✨you’re doing great, okay?✨

Tsuki | she/her | 90’s line | anime | cat lady | STAY | army | fic recs

[foolishaj]

I WANT HIM TO PUT ME IN A HEADLOCK

[3racha-agustd]

[linolinoing]

BANG CHAN ⋮ RUN IT SEOUL — 260801 (© Hann)

[rockpaperskzers]

✦ FOREVER X FENDI ✦ ch 6 (18+ MDNI)

✦ Non-Idol AU: Chan x y/n ✦ Summary: When you and fellow Fendi ambassador Bang Chan are photographed on a reckless night out, your employer proposes a way to contain the scandal--a contract marriage. Matters are only made worse due to your aversion to marriage and Chan's longing to one day be a husband for real. ✦ Genre: Romance, contract marriage, slow burn, smut ✦ Warnings: Brat taming, soft dom chan. Choosing not to disclose to maintain the element of surprise but this chapter kicks off the smut! 😉 ✦ a/n: are you ready to fall in love with Chan again? if so, read on my lovelies!

[ fic master list ]

Chapter Six: More x Fendi

After removing yourself off Chan’s thigh and changing clothes, you contemplate spending the rest of the night in the suite. Surely Seungmin, Felix and Hyunjin can manage on their own. And, most importantly, it would give you the opportunity to figure out how to make something like that happen again. Preferably with less clothes in the way.  

You exit your room and cross the suite, stopping in the open doorway of Chan’s room. His back is to you as he pulls a t-shirt over his head, offering you only the briefest glimpse of his broad shoulders before they’re covered.

You knock lightly against the doorframe.

He turns, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“How long have you been there?”

“Not long enough,” you tease, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

He opens a dresser drawer, pulls out a pair of socks, and sits on the edge of the bed.

You watch as he pulls them on, fighting the urge to ask why he’s fully unpacked his suitcase if you’re only here for three days. It’s just another thing to add to his list of peculiarities.

 “You ready?” he asks, standing to retrieve his cologne and spritz himself.

“Yeah . . . but I was just thinking we could stay in tonight.”

“And do what?”

“I’m sure we could think of something.” You sit on the bed, leaning back on your hands. “This mattress is quite nice, don’t you think?”  

He holds back a smile, as if your cheeky persistence is amusing.

You don’t want it to amuse him, though. You want it to sway him.

Unfortunately, Chan is annoyingly staunch in his desire to have a mental and emotional connection before he’ll actually fuck you.

“I think we have different ideas about how we’d spend a night in together, right now.”

So maybe nothing actually changed, even after all of that.

He would probably choose to order dinner and talk about your MBTI results or some shit.

But what drove him to appease you earlier?

You had challenged him.

Tested him.

Pushed him until he finally met you exactly where you wanted him to.

“Maybe we can meet each other in the middle,” you suggest.

He cocks his head, as if contemplating whether or not to play into your shenanigans.

“How so?” he asks.

You shift onto your knees until you’re eye level with him, then reach for his arms to bring him to you.

He lets himself be pulled.

You’re close enough to see the warmth already creeping across his cheeks as your arms settle loosely around his neck, and that gives you some hope. You wrap your arms around his neck.

“I tell you my birthday, you remove your shirt. Least favorite food, pants.”

He laughs, though he shakes his head.

“That’s all superficial.”

“It’s still getting to know me.”

“It’s learning facts. Not learning you.”

He really is the ideal man most women have wet dreams about.

“Anyways,” he continues, “we already said we’d meet them.”

“You’re no fun,” you mumble, letting your arms fall away.

The corner of his mouth twitches as his hands find your waist.

“What happened on the couch wasn’t fun?”

“It was.” You purse your lips. “But it felt like a sample.”

“And you’d like to do something like that again, yeah?”

Your heartbeat stumbles at the offer. You’re tempted to scream ‘Yes, please!’ at the top of your lungs, but that might be too abrasive. You have to tread carefully.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, brushing your lips against his.

Although you’re certain he already knew the answer.

“Then you should mind the things you say.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. His words are soft and certain—much like how he sounded on the couch when he told you to use him.

You lean back, blinking.

Is this a challenge?

Or a warning?

Would you be completely delusional to believe it’s both?

Up until tonight you’d always seen him as Bashful Bang. The man whose cheeks flush when you’re being forward. Not a man capable of turning you on so much that you’d be willing to get yourself off on his thigh like a horny teenager.

The realization sends an unexpected shiver through you.

You like this version of him.

You’ve known him to be stern and sensible in all business and public matters but if this is how he really is behind closed doors, you want to uncover more.

“How do you go from blushing one minute, then telling me to watch my mouth the next?”

A laugh rumbles in his chest.

“Trust me, y/n. If I’m blushing it’s only because I’m trying very hard not to act on what I’m thinking.”

Your own smile fades into something softer.

You’d give anything to know exactly what he’s thinking about doing to you.

“Why do you keep stopping yourself, then?” you ask.

For a moment, he simply looks at you.

Then, he cups your face and presses his lips to yours.  

The kiss is slow and careful. His lips brush your once, then again, lingering just enough to make you want more. You instinctively lean into him, and he answers with another slow kiss that makes the world fade into the background.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far.

Your foreheads nearly touch and his eyes never leave yours.

“Because if we fuck,” he says quietly, “I’m all in. And that’s not something you want, is it?”

Your lips part.

Then close again.

He knows the answer to that, too.

He gives you one final searching look before taking a small step back.

He keeps leaving a damn deflated ball in your court that you have no chance of playing with.

“I have to give Seungmin his clothes back anyway,” you say, breaking eye contact. “Let’s go to the damn pub.”

The photographer positions you and Chan at the top of Greystone Mansion’s sweeping staircase for another round of engagement pictures. Chan is clad in a dark blue suit, and it really is a mystery how every suit they put him in manages to look better than the last. And you’re wearing a white, knee-length fitted dress.

You knew immediately upon arrival that Fendi is sparing no expense, booking a permit for a place like this. It would have easily cost them several thousand dollars.

You can only imagine what’s in store for the wedding.

“Now look at each other,” Lucia says.

You’d almost managed to forget she was here. But she chimes in every so often to remind you that you’re currently living your worst nightmare.

You turn and hold Chan’s gaze.

“Perfect,” the photographer remarks, lowering his camera to snap a quick picture.

The corners of Chan’s mouth lift as he gently squeezes your intertwined hands.

Him being adamant about no casual intimacy has grown increasingly frustrating over the last few days, mainly because he’d be really fucking good at it.

Your last night in London, and even the past few days you’ve been back home, he hasn’t treated you any differently. No snide remarks about the couch incident. He doesn’t judge you or make you feel less than for what he probably considers your peculiarities.

But he also hasn’t let anything beyond kissing happen again. The moment your hips start moving a little too much or your hands wander toward his pants, he stops it.

Every.

Single.

Fucking.

Time.

He never even touches you beneath your clothes.

And it’s driving you insane.

Leaving you to feel like a needy slut.

In the best way, of course.

“Your eyes seem particularly bright today,” you say, staring into his espresso brown orbs, offset by the afternoon sun pouring through the window.

“Because I’m looking at you.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but smile.

“That’s it,” Lucia says excitedly. “Don’t fake it.”

“Oh, the irony,” you mumble.

Chan laughs.

“More of that,” Lucia grins. “Let’s a get a kiss, too.”

Chan doesn’t hesitate before leaning forward and gently pressing his lips to yours. You’re both in work mode—posing in front of a camera and doing as instructed. But even now, you still want more.

“Belissimo,” Lucia comments as the camera shutters sound off around you.

“I think she’s enjoying this,” you say.

“Far too much.”

“I might be too,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull his lips back to yours.

“Let’s just make sure these pants stay clean today,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You throw your head back, covering your laugh with one hand and slapping him on the arm with the other.

The photographer and Lucia eat up the interaction.

When they’re satisfied with the shots, the crew begin to move all of the equipment to gardens for the outdoor shots. Lucia pulls you and Chan aside for a chat.

“Either you’re both exceptional actors,” she looks between the two of you, “or something changed.”

Neither of you answer.

Lucia seems to notice that, too. She smiles, lowering her glasses down the bridge of her nose as she swipes through the photos on her tablet.

“These are so good. They’re going to be everywhere.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“That’s good,” she corrects you with a pointed look over her shades. “These could land you your first Vogue cover.”

An accomplishment, to be sure, but it’s not necessarily of your own merit.

“You both will have some down time over the next month,” she continues. “Fendi is going silent on the engagement news until these photos are published. To build the anticipation.”

“Should we keep posting on socials?” Chan asks.

“Yes, but sporadically. y/n, I’ll be sending a few specific things for you to post for wedding planning content.”

“Okay,” you nod. “I don’t actually need to pick décor and cakes and stuff do I?”

“We’ll handle everything,” she assures you. “But I do need both of you to send me your guest lists—names and addresses for the invitations. And for your immediate family members we’re flying out, we’ll need birthdates and passport information.”

You swallow, glancing awkwardly at Chan.

“You’ve met each other’s families, si?”

Literal crickets.

Lucia slowly looks up from her tablet.

“…No?”

Chan scratches the back of his neck. “Not yet.”

Lucia blinks.

“You’re engaged.”

“We’re aware,” you reply tightly.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “We need everyone on board for this. You cannot plan on meeting each other’s parents on the day of the wedding. That has to happen. Soon.”

Your stomach sinks. 

You haven’t spoken to your mother since the day of the announcement. In fact, you’ve been dodging her calls and ignoring her texts . . . and now you need to bring Chan home?

And meet his parents in turn?

The walls of this decadent mansion are starting to close in around you. Lucia’s mouth is moving, but you’re not picking up on anything she’s saying anymore. You’ve worked very hard to keep your professional life separate from your family life, and now they’re going to collide.

“Make it happen this month,” she adds, taking off her glasses and snapping her fingers at her assistant.

He appears at her side, taking the glasses and handing her a pair of shades.

“We need you outside in ten.”

She dons the shades and heads toward the exit, assistant hot on her heels.

Chan’s attention zeroes in on you immediately.

It’s like you can feel it—that he knows something is wrong. And it bothers you more than it should.

“I need a second,” you mumble. “Bathroom break.”’

You turn and walk down the hall without a clue as to where the bathroom is. You test the handle of the first door you approach, and it opens. You quickly duck inside what appears to be a private lounge. Bookshelves line the walls, a large desk is in front of the window, and four leather armchairs are placed across from each other.

You most definitely shouldn’t be in here.

You plop down in one of the armchairs anyway, willing yourself to sink into it and vanish.

It’s only been three weeks since you signed this damned contract and this feels like too much, too soon. It’s like you’re standing still, trying to grasp things that make you feel like yourself, but everything around you is moving a mile a minute and you can’t catch anything.

A knock sounds out at the door.

You don’t say anything.

“y/n?” comes Chan’s voice from the other side.

Silence is still your chosen response.

“The public bathroom is outside.”

Again, you don’t respond, hoping he’ll take the hint and just leave.

“Can you at least let me know if I need to go find a bucket and mop?”

He waits a second longer before opening the door and peeking inside.

He takes one look at you—immediately taking note of your slouched posture and overall look of defeat—before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You can’t tell him that picturing him and your mother under the same room is giving you heart palpitations. That the thought of them discussing their proclivity for cleanliness and organization makes you want to vomit. That you’re anticipating your mother telling you at least ten different wrong with your appearance, and it has you spiraling.

No, you can’t say that to him.

“Nothing.” You answer after a beat, sitting up in the chair. “I’m fine. There’s just a lot going on today with the shoot.”

“That’s not it,” he shakes his head, taking a seat in the armchair across from you. “You’ve done more photoshoots than you can count.”

“Never for a fake yet legal marriage,” you snap.

“True. Me neither,” he says softly. “But we’re here now and it is what it is.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter.

He scoffs. “It really isn’t, y/n. Whether I look at this from a personal or business standpoint, I’m going through this with someone that won’t open up to me. How can that ever work in the long run?”

You’ve considered that, too.

There’s no way you can live with him for the next three years without inadvertently revealing bits and pieces about yourself. But there are just certain things you’d prefer to keep private. Certain things you’d rather jump off a cliff than reveal to anyone.

But, of course, you can’t say that to him either.

It might get you sent to a psych ward for an evaluation.

So, instead, you push back.

“Why don’t you just end the contract then?”

“I won’t do that,” he answers quickly, shaking his head.

“Too much on the line?” you taunt. “Worried about your collab not happening next year?”

It’s an undeserved punch below the belt.

You know the collab is something he has been working hard towards and this contract marriage put a huge dent in his plans.

“It’s on my mind, yeah,” he shrugs. “But right now, I’m wondering why you started acting weird at the mention of meeting each other’s parents.”

You stiffen.

He’s too observant. Too intuitive.

“I’ve never met anyone’s parents, Chan.” You say, eyes trained on the floor. “Or introduced anyone to mine. Not even my friends have met them. So, sorry if I’m a little hesitant about bringing home a fake fiancé.”

“I’ve never brought a woman home either,” he admits. “I always wanted to wait until I was sure she’s the woman I’m marrying.”

You slowly lift your gaze to his. “Is that supposed to be helpful? Because it’s actually adding a lot more pressure and overall guilt that I got us in this situation.”

He frowns at that.

You can see it written all over his face—he wants to ask a follow up question. Perhaps to probe more and get you to reveal more than you already have. But that would be a gamble for him.

He does know a surefire way to bring you back from the ledge, though.

“Will you come here for a second?” he asks.

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

You lean back in the armchair, crossing your arms.

“I’m fine right here.”

He studies you for a beat before standing and taking two long strides to close the distance between you.

He places his hands on either side of the armchair and leans forward, catching your gaze.

“What?” you ask, hoping your expression doesn’t give away just how surprised you are at this sudden closeness.

You’re not in the right state to analyze that you’ve managed to organically draw out this reaction from him. You’d tried to manufacture it since leaving London, but he always seemed to see right through it.  

“You suggested meeting in the middle,” he says, dropping a hand to your bare thigh. “Are you too stubborn to see that I’ve been trying to do just that?”

You’re beyond excited about his hand placement—pussy clenching in anticipation. However, your thoughts have snagged on his words.

“You can choose not to deal with it,” you say softly, looking away from him.

He’s not deterred by that.

His fingers trace light patterns along the inside of your thighs, making your skin prickle. And when he grabs the hem of your dress, your eyes snap back to him.

But you don’t stop him.

Why the fuck would you?

This is what you want from him.

Not conversation.

You lift your hips, allowing him to pull the dress all the way up, leaving it bunched around your stomach.

His eyes catch on the white lace thong, and you find yourself stepping your legs further apart.

“I can’t get to know you, but I can do this?”

He resumes trailing patterns across your thighs.

He places a knee on the chair and leans forward until you’re forced to back against the chair. All the while, his hand moves further and further up your thigh.

Your breath hitches as you squirm in the chair.

He’s never touched you there before.

“I asked a question,” he gently reminds you, pausing his movements.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper.

The back of his fingers ghost across your panties. Your hips jerk in response.

“Shall I just listen to what your body is saying instead, then?”

He cups your pussy firmly with his right hand, the heel of his palm resting right against your clit. He uses his left to cup your chin, keeping your face angled at his eyes.

“You get ten grinds,” he says, voice low and even.

Your eyes widen in disbelief, mouth parting as you start to protest. “What the hell—”

Before you can finish, he presses the heel of his palm harder against your clit, effectively cutting off the rest of your sentence. The pressure is firm and steady, sending a spark straight through you. Your hips twitch forward on instinct.

A million thoughts are running through your mind. How did you get here? What must this man think of you? Completely unwilling to talk about anything remotely personal, but fully willing to rub your pussy against whatever body part he chooses to offer up? And, most importantly, why only ten?

You roll your hips forward, dragging your clit across the heel of his palm.

“One.” He counts, before proceeding to interpret what your body is telling him. “Meeting each other’s parents scares you.”

You thrust upwards again, harder this time. Partially in annoyance, but also because it feels good.

“Two—enough to make you hide in a clearly restricted section of this mansion.”

You try to focus on what you’re feeling and not the fact that this man literally has you in the palm of his hand while he reads you like a book.

“Three—you’d rather pick a fight than tell me you’re overwhelmed.”

You grip his arm with both hands in an attempt to press it against your clit harder. But when he starts to pull his hand away, you panic and release him.

You’re getting this much, you don’t want it to stop.

You rest your hands on his shoulders instead, each roll of your hip staying controlled as the friction steadily builds—but never enough to tip you over. When you try to chase more, he simply lifts his hand a fraction, denying you until you settle back down. His commentary dwindles for a beat as he keeps your head in place, ensuring your eyes remain locked on his.

After the seventh grind, find yourself pleading through deep breaths, “I want more.”

He doesn’t say anything to that—he just keeps counting, keeps telling you about yourself.

“Eight—you test me to see if I’ll leave.”

You repeat your plea on the next one, a little more desperate now. “Chan, I want more.”

He answers with a gentle squeeze of your chin and a single kiss to your lips.

“Nine—but you don’t actually want me to.”

You bite your bottom lip and still your hips.

One more lift and you know it won’t be enough.

Still, that’s not enough to stop you from taking it.

You give one final, slow roll of your hips against his hand, dragging out the friction for as long as you can.

“Ten.” He concludes, letting his fingers tease your folds through your underwear. “You always have one foot out the door.”

He removes his hand completely, stepping back just far enough that you can’t reach him.

You’re flushed, the ache between your legs left angry and unsatisfied.

“I said I want more,” you glare at him, pressing your thighs together.

When it becomes clear he isn’t going to give you more, you stand from the chair with an exasperated sigh. You move to pull the dress back down but he stops you.

“Take those off.”

“What?”

“Your underwear. I want them.”

You quirk a brow.

“I thought we were just stating the things we want?”

You slip your thumbs through the side of the thong and pull them down, placing a hand on his chest to steady yourself as you step out of them. You grab his hand and place the damp material in his palm.

“We can’t risk messing up these clothes,” he tells you, giving the thong a twirl around his finger before shoving it into his pocket. “Let’s finish the shoot and then talk about ‘more’ at home.”

“It shouldn’t require much talking,” you mumble.

He holds out the crook of his arm for you.

You look at his arm, then his face, then proceed to step around him and exit the room.

You try to push what happened to the back of your mind for the rest of the shoot, but every time a breeze finds its way to your uncovered pussy, your mind goes straight back to it. To the thought of him having your underwear in his pocket.

To the hope of more at home.

More. More. More.

It’s such a greedy, all-consuming word when you stop to think about it.

And you have done just that because you’ve been home for over an hour now and Chan hasn’t brought it up. You're hesitant to do it yourself. You know the end result you’d be aiming for by doing so, but don’t want to open the door for his version of talking through more tonight. Or ever, if you had your way.

You separate to shower, then meet back up in the kitchen. You’re scrolling through delivery options on your phone as you enter. Chan already has the refrigerator door wide open.

“I thought we were ordering in?”

“I decided we should cook,” he announces, setting various veggies on the counter.

You set your phone down on the island and look at the spread he’s taking out.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Because I’m pretty confident I’ll butcher whatever it is.”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

You glance at the tofu, mushrooms, onions, green onions, and kimchi laid out in front of you.

“If we’re having mac and cheese, I got it covered. Anything outside of that and you’re tempting fate that this place doesn’t go up in flames.”

You’ve never been a fan of cooking. Too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong. It’s best just to steer clear of it altogether.

He slides you a cutting board. “Cut the onions.”

You could object.

You really could return to your room and order delivery for yourself.

But you don’t.

He then hands you a knife.

You grab the handle and immediately angle the sharp end toward your chest.  

“Like this?”

“Knock it off,” he says, jaw firmly set.

You give an exaggerated pout and set the knife down to wash your hands before proceeding with your assigned task. Chan bring another cutting board in front of himself and grabs the tofu.

“What are we making?”

“Kimchi jjigae.”

“ . . . and that is?” you ask, holding the onion steady to cut it straight down the middle.

“A stew,” he tells you, glancing over at your work. “Usually, you want to peel it first.”

You stare at the onion and frown.

“That would’ve been helpful information thirty seconds ago.”

“You can always ask if you aren’t sure.”

You set down the knife and peel away the papery skin before trying again.

Chan busies himself slicing the tofu. Every piece nearly identical in size.

You glance between his cutting board and yours.

“Is this some sort of humiliation ritual? I’m terrible at this.”

He looks at the onion you’ve mutilated. His brows come together momentarily before they flatten out.

“You’re holding the knife wrong, for starters.”

He sets down his knife and steps behind you.

Your shoulders stiffen.

His hand settles around your wrist, guiding your grip on the handle. His fingers are warm against yours and the contact is gentle . . . patient, in a way you aren’t used to. And also strange in a way you hadn’t expected. You’ve been far closer than this already—pressed together for cameras, tangled together on couches. But this feels different.

There’s no audience.

You’re not arguing.

He is simply teaching you how to cut an onion.

So why the hell does it feel so intimate?

You become acutely aware that he’s close enough for you to catch the clean scent of his body wash.

His voice is quiet beside your ear when he says, “Like this.”

You stiffen again to hide the shiver that runs down your spine.

“It gives you more control,” he continues, “and angle the knife slightly inward so it follows the curve of the onion.”

You didn’t know onions had curves.

He lets go of your hand on the knife, then places his hands on your hips.

“Now, curl your fingertips on the onion.”

“You think I’ll chop them off?”

“I don’t know how you got through the first half without doing that already, to be honest.”

You shove an elbow against his stomach playfully before concentrating and carefully slicing the onion.

He doesn’t step away immediately.

You can feel his attention more than his touch now, watching each careful slice until he’s satisfied you’re not about to lose your fingertips.

Only then does he retreat to the stove, preparing a large pot with water for the stew.

When you’re done, the pieces are still slightly uneven but much better than what you did on your own.

“Good,” he says.

You hide a smile at the praise.

“Should I fix the others?”

He looks pointedly at them.

“I don’t think that’s possible . . . ”

“But they’re, like, six different sizes.”

“They’ll all end up in the same stew,” he shrugs.

“But they’ll cook at different speeds, no?”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about cooking?”

You press your lips into a firm line at that.

“I just know I’m not good at it.”

“You’re learning. You have to start somewhere.”

He takes the cutting board and dumps them into the pan where the pork belly is simmering.

“Will your parents be disappointed that I don’t know how to cook?”

His hand pauses for only a fraction of a second before stirring again.

The fact that you even asked that question almost catches you off guard, too.

“No. They’ll probably be more concerned with feeding you until you can’t move.”

“So we can blame them if I don’t fit into the wedding dress?”

“Absolutely,” he nods. “Alright, make the rice next.”

“Yes, chef!”

The dynamic between you feels easier in this setting.

He tends to the stew as he patiently guides you through making rice using the knuckle method as a unit of official measurement. It seems suspicious to you, but he swears it works every time.

And he’s right. It comes out light and fluffy.

“Come here,” he says when the stew is done.

You move toward him without hesitation—no defiance like this afternoon.

He scoops up the broth in the ladle, blows on it, then holds it toward your mouth, hand cupped beneath it.

You take a sip and nod your approval.

“That’s actually really good.”

He grins. “You did that.”

“Well, we haven’t tried the onions yet,” you remind him playfully.

Once the meal is plated—or bowled in this instance—you eat together at the table.

More still isn’t brought up once.

Dinner finishes and you clean up together. He wipes down the dishes and you put them in the dishwasher.

After that, the two of you wander onto the balcony. The city is alive at night below—cars creeping in traffic, distant sirens.

You lean your elbows against the railing.

“Where do your parents live?” you ask.

“Sydney. You?”

“Seattle.”

“Should we go to yours first?”

“No. Let’s do your first.”

He pauses. “Really?”

“Yeah . . . ” you shrug, “. . . I think it’ll be easier.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t press for more information and a comfortable silence settles between you.

You can’t remember the last time silence with another person you’ve been intimate with didn’t feel like something that needed filling.

Chan watches the skyline a moment before speaking.

“So.”

“So?”

He glances sideways at you.

“Was staying in tonight fun?”

Your lips twitch. “It was.”

“Yeah?”

His smile widens.

“Don’t ruin this,” you say.

“I distinctly remember someone insisting there was only one way to have fun on a night in.”

“I don’t recall phrasing it like that.”

The breeze catches a strand of your hair, blowing it across your face. Before you can brush it away, Chan reaches over and tucks it behind your ear.

His fingers linger for a second before he closes the small distance between you.

The kiss is unexpected, but welcome.

Possibly the first you’ve shared without any teasing, pushing boundaries or trying to get a reaction.

Just warm lips and the quiet certainty of someone choosing to be close.

And that someone is you.

His mouth moves slowly against yours, as if he has nowhere else he’d rather be and that makes your chest tighten.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he pulls back a bit, but you can still feel his breath brushing lightly against your skin. He looks at you like he’s waiting to see what you do with this.

And for once, you don’t have anything clever to say.

You just kiss him again.

a/n: i pinky promise this slow burn shit kills me as much as it kills you. i have to remind myself the buildup is just as exciting. tbh i could use a brat tamer in my life 😂 thank you for reading! ALSO HOW ARE WE FEELING ABOUT CHAN'S RED LOCKS? i was hoping for black after his bubble message but this looks good on him, too! like sir please sit down and offer your fucking thigh to me right now. or hand, after this chapter hehehe

taglist: @crazyfangirl2020 / @elizalabs3 / @bunbunbl0gs / @unemployedcarat / @geni-627 / @magpir8629 / @firelordtsuki / @tsunderelino / @divineslautr / @anastarsia-00 / @divineslautr / @kaylovesskz / @compersian / @rayraymylove / @mirrorballbb / @lixiestaylovesstraykids / @wolfiesroom / @letstrippp / @victoriaaf / @skyearby / @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca / @fanficwriter5

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[psychecreations]

Hey, Katara. Hey, Aang.

[psychecreations]

MASTER KATARA Avatar Aang: The Last Airbender (2026)

[hanopium]

Han is the type of guy to... (s)

Han is the type of guy to wake you up in the middle of the night — 2 a.m, 3 a.m? he doesn't care. he tried to, but he's not the most patient man out there.

He'll take in your drowsiness and tired grumbles. murmuring soft apologies in your ear; pressing gentle kisses to the curve of your neck; an attempt at buttering you up. hoping that maybe you'd notice the bulge pressing at your lower back and realize how horny he's been.

Han who shamelessly ruts against the swell of your ass, voice getting breather with each grind. begging you to please let him rid of your pants.

barely registering your answer, a nod is sufficient for him to tug the barrier off. keeping your panties on, he slides his cock between your folds, wetting your cum with his leaking precum.

Han who's a moaning mess just from gliding his cock back and forth on your now-soaked pussy. blabbering about how wet you are and to allow him inside already.

Han whose voice cracks into a whimper as you squeeze your thighs around him, trapping him into quick, shallow, thrusts. he nudges your clit with every jerk of hips, tilting your face towards him so that his mouth swallows your own quiet moans with a messy kiss.

Han who doesn't get the opportunity to slide inside before he's cumming all over your pussy, white stripes landing inside your panties, forming a sticky wet patch on the fabric. he's panting, fingers digging into your hips as he struggles to catch his breath.

Han who thanks you endlessly for this, yapping about how much he loves you and that you're the best in this world. slowly drifting back to sleep, pretending that he isn't going to wake you up soon again for another of his horny antics.

—

other member ver: bangchan lee know changbin hyunjin han felix seungmin i.n

drabbles masterlist

[lostbookmark]

MDNI🔞

Main Masterlist here

Before I Go Masterlist here

Summary: Your life was perfect. You had the perfect fiance, the perfect house and the perfect ring on your finger. The only thing that wasn't perfect …. were the memories you lost years ago and the fact your parents won't talk about it.

Pairing: Yoongi x F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt-Comfort, Smut

Warnings: Memory Loss, Swearing, Blood Mention, Unprotected Sex, Mention Of Car Accident, Mention Of Drunk Driver. Will add as I go…

The living room floor of Jimin’s apartment looks like a construction zone for a very messy, very chaotic kindergarten class. ​You had laid down layers of old newspaper over his pristine hardwood floors, but it hadn’t stopped the sculpting clay water from splattering over everything. The air smells of damp earth and clean laundry, punctuated by the aggressive slap-slap-slap of Jungkook hitting his clay against a plastic cutting board with terrifying intensity.

​"Jungkook, please, the downstairs neighbors are going to think I'm running a black-market pottery studio," Jimin complains, though he didn't look up from his own project. He was hunched over a remarkably smooth wedge of clay, using the edge of a plastic ruler to meticulously carve out perfect, tiny craters. "And stop hoarding the water spray bottle."

​"You have to get the air bubbles out, or it cracks," Jungkook mutters, entirely locked in. He is currently using a toothpick to score microscopic scales onto a remarkably detailed dragon. It already has tiny horns and a curling tail. "If it cracks, the dragon dies, Jimin. Do you want that on your conscience?"

​"It's an elementary school craft night," you laugh, rubbing a stray smudge of white clay off your cheek with the back of your wrist.

You are currently working on a small, shallow trinket dish, carefully pinching the edges upward. With a small wooden tool, you are pressing a delicate, repeating floral design along the rim. It isn't perfect, but your hands are slowly starting to remember the motions, and that is everything.

​"This just isn't working," Namjoon announces solemnly.

You all look over at Namjoon, pausing mid-carve, mid-pinch, and mid-slap.

​Sitting in front of him is a graying, slightly lumpy mass of clay that looks like it has been through a minor crisis. It’s thick in the middle, tapered at both ends, and has two very fragile curved protrusions sticking out of one side. ​Jimin squints, leaning forward until his nose was practically touching the plastic sheet.

"Namjoon... are you making a croissant with antennas?" Jimin asks.

​Namjoon just sighs and drops his wooden scoring tool onto the newspaper with a dull thud.

​"What actually is it?" You ask gently.

"It’s an Anomalocaris." Namjoon straightens his spins as he looks at all of you.

​The room goes quiet mostly because none of you have any idea what he just said. Jimin blinks slowly. You freeze, a half-formed clay flower hanging off the edge of your trinket dish. ​Then Jungkook breaks the silence, his toothpick pointing directly at the lumpy clay creature.

​"That's a Pokémon," Jungkook says.

​"It is not a Pokémon!" Namjoon fires back, his hands gesturing wildly. "Well…okay, technically Anorith and Armaldo are based on Cambrian anomalocaridids, but that's not the point! The Anomalocaris was the apex predator of the Cambrian seas! It lived over five hundred million years ago. It had these incredible compound eyes, lateral swimming flaps, and two frontal appendages used to grab trilobites!"

You all stare at him with your mouths open.

Yoongi pushes the front door open with his elbow, balancing three heavy bags of takeout containers. The savory aroma of fried chicken and noodles starts to over take the damp earthy smell of the clay. He takes one look at the living room…the layer of newspaper, the frantic energy, and the three of you staring at Namjoon.

"Why are you all looking like that?" Yoongi asks, his voice flat but amused as he toes off his shoes. "Did Namjoon break another table?"

"Joon made a fancy Pokémon," Jungkook says instantly, not looking up as he carefully touches up his dragon’s tail. "But he’s in denial about it."

"It is NOT a Pokémon!" Namjoon’s voice cracks slightly with despair. He squares his shoulders, taking a deep breath to launch into his lecture for the second time. "Listen, Yoongi. Five hundred million years ago, during the Cambrian explosion, the oceans were ruled by an apex arthropod called the Anomalocaris. It didn't have bones, it had lateral lobes for swimming, and a radial mouth that could crush…"

Yoongi doesn't even let him finish. With the patience of someone who has survived almost a decade of impromptu history lessons. Yoongi sets the takeout bags down on the kitchen counter, pulls his phone out of his sweatpants pocket, and starts typing with one thumb.

The room goes quiet again, save for the low hum of Jimin’s refrigerator and the soft tap-tap of Yoongi scrolling through Google Images.

Yoongi squints at the screen. He looks down at Namjoon's lumpy, graying clay masterpiece on the floor. He looks back at his screen. He tilts his phone slightly to the left, matching the exact angle of Namjoon’s deflating clay lobes. Finally, he locks his phone, slips it back into his pocket, and looks Namjoon dead in the eye.

"You made a shrimp." Yoongi blinks at him.

Jimin lets out a high-pitched squeak and collapses backward onto the newspaper, covering his face as he dissolves into breathless, shoulder-shaking laughter. Jungkook’s shoulder twitches, a massive, victorious grin spreading across his face.

"An apex predator shrimp, Yoongi!" Namjoon says, as he picks it to show him. One of the fragile frontal appendages chooses that exact moment to lose its battle with gravity, snapping off and rolling onto the newspaper. "And it’s an ancestral arthropod! It’s not a decapod!"

"Whatever it is, its arm just fell off," Yoongi notes calmly, unboxing a container of steaming, crispy chicken. "Wash your hands. The 'shrimp' is dead, but the food is getting cold."

"It’s about the preservation of history," Namjoon mutters, staring despondently at the severed appendage resting on the newspaper. He hasn't even reached for the sweet and sour pork, which was highly unusual. Instead, he grabs a pair of wooden chopsticks and dips the tips into the spray bottle, attempting to use them like surgical tweezers. "If we just abandon it, the Cambrian period dies in this living room."

​"Joon, eat a noodle," Yoongi says, sliding a bowl of noodles right over the newspaper, effectively blocking Namjoon's view of the tragedy. "The shrimp is with the ancestors now. Let it go."

​Jimin is already happily munching on a piece of fried chicken, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel.

"It's better this way, Namjoon. Now it looks exactly like the fossils you love so much," Jimin tells him.

​"It's true," Jungkook agrees, trying to guard his coiled dragon from any flying food. "Authentic taphonomy, remember? Or whatever you called it."

​You laugh, taking a container of food from Yoongi and sitting cross-legged on the floor. ​Yoongi watches the chaos with a faint, fond smile, leaning his back against the base of Jimin's sofa as he eats. After a moment, he turns his head toward you, nudging your knee gently with his elbow to get your attention away from Namjoon, who is currently trying to use a splash of water to paste the shrimp's arm back on.

​"Hey," Yoongi says. "Are you free next weekend?"

"Yeah, I think so. Why?" ​You blink, swallowing a bite of noodles.

​"Some of my high school students," he says. "They do this summer showcase every year at the local community theater. Nothing too crazy." ​He looks up at you through his dark bangs, his eyes soft. "I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to watch them. They've worked really hard, and... well, I think you'd actually like it."

​"A summer showcase?" You ask, a genuine smile tugging at your lips. "Like a recital?"

​"Yeah.” He nods, leaning his head back against the sofa. "Some of them are playing classical pieces, a few formed their own garage bands and think they're the next big thing. It’s loud, and half of them play completely out of tune because of stage fright, but..." He pauses, his gaze dropping to your clay-stained fingers before lifting back to your eyes. "They have this energy. They're just kids trying to figure out who they are through what they make. I think you'd get it."

​You'd get it. The words carry a weight that makes your throat tighten just a little…in a good way. He isn't just asking you out on a normal date. He is inviting you into his world, the one he had built while you were gone, and simultaneously reaching out to the part of you that was trying to heal. He remembers how much you loved watching people discover their own creativity.

​"I would love to go," you say softly, your knee still pressing against his. "Seriously. I want to see what you've been teaching them."

"Good. Just don't judge my teaching skills if someone runs off stage or forgets something," he says.

​"Hey! No flirting over the food!" Jimin shouts suddenly, pointing a piece of pickled radish at the two of you. "Y/N, don't let him charm you. He's just trying to get out of helping me clean up this mess later."

​"I am an invited guest who brought food, Jimin," Yoongi retorts without missing a beat, his voice instantly dropping back into its flat, unimpressed tone as he looks at your mutual friend. "You're lucky I don't charge a delivery fee."

​"Technically," Namjoon chimes in, his voice muffled by a mouthful of noodles, though his expression was triumphant. "The Anomalocaris was also a predator that brought food to its community. So Yoongi is fulfilling a very primal, ancestral role right now."

"Please. The shrimp is dead. We ate the chicken. Let the Cambrian explosion rest in peace." ​Jungkook lets out a dramatic groan, tossing his head back.

​You laugh, leaning into Yoongi's shoulder as the bickering starts up all over again.

You stare at your monitor, the spreadsheet of active claims blurring into a wall of meaningless numbers. Your fingers are still a little stiff from yesterday's sculpting session as they hover over your keyboard. You take a breath and try to focus until a sharp ping from your phone shatters the rhythmic clicking of the office.

"Look at you, popular at 9:00 AM on a Tuesday. Is Loverboy already suffering from severe withdrawal?" She teases.

You roll your eyes, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips at the thought of Yoongi.

"Leah, please, he's probably in the middle of a lesson at the commuinty…." your voice trails off as you pick up the phone.

The smile dies instantly.

The notification isn't a text bubble from Yoongi. It was just a string of numbers that were unknown to you.

Unknown Number: We need to meet and talk

The text is simple, demanding, and utterly devoid of context. Your stomach doesn't just drop…it bottoms out.

"Whoa," Leah’s tone shifts instantly from teasing to sharp concern. She abandons her post, slipping around the partition and into your small cubicle space. "Hey. Y/N. You went completely white. What is it?"

Without a word, you turn the screen towards her.

"No name? No hey how are you? Who the hell is that?" Leah squints at the short message.

You sit back in your chair letting your hand fall into your lap.

"It’s either Corbyn," you whisper, your voice sounding small. "Or my parents."

Leah’s expression shifts from playful to fiercely protective in a heartbeat. She leans over the desk, dropping her voice to a low, intense whisper.

"Okay. Okay, take a breath. Are you going to answer it?” She asks.

​Your heart is hammering so fast, a frantic rhythm that feels entirely too loud in the quiet office. You look down at the screen. With shaking fingers, you type out a curt, cold question.

You:​ Who is this?

​You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. Almost immediately…too quickly…the bubbles appear.

​Unknown Number: It’s your mother.

​The name hangs on your screen. You haven't talked to your parents since the night you walked out of their house.​ You blocked their numbers and made sure not to tell anyone where you moved.

"Oh," she says, as she looks at your screen. “You don't have to talk to her. After all the years she lied to you. All the memories she kept from you. You don't owe her anything.”

Leah’s words swirl around your head, but the name on your screen keeps pulling you in.

It’s your mother.

The woman who spent years curating a reality for you. Every hidden memory, every carefully maintained silence…it all rushes back. It threatens to suffocate the fragile peace you've been building.

However, Leah is right. By all accounts, you owe her nothing. You can lock your screen, bury your face in an insurance spreadsheet, and not talk to her for another decade. But you can't do it. If you do it, a part of you will always still be locked in that cage that was built for you.

"I have to, Leah," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly.

"Okay. Public. Somewhere with witnesses, Y/N." She advises, making you nod in agreement.

You: Greenwood Park Square. The cafe on the north corner. Friday at 5:30 PM.

You don't add a greeting. You don't ask how she found your number. You just stare at the screen as the status flips to Delivered.

A few seconds pass. The little gray bubbles dance on the bottom of the screen.

Unknown Number: I’ll be there.

You lock the phone and slide it face down onto your desk, the glass clicking sharply against the surface. You turn back to your dual monitors, your chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm as you prepare for Friday.

The bedroom is quiet, the sound you can hear is the slight thumping from the towels in Yoongi’s dryer down the hall. Currently, you’re sitting near the edge of his mattress, your knees pulled tightly to your chest. Even though the bed is massive, you instinctively tuck yourself into a tiny corner of it, trying to minimize your footprint, trying not to take up too much space.

Yoongi is across the room, standing by his dresser. He’s fresh out of the shower. He is meticulously folding a stack of clean t-shirts. It feels highly domestic already even though you're still finding your footing in his space.

You haven't been staying here every single night since that first real date. There’s been a careful, unspoken dance of boundaries. But lately, you can feel the subtle shift in his orbit. The way he naturally leaves a spare toothbrush on the counter instead of tucked in the drawer. The way there’s a fresh carton of the milk you prefer in his fridge. He’s trying to change the routine, gently nudging the door open wider without ever forcing you through it.

Even the guys and Yura have been dropping not-so-subtle hints.

“Take your time, no rush,” they say with knowing smiles.

Because the truth is, you two did live together once. In another lifetime, before the world fractured and your memories were stolen, you shared a home. You shared a kitchen. You shared a future. You were going to get married. Coming here shouldn't feel like navigating a whole new life with whole new boundaries. It should feel like coming home. But your hands are still learning how to mold clay, and your mind is still learning how to trust a space your heart knows it loves.

This is the second night this week you’re staying.

Yoongi finishes folding the last black shirt, smoothing his palm over the cotton with a soft sigh. He places it on the stack, then finally turns around. His eyes sweep over the bed, instantly taking in how tightly wound you are, hovering right on the edge of the mattress.

He walks over, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet. He doesn't climb onto the bed right away. Instead, he stands at the edge, looking down at you through the dark fringe of his bangs.

"If you sit any closer to the edge, you're going to roll off onto the floor," he says softly. He reaches out, his thumb gently catching under your chin, tilting your face up so you have to look at him. "You don't have to be nervous to be here. I want this to….eventually feel like your home."

“I…I just don't know what I'm allowed yet,” you say.

“Allowed?” He questions with a sigh.

Yoongi’s thumb lingers under your chin for a second longer, the pad of his skin warm and faintly calloused, before his hand drops away. He doesn't press you for an immediate answer to his declaration about home. Instead, he climbs onto the mattress, his weight shifting the springs in and sits down right next to you.

“You don't need my permission to do anything here,” he says. “You can leave a glass on the counter.” He looks at your shirt neatly folded on a chair by his bed. He reaches over and tosses it on the floor. “Look, the world didn't end. It's going to stay there all night. I don't care.”

​You let your chin rest on your knees, your eyes tracking the neat stacks of shirts on his dresser, but your mind is stuck on that one word.

Home.

He wants this to be your home.

​"Yoongi?" Your voice is a quiet, tentative thing in the dim room.

​"Yeah?" He asks.

​"What was it like?" You swallow hard, finally turning your head to look at him. "Our home. What was it like when we lived together before?"

​Yoongi pauses. He lets out a sudden, sharp huff of air that turns into a low chuckle, his shoulders shaking. He turns his head, looking back at you with an amused look in his eyes.

​"Awful," he says bluntly. “Oh my god, was it awful.”

​ "Awful?" You blink, a little startled, a laugh bubbling up past the lump in your throat.

​"Terrible," he confirms, moving up the bed to lean back against the headboard and stretch his legs out in front of him. "You moved in with me above a Chinese restaurant senior year of college. The rent was practically free, which was the only reason I took it, but man, everything broke constantly. The radiator didn't work in the winter, the AC unit rattled in the summer. I had to learn fast how to fix plumbing with electrical tape and a prayer."

​He looks up at the ceiling, a fond, distant smile.

​"We lived on cheap ramen forever," he continues. "The kind that comes in the styrofoam cups. We had boxes of it stacked along the counter. I was bartending part time and doing admin stuff for the music department to pay for college, bills… your ring. But then you scored a job downstairs at the restaurant because you befriended the owner…this terrifying older lady who ran the place with an iron fist but absolutely adored you. After that, you would come home late from your shifts with these massive containers of leftovers. Dumplings, fried rice, sweet and sour pork..."

​Yoongi’s eyes slide back to yours, his expression incredibly tender.

​"Those were good nights," he says softly. "We'd sit right on the linoleum floor because we didn't have a table yet, eating straight out of the plastic containers, listening to the muffled sounds of the kitchen downstairs. You'd tell me about the customers, and I'd play you whatever composition I was stuck on for class. It was messy, and we were broke, but...it was ours."

"I really did that? Befriended a terrifying restaurant owner?" Your chest rises and falls with a shaky breath.

​"You had her wrapped around your finger in a week," Yoongi murmurs, nodding his head. "You always had a way of finding warmth in places everyone else thought were freezing."

You let the warmth of the memory settle over you, a contrast to the cold knot that has been tightening in your chest all day. For a moment, you can almost see them…two college kids eating takeout on a linoleum floor, completely unaware of the storm that was coming for them.

Then, the reality of Friday crashes back in. The phantom weight of your phone feels heavy on the nightstand, even though it’s locked and silent.

Your laughter fades, the small smile slipping from your lips. You look away from Yoongi, your gaze dropping back down to your knees. The rhythmic sound of the towels in the dryer down the hall suddenly feels very loud again, filling the sudden space between you.

"Hey," Yoongi says softly, tilting his head at you. He leans in slightly, trying to catch your downcast eyes. "What's wrong? Where'd you go?"

You swallow hard, the silence stretching out until it feels fragile. You take a slow, deliberate breath, just like Leah had taught you in the cubicle.

"Yoongi," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I have something to tell you."

He doesn't answer right away, but you feel his posture shift. The easy, relaxed slant of his shoulders straightens.

"I'm listening," he murmurs.

You keep your eyes fixed on the neat stacks of black t-shirts across the room. If you look at him now, you might lose your nerve.

"My phone buzzed this morning at work. It was an unknown number." You pause, a shaky breath catching in your throat. "It was my mother. She texted me," you continue, the words tumbling out before you can choke on them. "She said we need to meet and talk. And... I already agreed. I'm meeting her this Friday at 5:30 at Greenwood Park Square. The cafe on the north corner."

The bedroom goes silent.

It’s a heavy, absolute quiet that seems to suck the air right out of the room. The fond, nostalgic warmth from just moments ago vanishes, replaced by a sudden tension. Yoongi doesn't move. He doesn't say a word.

You finally force yourself to turn your head and look at him.

His face has gone completely blank. His dark bangs shadow his eyes, but you can see the hard, tight set of his jaw. A faint muscle twitches there. The smile from earlier feels like a lifetime away. Right now, he looks exactly like the man who had to watch his entire world get torn apart while he was left completely powerless.

He just stares at the space between you quietly.

​"Obviously, I'm not going to stop you," he says, the words coming out slow. He finally lifts his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "But..."

​He swallows hard, his jaw tightening so hard you can see the strain in his neck. He reaches out, his hand sliding up to squeeze your knee, his fingers trembling just a fraction.

​"...I just got you back," he whispers.

"She's not going to take me away," you say, as you slide your knees out from under your chin.

You move closer to him, closing the distance on the mattress until your thigh is pressed against his side. You reach down, wrapping your hand over his trembling knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere, Yoongi."

Yoongi doesn't relax. If anything, the rigid line of his shoulders seems to harden even more. He looks down at your intertwined hands, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, ragged breath.

"Your parents managed to do it once before," he says, his voice flat, but cracking at the edges under the weight of the memory. He doesn't look up, his gaze fiercely pinned to where your skin meets his. "They locked you away, changed your number, fabricated an entire reality, and let me spend years thinking I had just... lost you. They wiped me out of your life. They are capable of it, Y/N. They've proven it."

The honesty in his words hit you. You can feel the pain radiating off him. The agony of a twenty-something kid who had a ring around his neck and a future planned on a linoleum floor, only to have the door slammed in his face by people with money, power, and lies.

"Yes," you say softly, squeezing his hand until your own knuckles turn white, forcing him to look up and meet your eyes. "But I didn't know any better before."

Yoongi's breath catches.

"Before, I was waking up in a fog, trusting the people who told me they loved me because I didn't have anything else to hold onto," you continue. "I was a blank slate. But I'm not that person anymore, Yoongi. I know the truth now. I know what they did. And more importantly..." You reach up with your free hand, gently placing your palm against the side of his neck, feeling the rapid, frantic thrum of his pulse. "...I know who I am. And I know who WE are."

The rigid, terrifying calm in his face finally cracks. A tiny, broken sigh escapes his lips, and his eyes close as he leans his cheek heavily into the palm of your hand. He handles you like something fragile, yet he holds on with the desperation of a drowning man.

"I'm going to a public place, in broad daylight, on a Friday afternoon," you murmur, stroking his jawline with your thumb. "Leah knows. You know. The cage they built only worked because I didn't know I was inside it. They can't trap me again."

Yoongi opens his eyes, the dark intensity of his gaze softer now, but no less fierce. He reaches up, covering your hand on his cheek with his own.

"I'm coming with you. I'll drive separately if I have to, " he says. It's not a request. It's a fact. "I'll sit in the car. I won't come inside, I won't interfere, and I won't let her see me if you don't want me to. However, I am not letting you walk into that place alone."

"Deal," you whisper and lean against him. "You can be my apex predator in the parking lot."

"Don't bring the shrimp into this." Yoongi lets out a genuine, low chuckle, the tension finally draining from his frame as he wraps his arms fully around you, pulling you tightly against his chest.

​Friday was coming, and with it, the suffocating life you left behind. But tonight, you're with the man who had waited years to hold you like this again. Friday was still coming, but now, you weren't facing it by yourself.

The midday heat hits you the moment you step out of your car, a thick, heavy blanket of July humidity that makes your shirt cling slightly to your back. Your hands are sweating, and it has nothing to do with the weather.

You take a slow, deep breath, smoothing down the front of your shorts. You lock your car with a sharp beep, turning toward the cafe on the north corner. The patio is bustling with people seeking refuge under the umbrellas, iced coffees in hand, enjoying their Friday afternoon.

Before you can even take three steps toward the entrance, a familiar black car catches your eye, parked just a few rows over.

You pause, watching as the front doors open. Yoongi steps out, instantly sliding a pair of dark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

But he isn't alone.

From the passenger side, a tall figure emerges, adjusting a crisp white baseball cap. Jin. He stretches his broad shoulders, looking around the square with an air of absolute casualty, as if he just happened to be passing by for an afternoon stroll. He says something to Yoongi, flashing a quick, reassuring grin in your direction, though he doesn't wave or make a scene.

A sudden, immense wave of relief washes over you. Yoongi had promised to sit in the car, but of course, he brought reinforcements. Of course Jin came along…probably under the guise of grabbing a drink although he clearly already has one in his hand.

You don't know if he's here to support you… or Yoongi. However, you wouldn't put it past him to flip a table if you needed a distraction.

You catch Yoongi's eyes behind his dark lenses. He gives you a single, firm nod. Turning back toward the cafe, you square your shoulders. You push through the heavy glass doors, the sudden blast of air conditioning sending a sharp shiver down your spine. Inside, the atmosphere is a mix of grinding espresso machines, low chatter, and the sweet scent of baked pastries. Your eyes sweep the room, searching past the mid-day crowd until they lock onto a booth near the back window.

Sitting there, looking impeccably neat and entirely out of place in the casual summer crowd, is your mother. As you start the long walk toward her table, you glance back through the large glass windows of the cafe's storefront. Right on cue, Yoongi and Jin casually stroll onto the front patio. They select a small iron table right by the glass, giving them a perfectly unobstructed view of the entire interior. Jin sits down with an exaggerated sigh of relief from the heat, while Yoongi slides into his chair, his eyes already locked onto the back booth.

You take one final breath, pull out the chair opposite the woman who built your cage, and sit down.Your mother doesn't flinch. She sits perfectly straight, her manicured fingers lightly circling a tall glass of iced tea that she hasn't touched. The condensation trails down the glass, pooling on the polished wood of the table. She looks at you with the exact same cool, evaluating gaze she used when you were a child. The one as if you are a project that just needs a little realigning.

"Why did you reach out to me?" You ask. It’s quieter than you expected, but it doesn't shake.

"Because you are my daughter, Y/N. And running away without a word isn't a solution. We've been worried sick. Which brings me to my question…why did you block us? Your father and I have been trying to call you for months." She leans in slightly, her eyes searching yours. "Did you block Corbyn too? He's not talking to us either."

A harsh, humorless laugh slips past your lips. The sheer absurdity of her focus hitting you instantly.

"Of course I blocked Corbyn too," you say, leaning forward, matching her posture but leaving none of the warmth. "Why wouldn't I? You all lied to me."

"Y/N, we did what we had to do to protect…" She tries before you cut her off.

"You all controlled my life!" The words erupt from you, a low, furious whisper that makes a couple at the next table look over. You don't care. You don't take your eyes off her. "You kept parts of me from myself. You erased years of my life because it didn't fit into the neat little narrative you wanted for me. I had a life before the accident. I had a future."

Your throat tightens, the raw emotion of the truth threatening to choke you, but you push through it.

"I was going to marry someone," you say, your voice cracking slightly. "Someone who I LOVED. Someone who actually knew me, before you tried to turn me into a blank slate."

Out on the patio, through the clear pane of the glass window, Yoongi’s posture shifts. Even behind his sunglasses, you can tell he is entirely dialed into the movement inside the cafe. Jin has stopped playing with his drink, his expression turning sharp and watchful. You see him pick up a menu to hide his face as he fully turns to check out the situation.

Your mother looks down at her iced tea, her jaw tightening. For a fraction of a second, the perfect composure slips, revealing the cold, calculating person underneath.

"You were confused after the accident, Y/N," she says softly, though her voice has an edge to it now. "That boy... that life... it wasn't what was best for you. We gave you a clean slate."

"You gave me a prison," you fire back.

"Stop being dramatic, Y/N," your mother says, her voice snapping back into that familiar, dismissive sharpness that used to make you feel about two inches tall. She adjusts the gold strap of her watch, the metal clicking against her wrist. "You are rewriting history. The day you brought Corbyn home was a new beginning for you. He was stable. He was respectable. He is a good man from a good family, and he was willing to support you through everything."

​"He didn't know me," you say.

​"He knew the woman you became," she counters instantly. "The sensible one. The one who wasn't struggling above a greasy kitchen, chasing some dream with a boy who had nothing to offer you but a handful of cheap promises."

​"That boy is the only person who actually looked at me and saw me. You didn't give me a new beginning. You stole my choices because you were ashamed of the ones I made." You say, slapping your hand down on the table.

“You do not make a scene, young…” Your mother's voice trails off entirely.

The sharp lecture she was about to deliver cuts off as her gaze locks onto your hand, flat against the polished wood of the table.

She stares at your middle finger. There, resting securely, is the ring with the dark stone. The very ring Yoongi had worked extra shifts to buy, the one that had been hidden around his neck until you came to claim it.

"You let him convince you to wear that cheap thing again," she says.

"Nobody convinced me of anything," you whisper back. You don't pull your hand away. You keep it right there on the table. "It’s mine and I’m remembering."

"Remembering what?" Your mother scoffs, leaning back in the booth, her arms crossing over her chest. "A fantasy? A phase when you thought living paycheck to paycheck was romantic? Y/N, look at yourself. You are throwing away a stable future for a ghost."

"He isn't a ghost," you say, and for the first time in this entire conversation, a small, genuine smile touches the corner of your lips. "He's sitting right outside."

Your mother stiffens. Automatically, her eyes flicker past your shoulder, tracking your gaze toward the sunlit patio.

Through the glass of the storefront, Yoongi is sitting perfectly still. He doesn't move a muscle. He doesn't acknowledge her existence at all. Across from him, Jin casually takes a sip of his drink.

Your mother’s jaw tightens so hard you can see the sharp line of her cheekbones. The realization hits her all at once. She didn't come here to negotiate with a confused, isolated daughter. She walked into a trap.

"You've made up your mind, then," she says. She slides her untouched iced tea away from her, picking up her designer handbag from the seat beside her. "You're choosing this. You're choosing him. After everything your father and I sacrificed to give you a normal life."

"You sacrificed my identity for your own selfishness," you say, standing up from the booth. "I'm not choosing him over you. I'm choosing my own life. He just happens to be the person who loves me enough to let me live it."

You don't wait for her response. You don't give her the satisfaction of a dramatic goodbye or a final plea for understanding. You simply turn your back on the woman who built your prison, step away from the table, and walk toward the door.

The blast of thick, July heat hits you the moment you push past the heavy glass doors of the cafe, but this time, it doesn't feel suffocating. It feels alive. Yoongi is already on his feet before the door even finishes swinging shut. He meets you at the edge of the patio, his hand naturally finding the small of your back, his touch warm and grounding through your shirt.

"You okay?" He asks quietly, his eyes scanning your face.

"I'm perfect," you say, breathing out a laugh. You reach down, sliding your hand into his, letting your fingers intertwine. The dark stone of your ring presses gently against his palm. "Let's go home."

"Hey," Jin calls out cheerfully, sliding his sunglasses down with a grin as he follows behind you both toward the parking lot. "Since we survived the rescue mission, does this mean you're buying the celebratory fried chicken? Because I did a lot of intense stealthy staring back there, and it really worked up an appetite."

"I brought you as muscle, Jin, not a food critic," Yoongi grumbles.

"Muscle needs protein, Yoongi!" Jin scolds.

You laugh as Jin’s offended muttering fades into the background. Yoongi tightens his fingers arounds yours and leads you towards your car. Behind you, you buried your true ghost. Ahead of you, home was waiting.

You look around the community theater as you fan yourself with the program in your hand. Yoongi is next to you as he waits for his high school kids to take the stage. He’s leaning back in the velvet seat, but his eyes are fixed on the heavy crimson curtains, his thumb rhythmically tapping against the armrest in a fast motion.

"Yoongi," you tease softly, leaning your shoulder against his arm. “Calm down.”

"They're performing outside of the school district bubble today. It's different from the auditorium stuff they usually do." He lets out a small, huffed breath, his thumb finally coming to a halt.

"Why? You said they have practiced for months, right? You told me they know these pieces inside out." You tilt your head, fanning yourself a bit faster with the paper program.

"Because," he says. "When we're at the school, I'm right there at the piano or standing in front of them. If someone loses their place, I can drop a chord to cue them back in. If a string snaps, I'm there with a spare. Today... I'm not up there with them. I'm just a guy in the crowd. They have to save themselves if they trip."

You watch as he looks back at the stage.

"It's terrifying, letting them go out there where I can't catch them," he admits.

"They'll catch themselves, Yoongi," you whisper, sliding your hand over his tapping thumb. "You taught them how to play."

Before he can answer, the house lights begin to fade. The crowd's chatter dies down into a collective hush.

"Here we go," he murmurs.

The heavy curtains part fully to reveal the first act…a four-piece band that looks terrified to be breathing the same air as the audience. The lead guitarist is a lanky kid with his hair completely covering his eyes, clutching his guitar like a shield.

They start with a shaky count. For the first thirty seconds, the bass was a little too loud and the drummer missed a transition, causing Yoongi’s hand to tighten around yours. But by the first chorus, the lanky guitarist found his footing, leaning into the microphone to belt out a raw, energetic rock anthem.

They were loud.

Unpolished.

And completely full of life.

Next is a young girl, sitting behind a massive grand piano. Her hands are visibly trembling as she hovers over the keys. She strikes the first chord of a classical piece and stops. Yoongi doesn't move a muscle. Taking a breath, she starts again. This time, the notes flow beautifully, a stunning melody that completely captivates the room.

The final group of Yoongi's students take the stage with acoustic guitars. Midway through their cover song, a guitarist strums a bit too enthusiastically. With a distinct clink, his guitar pick slipped right through the strings and into the acoustic soundhole. He freezes for a split second, eyes widening in panic. However, remembering Yoongi's training, another kid picks up the rhythm, as the lead singer grins. The guitarist with the lost pick simply uses his thumb to keep strumming, laughing off the mistake.

As the final chord rings out in the old theater. The acoustic group bows, the kid who lost his pick grinning sheepishly as he shakes his guitar upside down to a chorus of laughter from the audience.

​Yoongi is on his feet instantly. He isn't cheering loudly like some of the parents, but the intensity of his applause and the sheer pride radiating off him is unmistakable. As the house lights come back up, he looks down at you clearly relieved.

​"See?" You say, standing up beside him and slipping your arm through his. "No casualties. Even the acoustic soundhole incident was handled with grace."

​"My heart stopped for a full three seconds," he mutters. "Come on. Let's go find them before they eat all the sheet cake in the lobby."

​The backstage hallway is full of tearful parents, and teenagers with post-performance energy. ​Weaving through the crowd, you spot them gathered near a fire exit. A cluster of high school kids holding instrument cases. The lanky rock guitarist is practically floating, high-fiving the bass player, while the young pianist is sitting on an overturned equipment trunk, staring at her hands with a quiet expression.

​"Mr. Min!" The drummer yells, his voice cracking as he points a drumstick toward you both.

​Instantly, the group swarms.

​"Did you hear the transition in the second verse? I totally botched…."

"I thought I was going to throw up on the keys, Mr. Min, seriously, my left hand went completely numb…"

"My pick is still trapped in there, it’s a rattle now, it’s a percussion instrument…."

​Yoongi lets them spill their panic and triumph for a long moment as he simply listens.

​"First of all," Yoongi says, holding his hand up. "The transition was messy, but you covered it before the audience noticed. Second." He turns his dark eyes to the young girl on the trunk, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. "You stopped, you breathed, and you started over. That takes more courage than playing a perfect set."

​The girl’s face lights up.

​"And you." Yoongi glances at the acoustic guitarist. "Buy a pick holder. But good job keeping the rhythm with your thumb. That’s what real musicians do when things go sideways. You didn't look like students today. You looked like artists. I'm proud of you."

​A collective, quiet hush falls over the kids. Coming from anyone else, it might sound like standard praise, but from the notoriously strict, unbothered Mr. Min, it’s a standing ovation.

​As the tension drains from the group, the lanky guitarist’s eyes suddenly wander past Yoongi’s shoulder, locking onto you. He blinks, nudging the drummer with his elbow. Within seconds, a dozen teenage eyes shift from their teacher to you, taking the way you’re standing just a bit close to Yoongi's side.

​The kid who lost his pick squints, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

​"Uh... Mr. Min?" He asks. "Is that your girlfriend?"

​Yoongi freezes.

​"Oh my god," the bass player gasps, leaning forward. "Ooh! Mr. Min has a girlfriend!"

​"Shut up, don't yell it!" The pianist hisses, though she’s already grinning, her eyes darting between you and Yoongi.

​"No, seriously, look at him, he’s turning red," the drummer cackles, pointing a drumstick. "She's way too pretty for you, Mr. Min! How did you pull that off?"

​"Yeah, did you trick her with classical music?" The lanky guitarist chimes in. "Did you play her a sad piano song?"

​"Hey," Yoongi snaps, though his voice lacks any real bite. A faint, dusty pink color is rapidly climbing up his neck and settling into the tips of his ears. He clears his throat, throwing a warning glance at the drummer. "That's enough out of all of you. Pack up your gear before I give you summer homework."

The kids don't scatter immediately. They linger just long enough to let out a chorus of dramatic, high-pitched "Ooooohs" and theatrical sighs before Yoongi glares them down. He gestures aggressively toward the lobby where the promise of sheet cake waits, and finally, with a flurry of trailing giggles and the clatter of loose instrument cases, they scramble down the hallway.

​The heavy fire door clicks shut behind them, cutting off the echo of their laughter and leaving the backstage corridor suddenly, remarkably quiet. The air here feels heavy with the scent of old stage velvet, floor wax, and the residual electricity of a dozen teenagers letting go of their fears.

​You look up at Yoongi, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

​He’s still standing there with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black trousers, his shoulders hunched slightly as that dusty pink color refuses to leave the tips of his ears. He looks incredibly endearing. This fierce, protective man who just went toe-to-toe with your past on Friday, now utterly defeated by the teasing of a few sixteen-year-olds.

​"Unbelievable," Yoongi mutters under his breath, shaking his head as he stares at the empty hallway. "I give them nine and half months of my life and they treat me like a comedy routine. They never grow out of it."

​"They adore you, Yoongi," you say softly, stepping closer into his space. The stiff, clumsy feeling that usually haunts your fingers feels miles away right now. You reach out, your hand slipping naturally around his forearm, the fabric of his button-down smooth beneath your touch.

​He lets out a soft, defeated huff, but his arm relaxes instantly under your hand. He turns his head to look down at you. The flustered expression slowly fading.

​"I wish..." You pause, your voice dropping to a gentle, tentative whisper. You look at fire in his eyes, sureness in stance…the pieces of him that grew while you were trapped in a life that wasn't yours. "I wish I could have seen you become this."

"Become what?" ​Yoongi blinks, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion

​You look toward the door where the kids had just vanished, then look right back into his dark eyes.

​"The man those kids adore," you answer softly. "The teacher who knows exactly when to hold them steady and when to let them trip so they can learn to catch themselves. I missed the part where you became this version of you, Yoongi. The one who builds spaces where people feel safe enough to create."

​The hallway goes completely still.

​"You didn't miss me becoming this person," Yoongi murmurs. "You made me this person. They are loving a version of me that you created."

​"I can hold out hope," you say, your voice cracking as you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, forcing him to see the fierce, simmering anger beneath your tears. "I can stay up every night trying to mold clay, trying to trigger a flash, praying that I will get my memories back. I can hope for that, Yoongi."

​Your grip on him tightens.

​"But I wasn't here," you whisper. "I wasn't in the crowd for your first real recital. I wasn't there to celebrate when you got this job. I didn't get to see you become someone so incredibly important to these kids in real-time. I had to find out from a bunch of sixteen-year-olds teasing you in a hallway."

​The tears finally spill over, hot and fast down your cheeks. Yoongi’s jaw tightens, a hard, protective shadow crossing his face as he listens to the raw grief of your missing years.

​"They took that from me," you choke out. "They locked me in a room. They handed me a blank life, and they let me live a man I couldn't truly love while you were doing this beautiful thing all by yourself. I want my memories back more than anything... but even if I get them, I will never, ever forgive my parents for what they stole."

​Yoongi doesn't try to shush you. He simply listens. Just like he listened to his students.

​"Good," he says bluntly, grabbing your face lightly. "Don't forgive them. You don't owe them peace, Y/N. I don't forgive them either."

​He slides his hands down from your face, wrapping his long fingers securely around yours, lifting your hands until the dark stone of your ring is pressed right against his heart.

​"But look at me," he commands softly.

​You lift your eyes, your vision blurry with tears.

​"They stole the past," Yoongi says, his gaze locked onto yours. "They got to keep those years in the dark. But they don't get today. And they sure as hell don't get the future."

​He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, a tiny smile finally breaking through the heavy tension as he glances toward the fire door.

​"If you want to see me be a teacher, you're going to get sick of it," he promises. "The winter concert is two hours long, the freshman brass section sounds like a dying moose, and I have to grade music theory papers until my eyes cross. You're going to be right there for all of it. I'm going to make sure you don't miss a single second."

​A wet, breathless laugh escapes your lips, and you lean forward, burying your face into the crook of his neck. The tight, defensive armor you’ve been wearing since Tuesday finally begins to unspool, piece by piece, in the quiet backstage corridor. ​Yoongi wraps his arms fully around you, holding you so tightly that the space between you completely vanishes. He rocks you slightly, his hand resting on the back of your head.

“What do you want to do now?” He whispers.

“I think I want to go home,” you look up at him.

“To Leah's?" He asks and you shake your head no.

“No, with you,” you say.

He goes completely still.

For one heartbeat, he just looks at you.

Then the smallest, most disbelieving smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah?" He asks quietly.

"Yeah." You nod.

Not your house. Not Leah's.

Home.

He reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear before resting his forehead against yours.

"I've waited a long time to hear you say that," he whispers.

"I think I've been trying to get there for a while." You smile through the last of your tears.

"You don't have to rush," he murmurs. "One night at a time. One toothbrush. One drawer. One terrible cup of ramen if we're feeling nostalgic."

"I'd like that." You laugh, the sound light and genuine.

He intertwines your fingers with his, the dark stone of your ring catching the backstage lights.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's go home."

Hand in hand, you leave the theater together. Not chasing the life that had been stolen from you anymore, but walking toward the one you were finally building, side by side.

<Next>

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[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN — ”THIS & THAT" TEASER IMAGES 🚚

[linokun]

[cat smile]

[lostbookmark]

MDNI🔞 (TagList Closed)

Main Masterlist here

Before I Forgot here

Summary: Your life was perfect. You had the perfect fiance, the perfect house and the perfect ring on your finger. The only thing that wasn't perfect …. were the memories you lost years ago and the fact your parents won't talk about it.

Pairing: Yoongi x F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt-Comfort, Smut, Mystery.

Warnings: Memory Loss, Swearing, Blood Mention, Unprotected Sex, Mention Of Car Accident, Mention Of Drunk Driver. Will add as I go…

Your bedroom is full of mess and anxiety.

You’re standing in front of the full-length mirror, clutching three separate hangers to your chest. On the bed behind you, Leah is casually lounging across your bed, a glass of white wine balanced expertly on her knee as she watches you pace.

"Alright, let's break it down again," you say, your voice hitting a slightly frantic pitch. You hold up the first option. "The silk plum slip dress. Is it too 'I'm trying to be effortlessly sultry but I actually spent forty minutes using double-sided tape to make sure I don't flash someone’ ?"

"It’s gorgeous. What’s option two?" Leah sips her wine, her eyes tracking the fabric.

You drop the slip dress onto the bed and hold up the second hanger.

"The black wrap dress. Safe. Classic. But is it too casual? Like, am I dressed too casually for a nice dinner?" Before she can answer, you whip out the final hanger. "Or the strapless dress. It’s chic, but what if it slides down while we're walking? What if I have to spend the entire night hitching it up by the armpits in front of him?"

Leah lets out a soft laugh, setting her wine glass down on the nightstand. She rolls onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands as she looks at the mountain of discarded clothes surrounding you.

"Y/N, breathe," she says gently. "They're all stunning. Honestly, you could wear a burlap sack and Yoongi would probably look at you with stars in his eyes. Why are you so incredibly nervous? You were literally going to marry the guy at one point."

You freeze, the hangers heavy in your hands. You look at your reflection in the mirror…the slight flush on your cheeks, the anxious tension in your shoulders…and let out a long, shaky exhale.

"Yeah," you say softly, turning around to face her. "But Leah... I don't remember that."

Leah’s expression softens instantly, the teasing amusement melting out of her eyes.

"I have these fragments, right? I have the cave, and I have the river, and I have these bursts of adrenaline where my heart recognizes him before my brain does," you explain, gesturing vaguely to your chest. "But I don't have the day-to-day. I don't have the rhythm of us."

You drop the dresses onto the edge of the bed and sit down, burying your face in your hands for a second.

"When I was with Corbyn... I knew exactly how to dress for date night," you admit, your voice muffled. "Corbyn was predictable. If we went out, it was always the same three high-end steakhouses or that specific country club lounge. I knew the dress code. I knew he liked tailored, conservative, expensive-looking things that matched his aesthetic. It was like putting on a uniform. It was easy."

You lift your head, looking at Leah with wide eyes.

"I don't know how to dress for Yoongi. I don't know what his version of a real date looks like. Is he taking me to a hole-in-the-wall jazz club where I'll ruin the silk dress? Is he taking me somewhere incredibly fancy where the wrap dress looks lazy? He told me no chaotic campground and no friends screaming, but that's all I have to go on." You squeeze a handful of the strapless dress in your fist. "With Corbyn, I knew the rules. With Yoongi... I'm terrified I'm going to show up looking like a stranger to a man who knows every single detail of my soul."

Leah is quiet for a moment. She slides across the bed, covering your hand with her own and gently loosening your grip on the fabric.

"Hey," she says. "Look at me."

You look up.

"You just said it yourself. Corbyn wanted you to match an aesthetic." Leah points out, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "Yoongi doesn't have a dress code, Y/N. He never did. From everything you've told me... that man isn't looking at the clothes. He’s just wanting you to walk beside him."

She reaches over, grabs the plum silk slip dress, and presses it into your hands.

"Wear this one," Leah decides smoothly, giving your shoulder a playful nudge. "It’s bold. And according to a certain story about a dormroom... we already know Yoongi handles 'bold' very, very well."

"You're terrible." A breathless laugh finally breaks through your anxiety, the tight knot in your stomach loosening just a fraction.

"I'm efficient," Leah corrects, sliding off the bed and heading toward the door to give you space. "Now put it on, fix your hair, and stop overthinking it. Your heart already knows the rules for this one."

The plum silk slip dress feels smooth against your skin, but your hands are still trembling slightly as you apply a final swipe of lip gloss. Downstairs, the front door of Leah’s house echoes with three knocks.

Your stomach flips.

"I've got it!" Leah’s voice rings out from the living room.

You freeze at the top of the stairs, your fingers gripping the banister as you look down into the entryway. Through the banister railings, you watch Leah swing the front door open for Yoongi.

Yoongi is standing on the porch under the warm glow of the entryway light. He’s dressed in a crisp, black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms, dark pants, and clean leather shoes. His hair falls over his forehead in messy waves. He looks incredibly handsome.

Leah doesn't just greet him. She stops dead in her tracks.

Leah plants her hands on her hips, her eyes widening as she shamelessly locks her gaze onto his face, scanning him from head to toe with the intense scrutiny of a best friend.

The silence stretches for a beat too long.

Yoongi’s cool, unbothered posture visibly fractures under the weight of her stare. He awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hand lifting to instinctively rub the back of his neck. He clears his throat, a faint pink flush creeping up his collarbone.

"Uh... hello," Yoongi says. "I'm Yoongi. I'm here to pick up…"

"Wow," Leah cuts him off. "You are nothing like Corbyn."

Yoongi freezes, his hand dropping from his neck. He blinks back at her, completely caught off guard by the blunt opening statement.

"I... apologize?" He says cautiously, unsure if it’s a compliment or not.

"Don't apologize, " Leah says. “Come on in."

You practically fly down the steps, the hem of the plum silk swishing against your shins as you break the heavy tension radiating through the entryway.

​"Leah, knock it off!" You say, your voice a mix of a hiss and a breathless laugh. You step into the entryway, shooting your friend a pointed glare that screams please do not embarrass me.

​Leah doesn't look even remotely guilty. She just raises her eyebrows, gives you a slow, appreciative nod that approves of the dress.

​Yoongi’s eyes instantly snap to you the second your heels hit the hardwood floor. The awkward tension in his shoulders seems to melt, replaced by a quiet, sudden stillness as his gaze tracks down the silk, then back up to your face. For a fraction of a second, the rest of the room completely fades out. The intensity in his eyes makes your heart do that familiar, frantic flip. It's that automatic rush of adrenaline your brain still can't quite map out, but your chest recognizes perfectly.

​Breaking the spell, Yoongi lets out a soft, slightly awkward laugh. He looks between you and Leah, a faint, amused smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips as he lets the initial shock of the greeting roll off him.

​"So..." Yoongi says, his voice low and raspy, sliding his hands comfortably into his pant pockets. "I'm nothing like Corbyn?"

​"Not even a little bit," Leah answers smoothly before you can stop her.

"Leah!" You cut in quickly, a burning flush instantly spreading across your cheeks. You reach out and gently but firmly plant a hand on her shoulder, nudging her toward the kitchen. "That is more than enough for you. Goodbye, go back to your wine."

"What? I'm just surprised! I expected someone in an extremely fitted suit who looked like they were about to audit my taxes. I didn't expect..." She waves a hand vaguely at Yoongi…at the rolled-up sleeves and the silver rings on his fingers. "...this."

​Yoongi lets out another low, quiet chuckle. The faint pink flush is still dusting his cheekbones, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.

​"I'll take that as a compliment," Yoongi says softly, ​He takes a slow step closer, his eyes tracing the line of the plum silk dress. ​"You look... beautiful, Y/N. Truly."

"Have fun, kids. Don't do anything I wouldn't do…which leaves the floor wide open, honestly." Leah winks.

​"Leah, I swear to God," you mutter.

​"Don't worry. I'll have her back by a reasonable hour.” Yoongi smirks at you.

“Please don't,” Leah replies and disappears.

"She’s intense," Yoongi says softly, after she disappears. "She cares about you."

"Yeah, she does," you reply, though a genuine smile tugs at your lips as you smooth down the front of the plum silk. "I'm sorry about the Corbyn comments."

Yoongi lets out a low hum, taking a final step forward closing the distance between you. He brings one hand out of his pocket, and for a second, you think he’s going to touch your cheek. Instead, he reaches past you, his silver rings shining under the light as his fingers grab the handle of the front door.

He doesn't open it yet. He just stands there, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Don't apologize for her, and definitely don't apologize for him," Yoongi says. His eyes search yours, tracking the subtle tightness in your shoulders. "You're overthinking again. Stop."

"I am not," you lie.

"Y/N." He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I know you better than you know yourself right now. Relax. There’s no test tonight."

He’s right.

Your brain doesn't remember your own nervous habits, but he does. It’s terrifying, but in the same breath, a massive wave of relief washes over you. Leah was right. There is no uniform. There are no rules to memorize.

"Okay. Fine. I'm a little nervous." You let out the breath you were holding, your shoulders finally dropping.

​"Why?" He asks, his voice barely above a murmur. It isn't defensive. It’s genuinely curious. "You're wearing the perfect dress, your friend didn't physically assault me, and I promised no campgrounds. What’s making that head of yours spin?"

​You look down at his silver rings still resting near the door handle, then back up into his dark eyes.

​"Because it's our first date," you say softly.

​Yoongi blinks, a brief flash of surprise crossing his features before a faint, knowing smile starts to touch the corners of his lips. He opens his mouth to speak…likely to remind you of some late-night diner or hidden memory your brain hasn't recovered yet…but you hold up a hand, cutting him off gently.

​"Well..." You offer him a small, incredibly vulnerable smile, your voice dipping lower. "For me, it's our first date."

​The quiet amusement melts off his face. The weight of your words hangs in the air between you, a reminder of the invisible gap left by your missing memories. You watch his throat move as he swallows.

​Slowly, Yoongi drops his hand from the door handle. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he carefully reaches out and cups the side of your face, his palm warm and solid against your flushed cheek. His thumb brushes gently over your cheekbone, your body leans into it before your brain can even process the motion.

​"Our first date," Yoongi repeats. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before locking back onto your eyes. "Okay. If it's a first date, then I need to properly make a good impression."

​"You already look incredibly handsome, Yoongi," you tease breathlessly. "The impression is made."

​"Good," he smirks, as his thumb gives your cheek one last, lingering caress before he steps back and fully opens the front door. "Then let's start from scratch."

Yoongi pulls into a parking spot near the town's river walk. The area is beautiful…a brick-lined pathway illuminated by fairy lights woven into the trees, stretching alongside the dark, shimmering water.

He leads you toward a small, upscale bistro right on the water's edge. The outdoor patio is shielded by glass panels, strings of warm bistro lights hanging overhead, and the soft sound of the river lapping against the stone walls below. As the hostess seats you at a candlelit table right by the railing, you look around in awe.

"Wow," you breathe, as you look out at the reflection of the lights dancing on the river. "Yoongi, this is incredible."

"Yeah?" He pulls out his chair and sits across from you. "You like it?"

"I love it," you say honestly. You open the menu, scanning the options. You look up at him through the candle glow. "I've never been here before. Have we... did you bring me here before the accident? Is this one of our old spots?"

Yoongi rests his forearms on the table, leaning in slightly. He shakes his head, a soft, incredibly tender look in his eyes.

"No," he says. "I've never been here either."

"Really? I just assumed...you would pick somewhere we've been before,” you tell him.

"Nah." Yoongi lets out a quiet, amused chuckle, his gaze drifting to the water before locking back onto yours. "I spent three hours looking up places when we got back home from camping. I wanted somewhere on the water, somewhere quiet, a place we didn't have history with."

He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against yours over the white tablecloth.

"You said it yourself back at the house, Y/N. For you, this is our first date," Yoongi says softly. "I didn't want to take you somewhere and expect you to chase ghosts or force yourself to remember a ghost of us. If we're starting from scratch... I wanted a place that belongs completely to the two of us tonight. No past versions of us. Just you and me, right now."

"Yoongi," you murmur, a breathless, radiant smile breaking across your face as you squeeze his fingers back. "You are really, really good at first dates."

"Told you. No test tonight. Now, let's figure out what we're eating." He smiles.

The waiter arrives a few minutes later. After taking your orders for the entrees, he gathers the heavy, leather-bound menus from your hands. With a polite nod, he disappears back into the warm glow of the indoor dining room.

Yoongi reaches for his glass, lifting it to take a sip. His eyes never leave yours over the rim. When he sets the glass back down, his fingers linger on the stem, turning it slightly.

"Y/N," he starts. "Can I ask you something? Something a little personal?"

“Of course.” You nod.

He nods slowly, but he doesn't speak right away. He looks down at the white tablecloth, seemingly gathering his words, before his gaze locks back onto yours.

"Jimin mentioned something to me awhile back," Yoongi says, his tone quiet. "He said... he didn't think you were as happy with Corbyn as everyone first assumed. Something about... no phones allowed. A rule or something."

He pauses.

You take a drink from your own glass and look away.

"Did you love him?" He asks softly. “Because that day at Jimin's studio when you first walked back into our lives… you couldn't answer that question.”

​"At one point... I think I did," you say softly, turning your eyes back to meet his. You trace the rim of your glass with a fingertip, choosing your words with careful honesty. "Or at least, I loved the version of my life I thought I was supposed to want."

​Yoongi doesn't move. He doesn't flinch or look away. He just listens.

​"I don't want him to be made out to be a monster," you continue, your voice steadying. "He wasn't. I had … nothing after the accident. When Corbyn came along it was like suddenly I had plans and a boyfriend. Then…I had everyone telling me how perfect he was. My parents, Leah, and even my doctors were saying he was doing a perfect job with helping me. It was like ... everyone around me was building this life for me, and I just went along with it," you explain, your voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Before I knew it,” you sigh. “My life completely fit his. Shared calendar, boring wardrobe for dinners at the country club. I knew what to expect everyday.”

​"And the phone rule?" Yoongi asks.

His eyes are fixed on yours, intense but completely devoid of judgment. He's just absorbing information, trying to understand the years he missed. Trying to understand this new life of yours.

​"The no phones rule was no phones after 8:30 PM," you admit. "He told me it messes with my sleep cycle. With my brain recovery. He had all these articles printed out about blue light and neurological healing."

"Did it?" He asks softly, with a tilt of his head. "Did it actually help your sleep cycle?"

​You take a slow breath, looking down at the white tablecloth. The memory of those quiet evenings in Corbyn's perfectly curated house flashes through your mind.

​"I don't know," you say honestly, lifting your gaze to meet his. "I really don't know, Yoongi. I just know that after 8:30, I felt entirely cut off from the rest of the world. If I couldn't sleep, I just lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering who I used to be before the accident. Why my parents would suddenly change the conversation when I would ask questions. I thought the suffocating feeling was just my trauma. I didn't realize it was the environment I was living in."

​Yoongi’s expression softens, a deep, quiet understanding passing through his eyes. He doesn't launch into a speech about how controlling it was, and he doesn't trash Corbyn's name. Instead, he just reaches across the table again, his warm palm settling flat against the tablecloth, leaving it open for you.

​"Well," Yoongi says. "Good thing it's past 8:30 PM right now."

​You look down at his hand, then slide your fingers into his.

​"So," you tease softly, squeezing his hand. "What are the rules for a Min Yoongi first date?"

​"Rule number one." He smirks . "You use your phone whenever the hell you want. Rule number two... if you can't sleep, you call me. Doesn't matter if it's 2:00 AM or 4:00 AM. And rule number three..." He looks down at the plum silk dress, his eyes darkening. "You look perfect just like this.”

The waiter returns a moment later, carefully setting down two steaming plates between you. The rich, savory aroma of the food fills the space, effectively cutting through the heavy ghost of Corbyn's rules.

​"To no rules," you say softly, lifting your water glass in a mini-toast.

"To living again." ​Yoongi says, clinking his glass against yours with a faint, genuine smile.

You step out of the patio and onto the brick-lined pathway. The night is gorgeous. Above you, strings of warm fairy lights are woven tightly into the overhanging branches, casting a soft glow over the pathway. To your right, the dark river stretches out, reflecting the shimmering lights of the town.

Yoongi falls into step beside you, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets as he matches his stride to yours. For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. It isn't an awkward silence. It’s the comfortable, quiet of two people simply enjoying each other's presence.

"You know," you say softly, as you look out over the water, "I was terrified I’d ruin this dress if we went somewhere chaotic. But this is perfect."

"Yeah? The dress survived?" Yoongi lets out a low chuckle, his head tilting toward you.

"Barely," you tease, looking over at him. "I had a whole crisis before you arrived. I was convinced I was going to show up looking completely wrong for whatever you had planned."

Yoongi stops walking. He turns his body toward you, leaning one hip casually against the stone railing that separates the path from the river.

"You’re not the only one," he says with a faint smirk.

"What do you mean?" You blink, turning to face him fully.

Yoongi rubs the back of his neck, a sudden faint pink flush creeping right back up his collarbone under the fairy lights. He looks down at his clean leather shoes, letting out a quiet laugh.

"I changed my shirt three times before I even left the house," he admits.

"You did?" You let out a soft gasp.

"Yeah," he says, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours. "First I put on a jacket and tie, but then I thought, No, I'm trying too hard. So I took that off and tried a plain t-shirt under the jacket. Then I decided that looked like I didn't care enough."

He pauses, shaking his head at the memory.

"I finally settled on a completely different button-down," Yoongi continues. "And I was literally halfway out the door when Jimin video-called me. He didn't even say hello. He just stared at the screen, gave me this incredibly judgmental, funny look, and said, 'Are you seriously wearing that color to a first date?'"

"Oh my god. What color was it?" You laugh.

"It doesn't matter," Yoongi cuts in quickly, before he laughs along with you. "The point is, I ran back inside, tore it off, and put this black one on."

You step closer to him and place your hands on his chest.

"Yoongi," you say softly. "Were you actually nervous too?"

Yoongi’s smile softens. He takes one hand out of his pocket and reaches forward. He doesn't hold back this time. His fingers gently slide over yours, his silver rings cool against your skin as he intertwines his fingers with yours.

"Of course I was," he murmurs. "Y/N... it's our first date."

The brick path curves slightly, leading the two of you deeper into the quiet stretch of the river walk as you continue your walk. Your fingers stay tightly laced with Yoongi’s. Yoongi looks down at your hands, then glances up at the sky, a playful, soft smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well," he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble in the quiet night. "It’s officially getting late. I suppose I should get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

You stop walking dead in your tracks.

Yoongi keeps going for half a step before the tension in your linked fingers pulls him back. He turns around, his dark eyes looking at you in confusion. Before he can ask, you step closer, letting go of his fingers only to wrap your hand firmly around his forearm. You hold onto him right there under the golden glow of the fairy lights.

"I don't want to go home," you say softly.

Yoongi’s playful expression falters. He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up to your face.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

"Yoongi," you say, softly. "You know what I mean."

​He doesn't answer right away. The playful, confident smirk he wore just a moment ago completely vanishes. ​Slowly, his arm shifts beneath your grip. He turns his hand, his long fingers sliding down to wrap firmly around your wrist, his thumb resting right over your racing pulse.

​"Y/N," he murmurs. He takes a single step closer, closing the final inch of distance until the hem of your plum silk dress brushes against his pants. "Are you sure? Because if we go back to my place... if we cross that line tonight... "

​"I am sure," you say. "I was sure that day in the RV and I'm sure now. I want to see what our rhythm feels like."

​A quiet, breathless sound escapes his lips…halfway between a sigh and a laugh. The sheer relief and longing in his expression make your chest ache in the best way possible.

​"Okay," Yoongi whispers. “Okay.”

His home feels different.

The last time you crossed his doorway, your chest had been tight with a mix of panic and betrayal. You had practically forced your way in, demanding answers about a life you couldn't remember. You had been hunting for the pieces of your past that he had hidden away. That night, the house had felt like a place you wanted to run from.

​But tonight? Tonight, it looks softer.

Inviting.

​Yoongi doesn't immediately move to rush the moment. Instead, he leans his back against the closed door, his hands still tucked loosely into his pockets. His gaze is entirely fixed on you.

​"Still sure?" He asks.

"I'm sure," you say softly.

​Your voice is barely above a whisper. You don't step toward him, and you don't reach out. You just hold his gaze, letting the absolute certainty in your tone speak for itself.

He lets out a slow, shaky exhale through his nose. A breath he looks like he’s been holding since you were standing on the brick pathway by the river. ​The corner of his mouth twitches upward, not with his usual teasing smirk, but with a tender smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.

​"Okay," Yoongi murmurs.

​Slowly, he takes his hands out of his pockets and steps away from the door, finally closing the distance between you. He moves slowly, as if any sudden movement might startle the fragile reality you’re both building. When he finally stops, he’s close enough that the warmth radiating from his chest bleeds through the thin silk of your dress. He doesn't touch you yet. He just hovers there, looking down at you, searching your face as if memorizing this brand-new starting point.

Slowly, Yoongi lifts his hands. His fingers are careful as they find the bare skin of your shoulders, his palms warm and solid. He doesn't pull you in immediately. Instead, his thumbs trace the delicate lines of your collarbones. Your eyes flutter shut for a split second, your head tilting back slightly as your body responds to his touch. When you open your eyes again, his gaze is fixed entirely on your mouth.

"I've missed you," he whispers. "God, Y/N, you have no idea how much."

He leans down, and then, there is no more distance. The kiss isn't a frantic, desperate collision. It is deep, heavy, and achingly slow that makes your knees feel suddenly weak. A quiet, breathless sigh escapes you, and the sound seems to undo something inside him.

Yoongi’s hands slide up from your shoulders, his long fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck to cradle your head, holding you perfectly still against him. He shifts his weight, pressing closer until his chest flush against yours. Pulling back he looks down at you.

“Let's go find our rhythm again," he whispers.

The moonlight through his bedroom window painted everything in shades of silver. The dinner clothes are now slightly wrinkled. You are on his bed and his mouth was on yours in a kiss that was less about exploration and more about a desperate, searching recognition.

He pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. His dark eyes search yours in the dim light.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “What do you like now?”

The answer should have been simple.

The only map you had led back to Corbyn…to his careful, predictable touches, his considerate, passionless routine. The sex always seemed to be scheduled like everything else, leaving you feeling emptier than before. The shame of that admission still burns your cheeks.

“I… I don’t know,” you whisper. “The only… the only sex I know is…”

“Boring,” he finishes for you, making you nod.

“Show me,” you breathe, the words barely audible. “Show me what I liked before. With you.”

For a moment, he is perfectly still, looking down at you as if memorizing this moment, your plea. Then, a fierce, determined look floods his gaze. He pushes himself down the bed. His hands go to the waistband of your underwear, his fingers hooking under the lace. He doesn't ask, he doesn't take them down slowly. In one smooth motion, he pulls them down your legs and off, tossing the scrap of fabric aside into the shadows.

He doesn't give you time to feel self-conscious. With his hands firm on your thighs, he pushes your knees apart. He holds your gaze for one second,before he lowers his head and buries his face between your legs.

It isn't tentative.

It isn't polite.

It’s a deep stroke from your opening all the way up to your clit, that made you arch off the bed with a sharp cry. Your hands fly to his hair holding him to you.

This, your body tells you. You know this.

His mouth is relentless, his tongue circling, flicking, pressing in exactly the right ways, as if he has a map etched into his memory. As you are lost in the sensation of his tongue, you feel the pressure of a finger at your entrance, testing, before sliding deep inside you in one smooth, perfect thrust.

You sob his name.

He adds a second finger, curling them perfectly, finding a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, all while his mouth continues its devastating work on your clit. It’s too much.

It’s everything.

As you shatter, crying out into the moonlit room, your body clenches around his fingers, one thought goes through your head and it's completely clear.

It was never boring. With him, it was never, ever boring.

"You want me to show you what else you liked?" He asks as he presses kisses against your inner thighs.

You could tell him no. You could tell him that you want to stay in the present like you had all night. You can't though.

Not now.

Nodding your head, Yoongi sighs against your thigh and raises to his knees between your thighs. Reaching up, his fingers find the delicate straps of your dress and he carefully pulls them down your arms until he can fully pull the dress off you.

"With him," Yoongi begins. "It was a checklist, wasn't it? Something couples do." He doesn't wait for confirmation. His hands trail up your sides, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just below your ribs. His touch is re-memorizing you. "With me… you liked to be known. Not just touched. Known."

He leans forward bracing himself on one arm beside your head. You can feel the warmth of him as he hovers over you. He still didn't kiss you. His eyes searching yours.

"You liked to take your time. You hated rushing." A faint ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You'd get annoyed if I tried to hurry you along. You said…" He pauses. "You said, 'The best parts are in the in-between.'"

Slowly, he lowers his weight onto you. You feel the fabric of his pants against your bare legs, the cotton of his shirt against your breasts. He settles his hips into the cradle of yours, and you feel him hard through the fabric against your core.

A soft gasp escapes you.

"You liked this," he murmurs, his lips now close to your ear, his breath warm. "The friction. The promise of it. You'd roll your hips against me, just like this, for what felt like hours. Driving us both mad." To illustrate, he shifts, a slow, grinding rock of his pelvis against yours. The pressure, even through the layers, was amazing. His hands come up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

“And you loved to be looked at," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You just… you loved the feeling of my eyes on you. You'd watch me watching you, and you'd get this little smile." He searches your face now, as if looking for that smile. "Like you had a secret. Like you were the most fascinating thing in my world, and you knew it."

He began to move again, that same slow, torturous rock, a deep, rhythmic press that made your back arch slightly, seeking more. One of his hands drifts from your face, down the column of your throat, over the swell of your breast. He palmed you, his touch firm as his thumb circling your nipple. You let out a shaky breath.

"You were vocal," he says. "Not loud, not for the sake of being loud. You'd sigh. You'd whisper. You'd tell me what felt good. 'Right there,' you'd say. Or 'slower.' Or 'more.'" His hand left your breast, trailing down your stomach. "You never just lay there. You participated."

His fingers dips lower, but doesn't go straight to your core. His fingertips dance across your knee, the sensitive skin of your inner leg, learning you all over again.

You were trembling.

Finally, his fingers find you, wet and ready. He doesn't push inside. He simply strokes you, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of reaction on your face.

"You liked this," he states softly. "The teasing. You'd get so wet, so impatient, but you loved the torture of it. You'd bite your lip, your eyes begging me, but you'd never rush me."

He was right.

You are biting your lip now, your hips making tiny circles against his hand. The pleasure was a slow, deep burn, so different from the fire he'd made with his mouth.

"Look at me," he breathes, and you do. "This is what you liked. The connection. The… conversation."

Ripping himself away from you, Yoongi sheds his clothes quickly before resuming his spot on top of you. Taking himself in his hand, he rubs the tip of his length along your opening several times. He pushes forward slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as he fills you. He's breathing heavily, his forehead pressed to yours, his body shaking slightly as he tries to stay still.

"You loved this moment most of all," he gasps. "The full feeling. You'd wrap your legs around me and just… hold me here."

You lick your lips, blinking up at him.

"Then," he whispers. "When you couldn't stand it anymore, you'd move. You'd set the pace."

You understand. This was your show. Your rediscovery. You tentatively rock your hips, a shallow, experimental movement. The friction was unbelievable. A low groan rumbles in his chest, encouraging you.

Feeling good about yourself, you do it again…and again. You find a rhythm, slow and deep, your bodies moving together. Your hands come up to his shoulders, before pulling him down for a kiss. You move together under the moonlight. It isn't dramatic and frenzied. There are sighs, whispered names, the soft slap of skin, the creak of the bed. You watch his face, the way his eyes closed in pleasure when you angled your hips.You watch the way his lips part when he slides in a bit deeper making you moan out.

The room grows thick with the scent of sweat and sex. The creak of the bedframe matching the wet sounds of your bodies joining again and again. His breath hitches against your mouth when you angled your hips higher.

"Just like that," he whispers.

Your legs tighten around his waist, heels urging him closer as the slow rhythm builds. The heat pools low in your belly and spreads outward in waves. His hand roams your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast before cupping it fully, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you arched and gasped his name.

You move together, skin sliding on skin, his lips finding yours in messy, open kisses. A low groan escapes him when your inner walls start to pulsate around him. That coil inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to come undone.

The rhythm shifts suddenly, his hips snapping harder against yours as the slow grind gives way to urgent, deeper thrusts that rocks you up the bed. Each powerful drive of his cock sent jolts of raw pleasure through your core. You gasp as you clench around his length while the wet slap of skin fills the room.

"You always liked this part the best," he rasps against your ear, voice straining with effort, his fingers tightening on your hip to hold you steady as he thrusts into you with growing intensity.

"What part?" You choke out and his dark eyes locked on yours.

"Falling apart around me." The admission sends a fresh wave through you, your walls pulsing tighter as he drives into you faster.

The words strike deep, unraveling the last threads of your control. Your body seizes around him with a choked sob, your core clenching in rhythmic, desperate pulses that milk his cock as the orgasm crashes through you. Pleasure floods every nerve, your thighs shaking against his hips, breasts heaving against his chest. Your fingers trail down his back as he follows with a deep groan, his hips stuttering as your inner walls pulsate around him. His grip on you tightens, holding you flush against him as he buries himself inside of you deeper. He doesn't let you go as the tremors slowly ease, leaving you both trembling in the moonlight of his room.

Reaching up, you brush his damp hair back from his forehead, and he settles his head against your chest. You stare up at the shadows of the tree branches dancing across the ceiling, your fingers absentmindedly combing through his hair. It was like they know what to do.

You know they did.

You had asked him to help you find your rhythm again.

As you lie there wrapped in his warmth, you think maybe he had.

<Next>

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[ino-tears]

La Creazione di Seungmin / The Creation of Seungmin, digital collage, 2026 DO NOT REPOST

[hyunpic]

just started speaking in tongues.

[minchns]

GG EZ

[minyoonjin]

💜

[minyoonjin]

LOOK HOW HAPPY HE IS 😭

[rockpaperskzers]

✦ FOREVER X FENDI ✦ ch 4

[ fic masterlist ]

Chapter Four: Compromise x Fendi

It felt like Lucia was never going to stop parading you around for pictures and interviews. Typically, these events are a breeze—just socializing and chatting about your favorite pieces from the show.  You’re accustomed to being stared at, but tonight everyone is literally gawking at you and Chan with your hands intertwined.

You anticipated feeling unusually nervous and perhaps even a bit uncomfortable. But what you hadn’t expected was having Chan at your side cancel those feelings out.

Correct.

His final word echoes in your head all night. You don’t know how or why he’s so sure of himself, but his confidence calms you. You figure the least you can do is try to match the effort he’s putting into this and that helps you get through the night.  

A whopping three hours of lies and fake smiles later, you’re both finally ushered outside the venue and into an awaiting car. Lucia stands next to the open door and hands your phones back. They’re both lighting up and vibrating like crazy.

“Trending already,” she beams.

You grab both phones since you’re closer and pass Chan his.

“Have you decided on Los Angeles or New York for your residence?” she asks, as if you’ve had ample time to consider your impending shared living arrangement and not just twenty-four hours.

“We haven’t talked about it yet,” you say, glancing at Chan.

“L.A. would make it easier to see my family.”

A pang of something you aren’t ready to deal with stabs at your chest.

His decision is based on family.

You were prepared to base your decision solely on weather.

“I’m good with that.”

“Perfect.” Lucia says. “We’ll send over a few options and schedule the engagement shoot there, too. Keep your phones close.”

She starts to close the door, then stops to add:

“And don’t forget to interact with some of the posts. Likes, comments—you know the drill.”

It isn’t until you and Chan verbally confirm you will that she closes the door.

You exhale heavily as the car takes off to the hotel, feeling absolutely drained from the evening. If it weren’t for this, you would have been on your way to the after-after party. But you can no longer attend such events on a whim by yourself without it being seen as trouble in paradise.

The shackles are already firmly in place.

And as your phone continues to ping with notification after notification, that fact really starts to sink in.

You’d much rather not acknowledge any of this right now, but you don’t have a choice. Maintaining this façade is now part of your job. So, you open Instagram and a video of you and Chan on Elle Magazine’s account is the first thing that greets you. The caption overhead reads: LOVE & FASHION IN THE AIR.

“You two left quite an impression on the runway. What was that moment?” the interviewer asks.

“I’d like to see anyone do better after turning around and seeing Chan in that outfit,” you answer with a small chuckle. “I was a little caught off guard, in the best way, and it doesn’t help that I had a lot on my mind . . . ”

You watch yourself step into Chan, pressing your side against him, and place your left-hand square on his chest.

You can still remember the rapid beating of his heart beneath your touch. How heat radiated from the spot on your waist where his hand rested.

She audibly gasps. “When did that happen? Unless I missed something, I didn’t even know you two were dating.”

“We worked hard to keep it between us until we were sure,” Chan answers. “The engagement was recent . . . I’m very lucky she said yes.”

You glance up at him.

He looks down at you and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

It baffles you how natural it all comes off.

“When is the wedding?”

“All will be announced soon,” you smile coyly.

“Well, we look forward to hearing it. Congratulations,” the interviewer says. “Mind if we get another look at the ring?”

You pause the video there—you don’t need to see that part.

The damned thing is still on your finger.

You open the comments, wondering if the good or bad ones are having their turn at the top of the algorithm.

It turns out to be a mixture of everything.

OMG I'M SCREAMING 😭😭😭

Congratulations to her but I am currently in mourning

That forehead kiss was everything. Chan is so sweet. y/n is so lucky

THE RING?? HELLO??

Need somebody to explain this timeline to me

Their babies will be perfection

The way she smiles when he talks about her 🥰

Chan I'm free tomorrow if this doesn't work out

Y/N. GIRL. YOU WON.

If only they knew.

You double tap on the video out of pure obligation.

“It looks like you’ve got some backup options if this doesn’t work out,” you muse, setting your phone down, already over it.

Chan snorts, putting his phone down too.

You turn slightly to face him. This is the first time you’ve been alone since leaving the storage closet. The first time either of you have had a moment to think about all that’s coming next.

“Are we—”

“I know we—”

You both begin at the same time before pausing.

“You first,” you tell him.

“I know we have different reasons for not wanting this, but I think we should look at it as a business deal . . . a partnership with each other, if you will.”

Oh.

That’s not what you expected.

You wanted to ask how many rooms the apartment should have and call dibs on the master bedroom.

“There’s a lot of very real legal shit hanging over our heads and if we focus on that, we’ll be miserable,” he continues. “I don’t want that. We were friends before this and I’d like to say the same when this is over, yeah?”

You nod slowly, letting that sink in for a moment. The sentiment is certainly nice to hear after all that was said in his hotel room yesterday.

You probably wouldn’t have addressed it at all.

Chan clearly doesn’t have a problem expressing himself, though. And you can tell by the way he’s looking at you, he expects you to do the same.

“What are we telling our friends?” you ask instead.

He takes a beat before responding. “They get the same story as everyone else.”

“They wouldn’t tell anyone . . . ”

“I know, but we can’t risk them talking about it and someone overhearing. It’s easier to keep the narrative intact with fewer people knowing the truth.”

You can get away with lying to Seungmin via text, but you aren’t sure it will hold up in person.

“Okay,” you agree. “If they have follow up questions, I’m telling them to call you.”

Your phone vibrates again. Then again. And again.

Another article and a new round of commentary.  

“It’s a good thing, y/n,” Chan reminds you. “We keep them talking, we keep Fendi happy, and Lucia stays off our back.”

Thousands of strangers discussing your personal life, even if contrived, doesn’t feel like a good thing. In terms of your current predicament, though, he’s right.

Keeping Lucia at bay is probably the only thing you have any control over right now. You can at least use that as some sort of motivation.

Between traveling, packing, choosing a new apartment, and fielding texts about the engagement, you’ve hardly had a moment to just breathe in days. Everything feels like it’s moving at warp speed and you’re just being pulled along on the ride.

Seungmin already called bullshit on the whole ordeal. You promised you’d explain more in person to buy yourself some time, but you have no idea what you can tell your best friend to make him believe this.

Your mother, on the other hand, is just dying to know when she’ll meet her future son-in-law. It doesn’t shock you that she asks nothing at all about him. Her main concern is how this will elevate your platform and, in turn, her social status amongst the other moms in the neighborhood.

That’s all any of your accomplishments have ever meant to her.

By the time you arrive at the high-rise residential building in Los Angeles that will be your home for the duration of the contract, you’re running on fumes.

You head to the 25th floor and stop at the front door, hands poised in front of the keypad as dread fills the pit of your stomach.

When Lucia sent a list of fully furnished rental options, you didn’t think you and Chan would ever come to an agreement on one. He wanted a place with ample kitchen space—you’re a DoorDash kind of girl and didn’t care too much about it. You wanted something in the city, he was okay living on the outskirts of town.

It was your first test of compromise as a fake couple.

Picking the place was easy. Actually being here? Not so much.

This is where you will live with Chan.

You’ve lived with roommates before.

Never a fiancé.

This is a new kind of domestic cohabitation.

“You just gonna stand there or you comin’ in?”

You jump at the sound of Chan’s disembodied voice disrupting your thoughts. Your eyes dart to the Ring camera on the side of the door.

He’s already connected to it?

You squint at the camera.

He laughs. “Shoes off, yeah?”

 “Acting like you own the place already?”

You unlock the door and step inside, taking your shoes off as requested, before walking through the short hall and into the open living space. The afternoon light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. To your right is a couch, coffee table, and TV. And to your left, the kitchen.

Which is where Chan is.

“What are you doing?” you ask, bewildered.

He has all the cabinets open and every plate, cup, pot, pan on the island.  

He glances over his shoulder. “Putting away the dishes.”

“Weren’t they already in the cabinet?”

“Yeah . . . but not the right ones,” he explains, resuming his task.

You inwardly flinch. Your mother is the only other person you’ve known to believe that some cabinets might be more correct than others. Everything has a place, she had always said. She ran a strict program, and you do not want the next few years to feel like you’re living with her.

You walk to the refrigerator. “I can order some food—"

You open it to find it fully stocked.

“You bought groceries already?” you close it and lean against the island.

“My bad. I knew your flight was coming in later than mine,” he says, putting a stack of plates in a cabinet near the stove. “Your boxes came. I put them in your room.”

“You didn’t unpack them for me?” you tease, brow quirked.

“Nah, that’s all you. But I will make dinner.”

You know it’s not his intention, but within the first few minutes of being here, it feels like you’re moving into his home.

You leave him to his organizing and walk back down the hall, entering the master bedroom on the right.  All of your boxes are lined along the wall—a box cutter resting atop one of the stacks.

Of course he'd left one for you.

You slice through the tape on the nearest box and begin unpacking. Every so often you hear movement from the kitchen—cabinets closing, running water, the beeping of appliances.

By the time you’re halfway through the stacks, the smell of garlic and butter wafts into your room. Your stomach immediately growls.

To hell with unpacking. The boxes aren’t going anywhere.

You return to the kitchen. The island is now free of clutter and Chan is pan searing two steaks.

“Almost done,” he says. “Have a seat and I’ll bring it over.”

You opt for the seat facing the window and a few minutes later Chan is setting a plate down in front of you. The steak has already been sliced, with asparagus laid beside it.

The setting sun spilling through the windows is the kind of thing that would be romantic for a couple sharing their first night in their new apartment.

But the conversation over dinner is the opposite of that. It’s mundane and mechanical. You talk about household chores, preferred thermostat temperatures, your schedules, upcoming public appearances, and the type of content you can create for engagement.

On that note, he pushes his empty plate away and asks, “Where’s your ring?”

“In my room,” you answer. “We aren’t in public . . . ”

“Can you go grab it for a sec? We should probably take a picture.”

Your notifications had just started to quiet down.

You push away from the table reluctantly and go to your room. You find your purse and fish it out from the side pocket amidst bobby pins and gum wrappers. You slip the ring on as you return to the living room—stopping in the kitchen when you see Chan at the sink already rinsing your plates and putting them into the dishwasher.

He turns off the water and dries his hands before taking out his phone and walking to the window, motioning for you to join him. He takes your left hand in his, bringing you to his side. The gesture is smooth and feels natural, but that doesn’t stop a wave of heat from rolling through you at the contact.

He raises your hand, pointing the camera at it with the L.A. night sky as a backdrop. He then brings you to stand in front of him, hand still outstretched with the ring on your finger angled at the camera.

“Is my face in this?”

“Yeah, it’ll be out of focus, though.”

You both slip with ease into your professional personas. He snaps away, moving the camera around for higher and lower angles as you pose.

He airdrops you the photos when your mini photoshoot is over.

“We should probably talk about expectations and boundaries too,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like how to make sure we’re both comfortable in public. Some level of PDA will be required.”

“You say that like you haven’t already shoved your tongue down my throat, Chan.”

“That was one time,” he flushes. “In private.”

You’ve been so caught up in packing for the move and lying to anyone who asked you about the engagement that you hadn’t thought about that aspect of shared living.

Okay, that’s not true.

You definitely thought about it a few times.

But what’s tripping you up is the way he said one time.

As if it won’t happen again.

“Will there be more of that in private?” you ask.

The question throws him. His flush deepens.

You weren’t sure if Bashful Bang had disappeared forever, but there he is.

You take a step closer as your preferred kind of tension fills the space between you.

“You do know what husbands and wives do, don’t you?” You take another step, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders before pushing up onto your tiptoes. “Or are you expecting us to remain celibate this entire time?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“You.”

You lay your feet flat on the ground.

“If we have sex, it can’t just be casual for me.”

Well fuck.

Casual is exactly what you were hoping for. It has rules and doesn’t require anything more of you.

“Isn’t that smarter since we know it won’t last?” you ask, stroking the nape of his neck.

He places his hands on your hips, holding you firmly.

“Wouldn’t it be better if it meant something either way?”

You shrug.

He pulls you to him, pressing your body flush against him. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Believe me, I know it would feel good, too,” he begins softly. “And I’m not immune to you, y/n. But if we start adding sex to this, it could get messy without some level of mutual respect and trust holding it together.”

“Is this a hard line for you?”

He doesn’t answer.

His hands remain on your hips, thumbs absentmindedly brushing against the fabric of your shirt.

You’re not sure if he’s thinking or reconsidering.

Either way, he’s taking too long.

You rise up onto your tiptoes again, letting your lips brush against the corner of his jaw.

“You said kissing was okay before, right?” you murmur against his skin.

A quiet laugh escapes him.

“I did.”

Emboldened, you trail another kiss just below his ear.

His grip tightens ever so slightly.

“Let me take you on a date," he whispers.

You pull away from him, eyes locking with his.

For you, if you start adding that to the mix is when it would get messy.

It appears you’ve reached your second test of compromise.

And this one won’t be as easy to get through.

[ forever x fendi photobook ]

a/n: he wants it, she wants it, WE want it...ugh. sorry this is so short! we're going to push chans buttons and see seungmin in london for their fashion week next chapter. more coming soon :)

how are ya'll feeling with the world tour announcement? i'm so excited. i saved money this time around 😂

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