Kiki

40 and fabulous | Here for the fics

[kiki-zb]

So proud to be raising baby ARMY in my house 🥰 (yes there is a child under all the lovies 🤣)

[kiki-zb]

iykyk

[ktownshizzle]

Terms & Conditions | The Final

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to? ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: Smut! penetrative sex/making sweet sweet love, your mom, note the flashback tags, violence (yoongi uses that boxing work out for something!), mentions of blackmail, someone’s going to jail, Chae-Kook, maybe some tissues are needed for the ending ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 5k :) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: October 8, 2025 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Ah, the final chapter. I hope you enjoy, and see you on the other side. 🙂

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You open the door.

For a moment, Yoongi just stands there, eyes red and glassy, a mirror to yours.

You haven’t slept in days and somehow, he still looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in life.

“Yoongi,” you test his name against your lips.

He nods, as if you’re still saying it correctly and it’s healing something in him. “Can I come in?”

You step aside and he enters, slipping off his black Crocs, pushing it under the rack. It’s stuck, too bulky, just half in and half out. He looks up at you like it’s some kind of metaphor for his place in your life.

You give him a tight-lipped smile before padding towards the living room in your fuzzy socks. He follows without a word and hovers when you take a spot on the three-seater. His eyes go to the single chair, but you tap the cushion beside you, signalling for him to take his place. You hate that he’s awkward around you, but you can’t really blame anyone but yourself.

Finally, you sit side by side. You capture a whiff of his cologne and goosebumps dapple your arms at the familiarity. You rub them away as you stare ahead.

There’s a long silence where neither of you knows how to start.

Miraculously, he breaks it first.

“I’m sorry it took me this long,” Yoongi says. “I should’ve known something was wrong.”

You shake your head. “No, you’re not… I was the one who shou..”

“Don’t. Please.” He cuts you off gently, looking up at the ceiling. “You don’t have to apologize for trying to protect me.”

You bite your lip, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I just, I thought if I walked away, it would end there. I thought they’d leave you alone.”

He exhales hard, then looks at you properly. “They won’t hurt you again.”

Your brows knit. “Did you…?”

“It’s handled,” he says, certain and firm. Sucking his cheeks in as he nods.

You study his face. There’s something heavier in his expression now. Like whatever he found out aged him years.

“Who was it?” you dare ask.

His jaw tenses. “It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is you’re safe. And that they’re not getting away with it.”

He places a hand gently over yours. Your mouth hangs when you see it. Knuckles dark red and raw. He squeezes you as if to say, no, don’t worry about it. You hope to god it’s just from a strenuous boxing work out and nothing else. But your gut tells you otherwise.

It seems lightyears away that you've sat beside each other like this. You feel the warmth of him, the steadiness, the weight of everything he’s carried just to get back to you. Throat tight, you look down to where your fingers somehow effortlessly link together and realize how badly you’ve missed this and how badly you almost fucked this up. 

“I’m sorry.”

His voice breaks. “I really thought I lost you.” 

“You didn’t. You never could.” A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. 

He reaches up and wipes it with his thumb.

Eyes closed, you lean into his palm and you finally remember what safety feels like.

“I missed you,” his breath fans against your wet cheeks.

As you open your eyes, you find that he’s close… closer. And you’re more nervous than you thought you’d be. 

Yoongi wastes no more time and kisses you, deep, hungry and urgent. He's impatient, licking into your mouth, like you’re the sustenance he’s lacked for days. Your back gently meets the cushion, lips linked, heart bursting. He mutters something about how he missed your body so much, how he needs all of you, how you feel so fuckin’ good. You sigh contentedly when his hands start to roam, but you remember where you are.

“My eomma. She’s upstairs,” you clasp the back of his hand that already made a home under your bra, halting his movements.

That sobers him up.

“We can go to the guest room,” you offer. “Are you staying?”

“If you want me to…” he answers, sheepish.

“Always.”

You make your way to the guest room on the first floor, where you’ve been staying since you arrived. Your childhood bedroom upstairs has been converted to your mom’s hobby room, where she has racks of textile and whatever hyperfixation she has at the moment.

The lights are off when you enter, just a subdued glow from the lamp outside. You both find your way back to each other in a heated tango you know so well. Each piece of clothing is discarded in haste and when he finally sinks into you, you swear your soul slots back into place. Nothing else has ever felt like coming home.

“Baby…” Tears stream down your cheeks as he rocks against you, chest heaving with every thrust. “I’m sorry for leaving… for not telling you… I didn’t want to…”

“Jagiya,” he rasps against your mouth, swallowing your breath and your apologies and replaces it with his own. “No… I’m sorry… I should have known…”

There’s an ache being pulled from you with every thrust of his hips. “Didn't mean to hurt you,” you say with a broken sob. “Never wanted to.”

“I know, baby,” he pants, cupping your face as he drives into you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. His cock drags along your walls, hitting every perfect spot, cascading pleasure along every vein in your body. The feeling of him nestled inside you makes you full, and whole, and complete.

“I missed this… fuck…” you moan out, a mix of pleasure and pain in your voice after a particularly rough push.

His hand moves down, slipping between your folds to rub against your clit. Your arch into him, body shaking with the overwhelming need for release. 

"I'm close," you pant.

“You can do it,” he nudges your nose with his. “Come for me, jagi.”

Your climax hits like a dam breaking. A bone-deep, all-consuming sob rips through you, releasing everything: guilt, grief, longing, love. You're both drenched. Wet with sweat, sweet with heat.

Yoongi groans as your walls continue to spasm against him, but he doesn’t wait for you to descend from your peak. Instead, he snaps his hips harder to chase the high he craves, taking you with him. He babbles incoherently, things he can only mutter when he’s desperate like this. Damp palms lock yours in place, pressing your wrists into the cushions above your head, and he pounds into you, fast and deep.

God, you feel insane right now, like you're on a trip. The oversensitivity is becoming unbearable, a wave of fresh tears smears his shoulder as you beg and beg. For more, for mercy, for the pleasure only he can provide for you.

“One more, pretty,” he grunts against your ear, desperate, pleading. “With me…”

Finally, it’s the scrape of his teeth and the delicious swirl of his tongue against your neck that hurtles you towards your second orgasm.

Not a second later as your pussy flutters around him, he spills inside you with one feral grunt, hips stuttering as you accept him, filling every fracture of your broken heart.

Later, when you’re tucked against his body, skin slick and hearts slowing to a lo-fi cadence, you whisper his name and say, “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he murmurs, lips puckered at your temple. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

You nod. He’s never asked you for anything. But you both know you will give him this one.

“So… are you going to introduce me, or should I just guess which member of Bangtan Sonyeondan this is?”

It's your mom.

Yoongi nearly topples the chair as he springs up, posture stiff, but before he can bow and recite his government name, your eomma already waves him off with zero fucks given, “Sit. I know who you are.”

Yoongi freezes, looks at you with pleading round eyes, but you shrug. Yeah, you’re eomma is sassy like that he better get used to it.

“I’ve seen your interviews,” she adds, opening a cabinet. “You always look like you hate being there.”

“I usually do.”

Your eomma cracks the smallest of smiles.

“You take coffee?”

“Black.” He replies, adding his manners hurriedly, “Please.”

A steaming mug of americano appears before him a minute later. Yours has a splash of milk and copious amounts of sugar, just the way you like it.

“You hungry?”

“Yes, actually.” Yoongi nods with boyish eagerness. His ears are even slightly pink.

“There’s fried rice in the fridge. I have to water the plants.”

And with that, she’s gone. Out the back door in her gardening gloves before Yoongi can even say thank you.

You stifle a laugh behind your palm as he stares after her, stunned.

Yoongi leans toward you and whispers, “Is she mad at me?”

You shake your head. “No. That’s just… her way.”

He nods slowly. “She’s kind of terrifying, isn’t she?”

Later, after your mom heads off to work, the two of you are curled up again on the couch. The popcorn’s gone cold. The soda’s flat. Neither of you touched it.

But he did touch you. Your lips are a little raw from his kisses, his teeth sandwiched on your bottom plush when you came undone. 

And maybe it’s not the time, but you can’t hold it in any more. He can’t keep you from knowing the truth.

Breath still shared, you nudge your nose against his and ask. “Are you finally gonna tell me what happened?”

“Jagi…”

“Please?”

Yoongi swallows a lump in his throat. “Okay.”

[Flashback: One week ago]

[10:00 a.m.]

This fuckin’ bitchass fuckin’ rain got his pants and shoes wet. God dammit. Yoongi sighs as he shakes off his shoes on the rug of the building lobby. The entrance security gives him a polite greeting, and he realizes belatedly that he ignored the man. Ugh. Everything around him just feels pointless. Like the abandoned umbrella on his kitchen island.

But that afternoon, Mr. Lee’s call comes through and suddenly, the things he’d been digging into start to shift into place.

“There have been two people asking for full CCTV access in the past month,” Mr. Lee says.

Yoongi’s hand tightens around his Galaxy phone. “What kind of access?”

“All floors. Even storage-level cams.”

“Who?”

[12:05 p.m.]

Danbi perks up when Yoongi approaches her table in the cafeteria. She’s halfway through tucking her hair behind her ear, lips already curling into something flirt-adjacent, like she’s bracing herself for a compliment. 

“You wanna talk?” she asks, trying to sound breezy.

Yoongi nods, silently thankful that there’s nobody else there, keeps his face and eyes even as he jerks his chin toward the hallway. She follows him into the stairwell on the fourth floor.

When the heavy metal door shuts behind them with a hollow thunk, she quips, “If you wanted me alone this badly, you could’ve just said so.”

Yoongi’s eyes are sharp, cold, devoid of any sign of playfulness. Finally, Danbi notices and suddenly, she looks like a trapped animal.

“Why am I here?” she says. “I haven’t done anything illegal, okay? I just…”

Yoongi cuts in, calm but unyielding. “What did you do?”

She shakes her head. “I peeked, okay? I knew I wasn’t supposed to. But I knew there was something going on between you two and I just… I needed to prove it to myself.”

His voice tightens. “Why did you blackmail her?”

“Blackmail?” Her eyes go wide, palms up in surrender. “Woah! I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me. You wanted to cash in.”

She flinches.

“I swear, fuck” she mutters, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. “Yeah I said some shit to her face. But that’s it.” A bitter laugh slips out of her. “Your little girlfriend always got everything handed to her. Even your uncle was obsessed with her. It was fucking sick.”

Yoongi was focusing on assessing her expression, but stills as her last statement sinks in. “What did you say?”

“Hyun-woo-ssi. Always talking about her. Always praising her. Acting like she was royalty.” She scoffs. “We thought he was sleeping with her at one point. No one says that many good things about someone without an angle. The guy gives me the creeps.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenches.

Danbi raises her hands again. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay? Never blackmailed her. If I wanted money, I could have gone to Dispatch.”

She isn’t lying. He can see the tremble in her voice, the desperation bleeding through her arrogance. But it’s what she said, what she didn’t even realize she gave away, that snaps the final piece into place.

[12:27 p.m.]

Adrenaline propels Yoongi upward, feet pounding each step despite the ache building in his lungs. By the time he reaches the rooftop door, he already knows he’ll be there. He’s always there at this time.

Hyun-woo stands alone near the edge, cigarette between two fingers, lighter flickering weakly in the breeze. He doesn’t look startled when Yoongi approaches. Like a man too tired to care or too arrogant to fear.

Yoongi doesn’t speak yet, gauges the air.

“Yoongi,” Hyun-woo says. “What brings you here?”

Yoongi walks up, stopping a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his long coat. His expression is stone cold. 

Hyun-woo side-eyes him, smirks. “Ah. You finally caught up.” he mutters, taking a long drag. 

“I’m gonna give you a chance to explain yourself.”

Hyun-woo scoffs. “Figures. You think you’re better than the rest of us. Just like your father.”

“That’s cause he is,” Yoongi’s gaze darkens. “Unlike you, you piece of shit.”

That’s what sets Hyun-woo off. 

“You don’t even know what he did to me,” Hyun-woo growls, voice rising. “Your father. He made me beg. Like some stray dog. Do you know what it’s like to be ignored by your own blood while he parades you around as ‘family’ because you’re suddenly rich and famous? Your dad hates you, Yoongi. Always has, always will.”

Yoongi’s hands are balling into a fist. But he stays rooted.

Hyun-woo exhales smoke in slow spirals. “You had it all. And you couldn’t even do one fucking thing when I needed you.”

His voice cracks now. The edge of hysteria bleeding in.

“It’s not his responsibility to bail you out of your gambling debt. This isn’t even the first time.”

Hyun-woo hurls the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it beneath his shoe. “You know… I didn’t mean for it to go this far. Y/N was just supposed to be the go-between. She gets spooked. You wire the money, I walk away clean, and no one gets hurt.”

Yoongi's jaw ticks, but he doesn’t flinch even as Hyun-woo advances.

“I saw it. She was already skittish. I just gave her a push. Told her she was being watched. Told her she could ruin your whole career.”

Yoongi tries to control his expression, but Hyun-woo sees the edge in his stance like a shark smelling blood.

“Yeah. Your little girlfriend had no idea what game she was in,” he sneers, voice sharpening. “Too stupid to even see the goddamn meal ticket in front of her. Should’ve been grateful I pushed her to you. Wasn’t supposed to think, just play her part. But no, had to act like some goddamn martyr.”

A bitter laugh punches through the air. “Walked away when she was supposed to be set for life. Stupid girl.”

“Say one more thing and see what happens.”

Hyun‑woo smirks, eyes gleaming like he’s found a crack. “Why? Oh, don’t tell me you actually fell in love with her. It’s not real, Yoongi. I just said I played you both. Two chess pieces. She was the perfect pawn… And you?” He leans in, voice dripping, “…just a punk with a savior complex. Tell me you didn’t like those legs, huh? God, she practically begged for it. Threw herself at me at one point. Did she ever tell you that?”

Yoongi moves.

No warning. 

Just one clean, devastating punch to the side of Hyun-woo’s face.

Hyun-woo staggers back, crashing into the railing. He spits blood, staring up at Yoongi like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time.

“You think that makes you a man?” he smirks. “You think any of this makes you righteous?”

Yoongi still doesn’t say a word.

But behind them, the metal doors burst open. Leather shoes slap across concrete as his back-up swarms in.

“Min Hyun-woo!” a voice shouts. “Hands where we can see them!”

Three men arrive, pinning Hyun-woo before he can bolt. He fights it, shouting curses, spitting accusations, but he’s dragged down anyway, arms yanked behind his back as cuffs snap tight.

“Tell him!” Hyun-woo screams at Yoongi, eyes wild. “Tell him it was his fault! I had no choice! I—!”

The door slams shut behind them.

Silence returns. Yoongi stands alone again.

He looks down at the pack of cigarettes left on the ledge, picks it up and flicks the lighter.

The flame catches, a single stick burning between his lips.

He inhales deeply like he needs the poison more than the air and exhales toward the sky. 

[End of flashback]

You find Yoongi in the balcony of his apartment, smoke still mingling with the night air.

“I didn’t realize you smoked.”

“Ah, I’ve been stressed.” He admits, gazing up at the stars. You stand beside him and mumble a humble ‘sorry.’ Since coming back, oftentimes you catch him zoning out, like he's carrying the weight of the world. You wish in time he would realize he couldn't have controlled the situation any better than he already had.

The two of you fall quiet. Eventually, he stubs the cigarette out and slides the ashtray away. His arm loops around your waist, pulling you close until his chest is warm against your back.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just stands there with you, his chin briefly resting atop your head, breathing in sync with yours.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he murmurs.

You lean your head against his shoulder. “Me too.”

He’s quiet again, but there’s a shift in his stance. A subtle tension in the way his fingers twitch against your waist, like he’s building towards….

“I want to ask you something,” he says.

You turn slightly.

“It’s not romantic,” he starts, lips quirking in a half-apology. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. But legal’s asking me to… make things official.”

“Official?”

He nods once. “The lawyers drew up some new paperwork. For you, as my girlfriend. Some new terms and conditions that cover everything, just so you're more protected if anyone pulls this shit again.”

You don’t say anything at first, letting it sink in. Yoongi looks at you like he’d tear the paper in half if you asked. Like he hates this part, but he’s doing it because he won’t let anyone come near you like that again. That this new contract isn’t meant to protect him from you, but is meant to protect you, period. 

His voice is quiet. “I trust you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” you whisper. “And I trust you.”

There’s a beat, and then you step in, arms sliding around him as he hugs you tighter, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“I think this is just… part of being all-in, isn’t it?” you say.

Yoongi exhales, something close to relief coloring his breath. “God, I don’t deserve you.”

You smile into his chest. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

And when you lift your head, he kisses you, honest and sure. 

The chaos of the city sits below. But up here, it’s only the two of you. And that’s all that matters.

You’re tearing out of your apartment like a woman on fire. Shoes in hand. Blazer half-on. It’s the day you officially sign the contract and of course, of course you overslept. God this is a nightmare.

You don't know why you refused the car Yoongi offered but now you’re a mess and probably smell like the subway. By the time you reach the double doors of HYBE, you’re out of breath, barely managing to mutter your name to the receptionist before being escorted to Legal. You text Yoongi and he tells you he has been told to wait in his studio. 

Oof. You’re nervous. But you’re fine. Thank god for wrinkle-resistant fabrics, but you still smooth out your slacks and your top just out of habit as you stand outside the room.

Thankfully, Legal’s not so bad. The lawyers are weirdly chipper. The whole process is clear, professional, and even borderline friendly. You scribble your signature across the pages that seal your fate. But you don’t feel threatened or scared. You’re… good.

You’re still adjusting your bag as you walk out when—bam—you collide with someone rounding the corner.

“Omo, I’m so sorry, I—” you ramble, stepping back but when you lift your eyes. “Chae?!”

Your best friend is standing there, beautiful, gorgeous Chae, hair in a clip, lip tint suspiciously fresh, holding a cup of matcha.

Chae smiles at you. “Are the documents long? You know I hate reading.”

It takes you seven whole seconds. Seven whole seconds to realize what she meant.

Your mouth drops.

“Wait. Waitwaitwait. You’re also here to sign?”

Chae sips her drink and shrugs, a telltale blush creeping up her neck. “Kookie said it’d be better if we did it the same day. Like it’ll take the heat off him or something.”

You can't help but smile at this turn of events. Of course you knew they were dating, even if she kept it on the down low.

Chae leans in for a hug, squeezing you tight. “I’ll text you later. I don’t want to be late.”

“You better,” you say, laughing. 

And just like that, she’s whisked away by some assistant down the corridor, leaving you grinning like an idiot.

Yoongi’s studio door is closed as always. You push the code he texted you and the locks open with a whirring sound. He’s at the desk, headphones around his neck, twiddling with a track that sounds like a ballad. He turns at the sound of you, soft beat halting with two clicks of his mouse.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out for you with grabby hands. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how he looks at you.

“Hey yourself.”

“How was it?” he asks, arms wrapping around your waist, coaxing you to sit on his lap.

“All signed,” you respond. “I think I even read most of it.”

“I really hated asking you to do that.”

“I know. But it’s okay. I’d sign worse things for you.”

His lips tug into a gummy smile. “You saw Chae?”

“Mhmm.”

His hand brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, touch lingering. “Feels like we just crossed a new line.”

You nod. “Yeah. But I think we’re ready.”

“Reaaaally?” He juts his lower lip out, nodding to himself like you said something important. And then: “So you’ll move in with me?”

“Yoongi???”

“Is it too soon?”

“No, but—“

“Then what do you say…”

“Yes.”

EPILOGUE: Five Years Later

“Wae? Isn’t that too much?” Yoongi says with a dopey grin as Hoseok giggles. 

The scene? You’re all gathered behind the bride and groom as they share what is their umpteenth kiss during the ceremony.

“You’re not that conservative.” You mumble so only he can hear.

He narrows his eyes slightly and shakes his head, a knowing smile playing on his lips. Yeah, he’s gonna get you back for that one later. If you’re lucky.

Being here, watching the wedding of their stylist, you’re seeing a different side of your man. His eyes twinkled when the flower girl made her wobbly walk down the carpeted path. He sported the biggest grin when the groom bawled his eyes out during his vows. He clapped the loudest when they were finally announced husband and wife.

Yoongi loved love. 

You can see it everyday with the coffee on your bedside, the freshly laundered blouse hanging by the closet, the pair of tickets to your favorite musical. You feel it everyday with the touch of his hand against your skin, the press of his lips on your neck, the push of his hips against yours. 

You know it everyday because he’s him and you’re you.

And you… have something burning in your chest and gleaming in your purse that you really want to give him. You just don’t know the terms. Can you do it? Should you do it?

You glance towards him, his hand outstretched as he helps guide you down the stage and back to your seats.

“Where are you headed after, lovebirds?” Namjoon asks from behind you.

“Home, probably.” Yoongi says. “Are you going out for drinks?”

“Taehyung-ie just arrived from Paris. Wants company.”

“Ah, I’m tired. Maybe next time,” Yoongi replies, glancing at you. You nod without much thought, still riding the high of the ceremony… and still weighing the little piece of metal burning a hole in your clutch.

After the reception, the two of you make your way home, shoes kicked off at the door, laughter still ringing from the wedding playlist Yoongi keeps humming. Even as he brushes his teeth.

If he only knew you were crashing out a little.

You’re in one of his old tour shirts, curled up on the couch, freshly washed face pressed into a cushion when he comes back and flops beside you. His hand finds your leg, thumb grazing slow circles on your thigh.

“That was nice,” he says, elated.

You hum. “You cried.”

He groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “I did not.”

“You did. Everyone saw.”

“I like weddings,” he mutters, a soft admission.

You laugh, but then you go quiet. You shift to face him, biting your lip, taking this as your cue. “Will you like it even more if it was with me?”

Feline eyes almost bulge from their sockets.

“I’ve been thinking about something…” You take a deep breath, heart racing, and pull out the tiny piece of jewelry you’ve hidden in your bra. “I’m not proposing or anything, I just–”

You know you shouldn’t have hidden it in your cleavage, it’s weird and unromantic, but whatever! 

Yoongi is still staring, wordless.

“I know this isn’t really how it’s supposed to go,” you say quickly, before he can speak. “But I don’t care. We’ve never done anything the traditional way anyway.”

Palm out, you show the simple platinum band with a tiny engraving of your initials. 

His fingers reach out, taking the ring like it’s something sacred. And the tiniest twitch on his lips tells you that he spots the identical one you’re wearing, too.

“I don’t know what to call it,” you admit. “A promise? A pact? All I know is I want you. With me, forever, if you’re down.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer at first. Then, with a raise of his brow, “If I’m down?”

You laugh, a blush blooming on your cheeks. “I’m not good with words! I’m not the lyricist in this relationship.”

He wears the ring, cradles your hand in his, gives you a look of absolute adoration as he says your name. “I’m down.”

Tears well from your eyes. You tackle him into a hug, and he lets himself fall back, arms wrapped tightly around you. 

As you stay tucked against his chest, you don’t notice the way Yoongi glances out the window, toward the Han River, the glowing city skyline, and the quietly perfect life he’s somehow built. His gaze drifts to the guitar case in the corner, and a soft chuckle escapes him. He knew you were going to be trouble the moment you met. But it’s the kind he’d choose again and again. And if the velvet box hidden inside that guitar case says anything… it’s that he already has.

He breathes into your hair like he’s never letting go again. And he won’t.

Because this is the end of the maze.

The rest is going to be paradise.

:)

명심해 때론 거짓은 우리 사일 가르려 하니 Remember, sometimes lies try to separate us

시련은 우릴 속이려 하지 but Trials try to deceive us, but

그럴 땐 내게 집중해 in times like that, focus on me

어둠 속에선 우리면 충분해 In the darkness, as long as there are us, it’s enough

덧없는 거짓 속에서 In the meaningless lies,

우리가 함께면 끝이 없는 미로조차 낙원 as long as we are together, even the endless maze is a paradise

The Final A/N and it's a doozy~

And just like that, we’ve reached the end of what’s probably my personal favorite series. This one’s my baby, y’all! Forgive me if this will be a little long because I am feeling a lot of emotions right now.

Terms & Conditions is extra close to my heart because I was really proud of the concept. I’d been itching to find a military-life Yoongi fic and couldn’t, so I figured why not try writing one myself? And maybe part of why it felt so natural writing it was because I am so god damn delulu for Yoongi but also because I met my own “not Yoongi” husband at work. We’re a product of a good ol’ office romance, and let’s just say… some of the shenanigans in here may or may not be inspired by real life. Lol.

It was not easy to see this one through, because I had to rethink the entire plotline midway. The thing we do not speak of was essentially removed from the story so I had to think of another “conflict” to give it some depth. Thank God I watch a lot of k-dramas. There was also a time I lost steam with this. I got caught up with other fics and then Wonwoo also came along lmao. But I always knew I’d come back to it. I was 100, no, a thousand percent sure I would finish it.

I’d like to thank Aqua Glossdebut for betareading this series and being the couple’s #1 fan (y’all can’t fight her for that spot). Thank you for always encouraging me when I had ideas, and most especially when I didn’t have any. I wouldn’t be able to finish this without your support!

I’ve met so many of you because of T&C, and the fact that you stayed on means the world to me. Thank you for reading, supporting, and just being here through it all. Special shout out to every single person who has reblogged and commented and sent me an ask about T&C. I hope y'all found this ending satisfying. More importantly, I hope you find the kind of love you’re wishing for just like T&C Yoongi and MC did (minus the gambling uncle and the ratchet colleague, of course).

I loved dreaming up this couple and writing about their love. If you enjoyed this in any way, let’s chat in the comments and, reblog this if you like. If you’ve been a silent reader, I’d love it if you drop me a note, even just this once, to tell me how you felt about the story. If you’re down? :>

I rarely promote this, but damn, ya girl worked her ass off for this series, so I wouldn’t mind a cup of ko.fi if you’d like to share. No obligation, though! I still write for free, because therapy is more expensive.

Anyway, I think I’ve rambled too much already. Props if you made it here. <3 

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human. xo

I leave you with more yoongi.

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[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | 009

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader, Kim Namjoon x Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternately: Yoongi is a Labubu ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Crackfic galore, Magical realism slash scifi, Non-idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: The Witch K!, Jimin as your emotional punching bag, that’s about it ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 2.2k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: I loved writing this chapter, not only cos I got to play with the Witch K character, but more importantly, because of the ending <3 <3 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes 2: Thank you Tea and Aqua for always coming through for me <3

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Her name leaves sparks on your tongue like you licked a live wire and lived to tell the tale.

K.

You’re not sure what you expected. Some long-ass ancient syllables? A Latin mouthful? A consonant-laden Asian name? Instead it’s just a single letter, sharp as a Knife, angled to Kill.

You pull your sleeves to cover your shaking hands as you enter The Magic Shop. It’s dimmer tonight, the ‘close’ sign turning away other patrons. Jimin closed the neon light completely, because, no, people cannot ‘cum inside’, not tonight at least.

The curtains are drawn, racks shoved to the sides so the middle of the floor can hold what Jimin dramatically calls “the circle.” Normally, you’d roll your eyes at all this voodoo shit, but then again, you’ve spent weeks with a magical boyfr–you mean, cursed toy. At this point, you don’t even know what to believe anymore.

“Last chance to back out,” he says, flicking his lighter at a stick of incense until the smoke curls up sharp and sweet. Is anything he does not dramatic?

“I can’t back out,” you say simply, hand grasping Yoongi who hangs from your belt loop.

Jimin carefully sets a chipped porcelain bowl filled with salt between you. He squints at you, lips puckered around his lollipop. “You realize witches don’t exactly do refunds, right? Once she shows up, there’s no undo button. If she doesn’t like you, she might curse your ass, too. Best case, you’ll smell like garlic forever. Worst case…”

“Jimin.” You snap, more from nerves than annoyance. “I don’t care. Just fuckin’ do it.”

“Okay. But….” His grin flickers, and for once he looks serious. “Rule number one,” he starts, tapping his candy stick against the rim, “don’t lie. She’ll smell it on you.”

“I wasn’t planning to lie—”

“Rule number two: don’t flirt.”

Your head snaps up. “Why the hell would I flirt with…”

“She’s hot. Everyone flirts. Just… don’t do it.”

You groan into your palms. “This is so fucked up.”

“Yeah, but you’re desperate.” Jimin pops the lollipop back in, voice muffled. “And desperate people do desperate things.”

You glare at him but say nothing, because he’s right.

The ritual isn’t much at first. Jimin lights three candles, mutters some half-assed incantation that sounds suspiciously like lyrics to an old Britney Spears song, and sprinkles dried herbs in a circle.

But then the air shifts. The room bends, like gravity hiccuped. The shadows stretch long and strange. The pink salt hisses as if water touched it.

“Don’t freak out,” Jimin warns.

“Too late,” you shoot back, nostrils flaring.

And then, she’s here.

K.

She doesn’t look like a witch out of a storybook. No broomstick, no velvet cloak. No warts. (She got them cauterized in Gangnam, excuse me!)

She’s in ripped black jeans, a white shirt that hangs loose off one shoulder, blonde hair pulled back into a messy knot, stuffed under an MLB baseball cap. She looks so… casual? But the way the air shifts when she steps into the shop, you know instantly this is the bitch.

“Well,” she says, her voice like smoke and mirrors. “Which one of you called me?”

Jimin, the rat, points at you immediately.

Your throat is dry. “Me.”

She sneaks a wink at Jimin. And Jimin is salaciously biting his lip. What the fuck are you witnessing here?!

But before you can dwell on that, her eyes cut toward Yoongi’s toy form clutched in your hands. And just like that, her smirk falters. “Ah.”

Something cold prickles down your spine. She knows. Of course she knows.

“So.” She tilts her head, eyes back on you. “You’re the girl who finally broke him.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“I said you broke him. Keep up. I do not like repeating myself.”

Oh this bitch. Your blood is starting to boil but you can’t lose it. She’s the only one who can actually reverse this, you have to remind yourself. So you grit your teeth, and plead in as steady a tone as you can muster: “Please fix him.”

“Meh.” 

The shirt slips lower on her shoulder when she shrugs, skin catching the light with a shimmer of body glitter and you can’t help but stare. You should be annoyed, but you’re a little spellbound. How could this woman have fumbled Yoongi so badly?

“You’re so pretty, K. Has anyone ever told you that? Because you are. You are REALLY pretty…”

Jimin coughs around his lollipop. “Told you not to flirt.”

K smirks.

Your voice breaks. “Undo it. Please. I’ll do anything.”

For a long moment, K just stares at you. And then, surprisingly, her gaze softens. There’s something almost… sad there.

“You think I cursed him for funsies? I cursed him because he was an ass. He played too much. He needed to learn that he can’t be a dick and a half to every person he meets.”

Your grip tightens around Yoongi’s toy form. “He’s not like that anymore.”

“No? How are you so sure? Got a magic pussy on you?”

Her words cut like glass. You detest that she is making you doubt the kind of man Yoongi has been to you. When he’s been nothing short of–

“Let me ask you this.” K crouches down and meets your gaze like she’s looking straight to your soul. “Are you here to free him or just to keep him for yourself?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Your heart is a riot in your chest. Because in truth, you’re not sure. You’ve never thought about it that way.

K extends her palm. “If you want to break this curse, you have to give him back.”

“No!” Your fingers immediately clench around Yoongi so tightly. “I can’t… He’s mine.”

K shakes her head, not cruel, just certain, and says one word. “Possession.”

You stare.

“Possession is not love.” She finishes. “He was never yours to keep. That’s the whole point. You don’t heal if you keep using him as a crutch. You don’t find yourself if every second is built around waiting for him to wake up.”

Your voice is small when you say, “But I love him.”

Her gaze softens, but she doesn’t let up. “Then let that be the reason you do it right. You can’t love him as long as he’s a toy. And he can’t love you until you learn to stand without him. This isn’t about being strong for him. It’s about being strong for you.”

Your lip trembles. “I don’t even know what that means.”

K extends her hand, palm open, waiting. “Then let’s start with this.”

Jimin, quiet until now, reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Your stomach drops the second you see it. It’s your list. 

“Number 10.” K says simply.

You know 10. You wrote the last one because you couldn’t think of anything else that time. But it’s probably the most important one. 

‘I just wanna be happy.’

Your tears blur the faces around you. And in the few minutes you quietly sob, somehow, something clicks. Yoongi did help you fulfill all of the things in your list, one by one. But the last one, no one else could give you that. That had to come from no one else but you.

K’s voice is like caramel swirling around the haze enveloping you. “Love yourself enough. Or you’ll never love anyone right. And that kind of love… is the one that breaks the spell.”

The silence between you stretches, distracted only by light at the back of the shop that started to flicker incessantly. You can hear your own heartbeat, frantic, begging you not to let go. And yet, with shaking hands, you unclip him and place him into K’s palm. The cool glass of her rings brushes your fingers, sealing the deal.

It feels like someone carved your heart out of your chest with a pickaxe, but you press on. Because maybe that’s the lesson, you have to learn how to live without him. Find happiness that isn’t borrowed. Not from Namjoon. Not from Yoongi.

And with a puff of smoke, she’s gone.

 Month 001

The mornings are brutal. You don’t realize the first thing your eyes seek is the shelf where you’ve always placed Yoongi. Funny it’s become routine. What isn’t is when you realize he is not there, the course of your day is almost derailed in an instant.

Billboards of Daechwita are everywhere: bus stops, subway walls, lit up on the side of high-rises. Each time you see the Joseon king’s blonde mane and smoldering gaze, you flinch. He reminds you of someone so bad. You couldn’t bring yourself to watch the much anticipated finale. The show is stitched to so many of your good memories, of late-night cuddles, Yoongi’s dry commentary, his screeches at the cliffhangers.

One of your well-meaning neighbors saw you spacing out in the elevator. You were about to miss your floor. The next morning when you see her in the lobby, she gives you a (gulp) flyer to a painting class. You think about it for a week. When your fingernails were all bitten down to a pulp and the silence became too hard to bear you decided to do it. You needed something else to do with your fidgety hands.

It was a simple class, but it was engaging. They gave you a canvas and the option to either pick a reference image or simply freestyle it. You chose the latter. which is what you do. They gave you a glass of bubbly as you Picasso’d that shit. Your first canvas was a mess of streaks and clumps, but it was yours. You returned for a second class and came up with a bowl of oranges. It now hangs in your kitchen.

Month 002

By the second month, Jin cashes in on that fishing promise your now missing ‘boyfriend’ promised him. At dawn, you’re on a rickety boat, two thermoses between you, worms wriggling in a tub. You hate it. You love it. Jin nearly tips over and you laugh so hard you’re wheezing. Later, sitting with him on the pier, the tide lapping quietly, you realize you hadn’t moped about Yoongi for an hour. Baby steps.

Before he drops you off at your place, he gives you a gift. It’s a new album, says it’s his favorite. It’s called: “Happy” by an artist called… Jin. What a coincidence.

You decide to throw yourself into work, just to distract yourself further. Interestingly, your boss calls you out in a meeting, praising you for that thorough deck you prepared and the way you’re future-proofing the business. Recognition hits harder than you expect. It doesn’t fill the gap in your chest, but it does give you something to stand on. 

You also try  things you normally hated. Like green stuff. Apparently, matcha is delicious. With a couple of Tiktok tutorials, you learn how to make it at home.

Month 003

You feel like your tank is filled with more fuel to keep going.

Jin checks up on you once in a while, even takes you out to a movie with god-awful CGI so he can critique it loudly much to the chagrin (giggles, actually) of the other moviegoers. You’re surprised he didn’t get beat up with that terrible laugh of his. He did get someone’s number on the way out. Ew. If they only knew.

The ache still pricks when you pass by the alley of the Magic Shop, when Coldplay comes on shuffle. But it doesn’t flatten you anymore. In its place, something steadier grows, proof that you can and will stand on your own two feet. That you can choose to be happy, even when it’s hard.

Maybe that’s what K meant. And maybe that’s what Yoongi was always leading you toward.

Living alone, being single, it’s actually not that bad. The quiet doesn’t gnaw at your chest anymore, doesn’t whisper that you’re some undesirable loser. Instead, solitude feels like peace. You reach for company when you want it, friends, family, whoever. And when you don’t? You don’t. And that’s perfectly okay.

Tonight seems like a night for some much deserved ‘me time.’

You kick off your shoes, shopping bags abandoned in a happy little heap by the couch. A couple of small luxuries: a new candle, some fresh flowers, a bar of dark chocolate that felt too indulgent not to grab. You hum as you carry them into the kitchen, still a little buzzed from the pink moscato you had with dinner.

Later, you sink into your tub, the water frothing with bubbles, the Happy album serenading you from your speaker. Steam blurs the mirror, lavender and bergamot kiss the air. For the first time in a long time, you’re not filled with racing thoughts, not aching for what you don’t have. You’re just… here. Whole. Content.

By the time you towel off and slip into soft cotton pajamas, your body feels loose, your heart steady. 

Except, the doorbell rings.

You check the time.

It’s 00:00.

A/N: 

Sing with me: and you gonna be h a p p y …… 🎶

Second to the last chapter. I’m a little emotional thinking about posting that Laboongi finale already. Thank you everyone for being on this journey with me.

Well, tell me what you thought of the chapter! Favorite parts? Love/Hate K? Has Jimin redeemed himself? Is Jin the best brother or what? Who wants a Yoongi POV drabble?

I haven’t written out the finale in full, so please be patient with me. Remember though, interaction keeps this author motivated and happy :) 

Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

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[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | 009 Permanent Taglist (Part 2): 

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[ktownshizzle]

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[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | 008

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader, Kim Namjoon x Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternately: Yoongi is a Labubu ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Crackfic galore, Magical realism slash scifi, Non-idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: The truth untold dun dun dun ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.5k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: We finally get to the chapter with the Laboongi lore! Remember it’s not that deep. Lol. It’s a crackfic, after all. But I hope you enjoy the twist. Thank you Tea and Aqua <3 

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The Boy Who Became a Toy

Once upon a time (and yeah, this isn’t a fairytale, this is fanfiction, just roll with it), there was a boy named Min Yoongi. He wasn’t cruel exactly, he was just a fuckboi. 

Yoongi was the type who could ruin you with a glance across the bar. He’d smile—barely, like he was already bored—and you’d be so far gone, it’s almost pathetic. 

For the women and men that he had taken to Hong Kong, they called him unforgettable. The problem was: he forgot them.

It wasn’t that he hated them. He just… hated commitment. Every hand he held was temporary, every kiss disposable, every confession treated like a song he’d already skipped on the playlist. He never said it out loud, but everyone could feel it: to Yoongi, love was just a game. And people were just toys to pick up, play with, toss aside.

He didn’t mean to be cruel. At least, he never thought of himself that way. But his indifference cut deeper than he ever realized.

Until her.

She was a straight-up baddie, yes, but more than that, she was devoted. Yoongi fed her his signature smirk and midnight u ups?, and she mistook them for something more. She thought she could keep him. She thought he would finally be different. God, she was so dick-whipped.

When he eventually discarded her, as he always did, she didn’t weep or beg. She burned. Because she wasn’t just a woman with a broken heart. She was a witch.

Not the kind with sage sticks and a TikTok following and an Etsy store with ready-made spells. She was, in fact, the real thing.

She realized with a broken heart that Min Yoongi was a fuckboy thru and thru and she couldn’t change him, so she changed him.

“If you treat women like toys,” she hissed through tears, as she sat in a triangle of candles in her living room. “...then a toy you shall become.”

And just like that, thunder (alo alo) roared in the skies of Seoul, lightning licked Namsan Tower, and somewhere in Hongdae, Yoongi was no longer open-mindeu. He was no longer a man.

The curse folded him inward, flesh and bone collapsing until he was nothing but a tiny figure, plastic eyes, fixed smile, trapped in glossy resin. He was powerless. Silent. Doomed to sit on dusty shelves, passed from hand to hand, owner to owner, while the world spun on without him.

Years blurred together. Flea markets. Thrift bins. Bedrooms of children who quickly grew bored of him. Shelves of eccentric women who didn’t know what to do with him, really.

During those bleak years, time for him was not on three-hour intervals, but years of stillness, broken only by the faint ache of memory. And what made it hurt even more, is that he still could hear music and laughter, smell the broth of ramen, and everyday he mourns these flashes of a life he no longer owned.

Eventually, he drifted where all cursed things seemed to go: The Magic Shop. Items heavy with spellwork found their way there, pulled like moths to its warm, flickering light. It’s all because of the man with lollipop lips and a fox’s grin: Park Jimin. 

He was operating a sex shop as a front. But inside? Oh, he dealt with real magic. Knowledgeable in ancient arts and dark rituals, he sensed life in Yoongi’s tiny resin statue. He felt something trapped inside it: a soul. So he did what no other owner was able to do. 

He discovered how to activate him. And when he did, wow, Jimin’s jaw hit the floor. First of all, the size of that—ahem! Lucky is the man or woman that gets a taste. Anyway, as he got to know Yoongi, he quickly learned that Yoongi was not just some cursed creature. He was actually kind of a nice guy. A little abrasive, but he meant well.

With a bit more research and a quick Canva tutorial, Jimin made a new packaging design as Yoongi’s new home. (Graphic design is his passion~ ✨) A little marketing didn’t hurt nobody, right? From then on, Jimin vowed to help his new friend Yoongi find the right owner for him. 

Truth be told, Yoongi wasn’t on board at first. It had been years since he was cursed, and his mind was already resigned to an eternity of emptiness. But something tickled his brain when he saw a woman with a little keychain dangling from her jeans. Interesting, he thought. Yeah, he wouldn’t mind that actually. Better than gathering dust on a shelf or worse, stashed in a moldy attic. Maybe he could do with a new owner.

So, Yoongi had put his trust in Jimin to find him the right buyer. Sometimes Jimin would activate him and they’d hang out. Yoongi helped restock shelves, fixed whatever was broken, even grilled meat out back once (because of course he did). Mostly, though, they just talked. And honestly? It was nice. Nice to have someone to shoot the shit with. Nice to have a friend.

One lazy afternoon, after a questionable taste-test session of new lube flavors that left him a little buzzed (don’t ask), Yoongi slumped at the cash register, staring out into the street. That’s when he saw her. The woman with soft eyes, lit up by the lilac glow of the Magic Shop window. He’d noticed her before. Always pausing, always looking in. Always leaving without entering.

“She keeps coming back,” Yoongi muttered, nodding toward her without really thinking. 

“Lots of people look,” Jimin shrugged.

“Not like her,” Yoongi said. “Feels like she needs something.”

Jimin smirked, thrusting on the air. “And you’re just dying to give it to her, huh?”

The pen Yoongi hurled missed Jimin’s head by a hair.

“Fuck you. You threw that like a dart!” Jimin squawked.

Yoongi only grinned, eyes drifting back to the window, something tight tugging at his chest.

It wasn’t just that he wanted an “owner.” He realized he wanted something else, someone else. A companion. Maybe even… a lover? The thought was so absurd he almost laughed. He was never the type to stick around, never wanted anyone badly enough. And yet, here he was, twisted up in this stupid curse. Or maybe it was just the lube talking. Hard to tell. The last one tasted like it was spiked with something illegal.

What Yoongi didn’t realize, mid-existential crisis in the middle of the shop floor, was that Jimin was watching him. Really watching. Curious. Intrigued.

When Jimin glanced out the window again, he saw her. The same woman Yoongi couldn’t stop looking at. The one with the soft eyes. You.

So days later, when the allure of the shop finally coaxed you inside, Jimin didn’t hesitate. The moment your hand closed around that colorful blind box, he knew it was fate.

Because that was the moment the curse binding Yoongi started to break, the smallest of cracks beginning to form. He only wished that you held the magic that could give his friend a new lease on life.

The bungeoppang chime over the door rattles when you barrel towards the entrance of the Magic Shop. 

Like a woman possessed you stalk towards the back of the shop to find the–okay, there he is.

Jimin is already perched behind the counter with a lollipop sticking out of his mouth like the pink-haired menace that he is.

“Welcome back, Y/N,” he sing-songs. “You look… well?”

“Shut up,” Your voice cracks in that desperate, unraveling way you hate. You slap Yoongi’s toy form on the counter, tempered glass almost cracking. “Fix him.”

Jimin looks down at toy Yoongi then back at you. To be fair, this is the most serious you have seen Jimin, even with one lollipop-shaped cheek.

“He's stuck.”

“No shit, Sherlock!”

Jimin pouts. “You sound mad at me.”

“I am mad at you! You never told me about any of this. This curse. Whatever the hell this is.”

“Look, I assumed you read the flyer. Wild of me I know,” he points his finger at you accusatorily. “Besides, when you came in here, you said you had a boyfriend!”

“I did, but…”

“I didn’t think you were gonna…” his voice trails off. “The flyer was clear.”

“You and your tiny fingers better do something about this.”

“Okay, you don’t gotta be mean now…”

You slam your hands on the counter. “Jimin. I love him! I need him back.”

That makes him pause. For once, Jimin looks at you without the smirk, eyes searching your face. He sighs, pulls the candy from his mouth with a small pop.

You’re ugly-crying now, you realize with embarrassment pricking your heart. You’re desperately sobbing in the middle of a sex shop. Life has really taken a turn for the worst.

“Y/N,” Jimin says softly, handing you a handkerchief. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You dry your eyes, but fresh tears continue to spill free. “So help me. Please?”

Jimin tells you what he knows about Yoongi’s backstory. He also tells you the truth that you didn’t want to hear, that even with his bright-eyed and bushy-tailed optimism that somehow you would be the magic to break the curse, he also wasn’t sure. He just hoped.

You sink to your knees.

Jimin rounds the counter and joins you on the cold tiles. “If you’re serious, I know someone you can talk to… but she’s the kind of person you don’t summon lightly.”

You nod, heart pounding. “Who?”

“The one who cursed him in the first place.”

Your blood runs cold.

“The witch,” Jimin says, lips quirking.

“Who?”

“K.”

009 >

A/N: So Jimin is expecting an apology from the lot of you that sent him strongly worded threats / messages. LOL. Poor baby he just wanted to help.

The LORE! Finally, Yoongi's backstory has been revealed. Now what? Send over questions to the witch K in the comments or thru asks! I will include actual comments from some of you guys in the next chapter! <3

Love to hear your thoughts in the notes or through a reblog, if you enjoyed this.

Thanks for reading you lovely, beautiful human! xo

Again, no notes goal. But interactions keep me super pumped and motivated to write. :)

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[ardri-na-bpiteog]

I know I don't shut up about this but frankly not enough people are angry about the 5-day/40 hour workweek (and I am AWARE a lot of people work even more than that). I feel like a lot more people should be absolutely furious that we only really have two days a week and some occasional hours in the evening to socialise, run errands, do chores, or relax.

It's no wonder so many people are profoundly lonely and disconnected from their communities when maintaining a social life in what little free time we have is incredibly difficult. If you have kids, a second job, a very long commute, or other responsibilities, it's nearly impossible.

We literally aren't meant to live like this and I'll never stop being shocked how many people just take it as the natural state of things and don't want to throw a brick through a billionaire's window every time they think of it.

[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | 007

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader, Kim Namjoon x Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternately: Yoongi is a Labubu ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Crackfic galore, Magical realism slash scifi, Non-idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: yoongi in the infamous leopard hat, you’re watching a concert, best brother Jin, oh and the flyer is here, the angst is here ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 2.2k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: you guys…….  ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes 2: Thank you Tea and Aqua for betareading and everything else <3

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The next morning at your parents’ house had been sickening

…ly wholesome.

Yoongi quietly sipped coffee across from your appa,nodding along to his elders rambling about retirement funds and the recent senate hearing. Jin, still kinda high on their basketball bromance, had cornered Yoongi before breakfast ended, making him promise to come back and go fishing with him. Your eomma doted on him like she found a new son as Yoongi fixed the loose hinge on her kitchen swing door, before she sent you both off with a lunchbox full of banchan.

It felt almost too easy. Super normal. Almost real.

A week has passed since then and life has folded back into its smaller routines and mundane moments. The little domestic habits you’ve formed with Yoongi have stayed on, even if the sexual parts have sort of fallen by the wayside, since you did not have to perform for anybody. Despite that, and the fact that he is still technically just a toy, he’s somehow more present than anyone else in your life.

Daechwita is a bomb-ass show, periodt. But you don’t expect this extra spicy scene. Well, maybe you kinda do because the king is super hot with his long-blond hair and his piercing stare and he’s been having crazy tension with one of his new concubines so it’s not really a stretch to finally see them getting their Joseon freak on. 

Picture this: the king’s concubine drifts into his chambers. As soon as the thick doors shut, her robes are already slipping to the floor, revealing black lace scraps clinging scandalously to her curves. The four-poster looms, bed curtains swaying as she slinks forward. The king leans back against his pillows, sleeping robes halfway open and you know he has nothing underneath. Just his obvious monster schlong that the concubine wastes no time sinking onto. She sits on him, like he is her own personal throne, riding him slow and sensual as–

Hoo boy, you are getting worked up. You shove popcorn in your mouth just for something else to focus on. You notice that beside you, the cushion dips. 

And when you glance over… there it is. A tent pressing against the soft gray of Yoongi’s sweatpants.

You gulp. Oh god. He’s hard. Yoongi is hard.

Do you…?

You could? You could slide your hand over that, feel his length through the fabric, palm him slow until he’s groaning into the couch cushion. You could stroke him until he starts bucking up into your fist, needy, ruined, messy, and his load blooms against the grey.

Shit. The thought makes your pulse ricochet in your veins.

Yoongi grabs a throw and presses it against his lap, shielding you from him, but more importantly to calm himself. He clears his throat, eyes glued to the screen like the concubine’s lace set isn’t making his cock strain against cotton. You swear his knuckles whiten where he grips the pillow.

Your heart’s hammering so loud you can barely hear the dialogue. You’re going insane. All you can think about is helping him, about how much you want to touch him.

But you chicken out.

You force your eyes back to the TV, force your lungs to breathe, force your thighs to unclench.

The next night, you still hate that you sat there like a coward. 

You’re supposed to be answering just one email, but one click leads to another and suddenly you’re browsing lingerie sets. Black lace, strappy, scandalous. And if it’s too similar to the set the concubine dropped at the king’s feet? 

Let’s just say you’re buying this for science.

KSPO Dome buzzes with sequins, glitter-painted cheeks. Everyone looks like they raided Elton John’s closet. Yoongi looks unfairly cute and sexy with the leopard bucket hat he fished out of the back of your closet tugged low on his face.

It started when Ticketmaster dropped you a reminder email that morning: Harry Styles Love On Tour – Tonight! You did buy those tickets when life still had Namjoon in it, because you loved his songs and you thought music could help you rekindle the spark you once had with him.

Well, Namjoon’s history. But you still want to fuckin’ wear that feather boa you bought in a flea market. So you do. And you bring arm candy with you in the form of Yoongi.

He insists on carrying your red cups of beer, muttering under his breath every time the crowd jostles, but not spilling a single drop because he is talented like that. When you get to your seats, and after you both take a refreshing sip, Yoongi slides his fingers through yours. 

“So you don’t get lost,” he mutters. 

Maybe you like it way too much to call his bullshit out. You nod and don’t let go. Not until you join the crowd sway with your phone light raised, and you feel Yoongi wrap his arm loosely across your shoulder and he presses a kiss against your hair. Soft, almost unthinking. 

You stand there, heart bursting, pretending you’re not melting like butter.

You sneak a glance at him. He’s not really watching Harry. He’s watching you. The stage lights wash his face pink and blue, his mouth tugging into the faintest smile like he’s been caught.

“What?” you mouth.

“Nothing…”

It’s not. You know it’s not nothing. But you’re still finding the courage to do something.

And if there is someone who has repeatedly pushed you off the edge (both in good and bad contexts) throughout your life, it’s your brother.

You arrange to meet Seokjin at his restaurant. You leave Yoongi in the car, sitting in the passenger seat, because you need him close but you can’t let him hear.

Jin already has your table setup with your favorites. You wanna wolf down the bibimbap baddd, but first you need to air out the issue. “Seokjin-oppa, I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to send me to a psychiatric ward.”

Jin leans back, arms crossed, already entertained. “This is gonna be good. You didn’t get pregnant, did you?”

“Bruh? No! Shut up. This is worse. Way worse.”

“Perfect. Spill the tea…”

When you explain about The Magic Shop, about Jimin, about Yoongi, how he comes to life for three hours at a time, how you’re falling for him—Jin bursts out laughing. Loud, table-slapping, head-thrown-back, windshield wiper laugh to full effect. Customers look. He doesn’t give a shit. It’s his resto.

Then, rubbing tears from his eyes, he pauses. “Hold up. You’re serious?”

You nod, mortified, biting your lip.

And here’s the thing that surprises you. Instead of dismissing you, your brother believes you. Not because it makes sense, but because you’re his little sister, and because he’s… well, Jin. A little unhinged himself.

“Okay,” he says, chin propped in hand, like it’s obvious. “So you’ve got a magical boyfriend with a daily time limit. Honestly? Could be worse. At least he’s not Kim Namjoon.”

You gape. “That’s your takeaway?”

Jin shrugs, smiling. “Yah! Did you expect me to scream and call the pope? I like the guy. He can grill a steak, he plays ball. He was down for a 3 a.m. fishing trip.”

You’re flustered, on the verge of crying, but Jin reaches across the table, squeezes your hand, and softens. “Listen. If he treats you right, I’m on board. You’re my sister. Crazy is in our DNA.”

Relief hits so hard you sob. Jin, chaotic and teasing as always, but solid in the way that counts.

One night, you’re kinda bored. 

You had spent the afternoon with Yoongi, doing a speedy grocery run and one episode of Daechwita. But the new show developments enraged him soooo much that he was cranky as hell, so might as well let him chill tf out in his magical resin form for the night.

Your fingers wander to your shelf, tracing spines until they land on Parachutes by Coldplay. It’s still one of your favorite albums after all these years. You slide the vinyl from its sleeve and something flutters loose. 

You bend to pick up the piece of paper, smoothing the wrinkles against your knee. It takes you a moment to recognize your own handwriting against the sheet of your work notebook. 

It’s your list: the 10 things you once scribbled in a rush of hope. What you wanted out of your relationship. What you thought Namjoon could give you. What he never did.

Heat floods your face as you read it again. Coffee dates. Holding hands. You cringe at your own earnestness, but what strikes you harder is the confusion of how did the list get there?

And then you put two and two together. Yoongi. Of course.

He’s the only one who knows about the list. He’s the one who referenced this record in that too-perfect, made-up backstory for your parents. He must have slipped the paper in here.

But why?

Your throat tightens as your eyes run down the list again. And then it clicks.

Even the fantasies you wrote down, cringe-worthy as they may have been to you–he’s been steadily, deliberately giving them to you. And he’s doing this not out of obligation, you don’t think. He’s been doing this for you.

Your chest aches, fuzzy and fluttery all at once as this realization now burns in your hands.

Toy or not. Real or not.

Cranky or not.

Yoongi is yours. 

And you don’t want anyone else.

(Sidenote from K: This is the point where you get your tissues. I’ll wait.)

You’re practically buzzing that night. Because you finally get it. The concert, the rain, the late-night ramen, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person alive. Your chest feels like it might burst. You’ve never been so sure of anything.

You wait until you’re curled up with him on the couch, Daechwita credits rolling. It was a good episode, and you’re high on dopamine. Your heart hammers so loud you’re certain he can hear it even as he stands up to refill your tumbler with water.

“Yoongi,” you call, watching as he waddles cutely to the kitchen. 

“Hmm?” he looks back.

“I love you.”

For a second, the world goes still. This is it, right? When it finally clicks. When the world snaps into full color.

Yoongi’s mouth parts in a silent o, lips pale, eyes wide. Your tumbler crashes on the floor with a loud clang! Then he moves two quick steps forward, crushing you against his chest, arms wrapping around you so tight it almost hurts.

“Baby,” he breathes raggedly against your hair, “I fuckin’ told you to read the flyer.”

You blink, confused, squeezing him tighter. “What? Why—”

But before you can finish, his weight shifts, his body jerks, shudders, and suddenly—nothing.

You tip forward, unbalanced, your cheek hitting empty air. Your arms are clutching at nothing.

“Yoongi?” Your voice cracks. Panic surges as you stagger back.

Your eyes drop to the floor. Oh, there he is. Glossy eyes staring at the ceiling, frozen smile, arms stiff.

A toy again? It hasn’t even been three hours.

Your throat locks, but you scoop him up gingerly, pressing him to your chest like maybe he’ll warm back into life if you hold him hard enough. You carry him to the sink, splash water. He should be back in a few.

Still nothing.

Your hands are shaking, dread seeping through the ventricles of your heart. Something’s  wrong. Tears stream down your cheeks, hot and endless, dropping against his stoic form.

You’re already breaking, but something inside whispers: the flyer.

You tear through your closet, tossing clothes and boxes until your fingers close on Yoongi’s box and you fish out the thin, folded sheet of paper. The one you’d ignored, because who reads this shit anyway?

Finally, you unfold it, eyes darting over the lines.

First, something like a personality card...

This doesn't give you anything. Ughh this is frustrating.

Hands trembling, you flip to the back and fuck.

With every word, you feel yourself coming apart. The black print slices you open, neat and merciless. Your knees give out, hitting the floor hard. But no physical pain could ever compare to the hollowing in your chest.

NO.

NO.

Your eyes read the text once more. Each letter blurs, but the truth is clear. And it is far worse than anything you’d feared and the beat of your heart falters as you stare at Yoongi’s tiny, lifeless form.

Unbox with care, he’s one of a kind, A toy with a spark, and a cute behind For thrills and fun and wild nights He’s guaranteed to do you right. Be his friend, share secrets and tea He’ll coach you through each fantasy But here’s the catch, the one rule you can’t bend Fall in love… and it’s his end. 💔 (Seriously. Don’t get weird.)

You did.

A/N: I’m so sorry. :( 

Don’t worry, the next chapter is within your reach. We will finally learn Yoongi’s backstory and the key to breaking the cur–

See you in the comments. Or maybe reblog with you review, if you like.

Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful, human. Xo

PPS. Huge thank you to Missus Min Aqua Glossdebut for banging out the flyer. <3

No notes goal–but always remember interaction keeps authors inspired and motivated.

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[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | 006

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader, Kim Namjoon x Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternately: Yoongi is a Labubu ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Crackfic galore, Magical realism slash scifi, Non-idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, lots of kissing, yoongi calls MC baby way too many times, 3 bts members enter the chat, mention of high school musical (trooooooyy), yoongi is yoongi, fake dating trope, yoongi plays basketball in that red jersey, fluffy ending, jimin is still a menace, flyer still unread ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 5.5k ish (longest chap yet) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: We finally made it to the notes goal! Let’s do it again? So excited for you guys to read this chapter, probably my favorite to write. You'll know why. Thank you Tea and Aqua for betareading and all your wonderful ideas. <3

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

So you kissed Yoongi. In public. Twice.

Fuck’s sake. You shouldn’t be spiraling like this, but here you are—wired, restless, feeling insane with how much you want more. You’re a grown ass woman and you’re feeling…  butterflies? Hell nah.

As you walked home with him, cold air nipping your noses, you kept reminding yourself: no, no, no. He’s a toy. A toy. Shut up. He ain’t real. God, but why are his hands so life-like and warm and soft? And his lips, too. *$&%*^#%asdf

Thankfully, you didn’t have to sit with the chaos for long, because by the time you stumbled home, Yoongi was already fading back into his inanimate form. His last words before shrinking were: “Wake me when there’s a new episode. Later, pretty.” Then he’s plastic again. Or, as he keeps insisting, “magical resin.”

Now, on your bed, curled up in your fluffy blanket, you're finally assessing the situation with a clearer head.  Sort of.  While there is new information that has come to light–the discovery of your ass pinching ex and his satin shorts wearing slut–nothing seems as important as caffeinated kisses over a cherry-varnished table.

Your phone buzzes, and it’s your eomma on video. You almost don’t pick up, but you swipe anyway, already bracing yourself.

“Sweetheart,” she says brightly, though her thin brows are drawn tight. “Your father just heard from Namjoon. He said he won’t be able to come this weekend.”

Your dad leans into frame, frowning. “Is he tied up with work again? That boy works too much.”

You swallow. “About that… actually, Namjoon and I—” Your throat catches, but you force it out. “We broke up.”

Both of them look like they have been suckerpunched to the next century.

“Oh no no no.” Your mom’s face falls. “Whyyy? He was such a good man. So polite, always thoughtful—”

“And successful,” your dad adds. “So smart and well spoken. I liked that about him.”

Your mom sighs, looking wounded like she was the one that got dumped. “We really liked Namjoon. He fit right in. Always helped with the dishes, made sure you were always comfortable…”

Your dad mutters, “And he laughed at my jokes.”

“Yeah okay, umm…” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “It was mutual. Peaceful. No drama. Also, I am okay. In case you were wondering…”

“Sorry sweetie, how are you holding up?”

“I’m fine, eomma.”

“Good, are you gonna get back together or…”

“Appa!” You cut in, sharp. “It’s done. Please don’t make me feel worse.”

That shuts them up. Your mom softens, her voice gentler. “Of course. We just… want you to be happy.”

“Yeah. Well.” You shift uncomfortably. “And c’mon. Namjoon hasn’t been allowed in your kitchen in years since he broke nana’s fine china. And please, he didn’t fit right in. Seokjin-oppa hates him. My cousins hate him.”

Of course your parents—like true Namjoon apologists—have a retort.

“Your brother hates everybody.”

“And your cousins are morons.”

Oh this is pissing you off.

Before they can start again, you blurt: “Anyway, I still need the plus one for the anniversary.”

They both freeze. You clench. Wtf did you just say?

“Wae?” your dad snaps.

Your mom leans closer to the camera, “You mean… there’s someone new?”

Shit. “I’m bringing someone. Okay?”

They exchange a look, one of those silent parental conversations you’ve always hated, before your mom eyes you, “Alright. But you need to fill me in.”

“Okay okay,” you mutter as they wave you off, leaving you staring at your own reflection on the black screen. You look as rattled as you feel.

Great. Now not only are you single, but you’ve just promised your parents a plus one you absolutely do not have. You lying sack of potatoes. :(

Well there is one solution. Your former (current?) cock on-call turned TV buddy? But before you can fully process the idea, your brain shuts it down on account of:

3-hour validity

Hates people

No digestive system

But then, you’re other big organ, butts in with a counter-argument, on the back of him being:

Cutie

Sexy

Lovely

Yeah, okay. This is not wha—

Cut to the next night, you’re nervously lining up your offerings: a cold bottle of Pale Pilsen, a new Daechwita episode queued on screen, his favorite hoodie and sweats combo draped on the couch.

When Yoongi beams into being, you’re already fussing over him like a too-attentive host. You crack the beer open for him, slide it over, fluff the pillow behind his back.

He narrows his eyes. “Okay?”

“Go, drink, enjoy” you urge with a tight smile.

He takes a slow sip, eyes not leaving you. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Your stomach drops. Here goes nothing. “So… my parents are having their big anniversary dinner this weekend. I need a plus one. Can you—”

“Ohhh,” he drawls, leaning back smugly. “We’re at the ‘meet the parents’ stage already? Didn’t know we were moving this fast.”

You glare. “Don’t be weird about it. I just don’t want to show up alone.”

“How should I be introduced, then?” he presses, smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You can… I don’t know. I can just say you’re my new roommate.”

“Not good enough.”

“Why?”

“You might as well just come alone. Try again.”

You grit. “I’ll tell them you’re my therapist.”

“Next.”

“Like we’re dating, maybe?”

He clicks his tongue, pretending to mull it over. “Meh.”

Your jaw clenches. “Fine. You wanna be my boyfriend?”

He tilts his head. That grin—sharp, satisfied—cuts right through you.

You roll your eyes and add, “Fake boyfriend.”

“Mmh,” he hums. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The next morning, you wake with a pit in your stomach. How are you gonna pull this off? You’re beyond stressed when you activate Yoongi. 

Once he is dressed, you start the much needed ideation session. “So we need a proper backstory. If my parents are going to believe this, we can’t go in blind. How we met, how long we’ve been dating, which shouldn’t be that long obviously…”

He hums thoughtfully, like he’s taking it very seriously, then nods resolutely like a man with a plan. “Easy. We met in a store.That record shop by the station. You were holding up two records, couldn’t decide, looked absolutely tortured about it. So I walked over, told you to buy both before someone who has been eyeing one of the records came along and stole them. You rolled your eyes at me but bought both anyway out of spite. Then I followed you out and asked if you wanted to grab coffee.”

“Wow,” you quip. “You’ve thought about this?”

“I have time. I’m not done though…” He puts a finger across his lips, before continuing with a smile. “Anyway, you said yes cos you thought I was cute duh and at the café, you spilled an entire latte across the table because you gestured too hard telling a story. You were so embarrassed you thought I’d leave. But I didn’t. And I’m still here. And you let me have that other record.”

Your lips part. “That… is actually kind of cute.”

He smirks, shrugs. “You have good music taste. That’s how I knew.”

The word knew hangs heavy in the air. Curious, you ask, “What were the records?”

“Parachute by Coldplay and The Bends by Radiohead.”

Huh. Both are actually sitting on your shelf and you don’t know what to do with the information. Disarmed would be an understatement.

After a beat, you’re desperate to gain some form of control back. “Fine. But if we’re going to sell this, you need to prove you actually know me. Like, pop quiz...”

Yoongi nods, crunching the ice in his mouth. “Go ahead.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Purple.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

He lifts a brow. “Your phone case, your hoodie, your mug. Super obvious.”

You glare, but you’re a little thrown. “Okay, favorite food?”

“Rice. You eat it everyday. But if we’re talking indulgence—Thai. There’s that place you frequent when you say you don’t know what to eat.”

“That’s… accurate, actually.”

“I know,” he replies, smug.

You narrow your eyes. “Fine. What side of the bed do I sleep on?”

“The left.” He says it so fast you huff.

“You’ve literally never been in my bed.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says smoothly, “you always sit on that side when you’re on the couch. You’re a creature of habit.”

You stare at him, rattled. He’s right. Again.

The quiz spirals, every answer lands too close. It’s annoying. It’s unsettling. It’s… impressive.

Finally, you slump back, muttering, “You’ve been paying way too much attention to me.”

“Maybe I have,” he says lightly. “Not a bad thing.”

You catch the glimmer of something in his eyes, and no, you’re not ready to process that. In fact you should maybe step out for a second, because if the kitchen is too hot–

“C’mere,” he says.

“What?”

“Sit.” He pats his thigh, casual as anything. “You’re my girlfriend, right? Gotta practice.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t overthink it.” His tone is calm, but there’s steel underneath. “If you’re going to convince anyone this weekend, you can’t be all stiff and fidgety. You have to get used to me doing this.”

He takes your wrist and somehow your body obeys before your brain does. You settle into his lap cautiously, the heat of him searing through denim, your pulse hammering in your throat.

Then he guides your hands, and places them around his neck. “See? Not so bad.”

Not so bad? You’re tweaking.

His arms loop around your waist like they’ve always belonged there. “Better. This is how couples sit...”

“I never sit on Namj—“

“His loss. Condolences to him, truly.”

You chuckle even though you can barely breathe thisclose to his dream-like face. His voice is low and rough when he says, “You okay if I sneak in a kiss or two? For show?”

Your nod is embarrassingly eager.

“Good.” He leans back like it’s settled, releasing his grip on your waist, palm falling open on the cushions.

You gape at him. “That’s it?!”

He smirks. “What, were you expecting something?”

Heat rushes to your face. 

He sees it instantly, eyes glinting. “What did I tell you? Don’t be afraid to ask for more.”

Your voice is small, shaking. “Yoongi…”

“Mmh?”

Your entire body is trembling, humiliation and need wrapped together, but you manage to say, “…can we practice more?”

His smirk shifts into something even naughtier. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Can you kiss me?”

“Here?” he mumbles against the bare skin of your shoulder before he leans in higher to deposit a wet peck just underneath your ear. “Or here?”

It’s not enough. Fuck it. You cradle his jaw and smash your lips on his, greedy and needy, dragging his mouth open like a woman starved. His mouth parts fully against yours like he’s been waiting for it, and you slide your tongue against his, tangling, curling, tasting.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel him, to feel good. His hands tighten on your hips, pads of his fingers digging to your thighs, coaxing you to roll your body forward against him.

The sensation makes you gasp for air, and he catches your lower lip, sucking on it soft and slow, before letting it slip free against the graze of his teeth.

Minutes move as you both do. You’ve no idea how long you stay caught up in this spell, sweat clinging against your clothes, begging to disappear. Every break is breathless, lasting just long enough to draw air once before his hungry mouth claims you again. 

And then, like he’s teasing you, he slows. His lips trace the curve of your upper lip, then your lower lip, licking over it lazily before sucking it back between his for a final tug.

Cartoon birds are circling over your head.

“There,” he rasps, cherry nose poking your own as you still breathe each other’s air. “Think that’s enough practice?”

“For now.”

You’re sprawled across your bed, still dizzy from the after-effects of Yoongi’s lips, when the thought hits you: wait. He disappears after three hours every time. Always three. But what if…

You grab your phone and SOS the Magic Shop. Not that they’re of any help so far, but you’ll try. The shop clerk–Jimin, who else–picks up on the third ring, voice sugary as ever.

“Hellooo, valued customer of The Magic Shop,” he chirps, popping the P. “How’s our Yoongi treating ya?”

How di–You know what, you don’t even question why he knows exactly who is calling. Instead, you go straight to the point. “Okay, serious question. Yoongi always shifts back after three hours. And I wake him the next day. Is that how it’s always gonna go?”

“Uh, duh?” Jimin says, like you’ve asked if the sky is blue. “Three hours a pop, up to three activations within 24 hours. It’s literally in the FAQ.”

You sit bolt upright. “FAQ?? Where?”

“The flyer.” He snickers, you can practically hear the lollipop clacking against his teeth. “The one you still haven’t read.”

Your jaw drops. “No one told me!”

“Did you ask?”

“…no.”

“Then whose fault is that?” He tsks like a disappointed parent. “Honestly, you’re lucky you figured it out before you let him shift at, like, the meat aisle in Costco or something.”

“This is so complicated ugghhhh.”

“It’s pretty simple once you read the flyer,” Jimin sing-songs. “Anyway, pro tip: just plan your activations. One: Morning cuddles and coffee run. Two: Afternoon errands and mid-work munching. Three: Nighttime bow chika wow wow. That way you’re maximizing your sexual satis–.”

“I’m gonna hang up now.”

“Stop denying destiny.”

You hang up before he can say anything else, but at least it’s clear: Three times a day. Three windows, three hours each. All you have to do now is think about how to schedule him perfectly. 

The car tires crunch up the gravel drive as you pull up the driveway. Your parents are already waiting on the porch, your mom on her phone, your dad on his phone. Here goes nothing.

You step out, force a smile.

“Eomma, Appa.”

Your parents lift their heads in a cartoonishly similar way (they really are one and the same person at this point) as you walk the steps to your home. You exchange tight hugs, before you gesture to the man behind you. “Eomma, Appa… this is Yoongi. My boyfriend.”

Your dad sizes him up uh-mmediately, gaze sweeping from head to toe. Your mom tries to cover her surprise with a too-bright smile.

“Boyfriend! That’s, yeah, wonderful,” she says, drawing the words like it’s a foreign language. “Welcome to the family. Come in, come in. Let’s not just stand out here.”

Inside, the house smells like coffee and butter toast. You love your mom’s butter toast! She fusses with a tray already on the counter. “You must be tired from the drive. Sit, sit. Do you take coffee? Or tea?”

Yoongi bows politely, voice low but steady. “Coffee is fine, ma’am. Thank you.”

Your dad grunts, but doesn’t say much else, just watches him the way dads do, measured, withholding. He draws first blood.

“Where are you from, Yoongi?”

“Daegu, sir.”

Daegu? Oh yeah, it’s made up. You had to remind yourself.

Your dad grunts and then the silence stretches, thick and a little uncomfortable, until you finally blurt, “The drive was smooth. Weather’s good, too.”

Your mom nods. “Yes, yes. Though I worry it might rain tonight…”

“Your home looks beautiful,” Yoongi says suddenly, gaze flicking toward the hallway as if he’s been cataloging details since he stepped in. “The trimwork–wainscoting, right?”

Your mom freezes mid-pour. “Excuse me?”

“Wainscoting,” he repeats calmly, pointing to the panel halfway up the wall. “Perfect lines, no gaps. Adds character and very elegant.” He glances at the crown molding, tilting his head. “And you went with a colonial profile up top? Subtle, but it balances the proportions.”

Your mom beams like someone just gave her a spread in Architectural Digest. “You noticed that? No one ever notices!”

Yoongi’s mouth quirks, just slightly. “Hard not to. You’ve got an eye for detail.”

She flushes, delighted. “Well, I did fight Y/N’s father about it for three weeks.” She shoots your dad a look, who rolls his eyes but hides a smile. “I told you it’s elegant.”

Dad sighs, flashes your mom an appeasing smile before he shoves a piece of toast in this mouth.

Yoongi leans back politely, as if it’s nothing, but you can already see it: your mom is tickled pink. You’re starting to forget what you were worried about.

Your eomma gives Yoongi the house tour, and Yoongi legit looks excited looking at all the details that have been installed since the renovation. This is also partly why they wanted to have a big anniversary, it’s also like a bit of a house re-warming. Your dad retired with a sizable pension and he made sure that your mom is taken cared of in all the ways that he knows how. This includes being able to fund her love for architecture. It’s honestly all very uwu. Maybe this is why he’s taken to Namjoon being a big-shot banker. They have the same principles and ideologies, being a financial anchor for the family and all that. You just hope your dad gives Yoongi a chance, because he’s—

WOAH! HOL’ UP.

This is fake, Y/N! Why are you worried about your father liking Yoongi. LOL. This is a stop-gap solution, right? 

You shake your head as you look at yourself in this ornate mirror with baroque detailing in the hallway. Get a fuckin’ grip, girl.

“Baby, you coming?” Yoongi’s voice shakes you from your thoughts. He’s waiting by the staircase, eager to follow your mom so she can showcase the new home theater setup on the third floor.

“Yeah, yeah…”

He takes your hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. 

You time Yoongi’s second shift to when your brother and cousins are set to arrive. Of course they come in like they own the place. Jungkook is already raiding the fridge and you know the contraband he is searching for. Taehyung, who got beefy all of a sudden (!), spins a basketball on his finger. And then Seokjin, your older brother…

“FARTFACE!”

Fuckin’ hell.

“Hello to you too, Seokjin-oppa,” you grit, struggling to address him with respect, because, yup. At 33 he is still a CHILD.

Jungkook sips from the banana milk he stole from your stash. “You didn’t tell us you have a new boyfriend.” 

Boyfriend. The word makes your skin heat. Especially when three sets of curious eyes lock on Yoongi.

Yoongi, just gives a lazy nod from where he’s leaning against the porch rail, hands in his hoodie pocket like he hasn’t just been shoved into a family audition.

“Yoongi, you play basketball?”

Yoongi blinks once. “I dabble.”

“You mean dribble?” Windshield wiper laugh mixes with crickets. Kook and Tae look at you like, well that’s your brother.

“Shut up, oppa. We’re gonna go to the store.”

“I can shoot a few with them.” 

Your stomach drops. Oh hell no. You tug him aside, hissing under your breath. “You don’t have to do this. Seriously. You’re literally a toy who’s never played basketball before. What if you get injured? Hmm?”

He just pat pat pats your head, maddeningly gentle, like you’re the child here. “Relax, baby. It’s cool.”

Cool? COOL? You gape at him, but it’s too late. Jin’s already ushering him to his old room telling him to just borrow one of his shoes and shit and Yoongi’s looking like he’s actually psyched to do this.

After a few minutes, Jin walks back out in a loose sleeveless tee and basketball shorts, followed closely by—oh, shit, you’re in trouble.

Red jersey, matching shorts, the borrowed J’s somehow fitting like they were made for him. And then he ties a black headband around his forehead, pushing back the mess of silver hair. 

“Hi baby,” he nods to you and this whole thing he got going on is… obscene. You feel your mouth go dry, unable to respond to a simple hello. You’re drooling, aren’t you? God help you.

You head out back where your house has a half-court set-up and suddenly the 2-on-2 game is set: Jungkook and Tae versus Yoongi and your brother.

And then—fuck?

Yoongi is phenomenal. Smooth footwork, sharp passes, the kind of crossover that makes you… wet. 

He drives to the hoop with this lazy strut, sinking shots like he’s been doing this since birth.

There’s something on the ground. It’s your jaw.

Jin’s eyes are shining like he’s found his long-lost soulmate. Kookie—the golden boy, family MVP—is scowling like someone just stole his crown.

You can’t stop staring. The sweat beading down Yoongi’s temples. The way the headband clings. His jersey sticking to his chest as he scoots past Tae for another effortless layup.

You’ve never seen anyone look so good. So sexy. And when he glances over at you mid-game, smirk curling, shoulders lifting like this is just whatever—yeah, you’re done for. 

Yoongi wipes his face with the hem of his jersey, flashing toned abs, and your soul officially departs from your body.

By the end, your own brother is clapping Yoongi on the back, looking like he wants to kiss him. Get in line, bitch.

Jungkook pants, shooting Yoongi a look somewhere between awe and annoyance. “Yoongi-hyung, where did you learn to play like that?”

Yoongi just shrugs, wiping his face with his jersey again. “Played in high school. Muscle memory.”

High school? Muscle memory? You file that away next to I fuckin’ miss ramen. Because right now you have more important businesseu.

Seokjin, meanwhile, looks like he’s just discovered his new favorite person. He claps Yoongi on the back, smiling like he hasn’t in years. “Goddamn, you’re wasted on her.”

You sputter. “Excuse you, asshole?”

“Watch it, kid.” Then Jin adds, “If you two ever break up, I’m keeping him. It’s early days, anyway. It’s not that serious ye—ow!”

You swat Seokjin’s arm as Taehyung and Jungkook cackle like little hyenas.

“Jin-hyung, I think I’ll be keeping this one.” Yoongi wags his brow as he pulls you by the waist. He doesn’t say anything else—just looks at you, like he knows exactly how feral you’re feeling right now.

“Damn, Y/N. You really bagged this guy? Respect. The last dude was a real dick.” Taehyung nods past you and you wince at the mention of Namjoon.

By the time everyone’s heading inside for water, you’re trailing behind Yoongi with heart eyes, still trying to wrap your head around what just happened. Yoongi washes his hands on the kitchen sink, dips his head low enough for only you to hear: “Told you I got this.”

As you gaze up at him—sweaty, smug, absolutely sexy—you realize you’ve never in your life wanted someone so badly. You close the tap, wrap your hand on his wrist, pulling him to the guest room. When you’re both inside, you close the door behind you like you’re about to commit a crime. 

“What’s going on here?”

“I want you.”

For the first time, his smirk falters, before he checks the wall clock. “I’ve got 30 before I shift back.”

“That’s enough time.”

It pulls a chuckle out of him. “Get over here.”

You cross the space in two steps, launching yourself into his chest. He catches you instantly, and in one smooth pivot he spins you around, presses you down into the cushions, caging you beneath him. You pull him down by his jersey and attack his mouth, sweat dampening your lips as your tongue slides against his. 

You ease him sideways and take your place on top of him. Yoongi is still flushed from the game, collarbones gleaming faintly. You drag your lips against the column of his throat, breath hot, licking the sweat from his skin with gusto. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back, exposing more of his neck. “Got a thing for this, huh?”

You hum against his skin, too far gone to deny it. The smell of him—clean sweat, laundry detergent, a hint of lemon from the soap—clouds your head.

Yanking his jersey up and over his head, it clings to his damp back before peeling off. You rake your nails down his chest and stomach, and he hisses, eyes darkening.

He pulls the straps of your smocked top off your shoulders, stretching the front down to expose your breasts. He cups both in his hands, gently swiping your hardened nipples with his thumbs.

“Oh… that feels so good.”

His eyes flash dark, and then one hand slides up the inside of your thigh, just under your skirt, until he hooks into the elastic of your panties, yanking them off you hurriedly.

He coaxes you to lay on your back, and when he finally slips his fingers inside, you almost scream as your body jolts up against him. “Shh, they might hear you. Ride it out nice and slow, baby…”

And you do. You buck up against his hand instinctively, hips pushing upwards, slick gushing over his bony knuckles as he curls perfectly against your spongy walls.

“You pretty little thing,” he mutters, mouth to mouth. Your lips slip wetly against his, warm tongue licking into your mouth. “My messy little baby, hmm…”

You whimper his name, clinging to his shoulders. He’s relentless now, pumping harder, faster, and you’re careening off the edge.

“Yoongi, mmh, so close…” 

“Yeah?” he rasps, pushing you through it. “Take it. We don’t got time, baby. Don’t hold back.”

Your body seizes as you come achingly hard against his fingers, moaning against his shoulder. You cling to him through the aftershocks, and he presses his weight slightly on you, wrapping you in comfort, while you ride the waves down.

“I hate leaving like this,” his lips meet yours for a brief moment.

“S’ ok.” You mumble against his mouth, still chasing your breath.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses you one last time before he’s gone.

The anniversary dinner is supposed to be about your parents. Instead, the man in black has become your Roman Empire.

You did good with his OOTD, maybe too good, even, because your female cousins keep ogling him. It’s simple enough—a white tee with khaki trousers and over it a coffee-coloured cardigan in case it gets cold. Simple, but he wears it really well. 

So well every glance at him reminds you of your afternoon tryst: his fingers inside you, the texture of his throat on your tongue, the way his slick chest slid against yours. You press your thighs together under the table, silently begging your body not to betray you.

Yoongi, for his part, sits calm, shoulders relaxed, expression neutral. Like he hasn’t just had your back pressed to the guest room wall before you mingled with the rest. Like he isn’t currently sucking the oxygen out of your lungs with how stupidly hot he looks.

You get distracted greeting aunts, lose track of him for maybe ten minutes, then spot him outside. With your dad. At the grill.

Your chest seizes. Oh no.

You weave through the crowd, already dreading this—

But then your dad laughs. Actually laughs.

And Yoongi? He’s manning the grill like he’s been doing it his whole life. Sleeves pushed up, tongs flashing as he flips steaks with confidence, smoke rising around him like stage lights. Your dad hovers beside him, beer bottle in hand, grinning.

You walk towards them cautiously, your heels digging into the bermuda grass.

The smell hits—fat sizzling, juices hissing as Yoongi shifts the meat to a higher rack. Your dad tears into a kebab, chews thoughtfully, then offers the rarest thing of all: praise.

“This is… perfect,” he tells you as you approach, waving the skewered meat like a pointer. “Most people overdo it, but he knows—straight from the fire to the top rack. Seals the juice in.”

You blink. Appa? Complimenting Yoongi?

He claps Yoongi on the shoulder. “A real man knows his way around fire.”

Your heart stumbles a beat, because what did your dad say??? A real man?

“Yeobo!” your dad calls across the yard, waving a freshly acquired kebab. “The Hanwoo beef you bought was spectacular! Try this!”

And then it’s just you and Yoongi, the fire crackling, the steaks searing.

“Wow,” you say, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays you. “You keep surprising, huh.”

Yoongi flicks a look at you, lips tugging the tiniest smirk. “I might be good at things.”

“That’s an understatement.”

He licks his teeth, suppressing the gummy grin that’s threatening to form. And the way he stands there surrounded by the haze of smoke, tongs steady in his hand, it makes your chest ache with something…

“Ah…”

Suddenly a tiny piece of steak is hovering in front of your mouth. Catching it with your teeth, you give it a chew and holy shit it melts, all beefy goodness with the tiniest speck of sea salt.

“Fuck that IS good.”

Yoongi beams.

“Ah so this is teenage Y/N…”

Yoongi pokes at a polaroid hanging off your wall grid. A photo of you in oversized glasses, clarinet clutched awkwardly in your hands, hair frizzing out under the harsh auditorium lights.

“You were cute,” he says, lips twitching. “Nerdy. But cute.”

“Shut up.”

“Who were you in high school?”

“Band girl. Boring. Had a total of two friends. Mostly hung out with Jin and my cousins. Didn’t care much for the social game.”

“Checks out,” he nods, joining you by the window sill as you look out at the backyard below.

“So you were “varsity” right?” you say with bunny quotes, remembering the white lie he told your cousins earlier after demolishing them on the court. “Play pretend with me, Yoongi. Who would you be in high school?”

Yoongi smiles, and you swear something shifts in his eyes, before he responds. “Shooting guard for my school basketball team. But I was in music club, too. Played the piano.”

“The jock who plays the piano. That’s some High School Musical shit.”

He chuckles. He knows the reference.

“Ain’t no way high school me would’ve been with someone like you.”

He tilts his head, studying you with that unreadable look that always undoes you. Then, voice low and a bit raspy, he says: “High school me wouldn’t have deserved you. But I still would have tried.”

Your heart stills.

The laughter and chatter from the backyard drift up through your old bedroom window, carried on the thrum of old timey music from the rented speakers. Outside your parents are swaying on the patio, moving with an ease that comes only after decades together. Your mom’s head tipped to your dad’s shoulder, your dad nosing her hair.

Yoongi follows your gaze, then nudges your knee. “Dance with me.”

You laugh, startled. “What, here?”

“There’s music, isn’t there?”

Before you can argue, he takes your hand and pulls you gently towards him and just like that, you’re swaying too, the faint bass from outside keeping rhythm under your feet.

“If I’d met you back then… I’d probably take you to prom.”

You try to shake the warmth blooming in your chest. “Bold of you to assume I’d say yes.”

“Of course you would. I’m cute as hell.”

You smack his chest, before finding yourself pressed against it as he wraps his arms around your shoulders.

“Yeah, I’d probably say yes,” you mumble, defenseless, honest.

Your cheeks feel the rumble of his laugh. “Knew it.”

You don’t know what white lies are anymore. Is this just part of the illusion? Is he really just a toy? Or has he lived things he’s not telling you?

All you know is that in this moment, he feels real. More real than anything has in months. Yoongi has this way of making you feel alive like you’re not some hollowed-out version of yourself stumbling after scraps of affection. With him, you feel seen, held, cared for in ways that matter.

You glance up at the lone star in the sky, shining with the crescent moon. Closing your eyes, you make a wish. 

The star may not be falling. 

But you are. 💜

007 >

A/N: What did you think? Which of Yoongi’s many sexy skills did you like seeing the most???

Please reblog with your thoughts if you enjoyed this one. Can’t wait to chat with you all again in the notes! <3

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human xo

Next chapter goal: 350 notes

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[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | 005

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader, Kim Namjoon x Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternately: Yoongi is a Labubu ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Crackfic galore, Magical realism slash scifi, Non-idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: jimin is a piece of shit, k is a piece of shit, namjoon is a piece of shit, yoongi is mad and petty AF, but hey,  it’s fluffy towards the end :) p.s. MC still hasn’t the read the flyer ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 3.3k ish ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: thank you tea, thank you aqua. <3 enjoy reading. don't forget to reblog or leave an ask if you enjoyed.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“Take him back.”

Jimin doesn’t even look up from where he’s slouched on his chair, sucking on a lollipop like a delinquent straight out of a webtoon. He blinks once, then twice, and grins.

“Yeah, nah,” he says cheerfully. “We don’t do returns.”

Your jaw drops. “What do you mean you don’t do returns? This isn’t Zara. He came with fine print!”

“Exactly.” Jimin spins, hair flopping into his eyes that are looking at you pointedly. “Did you read the flyer?”

No, you have not. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. “So I’m stuck with him?”

“I think so…” 

“Until when?”

Jimin scrolls his phone seriously. “There are petitioners here from Tumblr: kitty, kam, kiki, kay…. Their names are also Ks which is disturbing, actually.” He says the last part almost to himself. “But anyway, they’re saying it should be forever…”

“Forever???”

He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Pretty much. Until K says you’re good.” He nods towards the back of the store where you see this blonde asian hottie snickering while typing away on her MacBook.

You groan. “Why are you like this?”

“Because,” Jimin says with a wink. “Life’s more fun when you’re a little fucked.”

Ughhh.

Namjoon: let’s talk You: we don’t need to do that Namjoon: i think we should You: there’s nothing left to say Namjoon: wdym we’ve been together for 10 years You: and separated for at least one Namjoon: don’t be like that You: yk i’m right it’s been over for a while and idk Namjoon: what about your parents’ anniversary next month? You: i’m gonna figure it out, you don’t gotta go obvs Namjoon: i promised your dad You: no namjoon please You: i’ll pick up my stuff on friday Namjoon: yeah okay

Blessedly, the new flat came together faster than you thought. It wasn’t as polished as Namjoon’s sleek high-rise, but that was the point. The pipes rattled when you ran the shower, the neighbors’ music leaked through the walls, and the window screen had tiny holes and jammed a little when you tried to open them. 

There were no plants, no art, no fancy museum tchotchkes. And it feels like you. Messy, imperfect, kinda basic. Your home didn’t demand perfection just to exist in it. Fuck his boucle sectional honestly. You’d pick this Craigslist couch any day.

You’d spent the last two days scrubbing every surface, arranging the few pieces of furniture that you picked up, and unpacking the clothes and toiletries you were able to fit in your roll-on. So when the day came to finally face Namjoon’s apartment again, you needed backup, and you cannot think of any other person who’d be available on a whim.

The glow fills your living room. Yoongi blinks into being. He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes the second he sees you.

“Wow. Fuckin’ finally.”

You avert your gaze, busying yourself with the zipper of your throw pillow. “I was busy.”

“Busy trying to return me?” His tone was flat, unimpressed.

You rub your face, too tired to pick a fight. “Okay, fine. I panicked. Sue me. I didn’t exactly plan for my life to implode like this.”

His mouth twitched, just slightly, into something resembling a smirk. “Would’ve been nice to know you were also gonna dump me.”

“I wasn’t... ” you sigh, giving up. “I just… it’s been a lot.”

He glanced around at the clutter of half-open boxes and a mop leaning against the counter. He walks over to your closet and procures himself a casual t-shirt and joggers as if he owns it. 

For a beat, the silence just hangs between you. His expression softened, but there was still a glint in his eyes. “So what’s the plan, boss? I figure I am not here for the usual…”

You wanna roll your eyes, but decide against it, since you do need his help for something unconventional (like more unconventional than the kind of help he has already provided thus far). “I’m going over at Namjoon’s to pick up the rest of my stuff, and I need… manpower.”

Yoongi huffs a breath, the corners of his mouth tilting up. After a while, he succumbs, “Fine.”

“Behave, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll behave.”

“Now that’s suspicious as fuck.”

“Relax,” he murmurs, gaze lingering on you just long enough to make you uneasy. “You know what I do. I’m just here to help.”

Yeah right.

Namjoon opens the door, brows lifting in surprise, lips parting slightly, like he didn’t expect you. You’d like to think it has to do with the fact that you got a hair cut and maybe put your face on before coming over. Gotta remind him what he’s missing, you thought as you swiped the lip tint that he used to like.

“Hi, Y/N.” Your name sounds foreign from his mouth.

“Hello, Namjoon.”

“You look…”

He doesn’t get to finish what he wants to say when the door jolts forward as Yoongi shoulders it wider, announcing his presence without words.

Namjoon blinks at you then Yoongi. “Uh… do I know you?”

“Nope,” Yoongi says curtly.

“Can we come in?” you ask.

Namjoon steps aside as Yoongi pushes the door wide, scanning the apartment like police doing a raid. 

Namjoon studies him harder, head tilted. “You look… familiar. Did we meet at the gym? Or wait, music school?”

You step in quickly. “He’s just here to help me carry my stuff.”

But Namjoon isn’t about to let it go. “Nah, I’ve seen you before.”

“Don’t think so.”

Namjoon hums, unconvinced, but lets it drop with a tight smile. “Right. Well, I already boxed everything. Just needs hauling down.”

Yoongi moves immediately, crouching and hefting a box like it weighs nothing. Muscles flex across his forearms, veins pulling taut as he adjusts the grip. Oh. You bite the inside of your cheek. 

Namjoon tries to steer you toward the kitchen with a hand at your elbow. “Hey, before you go—can we talk for a sec?”

But Yoongi’s suddenly here with said box. “Coming through,” he squeezes between the two of you, forcing Namjoon to step back.

You almost laugh at how perfectly timed it is. Almost. He’s up to something.

Looking back, you observe as Yoongi piles the boxes on the pushcart you borrowed from the building admin, just outside of the hallway.

With a sigh, Namjoon steers your attention back to him, “Y/N…”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t we just, you know…”

“I really don’t…”

“Excuse me,” there Yoongi is again, wedging himself between you and your ex as he walks by to pick up a plastic bag of your snacks sitting on the counter.

Namjoon exhales through his nose, jaw ticking. You can tell he’s annoyed.

“You still want these?” Yoongi turns to you, bag of stuff, and a bottle of wine from the cupboard he once saw you sip from, on hand.

“Nah, you can leave those. Just the boxes I think.”

Namjoon just watches your exchange until his eyes zoom in on the print on Yoongi’s white tee.

“Nice shirt, I have the exact one. If only I can find mine…”

Yoongi shrugs, “I hate it actually, don’t mind getting it dirty today.” And for effect he even wipes his palms down on the front, leaving a grayish smudge.

“That’s a Bottega?”

“‘Twas on sale in a bodega.”

You pause. Such a douche thing to say, but he really spit up a rhyme just like that? Who tf are you, Yoongi?

Despite being mildly impressed, you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, willing this exchange to end, only to open to Namjoon sucking in his cheeks so harshly he’s starting to look like Zoolander. “So… who are you, man?”

That’s when Yoongi finally meets his eyes. Calm. Unblinking. “I’m whoever she needs me to be.” He says and ends it with a :].

The words hang in the air, dense and suffocating.

Namjoon rubs his top lip with his thumb, like he’s forcing down the retort clawing up his throat. He looks at you instead, searching your face for clarity, but you’re frozen—half mortified, half electrified.

“Really?” he asks you, almost accusingly.

Yoongi shifts another box on his shoulder and strolls toward the door, expression unreadable, like he didn’t just wreck the atmosphere with one line. “This one’s heavy. You coming?”

Namjoon makes a last attempt, voice low, weighted. “We should talk—just us.”

But Yoongi’s head reappears from the doorway, calling your name. 

You shake your head, mutter a quick, “I’ll text you,” (you won’t) and follow Yoongi out before Namjoon can protest again.

Inside the elevator, you turn to Yoongi, glare sharp. “You know what you did.”

He meets your gaze without flinching. And then there’s that infuriating twitch of satisfaction, the kind a cat wears when it leaves a dead mouse on your doorstep.

The glint in his eyes says it all. But he verbalizes it anyway. “And I’d do it again.”

It took a while to get used to the new place, but it’s starting to feel like home. It’s imperfect, but it feels… right. Yours. Simpler. A little cramped, sure—but cozy and real in a way Namjoon’s insta-curated apartment never was. You find yourself breathing easier here, with your toy-slash-roommate.

At first, you only activate him when you’re bored, or when there’s something tedious that feels better with company—folding laundry, scrubbing tiles, rearranging the bookshelves. He grumbles about being treated like some glorified housekeeper, but you catch the grin he tries to hide when you hug him before he shifts back.

Somehow, Yoongi slips into this new life with you like it was meant to be. And without realizing when it happened, he just becomes part of your days and nights. Sometimes you forget he isn’t a guy who lives here. Sometimes you forget he’s not supposed to be real.

Sometimes you forget what his real purpose is. But now you’re content to have him as a friend.

Your new favorite time is this: late night on the couch with Yoongi, legs tangled in a blanket, bickering over this ridiculous Joseon-era K-drama called Daechwita that has both of you by the throat. 

He complains about the plot holes, calls the king an idiot, and gets unreasonably invested in side characters who probably won’t survive the next episode. (His favorite is this mouthy tuna vendor who picks a fight with this young jewelry seller).

You tell him he kinda looks like the king, he says he looks more like the rebel. You agree to disagree.

The two of you become ridiculous commentators when you watch the show. But bro has become so fucking invested it’s kinda endearing. 

Yoongi groans every time the king makes a dumb decision. He curses the writers for every cliffhanger. Tonight, you catch him leaning forward, almost drooling during a dramatic sword fight while his hands are clenched into a fist, subtly mimicking the movements.

You snicker. Dork.

He glances at you sideways, “What?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, suppressing your smile.

Narrowing his eyes, he pulls the blanket from you, “Don’t hog.”

“Stop! Give it back,” you yank it back, knocking over the bowl of popcorn (now just kernels) you were previously balancing on your lap, butter residue and salt seeping to your couch and the carpet below.

The living room is messy and he’s sooo annoying, and you have to rewind the show one minute back because you were not focusing, but god—it feels good. Easy. Like you can be yourself again.

One night you were still feeling peckish after two episodes and a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos.

“We’re starving,” you declare.

Yoongi raises a brow from where he’s sprawled on the floor with his back against the couch. “We? I’m fine. You’re the one inhaling that bag like you just got out of prison.”

You flick a cushion at his head. He catches it one-handed, smirking. “Come on. Fresh air won’t kill us. Let’s go to the store...”

The two of you walk to the GS25 a block away. Inside, you immediately head for the ramen aisle while Yoongi lingers in front of the cooler doors, staring at rows of beer cans like he’s sizing up old friends.

“Shin or Jin?” you ask, holding both packets up.

“Jin,” he says instantly. “I fuckin’ miss that thing.”

The words slip out so casually you almost don’t catch them.

You pause, squint, but he’s already crouched to grab two tallboys of Cass. He doesn’t notice the way your brain trips over itself. Miss ramen? What does that even mean for someone who’s supposed to be… manufactured? Someone who’s not supposed to need food to survive? File it away. Don’t poke at it now.

One day, Yoongi asks if you want to go to a cafe, just for a change of scenery. It’s not like he drinks coffee anyway. Right? 

But ever since that off-hand ramen comment, you’ve started to wonder why he acts like he’s familiar with many human things. Like he knows how to operate the dishwasher, for example. And he seems to have memories, pasts, and there are moments he is slipping up with anecdotes. And he doesn’t even correct himself. Like he wants you to figure out this puzzle.

You tried asking again how he became what or who he is and he responded with “My Shayla! Not my Shayla!”. Fuck that K chick, honestly.

You’re looking forward to having the new matcha drink in that cute cafe that just opened up and of course, mid-way, the sky decides to dump on you.

At first it’s just a drizzle. But it steadily morphs into a downpour.

“Shit,” you yelp, tugging your hood over your head as you try to find a nearby bus shed.

But within seconds, you’re both soaked, sneakers slapping against the pavement as you break into a run. He grabs your hand, pulling you along as he darts across the street. His other hand comes up instinctively to shield the top of your head like that’s going to do anything against the sheets of rain.

You trip on the curb, nearly face-plant into a puddle, but Yoongi yanks you back with a laugh that escapes him before he can smother it. It’s contagious—you’re laughing too, stomach aching, hair plastered against your cheeks. By the time you reach a bus stop for cover, you’re both dripping and breathless.

“You look like a raccoon,” Yoongi sneers, swiping the streaks of mascara under your eyes with the pad of his index.

“Shut up. You look like a wet cat.”

“Now you know how I feel when you activate me.”

You don’t argue.

He grins, shaking his hair to send more water droplets to your eyes just to be a prick, as you both stand there, cafe trip forgotten as well as the fact that you’re still holding hands.

It’s Shark week. Your body is on fire and you’re absolutely wrecked. You certainly don’t want to activate Yoongi when you’re reeling from dysmenorrhea, so you accept your fate that you will die alone from anemia and iron-deficiency complications.

Crazily enough, you hear a familiar groan. Somehow, Yoongi activates from the condensation of your glass of cold water. Honestly, crazier things have happened so you don’t question it anymore. You keep yourself curled on the couch, wrought with the pains of womanhood.

Not a moment later, a careful hand is pressed on your shoulder. “What happened to you?” 

“I am fighting my own uterus,” you whine, as you move to sit up to make space for Yoongi.

Yoongi scratches the back of his head, peers at you like you’re an injured thing. (You are!) “Can I help with anything? Ah, warm compress? Tea? A massage?”

“Yes! Yes! All of it!” You almost cry in relief as he immediately gets to work, and does it so well, you feel a little spoiled afterwards.

And god, you hate to admit it, but you start to look forward to it. To him. And the ways he cares for you. Those other complexities you felt before start to ebb away.

The little bell above the café door jingles when you and Yoongi step inside, the roasted-bean scent hitting hard enough to fog your brain. Yoongi inhales deeply, almost theatrically, like he hasn’t smelled real coffee in years.

“God,” he mutters, sliding into the seat across from you. “I’ve missed this.”

You give him a look, eyebrows tugging together. He catches it but doesn’t explain. Just smiles and grabs the menu and gives it to you. You file it away in your mind like you always do. Another mystery for later.

He requests for a hot americano (for the vibes) and you’re not about to deny anybody from caffeine. You’re halfway through your iced latte when the door jingles. You peer behind you, curious for no reason, and your hairs stand on end when you see him.

Namjoon.

He’s in a slate-gray suit, sharp, crisp, with someone at his side, someone you recognize. You’ve actually seen her before, last Christmas at Namjoon’s work party. You were gone to powder your nose for a second and you come back to find this bitch leaning too close, requiring you to step in and introduce yourself as the girlfriend. Today, she’s also in a matching blazer-and-skirt combo, and they look every bit a couple from a Hugo Boss advert. Today, she looked like the girlfriend.

You tell yourself not to stare. You fail. Because right there, as she laughs at something he says, Namjoon reaches back and pinches her ass. Casually. Like it’s something they do on the reg. There are stars in her eyes when she half-heartedly admonishes him.

Your stomach hollows. Okay. What the fuck.

And there’s this other thing that snaps into focus for you. Those pair of silk shorts you found in one of the boxes from Namjoon’s. You could have sworn they were not yours, yet ultimately gaslighted yourself into thinking they might have been an old pair you must have forgotten. But seeing her now. Well. It could be hers.

Yoongi notices your turmoil instantly. Of course he does. His chair screeches lightly against the floor as he shifts closer, knees bumping into yours. The contact snaps you out of your freeze, forces you to look at him instead of them.

“Tsk,” he clicks his tongue softly, like he’s annoyed on your behalf. Then he takes your hand under the table, warm and steady. His thumb rubs over the back of your hand, soothing.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, low enough only you can hear. His eyes are on yours, unwavering. “Don’t worry about that shit. You’re above that.”

You want to cry. Or maybe you just want to collapse. Instead, you let him trace slow, grounding strokes along your arms.

Now that you are facing Yoongi, you’re not sure if Namjoon sees you. But you guess he does from the way Yoongi’s thumb stills on the back of your hand, and his mouth dips close to your ear.

“He’s looking,” Yoongi murmurs. Then he tips his chin toward you, challenging. “What do you want to do?”

Nothing, right? What can you do?

But as you watch Yoongi’s tongue skirting his bottom lip, you’re shaken out of your pity party and hmm you’re about to be petty.

You fist the soft fabric of his hoodie and tug him closer until you can feel his breath fan against your lips. Yoongi’s grin blooms slow and smug, like a cat that caught the canary. He doesn’t even flinch—just waits as you knock your noses against each other before you press your mouth to his for a slow, sweet kiss. Your heart is beating out of its cage and it’s not because of the caffeine.

When you pull back, a laugh bursts out of you, half-nervous, half-delighted at your own audacity. Yoongi’s still smiling, eyes moon-like and gleaming, like he’s been waiting for you to finally do something stupid like this.

“Cute,” he says, and he’s moving in closer and your eyes are glued to his mouth. “Wanna do it again?”

You nod and just before you dip into another taste of him, you glance sideways to find Namjoon still looking. 

>:)

006 >

A/N: Want in on a secret? 006 is gonna be your favorite chapter, I assure you that. I know because I am already writing it! Notes goal is 250, and you get it. <3

Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful, human xo

***

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[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | 001

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader, Kim Namjoon x Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternately: Yoongi is a Labubu / Sonny Angel (Kind of.) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Crackfic galore, Magical realism slash wifi, Non-idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: Again, Yoongi is a toy (but he grows life-size. Read and find out how…), nudity off the bat, implied big dick!yoongi lol <3 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.8k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: The response to the intro has been lovely. Thank you. Well, I've finally done it. I have started writing the most unhinged fic of my life. But honey, you’re here, so welcome to the insanity. Thanks to all my lovely moots who endured my spiral for this fic, but special shout to Tea and Aqua for encouraging/enabling me so, so much. And Mittens, for writing fruit bat!Yoongi, which somehow inspired his transfiguration here. Now on to the show~

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You always thought relationships ended dramatically—with screaming matches and shattered plates, and doors slamming hard enough to shake termites off the walls. But you learned the painful truth with your first love Kim Namjoon: relationships often crumble quietly, fading so gradually, so infinitesimally, you barely notice until the warmth has completely vanished, hearts once filled with everything is completely weightless.

Like now, seated across from him at your favorite café, sunlight streaming through tall windows, you sip your coffee and glance at him over the rim. Namjoon is buried in his phone, thumb scrolling endlessly. A small sigh escapes your lips, but he doesn’t notice. Hasn't noticed, actually, in a very long time.

"Did you hear what I said?" you ask softly.

"Hmm?" He lifts his eyes, distracted. "Sorry, work shit. Sup?"

"Never mind," you say with forced brightness, waving away your disappointment. But the heaviness in your chest stays, quietly and gradually expanding.

You’d planned this coffee date to rekindle something—anything—but now it feels like a futile effort. The silence stretches until your coffee turns cold. Just like your 10-year relationship.

Maybe love wasn’t supposed to feel thrilling forever, but it shouldn’t feel this empty either. Maybe it’s because you fell in love too early, too soon. But you miss the laughter, the passion, the nights tangled together in bed until dawn. Lately, all you've shared are polite good mornings and goodnights, passing like polite strangers under the same roof.

Desperate situations call for desperate measures, you suppose. Which is exactly how you find yourself standing in front of "The Magic Shop", the quirkiest little sex shop tucked in an alleyway of boutiques you've always avoided entering. A glowing neon sign flickers playfully above the door:

Cum Inside. Happy Endings Guaranteed

Wow. How subtle.

Inside, you're met by walls of purple velvet, shelves crowded with vibrant boxes and toys in every conceivable shape and size. It's whimsical and overwhelming, scented faintly of vanilla and spice. You're about to lose your nerve when a warm, amused voice interrupts your anxious thoughts.

"First time in the Magic Shop?"

You whip around to meet a pair of moon-like eyes and a mischievous smile, belonging to a man behind the counter whose nametag reads: Jimin.

"That obvious, huh?" you mumble, cheeks heating.

Jimin laughs lightly, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't worry, everyone walks in like Bambi their first time. Now, what magic are you hoping for today?"

You hesitate, tugging at your sleeve nervously. "Ah, no. I just...I’m just looking around…”

Jimin’s smile spreads even wider, pearly whites glinting. He’s not buying it, but he gives you space. “You know where to find me if you need help with anything.”

You nod, jaw set, before spinning on your heels to walk deeper in the store. God, how many dildos are in here? Literally every shape, length, and girth, apparently. One of the endcaps had a display that was actually this beautiful, sparkly thing like it was Edward Cullens’ dick and you can’t help yourself, you reach out to touch it… when it immediately starts vibrating.

“Shit!”

You hear Jimin giggling. “Sorry, it’s bluetooth activated. Couldn’t help it.” He taps the screen on his phone, effectively stopping the buzzing vampire peen.

Miffed, but only slightly, you breathe out a heavy puff of air, clearing your lungs, bringing with it the shame you’re feeling of being here in this place like an aimless person.

“Okay, fine. I need something to save my love life."

“Ah,” Jimin nods knowingly, eyes gentle but playful. He pauses for dramatic effect before saying, "Then, my dear, follow me." He walks you towards the back of the shop, and you should really question why you’re heading to the freaking back of the shop like some drug mule, but unfortunately your self-preservation skills are not fully developed.

Inside, you smell incense, paper, and something familiar, like a certain flower. It reminds you of your childhood home and you feel an immediate rush of relief. It was strange, but you don’t really question it.

Jimin gestures grandly toward an ornate shelf labeled "MAGICAL MYSTERY BLIND BOXES—Change Your Life!"

You arch a skeptical brow. "Blind boxes? Really?"

"Absolutely. They're all the rage, and trust me—they're magical in ways you'd never imagine." His smile deepens with an intriguing secret. “Have you never bought one?”

“I have.”

“Then you know how this goes. Let fate decide.”

Before you can second-guess yourself, you've selected a mysterious, pastel-colored box alongside an impulsively chosen bottle of strawberry-scented lube and paid the man.

Back home, you unwrap the box slowly, pulling the perforated tab open. A purple plastic packaging sits inside and when you rip the top, nestled is a meticulously crafted figurine: light tousled hair, porcelain-pale skin, and an expression of exquisite… neutrality. Boredom, even. The tiny little white outfit feels almost too realistic under your fingertips. Attached is a flyer reading simply:

"SUGA: Activate in warm water. Satisfaction guaranteed."

You scoff softly at the absurdity. But meh you bought it and it's here. So might as well.

Minutes later, you're submerged in the warmth of your tub, needing a bath badly to melt the day away. For whatever reason (aka because ktownshizzle wrote so) you decide to bring toy SUGA with you, its tiny form sinking slowly beneath rippling water beside you. Eyes fluttering shut, skepticism fading into relaxation…

Suddenly, there's a splash, a tidal wave that drenches your bathroom floor and your peaceful soak becomes… not.

But the gag is that right there in front of you, where your bubbles used to be, sits a fully grown, entirely naked man—perfectly human and devastatingly handsome, blinking like he's just woken from the best nap of his life.

You bolt upright, scrambling backward so frantically you nearly flip out of the tub, "Oh my god!"

As you fold your knees towards your chest, your elbow knocks half your bath products sending them crashing to the tiles.

The man—the intruder!—glances down, unfazed by the chaos, looking casually at his own arms, legs, chest, and then downward, parting some of the suds. "Mm," he says calmly, "thank fuck everything grew properly."

Your jaw drops. "Excuse me?"

"Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it," he says, waving a dismissive hand. His voice is honeyed gravel, unbothered yet impossibly attractive. He leans back comfortably, stretching his arms along the sides of your tub.

You're gaping now, clutching bubbles to your chest for dear life. And as you sputter "Who—what—are you? How did you—?" You realize the stranger looks just like…

He smirks lazily, tilting his head to regard you with amused, hooded eyes. "You get it now? Name is Yoongi. Also known as SUGA. Pleasure coach, extraordinaire." He tilts his chin at you, mildly curious. "And you must be the one who activated me. Lucky you."

"Lucky? Activated you?" you gasp, suddenly angry and embarrassed, cheeks blazing hot. "How?! You were a toy!"

Yoongi shrugs, completely at ease despite being naked in your bathtub, running a hand through his wet hair. "It happens. Listen," he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "are you gonna stare at me all night or what? I'm flattered, truly, but maybe get me a towel?"

You glare incredulously. "I’ve seen bigger." It’s a lie.

He arches a skeptical eyebrow, lips twitching. "Babygirl, your eyes haven't moved since I appeared."

"Don't flatter yourself," you mutter defensively, though you're painfully aware that you’re about to burst, and it's definitely not from fear.

Yoongi leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze locked onto yours, voice dropping an octave. "I'm just saying. Look all you want, but I'm better at this if we're both comfortable."

“Better at what?” You choke out, simultaneously terrified and intrigued.

He smiles wickedly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “At fixing your obviously disastrous sex life, of course. Isn’t that why you brought me home?”

Your mouth opens and closes wordlessly, stunned into silence. He’s blunt, yes, but there’s a softness in his cat-like eyes, a playful charm that’s entirely disarming.

He sighs patiently, tipping his head to the side. “Let me guess. Relationship rut? Vanilla boyfriend? You don’t know how to blow? You’re desperate and bought some weird blind box from Jimin’s shop. Am I close?”

You feel your cheeks burn hotter. “I—I mean—yeah, sort of. But I know how to… (you squeak) give a blowjob.”

“I believe you,” Yoongi nods with a smile, splashing water idly. "That guy always pawns me off on the cute, hopeless ones."

You splutter, partly offended, partly flattered, mostly just confused. “Hopeless?”

“I also said cute,” he chuckles lowly, and damn if the sound doesn't shoot straight down your spine. “Relax, babygirl. By the time I'm done, you'll forget hopeless was even in your vocabulary.”

His dark eyes hold yours, confidence radiating from every inch of his wet, annoyingly perfect form. You swallow hard, fingers trembling slightly, completely aware you’re losing any upper hand you ever had.

Yoongi notices your discomfort and finally relents, shrugging carelessly. "Alright, fine. I'll close my eyes. Modesty and all."

"This is absurd," you mutter under your breath, scrambling out hastily and wrapping yourself in your robe.

"Absurd or exciting? Thin line," he muses playfully, eyes still politely shut.

“You know, you’re pretty cocky for someone who was literally a doll five minutes ago.”

He grins, “you said cock.”

You groan, quickly tossing a towel in his general direction without looking. "Oh my… Just cover up."

“Yes, boss.” He catches it easily, as if he was looking. Then voice teasing, delightfully provocative, he says: “Whenever you're ready, we can start your lesson. Trust me, you'll thank me later.”

:)

002

A/N: There goes the first chapter! How you like it?

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! xo

Taglist is still open. Drop a note or an ask! A reblog also works if you feel like it. 😘

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Terms & Conditions | Ch Nine

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to? ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: angst, mentions of blackmail, implied voyeurism, verbal abuse ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 2.3k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: July 6, 2025 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: First of all a public apology for not responding to comments in the last super angst-ridden chapter... umm... call it method writing? Now we're in the second to the last chapter, and we finally get a full YOONGI POV! 🙂 It will still hurt, but there is a promise of hope. Thank you Aqua my love for betareading.

Series Masterlist | K’s Masterlist

Yoongi sits alone in your shared office. He’s tried to power through, go autopilot. He has a job to do, not his real job, but fine. Full-on corporate slave, it is. 

Someone’s name. Click clack. Someone’s address. Tap tap. An amount of money.

His forehead meets the surface of the table. Ow.

It doesn’t work. Nothing. Fucking. Works.

The chair across from him has been empty for more than a week now. Your mug still sits on the corner of the desk, washed, but the reddish tint of your lipstick still remains from frequent use. The post-it with your pretty handwriting that you left stuck to the monitor (reminder: reorder printer ink) flutters whenever the AC kicks on. There’s a candy wrapper stuck surreptitiously under the keyboard (he hates when you do that). 

He’s been tidying up your chaos crumbs for months now. Always scolding you (lovingly) for the random traces you leave behind. But now he hasn’t touched any of it. 

Maybe it’s pathetic. He likes to pretend you’re just using the ladies room, and you’re coming back any moment now. And you will walk in, with that grin he’s become so fond of, and your eyebrow raises like you’re still surprised that he looks at you like you’re the most beaut…

The door opens and he freaks out a little thinking he conjured you up, but when he whips his head to the door, it’s Hyun-woo.

…who keeps dropping in. It’s really getting annoying, actually. His uncle talks to him about some documents and files and things he does not care about. Yoongi nods, agrees to something, but then Hyun-woo asks about you and like a doberman his spine straightens.

“You talk to Y/N-ssi lately?”

He shakes his head, doesn’t realize his lower lip juts out when does so.

Hyun-woo hums. “She’s never taken a break this long. Do you think she’s okay?”

White knuckles grip a ballpoint before twirling it. “Maybe. We haven’t spoken,” he shrugs. It’s the truth, anyways. Doesn’t offer anything else, but there’s a funny feeling with how Hyun-woo is looking at him. 

“You’ve gotten quite friendly with her, no?” Hyun-woo walks to your table and his eyes trail over your belongings, like he is trying to sniff out any evidence.

Yoongi could feel his face grow hot, a bit possessive, but he keeps a neutral expression. He’s good at that. “She’s helped me a lot here. Like you said before, she's good at what she does.”

Thankfully his uncle gets a call and leaves him alone after that.

Yoongi exhales. His jaw kind of aches from how tight he’d been clenching it.

Danbi walks by the glass door two minutes later. Her reflection flashes past, slow, deliberate. She peers in like she’s checking for someone or something.

Yoongi doesn’t want to read much into it, because he’s used to being stared at. But she does this every day now. Sometimes lingers. Sometimes meets his gaze too directly, like she knows something he doesn’t.

He looks away and ignores her. Focuses on someone’s name on a piece of paper.  Mostly, he’s trying not to think, but even that is starting to feel impossible.

He misses you. Every hour. Every second.

He needs you to come back to him.

But if you meant what you said during that phone call, if you really think you made a mistake to be with him, then maybe there’s nothing left to fight for.

And that thought is killing him.

When Jungkook texts him to meet up with your best friend at a café in Itaewon, he gets nervous. The insane part of him wants to just call Chae and ask her what she wanted, but he stopped himself from spiraling. Respected the request. In part thanks to the mountainous amount of paperwork before him that needs to be filed and encoded. Shit, he really needs you back. This office work is getting out of hand and he gets absolutely no sense of fulfillment whatsoever even when stacks disappear.

The cafe is easy to find. He shoves his hand inside his pockets as Sejin pushes to door open for him. The digital clock by the entrance reads 6:45 PM. He shows up right on time. Chae’s already there, tucked in a corner booth, hoodie pulled over her head, large iced Americano in front of her.

He nods at Sejin, his body guard, who takes a spot at a nearby table. 

Yoongi has barely interacted with your best friend before this. Just hellos, short banter, the occasional eye roll exchanged across the table when you said something ridiculous. To be honest, he was a little wary of her at first ever since he walked into her “magic shop” mistakenly. 

Still, if you trust her—and Jungkook’s kind of crazy for her—then she must be solid. More importantly, she might have answers.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she says, as he slides into the seat across from her. “Y/N doesn’t know I’m here, okay?”

“Didn’t think she would,” he says simply. Then, cuts to the chase because it’s all he cares about: “Is she okay?”

Chae’s eyes darken. She shakes her head, “No. Not really.”

He knows as much, but Yoongi could feel the sharp twist in his chest, his heart beat speeding up. “What’s going on?”

“She told me everything,” Chae says, voice low and deliberate. “She’s being blackmailed.”

The words suckerpunch him back to last week. “What?”

“She’s been getting messages. Threats. Someone’s asking for money because they have photos of you and her that they could leak.”

Yoongi’s entire body goes ice-cold.

Everything clicks and falls apart at once. The way you started pulling away. The way your voice cracked. The obvious lies and deflection. The phone call.

He feels sick. He feels so fuckin’ sick he’s about to hurl the pile of nothing he had for lunch.

Why didn’t you tell him? 

As if Chae could hear his noisy thoughts, she continues. “She didn’t want you to get hurt. She thought walking away would protect you.”

He swallows the lump in his throat, words still evading him as she continues.

“She thinks she’s going to ruin your career.”

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Tries to steady his breathing.

“She’s not,” he whispers.

“I know that,” Chae replies. “But she doesn’t.”

Bangs prick his eyes as he shakes his head in disbelief.

She pulls out her phone. “Look. I took these screenshots when she was napping. It’s not everything, but it’s bad.”

Yoongi leans forward. The messages on the screen are blurred, but enough of them are clear. How the person is badgering you for money. How you’re denying being in contact with him at first. To your latest reply: You win. He’s yours. 

At that, something sour threatens to come up his throat. Bile.

But the person’s reply is strange, though it still flashes like a dagger: You stupid girl!!

Something feral wakes in him. His vision tunnels and a fist slams onto the table, causing the salt and pepper shakers to collide.

Sejin appears instantly.

“I’m okay,” Yoongi mutters, barely controlling his rage. “I’m fine.”

Chae stares at him, hand pressed to her chest, visibly concerned.

“Sorry, fuck,” he bows his head, then reaches for the glass of water to take a sip. “I’m just–”

Chae nods, clutching her phone. “I know. It’s scary. And she’s been handling this for a month…”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know if she wants anyone to know.”

Yoongi literally wants to punch a wall. He is not just anyone—the fuck?! How did this go from you pretty much living with him to you going into hiding? How could he have missed the signs? How did he fuck this up so fast?

Evening out his breathing, he rasps, “Is she with someone, at least?”

“She’s with her mom.”

Busan. You’re in Busan.

Yoongi sighs and they fall silent, the gentle pitter patter of the rain hitting the window, a calm contrasting the storm raging inside him.

“Please help her, Yoongi,” was the last thing Chae requested.

At that, he pulls out his phone and asks for a copy of the screenshots.

Yoongi doesn’t know what else to say for now. Just thanks her and makes his way out of the coffee shop, letting the rain pelt him as he steps out, waving off Sejin and his umbrella.

That night, Yoongi calls for Jin and Hoseok. He needs a plan.

To be brutally honest, he’d rather have Namjoon’s big-ass brains and Taehyung’s special forces brawn, but until those two are out, yeah, 2seok (according to ARMY) will have to do it for now.

The beautiful bottle of Hibiki that Hobi brought made everything better. And the bbq ribs Jin-hyung picked up on the way would’ve been fantastic if he had an appetite. They enjoyed it at least.

It’s cathartic to break down and not hold everything together for fucking once. He’s been miserable, still is. But the one thing that is preventing him from jumping off the ledge is the thought that you did not mean to break up with him. You just thought it was what he needed. But your pretty brain assumed wrong. It’s okay. He will fix this fucked up situation. As soon as he tracks the motherfucker behind this.

Drinks were had. And they've reached the point when ramyeon is the only logical next step. Yoongi had the instant ones in a cup with Jin’s face in his cabinet. His hyung squealed in delight upon discovering. He almost regrets ordering it.

“Yoongi-ah! I didn’t know you supported me like this!” Squishy lips land on his cheek and he immediately rubs it with the edge of his flannel.

“Yah, why would you do that?!”

Hobi’s a little somber, red in the face, mouth downturned as he slurps. His friend always gets like this at the end of the night. 

“What?” Yoongi asks because he know Hobi is just dying to say something,

“You were really happy with her. I could see it.”

Yoongi sighs. Drunk, feeling a bit dejected. “Yeah, well, I have shit luck when it comes to things like this…”

“…If this is life,” he talks to the soup as he pours it back in, letting the broth fall down from the spoon. “Then, I am a fork.”

By the next morning, Yoongi’s deep into it. It’s time to Sherlock fucking Holmes this shit.

He pulls strings. Calls in favors. Old favors. Big ones. Sits down with HYBE’s in-house legal team and tells them everything and that he wants clearance on everything. Surveillance logs. Footages. Anything that looks even slightly off. But more importantly, he wants you safe and unharmed. The moment your face hits the press, Yoongi’s peacing out of Bangtan–faster than Tae can opt in on their new Cypher.

You best believe wheels start turning after that.

Because Yoongi—he doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to, because his name, his rep, his track record is enough. Min Yoongi wants, no, needs this done. The lawyers, the security team, Bang Si Hyuk doesn’t ask questions.

Even outside of HYBE, he calls someone in security next. An old friend. “Off the record,” he says to Mr. Lee, who has since retired to do private work. “I need to get to the bottom of this.”

Mr. Lee nods, resolute. Like he know he is gonna get this done for his boy. Yoongi thanks him.

Two days later, it’s Mr. Lee that calls back.

“Does this name ring a bell?”

Yoongi listens to the details in silence, jaw locked, heart thudding in his ears.

When the name drops, it takes the air right out of his lungs. 

Wow. Okay. It’s time to brawl.

That night, exactly ten days since the last time he heard your voice, he drives to Busan.

He doesn’t know if you’d really be at your eomma’s. Chae, loyal thru and thru, did not give him your location even when he commissioned Jungkook to do it on his behalf. He was pissed for a second, even snarled at Kook for his lackluster effort, but at least he knows you have a real one in your corner. 

Now, all he has is a car full of diesel, a strong gut feeling, and an address from Mr. Lee’s records.

The home he pulls up to is a pretty bungalow. He rings the door bell and an older woman’s voice calls from behind the wooden door.

“Who’s there?” 

“Good evening. My name is Min Yoongi. Is Y/N there?”

No response. But he thinks he hears footsteps, maybe a door slamming shut.

But then, it’s as if he finally has oxygen in his lungs after days of drought.

“Why are you here?” You sound small. Muffled. 

Yoongi closes his eyes, relief and heartbreak tangling in his chest. “Jagiya,” he says quietly, placing his forehead against the door you haven’t opened. “Please let me in.”

A beat of silence.

“I know everything.” He continues to speak against wood. “You don’t have to go through this alone anymore…” And then he tries to keep it together, but his voice cracks, “You know I got you, right?”

He turns to leave after a few mute minutes that seem like days.

But then, the door finally opens.

A/N: Okayyyyy. How are we feeling?? :( We're getting to the final chapter and we will find out who the culprit is! Any guesses? Drop them in the notes.

As always... I'd love feedback in the comments or send me an ask. A reblog would also be fantastic if you enjoyed this. <3

Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

Permanent Taglist (Part 1)

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[kiki-zb]

Love this Yoongi 🥰

[writesvani]

say you remember | 02

idol!minyoongi x writer!reader

SUMMARY: You don’t expect much when your eyes meet his across the café-bar—just a fleeting glance, a moment that should mean nothing. But then there’s another look. And another. Before you know it, you’re tangled up in something that isn’t love, isn’t commitment—just an escape wrapped in late-night encounters and whispered goodbyes.

It’s fine. Until it isn’t.

When feelings start creeping in, you both decide to walk away before things get too complicated. It should have ended there. But fate has other plans. When your friend starts dating Jungkook—his best friend, his bandmate—you find yourself face to face with Yoongi once again.

The past lingers between you, heavy and unresolved. The question is—was it ever really over?

strangers-to-fwb-to-strangers-to-lovers

TRIGGER WARNINGS: jealousy, unresolved past relationships, awkward social interactions, emotional tension, flirtation, suppressed feelings, anxiety, unspoken love, betrayal, unrequited feelings, uncomfortable confrontation, smoking, drinking

comment here for to Say You Remember taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 7k // date: 15th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Drowning in the Silence Between Us; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hii guys. im so excited for this chapter, i LOVE it. it's so funny. like, i'm over here cackling like a mad person. it's honestly kinda self projecting but oh well, i'm embracing it. who needs boundaries when you're writing, right?

also, just to clear things up, y/n's book dear me is in no way connected with my jungkook fic dear me (imagine the drama if it was). it's just that i couldn’t think of a name for her book, so i just borrowed the name from one of my own fics. i promise i'm not secretly inserting my own universe into this. but yeah, dear me in this fic is y/n's book and it's all original with her own characters. okay, enjoy the chaos.

also, goal for this chapter is 250 notes. i am not lowering it this time. i fed you well with this one, 7k words after all, so if you want a new meal, y'all will have to work for it. get those notes in!

"Remind me again why we still don't know his name?" Chul asks, flatly, as he sets down three steaming mugs with the precision of a tired barista.

"Because it's still new," Aecha says, wrapping her hands around her cup. "And I want it to stay good before I jinx it by saying too much. You know how it goes—tell people, suddenly the whole thing collapses like a cheap tent."

You narrow your eyes, flicking ash off your cigarette with a pointed look. "People? Are we people to you now? Damn. And here I thought we made it past that stage."

Aecha just shrugs, a mischievous smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"It’s not just that, though," you go on, leaning forward. "It’s like you're actively enjoying this whole mystery-man act. Like you want us to suffer trying to figure out who he is."

"Maybe I do," she says, taking another sip. "You two make great detectives when you're desperate."

Chul groans, flopping onto the couch. "Great. So now we’re just a part of your little game."

"You’ve always been a part of my little game," she says with a wink.

"You see how little she thinks of us?" you say, shooting Chul a look of betrayal.

Chul nods with theatrical disappointment, letting out a long, dramatic sigh as he leans back in his chair. "Our own goddamn roommate. Best friend, even. And we’re apparently not worthy of a name."

"Ugh, it’s not like that," Aecha groans, setting her mug down with a soft clink. "It’s just… complicated, okay? You’ll understand when you meet him."

You raise an eyebrow. "Yeah? If we ever get to meet him. At this rate, you’ll be married with two kids before we even know his star sign."

"It would be nice to know who we’re meeting at least," Chul adds, more gently now. "Y’know, in case he’s a serial killer or a tax evader or something."

Aecha snorts. "He’s not a serial killer. Or a tax evader."

"That’s exactly what someone dating a serial killer would say," you deadpan, taking a slow drag of your cigarette.

"Oh, oh—wait. I have a theory," you say, tapping your fingers against the edge of the small wooden table. It’s sticky. "Ugh. Chul, seriously? Did you skip cleaning duty again?"

"Creative minds don't clean," Chul mumbles, unbothered.

You roll your eyes. "Anyway. Theory time. What if he's, like, a dealer? Or—wait—a vampire baby? Be honest, Aecha. Is your man an immortal bloodsucker with a side hustle in illegal substances? Because if so, I support you, I just need to emotionally prepare."

Aecha snorts into her coffee. "He is not a dealer. Or a vampire. God, what even is a vampire baby?"

"You know… baby-faced. Pale. Broody. Hangs out in corners. Likes antique furniture." You gesture vaguely, like you're describing a wine.

"Still no," Aecha says, but her smile slips just a little. "But I will say... he’s not exactly someone I can just go around telling people I’m dating."

You and Chul exchange glances.

"Jesus, who is he then?" Chul says, leaning forward with his chin on his hand. "C’mon, babe. All this secrecy is exhausting. You’re wearing us down like some kind of a psychological warfare expert."

Aecha just shrugs again, lips curving into that maddening, knowing smile. "Good things come to those who wait.”

"Aaand, c’mon, guys," Aecha sighs, blowing on her coffee before taking a small sip. "It’s not like I’m keeping you waiting forever. For fuck’s sake, you’ll be meeting him—and his closest friends—tonight."

Chul’s eyes narrow, a slow, wicked grin forming. Then, in a low, ominous whisper, he leans in toward you. "Imagine they’re a group of human traffickers... and Aecha’s just their charming recruiter."

You snort. "Okay, that’s a little too specific, Chul."

"I’m just saying," he continues, eyes wide with mock horror, "if I end up stuffed in a trunk or smuggled across borders, I want it on record that she brought me to this dinner."

"No, but seriously?" you add, more dramatic than necessary. "I’m telling my mother where I’m going. If I disappear, she will avenge me."

"God, you’re both insane," Aecha mutters, laughing into her cup.

"Insane but prepared," Chul says. "That’s how survivors think.”

The fact that Aecha won’t even tell you her boyfriend’s name is… mildly weird. Actually, scratch that—it’s very weird. She’s never been the secretive type. If anything, she’s the kind of person who gives you the full name, zodiac sign, and three red flags of any guy she’s crushing on—whether it's someone she matched with for five minutes or actually dated for five weeks.

So the silence now? The mystery? It’s not just out of character—it’s loud.

Whoever this guy is, he must matter. Like, really matter. Either that, or something about him makes things complicated. And that? That makes you uneasy.

The idea of Aecha dating an idol has crossed your mind more than once. And honestly, that would be a solid reason to keep things secret. It makes sense. It fits.

But you try not to go there. Because you know. You know how messy it gets when people get tangled up in that world—the kind of dynamic that drains you, strips your privacy, and leaves you more alone than you were to begin with. The pressure, the lies, the heartbreak that's practically guaranteed.

So you don’t think about it. Or at least you try not to. It's easier to joke about vampire boyfriends or underground crime syndicates than to face a possibility that actually makes sense. A possibility that could genuinely hurt her.

Especially with her job—working in the digital marketing team at SM Entertainment—she’s in it. Right there, in the orbit of fame and its gravitational mess. And the odds of her meeting someone who lives in that spotlight? High. Too high.

And that’s what makes it worse.

"Aight, I gotta bounce. My shift starts in 45 minutes and I actually wanna keep this job," Chul groans, tossing back the last sip of lukewarm coffee like it’s tequila.

He gets up, drags himself to the sink, and starts washing his cup with the enthusiasm of a man being held at gunpoint.

"Wow," you say, raising an eyebrow. "Look who finally discovered the kitchen sink."

"I’m only doing this so you don’t go full FBI on me about it later," he mutters.

"That’s called growth, baby."

"Okay, don’t forget dinner!" Aecha calls out as he wrestles with his shoelaces like they personally offended him. "8PM sharp. LaRoy’s. If you're late, I’m telling them you died."

"Relax," he grunts, halfway into his hoodie. "I’ll be there. But just so we’re clear—if this turns out to be some cult initiation dinner, I’m eating first, then running."

"That’s fair," you nod. "Die with a full stomach. Iconic."

"Also, if I get kidnapped, I’m haunting you both. And I’m not gonna be a chill ghost. I’ll whisper embarrassing shit during your Zoom calls."

"Joke’s on you, I already embarrass myself daily," you shrug. "You’d be background noise."

"Love the support, really. Bye, losers."

And with that, he’s gone—probably already mentally composing his resignation letter.

When Chul leaves, it’s just you and Aecha again.

She’s immediately back on her phone, nails tapping out soft clicks against the screen—the kind of ASMR sound that weirdly soothes your brain. She’s smiling. Small, but there. The kind of smile reserved for someone. Mystery Man.

You don’t poke at her this time. Instead, you open your laptop, skimming through the last chapter you wrote, wincing at some of your word choices like they personally betrayed you.

"What are you doing today?" Aecha asks without looking up, but you can tell she’s peeled her eyes away from the screen just enough to look at you.

You sigh. "Writing. Or dying. Depends how dramatic I feel in an hour. I have to finish at least one chapter today or else both my editor and publisher are going to show up at my funeral just to make sure I’m really dead."

"Damn," she laughs, "at least you're being emotionally tortured by something you love."

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter. "I do love it. I just hate the part where I have to prove I'm not a lazy roach every three days. But don’t worry, I’ll be there for dinner. There’s no way I’m missing the grand reveal of Mr. No-Name."

"Good," Aecha says, biting back a grin. "I’ll be with him today. He’s got the day off—those are basically unicorn sightings. I’ll get ready at his place."

You gape. "Wait, so I’m stuck getting ready with Chul? Girl, you know he’s gonna stand in the doorway and trash all my outfit options like he’s a one-man 'Project Runway' judge panel."

"Oh absolutely," Aecha says, nodding. "You should prepare a backup outfit he picks. Just for the chaos."

"He’d probably put me in Crocs and a poncho just to see me suffer."

"And you’d still serve."

You glance up from your laptop. "I would, wouldn’t I?”

"Of course you would," Aecha grins, all smug and mysterious.

And then? Silence. The kind where you’re both in your little bubbles—her giggling at her phone like it’s whispering sweet nothings, and you glaring at your laptop like it just slapped your mom.

You’re trying to write. You really are. But this one scene is being stubborn. No matter how many times you rewrite it, it still reads like garbage written by a sleep-deprived raccoon with WiFi.

Your eye twitches.

Then—RING RING.

"Shit, he’s here?!" Aecha yelps, launching off the couch like she just sat on a ghost. She’s grabbing her purse, her wallet, a random sock, possibly someone’s toothbrush—you’re not even sure anymore.

"Wait, where is here?" you ask, blinking through the chaos.

"Here-here! Like, downstairs-here! Picking-me-up-here!" she hisses, as she smacks on lipstick with the grace of someone who's clearly done this in moving vehicles before.

"Damn, thank god you’re chill about it," you say, watching the storm unfold.

"Shut up," she breathes, checking herself in the mirror like she’s about to accept an Oscar.

She turns to you, one shoe on, purse hanging half open, still looking criminally good. "Okay, I’m leaving. See you tonight, babe!"

"Byeeeeee," you sing, and wait exactly 2.4 seconds after the door shuts before sprinting to the window like you’re in a Netflix thriller.

Full. Detective. Mode.

If she won’t tell you who this guy is, you’re gonna Nancy Drew your way into the answer.

You peek through the blinds—subtle, of course. Very stealth. But all you see is a car.

A very nice car.

A sexy, blacked-out, borderline Batman-looking Mercedes G 63.

You whistle under your breath. “Sir, what do you do for a living? And can I do it too?”

The windows are tinted darker than your search history. There’s no way to see inside. Just Aecha getting in, flipping her hair like this is her life now and the rest of you peasants can stay pressed.

The car glides away like it’s floating on money.

You stand there, blinking, brain already spiraling. Rich? Idol? CEO? Cult leader with good branding?

You sigh and flop back down on the couch.

“Good for her,” you mumble. “Eat the rich. Or at least… ride in their cars and moisturize with their money.”

You spend the rest of your day in the most unproductive, soul-crushing spiral imaginable. The kind of spiral where you stare at your laptop for so long, the blinking cursor starts to feel like it’s mocking you. Blink. Blink. You suck. Blink.

You write half a sentence. Delete it. Write a new one. Delete that too. Open Instagram. Hate everyone. Go back to the doc. Stare at the same three words for twenty minutes.

Your brain is soup. Not even good soup. Like watery instant ramen you forgot to flavor.

At one point, you dramatically flop face-down onto the couch and heavily consider committing one of two crimes:

One: Emailing your editor a resignation letter that just says "goodbye forever."

Two: Getting blackout drunk and letting the creative spirits possess you.

Option two is dangerously tempting. Tequila does make you poetic. But… you’re going to a dinner tonight. With Aecha’s mystery man and his friends. The man who drives a car that probably costs more than your organs combined.

You want to be sober. Observant. Ready to judge.

Because listen—if the man owns a Mercedes G 63, you know he’s dropping at least a couple hundred on wine tonight. You refuse to let his overpriced bottle taste like grape vinegar just because you had a solo pity party before dinner.

So you wait. Like a sad wife staring out the window for her husband at war. Except the war is Chul’s corporate shift and the husband is your emotional stability.

“Where the hell is he…” you mutter, tapping your pen against your notebook.

You have no idea what you’re wearing tonight. You have no mental energy to figure it out. You need Chul. You need his critiques, his sighs of disappointment, his dramatic gasp when you suggest wearing sneakers.

God help you if he comes home late. Or worse—if he says he’s too tired to help.

You might genuinely cry.

When the door finally creaks open, you let out a sigh of dramatic relief, like a damsel rescued from a burning building.

“I’m baaack!” Chul calls, dragging out the vowels. You hear the familiar thud of shoes being kicked off and keys clattering into the bowl by the door before he saunters into the living room like he owns the place—which, okay, partially, he does.

He takes one look at you, curled up on the couch like a cryptid, laptop half-slid down your lap, face twisted in literary despair.

“You writing?” he asks, already suspicious.

“Trying to,” you mumble, eyes still glued to the cursed blinking cursor.

He squints at you. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Not at all.”

He flops down beside you with a grunt, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it like it personally owes him money.

“Is it like… ‘I can’t write because I’m empty inside’ trying? Or ‘I can’t write because I accidentally stalked Aecha’s mystery man via car model and now my brain is fried’ trying?”

You blink at him.

“Both.”

“Knew it. You’re a menace.”

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “He drives a G 63, Chul. What kind of a man does that? What kind of bank account does that?”

Chul gasps. “A dangerous one. Probably moisturizes with La Mer and screams at assistants named Greg.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, processing the sheer luxury of the situation.

“…We have to look hot tonight.” you mutter.

Chul tosses the pillow aside like it’s a grenade. “I’ll get the steamer.”

The next two hours turn into a full-blown getting ready montage, complete with outfit changes, near-death experiences with the eyelash curler, and Chul nearly setting the apartment on fire trying to steam his shirt.

By the time you’re done, you look like a Pinterest board brought to life. Your makeup is peak clean girl aesthetic—dewy skin, fluffy brows, and just the right amount of highlighter to make it look like you're always basking in golden hour. Your hair is curled to soft, effortless perfection (even though it took 45 minutes and one minor burn), and your white, off-shoulder dress hugs your body like it was custom-made for night.

Chul, on the other hand, looks like he walked straight out of a K-drama. He’s wearing these dangerously good khaki dress pants that somehow make his legs look ten feet long, and a white button-up that he very intentionally left two buttons undone. It’s giving “CEO with a tragic past”, and honestly? If he wasn’t so aggressively gay, you'd have jumped him in the hallway by now.

“Do I look hot?” he asks, spinning slowly.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Tragic,” he sighs, spritzing himself with cologne like he’s about to go on a date with destiny.

The ride to the restaurant is weirdly silent. You and Chul keep exchanging glances like you’re in a horror movie where the monster is definitely hiding in plain sight. Both of you are too nervous to say anything out loud, like the car itself might snitch to Aecha.

When you finally step inside LaRoy’s, the first thing that hits you is how insanely gorgeous the place is. It’s giving Michelin star meets royalty on vacation. Golden chandeliers, velvet chairs, waiters with actual white gloves. You’re about to comment on it when—

“Wait... where is everyone?” Chul whispers.

And yeah. That’s when it hits you. The place is completely empty. Not a single other customer in sight. Just you, Chul, and an unsettling level of ambiance.

Chul and you exchange the we’re-definitely-about-to-die look.

Then, a pristine-looking hostess materializes out of nowhere like she was programmed to show up at maximum tension.

“Chul and Y/N?”

You both answer in unison, way too synchronized for comfort:

“Yes.”

“Right this way.”

You follow her through the overly quiet restaurant like you’re walking toward your own funeral. You glance at Chul, who is now casually patting down his hair and silently mouthing, ‘We’re so screwed’.

And then—you see her.

Aecha. Sitting at a massive round table like she owns the damn place. She’s already mid-laugh when she spots you two, and her smile somehow manages to get bigger. Like she's been waiting for this exact moment of dramatic entrance.

You don’t know if you should wave or run. Probably both.

And then you see the hand.

That hand—casually draped over Aecha’s shoulder, a silent claim.

You already know where this is going, but it doesn’t stop the twist in your stomach when you finally see who’s sitting next to her.

Jeon Jungkook.

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you freeze. You don’t even care about the fact that he’s ridiculously good-looking, or how the room feels like it’s just a bit too bright. No. What hits you like a freight train is that if he’s here...

Yoongi is, too.

Fuck.

You don’t even need to look around the table to know. The feeling crawls up your spine like a warning signal, one that you’ve tried to ignore for years, but here it is, loud and unavoidable. The tightness in your chest. The pulse of nausea that makes you want to choke on your own breath.

You can’t look at Jungkook. You can’t.

Because if you do, the truth slaps you right across the face, and it’s one you’ve been running from. Jungkook is just a mess of questions you don’t care to have answered. But Yoongi? Yoongi’s the reason your heart beats too fast, why you’re still tangled in memories you should have let go of.

And then you see him.

Jesus.

The way his eyes land on you is like it’s been years since you last saw each other—and honestly, that's the truth. Two years. Two years passed. The ache that pulls at your ribs, the rawness that floods you, is something you thought had faded into oblivion. You thought you were over it.

But it’s never that easy, is it?

Chul notices immediately, the shift in your expression, the way your posture changes, rigid as though you’ve been frozen by some invisible force. His hand rests on your arm gently, a silent question. But what can you say? What can you explain without laying it all bare in front of people who have no idea about your history with him?

And you know it’s not just the fact that Yoongi is here—it’s that feeling. That damn ache that never really goes away. The past flooding back to suffocate you in this room full of people who have no clue what’s going on in your head.

You can’t breathe.

You’re not ready for this. You weren’t ready to see him again. Not like this. Not with Chul looking at you like he’s wondering if you’re okay.

But Yoongi? Yoongi’s eyes stay locked on yours. No words. No movement. Just that look. The one that says everything, even though it says nothing at all.

It’s like he’s still inside you. Like nothing has changed. You’re right back there, a thousand moments too many.

And it hits you—the final realization that this dinner isn’t just awkward. It’s a damn reminder of all the unfinished business you wish you could bury.

You’ve never felt so out of control.

“Oh my God, hi guys,” Aecha stands up with that familiar sparkle in her eye, wrapping you in a hug that feels tighter than usual. You hug her back, but your hands are clammy, your heart heavy in your chest. The warmth in her smile is real—but you can’t match it right now. Not with everything pressing down on you.

You force a breath as your gaze flickers over the table. You skip him. You skip Yoongi. On purpose.

Your hand finds the hem of your dress, discreetly wiping off the sweat as you steel yourself to be polite. Presentable. Normal.

Jungkook stands to greet you, that signature sweetness etched into every corner of his face. “Hey, I’m Jungkook,” he says, extending his hand. He doesn’t know. You see it immediately. There’s no recognition of your history—only curiosity, maybe a spark of interest, but nothing more.

You shake his hand, offering a small smile. “Nice to meet you.” Chul introduces himself too, and Jungkook lights up, immediately vibing with him, which helps, a little. The rest of the guys are friendly, laid-back. They smile, say their names, nod politely. It should feel normal.

But then.

He stands.

And everything slows.

“Min Yoongi,” he says evenly, his tone smooth and familiar in the worst way. He extends his hand, and for a moment you freeze. You think about ignoring it. About pretending. But that would draw too much attention—especially with Aecha watching so closely.

So you take it.

Your name slips from your mouth like it doesn’t belong to you. Like it’s a line from a script you’ve forgotten how to feel.

His skin is warm. You wish it wasn’t.

It lasts no more than a second. But when you sit down, your whole body feels altered.

Chul’s next, his handshake with Yoongi stiffer, his eyes avoiding yours. You don’t need to ask to know—he’s silently panicking. He knows everything. And you’re both trying to act like nothing happened, like Yoongi and you didn’t ruin each other once and then vanish from each other's worlds.

Namjoon watches. Quietly. Sharp eyes missing nothing.

You wonder if Yoongi gave him the full truth. Or just enough to keep him quiet.

Either way—this dinner is going to suck.

You settle into your chairs, side by side like you're bracing for impact. On your right sits Kim Taehyung, draped in luxury like it's a second skin, sipping water like it's champagne. On Chul’s left, Yoongi is already sprawled in his chair, legs stretched out like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Honestly? Mood.

You flick your eyes at Chul. He looks like he’s debating whether to throw up or chug the complimentary sparkling water. No in-between.

“Sooo,” Chul finally speaks, voice artificially light. “Give us the story of how you two met. Like okay, you’re dating him,” he points a thumb at Jungkook, “but you work for SM, not HYBE.”

Aecha beams, clearly ready for this part. “It was during a promotional event the guys were at. I was there handling digital strategy for EXO, and Jungkook was invited as a guest and—”

“She was holding an iPad like it was a weapon,” Jungkook cuts in with a laugh, eyes crinkling. “I was just trying to ask where the restrooms were, and she looked at me like I was trying to hack the mainframe.”

“I did,” Aecha says dramatically. “He walked up all shy like, ‘Excuse me—’ and I was like, ‘Do not distract me, I’m in the middle of an algorithmic miracle.’”

“Which turned out to be a TikTok schedule,” Jungkook deadpans.

“Hey. That TikTok trended for three days. I saved Baekhyun’s brand.”

They’re laughing. Everyone at the table joins in. Except you.

And Yoongi.

Taehyung leans a little closer, eyes twinkling. “So what about you two?” he asks innocently, gesturing between you and Chul.

“We’re not together,” you and Chul say in perfect sync, too quickly, like soldiers trained for battle.

“Oh,” Taehyung blinks. “I mean—okay.”

“Yeah,” Chul coughs, “I’m very gay and she’s very… emotionally unavailable.”

“Thanks for that,” you mutter, shooting him a glare.

“What? You are.”

“Okay but you once cried because the guy you liked didn’t like The 1975.”

“Because he had no taste,” Chul hisses back.

Namjoon snorts into his glass. Yoongi remains silent. You can feel him, though—his presence heavier than anything on the menu. He hasn’t looked at you once. Not since the handshake. But you know he’s listening. You know.

Aecha smiles brightly. “Isn’t this nice? Everyone vibing already!”

You glance at her, then at Yoongi’s shoulder half a meter away from yours. You're practically inhaling the same air and pretending he’s a stranger.

Yeah.

Nice.

Totally vibing.

“So,” Aecha starts, swirling her wine like she didn’t just drop a social grenade, “What’s everyone getting? The truffle risotto is apparently divine.”

You reach for the menu like it might shield you from the tension building beside you. Yoongi still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you. It’s like sitting next to a ghost you used to let touch you.

Chul nudges your knee under the table. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s silently asking if you’re okay. You’re not. But you nod anyway.

“I’ll probably get the steak,” Jungkook says. “Haven’t eaten properly all day.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Taehyung mutters. “You only drink iced americanos and chew gum like it’s a food group.”

“I’m a busy man.”

“You’re chronically late.”

“Still busy.”

Yoongi finally speaks. “Get the steak rare,” he mutters without looking up, “They overcook everything past medium.”

His voice. It slashes through the air like a knife dipped in nostalgia and regret. You freeze for half a second. Just half. But Chul notices.

“Ohhh, steak boy speaks,” Taehyung says dramatically.

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Just drinks his water.

“So, Yoongi,” Aecha smiles, “still working on that solo album?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“How’s it going?” she asks sweetly.

“Like a root canal. But with synths.”

The table laughs. You don’t. You remember what he sounds like at 3am talking about chord progressions and bridges like they’re living things. You remember that look in his eyes when he finished a song and asked you to listen first. You remember a version of him that smiled at you across a messy bed, not across a dinner table full of other people.

You sip your wine. You need something stronger.

Namjoon clears his throat. “So, Y/N,” he says, forcing a new topic, “Aecha said you’re a writer?”

You blink. “Uh, yeah. I write romance.”

“Like… smut?”

Taehyung leans in, curious. Too curious.

Chul coughs loudly. “Not just smut.”

“I mean… a little smut,” you admit, shrugging, because what else are you gonna do? Lie?

“That’s dope,” Jungkook grins, nodding. “That takes guts.”

Yoongi still doesn’t say anything.

“I read one of her books once,” Chul announces, like he’s proud. “Couldn’t look her in the eye for a week.”

“Because you read the scene,” you mutter.

“Oh, you know I read the scene.”

“Wait,” Taehyung interrupts, eyes wide. “Do you base your characters on real people?”

You open your mouth to answer, but before anything leaves your lips, Yoongi suddenly stands.

“I’m gonna smoke,” he mutters, already walking away before anyone can respond.

Silence follows in his wake. Chul clears his throat.

“I’d say he’s always like that but… he’s not.” Jimin sighs into his wine.

You stab at your salad like it insulted your lineage.

And Aecha, bless her clueless soul, just smiles and says, “Maybe I will get that risotto.”

When Yoongi comes back, the conversation is already flowing. The wine’s been poured (maybe a little too generously), the bread basket is on its second refill, and you’re three laughs deep into a story with Jin and Taehyung.

You didn’t dare follow him outside. Nope. Not a chance. You weren’t about to chase a ghost into the night like it’s some 2014 Tumblr breakup playlist.

So you stayed, committed to the bit, committed to pretending your past isn’t three chairs away and brooding in black. Well he was smoking outside. But you get the point.

And now? You’re vibing.

“Wait, you’re telling me you were the one who wrote Dear Me?” Taehyung says, eyes wide like you just told him you invented bread.

You nod, sipping your wine like it’s a mic drop.

“That would be me.”

“NO.” His jaw is dropped. “No no no. That book ruined my entire week. I didn't leave my room. I didn't eat.”

Jin leans forward dramatically. “I read that one. I didn’t come out of my room for three days after that. Why is it so fucking sad?”

You grin. “It’s called talent. Look it up.”

Jin places a hand over his heart like you stabbed him. “Do you thrive on making your readers cry?”

“I mean…” You shrug. “A little. It’s character development. For you, not the characters.”

“Twisted,” Taehyung mumbles. “You need therapy.”

“And yet here you are, emotionally wrecked and asking for more.”

“You’re dangerous,” Jin points at you. “You’re like one of those hot witches in fantasy novels who curse people with heartbreak and then look hot doing it.”

You raise your glass. “Cheers.”

That’s when you feel it—him.

Yoongi slides back into his chair, and even though you don’t look at him, you know. You know from the slight shift in the table. The way the energy dips by ten degrees. The way Chul subtly straightens up like he might have to go full bodyguard in two seconds.

“So,” Namjoon says, like he’s stepping between a lit fuse and a barrel of gunpowder, “Yoongi, did you smoke the entire pack or just half?”

“Depends,” Yoongi replies flatly. “Did the conversation get better while I was gone?”

“Oh,” Jin grins, “way better. She wrote Dear Me.”

Yoongi stills. You don’t look at him. But you hear it in the pause. The inhale. The weight of a book title that he knows isn’t fiction.

“That book,” Jin continues, oblivious, “is basically emotional waterboarding.”

Yoongi takes a slow sip of his drink. “Sounds familiar.”

Your hand tightens around your glass. So we’re doing this. We’re being subtle.

“It’s fiction,” you say brightly. “Totally made up. Not a single shred of truth in it.”

Yoongi finally glances at you, eyes sharp. “Right. Fiction.”

Taehyung, bless his heart, frowns. “Wait. Is this about that scene with the voicemail? ‘Cause that—”

Chul loudly coughs and drops his fork.

“Anyway,” he says, “Jungkook, how’s your dog?”

Jungkook blinks. “Uhh… he’s good?”

“Great. Cool. Let’s talk more about that.”

The table dissolves into messy conversation again, everyone just a little too loud, a little too animated. You finally risk a glance at Yoongi. He’s looking at you, of course.

And beneath the casual disinterest, his eyes say it loud and clear:

You really thought I wouldn’t recognize myself in your pages?

You take another sip of wine and look away.

You were the one who told me to write what I know.

“Sooo,” Taehyung sings, one eyebrow cocked and eyes glittering as they dart to you. His voice alone is dangerous—smooth and teasing, the kind that could talk you into trouble without breaking a sweat. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You pause mid-sip, arching a brow. “Umm, I’m pretty sure Chul already mentioned my emotional unavailability.”

Across the table, Chul snorts. “That’s an understatement.”

“Maybe,” Taehyung leans in a little, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm, “we can work on that one.”

You blink. “What, my issues?”

“No,” he grins, wolfish and playful. “Your availability.”

Hoseok doesn’t look up from cutting his steak, but his fork slows. “Taehyung.”

“What?” Taehyung says innocently, eyes still trained on you. “We’re just talking. I’m curious. I like to connect with people.”

“Yeah, well maybe let her breathe before you start undressing her with your eyes,” Jimin mutters, sipping his wine.

“Oh please,” you roll your eyes, “let him. I put effort into this dress.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung points at you. “You wore it for a reason, don’t lie.”

You lean back, smirking. “I wore it for the free wine, actually.”

Yoongi mutters under his breath, “Still desperate for the buzz, huh?”

You don’t even look at him. “Still pretending like you’re too good for anything fun, huh?”

There’s a pause. A weird pause.

And then Jungkook narrows his eyes between the two of you. “Wait. Hold on. You two know each other?”

Namjoon’s knife slips and scrapes against his plate with a loud screech. Chul straight up drops his fork.

You blink slowly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Define know.”

“I knew it,” Taehyung leans forward, eyes wide with delight.

“No, no, no, it’s not like that,” Chul jumps in, hands raised like he’s waving off a scandal. “They… uh, they were in a workshop together.”

You shoot him a look. A “really?” kind of look.

Namjoon nods way too fast. “Yeah. Yeah! Like two years ago. They had a, uh… poetry workshop?”

“Poetry?” Jin asks, clearly unconvinced. “Yoongi?”

Yoongi just stares blankly at the table like he’s counting down the seconds till he can leave.

“Yep,” Namjoon barrels forward. “Modern poetry. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 8 a.m. Real intense syllabus.”

“Exactly,” Chul laughs awkwardly. “Like, Emily Dickinson, Rupi Kaur… very deep.”

“I dropped out after three weeks,” Yoongi says flatly.

“Oh,” Jungkook says, squinting at him, then at you. “And you stayed in?”

You nod, cheeks warm. “Loved every second of it.”

Taehyung’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, sure. What was your favorite poem?”

You deadpan, “The one about heartbreak and regret.”

Yoongi mutters under his breath, “Original.”

You snap back, “At least I read something.”

Chul loudly clears his throat. “So, um, wine! Should we order another bottle?”

Namjoon nearly slams his glass down. “Yes. Definitely. Someone flag a waiter.”

Taehyung hums, still eyeing you like he’s crafting a sonnet in his head. “Tell you what—if we survive this night, I’m taking you out. No emotional unavailability allowed.”

You raise a brow. “And what if I ghost you after?”

He smirks. “Then I’ll write a sad poem and hope it gets published. Sound familiar?”

Jimin jumps in, glancing at Chul. “So what is going on with you two, huh?”

“We’re roommates,” Chul replies, deadpan.

“Roommates who get ready together for dinner like it’s prom night?” Yoongi mutters, not even looking up from his glass.

“Dude. I already said—I’m into men. I like penises. Hope this helps.”

The entire table erupts.

Taehyung nearly falls out of his chair laughing. Jin bangs the table. Namjoon mutters, “I needed that level of honesty today.”

Jungkook wheezes, “I’m framing that quote.”

Meanwhile, you're crying from laughter and embarrassment, hiding your face in your hands. “God, Chul, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m just tired of being confused for your boyfriend when I’m actively fantasizing about Park Seojoon,” Chul fires back.

Jimin, without even looking up from his plate, goes, “Honestly, mood.”

Jin wipes a tear from his eye. “Okay, fair. Penises. Got it.”

Taehyung raises his glass toward Chul. “To penises.”

Everyone clinks their glasses—except you, still dying inside.

“So,” Namjoon says, pointing his chopsticks at you like they’re a lie detector, “are you working on something new?”

You freeze mid-sip of your wine. “Uhh… kinda yeah.”

“Okay, so that’s a yes, but it’s going terribly,” Jin interprets, nodding sagely.

You sigh, dramatically collapsing back in your chair. “It’s like… my brain is a hamster wheel. Except the hamster died. And now the wheel is just creaking ominously in the wind.”

Taehyung gasps. “That’s so dark. I love it. Can I be the dead hamster?”

“Please,” you deadpan, “be my guest.”

Namjoon chuckles. “So it’s writer’s block?”

“Big time. Like, I’ve stared at a blank document for so long, I think it’s starting to stare back.”

Chul chimes in, “I found her today whispering ‘just one sentence’ to her laptop like it owed her money.”

“It does owe me money,” you say, poking at your food. “And dignity.”

Aecha grins. “Have you tried turning it off and crying?”

Yoongi mutters, “That’s my approach to life, honestly.”

“Oh my god, same,” you say, raising your glass toward him.

Taehyung, ever the opportunist, leans in with a flirty glint in his eye. “Maybe you just need some fresh inspiration.”

You raise a brow. “Are you volunteering?”

“I mean…” he shrugs, smirking. “I do look good in tragic love stories.”

“Tragic is right,” Yoongi mumbles under his breath.

Namjoon laughs. “Okay, okay—can we please get a live reading if she ever finishes it?”

You scoff. “Only if you promise not to cry.”

“I make no such promises,” Namjoon says, holding up his hands. “According to Tae and Jin, you write pain too well.”

Taehyung leans in again, this time resting his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “I’m serious. Write something hopeful. Like a tortured writer meets a charming stranger in a too-fancy restaurant. Sparks fly. Banter ensues. Maybe a little—” he pauses, eyes flickering to your lips, “—tension.”

You chuckle, but you feel the heat creep up your neck. “What are you trying to do, cast yourself as the love interest?”

Jin jumps in, laughing. “Please, the man’s been auditioning since the appetizers.”

“Can you blame me?” Taehyung says dramatically. “She’s hot, she’s funny, and she writes angst that emotionally ruins people. I’m practically in love already.”

Yoongi’s fork clinks a little too hard against his plate.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, sensing the shift. “You okay, hyung?”

Yoongi shrugs, not looking up. “Just didn’t realize we were casting for a romcom tonight.”

“You wanna audition too?” Jin grins. “Could be a love triangle.”

“I don’t do love triangles,” Yoongi mutters, swirling his drink. “Too messy.”

Chul snorts. “Says the guy who practically invented emotional mess but ‘make it music’.”

You glance at him, curious, but Yoongi doesn’t take the bait. Instead, his eyes flicker up and lock with yours for a split second—just long enough for your breath to catch.

Taehyung doesn’t miss it, and he grins wider, leaning closer to you. “Well, if it were a love triangle, I’d fight dirty.”

“Oh my god,” Chul groans. “This is officially a Wattpad fic now.”

“Shut up,” you say, biting your lip to hold back a smile.

Taehyung winks. “I’ll be waiting for my cameo in chapter five.”

Aecha leans forward, swirling her wine lazily. “Yoongi, didn’t you say you’ve been dealing with a block too?”

Yoongi gives a slow nod, jaw ticking slightly. “Yeah. It’s been rough. But, you know… it comes with the territory. It’s part of the process, unfortunately.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raising slightly as he continues.

“I’m not really in a rush, though. The next album isn’t coming out until next year anyway. D-Day’s still pretty fresh. Still got some breathing room.”

Aecha perks up instantly. “Oh my God, D-Day! We were obsessed. The three of us actually had a whole listening party when it dropped. Like, wine, snacks, full breakdowns of lyrics... tears.”

“Mostly Chul’s tears,” you chime in, smirking.

“I stand by them,” Chul says dramatically. “'Amygdala' had me pacing the hallway like a divorced man in a drama.”

Yoongi chuckles, soft and genuine. “Happy to hear D-Day landed.”

“And by ‘landed,’ he means it sucker-punched us in the gut and left us on the floor,” you mutter.

“Good,” Yoongi says, a tiny smirk playing at his lips. “That’s the goal.”

For a second, his eyes flick to yours. And something lingers there—quiet, unspoken, and just slightly bruised.

You don’t look away. Not yet.

“We actually went to the concert too,” Aecha says, casually lifting her wine glass.

Jungkook gasps, clutching his chest like she just betrayed him. “You didn’t tell me about this? You attended my hyung’s concert without me?”

“You didn’t even know me back then, Kook,” Aecha laughs, nudging his shoulder. “It was, like, peak fangirl era.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You were there?” he asks, looking at all three of you—but his gaze lands and lingers on you.

Your stomach flips. “Yeah, we were,” you say, carefully meeting his eyes. “It was… incredible.”

His expression softens, just a little. “Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

“We cried,” Chul announces dramatically, raising a hand. “Like, real tears. Especially her.” He jerks his thumb toward you.

You shoot him a look. “Chul, please.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, grinning. “Some of us may or may not have said ‘he’s a genius’ in the middle of the second chorus.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch, that almost-smile threatening to show itself again. “Good to know I had such a poetic impact.”

You smile faintly, and something about the way he looks at you—like he's trying to read a secret you never meant to share—makes your throat tighten just a little.

Yoongi takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes still on you, like he’s trying to decide if he should say something or let the silence speak instead. He goes with the second option—until Taehyung interrupts.

“So, Y/N,” Taehyung leans in, smirking, “did you fall in love with him before or after People Pt.2?”

You snort. “Definitely after. Before that, he was still hiding behind metaphors.”

Yoongi’s mouth quirks. “You think I hide behind metaphors?”

You glance at him, heartbeat hitching just slightly. “You live behind metaphors.”

A beat of silence passes. His eyes don’t leave yours. “And yet you still showed up.”

You want to roll your eyes, but it’s too sincere to dismiss. “Yeah, well… good lyrics deserve to be heard. Doesn’t mean I know the man behind them.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Maybe you did.”

taglist: @park-littlecrane @gyozajoon @knjs95s @jajabro @peacenpigeons @supertopsecretleebit @glossyfanfic @mar-lo-pap @kittyyyminnn @jennierubyjem @ot72025 @yohoosoju @diame93 @ryryvna @taekritimin123 @baechugff @enfppuff @amarawayne @134340-kr @mikrokookiex @futuristicenemychaos @shesscorpio7 @kam9404 @teaaaaaan @blubird592 @rpwprpwprpwprw @ktownshizzle @tea4sykes @jennierubyjem @butterfly-lover @jellihueni @xtracy-xd7 @annyeongbitch7 @rkivved-girl @mygtangerine @busanbby-jk @jennierubyjem @kiki-zb @marissariveraaaa

[kiki-zb]

Trying to get this bad boy to 250 notes so we get an update! Please read!! 😊

[werezmastarbucks]

flowers over boys masterlist

Agust D!yoongi x f!army!reader slowburn, friends!bts x f!reader

summary: time and space travelling is hectic, fun and very often dangerous as you never know where you'll end up. it only gets more complicated (sometimes boring) because the only way to return to your timeline from an alien dimension is to die. this time you end up in Joseon, where king Min doesn't really appreciate your 21st century habits.

tags/warnings: time/space travel, isekai, reader is an army, bts Joseon AU, agust d, all bts are there, dark!Hoseok, inequality, humor, violence, hierarchical society, reader takes up work as a gardener, unserious reader, almost invincible reader - i was writing it for pure fun; everybody is a little sexist and classist because it's duh Joseon. not historically accurate, the reader almost literally ends up in the Daechwita music video. i was writing it to unload the stress of spring so. if it gets ridiculous, that was the design. unfinished for now, idk when i will complete it lol

music: made this playlist for another story i never wrote, but if it fits i sits

tangerine

black pines

pomegranates

bad seed

peaches

plucking of poison weeds

bloom

oriental lily

papaya

stuck on a tree

i am running out of plant themed titles

horseradish behaviour

warm shade of the crown

oilve branch

saplings

bamboo

broken bark

last straw

...

[kiki-zb]

Love this so much I had to share!

[petaltexturedskies]

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

[hollyhomburg]

Bts as Moo Deng

Yoo Deng

Hope Deng

Jim Deng

Koo deng

Moo teng

Joo Deng

Seok deng

[magicshop]

when will he start paying rent? 😔

[kithtaehyung]

now you get to cry with everyone in theatres!!