoongi, it was another drop in the bucket; one final reason to commit to life as a hermit.
Troll that he was, Yoongi was ready to crawl back under his bridge; emerging only to pose impossible riddles to passersby who didn’t know to stay away.
His brain had given him an out, but for once, he didn’t take it. So, what did he end up with instead?
You, sitting on the bar, going shot-for-shot with him; and telling your self-titled villain origin story with award-worthy narration.
Equally as enthralling as the story itself was the tangential webs you weaved along the way. As he’d already learned to expect, you apologized frequently for the way one thought trailed off in a direction you didn’t intend. He wished you didn’t; he had no trouble following wherever your mind led you.
You, born here but not raised here, returning to claim a master’s degree in photography and to reclaim what you felt you missed out on. Yoongi loved your foreign take on local foods, even if you hadn’t yet acquired a taste for pickled vegetables.
We’ll get you there, he’d promised.
You, gesturing with hand movements so impassioned they nearly knocked you off balance; right off the bar. He was down to listen to you talk about whatever — for any amount of time — because he could feel how much you cared about — well, everything.
Animated, fully alive, and so fucking refreshing.
Him, with one hand on his drink and the other hovering on the bar top near your hip — just in case your full-body laugh did, in fact, provoke a fall.
Yoongi, who do you think you’re fooling?
So, maybe it was never exclusively about concern for your safety — even though you’d demonstrated from the jump that it was warranted. Yoongi was quickly coming to realize that, when it came down to it, he simply liked having you close. He liked you, full stop.
Every now and then, you’d wiggle where you sat, and the denim of your jeans would brush against his knuckles. It was as innocent as contact could be, but for someone so secretly touch-starved, it was bliss. Is this the kind of feeling he gave up, locked away in his tower? It sure as shit made leaving feel worth it.
He was buzzed, sure, but not drunk enough to blame the warmth he was feeling on the liquor. Any flush on his cheeks would only be partly genetic. The rest of it was all you — and the way you talked with your whole body, and that giggle.
Seriously, what the fuck is that giggle? A wind-chime made out of stars?
“Yoongi?”
It didn’t dawn on him that he was staring until you called his name. Then, it dawned on him that he didn’t care if he’d been caught — not even a little bit. Red-handed, all Yoongi could do was smile up at you as you blinked down at him.
He’d thought it before and now he was thinking it again: You are goddamn delight.
You threw your head back and laughed. Maybe it was the soju, or how fucking obvious he made it that he was infatuated with you. Whatever the cause, the effect was music to his ears. He’d record it, if he could, and play it on loop to appease the butterflies going wild in his stomach.
Unfortunately, he was accurate in his prediction. The sudden movement of your laughter sent you reeling, but before you could fall, Yoongi was quick to intervene. He stood abruptly from his stool to secure you; one hand on your hip and the other — unintentionally — on your thigh.
“Shit — Sorry,” Yoongi muttered, though he was very much still holding you. Oh, fuck, his brain screamed as he glanced down at his hand on your thigh. Heart pounding, his gaze flitted from his touch to your face.
Your mouth was still slightly open, but that could’ve easily been attributed to the fact that you’d so narrowly avoided launching yourself headfirst at the ground. If it wasn’t that, then you were looking for the words to yell to get him to back off.
Those were the only possible explanations; and any minute now, his hand would accept his brain’s signal to pull away.
Any minute now. Any —
Yoongi watched it all happen in slow motion and he still couldn’t believe it when you leaned in. Or when your hair slipped over your shoulder and brushed against his. Or when you kissed him quick and pulled back just to smile from mere centimeters away.
“Impressive reflexes.” You were breathless but you still managed to sigh. Have you had freckles this whole time? “What’s that saying? Not all heroes wear Lewis Leathers?”
Your playful tug at his jacket had no force behind it, but even with his feet firmly planted, Yoongi knew that he was falling. His stomach fluttered from the pinnacle of that emotional rollercoaster and, for once, he wasn’t afraid of heights. He’d kiss you again and follow that thrill all the way down.
Or, he would have, if the bell above the door didn’t chime.
Just as quickly as you’d kissed him, you spun around and prepared to dismount from your perch on the bar. Yoongi’s hand still seemed to vibrate, even when you slipped out from underneath. It was absolutely ridiculous that his body missed you already — automatically — but he couldn’t think of any other explanation.
He wasn’t a violent person by any means, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to throw the incoming patron out on their ass and lock the door behind them.
The audacity. Who does this clown think they are, coming into a place of business during their business hours? For fuck’s —
“Finally!” You squeaked as you stuck your landing. Then, you skipped around the edge of the bar and continued on your way towards the door.
Jesus Christ. Even the way you walk is cute.
Yoongi was initially too preoccupied with watching you to notice the intruder, but when he did, he couldn’t force the exasperated look off his face. That is, until he saw the panicked look on the prepubescent face of the delivery boy.
The poor kid’s eyes bugged out at Yoongi from under the brim of his uniform cap. Immediately, Yoongi felt inclined to atone, to bow. Instead, he offered a mildly apologetic grimace for the heart attack he didn’t mean to cause.
You accepted the bags of food into your arms, beaming like the fucking sun as you glanced over your shoulder to Yoongi. “You said you liked Hongdae Dakgalbi, right?”
Yes. Yes, he did. But his brain was spinning its wheels in the mud because —
What he finally said wasn’t a question, but it certainly sounded like one: “You ordered food.”
Clearly, Yoongi was missing something. He glanced around and confirmed that there was, in fact, an operational kitchen still situated at the far end of the room. He pointed to the small window carved out for taking and producing orders. “What about —?”
“Binna called off,” you shrugged through your explanation. Then, you tilted your head with a coy smile, “Were we supposed to starve?”
Yoongi had questions. A lot of them.
First and foremost: When did you summon takeout and how did you manage to go unnoticed in the process? He was certainly staring at you for long enough to catch it. Or maybe his heart-eyes were getting foggy with age.
Also, we? As in, you ordered food with the intention of sharing it with him? And you paid for it?
When his broken brain snapped back to attention, it registered the fact that you’d settled on top of the stool next to his. You either didn’t notice the smoke flying out of Yoongi’s ears, or you accepted his brain damage for what it was. Either way, you were too excited about the piping hot tteokbokki in front of you to notice the way he still lingered by the door.
The delivery boy was long gone by now; he took the first opportunity to get as much distance between himself and the visibly annoyed person he’d interrupted. Looking at it now, Yoongi’s fingers twitched with a desire to engage the deadbolt. But he didn’t — he, a coward, wouldn’t — so he simply reclaimed the spot next to you.
You immediately held up a pair of chopsticks as you fished out napkins with your other hand. Yoongi stared at them for too long, prompting you to look quizzically up at him. You asked no questions, and he couldn’t think of a single reason why he said it, but he blurted out:
“I’m supposed to be on a date.”
Unfazed by the lack of context, you gently tucked that pair of chopsticks into his useless hand. Yoongi blinked down at them like he didn’t know what to do with them. You went back to unpacking your takeout.
“And I’m supposed to be working,” You chirped, as if what he just said — unprompted — wasn’t completely idiotic. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Yoongi shook his head, praying it would knock his trapped thoughts loose. “I meant that I was supposed to be the one buying dinner.” He frowned down at the spread you’d provided. “If I knew you were hungry, I would’ve —“
“Taken a bite by now?” You teased with wiggling eyebrows. “Come on, Min Yoongi, you know the rules. The eldest eats first.”
Stunned wasn’t adequate. Entranced? His mouth hung open, primed to speak, without a single, coherent response on the horizon. Mystified, at the very least. You were always one step ahead of Yoongi, dancing off in a brand new direction.
How on Earth did you do it so easily? How were you so effortlessly bold when he couldn’t even blink without deliberating over the idea for days?
Yoongi wasn’t even jealous the way he would’ve expected to be, meeting his non-neurotic foil. He didn’t want to steal that spark for himself, or try to mimic your fearlessness. If he could just continue to witness it, that would be enough.
You threw him off again when you plucked a small piece of tteokbokki from one of the cardboard containers below and gently maneuvered it into his unwitting, waiting mouth.
Game over. Min Yoongi is done for.
“There we go,” You cooed with a smirk. Then, those chopsticks grabbed a piece of tteokbokki of your very own. You smiled adoringly down at it, winked up at him, and said, “Now we’re off to the races.”
After several minutes of deeply contented, quiet chewing, you turned slightly to gaze at him. You didn’t say anything at first; you simply watched and let your lips curve slightly into an understated smile. Yoongi didn’t care if that was all you did because — for once — he felt seen.
Eventually, you did speak. Your voice was soft, barely casting a ripple through the silence. “Can I ask?”
Your eyes scanned over his face for permission. Yoongi had no idea what your question was, but he doubted that he was capable of saying no to you. Fire at will.
“About the date you’re not on,” You clarified.
The one I was supposed to be on, or the one I might be on instead?
“Why aren’t you on it?”
He didn’t know how to explain any of it without sounding pathetic. He knew he’d rather die than have to relay his earlier misfortune to Seokjin; somehow, though, Yoongi didn’t hesitate to respond to you. Like everything else about the past few hours, it felt laughably easy.
“She’s a friend of a friend,” He began as soon as he wiped excess gochujang from the corner of his mouth.
“He basically harassed me into asking her out because I, uh — I don’t get out much. And I know a lot of people say that, but I really do mean it. You can probably guess as much from my frighteningly translucent complexion.”
Your mouth hitched up at the corner when he joked, but you didn’t laugh. In some odd way, he was grateful that you didn’t — not just because you didn’t enable his self-depreciation, but because you seemed too invested in what he was saying to interrupt him.
Nobody had ever looked at him quite like that before.
He cleared his throat, then he pressed on, “So, I did — and that part was fine. After that, though, I don’t think I slept at all. For, like, days. Now, I think I was just dreading the whole thing, but while it was happening, I figured I was nervous. Rusty, you know?”
Yoongi looked down at his hands, which fidgeted autonomously with his chopsticks. “I put way too much thought into the whole thing — I always do — even though I had this feeling that nothing was going to happen the way I planned.”
He paused, poked mindlessly at a lump of rice, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t intentionally held. Nothing had happened the way he planned, but if it did, who would’ve hand-fed him tteokbokki because they were too impatient to wait?
You dropped your chin in your hand as you continued to watch him. Wordlessly, you reached out with your other hand. Yoongi noticed just in time as you gently removed a piece of lint that had stuck to the tip of his jacket collar. Your eyes followed it as it floated off towards the floor.
Yoongi couldn’t see anything but you.
“You picked this place,” you murmured. Slowly, your eyes drifted back up to his face; he froze solid. The only thing moving was the pounding heart in his chest. “Must mean a lot to you.”
He wanted to be brave and tell you that it meant even more now. He wasn’t brave, though, so he swallowed that thought down with a mouthful of soju.
“She was not a fan, as it turns out. Hated it so much, just from the sidewalk, that she jumped right back in her taxi — yelled at me through the window that she deserved better than to drink bottom-shelf liquor in a dumpster with me.”
You furrowed your eyebrows and he wondered which part of that statement bothered you the most. Having your place of employment referred to as a dumpster would be a reasonable sore spot; one he probably should’ve avoided. Fuck. Could he rewind thirty seconds and omit that part?
“Well,” you frowned, “Joke’s on her. This dumpster has exactly one bottle on its top shelf, and it was apparently reserved just for you.”
He could kiss you. He really, really could.
You shifted on your stool, though, and stared out into the middle-distance at nothing in particular. Deep in thought, too, judging by the way your frown curved even further.
“It’s kind of funny, in a shitty sort of way. She more or less told you that you’re not enough, and people love to tell me that I’m too much.”
It was Yoongi’s turn to frown. Who in their right mind could look at you, experience the goddamn magnet that you are, and willingly detach themselves from you? The thought alone made his jaw clench.
There hadn’t been a single second since he met you — albeit, not that long ago — where he didn’t want to see and know more of you. Where he didn’t beg those seconds to slow the fuck down because the night kept moving faster than he wanted it to.
So far, no amount of time felt like enough.
“You’d think it would be nice, being everyone’s favorite new toy,” You laughed, to Yoongi’s surprise.
Looking genuinely amused, you glanced over your shoulder at him. “And I guess, for a minute, it really is. You do your silly song and dance; and everyone loves you — until they don’t anymore. Eventually, your tricks get boring; you burn them out; then they take out your batteries. You get shelved pretty quickly.”
There was a flicker of genuine hurt in your eyes, but you were smiling when you picked your glass up off the bar and raised it. “To always being the wrong amount!” You giggled.
“Nah.” Yoongi shook his head. He grabbed his drink, touched his glass to yours, and winked, “To being just right.”
One way or another, you spent most nights watching the clock, holding your breath, and waiting for midnight.
On New Year’s Eve, it was hope that bloomed bright in your chest like fireworks. When those final seconds dissolved, it meant closing one chapter and opening another. Something bigger, something better, something blank for you to fill in. A year in fresh white paper, with every color at your disposal.
Ten — nine —
For the rest of your midnights, it was relief that finally allowed you to unclench your jaw and drop your stiff shoulders. Closing time. Freedom to clean up, clear out, and drag your tired, little body back up to your apartment.
Thankfully, when your work hours were over, there were only three flights of stairs separating you from your bed, your cat, and your Netflix subscription.
Eight — seven —
Tonight was an outlier, a statistical anomaly. As the short hand inched closer and closer to twelve, your pulse picked up its pace. For once, it wasn’t relief and it certainly wasn’t hope. It was distinctively dread forming a pit in your stomach.
Even more than that, it was a telepathic plea shooting out from your brain that begged, and begged, and begged for more time. Five more minutes, just five more minutes.
Six — five —
You felt stupid, of course, because you knew that neither of you would turn into a pumpkin when the clock struck midnight. There was no spell, just two strangers who happened to be in the same bar at the same time, with bad jokes and a bottle of Tanqueray.
No bomb would detonate, no one would drop dead. When it was over, you’d simply go home, and Yoongi would go home and then…
Four —
That “and then what?” had you frantic. What if this moment ended and nothing followed? What if the magic didn’t survive the night?
You couldn’t take that disappointment; you knew that much. Gripping tight to your last first night, you tore your eyes away from the clock and looked at Yoongi.
He didn’t notice you staring because he had also become fixated on the clock ahead. His brow furrowed just slightly as he observed it, and you wondered what it meant.
Three —
You knew what you hoped it meant.
For all you knew, though, he might’ve been begging that hand to move faster. The end all, be all of justifications to say goodnight and go. To drop the moment in the bin with the spent, citrus garnishes on the way out; and then crawl back into that bed he spoke so fondly of.
The way you did whenever four zeroes lined up in a row like cartoon cherries on a slot machine. A personal jackpot any other midnight, but the farthest thing from a prize now.
Two —
No. You refused to believe that.
In the reality you’d chosen, he was strapped into that rollercoaster car beside you. He felt his stomach flip the way yours did as you stared down at the path ahead. You didn’t know how you knew it, but you were sure that you weren’t up there alone.
So, when the countdown was over, you took a deep breath and stated, “I’m calling a time-out.”
In actuality, it was more than a statement. It was a shout and it startled him so badly that he flinched.
As soon as he resettled on his stool, Yoongi’s neck could’ve snapped with how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wider than you’d seen them at any point in the last four hours. Those once-knitted brows shot up to kiss the blonde strands brushing against his forehead.
You envied them, as stupid as that was.
“You’re — what?” He peeped.
Even louder than before, you blurted out your explanation. “I’m stopping the clock!”
You might’ve been the sole American in the entire neighborhood, but you could guarantee that you still knew less about football than Yoongi did. Knowing all of that didn’t stop you from making your worst attempt at a metaphor, or throwing your hand out to mime your way through it.
“Flag on the play — or whatever, I don’t know.”
At first, his expression didn’t change and you began to panic. Maybe you could duck down behind the bar and he’d eventually forget that you were hiding there. Then he wouldn’t see how pink your cheeks were; how the hope in your eyes bordered on desperate.
Shockingly, you weren’t delusional. You’d simply underestimated him.
Yoongi glanced down at his watch — already two minutes into Sunday — and then back to you. “Wow. Would you look at that? Only a minute til midnight.”
You could kiss him; you really, really could.
“Do you want to, uh, hang out? With me? Like, not here?”
Yoongi was smirking slightly at your stammering, just enough for you to notice, but you didn’t faint the way your body wanted you to. Instead, you doubled down.
“I live in the apartment upstairs, and this isn’t a proposition — it’s also not, not a proposition — but I need to lock-up here, and I still want you with me when I’m done.”
He blinked rapidly like you’d once again shook him off your tail. You watched in slow motion as his smirk dropped, and his brows dipped back into thoughtful wrinkles at the lowest part of his forehead. It hurt, physically somehow, that there was something to consider.
Were you really this egregiously wrong in your conclusions, or had he finally hit his quota with you and decided that you — this — were too much, too soon?
You wanted to explain yourself, to say that you were just offering for him to come up and sit on your couch with you. Because you wanted to keep this night alive and keep talking for as long as you could. Because this was something and you knew it.
You opened your mouth to do so, but he was the quicker draw.
Yoongi looked genuinely conflicted and you believed him when he said, “I don’t think I can. I have to be up in four hours to —”
“It’s okay!” You chirped. Stupid little bird, flying headlong into a window. You smiled and prayed it looked genuine, but Yoongi didn’t look convinced. Still, you breezed, “Raincheck, then — maybe.”
Maybe when you take the trash out later, you can heave yourself into the dumpster with it.
Deciding that your disappointment shouldn’t be his burden, you grabbed the takeout containers from the counter and whisked yourself over to the trash bin to discard them.
In a magnificent showing of restraint, you didn’t stuff yourself inside it, too. Instead, your tidy tornado kept spinning, picking up every glass you encountered and shoving them hurriedly into the dishwasher below the bar.
Are you suddenly Employee of the Month? Why is this the moment you choose to actually do your job?
With your hip, you nudged the dishwasher door closed much more clumsily than usual. Then, you began wiping down the counter at warp speed; damn near scrubbing a hole straight though the wood.
Why are you so frazzled? Are you really this sensitive after being politely turned down by someone you just met? This is what they mean when they say you’re “too much,” and you know what? They’re right.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Yoongi asked because he was lovely.
You were, as it turned out, as bad an actor as you were a bartender. Your reassuring smile was more unsettling than anything else, but you hoped that — maybe — the shake of your head was enough to dispel the concern from his face.
In case it wasn’t, you quipped, “You’ve already done more than your fair share of cleaning tonight, I think. Thanks again for that, by the way. I ran out bandages, so…”
Your sentence petered out when you finally looked up and locked eyes with Yoongi. His expression was indecipherable and, only for a moment, it made your hurried hands stop moving.
“So, I’m glad you came in,” You finished through an exhale, quiet to the point that it was hardly audible. You hoped he heard you, though, as loudly and clearly as you meant it.
Straightening up, you dropped your bar rag into the “dirty shit” bucket underneath the counter. You quickly wiped your hands against your jeans, laughed with no real joy behind it, and hid your wobbling voice behind a poorly imitated French accent, “Et voilà.”
Yoongi was still staring, still unreadable. For a few moments, you simply looked at one another. Neither one of you made a sound — at least, nobody spoke. There were gears grinding in his head, judging by the look on his face, and you swore you could hear them from across the bar.
“I guess I should — um,” Yoongi eventually muttered as he gestured to the door. He briefly glanced at it, but you doubted that he registered what he was looking at.
Oddly, it wasn’t awkwardness that seemed to have him short-circuiting — not as far as you could tell. It was like his brain was moving faster than it could form words, leaving his mouth open with nothing to say.
You nodded. You knew where he was going with this, and you didn’t want to prolong whatever he was so visibly toiling with.
“Yeah, of course,” You squeaked. Somewhere, the world’s tiniest violin began to play as the corner of your mouth hitched up. “I’ll see you around, I hope?”
Then, Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the phone in his hand. If he heard your question, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, deep in thought, he mumbled, “I need to — fuck, okay —” Urgently, he looked back up at you and said firmly, “I’ll call.”
He dashed out the door before you realized the problem with his plan: he had no way to call you.
You’d been so caught up in each other that you never thought to exchange phone numbers. Not only was he now gone, but he hadn’t actually said goodbye.
Seems kind of fitting that yours is the only fairytale without a happy ending, huh?
You occupied the borderline between being a hopeless romantic and a masochist, so you immediately decided that, if you ran, you might catch him before he was truly gone.
Kiss him or kick him, it didn’t matter — you just couldn’t let it end like this.
You skirted around the bar and darted to the door, throwing it open and shocking the bell above it. You were already out on the sidewalk before it had the chance to chime. It was the only sound, and it echoed through otherwise dead air.
Similarly, you were the only person on the street. Judging by the dark windows lining the road, you were the only proof of life in that little corner of Seoul. The lack of visible stars was likely due to light pollution, but you wouldn’t be surprised if they dipped out on you, too.
No matter how many times you looked up and down the street, Yoongi didn’t appear. So, you closed your eyes like an idiot, and wished on a star you couldn’t see that he’d be there when you re-opened them. Standing on the other side of the street, laughing, and asking how you’d missed him on your thirty previous scans.
But he wasn’t.
Yoongi had disappeared like smoke right through your fingers; exiting your night as abruptly as he’d entered it.
You weren’t inclined to stand on the sidewalk all night, stunned by your complete failure to see the plot for what it was. You slipped from the sidewalk, through the front door, and locked it behind you. And once you did, you stood there with your hand on the deadbolt for several moments — just in case.
When no one came to knock, you turned all the lights out and flipped the sign in the front window from open to closed. From there, you made your way to the back of the storage room. Finally reaching the stairwell door in the far corner, you unlocked it slowly like the wait would make a difference.
As you climbed the three flights to your apartment’s entrance, the night’s events formed a whirlpool in your mind. The playback settled it: there was simply no way that you were this wrong — not about this.
Clearly, you weren’t clairvoyant to the extent that Yoongi seemed to be. You hadn’t seen it coming when you nearly fell backwards off the bar, but he did. He’d kept his hand close all night like he sensed you’d need it. Just like he sensed every rock, paper, and scissor.
Even still, it felt like a premonition every time you turned to look at him at the same time he did; and you couldn’t put a finger on it.
That something was more than simply chatting with a person stuck in your close proximity — more than commiserating and drinking simultaneously. That was the nature of your job: circumstantial friendship. Not uncommon, not designed to last beyond last call.
This, though? Cosmic interfere or craziness, maybe, but not nothing. You weren’t superstitious and you didn’t necessarily believe in fate, but the odds of all of this had to be shockingly low.
It felt cinematic, in a way, or straight out of a dream. You would have believed it either way if the pinch of your fingers on your forearm didn’t debunk both theories. It was all too perfectly timed to be a coincidence, though, you knew that much.
Out of all the nights you’d worked at this bar — and all the years he’d been a customer — this was the one time your paths had crossed. And when they finally did, he found you right when you needed him. The same, you hoped, could be said for him.
Too Much meeting Not Enough, proving perfect balance. It was just right, but the ending didn’t fit.
Sure, he knew where to find you — but that was assuming he wanted to. With his quick and wordless departure, your confidence in that assumption wavered as you unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside.
The ball’s over, Cinderella. Sorry about your shoe.
When his third call went to voicemail, Yoongi was ready to launch his phone down the alley.
There was no fucking way that Seokjin — of all people — was asleep already. This could not be the night that he turned off whatever game he was playing and went to bed at a reasonable hour. Seokjin was rarely reasonable. As it turned out, he wasn’t reachable, either.
Yoongi growled, kicking the nearby dumpster. He thought that some explosion of physical activity might take the focus off his anxiety, but it didn’t — it just made his foot hurt.
“Fuck!”
He didn’t even want to make the plans he was now trying desperately to reschedule. He didn’t like fishing; he liked his friend, and his friend liked fishing. So, Yoongi agreed to share the cost of renting a boat that he would have to leave at five o’clock in the morning to catch.
If it's 00:17 now, I have three hours and forty-three minutes until —
The unexpected chiming of his phone stopped Yoongi’s pacing before he could wear a trench into the concrete. “Finally!”
“Do you always yell at people instead of greeting them?” Seokjin scoffed. As expected, Yoongi could hear some sort of video game blaring in the background.
Typical.
“Hyung, I’m so sorry, but I'm not going to make it back in time. Can we re-schedule this fishing thing?”
Yoongi felt awful for having to ask in the first place, but he felt even worse as he anticipated Seokjin’s reaction. Yoongi swallowed disappointment and stewed in it. Seokjin was quite the opposite, and Yoongi didn’t want to ruin his night.
To Yoongi’s surprise, he did not get yelled at the way he expected to. Instead, he got Seokjin’s juvenile, sing-song voice directed right into his ear, “Ooh, staying with Hyunjoo, are we?”
Yoongi, having completely lost the plot, paused for a moment before asking, “Who?”
“What?”
Oh, fuck, was that her name? It’d slid out of his brain the second that abuse slid out of her mouth.
Quick to avoid that conversation, Yoongi sputtered, “I’ll give you the story tomorrow, hyung, but I really need to go. Can we push the fishing thing to another day?"
“Oh, I forgot to book the boat, so don’t worry about it!” Seokjin cheered and Yoongi was this close to following through with chucking his phone like a grenade. “Have fun with —”
Not inclined to wait another second, Yoongi hung up and turned to sprint up the alley towards the bar’s entrance. When he reached it and found the lights out, he skidded to a stop so forcefully that he almost fell over. What the fuck? He tugged at the door handle just to make sure he wasn’t missing something.
Didn’t he tell you he was going to make a phone call?
Fuck! He'd said I'll call. He didn't say that he was going to call Seokjin, and he sure as shit hadn't clarified that he was going to do so right that second. There'd been no explanation, no “please wait because I promise I’m coming right back for you" — just a mad dash out the door to get rid of the only thing standing between him and more time with you.
Shit, shit, shit.
Yoongi never indulged in unadulterated rage because he decided a long time ago that it took more effort than it was worth. In that moment, though, he felt the overwhelming urge to punch himself right in the face. How did he fuck it all up this badly?
Instead, Yoongi scrubbed his hands over his face and begged his brain to figure out a better plan. He couldn’t just call you because he was too busy making googly eyes at you to ask for your number. He couldn’t pick the lock because it was illegal — and because he didn’t know how.
Unable to do anything else, Yoongi threw his head back with every intention of screaming at the sky. But before he could let his frustration rip out of his mouth, he saw it: his saving grace.
Mere moments after he sprinted up the alley, Yoongi was tearing back down it like his life depended on it. The end of the iron emergency ladder sat too high off the ground for him to comfortably reach it, but — thankfully — he had garbage at his disposal. Without a second thought, he stacked whatever semi-sturdy trash he could find to bridge the gap between him and your fire escape.
With all the strength and recklessness of a lovestruck teenager, Yoongi threw his twenty-four-year-old body upwards and grabbed hold of the nearest rung.
Maybe you overestimated that strength a little bit, eh, Yoongi?
He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up enough to swing a leg up, too. Groaning triumphantly, he hooked the bottom of his shoe on the lowest rung.
From there, it was easy enough to reach the first landing. When it came time for Yoongi to tackle the other two, he picked up the pace — and he didn’t give a shit about how sore he’d be tomorrow.
Finally, finally, finally, he reached his destination. Unfortunately, that fleeting moment of relief was replaced by fear as he stooped down to knock on your window. Staring back at him through the darkness was a pair of big, yellow eyes.
Yoongi shouted as he stumbled away from the window. He knocked over a planter on his way down, landing on his ass with a crash and a grunt. Adding insult to injury, that black cat looked positively smug as it stared down at him.
It was quiet when you called out — in English — from another room. “Toph, did you break something? I thought we talked about this, bub." As your voice grew closer, you switched to Korean, "You can't ruin my stuff until you start contributing to this household.”
What's the incubation period for lovesickness?
Yoongi heard footsteps headed towards whatever room he’d failed to break and enter. He saw the light as it flicked on, and then he saw you — wearing a fluffy, tan headband with little, round ears at the top —with a bare face glistening as if you’d just finished tending to it.
Oh, fuck. Is lovesickness terminal?
If your eyes opened any wider, they might’ve fallen right out of your skull. They would’ve landed where Yoongi did — in the mass grave of pepper sprouts he’d just outright annihilated. But they stayed beautiful where they belonged, and you simply gawked at each other.
Yoongi spoke first despite not thinking first. “Toph? Like, Beifong?”
Your shock gave way to the biggest, brightest smile and Yoongi was thankful it didn’t blind him. If it did, he would’ve missed the way your cheeks went pink to match the tips of your ears. Whatever the shade, it was his new favorite color.
Just bury me in this potting soil, doll. I'm dead.
“Yoongi,” You started with a giggle that turned into a hum when you pursed your lips and tilted your head. Your eyes narrowed and then you asked, “Any reason why you chose the fire escape over the door?”
The what?
Sensing his confusion, you leaned out the window and pointed. Yoongi’s eyes followed the invisible line from your fingertip until they located an awning, which sat mere meters away from his impromptu stepstool made of trash.
Inwardly, he winced. Outwardly, he turned to you with a lopsided smile. “I was checking out your little garden."
Yoongi cleared his throat, now wincing outwardly, “And, uh — then I killed it, a little bit. I promise I’ll replace everything as soon as the shops open. I am so —”
“Cold? I bet,” You interrupted with a smirk, “Come inside then, Min Yoongi. Just don’t break the window too, alright?”
You didn’t have to tell him twice.
Immediately, he was on his feet, furiously dusting potting soil off the back of his legs. When he suspected that he’d gotten it all, Yoongi turned around and glanced at you over his shoulder. Even without a question, you knew what he was asking; you signaled okay with your fingers and a giggle.
With more care than he’d ever shown in his life, Yoongi crawled through the gap you created when you ducked back through the window. Once he had his feet underneath him again, he quickly toed off his shoes and plucked them off the tile.
As soon as he was upright again, you took his wrist in your hand — oh god, your skin is so criminally soft — and led him through your kitchen to the living room.
Gently, you set his shoes down on the mat beside your front door. Then, you turned back around to gaze up at him. Looking at that face of yours, Yoongi forgot every word he’d ever learned. It was just his hammering heart beating in time with yours, until:
“So, this is where I live.”
You were close enough that Yoongi could smell the toothpaste on your breath when you spoke, but still too far. You must’ve thought so, too, because you shifted your weight to your other foot and wound up slightly nearer to him.
Yoongi hummed in reply, though he could barely hear it over his pulse pounding in his ears, “It’s nice.”
He didn’t actually know if that was the case because he’d spent every second so far staring at you, but he had faith that you’d prove him right.
More quiet, more anticipation disguised as quickening breaths.
Like a magnet, you drew him in. Yoongi echoed every tiny move you made towards him until the distance was gone; and he could feel the heat of your body mere centimeters from his.
This close, he could see flecks of gold in your irises that he hadn’t noticed before. Yoongi knew he shouldn't have been surprised. If he'd learned a single thing tonight it was that hidden treasures were par for the course with you.
“Yoongi.”
It was baffling how you could sound so shy, even with desire blowing your pupils wide. Just as confounding was the fact that Yoongi knew, without question, that you felt it, too — that this new and perfect something was the start of everything.
“Please, just kiss me already.”
That wasn’t an opportunity he’d ever expect to turn down.
You were already breathless, weightless, and floating in fucking space when you finally crossed over the threshold into your bedroom.
Because, fuck, that man took your oxygen with him whenever his lips left yours. Without even trying, he’d fashioned himself into a ventilator that you really might suffocate without.
Thankfully, whenever he pulled away, he didn’t stray far. Even as you both stumbled towards your unmade bed, tripping over obstacles — up to and including Toph, whose favorite spot was between your ankles — there was always one hand on your hip and another lacing fingers through your hair.
As you moved, you couldn’t help thinking of the leftovers you’d brought home from work before. All single-use encounters, wastes of time that you normally didn’t care to recall. Though he may end up being the last, Yoongi wasn’t the first person to have you in this position.
He was, however, the only person to rescind his tongue just to comment on the tiny, design details of your shit-box apartment.
“How did you —” He paused to moan into your mouth when your teeth gently claimed his bottom lip. “Find a place with — oh, fuck, you taste like spearmint – original crown-molding in this —” The back of his knees bumped into the edge of your mattress and suddenly, he was sitting. “Neighborhood?”
There was no way you could ever explain Min Yoongi’s duality. He was unequivocally, fatally hot — and simultaneously, he was the most endearing, grandfatherly person you’d ever encountered. Somehow, this mind-boggling man turned architectural factoids into dirty talk.
You might orgasm on the spot if he brought up your built-ins, and you didn’t know or care what that said about you as a person.
“I’ll show you the blueprints later if you want,” you giggled while Yoongi ‘s cheeks flushed. Before he could find a reason to feel embarrassed, you tilted his chin up in order to kiss him properly. As you did, you murmured against his lips, “But if you take those jeans off, there’s something else I’d like to show you first.”
Your little finger was near to his throat as you held his chin captive, so you felt it when it when he growled. Against your knuckle, in your chest, and in that growing ache in between your thighs. There was roughness in him that you’d only seen snippets of, but you’d bet that you could pull it out if you tried.
Maybe not now while you were both masking nerves, but eventually.
When Yoongi made to stand, you backed up to give him room to do so. You were already on your knees when his belt came off, unbuttoning his jeans before the leather even hit the floor. As you pulled that zipper down — slowly and carefully — you glanced up at him from under your lashes and watched the breath catch in his chest.
It wasn’t the first time you noticed how fucking beautiful he was; in fact, that thought had been looping through your mind all night. But there was something new in his expression as he observed you taking his cock into your hand.
Something reverent, like he believed he should be the one on their knees.
A few languid, kitten licks at the tip, and his eyelids fluttered. They screwed shut entirely as you ran the flat of your tongue along the vein underneath. When your mouth finally enveloped him fully, his head drooped backwards as he groaned.
Your name would never sound better than it did exhaled from Yoongi’s chest.
More often than not, fellatio felt like an obligation. A quid pro quo, you always figured, though none of them kept up their end of the deal. But with Yoongi buried in the wet heat of your mouth, it was a gift you might never get tired of giving. Every breathy moan and involuntary twitch felt like a prize — and still, neither came close to the way it felt when he looked at you.
In those fleeting moments when he could focus, of course.
“I’m fucking dreaming,” Yoongi groaned, bringing his hands up and scrubbing them over his face. “Shit. Perfect figment of my imagination, that’s the only explanation for you. Where the fuck have you been my whole life?”
You hummed as you let him slip out of your mouth. In turn, it prompted a flurry of expletives to slip out of his. Tracing a feather-light line from hilt to head, you smirked up at him, “Waiting at a bar for you to show up, Min Yoongi. You sure did take your time.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” He laughed, “I already plan to regret that for the next — I don't know — forever?”
He dropped his hands from over his eyes and held them out to you. “Come here, angel. You’re too far away.”
As soon as you were back on your feet, Yoongi enveloped you in the warmth of his arms. You were halfway to melting when he kissed you; dead and gone when he laid you back against the mattress; and downright astral projecting when the weight of his body was added to yours.
Not to be dramatic, but is heaven a place on Earth?
With your head resting comfortably on the pillow, you gazed up at Yoongi as he addressed the tied waistband of your sweatpants. It wasn’t until that knot came undone that you realized: if he’d come home with you earlier — before you’d swapped out your street clothes for shapeless knits — he would’ve had a prettier present to unwrap.
Lace over your hip bones instead of cotton briefs. A black, balconette bra that made your tits into something worth looking at; not lackluster bareness that barely registered under your paint-stained t-shirt.
Unintentionally mimicking him, you covered your face with your hands to conceal the way you were blushing. You didn’t even dare to peek through your fingers at him while he dragged your sweatpants down over your legs.
That is, not until you heard the world’s softest chuckle and it hit you like a bus.
“Pretty girl,” Yoongi hummed. He left a chaste kiss on the top of your left thigh, and you whimpered. So sweet, so brief that your skin still tingled when he moved to mirror that kiss on your right thigh. “Where’d you go, baby?”
Baby.
That settled it. Min Yoongi was trying to kill you.
Nobody kissed you that carefully, not ever. No man, no woman, no one in between or beyond spoke to you that softly; turned you to putty in their hands with gentleness alone. Not like he did.
You were going to love him — you already knew it — and that stupid, four-letter word just sealed your fate. There wasn’t a single thing that you could do to prevent it, even if you wanted to. So, your options were limited to one:
Leaning into the fall.
You reached out with the hand that once covered your face and grabbed him by the shirt to pull him closer. Once he was within range, with the tip of his nose bumping into yours, you stared him dead in the eye and told him just how badly you needed him inside of you.
It took no time at all for the two of you to cast aside what remained of your clothing. Hand-me-downs mingled with designer items that exceeded the cost of your rent, and you didn’t give a fuck. You discarded your inhibitions in that heap, too, sitting up on your knees as he rolled a condom down his length.
Yoongi’s return to you was marked by his hands cupping your face. He kissed you until you were no longer breathless, until you felt the rush of air filling your lungs. You followed his lead back down to the mattress where he rested on his side; and without any need for instruction, you draped your right leg over his hip.
It was the closet you’d been to him, but it still wasn’t close enough
“Is this okay?” Yoongi broke the kiss just to look at you.
The fondness in his eyes was competing with concern, but that didn’t surprise you. Considerate to a fault, he’d no doubt been thrown for a loop when you went from zero to one hundred in merely half a second. “I can —”
Oh, I bet you can.
But you couldn’t wait. Impatient, through and through — and thoroughly dripping — you shook your head.
Your hand left its place on his bare bicep and dipped down to wrap around his cock. There were two individual heartbeats hammering in sync as you guided him to your cunt, though it sounded a lot like one.
“Like you said earlier,” You sighed as he pushed into you. “Just right.”
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likes are always appreciated, but it's feedback that means the most — whether that's in a comment below, PM, reblog, tags, etc. tysm for reading ✨
a/n: holy shit. just, holy shit. i've spent less time on literal thesis papers than i did on this. i'm so thankful for everyone who blew up darksided and blindsided — i really hope this provides context for how these two got together, and how tf they love each other that much. i will not apologize for the sexual cliffhanger because this smut wasn't going to be included, initially! this was going to end at the bar, lol.
also, this is an ode to those very special (very impermanent) nights with someone new that feel like perfect lifetimes in just the span of a few hours. in my experience, they never went anywhere (which i think made them more special, in hindsight) but i wanted to write a fic where things didn't stop there.
anyways, i'm very tired of writing words now, so please enjoy and let me know what you think 🫶🏻
I had, however forgotten how much of a read of me it is, lmao. Luckily, that also means I'm similar to two of my favourite characters, so it's not all that bad actually. Before I start, I need you to know how fucking ‼️ this reread had me:
I've had a screenshot in my phone since late 2023 (my last reread, most likely) of a passage I wanted to carry with me, but I could not for the life of me remember where it was from as years passed.
Safe to say I screamed at my best friend over text when I realised, mid read at 2am. Of fucking course it was by you, Jade. OF COURSE.❤️
Anyway, ironically enough, I'm not sure how to do these reblogs without feeling like I'm being too much, but there's no way I'll be able to put this all into words without being a lot, so I hope that's okay.
You're without a doubt one of the authors that I'll always feel safe coming back to - your stories feel familiar, but never in a way that feels repetitive. Every time I reread any of them (and I do, more often than my reblogs show, unfortunately) I find new pieces of your characters and myself alike. So much has changed since we became mutuals, but no matter where I find myself, your words have a way of quietly showing me that the way I am and feel is okay.
Foresight especially; you take all these pieces that feel cold and ugly and shameful, and put them into the hands of characters that reflect your worldview so deeply and vividly that they turn into warmth.
Even the parts keeping them bolted into their apartments and stuck in their own heads, hesitant and ashamed to step out into the world, turn into something to be loved.
They turn into someone worthy of patience and care and adoration, messiness and self hatred be damned.
Mc and Yoongi will always be somewhere I can find peace in our similarities, because as I said at the start, if I'm even a little bit like them, that means I'm worthy of the same compassion and love I feel for them.
what I think they would call you in a relationship !!
82major ot6 !! fem reader
⋆˚꩜.ᐟ
cho seongil:
I think he would call you by just a shortened version of your name or like some inside joke that he won’t let go of, so it’s more personal and just meant for the two of you.
yoon yechan:
I’m feeling like.. ‘pretty,’ ‘pretty girl’ etc…
“Whatever you say pretty,”
“Okay pretty girl,”
nam seongmo:
I cannot see him using pet names… idk? I think he would if you asked him too though. He would probably just use a shortened version of your first name.
“Why don’t i have any cute pet names for you? I dunno… what do you want me to call you?”
hwang seongbin:
I could see him using cheesy nicknames, like over the top cheesy. ‘Oh my, Honeybun,’ and then sprint off in the other direction, giggling like an idiot. Other than that i think he’d just call you by your first name.
park seokjoon:
For some reason i see him as more old fashioned? Idk. But i feel that he would call you cliche things like, “Honey,” “Beautiful,” “sweetie,” etc. The “honey i’m home!” type of guy.
kim dogyun:
I can see him just calling you by your first name in public but when it’s just the two of you he’d say something more like… “Hi sweet girl.” He would also think of the most stupid nicknames ever for you, the more you react to the name (whether you like it or not) the more he uses it. (unless it actually offends you.)
Authors notes: (couldn't reply to the request so heres a ss) first of all these pics are so cute, second of all i feel like jongseob is casually affectionate sober so being drunk really would turn up his clinginess and emotions so u were spot on
—
You barely had the door to your apartment held open when Jongseob stumbled against your back, his chest slumping against you. You stumbled forward in turn from the deadweight of his body; he was surprisingly heavy for someone so lean.
"We're home, Seob," you murmured, reaching back to hold him. "Come on. Shoes off."
Jongseob let out a sound that was half-groan, half-giggle as he reached down to undo the laces, swaying a bit before you lurched forward and caught him. "Seob you literally never undo your laces, just slip them off."
"The ground is moving," he informed you, his voice slurred and heavy with sleepiness. "It’s swaying. Are we on a boat?"
"Wow, I thought you were lying when you said this was your first time drinking. I think it actually might be."
You managed to pry him out of his shoes and guide him further into the dark apartment. His body was practically a furnace beside you and seeing the usually composed boy with his defenses completely dissolved was both concerning and endearingly sweet.
You tried to steer him toward your bedroom, but he clearly had other plans. He planted his feet near the sofa and refused to budge no matter how hard you tugged him. When you turned to face him, his eyes were glossy and unfocused, his cheeks dusted a deep, feverish pink.
"Wait," he mumbled, reaching out. His coordination was off; his hand missed your shoulder and landed clumsily on your upper arm, sliding down to grip your hand. "Not yet."
"You need to sleep, Jongseob. You had way too much soju."
"I need..." He frowned, his brows knitting together in deep concentration. He pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck. He breathed in deeply, and exhaled shakily. "I need you to stop moving away."
You froze, your hands hovering over his back before settling gently on his shoulders.
Although he was fairly affectionate in your day to day, he was never close to being this clingy sober. You weren't complaining though as you indulged in the comfort of his warm body. After a while you tried to pull away but his grip was tight around you.
"Jongseobie, can you please let go just for a second."
"I don't want you to leave."
"I'm not leaving," you soothed, rubbing at the tense muscles of his back. "I just really have to pee."
"Oh...." he muttered into your skin. He tightened his grip, effectively trapping you. "Can I come?"
"Um... never mind let's just stay here for a bit."
You maneuvered the both of you until you collapsed onto the sofa together, Jongseob not letting go for a second. He slumped onto your lap, his limbs tangled with yours like a koala.
You brushed the hair back from his forehead. "How are you feeling?"
Jongseob blinked up at you, his dark eyes wide and shimmering with a sense of overwhelming emotion.
"Weird," he whispered. His eyes trailed all across your face as he tried to articulate his emotions. "My head is spinning, but... I feel really really happy."
"That's what being drunk does, Seob."
"No." He shook his head, confident despite the slur in his words. "It's not the drinks. It’s because you're taking care of me."
His expression crumbled slightly, his lips pressing into a pout. "I wanted to look cool tonight. I think... I wanted to show you I’m an adult. I wanted to be... impressive."
"You are impressive," you said softly, your thumb stroking his cheekbone. "You're plenty impressive when you're sober. You don't have to prove anything."
"But look at me," he doubled down, gesturing vaguely at himself with a floppy hand. "I’m a mess. I can't even walk straight. And you had to carry me." His eyes welled up. "I’m sorry. I’m so heavy. You shouldn't have to carry me."
You smiled every so slightly at the discovery that not only was he clingy when drunk, but emotional to. "But I want to. I want to take care of you."
He sniffled, staring up at you with pure adoration. "You do?"
"Of course I do."
"Because I love you," he blurted out, gesturing to himself with a finality that left no room for argument. "Like, a lot. It feels like my chest is going to explode. Is that the alcohol too? Or is that just you?"
"Maybe a little bit of both," you were smiling wide now, unable to hold back.
He sighed, a long, ragged exhale, and rested his head on your shoulder, hugging your waist tighter. "You're so comfy. Don't leave. Even if I fall asleep, promise you’ll be here when I wake up?"
"I promise."
"Okay." He closed his eyes, content from your words. "Okay. That’s good. This is nice."
It was silent for a few moments before you spoke up again.
".... Can I go pee first?"
He lifted his head to look at you.
"Can I at least sit outside the door."
With a sigh you nodded and his lips quirked up, eyes closing from the force of the smile. He stumbled off your lap and you reached out to hold and guide him with you to the bathroom.
Huge shout out to all the people who read fics. Who actually take the time out of their busy days to open a fic and read it
Before I started writing in earnest, I did not understand how much writing was going to eat into my fic reading time. We joke about having too many tabs open, but I have a different problem: the amount of tabs I have open on new fics is way smaller than it used to be. My ao3 wrapped would be a sad affair. Unless I’ve subscribed to an author or come across something on my dash, I basically don’t see it
Which has really driven home for me how much fandom cannot just be creators. You have to have people who want to read fic and meta discussions and joke posts. You have to have people who want to look at art and gifs. It has to be mutual.
Community thrives on flow. You have to have that movement of people sharing things with each other for a community to exist
Min Yoongi adored you. He'd simply never hurt you - unless you asked.
Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader | Darksided AU
Type: One-Shot - SMUT (You must be 18+ to ride this ride.) Sequel to foresight, but can be read as a stand-alone fic.
Word Count: 4.4K
Content: established relationship au; soft bf yoongi turned mean!dom!yoongi at the request of sub!reader; p in v penetration; unprotected sex/creampie (be safe, y'all); oral sex (m receiving); brief face-fucking; v fingering; squirting; a lil degradation and spit kink, as a treat; harsh language; after-care; also cavity-inducing fluff
A/N: This was nine (9) pages in Word - my longest smut ever, all because this man-bun era has got me FUCKED up. Barely proofread (sorry ily). Check out my other fics here. Listen to the playlist here.
12/11/22 A/N: The sequel, blindsided, is finally here! check it out when you're done here :)
“When I signal you, that’s when you press the button, okay?”
Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared down at his recording equipment – a galaxy in its own right, lit up like a Christmas tree. He may as well have asked you to defuse a bomb, except you couldn’t even identify the bomb. “There are approximately three thousand buttons in front of me right now,” you whined.
He was exhausted and you knew it – you could feel it – but his patience with you was, as always, limitless. His fondness for you still shone through his eyes, overpowering the dark circles looming below, as if he hadn’t made a mistake in inviting you into his office. Then there was his laugh, surprising enough to smack you but so soft that it cradled you. “It’s the only one that says ‘record,’ jagiya.”
A quick survey of the landscape before you indicated that this was a criminal oversimplification. There was a minimum of four options fitting his description, and all of them looked both breakable and expensive. You blinked down at the sound board, then back up at him, dumbfounded. “I think you made a mistake letting me in here.”
Again, with the laugh – knocking you prone, nudging you closer to an early grave. Somehow, out of all of time and space, you got to exist in the same lifetime that he did. How lucky you were to have him, and his wind chime laugh all to yourself.
You were lovesick and it was chronic.
“Look down at your left hand – no, baby, don’t move it – that knob above your middle finger?” He was standing on tiptoe inside the booth, gesturing as if he was landing a plane. Your eyes darted up to follow the path of his fingers, then back down to the board. “Go diagonally up from that knob for two rows. Do you -”
Overcome with a sense of unearned pride, you pressed down on the button, beaming. You certainly had not been signaled, but nonetheless, your efforts were rewarded. Importantly, that reward was now recorded for prosperity. Your favorite mixtape, the soundtrack of your racing heart, a lullaby: “I really couldn’t love you more if I tried.”
His wide smile, like his tone, was sweet enough to cause a cavity. You were folded up like a pretzel in his chair, but somehow, your knees still seemed to wobble.
You were lovesick and it was terminal.
“Should I shut it off now until you’re ready to start?” You asked with cheeks glowing pink.
He shook his head, still grinning. “I can cut it down. I do need you to cue the track, though – when I signal you.” He stated the last bit of his sentence slowly, shooting you a pointed look and then a wink.
You were once lovesick and now you are dead.
Finger hovering over the ‘play’ button, you watched him wide-eyed, anxious to avoid another mishap. His faith in you may have been unshakeable, but yours wasn’t – and this third mixtape was his magnum opus. You’d rather explode into a cloud of dust than mess up the tireless work he’d put into it so far.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, centering himself. Without looking, he raised his hand and pointed silently to you. Within seconds, your mind was blown.
Min Yoongi contained multitudes. Despite your years together, it never ceased to amaze you how your beloved introvert – who said more with actions than anyone could communicate with words – could transform the way he did. Moments ago, his voice was a blanket, fresh out of the dryer, but now? Now, his presence electrified you. There was an unapologetic confidence – callousness, even - that you only saw when he rapped.
Even his body language changed, like he’d evolved right before your eyes. You couldn’t look away because there was nothing else worth looking at – just him, top to bottom. The way he held his head, lips nearly touching the microphone, highlighted the deadly curve of his jaw. Carved from marble, luminescent and sharp. The strain of his neck, vibration visible in the column of his throat as he growled out his bars. Then down, down, down to his hands. His rings caught the light from above him, refracting slivers of white as his fingers moved with the beat.
Oh, how you wanted them wrapped around your throat.
Seeing him like this had you spellbound – feral, if you were being honest. As you watched, bottom lip clamped hard between your teeth, a heatwave crashed over you; it burned you from the inside out. Sometimes, you dreamt about this version of him. Your Yoongi adored you. He showered you with affection, respect, and praise. He’d never dream of hurting you.
But would he, if you asked?
You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear him finish the take.
“Aegiya?” There was a hint of concern in his voice that told you he’d called out to you more than once already.
You swallowed hard and shifted in his chair. “Yes?”
He slid his wireless headphones down until they rested around his neck. The bright red band leaned against his cheekbone as he tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Are you alright? You looked like you were in a trance.”
He wasn’t wrong. You were hypnotized, and it was entirely his fault.
When you merely hummed in response – too distracted by his features to form a coherent sentence – he opened the door to the booth and stepped out. He pulled the headphones off completely and set them down on the counter before walking straight to you.
You were vibrating. Could he feel it?
The trembling only intensified when he reached you. Looking down at you, he ran the pad of his thumb over your cheek.
“Tell me.” He said, as if that brief touch informed him of the maelstrom spinning circles in your brain. “Something’s got you dizzy.”
Psychic.
Suddenly, you were shy. This man knew and loved every single aspect of you, and still you felt embarrassed. If you begged him to fuck you – not just make love to you – would he laugh at you? Even worse, would he be offended? You didn’t want him to think that what you had wasn’t already perfect because it was.
His eyes scanned your face, narrowing just slightly as he tried to read your mind. The two of you were silent for what felt like hours before you saw it – his pupils dilating, offset by the spark of silent understanding. The corner of his mouth twitched when he cracked the secret code. The hand caressing your cheek lowered slowly until it came to rest on your throat, thumb harshly directing your jaw – and your gaze - upwards.
“Is it me, baby?” He teased with a voice like velvet, cocking his head to the side with a smirk that left you stupid. “Have I got you dizzy?”
Involuntarily, you whimpered. So stunned by his stare that you were speechless. Melting into a puddle. Dripping.
He exhaled sharply through his nose – a cruel, quiet laugh - and his eyes darkened further. “I can’t give you what you want if you can’t tell me what that is.”
Once again, you shifted in your seat. You were suddenly so painfully aware of every nerve in your body, each one tingling like a live wire. Even your thighs clenched, trying desperately to apply pressure where you needed it most. You craved him so badly that it ached.
“I don’t want you to be gentle with me,” was your answer, though it sounded more like a question. “I - I know that you -”
His hand shifted quickly from underneath your jaw. He now had your cheeks pinned between his thumb and middle finger, squeezing hard to cut off your sentence before you could finish it. There was a microscopic pause as his eyes searched yours for permission. You blinked and nodded to the fullest extent you could within his grasp.
“Stupid girl. You know nothing.”
Muffled by his hand, your weak moan was barely audible, but he could feel the way your breathing quickened. The rise and fall of your eager chest. The way your nipples, yet untouched, made themselves known through the fabric of the t-shirt you’d stolen from him. Draped in him but smelling like you.
Blackcurrant, orange blossoms, vanilla.
He leaned down, mouth now hovering beside your ear. The heat of his breath on your neck was maddening, but it was the way his lips brushed against your ear that proved fatal. When he spoke, it echoed in every one of your bones. A whisper heavy enough to bruise. “Get up.”
You followed the lead of his hand over your mouth and rose to your feet. Sharply, he redirected your gaze to the seat you’d just left. It was inexplicable how something so faint could be so blatant. That nearly imperceptible spot, snitching on you; showing him how your body begged for him.
“Such a messy girl, ruining my chair like that.” He tutted. “I should punish you, shouldn’t I? Should I ruin you, baby?”
Held so still, your knees still trembled. Without his hand gripping your cheeks, you would’ve crumpled at his feet. Before you could do so yourself, he forced you downward. After all, your knees couldn’t buckle if they were digging into the hardwood.
He released his grasp and used that same hand to push his hair away from his eyes. Your heart raced as if you were sprinting, and yet you were frozen in place. You didn’t know where to begin because you wanted everything.
Your indecision prompted him to roll his eyes. “Do I have to do everything for you? Say it. What do you want?”
“T-to touch you. Please,” you begged, “I want to feel you in my throat.”
He beckoned you silently with a curl of his finger. You sat up further on your knees and reached out tentatively for the drawstring tied at the waistband of his joggers.
“Stop.” He ordered, and you did. Looking down at your wide eyes, his smirk deepened. Your hands fidgeted uselessly in your lap as he began untying the drawstring himself – his slow pace was torturous. You'd have ripped them off his body if given the chance. “Open your mouth”
Again, you did as you were told.
It took everything you had not to drool when he lowered the waistband of his joggers just enough for his cock to spring out. Already throbbing, beige tip glistening with pre-cum in the half-light. He took himself in his hand and began to pump himself as he took a step towards your waiting mouth.
"Stick out your tongue."
Now, you couldn’t help it – and when he saw the string of saliva spilling from the tip of your tongue, he growled.
“Fuck,” He breathed, sliding the fingers of his free hand into your hair and tugging. “Look at how badly you want to be used - you're begging without saying a word.”
You couldn’t speak, but your eyes were screaming at him. Please.
Teasingly, he tapped the tip of his cock against your tongue, hissing as he felt the wet heat of your mouth. But when you went to close your lips around him, he pulled your hair – and you – away.
“Spit on it – slowly. Keep your eyes on me.”
You felt a twinge between your thighs as he delivered his orders. You’d undoubtedly soaked through your little sleep shorts already, but his tone just then made a mess of you. You squirmed as you kneeled, feeling the rivulets of slick begin to trail down the innermost part of your thighs. And he hadn’t even touched you yet.
Looking up at him from under the curtain of your lashes, you saw the wicked fascination flicker in his eyes. The way his breath hitched as he watched your spit fall from the ledge of your lips until it connected with his shaft. In your peripheral vision, you could see his cock twitch at the contact.
“Now open.” Finally.
A low moan broke from the depths of his chest as he slid into your mouth, and you couldn’t recall a more beautiful sound. As you pushed yourself further onto him, you hallowed your cheeks, following the vein running along the underside of his length with your tongue.
You stared up at him through wet eyes. So full, you pleaded with yourself not to gag, to breathe steadily through your nose. Tip pushing past your soft palate, he grunted as he bottomed out. Without softening his gaze, he watched for your reaction – always so concerned, even when he was pretending not to be. To his surprise, you swallowed, allowing the tightness of your throat to squeeze him.
“You’re fucking filthy.” He muttered with his eyes screwing shut. His jaw fell open when you slid off him, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock once you reached it. His eyes followed suit, blown out pupils fixated on the spit dribbling down your chin; darkening at the obscene sound of him sliding through the suction you'd so masterfully generated.
Pulling your hand from your lap, you reached out slowly for his balls. As your fingers massaged him, his grip on your hair got tighter. Almost imperceptibly, he began to roll his hips against your mouth.
His panting was interlaced with curses as he fucked himself into your warmth. “Fit so fucking perfectly in your throat,” He grunted, “Like you were made to be my toy.”
It startled you when he suddenly removed himself from you. Thoughtlessly, you whined – and then, immediately, you froze. Eyes darting back up to him, the anticipation of consequences prevented you from closing your mouth fully. You waited there on your knees, trembling, while your mascara pooled uselessly in the wells beneath your eyes.
“Somebody feels entitled,” He scoffed as he glowered down at you. “You better be careful what you wish for.”
Before you could process the speed of his movements, his arms hooked under yours and pulled you from the ground. Your legs ached, but as he loomed over you, you followed his unspoken order, backing yourself into a corner. With your shoulder blades pressed flush against the wall, he stepped forward and used his knee to push your legs apart.
For a moment, it seemed like his façade was cast aside. He raised his hand slowly to caress your cheek, swirling soft circles into your flushed skin with his thumb. Out of habit, your eyes drifted shut and you leaned further into his touch. And when he leaned in, just as slowly, your slightly parted lips waited for a kiss that never came.
“You’re just begging to be filled, aren’t you?” He asked in a whisper so sharp it stung. “Not loved but fucked.”
You nodded shyly. “Y-yes,” You stuttered, “Please.”
His lips still lingered closely enough to touch yours, to send shockwaves shooting down your spine, but he continued to withhold his affection. This was the first time – ever – that Yoongi had turned down an opportunity to kiss you. Until now, he didn't seem capable of doing so.
“Please what?”
“Fuck me. Please -” You keened as his hand began to drift from your cheek, down your neck. In the blink of an eye, every word you knew disappeared from your vocabulary. The tip of his index finger trailed down over the fabric of your stolen shirt, between the valley of your breasts, and came to rest at the hem.
He pinched the seam between his fingers and tugged. “Part of me wants to tear this off you,” He mused with his head tilting to one side. His eyes remained locked on yours; the amusement in them was clear, even in the darkness. “But most of me wants to see you fucked out and stupid - in my shirt.”
Your legs threatened to give out yet again. He was devastatingly handsome under normal circumstances, but this newly unearthed cockiness was ruinous. You bit down hard on your lip as he raised your shirt enough to access the waistband of your shorts. With his help, you shimmied them down until they dropped quietly at your feet. Quickly and clumsily, you stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Yoongi’s hand rose again to your face. His middle and ring finger were extended; the others curled down towards his palm. You didn’t need to be asked to open your mouth – it was the only response your eager mind could conjure. His fingers were cool against your tongue as you closed your mouth around them. And when he was satisfied with the lubrication you’d provided, he slid his fingers out from your hollowed cheeks with a lewd pop.
“How badly do you want to come all over my fingers?”
It’s a wonder there wasn’t a puddle beneath you, considering how those words made you gush. “I need it,” You pleaded with fluttering eyelids and bated breath, “Please touch me.”
You whimpered and closed your eyes as you felt his fingers dive into the pool between your thighs. Every nerve lit up like a switchboard as he slipped through your soft folds. He scoffed at how wet you were – so soaked that it was audible in each millimeter of his movement.
Simultaneous to his middle finger penetrating you, your head rolled back until it rested against the wall. Your mouth fell open, but you were too entranced to do much more than breathe as you acclimated to his presence inside you. He started slowly, curling his finger upwards as he pushed further inwards. Even at this pace, the otherwise dead air was filled with the sound of your sodden cunt.
“You’re dripping already?" He let the tip of his finger rest against the spongy spot behind your pubic bone; the pressure was incredible, but he stayed torturously still. “And yet you’re so - tight.” Achingly slow, the pad of his finger spiraled against your g-spot. “I’ll have to stretch you out before I can bury my cock in you.”
As his ring finger plunged inside of you, you cried out, head slumping forward against his shoulder. Sensing that you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself up for much longer, Yoongi grabbed the back of your right thigh with his left hand and pulled your leg up to rest against his hip. With this new angle, his fingers ventured even deeper until they bottomed out at the knuckle. He didn’t give you much time to adjust to the new sensation.
As he fucked his fingers into you at a feverish pace, he continued his mind-numbing assault on your g-spot. Over and over, he toyed with you; thrusting, stretching, scissoring, and teasing as your arousal trickled into the palm of his hand. There was an intoxicating – unbearable – warmth burning in the pit of your abdomen. A sensation so all-consuming that your eyes rolled back in your head.
Your walls clenched around him, sucking him in and begging for more as your helpless heart raced. “Oh my god,” You wailed, “Holy shit – Please, I’m - Yoongi!”
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train. Never in your life had you fallen apart like that – shaking and speaking in tongues. Having sensed the swell of pressure, Yoongi knew exactly where this road headed; and he could tell that you were fighting it. “Don't hold back from me,” He growled.
And then the dam broke.
A wicked grin danced across his face as the wave of pleasure crashed onto the floor below you. “Fuck. Look at this.” He pointed downward and your bleary gaze followed. Remnants of your orgasm had splashed onto his joggers as well as the hardwood. “Nobody could ever make you come like I can. Say it.”
The words bubbled out of your chest, half-way between a sob and a moan. “Nobody can make me come like you.”
You were a shivering, spilling mess; and your ears were still ringing from how intensely your every muscle had clenched. Before your knee could buckle, you were abruptly swept up into his arms. With one arm wrapped tightly around your back, his free hand slid over the surface of his desk, sending various papers and cords rocketing towards the floor.
Once the space was cleared, he set you down and laid you out onto the cool surface. You were exhausted and thankful to be horizontal; though you knew he wasn’t yet finished with you.
After all, he intended on ruining you.
Through half-lidded eyes, you gazed up at him. The hair he’d so neatly tied into a bun at the top of his head had mutinied; inky tendrils were now splayed out haphazardly in different directions. You were fuck-drunk, but you swore the overhead light behind him encircled his head like a halo. It was all so unholy - the way he stood before the altar of your exposed core, with his face angelic and his throbbing cock in hand.
The hand not pumping his cock slid over your bent knee. It took tremendous effort, but you lifted your arm to place your hand on top of his. One tiny squeeze – a brief, loving check-in – received an echo. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the fleeting moment of tenderness was gone. With each of your legs now trapped in his hold, he pulled you towards the very edge of the table.
Once he was satisfied with your closeness, his focus switched to his access. He simply wasn’t content to leave your legs bent up at either side of him; so, he rested the backs of your legs against his shoulders and leaned forward until you’d nearly folded in half.
He didn’t need to use his hand to center himself prior to entering you. His body understood the proportions of yours automatically; like you were puzzle pieces created to fit perfectly together. Though his intention may have been to penetrate you slowly, centimeter by centimeter, your slick was overwhelming. The usual ache you felt upon acclimating to his size was drastically reduced; and he bottomed out quickly, cursing.
The fullness you felt was euphoric, and it left you mewling hopelessly under the weight of his body. He was buried deep, throbbing as your walls constricted around his width. It shocked your system when he slid out almost completely only to drive himself back into you.
“Like a fucking vice grip,” Yoongi hissed as he picked up his already brutal pace. Every curve, every vein dragged maddeningly along your walls as he fucked you. “Do you hear how wet you are? Shit – your pussy is begging for me.”
The only thing louder than the squelch of your cunt was skin hitting skin; close behind was the way your name spilled from his lips in a flurry of expletives. You, on the other hand, were nearly incoherent. With every thrust, he knocked another thought loose until eventually, you had nothing left. Relentlessly, his cock grinded against your g-spot, leaving you too mesmerized to recall your own name.
There was a sheen of sweat above his knitted brows; and his bottom lip was now trapped between his gritted teeth. He was close and you knew it. The depth of his thrusts didn’t falter, but his steady pace was getting harder for him to maintain. You felt the rubber band inside you beginning to fray - on the brink of snapping and shooting you into orbit like a sling-shot.
“Baby,” The soft, shaky voice caught his attention. He opened his eyes and focused hard on you – your flushed cheeks, and trembling lips. As he surveyed you, his resolve began to evaporate; his expression softened immediately. There he was: your Yoongi. “You’re gonna make me come again.”
As your walls clenched tight around him, the edges of your vision began to blur. You watched his face as he came shortly after you, studying how delicately his eyelashes fluttered as the warmth of his release filled you. In that moment, it was the two of you, toppling in slow-motion off the edge of the universe. Irrevocably in love - heaving chests, shuddered moans, names whispered in the place of prayers.
He shifted his arms to allow your quivering legs to fall from his shoulders. When the hands on either side of your head could no longer hold up his weight, he collapsed onto you. With his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, you could feel his breathing begin to slow as his cock softened inside you.
You were nearly delirious when you felt his lips buzz against your skin. You were too far gone to understand what he was too exhausted to communicate. “Hmm?” You hummed, wordlessly asking him to repeat himself.
He groaned with the effort of pulling himself away from your embrace. He only traveled far enough to glance over at you. “I said, I think several of my past lives just flashed before my eyes,” He stated matter-of-factly. Within seconds, his eyes crinkled up at the corners and his grin grew. That soft chuckle wasn’t far behind.
“I don’t know where I am.” You admitted with a sheepish laugh. After a moment, you amended that thought, “I don’t know who I am.”
Yoongi placed a gentle kiss below your ear – the only part of you he could reach without sitting up fully. “I have no idea. How did you get in my house?” As you rolled your eyes, he bumped the tip of his nose against your jaw, too tired to tease you much more than that. “But now that we’re both completely spent, I’d like to go back to being soft with you – for now.”
He tried to wink at you, but both of his lead-lined lids closed in unison. You hummed thoughtfully as you ran lazy fingers through his hair, like the decision required serious deliberation. You paused, then giggled. “Permission granted, my love. You may proceed.”
He was quiet for several moments before he stood bolt upright. Startled, you propped yourself up on your elbow and looked to him. He turned towards the booth and then back to you.
His eyes were wide as a blush swept over his cheeks. "Aegiya, did you forget to stop the recording?"
Hi dearest Jade, I've been dealing with some big scary stuff lately, and our beloved mister's discography has been keeping me company (turns out I can't talk about the amygdala in therapy without mentally looping the song). The next, obvious step was rereading my favourite Yoongi series of all time.
This is me doing my part in making sure you know how loved you and your art is, by being unhinged about it. Strap in, king.
(Full disclosure I've already reread everything, including the pegging instalment I somehow entirely missed back when you posted it????????, but the sheer combined length of all the quotes I pulled from all of the chapters into my notes app is, frankly, insane, and that is before even thinking about adding my commentary. I sincerely apologise in advance for the mammoth of a reblog I'm gonna drop on you when I get to Foresight.)
This reblog will be divided into categories, so first up -
how can one person write someone so vividly and beautifully and wholly them and is it possible to get every single word of this tattooed on my skin please and thank you;
How lucky you were to have him, and his wind chime laugh all to yourself.
Now, his presence electrified you. There was an unapologetic confidence – callousness, even - that you only saw when he rapped.
The strain of his neck, vibration visible in the column of his throat as he growled out his bars.
(^ also makes me want to chew straight through drywall btw.)
Without softening his gaze, he watched for your reaction – always so concerned, even when he was pretending not to be.
(…) inky tendrils were now splayed out haphazardly in different directions (…)
Next up,
i love them so much it makes me want to crawl through my screen and smooch them both on the forehead what the actual fuck;
You were folded up like a pretzel in his chair, but somehow, your knees still seemed to wobble.
(Real.)
I do need you to cue the track, though – when I signal you.” He stated the last bit of his sentence slowly, shooting you a pointed look and then a wink.
With his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, you could feel his breathing begin to slow as his cock softened inside you.
“I said, I think several of my past lives just flashed before my eyes,” He stated matter-of-factly. Within seconds, his eyes crinkled up at the corners and his grin grew. That soft chuckle wasn’t far behind.
His eyes were wide as a blush swept over his cheeks. "Aegiya, did you forget to stop the recording?"
Lastly,
incoherent noises and heavy breathing and bordering on feral gesticulation bc what the actual fuck (ft pics for emphasis)
“Is it me, baby?” He teased with a voice like velvet, cocking his head to the side with a smirk that left you stupid. “Have I got you dizzy?”
Now, you couldn’t help it – and when he saw the string of saliva spilling from the tip of your tongue, he growled.
“But most of me wants to see you fucked out and stupid - in my shirt.”
“Baby,” The soft, shaky voice caught his attention (...) There he was: your Yoongi. “You’re gonna make me come again.”
Imagining sleepy pillow talk with keeho and soft popcorn kisses mixed with slow kisses him talking in his low voice.
Woooowwowowow
Ahem cough cough I think I got carried away..... lowkey keeho x long distance!gf reader
—
Keeho was a warm weight against you. His arm was draped heavily over your waist, pressing you to the mattress, while his face was buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel the slow drag of his eyelashes against your skin every time he blinked, fighting off the pull of sleep just to enjoy more time with you, even if was only for a few minutes longer.
He shifted, the sheets rustling softly, and he hummed deep and low, the sound ticking your ear.
"You’re still awake?" he murmured.
"Just barely." you whispered back, turning in his embrace so you could face him.
Keeho didn't speak immediately. Instead, he let his eyes wander over your face, memorizing the features.
He looked so soft like this, his usual high energy and sharp wit replaced by a lazy, unassuming affection. He moved closer, eliminating the last inch of space between you, and pressed his lips to your forehead.
It started there—a feather-light touch. Then, he moved down, pressing a soft kiss to the bridge of your nose, then your cheekbone, then the corner of your mouth. They were peppered, barely-there kisses that caused goosebumps to erupt on your skin.
"You smell good," he mumbled against your jaw, his teeth grazing the skin carefully. "Like home."
You ran your hand through his messy hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, earning a contented sigh from him. "Go to sleep, Keeho."
"Can't," he groaned, though his eyes were half-closed. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth across your cheek. "My brain is too loud."
"Thinking about work?"
"No." He shook his head, shifting his weight so he was hovering slightly over you, careful not to crush you. The playfulness was gone, replaced by an intense sincerity. "Thinking about you. About this."
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. His lips were plush and soft, moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. When he pulled away, he didn't go far, resting his forehead against yours.
"I don't want to wake up without this," he whispered, his voice so low it was almost a growl. "Like, ever."
You smiled, your eyes fluttering shut as he pressed a kiss to your eyelid. "We have tomorrow morning."
"I don't mean just tomorrow," Keeho said, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction. He pulled back to look you in the eye, his expression incredibly serious despite the cloud of sleepiness. "I mean... I want this to be the rest of my life. I want to wake up next to you everyday, I want the lazy mornings, the house, the arguments about what to eat for dinner... I want to marry you."
Time seemed to still. It wasn't a question, but a statement of intent. A promise delivered to you.
"Keeho..."
"I'm serious," he interrupted softly, leaning in to peck your lips again, silencing any doubt. "I lay here and I look at you, and it’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m going to marry you."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring all that unspoken devotion into the contact. It was a sensual, grounding kiss that felt like the signature on the contract. You could feel the hope radiating off him, the solid beat of his heart against your chest.
"Okay," you breathed when you finally parted, your hands cupping his face.
"Okay?" A sleepy, satisfied grin spread across his face, the moonlight catching the curve of his lips.
"Okay," you repeated softly. "I'll marry you."
Keeho let out a breathy laugh, burying his face in your neck again, hugging you so tight it felt like he was trying to merge your souls. "Good," he mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with sleep and happiness. "Now I can sleep."
He pressed one last, lingering kiss to the pulse point of your throat, his body finally relaxing completely, heavy and warm and yours.
Theo looks at you with a raised brow. His hand, warm and steady, is wrapped around your back to support your body. You're tucked into his side, legs draped sideways over his lap, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.
You look away for a moment to gather your thoughts.
"Sometimes it's grey. Sometimes it's pink, sometimes it's orange."
He smiles at your words. He should have known not to expect a straightforward answer from you. Still, he ponders on the thought. After a few moments he meets your eyes again.
There's an intensity in them that you don't expect, in-fact it catches you off guard. He's tracing the seam of your shirt at your waist and the touch makes you shiver.
"The sky is still the sky even when it changes. Sometimes it's grey and heavy, or bright and fierce. It always goes back to blue though doesn't it?"
You nod slowly as you take in his words. "That's true... but it's not always as nice as a clear blue sky."
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. His jaw tightens and his eyes are suddenly shinier than they were before. He leans his forehead against yours, just letting it rest there for a second.
“I don’t care what color it is,” he murmurs. “I'll love you no matter what.”
His nose nudges yours and the action is so tender you feel like crying.
You had asked the original question as a joke; of course you knew he loved you. But hearing him sound so sure and so sincere suddenly made you feel weightless.
Any and all bad thoughts faded away, all your worries and dispositions did too. None of it really mattered, and how could it? When you had Theo there to love you.
His lips are on yours and you feel it all. His raw love, him giving himself to you completely. His hands slip fully under your shirt and he pulls you close until your bodies are pressed together and he thinks, it's not close enough.
You're not sure how long you stay there. Minutes, hours?
You don't know. What you do know is that this is it for you. He's yours, and he loves you so much and when he smiles through the kiss you know you're the luckiest person in the world.
[nsfw] just a couple of my sunshine twins headcanons—
⊹ ࣪ ˖ han is a babbler. he’s a talker. doesn’t matter how rough he’s going, how deep he’s giving it to you, the man will not shut up. groans, whines, moans, the whole entire stock. he’s pressing his forehead against yours and squeezing his eyes shut while his cock rams into your cervix, going on about, “fuck, baby. oh my god. oh my fucking god. it’s so much. so tight. feels so good. fuck. oh god. oh god.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ felix, on the other hand, doesn’t do a lot of talking on the same level as han. when he’s topping, he’ll give you soft praises, telling you how pretty you are, how good he feels. but other than that, it’s all grunts and groans and moans. HOWEVER, COMMA… when he’s bottoming, taking your strap so deep inside him, that’s when he falls apart. that’s when he begins to babble, tears brimming in his eyes, voice heightening in pitch as he whines all prettily for you. “fuckfuckfuck, i can’t take it. so deep. so deep, so deep. fuck. oh, god. baby, please.”
chat reminder to just write whatever the fuck you want. write that overused trope. write that obscure shit that no one will have heard of. just. do it. your writing is yours stop depriving it of that.
Skz react to reader having a spider tattoo on her throat or js reader with tattoos in general :3
Hiiiii I'm going to write this as 'MLT be into a partner having tattoos' -- hope that's okay! 🥰
To be clear, I think they would all be fully supportive of their partner having tattoos. This is just who would enjoy it the most imo.
Obviously Hannie. The second he notices your tattoos he gets so excited and starts asking you about them. He'd also be quick to show you his own tattoos and it would genuinely make him really happy that you have something in common. He's mentioned before how his tattoos are personal to him so he would see it as a way to build intimacy by discussing the meanings behind them. Honestly if you ever asked him to get matching tattoos he would probably propose on the spot.
As an artist, Hyunjin would love admiring your tattoos. Even though he's not sure about getting one himself (he's definitely not against it, he would just need to think carefully about what he would want), he loves the designs and the symbolism behind them. The permanence of them is romantic to him. You sometimes catch him staring at your tattoos or idly tracing them with his fingertip, as if he's mesmerised by you (which he is).
Chan has said before that he would love to get a tattoo, he just thinks they're cool. He's the kind of boyfriend who loves showing his partner off and is really proud to be seen with you, and if you have tattoos he's secretly even more excited to introduce you to new people. In his mind, your tattoos make him look good by association (since he considers himself to be a bit of a dork, bless him). If the company wasn't so iffy about it he probably would have his own tattoos by now.
warnings: pretty vague descriptions of getting and giving head
author's note: do y'all remember that one tiktok where keeho and intak lipsynced to can't go broke and the caption was 'we dk the lyrics'...... uh huhhh
#giving
intak - undoubtedly pussy eater #1. will do it as a part of foreplay more often than not, sometimes even gets off of eating you out alone and it ends up being the star of the show for the night. doesn't mind the position - whether you want to lay back, ride his face, have him eat it from behind, he's down for it. of course he loves getting sucked off as well, please, but there isn't a single thing he wouldn't do to get a taste of you.
soul - oh shota... he's the happiest man alive when he's burried between your legs. i don't think he's necessarily the most skilled at it (at least at first), but he definitely gets an A for effort. most of the time he doesn't stop after making you cum just once, and loves to hold your hips down when you try to escape as he laps at your cunt. definitely higher priority for him than getting head, will gladly sacrifice never getting one again if that means he can stay between your thighs forever.
theo - i'd say theo's pretty much in the middle. he's definitely skilled with his tongue and fingers (from playing that guitar hehe) and he doesn't mind eating pussy every once in a while - but he probably won't specifically ask for it or initiate it unless he's feeling it in that moment. similarly, he's not too crazy about getting his dick in your mouth either, but won't stop you if you want to do it. he just prefers to do other stuff.
jiung - i honestly think jiung doesn't care that much for either. when it comes to pleasing you, he much prefers to use his hand to finger you or rub your clit so he can look at you as you fall apart and swallow your moans with his mouth. he enjoys a good blowjob as well, but he'd just rather be inside you instead, so he probably won't ask for head and it's totally up to you to do it.
keeho - now hear me out. this man loves eating and knows how to do it, and the only reason he's so low on the list is because he loves getting head just a little bit more. i can imagine it being one of his favorite ways to destress and take the edge off after a long day, and he's not afraid to ask for it. especially loves it when he's standing, leaning back against the table/counter so he can watch you kneel on the floor while sucking his cock.
jongseob - absolutely loves getting head. loves watching your lips wrap around his cock, loves your little moans, loves tangling his fingers in your hair and guiding your pace as he pleases. huge fan of pre-show blowjob to ease the nerves, plus the thought of the other members and staff being just next door turns him on. when it comes to eating pussy he's... okay with it. doesn't mind doing it if you ask him to but, like jiung, usually prefers to finger you as a part of foreplay and probably won't go down on you very often by choice.
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