jimin’s illeee-girl

Caroline • 23 • INTJ

[illeee-girl]

Masterlist

One Shots:

Jimin reads you his book

Taehyung takes you on a date to a jazz club

Jungkook takes care of you when you’re sick

Namjoon takes you on a Spring bike ride

Full-length Fics:

La La(chimolala) Land (Jimin x reader)

You Infire Me (Yoongi x reader)

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me

yoongi x reader genre: fluff, some angst warnings: mc with mental health issues

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

You're a senior in college, about to finish up and escape the small town of Hunsaker, West Virginia forever. You've also got intense anxiety bubbling up within you, threatening to pull you apart at the seams. Your last fall semester has come, and it's time to engage survival mode. But after you and mysterious Min Yoongi are forced to share a bench outside your small town's only café, he keeps popping up in your life—and you find you have more in common than you thought. Your senior year might just be the year you've been waiting your whole life to live.

Chapter One: Back in Town

Chapter Two: Brunch

Chapter Three: Guitar Class

Chapter Four: Pizza and Persuasion

Chapter Five: Rap Showcase

Chapter Six: Mountain Gust

Chapter Seven: Would You?

Chapter Eight: Halloween Fright

Chapter Nine: DC or Bust

Chapter Ten: Our Secret

Chapter Eleven: Now or Never

Chapter Twelve: Alone Together

Chapter Thirteen: The First Snow

Chapter Fourteen: Christmas in NYC

Chapter Fifteen: Christmas in NYC, Part Two

Chapter Sixteen: Christmas in NYC, Part Three

Chapter Seventeen: Happy New Year

Chapter Eighteen: Bear with Grace the Bleak Midwinter

Chapter Nineteen: Cherry Blossom Confession

Chapter Twenty: Cherry Blossom Confession, Part Two

Chapter Twenty-One: Talk of the Small Town

Chapter Twenty-Two: Pressure Applied

Chapter Twenty-Three: Pressure Released

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Boys Come to Visit

Chapter Twenty-Five: Gotcha

Chapter Twenty-Six: Getaway

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Graduation

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Grad Party

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Niagara

Chapter Thirty: Epilogue

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Thirty: Epilogue

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: none word count: 1.5k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable.” — Bruce Lee

It had been hours since you’d gotten off the phone with your agent, but only minutes since you’d arrived home from your doctor’s appointment. The two very routine tasks had turned extraordinary very quickly, and you were hardly able to process any of it.

Your novel had been picked up by a publisher.

And . . .

Yoongi bursts through the front door of your apartment.

“There’s my wife!” He enthusiastically exclaims, dropping his backpack and throwing his suitcase to the side. You run over to him, and he throws his arms around you, enveloping you in the scent of his clean cologne and showering you with a million kisses to your forehead and nose—and then one long, lingering one to your lips. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” you sigh. “Two months apart is far too long. How was Seoul?”

He half-sighs, half-groans. “Crazy as ever. Concerts, interviews, TV appearances–” He stops himself. “What is it? What’s wrong? You look tense.” His hands run up and down your forearms, his eyes stare at you imploringly. Tell me, they say.

Though you’ve been married for five years, and you trust Yoongi with your life, you’re still you. Big news still comes with an element of apprehension.

“Yoongs, I . . . I went to the doctor today, and . . .” You let your voice trail off, unable to complete your sentence quite yet. You cross over into your apartment’s small white kitchen and begin to make a pot of tea. You fish around in the cabinets for Yoongi’s favorite kind. I know he’s got to be so jetlagged, you consider. Maybe some tea will help him fall asleep tonight.

“My Y/N,” he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, a hand settling on your abdomen. His voice then cracks a bit as he says, “Whatever it is . . . you can tell me. We’ll get through it together. We have enough money to get you the best treatment, and I’ll be by your side the whole time.”

You tighten your muscles in shock. How does he know?

You begin to breathe rapidly, stopping your search for the teabags. “I know,” you say. “I know. It’s scary—it’s totally scary.”

“Oh baby, don’t be scared,” you feel his arm muscles flex around you, drawing you into him. “If there’s anyone who can do this, who can get through this, it’s us.”

You break away from his embrace, turning to face him, painting a look of confusion on your face. “Well I . . . I don’t know if I would describe it as something to get through. It makes the future a bit more uncertain, yes, but also a bit more exciting.”

Now it’s Yoongi’s turn to look confused. “Exciting?”

He breaks out in sobs, face and eyes turning red as a rose.

“What part of me losing you could ever be exciting?”

What? He thinks . . .

You laugh. You cackle. You grin.

“Oh, Yoongs,” you wrap him in a hug as his body shakes, tears falling onto your shirt. “Yoongi, I’m not dying. I’m pregnant.”

You hear his breath hitch in his lungs before you hear him stammer, “Y–You’re pregnant?”

You take his face in your hands, forcing him to look you in the eyes. “Mm-hmm,” you nod. “With twins.”

His lips part in astonishment.

“I,” you laugh, “I thought I had a food allergy or something, cause I kept getting sick. But when I went and saw my doctor, she thought it might be something else, and she was right. I took a test, and then they did an ultrasound, and sure enough . . .”

He smiles his signature gummy grin and leans into you. “We’re having a baby?” He shakes his head, then corrects himself. “We’re having babies!”

You nod. As Yoongi’s eyes fill with a different kind of tear, you’re unable to hold them back yourself.

“I–I’ve been gone for two months,” his voice wobbles. “They are mine, right?”

You slap his arm. “Of course they are, idiot.” You roll your eyes. “I’m just—I’m fourteen weeks along. I’ll start to show soon. And . . .”

His eyes widen. “There’s more?”

“Well, because of how far along I am, they could tell the gender, and . . .”

You rush into the living room to grab the pictures from your purse. Your husband follows.

“We’re having twin girls!”

If his jaw previously dropped to the floor, it has now reached the center of the earth.

“They’re both girls?!” He grabs the stack of ultrasounds from you and shuffles through him, eyes glistening with fresh tears and newfound love.

You nod. “And I’m thinking of naming them both after Jimin.” Yoongi glares at you. “What? It was my turn to crack a joke.”

He quickly forgives you, drawing you to him and placing a kiss on your belly. He sighs. “Why were you so nervous to tell me?”

“Well, there’s this, and–”

“There’s even more?” He gapes. Then he looks around. “Did you get me a puppy?”

You laugh. “No. But I did get an offer from a publisher just this morning!”

“Y/N! Congratulations!” He picks you up in his arms and spins you around. “Oh. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. We have to be very careful, what with your condition and all.”

You smile, his words arriving at your ears unexpectedly sweet. “I know you’ll take good care of me. Now, carry me to bed? And order in some fried chicken? I’m eating for three, now, you know.”

He nods, picking you up bridal style and carrying you into your bedroom. You almost shed more tears as he sets you down gently and lies beside you; you’ve missed—endlessly missed—falling asleep and waking up next to him. You brush away a stray strand of long, dark hair that falls across his face as he rests his head on his pillow.

“So . . . you’re happy?” Your hand rests on his cheek. “How do you feel?”

“I feel,” he holds your palm to his lips and kisses it, “like I’ve never been happier than I am at this moment.”

Your lips spread in a smile as you watch his eyes, so desperately joyful. It is an expression not even the best of actors could imitate.

“And you, my beautiful, genius, amazing Y/N—how do you feel?”

You’ve felt a lot of things in your lifetime: anger, disgust, panic, sadness, distress, hopelessness—and you’ve felt them travel through you in a repeating cycle, seemingly stripping your life of all light and your soul of all energy. Trying to block out any and all happiness, any and all hope. Unlike Captain Wentworth in Persuasion, you weren’t “half agony, half hope.” You were, often—if not always—wholly in misery. Consumed by darkness.

But if the past six years of your life have taught you anything, it’s that you’re never alone in experiencing those kinds of feelings—that kind of false reality your brain tried to shadow over your life. Yoongi had felt it, too. He still does. You still do. The difference is, now, you can feel it together. The darkness is certainly still terrible, and sometimes, it seems eternal. But never is it  lonely. Not anymore.

You close your eyes as you read the scenes from the past six years in your mind like a novel. Meeting him on that café bench. Hearing him play his song on the guitar. Walking alongside him on Halloween night. Kissing him in the rain in DC. Marrying him on a boat at Niagara Falls. Getting an apartment together in NYC. Holding his hand at your graduation from NYU. And now, telling him that you were about to become a published author and a mother.

All of these moments had carried undertones of anxiety. They never fully went away. But . . .

“I feel,” you open your eyes, “that ‘when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.’”

He smirks. “Persuasion?”

You nod shyly. “How did you know?”

“It’s always Jane Austen with you. And you’ve read it to me seven times.”

“Which you thoroughly enjoyed. Oh!” You gasp. “Can we name the babies Elinor and Marianne? Like the sisters from Sense and Sensibility?”

He laughs, wrapping his body around you. “Let’s table the whole naming discussion for another time. You have a publishing company to call, and I have fried chicken to order.”

He climbs off the bed, saunters into the living room, and leaves you to call and accept the book offer. In just a little over seven months, you and Yoongi will be carrying two little baby girls past New York City bookstores carrying copies with your name on the covers. The surrealism causes you to wonder if all the joy you’re feeling will last into tomorrow.

Oh, never mind tomorrow, you chide yourself. Let tomorrow bring what it may. Today, I have a promising future as an author, two little ones growing inside of me, and a husband who understands me completely and will never leave my side.

All in all, I’d say that’s a victory.

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”

—Jane Austen, Persuasion

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Nine: Niagara

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: none word count: 1.75k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“In a world full of temporary things, you are a perpetual feeling.” — Sanober Khan

The target was Niagara Falls, New York. The getaway car was your father’s sedan. The perpetrators were you and Min Yoongi.

The crime was eloping.

“Now, we’re only going to do this if you’re completely sure,” Yoongi cautions as he pulls into the parking lot of the wedding dress boutique you found on Google Maps. You took turns driving through the night, and had made it to downtown Niagara Falls in the early morning hours. Despite the trip, neither of you felt tired, probably because of how excited you both were.

To get married.

“I’m completely sure,” you run a thumb over his knuckles after he parks the car, looking into his sincere, dark eyes. “Marry me, Yoongi.”

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it. “With pleasure,” he mutters.

You get out of the passenger’s seat and jog excitedly towards the doors of the boutique. “I feel like I’m a rebellious teenager about to have a shotgun wedding,” you giggle. “Except, I’m not pregnant, and I’m not a teenager. So . . . I’m a capable adult about to elope. It’s still kind of scandalous.”

He laughs, loving every word you utter. “If that’s how you want to see it, my bride,” he opens the door for you and bows exaggeratedly.

“It’s just refreshing to live, for once. To really live. Without thinking too hard about it,” you think aloud as you walk into a room of white, sparkles and skirts and lace and veils filling nearly every square inch. And that’s when it hits.

I’m getting married today.

Your mind tries to take over. It tries to tell you you’re stupid, silly, senseless. It tries to tell you that this can’t be real—that this can’t be you. Careful, calculated, closeted Y/N would never do such a thing as elope.

But then you look over at Yoongi, and the fear and doubt begins to melt away. You know him. You know who he is, inside and out. You know that he isn’t perfect—no one on earth can be—but at the same time, every inch of him, body and mind, is sacred to you. And you know that he feels that way about you, too, and that he knows you as deeply as you know him. He knows who you  really are, flaws and struggles and worries and all. He not only accepts your darker parts, but loves them, for he has similar parts in himself. What could very well have pushed you apart—the social anxiety and darker thoughts you both share—ended up bringing you closer together. Two people who struggled very much to love themselves found each other and fell in love; and, as a result, discovered that they themselves were very much worth loving.

There’s no going back. You enlist the help of a saleswoman and dive into a dressing room. You smile at your reflection in the mirror. There’s no going back to how I was. No more giving in to intrusive, false thoughts. No more constant fretting. Yoongi loves me, and I love me, and together, we’re going to exile our pasts where they belong: behind us.

You try on a few dresses while Yoongi goes down the street to get a tux, but you don’t fall in love with any of the options. Everything’s either too plain, or too over-the-top.

You’re about ready to give up when you spot a dress that had fallen off its hangar onto the floor. You pick it up, examining the soft, white fabric.

That’s the one.

You slip it on, and sure enough, it fits like a glove. It’s the perfect mixture of modern and classy: loose in all the right places and form-fitting where it needs to be. You don’t look like a toddler swallowed by a white monstrosity; you look like a grown woman on her wedding day.

And I suppose that’s what I am, you think.

“My Y/N?” Yoongi knocks and begins to open the dressing room door.

“No! Stop!” You rush to him and cover his eyes with the palm of your hand. “It’s bad luck for you to see me!”

He chuckles. “So I take it you’ve found a dress you like?” His hands find your hips. “Hmm. I like it too.”

You blush, grateful he can’t see. “Did you get a tux?” You change the subject.

He nods. “And some flowers for you,” he pulls out a bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath from behind his back. “Like them?”

You’re unsure as to why, but this small gesture of his causes you to tear up. “I . . .” you stumble through your words, voice strained. You take the flowers from him. “I really like them, Yoongi. They’re beautiful.” You feel the soft petals, the smooth stems. Inhale the fresh scent. “T–Thank you.”

“Why are you crying?” He places a hand on your cheek, his thumb wiping away your tears, his eyes searching yours.

“Ah! No! Yoongi, you’re not supposed to see me!” You panic, rushing to the other side of the large dressing room, wrapping your arms around your torso as if that’ll help hide the dress from his view.

He doesn’t respond. It seems . . . he can’t. He stands there, lips parted, but speechless. His silence wills you to drop your arms, to draw nearer to him, to let him see you.

Now it’s Yoongi who cries.

“Oh no,” you rush to him, there to wipe his tears away. “Oh no, oh no, we can’t have this. I can’t have you getting all emotional too.” You cock your head and soften your voice, asking him, “What is it, Yoongs?”

His crying intensifies, his body lurching forward with every new sob, and with the movement he leans in to rest his forehead against yours.

“You . . . you’re just so beautiful, Y/N,” his words are breathless gasps. “And I’m marrying you today, and I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you–”

“Don’t say that,” you plead. “Don’t say that, because you’re the only one in this universe who deserves me. You’re the only one in all of existence that I could love enough to marry.” You kiss his nose, watching up-close his eyelashes flutter away his tears. “Don’t you dare say that you don’t deserve me, because it could only be you. It could only ever be you.”

His head falls to rest on your shoulder. “When did you become such a romantic?” He jests.

“Oh, months ago, actually. When this boy and I shared a bench outside a coffee shop, and he asked me to help him read Persuasion by Jane Austen.” You wrap your arms tightly around him. “In some ways, it feels like that was just yesterday. But in other ways, it feels like I’ve known him since the world was created. Maybe even before.”

You run a hand through his hair, tracing his spine with the other. “And he deserves to be loved and cared for and treasured every day for the rest of his life.” You peck his cheek. “And I’m so happy I’m the one who’ll have the privilege of doing so.”

________________________

Hand in hand, you and Min Yoongi—in a wedding dress and a tux and matching yellow rain ponchos—board a boat to the base of Niagara Falls.

“Ready, my bride?” His whisper comes so close to your ear that his lips brush the sensitive skin of your earlobe. That, and his words, send a shiver down your spine. You grip your bouquet more tightly.

“If you are,” you barely manage to respond. Due to excitement. Due to anxiety. Due to the boiling in your stomach and the buzzing in your brain.

There has never been a more important moment in my life, you realize. You force yourself to take a deep breath. Yoongi notices you, how you’re feeling, what you’re probably thinking. He wraps an arm around you, and with the other holds your hand.

“Don’t be nervous,” he comforts you. “I’ll be right by your side the whole time. I kind of have to be, in order for this whole marriage thing to happen.”

The captain comes out, and you and Yoongi take your places at the bow of the boat. It’s just the three of you. It’s completely silent. The sun shines in your face even as a light rain begins to fall. The scenery—the water, the rocks, the trees, the sky—is impeccably beautiful, but when you look at your fiancée, it all melts away around him, as it so often does. He is all you can see. The sunlight reflecting on the water dances in his eyes.

After a short speech, the captain asks: “Yoongi, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, until death do you part?”

With a voice drenched in wistful adoration, he answers: “I do.”

And do you, Y/N, take Yoongi to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, until death do you part?”

For perhaps the first time in your life, you refuse to hesitate.

This is your time.

You were born to answer this question.

“I do.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the captain announces proudly. “Yoongi, you may now kiss your bride.”

Before you can process what’s happening, Yoongi lowers you into a dip, your back cradled in his bicep. His lips find yours as if they were made for the task of kissing you, and he kisses you as if he’d never wanted to do anything more. He’s slow, passionate, serendipitous, perfect.

When you break apart and walk over to the edge of the boat to admire the view, he murmurs softly: “I will never be worthy of you, Y/N. But your happiness will be the matter of greatest importance in my life, from this day forward. Always.”

You settle into his chest, seeking his nurturing warmth to combat the drizzle and cool breeze. You feel so comfortable, so relaxed, so content, that you could fall asleep right then and there.

“Always,” you echo.

You stay until the blue sky fades into a sunset made of a thousand shades of pink, until it’s time to let the past sink into the abyss and step back on land with another pair of feet right beside you.

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Eight: Grad Party

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: none word count: 1.25k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“In the middle of the road, in the moment, you want to give up, shout out even louder: So What?” — BTS, “So What?”

The morning following graduation, you and Yoongi fly to your hometown to attend the party your parents had decided to throw you. At first, you hated the idea of having to greet and receive congratulations from everyone in your neighborhood—the people who’d seen you grow up. (After all, who wants to be reminded of their cringe-worthy middle school self?) But you realized that it would make your parents and extended family happy; and you’d have Yoongi by your side the entire time. Two introverts together were better than one alone.

As soon as you both wrestle your suitcases out of the car and into the house, Yoongi requests to see your room.

“You know you won’t be sleeping in there,” you remind him. “My parents are old-fashioned that way.”

“I figured,” he replies with a smirk. “And that’s not a problem. I just . . . I want to see where my Y/N grew up.”

So you lead him to your bedroom and crack open the door.

“Ah,” he muses, eyes scanning the books and framed pictures on your shelves. He holds his hands clasped behind him, like he’s surveying the world’s most interesting artifact. Artifacts tell stories, and you suppose that the novels and photographs and paraphernalia scattered around your room do too. They tell the story of you.

You realize that you’re ready to leave behind those chapters and write new ones. In fact, you’re ready to write a new story entirely: the story of you and Yoongi. A story of two.

“Oh, my goodness,” his fingers fall on a framed picture from your childhood, lifting it up to examine it more closely. His eyes run over its details as they would the fractals of a priceless diamond. “Little Y/N was adorable.”

You grin and plop down on your bed. “More adorable than grown Y/N?”

He puts the photo back in its place and finds a spot next to you on the edge of your bed, stretching an arm around you, forcing you to lean back a little. Your eyes widen at his brashness.

“Of course not,” he answers. “Grown Y/N is adorable, too. But with the added advantage of being unbelievably sexy.”

He blinks his eyes in that innocent way of his, but the color in his irises deepens into anything but innocence. He continues to move towards you, pushing you backwards, downwards. His lips land on your neck, and as they travel down your skin and across your collarbone, he whispers,

“My sexy, smart college graduate. Who will one day be my wife.”

Just when you begin to close your eyes, you hear someone clear their throat.

Your mother stands in the doorway.

“Y/N,” she begins, “it’s time to get ready for your party. The guests will start arriving in about an hour, and your father’s getting ready to fire up the grill. Yoongi, perhaps you’d like to scroll through Y/N’s old baby albums with me?”

Startled, but enthralled at the prospect of seeing more pictures of little you, Yoongi clears his throat and politely responds, “I’d love to.”

He gives your hand a squeeze and then joins your mother in the hallway. Before she leads him into the living room, she ducks her head back in and shout-whispers at you.

“You’re lucky it was me and not your father!”

________________________

As expected, your parents invited the whole neighborhood. People you hadn’t seen in years dotted their backyard. Strangely enough, knowing that they were there for your parents—and not really for you—gave you comfort. It seemed to lower the stakes a bit.

Still, everyone (or almost everyone) made an effort to come and talk to you. All congratulated you on your graduation. Many congratulated you and Yoongi, having heard the news of your engagement. He stuck by your side the entire time, often squeezing your hand, hip, or shoulder as a nonverbal you can do this. And he helped out in conversations whenever he felt he could.

It ended up being quite a nice party, actually. Your parents had strung lights all over the place, and they’d tastefully decorated tables with Hunsaker College’s colors. Your dad had whipped up some delicious grilled meat and vegetables, and the sheet cake your mom had ordered was sweet and satisfying. You ate a sizeable piece, trying not to imagine what it would be like to smash a bit of cake into Yoongi’s face on your wedding day.

When you find yourself alone with him, ducked away in an empty corner of your backyard (in true Yoongi and Y/N style), you take the opportunity to ask him a burning question.

“Hey Yoongs,” you request his attention after taking a sip of your drink.

He lowers his red solo cup and replies, “Yes, my Y/N?”

“What . . . what kind of wedding do you want?” Realizing your forwardness, you hold out a hand and back up a bit. “I mean, I just know you mentioned a wedding in Korea, once. And this party has me thinking about . . .”

“Our wedding?” He prompts.

You nod.

He sets down his drink and grips both your hands in his, holding them close to his chest. “I’d be happy with whatever wedding you want. You’re my bride; if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“You’re just saying that.”

He stares at you with serious eyes, lowering his chin to look at you squarely. “You know I never ‘just say’ anything. I mean it. Whatever you’d like to do, I’m good with.”

You groan a bit. “There’s just so much to do,” you bemoan, “and no time to do it. You’ve met my family, but I’ve still got to meet yours. We’ve got to decide where to do it, and who all to invite, and what food to serve, and what flowers to get. I’ve got to find a dress that doesn’t make me look like an overweight cupcake-”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs. “You could wear an actual giant cupcake and still be the most gorgeous woman in the world.”

You laugh. “Then I’m tempted.”

“It would be quite the step up from edible underwear,” he quips.

You laugh again, bestowing a light slap on his arm as punishment before leaning in to rest forehead against his. “See? These past few minutes alone with you have been more fun than the entire party. This is all I want. This is all I need. You and me—just you and me. No lights, no sparkles, no glamour. No invitations, no flowers, no ridiculously expensive venue. Just you and me.”

He bats his eyelashes, their softness grazing your skin. “Really?” He asks.

As you look into his gaze, your eyes are clear, your conviction real. “Really.”

“Then . . . I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Do you think your dad would let us borrow the car?”

You furrow your brow. “I mean, he said we could use it to go into town–”

Yoongi shakes his head. “No, I’m thinking of somewhere a little farther.”

You tighten your grip on his hands, commanding his full attention. “Min Yoongi, what’s brewing in that mind of yours?”

“Only the best plan ever,” he smirks. “One that, based on your most recent monologue, you’ll agree with. But there’s one caveat.”

“Oh yeah?” You playfully run your thumb along his shirt collar and draw your face nearer his. “And what’s that?”

He pecks your lips, then turns away from the party, pointing himself towards the house. Specifically, the garage.

“I still want you to wear a wedding dress.”

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Seven: Graduation

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: none word count: 1.25k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“The surest way to make your dreams come true is to live them.” — Roy T. Bennett

May arrives with its blooms and blossoms—nature’s celebratory fanfare to sing the praises of warmer weather. While you know that the daffodils, irises, and tulips aren’t awakening just for you, you pretend that they are. After meeting Yoongi and becoming his, you no longer see the point in pretending that wondrous and marvelous things don’t exist. You give up on telling yourself that the universe isn’t mindful of you.

You adjust your cap and gown over your white dress, liking what you see in the mirror. Someone who is accomplished. Someone who is worthwhile. Someone who is happy. Finally, finally happy.

“Let me see that ring again,” comes your mother’s voice from behind you as she steps into your room. “Oh! You’re all ready! Oh, honey, you look beautiful.” She crosses the room to you, threading her fingers gently through your hair without messing it up. She smiles sweetly, and her pride in you floods your chest with warmth.

You offer a grin in return, wrap her in your arms for a second, then offer your left hand to show her the engagement ring Yoongi’s given you.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasps. “Did it get shinier since the last time I saw it?”

You giggle. “I don’t think so, mom.” You pull her into a hug again, this time resting your chin on her shoulder. “Thank you for being so supportive, mom. I know Yoongi and I haven’t known each other all that long, but in all truthfulness, it feels like I’ve known him for my entire life. I never thought I’d be saying such a thing. It feels silly sometimes . . . but it feels right. It makes sense.”

She hums in understanding. “It’s like I’ve always told you,” she begins, her voice quiet and soothing in your ear, “when you know, you know. You still shouldn’t jump into anything haphazardly, of course. You need to know the person very well, and that takes time.”

“Of course,” you agree, breaking away from her arms to show her your serious expression.

“But, honey, you’ve found something special. I can tell,” she places a hand on your cheek. “And your father and I love him. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Good,” you laugh. “Cause I love him, too.”

Your mother starts to fiddle with your hair a little more, kindly fussing over your appearance the way she always has. When she’s done, you cross over to your window to check and make sure the weather’s still allowing sunny skies to prevail. Your wish is granted—no need for a raincoat on your graduation day.

Then, you spot Yoongi coming up the sidewalk to your apartment, a fresh bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“He came as a surprise, for sure,” you murmur, half to your mother and half just to yourself. “But such a welcome one.”

________________________

Somehow, someway, everything went according to plan. You’d expected that they’d skip your name, or that you’d trip up the stairs to the stage, or that you’d actually forgotten to take one last GE class and wouldn’t be receiving a diploma yet after all. But they announced your name—even pronounced it perfectly—and you walked up to the president of Hunsaker, shook his hand, and accepted your diploma without incident. It was as if both your anxiety and your clumsiness decided to take a day off.

Before you can find Yoongi and your parents, you run into Bianca, Tristan, and Vivian, who crash into you with hugs and words of congratulations. Their own graduation caps nearly fall off their heads in the process, tassels swinging and bobby pins threatening to come loose.

After you offer congratulations in return, Bianca pipes up, “Well, who would’ve guessed that Y/N would be the one of us to graduate with a ring on her finger!”

“Yoongi’s a lucky guy,” Vivian says through a smile.

“I hope you know that we’ll be planning you the bachelorette party of the century,” Tristan pulls out her phone. “Ordering edible underwear now.”

You fuss at her, trying to shove her phone away. Then, you hear a deep cough from behind you. An ahem-I’m-here kind of cough.

Your fiancée stands there in his freshly pressed suit, holding a flower necklace.

“Congratulations, my Y/N,” he murmurs excitedly, proudly, as he guides the flowers over your head and helps them settle around your neck. Good. Maybe he didn’t hear the thing about the edible underwear.

“Today is just an explosion of flowers from you,” you raise an eyebrow. “First the bouquet you brought to my apartment, and now this?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve ordered more to show up at your door this evening,” he mutters, puffing his chest a little. You’re tempted to let your jaw drop, but catch it as you take his arm. “Let’s go find your parents so I can take pictures of you three. But before we do . . . what’s this I heard about some edible underwear?”

“I’ll kill you.”

________________________

After plenty of picture taking (Yoongi insisted on capturing hundreds “to show his future children how gorgeous and smart their mother had always been”), you drive an hour and a half to get to the only remotely fancy restaurant in the vicinity: the Olive Garden a few towns over. (Backwoods West Virginia isn’t exactly known for fine dining.) The pasta you order is good, but it makes you miss the cooking of the BigHit chefs from your time secluded in the mountains. Perhaps someone will spot us here and we can go into cabin quarantine again, you silently wish.

“Would y’all like some dessert?” The cute, freckly-faced waitress asks in an Appalachian accent. “Are we celebrating anything special today?”

“Yes,” Yoongi answers. “Two chocolate lasagnas, please. My fiancée just graduated from college this morning.” Yoongi grips your hand under the table and stares at you with the darkest, proudest eyes.

“Oh, congratulations!” The waitress claps her hands. “That’s so exciting! What are your plans now that you’re done with school?”

Ah, the question everyone asks. At least now I have an answer ready.

“I’m starting a graduate program at NYU in the fall,” you respond.

“She’s a smart cookie,” your father mentions, grinning. “We’re very proud of her.”

And I’m . . . I’m proud of myself, you realize. You’ve made it through; you’ve obtained your college degree. Though you told yourself you couldn’t do it countless, times, you’ve accomplished something big. So, brain, you conclude, it turns out you were wrong. I’m not pathetic, or worthless, or unlovable, or terrible. I’ve done something amazing. I powered through when you told me to give up. The joke’s on you. All of your poking and prodding at my self-image has, in the end, made me stronger.

I know you’ll keep poking and prodding. I know I’ll never be rid of you—that side of you that makes me travel down the road of dark thoughts, that leads me to places I’d rather not be. But now I know that I can pull myself out. I can get myself to places I want to be. To places I deserve to be, like here.

And there’s nothing you can do to stop me, brain. Nothing.

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Six: Getaway

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: mc with mental health issues word count: 2k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“As much as my heart flutters, I'm worried. Destiny is jealous of us.” —Jimin

“Let’s turn this impromptu quarantine into a romantic getaway,” Yoongi suggests, raising his delicate glass of red wine over the Italian dinner spread out on the dining table between you. “What do you say?”

“I say yes,” you laugh, “but it kind of has been a romantic getaway this whole time, Yoongs.” He cocks his head, silently asking you to elaborate. “We’re here, in this beautiful, remote spot, all alone—probably on our own private mountain—except for the bodyguards, maids, and chefs BigHit flew in for us. It’s like we’re on our honeymoon.”

Yoongi almost chokes on his chicken piccata.

“Except that we’re not, of course,” you correct yourself, panicked. You stab a piece of ravioli and center your eyes on your own glass of wine. Nice one, Y/N. A honeymoon? Why did you have to say that?

“We’re not,” your fiancée remarks from the other end of the table. Tonight, he’s in a suit, his combed his hair back, and you can hardly fathom the effect it’s having on you. (Exhibit A: the honeymoon comment.) “We’re not on our . . . honeymoon,” he repeats, more slowly this time, “but . . . I wouldn’t mind if we were.”

You gulp.

You watch his Adam’s apple slide rise and fall as he swallows a bite of pasta. Your eyes don’t leave his figure as he takes another sip of his wine, then stands up and crosses over to where you sit. He leans down, placing one hand on the back of your chair and loosening his tie with the other, his eyes diving into yours. And traveling all over your body.

“We’re not on our honeymoon,” he says again, this time in a low whisper. “But if we were, do you know what I’d do?”

Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

You swallow again. “What?”

He bites his lip, then murmurs, “I’d pick you up, carry you in my arms to that room, throw you down on the bed, and . . .”

His voice trails off.

He breaks into a laugh, falling forward a bit to lean his forehead against yours. “I’m just kidding, my Y/N. Stop sweating and relax. I’m only teasing you cause you’re so much fun to tease.”

You feel your chest open up in a breath. “I didn’t mind it, truly,” you tell him. “You can keep going. If you want.”

“Yeah?” Surprise shows on his face. “But Y/N . . . I mean, I’d be happy to, but we’ve never really talked about . . . this. I just assumed, what with what you’ve told me about thinking kissing is gross–”

“Do you think I think kissing you is gross?” You raise your eyebrows. “I do it all the time.”

“I–I know–”

“So keep going.”

He inhales deliberation, exhales resolution. Tracing a line from your forehead to your jaw, he cups your cheek with all the tenderness in the world. “I don’t think I should, my Y/N. You’ve had an emotional day, a really hard day–”

“That you made better,” you interject, threading your hand into his shirt collar. You’re surprised at yourself: your sudden confidence, your sudden intensity.

He nods at your comment, pausing before continuing. “I’ll always be here to make your days better. And eventually, I’ll be able to make it better . . . in that way. But I think we should think about it and talk about it and be really careful before we jump into anything–”

You press a finger to his lips, hushing him. “I got it, Yoongs. Duly noted.” You rise from your chair, breaking his proximity.

“Oh, please don’t be upset, Y/N. Please don’t think that I don’t want to–”

“I’m not upset,” you respond truthfully, a hint of excitement in your voice. “You’re right. I’m just . . .” Yoongi raises an eyebrow as you attempt to collect your thoughts. “I’m just surprised that I’m at that point. With physical touch, it always takes me time—a lot of time—to get used to it and develop a desire for it. I have to fight away the tendency to think about all the germs swimming around,” you laugh. “So I guess I’m just . . . pleasantly surprised that I’m wanting . . . that. With you.”

Your handsome fiancée’s face lights up like the sun.

He crosses over to you, running his warm hands along your bare arms. “And I’m so glad you do.” He leans in for a kiss that begins innocently, then deepens. “Mmm,” he hums. “I hope you know—just because we’re not ready for that quite yet, doesn’t mean I won’t make out with you passionately on that couch over there for the rest of the evening.”

“Ooh, can we have them start a fire in the fireplace?”

“Absolutely.”

“And can you take off your tie and unbutton the top few buttons of your shirt?”

“Your wish is my command.” He throws his tie across the room.

“And can you carry me over there?”

He laughs lightly, sweeping you off your feet. “With pleasure.”

________________________

“Miss Y/N,” reads the only email sitting in your inbox the following Monday morning, “we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into New York University’s English Literature Master’s program for this upcoming fall semester. We are also pleased to include an offer for a full tuition scholarship and living stipend, contingent upon your agreeing to teach entry-level English courses. Please inform us of your decision by responding to this email no later than April 30th. Best, New York University Graduate Admissions.”

“Whoa,” you say aloud.

A sleepy Yoongi stirs beside you at the sound of his voice. He’d been napping with you on the cabin’s cozy couch all morning, snuggling to the sound of the crackling fire.

“Mm,” comes his low, groggy voice. “Are you in class right now, Y/N?”

You look over at his head resting near yours, his heavily lidded eyes barely open. You shake your head in his direction. You’d been attending all of your classes through Zoom (going back to Hunsaker was still too risky for you and Yoongi), but it wasn’t quite yet time to log onto Basic Editing Skills.

Because Yoongi’s eyes still droop with desire to sleep, you offer your answer again, this time in the form of a verbal response. “No, I’m not in class. I . . . I got an email.”

He smiles goofily, lips staying closed. “You get lots of those. Because you’re smart, and important . . .” his voice trails off as his eyes find the will to open, “and beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.”

“Are you on drugs or something? When did you get this cheesy?” You scoff, teasing him before again turning serious. “It’s . . . kind of an important email. A game-changer.”

“Oh?” Your words fully jolt him into the land of the living. “What game does it change?”

“All of them,” is your response. “I got accepted into NYU.”

“My Y/N, that’s great!” He exclaims, a sudden burst of energy shooting him off of the couch and onto his feet in front of you. “Congratulations! That’s a big deal!” His arms reach down to bring you up beside him, and he wraps you in a warm embrace and bestows a celebratory kiss upon your lips. It tastes just a little sweeter than normal. Once you break apart, he whispers, “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m afraid,” you whisper back.

“What? Why?”

“NYU is a big deal,” you explain. “And New York is a giant city. It’s completely different than the small-town world I’m used to in Hunsaker.”

“Yes, but you’ll do fine. You’ll do great,” he encourages.

“The people there are super smart.”

“You’re also super smart—probably smarter than a lot of the smartest people there. You’re just as big of a deal as they are. And remember when we visited New York? We had a great time, even though we got snowed in and stuck!”

The memory brings a smile to your lips; but your next thought dilutes it. “Grad school would be so crazy busy, Yoongs. There’s no way I could plan a wedding and go to NYU at the same time.”

“Then we’ll get married this summer. It would start this fall, correct?” He asks. You nod. “Then we’ll tie the knot before then. I know we haven’t talked about it yet, but I was thinking a summer wedding in Korea would be wonderful.”

You sigh, picturing Yoongi dressed in a tux against the backdrop of a shady bamboo forest. But you begin to panic yet again as New York reenters your mind.

“It’s is too far away,” you try to breathe to stop from quivering. “Too far away from Hunsaker. Too far away from you.”

“We’ll move there, silly. Together. You’ll be my wife. Wherever you’ll go, I’ll go.”

You leave his arms and begin to pace across the room, your hands finding their way to grip your hair. “We can’t possibly get married this summer, though, Yoongi. I mean, that’s crazy! That’s too fast! It’s not possible!”

He gazes at you cautiously—but tenderly—full therapist Yoongi mode engaged. “If it freaks you out, we don’t have to. We can just figure things out as we go. So long as you keep that ring on your finger, I don’t care.”

You look up to see him standing there, in the plush cabin living room, the window behind him providing a backdrop of lush, spring-green trees. The early-morning sounds of forest birds calling, dew dripping, and wind blowing is the soundtrack to the scene.

You lock eyes with him, and the world around you melts. The stage lights go dark, save for a single spotlight on him. You see him standing there, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair sticking out every which way from his recent nap, his chin dotted with just a hint of stubble, in need of a little shave. You see him cock his head, and smile at you, and stare at you with sparkling eyes. You can almost hear his thoughts: What is she doing? Why did she go all quiet? Why is she looking at me like that? Oh, nevermind. It doesn’t matter. I’m lucky if she’s looking at me at all. I’m lucky she’s mine. I love her. I love her. I love her.

Finally, one of those thoughts escapes through his lips: “Why are you looking at me like that, my Y/N?”

You take a mental picture of the scene before responding, because there’s no need to finish a moment and move onto the next one until you’re ready. There’s no need to rush your time with Yoongi. You get the sense that you’re just at the beginning of it.

After a few pondering, mental picture-taking minutes, you part your lips to say, “Because I absolutely love you, my Yoongi. And I can feel how much you love me. It radiates, like sunlight. I can feel it when you hold me, when you comfort me, when you offer to move to a new city for me. When you offer to marry me in just a few short months,” your breath hitches, so you break up your monologue with a quick, airy laugh. “There’s . . . there’s just nothing like you. No one else in this world could ever come close.”

“And I’m the cheesy one?” He runs to you, chases you a bit before capturing you in his arms, and throws you down on the couch before climbing on top of you. You’re in a fit of giggles and smiles.

“Accept the offer,” he tells you as you brush the hair away from his porcelain face. “Tell NYU you’ll attend. We’ll figure the rest out.”

“I’ve never been too good at living without a set plan, Yoongs,” you warn. “So don’t expect me to be good at it.”

“You’ll do just fine. In fact, you’ll thrive. You’ll blow NYU away with your skills,” he kisses the tip of your nose. “And you’ll have me by your side the whole time.”

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Five: Gotcha

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: some language, cyberbullying, mc with mental health word count: 1.5k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“Even if it's a road of thorns, we still run.” —Suga

You froze in place. Time stood still—but not in the good, romantic way you’d grown accustomed to. This freezing wasn’t due to you being locked in Yoongi’s deep, dark eyes; it was the result of you getting caught with his engagement ring on your finger. You rushed back to his side, pointing to the now empty patch of window that had once featured a sneaky onlooker taking a snapshot. “She was there! With a camera! She got me—I saw her!” You said. Yoongi’s eyes filled with concern even has he wrapped you in a comforting hug. The rest of the boys whipped out their phones, ready to assess the damage.

What they found was the stuff of nightmares.

Your previous title of “Suga’s sweetheart” was no more. With that diamond on your finger, you’d become “Suga’s slut.” The anger seemed to be directed at you from a narrow margin of BTS fans—but they made up a particularly vocal margin. Hate posts and comments, the likes of which you’d never seen, came piling in: directed at you. “Manipulative little bitch,” read one, “taking advantage of our long-lost, confused Suga-sshi.” “He’s so vulnerable right now,” said another, “and she’s clearly just taking advantage of that for his money.” But it wasn’t until the death threats began that BTS’s security detail had to intervene. They ripped you and Yoongi away from Hunsaker and took you to a remote cabin, far from civilization or cell service. “We’ll be together the whole time,” Yoongi assured you. But as you lay in his arms every night, your heart pounded in anticipation, dreading the moment some dark, bulging monster emerged from the small cabin closet to snatch him away from you. Your brain convinced itself that you were in a horror movie.

You wake one cold mountain morning to a thunderstorm, to rain pounding on the glass pane of the bedroom window. Instead of seeking Yoongi’s warmth, you just curl up into yourself, squeezing fresh tears from the corners of your eyes and trying to push away the treacherous tide of thoughts. Who cares what people think of me? Who cares what they say?

They care, whispers your brain. And they’re coming.

No, they’re not, you counter. They don’t know where we are.

They’ve got weapons, too. Guns. Knives.

Pitchforks? you laugh. Come on. These aren’t the Salem witch trials. Plus, BigHit bodyguards surround the place.

People hate you, it grows louder. They hate you cause you’re pointless.

No, you fight.

Useless, it asserts.

No.

Weak.

No.

WAKE UP! It yells, jolting you upright, forcing your eyes to take in the dreary, blue-gray morning light. THEY WILL KILL YOU. YOU WILL DIE. YOU DESERVE TO DIE.

“My Y/N?”

Yoongi’s soft, groggy voice is a whisper from behind you. It forces you to breathe.

“Is everything okay?” He leans up, sees your expression, and wraps you in his arms, pulling you back down onto the mattress alongside him. “Shh, shh. I’ve gotcha. I’ve gotcha. Breathe with me, okay? In,” he inhales deeply, strongly. “And out,” he exhales gently. You follow his lead a few more times, and your heart begins to slow its pace.

“Can you talk about it?” He asks you tenderly, brushing your hair away from your face.

“I can try,” you reply.

He nods, softly smiling. “Take your time. It’s important that we talk to each other when this happens, but it’s more important that we do so when we’re ready.”

You watch the soft fabric of his shirt absorb your hot tears. “You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you. You deserve someone w–”

He strokes your hair. “I thought we agreed on stopping that kind of talk.”

You sigh. “But if I was someone better—someone prettier, someone skinnier, someone nicer (or, at least, someone who looked nicer)—then the rest of the world wouldn’t hate me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I’ve never cared about what the rest of the world thinks,” he says with every ounce of honesty. “I only care about what the people I love think of me.”

“But they want to kill me, Yoongi.”

“People have said they want to kill me, too,” he whispers. “But look—I’m still alive. Turns out it’s much easier to threaten to kill someone than to actually do it.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you shake your head against his chest. “I can’t deal with people hating me so much, and I certainly can’t deal with anyone hating you.”

He hums, pensive. Then he pulls out his phone. “Let me show you something.” He clicks on the Twitter app.

“Put that away, please,” you beg, pulling on the fibers of his shirt. “We don’t even have service, anyway.”

“I had them install a Wi-Fi router last night. I needed to talk to the boys,” he explains. “And I want you to see this.”

You open one eye, then the other, and look up to see Yoongi’s encouraging expression. He holds his phone, ready to pass it to you. He wouldn’t show me anything harmful . . .

You lift your hand and take the phone apprehensively, unsure of what to mentally prepare for.

“Everyone stop this,” the first tweet on the screen reads. “I’m sure she’s a very nice person. Our Yoongi oppa wouldn’t be with anyone mean or stupid.”

“I guess none of y’all have eyes,” the next one says, “cause that girl is downright gorgeous.”

“Right?” Reads the reply. “She’s so naturally beautiful! I mean, were they expecting him to end up with some six-foot-tall model? Not our tiny Suga sshi!” You laugh at that one.

“Suga oppa, we love you, we trust you, and we support you no matter what!” Another says.

“Guys, we have no right to feel betrayed. He left BTS quite some time ago; the no dating rule didn’t apply anymore,” the next explains.

“Everyone just leave them alone and let them be happy together.”

You blink through your tears in shock.

“#LetSugaBeHappy is the number one trending hashtag on K-pop Twitter right now,” Yoongi tells you. “ARMY is getting behind you, and they’re doing it fiercely.”

It’s a feeble attempt at a smile that crawls across your lips, but it’s the first smile-like expression you’ve managed since the incident.

“There it is,” Yoongi runs his thumb over your curving lips. “I’ve missed it.”

________________________

Yoongi brings you tea, and you spend the rest of the morning in bed with him, swapping smiles and stories and pecks and promises. What was once the intense thunderstorm surrounding your little cabin lightens up into a gently pleasant morning rain shower, as if reflecting your mood. By the time 11:00 comes around, Yoongi’s telling you a story about the boys and him doing an indoor obstacle course for an episode of Run BTS, and you’re laughing so hard it makes your stomach ache.

He leaves to go to the bathroom and you reach for your phone to check your email. You click on the first thing in your inbox: a memo from ReadSmart, the company you’re scheduled to start working for at the end of May.

“Dear Y/N,” it reads, “we regret to inform you that we must retract our offer of the position of Associate Copywriter for the ReadSmart Washington, D.C. office. Due to decreases in budget allotment, we are unable to hire any new employees at this time. We apologize for the inconvenience, and would be happy to assist you in finding a position elsewhere. We are impressed with your skills and character traits, and we are certain that you will find meaningful work with the salary and benefits you desire in the near future. Sincerely, the ReadSmart Hiring Office.”

What?

“Yoongi,” you call for him as he exits the bathroom, “would you read this for me and tell me I’m not hallucinating?”

He takes the phone, and as his eyes skim the screen, his expression turns to one of contempt. It could even be called a scowl.

“Retract the offer? Is that even something they can do?”

You shrug, hugging a pillow to your chest. “I mean, I guess so. I didn’t sign any official paperwork or anything.”

“This is outrageous!” He fumbles around for his own phone. “Let me make a few calls. I can–”

“No, Yoongs. I can’t let you intervene. That’s not fair. Let me figure this out on my own.”

“But you’re an amazing writer, Y/N—they should know that.”

“They saw my portfolio,” you tell him. “They do know that. They can’t control that they don’t have the money to hire me. Things are tough right now.”

“They’re a big company!” He seethes. “Of course they can afford to hire you!”

You go back and forth, him fighting on your behalf, you—for some strange reason—defending the company that just smashed your hopes of a full-time job into bits. But as you fake-argue, you relax. It’ll all be okay, you tell yourself. It’ll all be okay, because Yoongi’s right. I am a great writer, and some other employer’s going to see that.

Plus, if I have my defend-you-until-the-day-I-die fiancée always by my side, there’s no way I’ll fail.

[jimimn]

his smile is my most favourite thing ever ♡

[illeee-girl]

Those eyes hold the universe.

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Four: The Boys Come to Visit

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: mc with mental health issues word count: 2k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“The key to companionship is trust. We wouldn’t have come this far if we didn’t trust each other.” — J-Hope

To say that you’re anxious to meet Yoongi’s six hyungs would be a gross understatement. Part of you is thrilled, and the other, much larger part is terrified. And now, you won’t be meeting them as his girlfriend.

You’ll be meeting them as his fiancée.

You didn’t sleep well for a week. (And no, not for those kinds of reasons. Get your mind out of the gutter.) You didn’t sleep well because you couldn’t believe it. You spent all of your nights thrashing about, your mind active and relentless, trying to convince yourself that he’d proposed. So unexpectedly, so out of the blue. The ring I wear around my neck is Yoongi’s. Yoongi’s! I’m engaged to Min Yoongi! I am going to marry Min Yoongi!

Nope. It never worked. You woke up every morning in a quandary. Baffled, discomposed. Then perplexed, flustered. Then giddy, gasping, giggling. And, finally, grateful. Grateful to be Min Yoongi’s future wife.

It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, a cycle of thoughts and feelings. You run through it again, in all its whiplashing glory, as you sweep Yoongi’s apartment on a Saturday morning.

“Hey, Y/N-ah, you know what I just realized?” You hear your now-fiancée’s voice from the other room. “It’s our one-week anniversary of being engaged! Whoa, wait,” you hear his footfalls stop, and turn to see him behind you. “What are you doing?”

“Your hyungs are coming tomorrow,” you explain, “so I’m cleaning up.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he crosses the room and wraps his arms around you from behind, settling his hands on your hips. “I’m a very clean person. It looks fine in here.”

“I know it does,” you giggle a bit, “but I want to impress them.”

“With your cleaning skills?”

You nod. “I am your future wife, after all.”

“Yes you are,” he agrees. “But this is not the 1950s. I’m not marrying you so that you’ll be here to clean up after me and cook my meals. I’m marrying you so that I can spend forever with the world’s smartest, sweetest, prettiest girl.”

You hold back a sigh of contentment, but the feeling probably shows on your face. “Say that again.”

“The world’s smartest–”

“No, before that.”

“Spend forever–”

“Before that too.”

“I’m marrying you? Is that the one?”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod, settling into his embrace a little more, enjoying the feeling of his strong arms guarding you from the world. “Say it over and over again.”

“I’m marrying you. I’m marrying you. I’m marrying you. I’m marrying you.”

You laugh. “Nice use of marked emphasis to alter semantic meaning, Yoongs.”

“You taught me well.”

You turn to face him, to place a kiss on his lips, and you get close . . .

But then, someone knocks at the door.

Yoongi groans, tears himself from your side, and runs to open it. From where you’re standing, you can’t see who lies behind it, but you formulate a pretty good guess at Yoongi’s pleasantly surprised expression and the voice that shouts:

“SUGA-SSHI! We’re here!”

Six extremely polished Korean men pour into Yoongi’s small living space. You stand there in the background, still holding the broom in your hands, simply observing. You feel very much like you’re taking part in a k-drama, and utter a silent plea that this will be the pinnacle of awkwardness.

“You’re early!” Yoongi shouts back at them. They’re loud; he has to.

“No we’re not,” one defends. He’s tall, with plump lips and picture-perfect proportions. From your training with Yoongi, you identify him quickly. Jin. Otherwise known as WWH, Worldwide Handsome. “We told you we’d get here today,” Jin explains.

“You said the twenty-seventh.”

“That’s today,” another says through a giggle. He’s extra skinny, extremely fashionable, and seems to exude enough light to put the sun to shame. J-Hope, or Hoseok, or Hobi, you think.

“Our forgetful grandpa Suga hyung,” coos the shortest—but you know not to let that fool you. He may be small, but he’s gorgeous, with blonde hair and a thousand rings on his fingers. Jimin. He wraps your demonstrably apprehensive (but conceding) fiancée into a tight hug.

Two of the others follow suit, pushing their bodies into the circle and wrapping their arms around Yoongi to form a group hug. One has a sleeve of tattoos, rows of piercings, and the kindest eyes—Jungkook. The other has wavy hair, loose clothing, and a deep voice. Taehyung.

That leaves Namjoon, the brilliant and buff leader of BTS. He’s the first to notice you standing there.

“Suga hyung,” he says, “you didn’t tell us that Y/N would be here!”

This catches the attention of the mob, and they all turn their heads excitedly towards you. Namjoon steps towards you, and the others follow suit, as if they were a hoard of fluffy penguins following their leader.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N!” Hoseok is the first one to speak. “Yoongi-ah’s told us so much about you.”

“Only good things—don’t worry,” adds Jungkook.

“And he wasn’t wrong. You are really pretty,” Jimin flirts, winking.

“Oh, don’t be stupid. She’s gorgeous.” Taehyung chimes in. “You sure you’re content with Suga here?”

This is more than enough to encourage Yoongi to intervene. “Okay, okay, back away from her,” he pleads, stepping to your side. “She’s mine.”

“Boys, no more flirting with Yoongi’s girl,” Namjoon commands. “Don’t worry, Suga hyung. Jimin and Tae will be disciplined for this unbecoming behavior.”

“NOT ANOTHER LECTURE, please!” Jimin pleads.

“Spare them your doctoral dissertation on respect,” Yoongi says through a laugh. “I’m sure they’ve heard it recently enough.”

“Fine. Then let us introduce ourselves properly,” Namjoon says, bowing, then reaching to shake your hand. A Korean-American fusion of greetings. “I’m Kim Namjoon, rapper and leader of BTS. And Suga’s best friend.”

“Ouch,” Hoseok holds a hand over his heart. “I thought that I, Jung Hoseok, was Suga’s best friend.”

“Um, correction,” Jungkook folds his beefy arms. “That’s me, Jeon Jungkook.”

“Boys, boys, you’re all pretty,” Yoongi interrupts their dispute. “And you’re all my best friends.” He looks out over the lot of them and smiles. It’s one of your all-time favorite Yoongi smiles: warm and so genuine it seems like a reflex. “I’m really glad you’re here. But . . . could you give us some time to get ourselves ready for the day? You all want to go out to eat, I presume.”

“Yes, we’re starving,” Jin says. “Do they have gimbap here?”

Yoongi chuckles. “You’re in for quite the culture shock, my friend. Hunsaker’s got about three restaurants, and none of them are Korean. Or even remotely Asian.”

“Why do you live here again?” Tae asks.

“Well . . .” Yoongi’s voice trails off. “It’s where the love of my life lives.”

________________________

A couple of hours later, you’re showered, dressed (still not quite worthy to be seen next to BTS, but nothing in your closet ever could amount to that), and ready to go. Yoongi waits on your apartment’s couch while you get ready, a patient, dutiful fiancée.

“Where do we take them?” You half-ask, half-laugh as you walk into the living room.

“I don’t know,” he groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Pizza is more what they’re used to, but the pizza at Nicky’s is pretty terrible. We’re more used to it by now than we realize. So barbecue is . . . probably safer?” He says it like a question.

“Let’s do it,” you grab his hands and lift him up off the couch. “It’ll be an adventure.”

He hums. “I’m looking forward to all kinds of adventures with you.”

________________________

You pass around the plastic-coated menus dotted with barbecue sauce stains. It’s you and the seven members of the world’s most famous boyband sitting at an old table covered in a checkered table cloth; it’s a sight no one would ever have expected to see. A mob of students and onlookers gathers outside the barbecue joint’s Main Street entrance, peering in to see how Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook will react to their first taste of Sweet Baby Ray’s. Others are probably interested in how fiercely Kim Seokjin and Park Jimin will judge the brisket, or how fast Jung Hoseok and Kim Namjoon will chug their first taste of sweet lemonade.

You just hope that none of them are there to observe how you’ll hold up under the pressure. You take deep breaths to avoid an unwelcome appearance of panicked, anxious Y/N. You fidget with your fingers until Yoongi grabs one of your hands to hold under the table, giving it a squeeze of reassurance. His presence is soothing. It forces you to remember that you’re not alone in this. And one day—soon, now—you’ll never have to be alone in anything ever again.

And BTS's security detail gets the crowd to disperse, which eases the knot in your stomach.

“Y/N, we really like you,” Hoseok assures, ever the bright ray of sunshine. “I hope you know that.”

“Yeah,” Jin agrees. “You’re funny, and witty, and we can tell that you really love our Suga.”

“Don’t be worried to just . . . be yourself around us,” sweet Jungkook adds. “We don’t bite.”

“Unless you want us to,” Jimin winks. Namjoon promptly sends him a glare that could pierce a thousand souls. Jimin holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry. I saw the opportunity and I had to go for it.”

“I like you guys, too,” you tell them, and you mean it. They’ve been great company. And they even ended up liking—or at least pretending to like—the subpar barbecue. You’re certain it’s nothing like what they’re used to: five-star restaurants around the world. But, after spending an hour with them, you’re certain that they’re the most down-to-earth celebrities in existence.

“Guys,” Yoongi pipes up, expertly commanding the attention of his bandmates. He gives your hand another little squeeze under the table. “We have some news to share with you.”

You raise your eyebrows. Here? Now?

His gaze seems to communicate back: Yes. Is that okay?

I mean, I guess so, you shrug. Yeah. Go for it. You begin to pull at the chain around your neck . . .

“Y/N and I . . . are engaged!”

You brandish the square-cut diamond ring.

“WOOOOOOAH!” They all cheer in unison.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Namjoon grins from ear to ear.

Yoongi slips the ring off of its chain and glides it gently onto your finger. You stare at him, and his eyes say: It's okay. Just this once, I want to show you off as my fiancée. Just this once.

“Our first Bangtan wedding!” Taehyung’s mouth drops open. “Because . . . of . . . our first Bangtan baby, perhaps?” Yoongi glowers at him. “No? Ok, sorry, sorry!”

“I’m going to help plan your wedding. I hope you know that,” Jin nods.

“I, too, will be intimately involved in the details,” Jimin adds.

“I offer my services as choreographer of your first dance,” Hoseok smiles.

They share more congratulations as the minutes pass, and you accept them. You munch on more mac-n-cheese, sip your sweet tea, and hold the hand of your first and last true sweetheart. You feel accepted, and loved, both as a member of a found family and one that will soon be established.

You’re so overjoyed, in fact, that you don’t notice that someone from the crowd outside the restaurant had lingered. Not until you stand up to refill your sauce. A young college-age girl lingers in the corner of the Main Street window, with her phone camera set squarely on you. And there, on your left hand that’s holding an empty, plastic sauce cup is your engagement ring: dangerously and clearly visible. The girl lowers her phone and smiles menacingly.

Gotcha.

[bisexualrapline]

drinking a cup of hot tea, looking up to the galaxy; you’ll be alright, here it is, the magic shop

Keep reading

[illeee-girl]

We mean so much to them. They mean so much to us.

It’s a beautiful thing.

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Three: Pressure Released

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: none word count: 2.5k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“For I know the plans I have for you . . . plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” —Jeremiah 29:11

Recently, in order to get things done, you’d been holing up at Shadow Café every Saturday morning, using the free Wi-Fi to send in job applications, do your best to navigate LinkedIn, and take online GRE practice tests. On this particular bright-and-sunny morning, you sit down with a well-insulated cup of mint tea and open your email inbox. The first contains your official GRE score: it’s good, but not great. The second email is much more exciting.

It contains a job offer.

“Dear Y/N,” reads the clean font, “we are thrilled to offer you our Associate Copywriter position! We were impressed with your resume and interview, and would love to welcome you to the ReadSmart team. Should you accept the position, we offer a start date of May 31st in our Washington, D.C. office. Please respond to this email in a timely fashion with your answer. Sincerely, the ReadSmart Hiring Office.”

You jump up from your chair.

I just got a job.

You begin to jump up and down.

“I JUST GOT A JOB!”

Seconds pass before you realize that you’ve captured the attention of everyone in the café. You quickly smooth out your clothing and return to your seat—but just long enough to type out a letter of acceptance and chug the rest of your tea. Once that’s taken care of, you all but run outside while dialing Yoongi’s number.

“Y/N?” You hear his groggy (but somehow still sexy) morning voice on the other line. He’d been out late last night DJing at a school-sponsored party. In your excitement, you’d forgotten about that.

“Oh, sorry to wake you up, Yoongs. But YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT!”

“What?” He sounds much more awake now.

“I JUST GOT A JOB.”

“WHAT?”

“I got the job with ReadSmart!” You grin into the phone.

“Oh, my Y/N, that’s awesome! I am so proud of you!” You can hear him grin back.

“Anyway . . . I’m sorry to wake you up. Go back to sleep. Love you.”

“Wait, don’t go!” You hear him plead. Then he sighs. “Actually . . . I guess I was out until 4 AM last night. I should probably get some more sleep.”

“We both know you need your beauty sleep. I wouldn’t want grumpy Yoongi raining on this glorious day I’m having.” Your boyfriend can be a real grandpa sometimes. (Particularly when he’s sleep deprived.)

“You’d be honored to have grumpy Yoongi with you today,” he teases. “Which is why, after I get a few more hours of sleep, I’ll pick you up and we’ll go celebrate.”

“Really?”

“Of course!” Even though there’s excitement in his voice, he yawns. “I’d be a terrible boyfriend if I didn’t . . . reward you for all your hard work. I love you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you say back, laughing as you look at the time: 11:00 AM. Simultaneously, your mind spins. Reward? What could he mean by that?

________________________

It’s a perfect spring day: cerulean sky, lime green leaves, blooms of purple and yellow. Yoongi shows up at your door a little after 4:00, his light blue-colored button-down perfectly pressed and soft against your skin as you hug him hello. He carries a picnic basket in his arms.

He escorts you into the passenger’s seat of his Porsche and begins driving up into the mountains with the windows rolled down. He turns on the playlist you compiled for him—your favorite songs, mixed with his, and some BTS songs you’d come to love. “Spring Day” currently blasts through the stereo as Yoongi’s brown hair flies behind him. You notice it’s a little wavier than usual.

“Yoongs . . .” you begin apprehensively, “this may sound weird, but did you curl your hair?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs. Then, after a short pause, he murmurs, “My stylist did.”

“You . . . have a stylist here?”

He nods quickly. “BigHit sent a team a couple of days ago. I’ve been meaning to tell you—the guys are coming next week. I’ve been making a few video promos and such to release before they come to visit. So the stylist team came to make sure I looked the part,” he explains calmly. Nonchalantly, even.

“W-wait,” you stammer. “BTS is coming to Hunsaker?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “They want to meet you.”

“They’re coming all the way to middle-of-nowhere West Virginia to meet me?”

“You’re my beloved girlfriend,” he defends, reaching for your hand and grasping it in his. “And they’re my best friends. They’d travel across the world to meet you.”

“They literally are traveling across the world!” You exclaim, a smile accompanying your enlarged eyes.

Your mind spins with thoughts of how BTS will be received in your tiny college town. After Yoongi’s identity as Suga was revealed, the community became much more aware of the international pop sensation. You have no doubt that there’ll be swarms of people following them around, paparazzi called in. And some of them might even be following you around—invading your and Yoongi’s privacy. Will I be able to handle that?

Your worry is stopped short as Yoongi pulls to the side of the road and pulls you out of the car, never letting go of your hand as he whisks you across a picturesque field towards the side of a cliff. There, sitting near a bed of wildflowers and a small, clear stream lies a tent made of white, flowy fabric. It’s been decorated with yellow dandelions and fairy lights, and under it lies a blanket, an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne, and two glasses trimmed with gold.

“Surprise,” your boyfriend says calmly.

“Wh . . . what is all this, Yoongi?” You look back to see his hooded eyes lined with glee.

“It’s to celebrate your new job,” he explains joyfully. “I’ll have you know that I didn’t actually go back to sleep this morning. I got dressed, drove around to get everything, and then came here to set it up.”

“I’m impressed,” you tell him, your skirt flying in the breeze along with the fabric of the tent.

“How impressed?” He taunts.

You grab the back of his head and bring his face to yours, allowing you to press a kiss to his lips, smooth and full of gratitude. He returns the favor by attacking each of your features—forehead, eyelids, nose, cheeks, jawbone—with little pecks. You giggle and tumble onto the blanket he’s set up.

Before you realize it, he’s fallen on top of you.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt him so close, so imposing, you seek to decrease your alarm. Stay calm, girl. Yoongi bats his eyelashes, looking just as surprised as you feel. He blushes deeply with embarrassment, but he doesn’t move. It seems as if, deep down, he doesn’t want to.

Finally, a serious thought bubbles up out of your throat, breaking the silence. “It . . . it’s in D.C.,” you mumble. “The job, I mean. But that’s not all that far from Hunsaker. I can come back and visit every weekend and–”

A kiss stops your next words. His brown locks of hair tumble off of his forehead and brush against yours, leaving sparks in their wake. “Y/N-ah,” Yoongi whispers gently, “please don’t worry about that. I don’t . . . I don’t exactly have to stay in Hunsaker. I mean, I really don’t need the degree I’m pursuing. That was never the reason I came here. I came here to find something,” he blinks.

Your heart both freezes and threatens explosion.

“And now, I’ve found it.”

You blink up at him, his face centimeters from yours, his body hovering above.

“I’m sorry if this is too forward of me, but I’ll go wherever you want, if you’ll have me. I’ll follow you wherever you want to go.”

Warm tears travel down from the corner of your eyes and settle on the soft blanket below.

“You mean it?”

He nods.

“So does this mean . . . I don’t want to be too forward either, or too presumptuous. We’ve not even known each other for a year, but I’m such a planner and I’d just like to know if–”

He shifts, leaning away from you, and your heart drops. You think you’ve scared him off. Your tears threaten to turn from warm to hot. But when you force yourself to look at him . . .

He’s out on the grass, the afternoon sun bathing him in the brightest light—on one knee. Sunshine reflects off of a square-cut diamond lying in a small box.

“I wasn’t going to do it today,” he explains. “And if you’d asked me a year ago, I would’ve said that I wasn’t going to do it ever.”

You try to blink through the brilliance—to try to capture a mental picture of him kneeling in the spring-green field, a nervous but optimistic grin plastered on his face. You lift yourself up to stand in front of him, peering down into his perfectly-shaped, perfectly serious eyes.

“But you’ve . . . you’re . . .” he chokes on his words, stumbling and tumbling. “Okay, I can do this. Phew,” he musters up his confidence. You swoon inwardly at his being so nervous. You see his chest rise and fall with a deep breath, then he looks at you squarely and manages to get the words out. “I’ve traveled all around the world.”

(A scene flashes in your mind: a well-dressed Yoongi boarding a private jet.)

“I’ve made it to the highest ranks of popularity and success, of fame and fortune.”

(Flash number two: Yoongi on stage, peering out over a crowd of thousands of adoring fans.)

“I’ve been able to devote my life to what I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

(Flash number three: Him tucked away in his studio, giant headphones perched over his ears.)

“But I ran away from it all and came here because I was still unhappy. Because, even though I was loved—and loved deeply—by my hyungs, I wasn’t ever fully understood.”

(Flash number four: Him packing a suitcase in the dead of night and leaving without a word.)

“You give me everything, my Y/N.” (Flash: You and him meeting on that café bench, expressions shy and innocent.)

“You share your knowledge with me.” (You excitedly explaining Persuasion to him over pizza.)

“You show me new and exciting things and places.” (Sitting with him on the edge of the mountain bridge on that windy fall day.)

“You let me in, and you listen in return.” (Bearing your soul to him on the streets of D.C.)

“There’s not a part of you I could love more.” (Sharing a passionate kiss with him in that alleyway in the rain.)

“There’s never a time I don’t yearn to claim you as my own.” (Sharing a bed in a New York City hotel.)

“And even though I can’t promise I won’t be difficult to live with at times—even though I can’t promise I’ll never go quiet and shut down and get all in my head about things—I can promise to love you constantly and unabashedly.”

(Him carrying you in his arms to the beat of the D.C. sunset as fresh cherry blossoms fly all around.)

“I promise to stay by your side no matter what happens, to support you in all that you do and all you’ll achieve. I’m seriously considering retiring from rapping and producing and just being your full-time trophy husband–” you share a laugh, and more tears coalesce in your eyes, “–because you make me happier than anything ever has. And everything within me tells me that will never change. So I’m taking a chance here—and I know it’s early on, and we’re young and have our whole lives to figure out, and you can take all the time to think that you need–”

“Yoongi-ah,” you interrupt. “Just ask me the question.”

He bats his eyelashes, his round cheeks and pink lips forming the six most beautiful words you’ve ever heard.

“My Y/N, will you marry me?”

You nod. You nod again. He raises his eyebrows and says something, but there’s now a ringing in your ears—but not the uncomfortable, high pitched kind. It’s more like music. Regardless, you can’t hear him or anything. You’re simply overcome by the urge to kiss him, so you do, grabbing on to his shirt collar and the ends of his hair, allowing the spring breeze to whirl around you, to wrap the two of you in your own cocoon. When you break apart, he slides the ring onto your finger. You pull him onto the blanket, fall in a fit of giggles, pop the champagne, and sip it together as you watch the clouds in the sky roll by at rapid pace.

“Y/N,” he says quietly after you’ve been lounging together for almost an hour, “I got you this, too.”

He lifts a delicate silver chain from a box.

“Oh Yoongi, it’s beautiful. But . . . I mean, it kind of pales in comparison to this ring, though.”

He laughs. “Well, that’s the thing. I figured—maybe, for now—you could keep the ring on this necklace, and wear it around your neck. And under your shirt.”

“To hide it?”

He nods.

“You mean, to keep this a secret?”

He nods again. “I think it might be a good idea. The paparazzi would go crazy over this news, and I can’t have you getting hurt. I . . . I’ll do anything to protect you, my Y/N.”

You heart melts at its edges. “I understand, Yoongs.” You cup his cheek. “Let’s do it then.”

He removes the diamond ring from your finger, slides it onto the chain, and drapes it around your neck, placing a gentle kiss to your clavicle from behind.

“You can still tell your family,” he says. “And your roommates. I’ll tell my parents and hyungs.”

“Sounds good.”

You rest in his arms for hours more, watching the sky turn from blue to orange to black.

“I don’t want to sound impatient, Y/N,” he whispers contemplatively, “but I just cannot wait to marry you.”

You smile the smile of a person who’s found joy—real joy. The pieces of the puzzle of your life are falling into place after what seems like eternities of waiting. You nestle yourself into Yoongi’s pale, moonlit skin and send a mental message of hope to your past self.

Hang in there, girl, you murmur to the one behind the wheel of her car, driving back to Hunsaker to begin her senior year of college. Keep driving. Keep moving forward. You have no idea the miracle that lies ahead.

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-Two: Pressure Applied

yoongi x reader genre: fluff, a lil angst warnings: none word count: 2k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you.” —Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

The weather is officially warm, which means that Roommate Brunch at Shadow Café now has the option of being replaced by a Roommate Brunch Picnic at Main Street Square Park. A boisterously excited Vivian insists on this departure from normalcy, and you, Bianca, and Tristan placidly agree to indulge her. (She does, after all, offer to cook and bake and buy everything.)

You spread out an old blanket on the grass and make yourself comfortable. Vivian passes around fruit, a cheese plate, cinnamon rolls that are too good to be store-bought, and even mini-quiches. (Just one of the many perks of having a roommate obsessed with French cooking.) You watch a couple nearby toss a Frisbee back and forth as your best friends chat about everything and nothing.

“Wishing you were with Yoongi right now, Y/N?” Tristan’s taunting voice calls back your attention. She nods to the couple you were watching.

“Oh, no,” you smile, a somewhat nervous laugh simultaneously passing through your lips. You shyly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s just entertaining to watch, is all.”

“Frisbee is about as entertaining to watch as a documentary on space exploration,” Bianca smirks.

“Hey!” Vivian protests. “I happen to think space exploration is very interesting.”

“You can call him, if you want,” Tristan continues, ignoring your other two roommates’ comments. “He’s more than welcome to join us.”

“No, that’s okay,” you tell her. “This time is for me to spend with you guys. I can see him later. Sorry I was zoning out.”

“Oh, girl, we get it,” Vivian pipes up. “When I first started dating Scott, I could never get my mind off him. I had to see him every day, or else I felt like I would die.”

The four of you share a laugh. “Well, Yoongi and I don’t see each other every day,” you say. “But of course I do find myself missing him.”

Vivian and Bianca share a look. “You . . . don’t see him every day?” Bianca inquires.

“No,” you admit. “I . . . we . . . we’re both busy. Is . . . is that bad? Should we see each other every day?”

“To each their own,” Vivian replies, “but Scott gets really upset if I’m too busy to see him. He acts all pouty and mopey, which is kind of cute. But he also gets insecure about things. He’ll start to doubt our relationship.”

At Vivian’s words, something in you pops, shifts, crackles. Am I making Yoongi feel insecure? Is he doubting our relationship? You remain silent, both unsure of how to reply and too caught up in your thoughts to formulate anything verbally. A bitterness settles on your tongue.

As the conversation moves on, you shut down more and more. The thoughts keep coming, piling, twisting your stomach into knots and your vision into blurs. Tristan hands you a bottled orange juice, and that’s when she seems to notice your mood, your body language signaling dejection. Slumped shoulders. Lowered head. Still, but contemplative eyes.

“Y/N,” she mutters, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Wanna go for a walk?”

“Sure,” you agree.

Tristan announces to the ever-chatty Bianca and Vivian duo that you’ll be back soon, and steers you down a tree-lined sidewalk away from them.

“T–Thanks,” you stammer.

“No problem,” she replies. “I need to get away from them when they get like that, too.”

“It’s hard to explain,” you begin, “seeing as how Bianca is and has always been my best friend in the entire world. And I know she’s smarter and more capable than almost anyone I’ve ever met. But sometimes . . .” you trail off.

“She acts like a know-it-all and drives you crazy?” Tristan finishes.

You laugh a little. “Exactly.”

“And then there’s Vivian, who has just the most perfect relationship with the most perfect fiancée ever, and has to advertise it to the whole world every second of every day.”

“Whoa, Tris, tell me how you really feel.” You share a laugh.

“Try not to take what she said to heart,” she mentions once her laugher subsides. “Her whole . . . implying that you should see Yoongi every day, I mean. She has no business judging your relationship like that. Even if she went about it in a roundabout kind of way.”

“I know,” you nod, looking up at the sun peeking through the spring-green tree leaves, “but Tris . . . what if she has a point?”

Your roommate tilts her head to the side, asking for more.

“I mean, I’m really busy with work and school right now. My senior year’s starting to wrap up. What if he starts to doubt how he feels about me when he has to go a day—or even a couple of days—without seeing me?”

“Then his feelings for you aren’t strong enough,” Tristan says, ever a mix of sweet and bluntly honest. “Or deep enough, for that matter. There are people who can pine after someone—even someone they’ve never met—for a lifetime because their feelings for them are strong and deep enough to last.”

You shift your gaze from the spring splendor to your Tristan’s clear eyes, serious and sincere.

“You just have to figure out if his feelings for you—and if your feelings for him—are of that magnitude,” she explains. The task she’s just uttered settles upon your soul, but not with the weight of a thick textbook. It’s more like a cherry blossom: a light, gentle flower that makes your heart flutter. Because, really, you already know the answer to Tristan’s question.

It comes to you in the form of something Yoongi said to you the day he confessed his love:

“You could weigh as much as the entire world, and I’d still carry you.”

He might as well have added, “You could be as cold as ice or as hot as fire, and I’d still hold you in my arms,” or “You could be on the other side of the world, and I’d still find you.” He might as well have admitted, “You could be the most troubled or distraught person on this planet, and I’d still love you.”

You walk a few more paces, keeping your eyes on your shoes, considering all that you have to consider and pondering all that you desire to ponder. You replay scenes of you and Yoongi in your head, fueling the warm, comforting feeling that’s growing inside you. Instead of cripplingly negative thoughts sending your feelings down a spiral of remorse and self-loathing, you allow positive memories and realizations to launch you sky high. I suppose thoughts can create grandeur, too, you realize, not just destruction.

And when you lift your eyes to the lane ahead of you, you see him standing there, just a little way down the path. He’s wearing an unbuttoned flannel over a form-fitting, black t-shirt. His hair has been lightened to a gorgeous brown, and it’s a little wavier and more tousled than usual. A swoonworthy gummy smile brightens his face as soon as he sees you, and his legs don’t hesitate to pick up the pace, heading in your direction.

“Go,” you hear Tristan urge. You look to her, and her eyes shift to Yoongi. “Go to him.”

You place a hand on her shoulder and say, “Thank you.” She nods in acceptance as you break into a run, target in sight.

You’re only a little bit out of breath once you reach him and he reaches you. “Hi,” you grin.

“Hi,” he says back, though his smile begins to disappear.

Knots form in your stomach. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He grabs your face, a hand on each of your cheeks, and brings your lips to his. You stand on your tip toes to help him out. His kiss is slow and light and endlessly pleasant. You wonder if you’ll ever tire of feeling his lips on yours: they’re soft and careful and passionate. You move to his rhythm until he breaks away to whisper:

“I just missed you.”

The knots return.

“I’m sorry,” you drop your head.

“What for?” He brings a hand to your cheek, gently grazing your skin with his thumb.

“I’m sorry I don’t see you every day.” You allow sadness to sound through your voice. “I’m sorry I’m busy and we have to be apart.”

“What?” He furrows his brow. “Oh, my Y/N, I didn’t mean for you to feel bad. I get it. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, and I’m so proud of you for handling it all. Plus, I’ve got a lot going on too.”

“I know,” you shake your head, a tear threatening to form. Why am I so damn emotional? “But wouldn’t you rather be with someone who could see you every day?”

He groans as he says, “When are you going to get it through your head? I want to be with you. No one else. Period. Okay?”

You can feel his eyes petitioning yours to meet them. You indulge them in their request. “Okay,” you whisper.

“When I say ‘I miss you,’ it’s not because I’m bitter about you having your own life,” he laughs. “Not in the slightest. Dating someone whose life completely revolved around me would drive me crazy. No, when I say ‘I miss you,’ it just means that, in a perfect world, I’d be around you every second of every day.”

Ugh. Swoon.

“You really did get trained on how to say perfect things while you were in Korea.”

He laughs, presses a kiss to your forehead, takes your hand, and begins walking. “Y/N, is . . . is anyone putting ideas in your head? Ideas that make you not feel good enough to be with me?”

You slow your pace, drawing your eyebrows together. “Not exactly,” you begin. “It’s just . . . well, Viv has this fiancée, and Bianca’s always been kind of a relationship expert, at least in my eyes. I don’t think they’re doing anything intentional to hurt me, but before you found me here, Tris and I were on a walk to get away from them. They just can get a little . . . judgy, sometimes, I guess.”

“Ah, I see.” He squeezes your hand. “Well, I know they’re good friends to you. But sometimes even the best of friends can lead us to hurtful thoughts. Unintentionally, like you said.”

The cool breeze floats by like a canoe on a river. The clear azure sky sprawls overhead. The world’s most perfect left hand holds your right. You are, as they say, at peace.

And Yoongi only makes it better when he says, “I don’t ever want you to doubt the way I feel about you.” He sits on a park bench and pulls you beside him. The bench is a little small, and it reminds you of the one you sat on together the day you met outside the café—only this time, you’re one hundred percent grateful that you have to huddle together. “I love you,” he declares, “and I am the kind of person who, once someone captures their heart, will never be able to retrieve it. I’m the kind of person who would never even want to.”

You narrow your eyes. “You stole that out of Persuasion. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. I swear. My only inspiration is you.”

“Ugh, cheesy,” you tease, even as you settle your head onto his shoulder. “I know you’re the Grand Lyricist of the music world, but sometimes you’d do better with a little less talk and a little more–”

You can’t finish speaking before he grabs you by the hips, smashing his lips on yours, and pushing you all the way over to the other side of the bench. One of his hands moves up to support your head (and to prevent you from falling over the side), and you can feel warmth emanating from the various surfaces of his body: arms, lips, chest. You’re hardly able to think: you just allow him to melt you.

Finally, you break apart. “A little more that?” He whispers, his breath still lightly brushing up against your lips. He laughs his deep, echo-through-your-body laugh when he gauges the pleasant surprise on your face. “I don’t want you to feel pressure to be a different kind of girlfriend than the one you are,” he mutters before kissing you powerfully yet again. “But I guess pressure isn’t always a bad thing.”

[illeee-girl]

JIMIN BOY YOU KEEP LOOKING LIKE THAT AND I SWEAR I’LL HAVE TO MARRY YOU

[illeee-girl]

You Infire Me Chapter Twenty-One: Talk of the Small Town

yoongi x reader genre: fluff warnings: mc with mental health issues word count: 2k

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.” — Emily Dickinson

You’d never known it until this moment, but Hunsaker was a town of gossips. As soon as it was rumored that rap king and k-pop superstar Min Yoongi was dating that nerdy-but-cute senior in the English program, all of campus and Main Street seemed to erupt in whispers. You’d been spotted holding hands on a coffee date, studying together on a couch at the library (and sitting way too close for two people who were “just friends”), and stealing kisses under the flower-dotted trees in the quad. Someone had even made an Instagram page entitled “Suga and his Sweetheart” dedicated to posting paparazzi-style pictures of you two. It was like you had a small band of fans—people supportive of and invested in your relationship, like Bradgelina proponents or Anidala shippers. You thought it was cute and harmless.

Bianca, ever your concerned fierce protector, did not.

“You and Yoongi are being stalked,” she proclaims over breakfast one chilly April morning.

“We are not,” you say through a mouthful of toast, drawing your eyebrows together in reconsideration. “Well, maybe we are. But I don’t know, it’s kind of nice, to be honest. I feel like, after all these years, Hunsaker’s finally noticed me. Well, Hunsaker beyond the English department.”

“Whatever, then.” Bianca sighs before insisting, “But I still think it’s an invasion of your privacy.”

You shrug but add, “Think about what it would be like if we were at some major university in a big city. BTS is huge. There would be reporters and paparazzi—like, real paparazzi—following us everywhere. I wouldn’t know what to do. I mean, I adore Yoongi, I’m not sure if I’d be able to handle it.”

Bianca reassures you with words that kind of go in one ear and out the other. She gets up, washes her cereal bowl, and jumps in the shower. You take a sip of your tea and glance outside at the flower petals flying on the crisp spring morning breeze, allowing yourself to simply feel content with your life for once. Perhaps for the first time. You breathe in deeply, exhaling your gratitude. Gratitude for your classes—they’re going well. Gratitude for your roommates—they’ve been really sweet. And, of course, gratitude for Yoongi—you’re finally enjoying a college relationship, and Yoongi’s been the perfect boyfriend. Your life is the stuff of campus crush dreams.

Of course, life is never one hundred percent perfect, and there’s a major wrench in your happiness: your imminent graduation. And what lies behind it: your future. The misty, fuzzy, cloudy rest of your life.

It’s the knot in your heartstrings that keeps getting caught in your chest and throat, causing the physical sensation of tightness, and sometimes even of burning. You’d do anything to untangle it, and you’ve tried. You’ve workshopped your résumé, going so far as creating different versions for different kinds of positions. And you’ve applied to plenty of jobs. (No news back yet, except a few rejections.) You’ve even applied to a graduate program: a Masters of English Literature at New York University. You’ve covered your bases. Now for the hard part:

Being patient.

After getting ready for the day, you head on over to Yoongi’s apartment, like you do every Saturday. It’s a long-ish walk, but you never mind it. Walking presents an opportunity to mull around in your brain, yes, but your thoughts while walking seem to be much clearer, much more logical. There’s something about fresh mountain air that chases away negativity.

You reach his door, but just as you’re about to knock, it opens.

“Hey,” he says with a smirk, leaning against the doorframe. He’s in a white, rather thin t-shirt and his classic ripped black jeans. His hair is wet, and you can smell salon shampoo and aftershave on him. Fresh out of the shower.

“Hey,” you say back, as nonchalantly as you can. Who’s freaking out? Not me. I’m not freaking out. I can think clearly with him looking and smelling like this. Just don’t look him up and down . . . don’t look him up and down . . . WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT LOOKING HIM UP AND DOWN OH GOD ALMIGHTY SEND HELP–

“Y/N?” Yoongi meets your widened eyes with a confused look. “What’s wrong?”

You clear your throat. “Nothing,” you force your lips into a smile. “I just got lost in thought for a second.” You walk across the threshold.

But he stops you in the entryway, leaning against the open door and inclining his head towards yours. “Oh?” he breathes. “And just what were you thinking about?” A devious grin finds itself on his face. You’re about to die.

Don’t give him the satisfaction, Y/N. “Nothing, I just–”

He cuts you off with a kiss, long and deep and a little forceful, but in the best way. His wet hair brushes up against your forehead a bit, but you don’t mind. Somehow, it only adds to the experience. You wrap your arms around his neck and tug at the ends of his hair—it’s grown longer. He moans a little, telling you that he likes it.

Then he breaks away. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I never want to send the message that I don’t care about what you have to say, even if kissing you is pretty irresistible.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “We talk for hours, Yoongi. Sometimes into the dead of night. I know you value my thoughts.”

“Okay. Good.” He blinks a couple of times. You can tell that some sort of ridiculous statement is forming on his lips. “Though I know that you just want me for my body.”

Okay, you internally concede. I suppose more ridiculous things have been said.

On the outside, you just giggle and push him away.

“What shall we do today, my love?” He asks, wandering over to the couch to sit down and tie his black converse.

You don’t know what it is about that question, but what follows it can only be described as a waterfall of emotion. All of your anxieties about the future come flooding in. You let down the emotional walls that had been keeping up an “everything is peachy keen” image; the dam breaks and you begin to cry. Ugly cry. It’s more of a sob, really. You attempt to speak, letting out a few incomprehensible murmurs, but Yoongi’s attentive and intelligent enough to discern the words “worry” and “future” and “failure”. And, truth be told, with his counseling abilities, he doesn’t need anything else to go off of. He crosses the room towards you, the untied laces of his shoes forgotten. You’re tortured; you’re overcome. You begin to fall to your knees, but Yoongi’s there—just in time—to catch you. You find yourself wrapped in his embrace, and curse yourself silently for getting his t-shirt all wet with your tears. And probably some snot, too. Oh, joy. Well, best to ask for forgiveness for bawling into his shirt rather than permission.

“You’ll be fine, my Y/N,” he whispers gently into the canal of your ear, stroking your hair with fingers, his touch soft and compassionate. “You’re smart. And you’re strong. And you’re brave. You have all the qualities of a successful person. You don’t have it in you to fail. You just . . . have this thing inside of you that tells you that you will.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter through swollen lips into his shirt.

“Sorry about what, my Y/N?” His voice is calm but laced with concern.

“I’m sorry I have that thing inside me,” you tell him. “I’m sorry I’m like this. You could be with someone who isn’t. Someone who’s normal.”

He shakes his head, holds you tighter. “Oh, come on now. Normal is boring. Besides, do you think you’re the only one in this relationship who doesn’t have that voice inside their head?”

You can hear his heartbeat as he says: “Have you forgotten that night in DC? When you told me everything about you, and I told you everything about me? The deep stuff—the dark stuff?”

“I remember,” you mutter. “I guess I just . . . forgot.”

He hums contentedly. “We’re similar, you and I. We both have to keep fighting our bad thoughts.”

“Shouldn’t you be with someone who can help you, then?” You shake as the words come out. “Someone who’s not too wrapped up in their own issues to be there for you?”

“You’re always there for me, Y/N-ah. You may not see it, but you are. You give me love, and attention, and a listening ear, and validation.” He loosens his grip around you enough to allow your eyes to meet, cupping your cheek and saying, “I’m a simple guy. That’s really all I require.”

This earns a weak laugh from your chest.

“But this conversation isn’t about me. It’s about you. Don’t you be worried sick about the future,” he soothes you with eyes that search yours, “because you’ll turn out just fine. You already have. Everything up to this point has turned out just fine—you’re at the school you’re supposed to be at, studying the discipline you’re supposed to be studying. You met me,” he cracks a chuckle and a crooked smile before continuing, “so what makes you think the same won’t be true of the future? If everything’s worked out up to this point, who’s to say that it won’t from here on out?”

That’s it. That did it. The flow of your tears stops. The stormy waters settle into a placid pond. What he said, just then—that’s what did it. Min Yoongi has killed the demon inside you by strangling it with logic.

“That . . . makes sense,” is what you tell him.

“You say that like you’re surprised,” he feigns offense. “Are you shocked that I’m smart? Are you really only with me for my body?”

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m just . . . well, I’m a little shocked that it worked. What you said. It worked. You’ve given me ammo to fight that voice inside my head—ammo that works.”

You resolve within yourself to combat those pesky, crippling fearing-failure thoughts with Yoongi’s words. Everything up to this point has turned out just fine, so what makes you think the same won’t be true of the future? It might be a difficult lifeline to find when you’re in a dark place, but you think you can do it regardless. You at least have to try. You at least have to have hope.

You know that words of gratitude would never suffice, so you opt to give him a kiss instead. It’s the kind of kiss he’d give you: lingering and passionate, with just the right amount of pressure applied.

“What was that for?” He asks once you draw apart.

“For giving me my ammo,” you say, matter-of-factly. “Now, let’s go to Shadow Café and then hit up the bookstore. I need the next book in the series I’m reading, and the Suga and His Sweetheart Instagram page needs more material.”

[heybaetae]

meanwhile, the actual inventor: not funny. didn’t laugh.

[illeee-girl]

I don’t have many demands in life. But my future husband. Must have Jimin’s hair.

[dazzlingkai]

jimin ♡ boy with luv (japanese ver.) 191204

[illeee-girl]

!!!!!!! in love