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[kpopfanfictrash]

Until Death (M)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Creative Contributor:@baebae-goodnight​ for this unbelievable moodboard truly, like, WHAT

Genre: Green Bone Saga!AU || Organized Crime / Forbidden Romance / Suspense + Action

Author’s Note: This one shot is set in the Green Bone Saga universe, written by Fonda Lee. You do not need to have read this series in order to read this one shot (I explain concepts/terms), but I do HIGHLY encourage you to read this series at some point because it’s absolutely amazing!! Anyways, Yoongi dropped the Haegeum MV and I was like…. did he read Jade City lol. Further disclaimer this is not a retelling of the books, nor does the Kaul family exist in this version of Kekon (although the No Peak clan does)

Pairing: Yoongi / Reader

Synopsis: Jade has always shaped the island of Kekon. Mined from the mountains, it enhances the abilities of Green Bone warriors who wear it and allows them protection from outside harm. No one understands these threats better than you do, second-in-command of the mighty No Peak clan. 

When a new danger appears, seeming to come from within, everything you once took for granted is called into question. Including the bonds you’ve made, some more dangerous than the others. None more so than Min Yoongi, head of No Peak and the only one capable of destroying your heart.    

Rating: 18+

Warnings: graphic violence, fight scenes and mature content (character dies in the story; not main character) 

NSFW Warnings: dirty talk, nipple play, fingering, spanking, oral (female), multiple orgasms, possessiveness, unprotected sex (couple is monogamous), spit, hand job

Word Count: 17,650

[ Cross-posted to Wattpad here ]

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[joonbird]

Breakfast in Bed

➭ “Min Yoongi, a grumpy Ikea employee, is wondering who you are and why exactly you’re sleeping in the display bed at his Ikea.”

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: ikea employee!au, smut, fluff, semi crack/humour

wordcount: 12k

❀ 2 / 8 of my oneshot requests ❀

**Warnings: Breathplay & cumplay. Heavy usage of Ikea puns. OT7 are in this as very AU Ikea!employee versions of themselves. Also, this fic is definitely not an accurate depiction of what working at Ikea is like. I’m sure irl they work very hard and don’t have wild sex on the beds.

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[floralseokjin]

;burn in hell (she said) (m)

Hoseok’s taste is singular. That is his sexual taste. Singular only for humans. Being the lord of the underworld (his title… Seokjin wouldn’t be so happy), means his needs get taken care of instantly. Humans litter the place, soulless and trapped there for eternity. But then you rock up, in all your demoness glory (no title needed), and suddenly he wants a taste of his own medicine. Devil meets devil. Only you don’t fall to your knees so willingly…

pairing | jung hoseok x reader genre/warnings | devil au, devil! hoseok (my sweet 666 hoseok), devil! reader, e2l, but more like enemies to lovers for a split sec to now can tolerate one another…unless…, his point of view (it’s been a while), smut; rough sex, dirty talk, some use of derogatory terms, oral, ass stuff, spitting, breath play, impregnation kink, yoongi from my sweet 666 also shows up (not during the sex lol) words | 19,566

listen to | tear you apart (she wants revenge)

⤑ read over on ao3 here

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[anotherbtswriter]

Best Served Cold | Yoongi | Part I

pairing: Yoongi x afab!reader

au: mafia!au, arranged marriage!au, Yoongi is at the bottom of the organization just trying to stay alive when the story starts.

tags: SLOW BURN, eventual violence, eventual hurt/comfort, eventual smut, reformed bad boy Yoongi, he is lethal in this fic - literally, and he has neck tattoos. Reader is self conscious about her looks, so that gets mentioned occasionally, but is not a focus of the fic. (She works through it by the end.) (Part I does include a knife fight and mentions stitching a wound.)

words: 9k

a/n: Part I originally appeared on my old blog, but it's been heavily edited since then. Parts II and III are drafted. They just need to be edited.

Part I, Part II, Part III

___

Yoongi shields his eyes from the flames. Smoke coats his throat, and he pants for breath. As he lies on the wet pavement, he realizes that this Molotov cocktail, this cheap-ass, dime-store intimidation tactic currently burning through his club, is a plan to intimidate him. First, he was annoyed. Now he’s pissed. 

x

x

x

“Boss,” Jungkook calls. “Where are you?”

“In the alley.” Yoongi’s voice is harsh. He hacks until his throat burns. 

“Namjoon said there might be trouble.” Jungkook shakes his head even as he helps his friend to his feet.

“Thanks, Jungkook, that’s really fucking helpful.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

“I know you’re right, but I could just use a little time before the ‘I told you so.’”

Jungkook shrugs. 

Always helpful, that kid.

“You think Namjoon will front you anymore money?”

Always fucking helpful.

“No, I don’t.”

The midlevel boss is struggling to maintain this territory for Kim Seokjin. Seokjin is so far above Yoongi, he isn’t sure he can pick the man out of a crowd. He’s never even met him. 

This waterfront location, the small inroads into the neighboring gang’s territory, is far, far, beneath the boss’s notice. Namjoon barely pays attention to Yoongi, and he pays the man a generous cut. Not enough to pay off Yoongi’s debt with the interest Namjoon charges, but generous, nonetheless. Namjoon is making a name for himself, and Yoongi knows that his small establishment isn’t a priority for someone with the other man’s ambition. The Min family still means something to Namjoon, though. It burns Yoongi hotter than his establishment currently going up in flames that his father’s name got him this squandered opportunity.

Firetruck sirens ring out in the distance. At least he won’t have to worry about the fire spreading beyond his own building. 

“This is a dumb question…” Jungkook says. “But do you have insurance?”

“That is a dumb question.”

“Still?”

“No, I don’t have insurance.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Yoongi sure as fuck isn’t about to concede this little turf war to Lee’s gang. This shitty waterfront location, a small establishment where he planned to run some card games, make some money, is as ambitious as he gets these days, but he isn’t ready to let it go. He also isn’t ready to pay his debt to Namjoon in blood. Yoongi pulled himself up from less than nothing to this pathetic showing, but it’s still worth more to him than his life.

“Yoongi, what the fuck are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make a deal with the devil, Jungkook.”

&&&

You shut your laptop the moment your older sister calls your name. There are no secrets in your family. At least, none that aren’t so carefully guarded as to be entombed like a mummy. 

The bedroom door bursts open. 

“It’s true, our cousin confirmed it,” your sister announces. She glances at your desk. “You’re studying? Again?

“Yes,” you say, unable to think of a lie.

“You need a boyfriend.” She flounces on your bed. “Aren’t you even curious who I’m going to marry?”

Honestly, you can’t believe marriage contracts are still a thing, but she finds them romantic. You look out over the circular driveway and manicured lawn lining the entrance before giving way to the twenty-four-hour manned gate. Marriages contracts are nothing more than a way to keep this wealth among certain families. 

You shiver, glad to you know you’ll never be sacrificed in that way. 

“I can’t believe how long father made me wait,” she says. “You’ll be next.”

“Father won’t marry me off.”

It isn’t for nothing that everyone considered the girls to be evenly divided, one with the looks and the other the brains. You don’t begrudge your sister her beauty, but you long ago stopped wondering when your awkward phase would end.

“Please don’t talk about yourself that way.”

The front door slams. 

“Where are they?” your father asks, voice booming.

You hear footsteps, and you grin at each other. As much as you hate the convention, you’re happy for your sister. She looks forward to marriage even more than the other women of your position. It means her own household, a generous allowance, and a ring on her finger that will announce to everyone that she is taken, and not just by anyone, but someone who can afford such an impressive stone. No way your father would marry your sister to someone who can’t afford to keep her. Appearances must be maintained.

“Girls, I have some exciting news,” your father announces, entering the room. “As I’m sure you’ve already heard—your mother can’t keep a thought in her head without sharing it—the marriage contract is finalized.”

“Who is it?” your sister asks.

“Min Yoongi.”

“Who?” she asks. The name means nothing to either of you, and you had pressed your mother for a list of possible bridegrooms.

“His family isn’t much anymore, but the dowry prevented any hesitations.”

“You will not make me marry some man I’ve never heard of before!” your sister protests.

“Damn right I won’t.” Your father turns to face you. “She’s marrying him.”

He’s pointing at you.

&&&

You stare at yourself in the mirror. You do not look like a glowing young woman on her wedding day. The concealer under your eyes is so heavy, it adds to the dark circles instead of taking away from them. The traditional dress constricts, and you struggle to breathe. Lowering the veil, your face disappears behind silk and lace.

No amount of pleading or crying has made your father relent. A deal is a deal, and he made a deal with Min Yoongi to take you off his hands. Before the contract, you thought he would continue to ignore you. You even tried running away, but with little savings, you didn’t make it far. Upon your return, your sister schooled you on the easily-convertible-to-cash wealth of jewelry and designer handbags. She hadn’t just prepared her wardrobe for an eventual marriage. She was much, much smarter than you had ever given her credit for. What were school smarts when it prepared you not at all for a wedding day with a man you had never met who would soon control your wealth, your education and, you realize with dawning horror, your body? You clench your fists until blood red marks appeared on your palms, small half-moons of distress. 

You and your sister had found out nothing about Min Yoongi. Your mother had heard of the family before. Apparently, they used to be thought of highly, but you could discover nothing of their past or whatever made them fall from grace. 

All your plans, all your dreams of fading so completely from your father’s notice in order to gain the freedom you craved, were crushed in an instant by a man who would marry a woman he didn’t know for money. 

“Are you ready, dear?” Your mother calls in a sickly, sweet voice that must be second nature to her by now. She enters the dressing room where you had been hiding since your sister left. “Everyone is waiting.”

No expense had been spared for the wedding, and you knew it was all your father. There were hundreds of people outside waiting for you to walk down the aisle. Family and friends of your family, all ready to witness your humiliation. How could your father put you through this? “You look lovely,” your mother offers. “He’s very handsome, I think.”

“What do I care what he looks like? I’ve never met the man.”

The slap surprises you, and you wince from the pain.

“You should be grateful. This is the best your father could do for you.”

Humiliation burns brighter than the sting on your face. 

“Do you know how long your father looked for a contract for you? Do you know how many men have refused you?”

The worst part was you didn’t. You had no idea he’d been trying to give you away. 

“Get yourself together. I won’t have you humiliating your father.”

She smooths down her skirt. She hates getting emotional, hates anything impeding the picture-perfect family she’s constructed in her mind, and desperately maintains no matter how much evidence to the contrary.

“Hurry and dry your tears.” She leaves alone with your thoughts.

There’s no way out. There never was. You’ve been fooling yourself since the moment your father barged into your room. There is no escape, you can only survive.

Wiping your tears, you stand and lower the veil. You won’t raise it until your betrothed—God, the word sticks in your throat—lifts it. Well, there are no surprises for him. Certainly, he knows what he’s getting out of this bargain. It might not be the future you imagined for yourself, but you weren’t going to just give up.

With renewed determination, you walk out of the small dressing room. As you approach the main room, the music swells. The guests stand and face you. Taking a deep breath, you step into the cavernous space. You walk slowly, stately down the aisle as you’d been instructed. The silk and lace are thin enough that you can make out the ghostly faces of the guests. You don’t know most of these people, and you don’t see your sister. The whole affair is a farce, but you’ll play your part. 

Your steps slow as you near the main dais. Min Yoongi waits for you. Even through the veil, you can see that he’s handsome. Your mother, damn her, is right. With each step that you take, though, you can see that he isn’t just handsome. He’s beautiful. He wears a traditional tuxedo, looking ever the part of the well-dressed bridegroom. His hair is black and falls almost to his shoulders. But it is the tattoos that take your breath away.  On his neck, black roses and thorns are visible above the collar of his shirt. He seems like a man who knows how to get his hands dirty. He’s compelling, your soon-to-be husband.

He shoots his cuffs, as if getting ready for a bout, holds his head high, and gazes in your direction. 

Perhaps he thought you wouldn’t come out of that small room, and he was happy to know he would get his money. You scowl. Somehow, you would survive the horror show your life had become. He wanted to marry you? Well, he would get what he bargained for, and then some.

Min Yoongi offers you a hand as you step up. He’s polite at least. Or he knows how to keep up appearances in front of a crowd. You can use either. No way this petty criminal, as your sister has taken to calling him, knows all these guests either. Both of you are lambs to the slaughter of this antiquated tradition. Before you have too much sympathy for him, you remember he faces humiliation for money—a time-honored tradition in its own right—while you gain nothing but the loss of personal freedom. 

You face the officiant as the interminable ceremony begins. Min Yoongi relaxes a bit, bows his head and lets the words wash over him.

By the time the ceremony ends, your knees are locked, and your back aches from standing at attention this whole time. While you couldn’t seem to imagine the ceremony ending when you were in the middle of it, suddenly the last remarks begin.

You face each other, and your new husband places a ring on your finger. The diamond is so small as to be a chip, the band tarnished, and you wonder what pawn shop he found it in. Surely, it’s the smallest and cheapest he could find. So, keeping up appearances isn’t a priority. His hands are rough and calloused. Petty criminal is right. 

The genuine revelation, though, is saved for the end. Looking back, you should’ve expected the final twist, the ultimate humiliation your father had planned.

Min Yoongi turns to face you. He’s truly beautiful in that moment, and you truly hate him. This man has taken away your future. Your husband—you want to gag—lifts the veil. You bow your head as you’ve been instructed before straightening.

He gives nothing away, not truly. You credit him for his composure if nothing else. Just a quick intake of breath, a twitch in his right eye gives away his surprise. Nothing the guests would see. But your father laughs and makes sure everyone can hear it. 

Your husband’s features tighten. 

In this moment, you know, as certain as you are of anything. Min Yoongi lost. Min Yoongi did not marry the sister he intended. He married you.

&&&

Yoongi stretches the collar of his starched shirt, and it does nothing to ease the pressure. Sweat trickles down his temple. Little air flows in the reception space, and he would give anything for a cigarette and a breath of fresh air, which makes no sense.

The main table is situated slightly higher and away from the others. He feels on display, and he doesn’t like it. Jungkook sits to his right, and he hopes the kid doesn’t pull a weapon. He’s so jumpy. 

Jungkook had looked nervous ever since they walked in the door. 

“Who are all these fucking people?”

“You think I fucking know?” Yoongi responds. “Don’t swear.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m an adult.”

“Who did such a terrible job raising you?”

“You, hyung, you raised me.”

“Oh, right,” Yoongi says, distracted by straightening his tie.

“Here, let me.” Jungkook wrenches the tie from Yoongi’s hands. “You sure this is the right choice?”

“It’s too late to back out now.”

“Still, we could make a run for it.”

But Yoongi made a deal, and he would stick to it. “I’m not backing out on her. She’s alright. I’ve met her before, but she probably doesn’t remember me.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Yoongi thought of the circumstances under which he had met the eldest sister. “Probably a good thing.”

Looking back, Yoongi should’ve realized the last twist. He’d always known your father was a bastard. The ruthless son of a bitch had stabbed friends in the back to make his life just a little easier, to put a little more money in his pocket. Yoongi expected a double cross. He made sure the money was transferred to his account directly after the ceremony. He’d gotten paid alright, but he hadn’t gotten the crown jewel. Yoongi should’ve suspected a sister switch. He knew nothing of the younger sister, but the way your smile turns to ice whenever you meet his eyes, he hoped you would give him a few hours, at least, before whatever plan you must’ve had would be put into action. Someone as spoiled and coddled as you are, you must want to return to the comforts of your father’s compound, not whatever humble offerings Yoongi could provide.

“Would you like some more wine?” Yoongi asks. He doesn’t know why he persists in talking to you. 

You shake your head, barely deigning to suggest you had heard him. If only you could have a private conversation somewhere. He didn’t need you to like him. You have nothing in common. Yoongi had a restless, reckless youth and you had been pampered with your father’s wealth. He hates everything you stand for, happy to accept the money but never questioning where it comes from. 

One of the older guests, a fading man with a hunched back and a bald head, walks with a cane to the main table. Guests actually speaking to Yoongi had been rare. 

“I knew your father,” the man says, voice too soft for the crowd that speaks around them. “He was a great man.”

Yoongi feels that strange mix of pride and annoyance whenever anyone of the old guard remembers his father. Yoongi doesn’t know who the man in front of him is.

“He is a great man,” Yoongi insists, tired of everyone talking about his father like he was dead. Yoongi’s father isn’t well enough to attend the ceremony, a fact for which Yoongi is glad. His father had married for love, and in his better days he had wanted the same for Yoongi.

“Quite right, quite right. We aren’t all in the ground yet.” The old man puts up a hand as if to ask for forgiveness. “You are a lucky woman.”

Yoongi watches as you stiffen even more than you have already. 

He tenses. He will forgive your annoyance, but he won’t be gracious if you’re rude to the one guest, an elderly guest at that, who had paid his respects to Yoongi’s family. 

“Thank you,” you say, sickly sweet. “How kind of you to say.”

Yoongi prefers the glacial you. This is some kind of bizarre imitation of a radiant bride, and it’s worse than the glower you perfected during the reception.

The old man gives one more look to Yoongi. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Yoongi did not know where in hell to find this old guy, but he nodded. If he ever needed to take up this man on his offer, he would be more fucked that he was now.

“Thank you, sir,” Yoongi says, voice loud so the old man could hear him over the din of chatter.

You wince. “Your parents couldn’t bear to be a part of this farce?”

“My father is ill, and my mother couldn’t leave him.”

You glance at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I hope he improves.”

Yoongi nods his head in acknowledgement. 

When would this interminable reception be over? Most of the rituals are complete, and Yoongi is surprised to find himself dead tired. It’s been a long few weeks, a long few months, and he wants to sleep without having to keep one eye open. 

“Can you give me a few days before you try to murder me in my sleep?”

You choke on your wine. 

“I don’t know what—”

“Look, princess, I know you’ve got plans. You don’t look like an idiot to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then give me a few days, at least.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say in the worst imitation of someone carefree. “I couldn’t be more thrilled to marry a petty criminal with this ring that looks like you won it for a quarter in a machine.”

Yoongi flinches. He would give you one comment about the ring. Just one, though.

“Would you like some more wine?” Yoongi asks.

“For the last time, no,” you say, acknowledging him with a slight tilt of your head, like a queen about to execute a criminal. “I will not get drunk into oblivion as wonderful as it sounds to forget this ever happened, and I would suggest you don’t either. My father and his friends are looking for anyway to humiliate you further, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

You turn to look at him, and you may not have the obvious beauty of your sister, but you have a steely determination he respects. Again, Yoongi reminds himself to prepare his own meals. 

“On the other hand, I don’t care what you do. Make a fool of yourself.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh, really?” you say with a glacial smile. You turn your gaze to where your sister dances with another of her admirers. “How did that bargain work out for you?”

Fuck, you noticed. Yoongi prided himself on giving nothing away. It would’ve worked if it wasn’t for your father’s laughter. 

“Listen, I’m sorry—”

“Spare me your pity. You should make sure you got paid.”

“I did,” Yoongi responds. He may have been fooled, but he knew to get his end of the bargain. 

“Well, how wonderful for you.” 

You don’t speak to him again for the rest of the reception.

&&&

Sitting in the back of the limousine, you force yourself to stay awake. This farce is almost over, and then you can take off this dress and breathe again. You just want to sleep, but that raises an issue.

“Where are we going?”

Yoongi jerks his head in your direction. “You’re talking to me.”

“For now.”

“We have a hotel room.” He looks down at his hands. “It’s not the nicest, but it keeps up appearances.”

“Unlike other things,” you retort, staring down at the ring.

“I’m tired, princess, and I’m going to have to ask you not to make any more comments about the ring.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Yoongi leans his head back. “We have adjoining rooms. I won’t disturb you, if you promise not to disturb me. Double doors with locks on either side. It seems as good as any other way to start our marriage.”

You exhale. You don’t know what to say. Of course, it is the only reasonable resolution, but you weren’t sure. You know nothing about your husband, and you can’t afford to let your guard down. Look where your naivete had gotten you? You would never let down your guard again.

“That sounds fine.” You will not thank him for basic decency.

A few minutes later, the limo stops. The driver opens the door. He helps you out of the car, and Yoongi follows. Yoongi looks as tired as you feel, and you are certain you look worse than him. Even exhausted, he is truly handsome. 

Yoongi offers you a hand, and you don’t refuse as much as you want to. The path is rocky, and you need extra help to navigate in these shoes and this dress. You’ve driven across the bay to a small hotel on the water. The view of the downtown lights shines in the distance. The fresh salty air breezes across your face, and you feel renewed. You’ve made it this far, you’ll continue.

This hotel had been something back in the day. Your parents had probably stayed here at one point, and the thought doesn’t cheer you. The attendant behind the counter treats you kindly, and he mentions that your bags have already been carried to your rooms. He gives Yoongi two keys, and Yoongi passes you the key in the elevator. The hotel is so old that it uses actual keys with room numbers on them.

You’re staying on the third floor, the top floor of the hotel, overlooking the bay. You walk to your door. With a short wave, Yoongi disappears into his room, and you disappear into yours. 

The room must be one of the largest. There is a sunken sitting room where you look out past the floor to ceiling windows to the bay. Your luggage sits at the foot of the bed. Without turning on a light, you sit on the couch and stare out at the view. You don’t cry. You’ve spent too much time crying to have any tears left. Now you want to sleep like a sleeping beauty to be woken from this nightmare by a kiss, but there are no fairytales, no honorable knights, no handsome princes. Just this strange path your life has taken. In a few weeks, your dreams of having something for yourself disappeared to be replaced by the man sleeping two locked doors away. You slip off your shoes and tuck your feet under your dress. A knock comes from the double doors.

You shuffle to the other side of the room, dragging your dress on the ground. You open the door. 

Min Yoongi stands on the other side of the threshold. His jacket is off. His tie is loosened, and he’s rolling his shirt sleeves to his elbows. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lip. In the face of his beauty, you wonder what he thinks of you. Straightening your shoulders, you remind yourself that he is just another criminal, a man like your father who will use anyone to get what he wants. He has already used you. His opinion doesn’t matter.

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

He pulls the cigarette from his lips, holding it as if to take a drag.

“No, this room is… adequate.”

He huffs, a sardonic smile on his face. “I’m sure it’s nothing compared to your father’s house, princess.”

She thinks of the high walls and guards surrounding her family home, thinking she had been safe. She had been a fool. Never again.

“You know nothing of my father.”

“I’m learning.”

“What do you need?” you ask, eager to get this tête-à-tête concluded.

“No need to come out swinging.” Yoongi puts up his hands. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t want for anything.”

“I will ask you if I do, since all my money is now yours.”

At your words, he glances out at the window as if captivated by the view. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Wait,” you say. “I do need something.”

He doesn’t answer, just waits for you to continue. 

“Can you unzip this gown? I can’t reach it.” You turn around before your cheeks turn red. This entire night is humiliating enough. There’s no reason to add to it.

Without a word, he lowers the zipper. His fingers drag against your skin, and you suppress the shudder that threatens to rake your body. How many women has he unzipped like this? Probably more than he can remember. He pauses when he reaches your lower back. You wonder what it would be like to be wanted by him until you remember he was paid to take you. 

“Anything else?” 

With one arm, you hold up the bodice of your gown over your chest. He’s looking right at you, but you avert your gaze. The first time a man has undressed you and it’s on your wedding night, and he couldn’t be less interested in you. With a shock, you realize he prepared this extra suite, the late-night meal delivery, and the gift on the bedside table for your sister. Any thoughtful gestures were for her. Not for you. 

You shake your head. 

“Goodnight,” he says, turning around and shutting the door behind himself. 

You do the same.

&&&

Yoongi couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, twisting the sheets into a crumpled heap. Has he done the right thing? He needed the money, but has he done the right thing, making a deal with one of the worst men in town?

Certainly, Yoongi had been out of options. There had been no question. If he had any other avenue to rebuild the club, help his parents, and keep a roof over his head, he would’ve taken it. He needs more money than he can make at a respectable job, as if anyone would hire him with these tattoos.

No, nothing respectable is left to him. He won’t abandon his parents, and he will make whatever deal is necessary to keep going.

Yoongi gets out of bed. The sun has risen over the water. He lights a cigarette—a terrible habit he hasn’t been able to break. 

A knock sounds from the other side of the double doors. So, you haven’t left him in the night. He wonders if you have any money of your own. Probably not, if the rumors about your old man were true, and they had turned out to be more than fucking accurate.

He throws on a robe, one of the cheap, thin robes provided by the hotel, but it was that or wrapping a towel around his waist. He isn’t ready to show you the rest of his tattoos. There has to be some mystery left in this marriage.

He opens the door to reveal his bride. You wear an ill-fitting dress, drab and looking like something a mother would pick out for her daughter. It’s awful. What would your sister have worn this morning? Your sister, he knows, has long ago lost her innocent beginnings if the rumors about her are true—he doesn’t judge. It honestly would’ve been easier to marry the sister he expected. He can handle tantrums and drama, all of which she would’ve provided. This sister, though, what does she provide?

You look down at your feet. 

“I do have a plan to poison you.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“But it seems too complicated, and I will be the first person they suspect.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. I’m sure there are some other suspects in town.”

“Lots of people want to kill you?”

“Well, it’s only Sunday, so maybe, like you, they’ve decided to take a rest.”

“Can I, uh, come in?”

“Make yourself at home.” Yoongi gestures to the room behind him, and he quickly wonders what it looks like in your eyes. Just the one small suitcase, and a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. No room service set up. Your meal had been expensive enough. He needs to economize if he’s going to make a go of it. 

You walk past him into the room, wringing your hands. “What are your plans for me?”

“We just met, princess. I don’t move that fast.”

“Please stop that ridiculous drawl. Clearly, you must have some plan. Oh god, if you’ve married me to gamble away my dowry there is nothing I can do, but…”

He resists the desire to call you princess. You don’t look like much of one in that dress. You look distinctly lost. 

“I won’t gamble it away.”

“Small mercies.”

“It’s invested.”

“Where?”

In myself, he wants to say, but that is ridiculously cocky, and he has nothing to show for it. “In my club.”

She raises her eyes to the ceiling. “What kind of club?”

Yoongi clears his throat. “I’m starting small. It’s by the waterfront, some tables, some drinks, nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s all of it, what he paid you for me?”

It took Yoongi a moment to realize what you meant. You must’ve calculated in your head how much he got from your father. He wants to tell you the truth. Would it be better or worse to know your dowry was large, but that men still hadn’t wanted you to get it? 

"There was more but I had some debts to pay off."

“Gambling?”

“I borrowed money from Kim Namjoon to get started, and he doesn’t like late payments.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Well, you at least know how to save your own neck.”

“That’s dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t slip up next time.”

You wring your hands again, and he resists the urge to reach out and calm you. You are probably just looking out for your own neck and used to a large allowance. Maybe not, he considers, if that dress is anything to go by. 

“Is there any left?” you ask in the smallest voice he’s heard yet. 

“Just enough for this hotel and the first month’s rent on our place. That… technically, I haven’t found yet because I’ve been so busy with the club.”

“We’re spending money we don’t have on this hotel because you don’t know how to run a club?”

He doesn’t quite like the way you phrase it, but he appreciates you cut to the chase. Before he can respond, you supply your own answer. 

“There’s nothing left.”

“We’re all tied up in investments.”

“Is Kim Namjoon paid back? With whatever interest he charges?”

You sound offended he doesn’t have a rich father backing him. 

He shakes his head. “I still owe him the vig, but I bought some time.”

“Why not forget about the club and pay it all to him?”

“Because then I’ve got nothing but a burned-out hole.”

“You lost your club to a fire? Who came after you?”

“Faulty wiring.”

“I’ll bet.”

He wants to reassure you. He doesn’t like this side of himself. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Clearly.”

“Why did you want to know? About the money, I mean.”

“It was nothing.”

But Yoongi is sure it was something. Might as well clear the air. “Look, I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. If you’re discrete, I don’t care what you do.”

“Is that your plan?”

Yoongi had no such plan. Women were trouble and the few who had been interested in him lately were more trouble than they were worth. He hadn’t been interested in anyone in a very long time. 

“Of course,” he says.

You nod.

“Why did you ask about the money?”

“I wanted to know how much trouble we were in.”

Yoongi still doesn’t believe you, but he lets it go. 

“Do you care if I get a job?”

Yoongi winces. You have to know none of the wives in your position work. It would further convince everyone of his family’s fall. His parents, especially, as old-fashioned as they were, wouldn’t understand.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Your voice turns glacial once again. 

“Just give me some time. I can turn things around.”

You stare at him, and he wonders if you’ve truly given up your plan to poison him. 

“Let’s find an apartment today. There’s no reason to stay at this aging hotel that’s about to fall into the sea if we can save money without it.”

“I thought it might be easier for you to have separate rooms for a few weeks before we moved in together.”

“I’m a big girl. Like you said, as long as you know how to be discrete, you won’t have a problem with me. I know how these things work.”

Yoongi realizes you very desperately do not. What an asshole your father is.

“Okay, there’s two places I found we can afford. Not elegant, but not run down either. The club should be open in a few weeks and then the money will come in.”

“Right.”

He ignores your tone. “Do you want to look at them with me today?” It’s the least he could offer. 

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Any quip dies on his lips when he sees the look in your eyes. You look pleased to be asked. He isn’t sure if he is more afraid of you poisoning him or that look of quiet surprise when anyone is nice to you. 

&&&

“We should get the first place,” you say.

“The second had a view of the ocean.”

“It costs too much, and we don’t need that much space.”

Yoongi drives expertly down the narrow, crowded streets. Occasionally, a horn honks at him or a pedestrian yells, but he ignores them all. He doesn’t even feel the need to respond. Impassive behind his sunglasses, he occasionally acknowledges their ire with a nod of his head, but you figure he has heard worse. Your husband wears black pants and a black button-down shirt. You wear one of your better dresses this morning. In this, you look the part of a young couple house hunting. 

“Are you sure you don’t want the space?”

“You’re going to be spending most of your time at the club, right? I’ve already said I won’t make a fuss. Let’s at least save some money.” 

You hope he will be gone most of the time. A smaller, older building without a doorman and pretentious neighbors would be better for you. Less chance of prying eyes, and easier to find a job. 

“If you insist, princess.”

“I insist.”

“Then, it’s done.”

&&&

You check your watch again. It’s almost closing time. You ring up the only customer in the florist’s shop. 

It hadn’t been easy finding a job with no references and less experience. You are lucky that the florist will pay you less than the going rate under the table. The arrangement fits both your purposes. You wipe your hands on the apron, ever careful not to soil your clothes. 

Luckily your husband keeps regular hours. He comes and goes with the precision of a banker. You’ve hidden your job from him. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He says the club is doing well, but it isn’t like he shows you the books. You won’t be caught without your own money again.

You have a well-appointed if small apartment in a perfectly respectable building, as much as he complains about the loss of the view. As far as arranged marriages go, it could’ve been much, much worse. He gives you an adequate allowance, and you hope it isn’t putting too much of a dent in the monthly finances. You spend some of it. Isn’t that what wives do? Buy clothes and eat at restaurants? You save as much as you dare, because your husband seems to notice minor details.

You flip the sign to closed and lock the door behind you. There are no more customers in the shop, and you want to get home before your husband leaves for the club. So far, he doesn’t seem to suspect you have a job, and you want to keep it that way.

You walk the five blocks back to your building—close enough to be convenient, far enough away that you won’t run into him. You check the mail, opening the antiquated box in the lobby and then climb the three flights of stairs to your apartment. Good, you had made it back before he woke. 

“Oh, there you are,” he says, while you yelp in surprise. Your husband wears his usual black suit and drinks his ever-present cup of coffee. 

“Just out shopping,” you improvise, realizing belatedly you have no bags. 

“Didn’t find anything you liked?”

“Maybe next time.” You wonder if all newlyweds have such mundane conversations, you are guessing they don't. He looks as if he wants to say more, but refrains. You really have very little to say to each other. Other than polite inquiries, you stay out of each other’s way. You are roommates more than anything else.

“How’s Kim Namjoon?” you ask. 

“He got paid this month,” Yoongi replies, just as he had done every time. “I really do know what I’m doing.”

“Except with the wiring.”

“Well, you got me there.” 

You relax when he leaves. Your deception worked for another day. When you walk to the bedroom, you take your earnings from the pocket of your dress. You unscrew the cover of the vent and put your day's earnings inside. 

Making a quiet dinner, you realize you spend more time alone since you got married than before. You don't mind. It’s given you time to think about all that’s happened. It could be far far worse you know. He gives you much more freedom than anyone of your father’s set would.  You may be tied to a man that you don’t love but, unfortunately, your life could easily be much worse.

You sit down to dinner when a knock pounds on the door. 

You stand abruptly. No one comes here. Both of you have few friends and less interest in socializing with the class of people who saw the circus that was your wedding.

"Mr. Min Yoongi," someone calls through the door. 

It wasn't Jungkook. You know that much. He was one of the few people Yoongi had introduced you to. 

"I'm sorry to disrupt your happy abode, but you'll see I had little choice."

"Yoongi isn't here," you say, not opening the door. You know it isn’t any of his enemies. They wouldn’t show up at his home.

"Ah, you must be his lovely bride," the man says, a thump sounding as if he must've crumbled to the floor.

You open the door, and the man falls backward, landing on the floor at your feet. Handsome, with a stunning profile and brilliant eyes that sparkle even given the state he’s in, you can’t take your eyes from him. 

“Jung Hoseok,” he says. He lifts a hand to shake yours, but it’s covered with his own blood. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

&&&

Yoongi walks into the club. It is early enough that the place is mostly empty. Jungkook is behind the bar. Jimin and Taehyung are having a drink. Yoongi nods his head in acknowledgement and moves to the back office. 

“Jenny, what are you doing here?”

The girl sits in his leather chair with her bare feet propped onto the desk in front of her. She’s dressed to entice. He likes her confidence, but he’s told her before he’s not interested. 

“You know I always wait for you to get here?”

“You know I’ve asked you not to.” Yoongi strides into the room. She’s lounged all over the accounts he needs to reconcile. Running a club had seemed glamourous in his youth, but now it was just work. There was very little that was actually glamourous about it, trying not to get cheated, making sure the numbers balanced at the end of the month. This had become his life. 

A door slams in the main room. He guesses the crowd must be early this Friday night.

“I told you, I’m not interested.”

“I told you, I’m persistent.” She reaches for his collar. 

“I’m married, Jenny.”

She scoffs. “Some frigid princess.”

“Do not talk about my wife that way.”

She flinches from his tone.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook calls, “you better get out here.”

“I’m needed on the floor.”

Jenny rolls her eyes. She doesn’t miss the opportunity to stand a little closer, to remind him of what he is missing. 

“I need you here,” she says.

Before Yoongi can think of a response, the door opens.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you say. “A friend of yours stopped by.”

Yoongi turns. Your dress is covered in blood. 

“Did someone hurt you?” Yoongi says, striding toward you.

“No… this isn't mine.” 

Yoongi closes his eyes in relief. “What happened? What are you doing here?”

“Hello Yoongi,” Hoseok says cordially. “Looks like I missed you at home, so your clever bride agreed to bring me here.”

“He wouldn't let me bring him to a hospital.” 

“Terrible places, hospitals. Full of germs, disease.”

“Also, they have to call the police if someone is injured like this. He said only you could help.”

“Idiot,” Yoongi says. “Put him on the couch.”

You help him to sit, and Jenny slips out of the room. All thoughts of the other woman flew from his mind when he saw you covered in blood. The old rules aren’t as strictly followed as they used to be, but the ruling families still frowned upon going after the wives and children. 

“Jungkook,” Yoongi calls. “Get the supplies. I’ll sew him up here.”

Your eyes grow wide at the admission. Wringing your hands, you take it all in. 

“I’m going to pass out soon,” Hoseok admits, glancing down at the wound in his side.

“Aren’t you too old for a knife fight?” Yoongi asks, inspecting the wound while Hoseok winces.

“You know how it is,” Hoseok says, unconvincingly. He pauses. “It was one of Lee’s men.”

Damnit. Lee should’ve been satisfied with the damage to the club. When will Yoongi be strong enough that no one will come for him or his friends?

Jungkook hands Hoseok a shot of amber liquid. Hoseok swigs, grimaces and passes out.

Yoongi looks at the curved needle and thread that Jungkook brought him. You stare in horrified fascination as he cleans the wound. Luckily, it isn’t deep. 

“You don’t have to stay,” he says, suddenly self-conscious to be watched.

“You can really do this?”

Yoongi nods. He’s had plenty of experience. “Jungkook, get back to the bar. I can handle this.”

The younger man leaves without another word.

He is glad to have an excuse not to see the blood on your clothes. He should’ve done a better job protecting you.

Sitting on the couch beside Hoseok, you watch him work. It’s unsettling. The lessons of his youth were hard-earned. He supposes it is better to have you know the truth than to pretend otherwise. You must’ve been removed from the realities of this life, living in your palatial house, staff ready to do whatever you ask.

“I bet you’ve never seen this before,” he says flatly.

You shake your head. “I’ve seen very little of anything.”

“I believe that.”

“My father would never deign to get his hands dirty.” 

Yoongi scoffs. “Too far beneath him?”

“You care for your men.”

“They don’t belong to me,” he retorts. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

He finishes stitching the wound in silence. There is very little else to say. He guesses you’ve been, rightly or wrongly, initiated into some truths of his life. He would rather you not know, frankly.  

You walk around the desk, looking at the papers he’s been ignoring for the past few weeks.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, eager to get out of this room even for a moment. There’s something unsettling about your presence. 

“Please.”

He leaves for the bar, letting Jungkook know Hoseok will be okay. He’ll be in a hell of a lot of pain when he wakes up, but they’re lucky it isn’t worse. Yoongi hates the fact that luck is the only thing keeping him afloat at this point. Luck and your dowry.

He returns to see you sitting at his desk. Your hands are clean, but the bloodstains on your dress leave him with a queasy feeling. You’re someone else he needs to protect.

“Have you set up a shell company?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I haven’t. I’ve been too busy getting things set up here.” He’s been ignoring it, is what he’s been doing. “At this point, I’m going to have to stash cash in the walls.”

“That won’t work with your wiring problems.” 

He sets the drink on the desk, and you take a sip. You continue to investigate the papers on his desk, sorting through the bills and statements. 

“You need to create several shell companies. It is going to get harder to hide the returns, and you’re doing well this month.”

“How much do you know about this?”

“A little. I was getting an online business degree before…”

“Your father know?”

You laugh. “Do anything other than shop or get married? You must have him confused with someone else.”

“Why didn’t you continue?”

You glance up at him, a note of caution in your eyes. “I dropped out.”

“Why?” He asks, like an idiot.

“I didn’t expect such a tolerant husband.”

He can only imagine the horror that you must’ve gone through in the weeks between the contract and the ceremony. His attempt to reach out was rebuffed by your father, but maybe he should’ve tried harder. “You want to set it up?”

“The shell companies?”

“Yeah, you know this better than I do.”

You look down at the pages in front of you, biting your lip. He can see the play of emotions across your face, and he hopes you’re never asked to hide your feelings. It would be impossible for you. 

“Only if I start with something small. I don’t want to be responsible for the whole thing.”

“Sure.”

“Just like that?”

“It’s a good plan. Look, I don’t know what I’m doing and the longer I wait, the more difficult it’s going to get.”

The smile dawning on your face is something to see.  He hears the door open behind him and gets annoyed with the interruption.

“Yoongi, Jungkook needs you at the bar.”

At the sound of Jenny’s voice, you freeze. The smile on your face quickly shutters as you take an intense interest in the pages in front of you. Jenny leaves.

“I should go,” you say. “I need to change, and I need to think how to best deal with this.” You gesture to the pages in front of you. 

“Jimin and Taehyung can give you a ride.”

“I drove. It’s no problem.”

He puts a hand on your arm to stop you. “I would prefer they give you a ride home.”

This night has been stressful enough. He doesn’t want to think about something happening to you.

You meet his eye. “Okay, thank you.”

He hands you his suit jacket. The blood stains on your dress are prominent, and he doesn’t want to see them anymore than he wants you to be exposed to the stares of others.

You follow him out of the office. The club is getting crowded now. He introduces to you to Jimin and Taehyung They know what it means to be asked this favor, and he knows they won’t let him down. This marriage may be a farce, but he will protect what’s his.

You leave without a backward glance. 

&&&

Over the next few weeks, you spend time at the club doing the books. Jimin and Taehyung take you home most nights when Yoongi isn’t ready to leave. True to your word, you start small. Even this nominal amount feels immense. Yoongi has trusted you, and you don’t want to betray him. It’s the first time you’ve been asked to do anything important. You don’t want to screw it up.

Yoongi doesn’t leave any details to chance. The club had an excellent reputation, and soon it attracts more than just the waterfront crowd. He also keeps his bargain. If he’s with other women, he’s discrete. Apart from the first night you arrived unexpectedly, there was never a hint at the club from the other girls. If he is with someone there, she’s discrete too. 

There is one mystery left. It doesn’t seem like your entire dowry went into the club. What did he do with the money? He doesn’t have a drug habit, he doesn’t gamble, there is no obvious vice. He has a penchant for designer clothes, but that would hardly take up the substantial amount you hadn't been able to find. Maybe he was just holding it for a rainy day. 

The door opens, and one of the club’s many girls walks into the office. You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her around. You didn't begrudge them their presence or their living. Everyone has to make it in this life, but you wonder about the one you had seen Yoongi with. Could that be his mistress?

"Do you know where Mr. Min is?"

"He’s taking inventory with Jungkook at the bar."

The girl nods and retreats to where she came from. 

You look down at the spreadsheets in front of you. The revelation comes to you like lightening. What an idiot you’ve been. The missing money was clearly going to Yoongi's mistress. He had kept his promise and been discrete, so why do you feel let down? What he does is none of your business.

Yoongi walks into the office with a drink for you. He’s kind, this arranged marriage husband. You wonder if you would've gotten along if you had met under different circumstances. But no, he would never be interested in you. You are decidedly not his type. His type is like the girl you saw him with. Someone who takes away from troubles, not someone who adds to them. You wonder what it would be like to be cared for by him. A blush creeps over your cheeks. The last thing you want to do is have a crush on your husband. He had made it clear he wasn't interested. Of course, he wasn't interested. He could probably have anyone he wanted, and the last thing he wanted was his naïve bride.

"We really need to pay all these bribes?" you ask.

"We're doing better. Everyone wants a piece." Yoongi shrugs. 

You defer to him in the more illegal aspects of the business. You do not know what the going rate was for bribes. 

"A few of them are getting in deep at the tables, so it won't be long until writing off their IOUs instead of paying them cash."

“You don't play.” 

“Not anymore.”

He didn't drink to excess either. Everything about him was carefully contained. The only hint of his rebellious youth was his tattoos. You’ve learned very little about his family. His parents hadn't come to the wedding, and he said they were too ill, but you wonder if it is something else. If he didn't want them to witness his bargain. 

“Why did you stop?” You sit back in your chair and wondered if he would answer you honestly. 

Yoongi looks up from his phone. "I grew up."

"You make it sound like you're an old man."

He huffed. "I'm old enough. Come on, let's get home. I don't need to be here at closing tonight."

It was rare the nights he took you home. You liked the simulacrum of domesticity, you realize. Another revelation on this night that you weren’t looking forward to investigating. Yoongi opens the door for you, helping you on with your raincoat and following you outside. His phone rings. Was it a woman? 

Yoongi swears, hanging up the phone.

"What is it?" you ask. He looks worried. Just how much of his life is he hiding? 

"We need to make a stop on the way home."

[winetae]

⇨ set myself on fire (m).

ex bf!yoongi. college au. 3355 words. slight age gap, slight angst. hand holding. dirty talk, possessiveness.

With him, you were always trying. Trying to be more, trying to be less. Bending, shrinking, expanding. 

.

.

Break-ups, you eventually learn, are not a good look for you.

Self-doubt keeps you awake at night more than caffeine ever has. The lack of proper sleep has disastrous consequences on your school life and your general appearance.

Even the most skilled makeup artists would consider you a lost cause. All their professional training and years of experience would not be enough to breathe new life into your dull and haggard appearance, not when your exhaustion is still so visibly apparent through the layers of concealer you regularly apply under your eyes. When you stare at yourself in the mirror you see a ghost, a creature from the past anchored in the wrong reality.

This goes on for a week, then two. You probably would have hit the third week mark if your friends hadn’t staged an emergency intervention.

“Your first big split can be hard, I get it.” Mari pats your shoulder. “That’s why you gotta listen to us. This can't go on any longer than it already has.”

Liz is a little less sympathetic. She’s always hated your ex-boyfriend and has no reservations reminding you of what an asshole he is.

You don't agree with her snide remarks but know it's useless to argue. Any objection has her rolling her eyes.

"You think being nice is ignoring your calls for a week?"

"It wasn't a week-"

"Do the details matter?" she crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. "If he really respected you, he'd let you know he was gonna be busy instead of letting you waste your time and energy worrying about him."

Maybe she's right. Maybe you need to stop finding excuses for his every action.

Thanks to your friends' gentle but firm guidance you learn that there’s a code of conduct one must follow post break-up. Detailed steps one must take to numb the side effects of heartbreak.

It’s challenging to keep track of every little thing you’re supposed to be doing - and not doing - but you’re determined to become a functioning member of society once more.

RULE 1. BLOCK THAT MF. Your friends collectively warn you to lose your ex’s number. Delete it, block it, forget it. It makes moving on easier, they insist.

RULE 2. STAY OFF SOCIAL MEDIA. Don’t keep tabs on him. Seeing him be happy without you will make you swim in misery (and wine).

RULE 3. KEEP BUSY. Meet with friends, talk to family. Study, work out - whatever keeps your mind occupied.

The list goes on, some rules making less sense than others, but you’re so desperate to move on at this point that you’re willing to try just about anything.

It works - for the most part. You’ve never been more social in your life and the constant human to human interactions take up most of your free time and energy.

You try your best. Really, you do. It’s not enough, but it helps. So far you’ve successfully avoided any major meltdowns.

RULE 13 : NO LISTENING TO SAD SONGS/WATCHING SAD MOVIES in particular has kept you from recreating the typical kdrama scene where the lead wallows in her own sadness, a tub of ice cream in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, before a nicer, smarter, more handsome love interest sweeps her off her feet.

It’s week six, almost week seven, when your friends decide that you’re ready to take the next step.

“What you need is a distraction,” Mari says, wagging her eyebrows, the implication of her words evident.

“She’s not that kind of girl.”

“What do you mean?” Except you know exactly what she means. You just want to make her say it. 

“Well, aren’t you the relationship type?” it’s defensive, like she knows she’s said the wrong thing. 

“Sometimes.” You say, but the answer is distracted, your mind elsewhere.

You’re thinking about lists and rules, adding this one to the ever growing manual you’ve sworn to follow. RULE 26. DATE OTHER PEOPLE. THERE ARE OTHER FISH AT SEA.

“You don’t need to find the love of your life right now. Just - like go out, have fun. It doesn't have to be a big thing."

"Why don't we go clubbing!" Mari proposes, excitement building in her tone. "Even if no one catches your eyes, I think it’ll do you some good to go out. We haven’t been out together in forever!”

You think about the alternative. Going home, watering your plants, microwaving the leftover lasagna, feeling bad for yourself. Reluctantly, you nod.

“That settles it then!” Liz cheers, already making her way to her closet to dig up the perfect outfit. “We’ll help you find a hot rebound. Nothing is better than good dick to help you realize there are plenty of great options!”

Next to you, Mari nods sagely. “It’ll help you - make you realize that there are other guys out there. Your world is much bigger than one single person, no matter how great you thought they were.”

Her words of advice settle into your bones, haunting. You want to believe her but if there's anything these past weeks have taught you, it's that your heart is stubborn. It cares little about what's better or nicer or kinder.

When you return her smile, you know deep down that you're only setting yourself up for disappointment.

.

.

.

.

Rule 26 is tiresome work, requiring more effort than advertised. But like every rule before this one, you give it your best shot.

It doesn’t take long for your eyes to zero in on tonight’s target.

The guy in front of you is handsome. Objectively. Prominent features with long lashes and pouty lips. Slicked back hair, well dressed, and clearly on the lookout for a one night stand. He ticks all of your boxes - if you had any to begin with. 

Somewhere over his shoulder you see Mari shoot you a thumbs up, grinning like a proud mom, and the sight helps steel your resolve. You can do this.

It doesn’t take long for the both of you to shift to the dance floor, chests pressing against one another.

His hands on your waist are warm. The way he’s moving his body - the slow grind of his hips against yours - it should be enticing.

But you feel - detached. Your brain registers everything that’s happening to you in an almost clinical way. Two hands, a set of lips, the rub of stubble against your cheek. Your body is responding in a rehearsed fashion, like it’s following a set of pre-set instructions, and all the while your mind is elsewhere. 

You’re not distracted, you realize. You’re bored. The space between your ribs and beating heart is just as hollow as it was before. Briefly you wonder if the emptiness will ever fill itself back up again, or if you’re supposed to live the rest of your life searching for the missing pieces that used to make you whole.

“Gotta go to the bathroom.” You squirm out of his grasp. There’s no point in playing this game anymore, not when the promised prize is this lackluster.

“Oh yeah. Sure.”

He nods, smiling, but his eyes are already flitting around the crowded room, on the lookout for your replacement. You wander off, weaving through the crowd of swaying bodies, and take a left instead of right, heading for the backdoor instead of the bathroom. 

The midnight air is cool against your skin and you breathe it in greedy gulps.

Your mind clears and suddenly fatigue seeps in. Here, hidden in the shadows, you allow your mask to slip. You’re tired of pretending that everything is okay, that this endless list of do's and don’ts you’ve been following is the only way to achieve happiness.

And maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you that you should stop running away from your feelings. That no matter how much you pretend, the truth is always there, sitting under the scabs you’ve covered up with makeshift bandages.

There’s a pull, a magnetism you’re weak to. Your eyes land on his familiar figure like you knew he was there to begin with and your world comes to standstill. A feeling you can’t name threatens to burst from your chest.

The gravity must be a two-way street, one of two planets circling around each other, for his gaze somehow lifts and your eyes meet for the first time in months.

The moment he spots you, a three second beat passes with him frozen in place, like his body doesn’t know whether to flee or disappear into the ground. Then, after a small eternity, he relaxes back into his signature slouch, resigning himself to whatever twisted plan fate has schemed against him.

When he doesn’t budge from his position, you decide to approach him, well aware this is going against RULE 4 : AVOID YOUR EX AT ALL COSTS. ANYWHERE HE IS LIKELY TO SHOW UP, DO NOT GO. With every step you take all of your hard work goes down the drain but -

But.

For the first time tonight, your chest thrums with nervous anticipation. You feel alive again - not a shell of the person you used to be or a puppet imitating who you wished you could become.

“It’s been a while," you start off, hoping it comes off casual. It doesn’t. 

He sneaks a glance in your direction before looking back down at the cigarette plucked between two lips. He lights it and takes a long drag before looking back at you. 

“You’ve been doing well.” 

The phrasing throws you off. It’s not a question so you don’t know how to answer. You also don’t know why he thinks that, if it’s the fact you’re out right now instead of sleeping through the pain of a broken heart, or if he’s asked one of your friends how you’ve been doing. Maybe he’s seen your life through pictures, drawn up conclusions that only reinforce his decision.

“… I’m trying to.” 

Trying. With him, you were always trying. Trying to be more, trying to be less. Bending, shrinking, expanding. 

Something in his face softens at that. Maybe he realizes it, too. 

“You will be.” He says it with a note of finality, of certitude. Like the few years he has more than you grants him knowledge you’re not privy to.

“Well, what if I won’t?” You huff, wrapping your arms around yourself. “What if - what if I feel like this forever?”

It’s a childish question, one that probably cements his view of you. In the past you’d always crafted your sentences with care, trying to match his maturity in words but the break-up has made you realize he’d always seen through your act.

A smile plays at his lips, not reaching his eyes. “Forever is a myth. You’ll see - you’ll find a guy who actually deserves you, and everything I said will start to make sense.”

It’s infuriating - the way he decides these things for you without your consent. Like your feelings don’t matter when faced with logic and facts.

“I love you. Doesn’t that count for anything?” 

“You don’t want love,” corrects Yoongi, albeit gently, like he knows his words might shatter you if he isn’t careful. “You just want me.”

You swallow, mulling his words over. Trying to understand the unsaid.

“I’m no good for you.” He repeats his words from the break-up.  

“But-” You look down, frowning. “What does that matter? I’ve always been happier with you. Now I’m just - I’m…I don’t know anymore. I don’t know.”

Your voice tapers off. You just feel so stupid. Young, stupid. Sifting through the ashes of your relationship, desperate to salvage the bits that hadn’t burned to dust. 

Unshed tears blur your vision. You clench your jaw, determined to not break down completely. Yoongi's features twist, his heart weakened by your pathetic appearance, and for a fleeting moment you can see past his unyielding veneer.

“Kitten,” it’s spoken softly, so softly you can pretend it’s a term meant solely for you. 

You can see he regrets saying it as soon as the word tumbles out, unbidden. A slip of the tongue. Yet, you latch onto the sliver of comfort offered before he can take it back.

As soon as you step into his personal space, your world shifts on its axis and adjusts. You feel all the floaty parts of yourself slot into place as they were meant to be. 

“Yoongi, I miss you.” 

When he stares into your eyes, you don’t look away, hoping he’ll see the truth for what it is. How those three words fail to sum up the extent of your never-ending yearning. 

“It’s for the best,” he says. Still, he allows you to take his free hand in between your own. It’s cold to the touch, like his skin is carved from marble, but it only makes you squeeze tighter, hoping your warmth will be enough for the both of you.

“Maybe.”

If life was a chess board, with set rules and clear winners, maybe you’d relent and accept that there was a better fit for you somewhere out there. Someone who was emotionally available, who made time for you, and gave you the validation you needed.

You didn’t start dating Yoongi expecting these things, though.

“But what relationship is perfect?” You demand hotly, fire in your veins. “I’ve never wanted that from you. I don’t care about that. You said I didn’t want love. That’s not true. I don’t believe what you gave me wasn’t love.”

Yoongi listens, patient as always. He takes another drag from his cigarette and silence hangs in the air, heavy with want and regret.

“It’s not fair to you.” He looks away, weak. “I feel like I can do anything and get away with it. I don’t want to have that kind of power over you.”

Your mind races as it processes his confession. It’s the first time he’s phrased it in other terms than ‘you should’, ‘you deserve’, you, you, you.

“I don’t…can’t we work out this out together? Is it easier for you to shut people out than fix things? Was it… was it that easy breaking up with me?”

“It’s not easy.” He wets his lips. “It hasn’t been easy. I only - I’ve only wanted what was the best for you. What I thought would be the best for you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I was hurt, though.”

Yoongi squeezes your hand back. The touch is everything you remember - secure, comforting, reassuring.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never wanted that.”

“I know.”

A pause and then, whispered in the night for only you to hear, “I’m afraid I’ll keep hurting you.”

“Whatever you’ve done in the past… It hurts more now, when we’re apart.”

He swallows audibly but his eyes never leave yours. In them, you see your emotions reflected. Logic and facts are meaningless now. The love you'd tried to smother out blazes into a wildfire, so untameable and overwhelming Yoongi can only get caught in it.

When you stand on your toes and lean in to press your lips against his, he doesn't move to stop you. What remains of his cigarette falls to the floor by his feet, forgotten.

.

.

.

It’s disgustingly easy falling back into bed with Yoongi. You’re partly to blame, though, for having built your world around him, for programming your body to only respond to him. When he kisses you and your knees go weak, you can’t imagine anyone else getting you this keyed up. His hands play you with as much skill as a virtuoso masters his instrument, plucking sigh after sigh of pleasure from your lips.

“These are cute.”

His thumb plays with the small bow adorning the front of your brand new pair of underwear. A self-care gift to yourself. They'd looked nice when you'd tried them on but now they look slightly out of place - the ruffled, pale pink fabric a stark contrast against his black bed sheets.

“Yeah…” You lift your hips, trying to entice him without needing to voice out your needs. “Wanted to get laid tonight.”

“Yeah?” Yoongi smiles but there’s an edge to it. He laughs as he snaps the band of your lace underwear against your hipbone. “You planned on bringing any old guy home tonight?”

Yoongi doesn't get jealous. But - sometimes - he gets weirdly possessive, intent on reminding you how only he affects you. It's silly, this need for validation, especially because you've never shied away from telling him how much you want him. You suppose that's just another difference between the two of you - you speak love in words, him through actions.

“Uh-huh. Wanted to forget.”

“Hmm.”

His hands continue to map out your body. He's lazy about it, like time isn't important - even though the both of you have to be up by seven to catch your morning lectures.

“Found someone but - wasn’t fun. Only thought about - ah - you.”

“He would’ve been so lucky, though. Look at you.” His hands travel up your thighs, opening up your legs further so that you’re exposed shamelessly. “So fuckin' pretty.”

Your mind flickers back to the guy you'd danced with earlier. You can't even remember what he looks like, let alone his name. All you know is that no one in that club you could have gone home with tonight could ever measure up to this.

“You still get so wet, kitten.” Yoongi kisses down your neck while deft fingers slide under the band of your underwear. He swipes through the small puddle of arousal, his fingers ice cold against your heat.

A moan escapes your lips, your hips pushing down against his hand in search for more friction. He lets you do as you please for a few drawn out seconds before pinning your hips in place, growling against your ear in warning.

“Tell me,” He forces you to hold his stare. “Would you have let him play with your pussy, hm?”

You bite your lips, hesitant. “N-no.”

“Liar.” Yoongi kisses you, tongue pressing against your own, until you can’t think straight. “You think he would’ve gotten you this wet? Sopping like this?”

His fingers thrust harder to prove his point, loud squelches ringing in your ears. It’s so fucking embarrassing to hear the proof of your desire but Yoongi smirks, amused by your discomfort.

“No, no.” You moan, pussy clamping to keep him buried deep. “Only y-you. I’m yours.”

“That’s right, kitten. I trained your pussy to take cock, get it this fuckin’ wet.” He yanks off your new - now sodden - pair of underwear and stares between your legs, famished. A shiver runs down your spine, each filthy word going straight to your core. "Gonna make you squirt all over my tongue. Remind you who this pussy belongs to."

"Fuck." You squeeze your eyes shut, afraid that the image of Yoongi's head between your thighs will be enough material to push you over.

"Look at me." Yoongi slaps your thigh, his expression unforgiving. "You're gonna watch me while I eat this pussy."

You nod, already half delirious. You know you're no match for his tongue - a fact he loves reminding you the best way he knows how. Before meeting Yoongi, you'd always been wary of the idea of oral sex. What if you smelled weird? Looked weird? You'd never imagined a guy could actually get off eating you out but Yoongi literally thrives off the sounds you make when his lips are attached to your throbbing clit. He wants you loud, neighbors be damned.

"Cum whenever you want," he instructs, lowering his head so that he's eye level your soaked cunt. Hunger is set deep on every line of his face, the muscles in his jaw tense from having to hold himself back.

You blink, not believing him for a second.

"Cum," he challenges, his pupils dark with arousal. "But I'm not gonna stop until you're begging for my cock."

[mapofthesea]

ceos!rapline x reader, afab!reader, poly!rapline, bi!rapline

genre: smut (pwp), fluff

word count: 6.1k 

summary: having three ceo boyfriends comes with its perks- namely the financial freedom to pursue your artistic talents and always getting the jewelry you ask for- but like everything, your luxuries come at a price. 

a price that just so happens to be arriving in their office to satisfy them at every call.

warnings: this is SMUT! They’re all fucking, okay? Everyone is also very in love, rapline are little bi babies. Swearing and tension (related to business things that have the boys pent up), they are all sickeningly in love. Specific smut warnings include: dom!rapline x sub!reader, dirty talk, intentional voyeurism, praise and degradation, oral (m and f receiving), spanking, spitting, hair pulling, grinding (in several varieties), technically public sex but behind closed doors, unprotected sex (hey, don’t do this irl), anal play, double penetration, multiple orgasms, cum eating, overstimulation, aftercare ofc!

an: hi, I’m back to write about the nasty things I dream about sometimes. This one is pretty intense so please read the warnings above carefully, and as always if you’re under 18 or uncomfortable with the content pleaseeee do not read it. I do not proofread so if there are typos I apologize! (ps the title is inspired by one of my favorite songs about sex, so do yourself a favor and listen to Natural by The Driver Era if you haven’t!)

Keep reading

[btssmutgalore-deactivated202308]

GOOD BOY ‖ one

When a college trip gets too boring, you decide to play a game with a guy who has a crush on you.

word count: 8.4k genre: smut [sub!jimin]

» Good Boy – one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen

Keep reading

[here2bbtstrash]

look down on me like that - masterlist (explicit)

genre: slow burn enemies to lovers hatefucking coworkers au, smut (w some eventual angst)

pairing: yoongi x reader ft. chaotic bestie jimin & cutie coworker jungkook

summary: your asshole coworker min yoongi has made it his personal mission to ruin your life.

contains: explicit sexual content - enemies/coworkers to lovers, hate sex, accidental voyeurism, semi-public sex, dirty talk, mutual teasing, slow burn, a whole lotta general banter, truly excessive alcohol consumption, & prepare for extreme secondhand embarrassment

🖤 each individual chapter will have its own warnings! please read them and proceed with caution where appropriate 🖤

✨ read on AO3 ✨ main masterlist ✨ chapter updates! ✨

chapter one 7.2k - “I still can’t believe you actually lied your way into this job.”

chapter two 6.1k - “Do you like tteokbokki?”

chapter three 8.2k - “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked what you saw.”

chapter four 8.2k - “Yeah, you like that?”

chapter five 11.4k - “Do you want to hear a funny story?”

chapter six 6.2k - “If you want it so bad, then beg for it.”

chapter seven 8.9k - “Oh my god. You do have a weakness.”

chapter eight 15.3k - “I’m sorry, is this a booty call?”

chapter nine 16.0k - “And the Grammy goes to…”

[1kook]

new parent syndrome

— kim namjoon x (f) reader

SUMMARY You love Namjoon, honest. But you love your daughter Hyejoo even more— it’s not a controversial sentiment when you know he’s the same way! —and going back to a regular adult life sans kids absolutely sucks. (Or so you thought.) WARNINGS dilf!joon, dreamy husband joon, loving parents au, jimin is also a dad, bathtub sexy times, exhibitionism 😳 kinda sorta, tiny praise kink, joon calls her wifey TT, fingering, cunninglingus, doggy style, it’s kinda cheesy n romantic /.\, unprotected sex, …. impreg kink RATINGS m (18+) WC 9.5k 

NOTES writing parent fics is harder than i thought :/ i had this idea last week n was like yes, lets write this fic that absolutely no one asked for… except me! <3 so here we are, fantasizing about dreamy dad joon…. as always i have to thank rumu ( @kigurumu​ ) who is kind enough to edit these n b like that don’t make no sense -_- anyway lemme know what u think !! enjoy !!

Keep reading

[tayegi]

Fuck, Marry, or Kill (m)

I blame @chokemejimin for ruining my mind.

Warning: Graphic sex and brief mention of blood

Word Count: 9,859

“Ok, Jin, it’s your turn,” You lazily drawl out, half-heartedly throwing a pretzel at him to catch his attention, “Fuck, marry, or kill: Hani, Hyuna, and Lee Gukjoo.”

Jungkook boos you at once, “That’s way too easy!”

You chortle at his outraged expression, “I don’t care, I like Jin.”

“You made me choose between Bang PD, Manager Sejin, and Kang Hodong!”

The other two maknae line members burst into laughter at the foot of the couch, Jimin turning to bury his face in your lap in amusement. “Still can’t believe you chose to kill Sejin!”

“Hodong is a very illustrious athlete!” The maknae yells at them in response.

You affectionately run your fingers through Jimin’s hair when he’s overcome with giggles again, “Shut up, kid, and let Jin answer!”

The eldest member takes another moment to think his answer through before he answers, “Fuck Hani, obviously.”

The younger members roll their eyes at the stereotypical answer, “Obviously.”

“Marry Gukjoo, kill Hyuna.”

There’s a brief silence in the living room. Then—

“Wait what?!”

Everyone turns to stare at him in shock, “What?!”

Jin simply blinks his innocent doe eyes and takes another sip of his beer, “Gukjoo knows how to cook. She’s definitely wife material.”

“Yes, but how could you possibly pick her over Hyuna?!”

Keep reading

[here2bbtstrash]

the shape of your body (explicit)

genre: fluffy slowburn smut

pairing: jimin x reader

summary: the same day you finally manage to speak to your months-long public transit crush, you end up seeing much more of him than you bargained for.

word count: 24k 🙇‍♀️

contains: explicit sexual content~*~ (after a slow burn lmao) - new york city grad school AU, strangers to lovers, reader is an art student, public transit thirsting, jimin is a dancer and a nude model, namgi and vhope as side characters, basically everyone is gay (they're ART STUDENTS in NEW YORK CITY it's called realism 💅), a smidge of member x member side character relationships, jimin is biromantic demisexual 👀, conversations about body image issues/past relationship struggles/demisexuality and libido, soooo much making out, a couple "failed attempts" at sex, accidental voyeurism (but not how you think lmao YOU'LL SEE), showering together non-sexually, and: fingering, clit stim, nipple play, come eating/sharing 🤭 an attempted blowjob, face sitting, & protected sex (multiple rounds 🥵)

A/N: asjdshgkdfjgs i can't believe it's done 😭 there were so many times i thought i would never finish this fic !!! i have too many friends to thank for talking me off of SEVERAL ledges where i was convinced this whole thing was trash and that i should just stick to short porn or perhaps simply never write again. i'm so glad i saw this one through because there are concepts in here that are deeply important and personal to me wehhh 🫠 i sincerely hope y'all enjoy this one!! thank u for enduring mostly radio silence while i was in jimin lockdown, and of course, happy early birthday to mini, the light of my mf life 🥰💜 (oh and LDOMLT ch 8 is coming next so buckle tf up bitches 👀)

an eternity of smooches to @haliiimede for beta reading and just generally being the best fucking person on planet earth ✨

read on AO3!

~*~

You’ve taken the subway thousands of times since moving to New York.

Morning rides, squeezed nearly to death between commuters in suits blinking back sleep and school-uniformed kids scream-laughing and paper coffee cups gripped tight by winter-numb fingers.

Long trips with your sketchbook on your lap, riding the line all the way to Pelham Bay Park and back, to surface above ground out where there’s a little more space to breathe, until the setting sun floods orange glow between the buildings just before you descend again.

Late nights coming home, Namjoon’s head thudding back against the train window behind him as he dozes off, one arm thrown around your shoulder to ward off any drunk creeps, his free hand interlaced with Yoongi’s on his other side.

It’s always been the three of you, first in friendship, and now that the two of them have figured out they’re something more, you don’t mind it. But when it’s late and you’ve had enough drinks to feel warm all the way through, to melt something open inside of you, and you glance over to see a loving flicker of eyelashes exchanged as Namjoon leans down and presses a kiss to Yoongi’s temple, you can’t help it.

There’s a little bit of an ache there, right behind your ribs. Sometimes.

But mostly, when it comes to the train, you take the 6 to school. You go through the motions this morning the same as you always do: headphones around your neck, bag slung over your shoulder, immediately dropping into the first empty seat you see as the train doors shudder closed and the car starts to move. Six stops down, 51st street to Astor Place, five days a week, you know it like a heartbeat.

You just wish you knew him, too.

Subway Boy, as Yoongi affectionately labeled him the time you got two pitchers of margaritas deep and made the mistake of confessing to your roommates about your crush— if it can even be called that. Can you truly have a crush on someone you know nothing about, not even their name?

Well, you know a few things.

He must live further north than you, because on the days you see him, he’s already on the train when you board at 51st.

He must like music, because he always has a set of fancy bluetooth earbuds in.

You’re pretty sure he’s an athlete of some sort, because he’s usually carrying a gym bag—and because during this summer’s heat wave, the one and only time you’ve seen him wear shorts, you nearly fainted at the thick, defined muscles of his thighs.

He has an affinity for jewelry, delicate silver always glinting through the multiple piercings in his ears. At odds with this, he seems to prefer to dress comfortably, and you’ve seen him in enough branded school t-shirts and sweats to figure he must also be an NYU student, though you can’t say for sure if he’s undergrad or graduate.

You deeply hope you’re not crushing on someone who still needs a fake ID to drink, but there’s no way to be certain.

Most importantly, you know that he is absolutely stunning. Elegantly handsome, with expressive deep brown eyes, skin like glass, and round cheeks and full lips that flush frozen pink on particularly frigid New York days. His hair has changed colors a few times over the months that have passed since you first took notice of him, but it’s currently a honey blonde, and long enough that he often reaches up to card a hand through it. He does it now, pushing loose strands back to expose his forehead as he frowns down at his phone.

On days where you share the same car, you notice very little else that happens on the ride, thoroughly entranced in Subway Boy’s beauty and his mystery. The train could probably catch fire and you’d miss it entirely.

Today happens to be one of those days, and excitement glitters in your bloodstream as you realize he’s seated across from you. The rush of seeing him always feels like its own reward, some kind of cosmic sign that the day is going to be a good one.

And then the train stops moving.

There’s an audible reaction from a few people in the car, and you glance up a moment later when a voice buzzes over the intercom. You’re able to make out “attention passengers” and very little after that, just the basics about some sort of unforeseen interruption of service and that the train should resume moving again soon.

You sigh, knowing very well that the MTA’s definition of ‘soon’ does not often align with typical human expectations. Figuring you’ve got some time to kill, you reach into your bag to retrieve your sketchbook and the first pencil you can dig out of the bottom.

“What did they say?” A voice, quiet and deep, surprises you before you can even flip to your in-progress page.

You glance up to find Subway Boy staring at you, forearms braced on his knees as he leans forward into the gap between his seat and yours. He’s got one bluetooth earbud pinched between his fingertips and a confused look on his face, having clearly missed the announcement.

Heat floods your face at the feeling of his eyes fixed on you, and it takes you a second to form a response. “Uh— I didn’t get most of it. Something about unforeseen interruption. And that we’ll be moving again soon.”

A muscle works in his jaw as he rolls his eyes. “Typical.”

“I don’t think they know what ‘soon’ means,” you murmur, mostly to yourself as you tear your gaze away from Subway Boy and return to the sketchbook in your lap, rifling through to find your latest half-finished drawing. When you hear him huff a laugh, you have to bite down on the hopeful smile that threatens to shine across your face.

“Definitely not.”

You force yourself to keep your eyes on the page, assuming Subway Boy must go back to his music when he falls silent after his last comment.

With featherlight flicks of your pencil, you start to add a little depth to the quick study you were working on last night, Yoongi’s half-peeled tangerine that he left abandoned on the coffee table when he stepped out onto the fire escape for a smoke.

Subway Boy’s voice catches you off guard a second time. “Are you drawing?”

You bite down on your lip again, a nervous habit, and you nod as you tilt the page so he can see from across the car.

“Wow.” You wonder if you’re imagining the way his voice seems to soften a little. “You’re really good. Are you an artist?”

You can’t help it— your gaze flits up to meet his again. It’s nearly overwhelming to lock eyes with your Subway Boy and hear him compliment you, like something out of a wild daydream. “I guess so,” you remark, the corner of your mouth tugging up into a small smile as you say it. “I’ve certainly paid NYU enough money in my attempts to become one.”

“Know the feeling,” he scoffs, but his eyes smile back, pulled into crescent moons.

“What did you pay them for?”

“Currently, a dual MFA/MA in dance and… teaching dance. Really went all-in on the dancer thing.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen automatically. You’ve wondered— and yes, occasionally drunkenly speculated with your roommates— what Subway Boy’s line of work might be, but you have no idea why dancer never occurred to you. Because now all the pieces suddenly fall together in front of you: the toned muscles that flex beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt, the natural grace he exudes, not to mention his perfect posture.

Of course he’s a dancer. It makes perfect sense.

It occurs to you, a beat too late, that a wide-eyed ‘oh’ is not the most normal response to a truly innocuous answer to a question asked of a random stranger.

But the smile in his eyes doesn’t falter. “I feel like I see you on this train a lot.”

Your stomach flutters like butterfly wings, and you have to look away, back down to the safety of your sketchbook. “Really?”

There’s an extra pause before he speaks again. “Man, sorry. Think I misread that. Now I feel creepy. I promise I’ve only noticed you a normal amount.” Your eyes snap back up to find him wincing slightly, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“No, no, I’m— it’s not—” you stammer, trying to recover. “I, uh— me too, I have too. Noticed you. A normal amount. I… I don’t know why I just pretended like I didn’t.”

Subway Boy leans forward, head dropping down with a genuine laugh that shakes his shoulders, and you can’t help but laugh too, out of sheer embarrassment. He’s beaming when he rights himself again, and it sends a thrill buzzing through you, all the way down to your fingertips still clutched tight to your pencil.

“That makes me feel better,” he admits. “At least we’re both creepy.”

As if the universe itself is intervening to save you from any further humiliation, the train shudders back to life and begins to move again. The sigh you breathe is a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.

“That’s definitely a new record,” you say shyly as you move to shove your things back in your bag. “Maybe the MTA actually looked up what ‘soon’ means.”

His focus is tracked over your shoulder when you look up again, and his eyes dance left to right to chase the patterns in the subway tile as you pull into the next station.

“Guess it’s a miracle,” he says softly, not making eye contact.

“Must be,” you murmur back, letting your gaze drop to the floor, unable to hide your smile now.

He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you, but the warm flush stays in your face for the rest of the ride. When the train pulls into the Astor Place station, you and Subway Boy get to your feet simultaneously, so quickly that your bags knock together as you pull them over your shoulders.

“Sorry,” you say in unison, immediately sharing an exhaled laugh at the synchronicity of the moment.

The doors slide open and he gestures for you to go first before following after. It’s a surprise— he’s never gotten off at Astor before, and when he doesn’t take the option of heading in another direction but instead falls into lockstep next to you, you seize the opportunity.

“Astor Place today, huh?” You hope the observation still falls into the category of ‘noticing a normal amount’.

“Yeah, first day of a new gig. What about you? Class?”

You nod. “Pretty standard stuff. But we start a new unit today, so that’s fun.”

“You in grad school too?”

“Yup, MFA in studio art.” You can’t help but tease, just a little. “Only one master’s degree for me, I’m such a slacker.”

His eyes squint again as he smiles. “Hey, I’m just glad you’re not, like, eighteen.”

“I thought that too!” You keep talking before you can stop yourself. “I mean, when I was… noticing. I distinctly remember thinking, like, please let me not be thirsting over a straight-up child right now.”

“Ahh...” Subway Boy trails off, and you can see a faint pink starting to blossom in the apples of his cheeks. “You were thirsting?”

You can’t help but scrunch your nose up slightly, resisting the urge to full-body cringe at your own stupid mouth. “We are now officially both creepy.”

He fidgets a little with the strap of the dance bag slung over his shoulder. “Hopefully I’m living up to the hype.”

You’re grateful to reach the art building before you can dig your grave any deeper. You nod your head in the direction of the glass doors as you slow to a stop, and he does, too. “This is me.”

“It’s actually me, too,” he remarks, glancing up at the building as if to double-check. “But I have a little bit, so I’m gonna grab a coffee I think. But it was nice to finally talk to you. Not that— sorry, that was weird. Take out the finally. It was good to talk. Meet a fellow starving artist and all.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment, until you finally work up the courage to ask the question. “Do you have a name?”

“Oh!” His eyes widen, more heat-blush coloring his face. “Yeah. Park Jimin. Probably could’ve led with that.”

You give him your name, and his voice is like music when he repeats it back.

“Well, good luck in class,” Jimin says with a nod. “And hopefully I’ll see you around sometime.” A smile toys at the corner of his mouth, and then he pauses as his words seem to catch up to him. “Well, I mean. I guess I know I will. On the— train— yeah, I’m gonna go before I say any more stupid things.”

“Bye Jimin,” you giggle, and he gives a shy departing wave before he spins on his heel. As he walks away, you can’t help but notice the way he drops his gaze and shakes his head, like he’s thoroughly embarrassed by his social performance.

And just like that, Subway Boy has a name— one that loops in your head as you float to class, barely feeling your feet touch the floor. Park Jimin. It’s sweet like him, warm sunshine in your veins as you shoulder open the door to the studio, grab a seat, and start to get set up.

A voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin as Kim Taehyung leans in, having occupied the seat next to you while you were off in la-la land. “Know what the new unit is?” You start to shake your head, then realize it was a rhetorical question when he waggles his eyebrows and continues. “Life drawing. Ready for some naked people?”

You roll your eyes and grab at the strings of his gray beanie, pulling it down over his fluffy hair and eyes in one swift tug. “Bro, we are literally in grad school. Stop acting like a virgin.”

“Like you weren’t thinking it too,” he grumbles to himself as he shoves the hat back up his forehead.

You shoot him a look as your professor signals the class to settle and launches in. It’s the same routine as each unit you’ve rotated through in your graduate studio, so you only half-listen, mostly distracted by Taehyung tearing open the paper wrapper of a red heart-shaped lollipop and popping it into his mouth. His latest oral fixation in his millionth attempt to quit vaping.

You lean down to dig into your bag, trying to ignore the sound of hard candy clacking against teeth as you fish out both pencils and charcoal to give yourself options. You pull a couple of each out of their cases, glancing up in an attempt to refocus on the professor, who is still talking.

It takes a second for your brain to process the image in front of you. His shy smile has been replaced with a serious, professional expression, but there’s no questioning the familiar face, the posture, the silver jewelry, the way he reaches up to run a hand through his hair. Subway Boy Park Jimin is standing in the center of the room, wearing a short black satin dressing gown.

Your jaw goes slack. It feels like it happens in slow motion as you watch Jimin’s strong hands move down to undo the sash at his waist before he shrugs off the flimsy fabric and lets it fall to the floor. And then he’s not wearing anything at all.

You lose your grip entirely on your handful of pencils, and they hit the studio floor with a clatter that certainly feels deafening, each one choosing to roll off in a different direction.

Taehyung glances over at you, brow slightly creased. The lollipop tucked in his cheek impedes his speech slightly, but not enough that you can’t understand him. “Now who’s the virgin?”

You crouch down, praying that maybe you can gather your things unnoticed, but it already feels like every pair of eyes in the room is burning a hole in your back. To his credit, Taehyung at least helps a little, extending a sandaled foot to kick any pencils he can reach over towards you. You scramble around the room to chase after the rest, and you can’t bear to look up and see if Jimin is watching you or not. You’re not sure which would be worse.

Fighting the urge to army crawl out of the room, you grip both hands tightly around your materials as you return to your seat, then tuck everything into the tray of the easel in front of you. You’re a professional, you tell yourself. It’s not like it’s your first time drawing someone nude.

It’s just your first time doing it when you happen to have a crush on them.

But it’s fine. You let out an exhale to ground yourself, then pick up a pencil. It’s just a body.

You vaguely recall hearing your professor explain that you’d be moving through ten quick-sketch poses to begin with, each held for only a few minutes, before switching to a few longer sessions for the rest of class. As you were too busy chasing your pencils around the room, you’ve missed the first pose entirely, and you have to work quickly to get a very rough outline of the second before Jimin moves again at the professor’s instruction.

He switches so fluidly from one pose to the next, and you have so little time, it’s enough to get you out of your head just trying to keep up. You find yourself falling comfortably into a flow state, focused on little more than lines and shapes in front of you and the act of reproducing them on your page. It’s an exercise you know well, and the repetition of it soothes you.

The studio is quiet, save for the scratching of pencils on paper and the soft classical music your professor has switched on.

By the time you finish sketching the tenth pose, it feels like you can breathe a little easier, and your professor offers Jimin a quick break just as you lean back to admire your work. You do your best to quickly duck behind your easel as he stretches, then reaches for a bottle of water set on a nearby table.

Taehyung removes his sheet of sketches and sets it aside before leaning in, pressing his face against his easel to match yours. “He’s cute. Bet he gets like, infinite ass-pussy. Just the absolute most.”

“Shut up, Tae!” You jerk your foot out to kick the leg of his chair, and a boxy grin stretches over his face as he giggles. You stare daggers back. “You’re too damn horny today. Like you didn’t just get your ass eaten in the supply closet last week.” The rumor had spread through your cohort practically overnight— probably started by Taehyung himself.

The menace in question shoots you an over-exaggerated wink. “And I’d do it again, too.”

You roll your eyes. “Nasty.”

The professor claps to get everyone’s attention again, and you peer around your easel to watch as Jimin resumes his place at the center of the room. You settle in for the first of a few longer, more detailed sketches, trying desperately to keep your cool about it. But Jimin is unquestionably gorgeous.

He turns to the side for the first pose, arms wrapped around his muscular torso and eyes downcast, fingertips and thumb resting over his neck and chin as if to cradle his own face in his hand. After a long stretch of time where you manage to get most of a sketch done, the professor cues him to move into a second pose, and he faces the back wall, reaching up to drape his arms over each other, crossed wrists resting delicately on the crown of his head.

You could easily see him as a statue carved out of marble, and you try to ignore the flutter of your heartbeat as you attempt to translate his beauty onto your page each time. You have to hold in several sighs as you work on outlining the strong, toned muscles of his back and thighs— not to mention his perky ass. You can’t help but wonder if the rest of the class is struggling silently, too.

You’re beginning to think you might survive after all when the professor asks Jimin to move again and he does, shaking his body out slightly before reaching to grab a provided stool and shift it to the center of the room. He takes a seat, abdominals flexing as he leans back on his hands and unabashedly lets his legs fall open.

Fuck. You nearly snap your pencil in half.

You try desperately to keep it together as you start your third sketch with unsteady hands. The minutes tick by, and you aren’t aware of Taehyung’s eyes on your paper until you hear his stupid whisper again. “Why aren’t you drawing his dick?”

He’s not wrong. There is a noticeable blank spot at the center of your page. “I’m getting there,” you huff. “Worry about your own sketch, Tae.”

“Girl, you are literally doing detail shading on his legs and he doesn’t even have a penis. What is he, a Ken doll?”

You grit your teeth and refuse to dignify Taehyung with a response. Fine. You can do this, you tell yourself. Don’t think. Just look and draw. It’s not a big deal.

With a hard swallow, you trace your eyes down his body, and… well, you don’t know what you were expecting. It’s just a soft penis resting limp between his legs, framed by an extremely regular pair of balls. Nothing scary, though you can’t quite will the heat back out of your face, can’t manage to silence the recurring thought that makes your stomach drop— it’s cute.

You resist the urge to smack your head against your easel as you finally fill in your sketch’s dick.

You somehow manage to survive the rest of class, but relief still floods your veins when your professor signals for everyone to wrap up what they’re doing for the day. Jimin starts to come alive again from the fixed pose, tilting his head to one side until something cracks audibly in his neck. You tear your gaze away for fear that his eyes might find yours, and shove everything into your bag as quickly as you can, not even caring what ends up where.

“Where’s the fire?” Taehyung questions beside you, but you ignore him.

You zip your bag up and sling it over your shoulder, then make a beeline for the exit, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the floor. It’s only once the studio door swings shut behind you that you feel like you can breathe again, and you have to keep yourself from outright sprinting to your next class.

~*~

The rest of the day rushes by in an overwhelming blur, your focus entirely shot by the events of the morning. You collapse into a seat on your train home, hugging your bag to your chest, thankful for the first time in your life to not be sharing a subway car with Park Jimin.

When you turn your keys in the lock and stumble in the front door of the apartment, the divine smell of what could only be Yoongi’s cooking immediately hits you full-force. You find him in the kitchen with a towel thrown over his shoulder, searing a large steak in a cast iron pan for what must be a planned date night with Namjoon.

You wrap your arms around his tiny waist from behind as you approach. He responds with his usual greeting: a soft grunt of mild discomfort.

“Can I ask you a question?” you ask, trying to sound as sweet as possible.

“You just did,” Yoongi notes.

You decide to let his sass go, since you really do need help. “Two more?” Yoongi hums, somewhat affirmative, and you continue. “I know you work like 47 jobs and never get any time off—“

“Some of us have to pay rent without the luxury of stipends or rich parents, yes—“

“But is there any way I could… maybe possibly encroach upon your date night just this once? It’s an emergency. I need advice.”

Yoongi sighs, and you shift to peek over his shoulder, arms still wrapped around him as you watch the way he tilts the pan to one side, collecting butter on a spoon to baste over the steak as it cooks. You squish your cheek into his bicep.

“Lucky for you,” he begins, his tone relenting, “Namjoonie just called. They’ve got him working late to prep for the exhibition next month. So date night was canceled anyway.”

“Aw, Yoongiiiii.” You squeeze him tight enough that he makes another disgruntled noise, and you finally release your grip. “I’ll be your girlfriend tonight.”

He rolls his eyes, but willingly plays along. “Then get the wine, darling?”

You fall into a typical routine: Yoongi pulls a tray of roasted vegetables out of the oven as he lets the steak rest, while you grab a bottle of red at his instruction and fight with the corkscrew in an attempt to get it open. Yoongi watches you, slow-blinking, unamused.

“You wouldn’t last an hour in the restaurant industry.”

“Either help me, or shut up,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

When you finally get settled at your tiny kitchen table, Yoongi nods as if to prompt you while he fills each wine glass with a heavy pour. “Let’s hear it.”

You take a deep breath before launching in and recounting the events of your day, trying not to choke as you simultaneously stuff your face with food. Yoongi eats and listens quietly, no discernible reaction on his face save the occasional lift of his eyebrows. He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest as you finish detailing the way you ran out of the studio the minute class ended.

“Alright. So you saw Subway Boy naked, big deal. Do you know how many dicks I’ve seen?”

You groan. “Spare me the details, please.”

“But this is what you wanted, right?” You shrug, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t play coy now. You’ve been lusting after this kid for months like a weirdo. So why are you stressed?”

“Because!” you huff, frustrated. “It’s— it’s out of order. It’s not like he chose to get naked in front of me specifically, he obviously just thought it was going to be a roomful of strangers. And it seemed like maybe we could be friends or something, but now I don’t know if I should keep pursuing that or just leave him alone. I want to be respectful, but I don’t want him to think I took one look at his penis and decided I didn’t like him anymore, but then it’s like, how do I hold a conversation when he and I both know I have seen his penis, not only seen but studied it, drawn it, and will continue to, weekly, in detail, from multiple angles—“

“You are absolutely overthinking this,” Yoongi laughs into his glass of wine, downing the rest before he continues. “Just get on the fucking train and say hi like a normal, well-adjusted human. This is my advice to you.”

You sigh as you shove a roasted potato in your mouth. “At least you’re a good cook.”

“I’m a great cook,” Yoongi corrects you as he gets to his feet. “Now help me with these dishes.”

~*~

Yoongi’s advice continues to echo in your brain as you lapse back into something like normalcy for the rest of the week.

When the day of your studio class rolls around again, you find yourself hustling not to miss the train, having hit snooze on your alarm a few too many times that morning. You fly down the subway steps just as the 6 is pulling into the station, and you try to ignore the way your pulse is already quickening, telling yourself it’s just from rushing and nothing else.

Pulling the strap of your bag up on your shoulder, you make it to the platform just as the train doors slide open, and your heart instantly leaps into your throat. There he is, leaning against a pole, overwhelmingly beautiful as ever. Park Jimin.

He’s scrolling through something on his phone and hasn’t yet looked up to notice you, and you find yourself frozen in place, jostled angrily by commuters exiting and boarding the train on either side of you.

Panic floods your veins. There’s no time to talk yourself off the ledge, no time to remember Yoongi’s words of wisdom, no time to do anything but make a snap decision. So you do the only thing that feels right: you turn around and sprint back up the stairs and out of the subway station.

The sidewalk is equally bustling, and you try to dodge people while you think through what to do despite the way your head is spinning. You were already going to be cutting it close for time today, and you don’t exactly have the disposable income for a taxi or an Uber. As you try to settle your racing thoughts, your eyes alight on a rack of Citibikes.

Fuck it. You don’t have a better option. Securing your bag on your back, you quickly scan the code to unlock the bike, then shove your phone in your pocket and swing your leg over the seat.

You’ve never biked in Manhattan traffic before, but it can’t be that difficult, you tell yourself. Definitely easier than sharing a subway car with Park Jimin.

Thankfully the street you’re on has a defined bike path, and you do your best to follow the flow of traffic, squeezing your hand brakes to slow to a stop when you hit a red light. It’s been years since you’ve ridden a bike that wasn’t stationary, but it comes back to you relatively easily, like— well, riding a bike.

When you hit a long stretch of green lights, you do your best to pick up speed, trying to make up for lost time. An approaching red light threatens to slow you down again, and you breathe a sigh of relief as it flips to green at the last possible second.

Just as your front tire rolls into the intersection, a deafening car horn nearly gives you a heart attack. You instinctively slam your grip tight around your brakes, and your bike screeches to a halt so fast you’re almost flung over the handlebars. A taxi just barely veers around you as it plows down the intersecting avenue, and you gasp for air, adrenaline coursing through your system.

Holy shit.

You drop one foot to the ground for leverage as you try to get your pulse back under control— you’re pretty sure you just saw your life flash before your eyes. Reality feels a million miles away, but you’re vaguely aware of someone shouting after the car as it speeds down the street.

“Fucking asshole!”

It takes a few seconds for you to realize that it’s a familiar voice, and when you do, you whip around as best you can with a bike between your legs.

“Yoongi?!”

“Oh my god,” Yoongi groans, knuckles blanching as he presses down on his own brakes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You squint, taking in the helmet strapped over his wavy dark hair and the insulated bag tucked into the basket on the front of his bike. “Since when do you deliver food?”

He grimaces, speaking up to be heard over the noise of traffic. “I just do it to make extra money when my hours suck.”

“What about the coffee shop?”

He shakes his head. “They only have me opening Mondays and Wednesdays right now.”

“What about the bar?”

“That’s just weekends, reliably. Sometimes extra evenings, but only if someone calls out.”

“What about the—”

“Christ, woman!” Yoongi cuts you off with a growl. “The food’s gonna get cold if I have to sit here and run through my entire résumé with you! Are you alright? Why aren’t you taking the subway?”

“Because!” you snap back. “There is a man on that train whose dick I’ve seen and I… I don’t know how to handle it! Okay?!” Though you don’t intend to raise your voice, it comes out loud enough that a group of high school kids on their phones exchange stifled giggles as they fast-walk around you.

“Well you need to be fucking careful,” Yoongi chides. “Biking in the city is not for the faint of heart. And if I’m not allowed to give in to my suicidal ideation, you’re not allowed to crack your head open on the pavement all because you’re trying to avoid a penis.”

“Fine,” you spit back through gritted teeth. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to class.” You push off the asphalt, legs still shaking a little with excess nerves as you re-find your balance and make your way cautiously through the intersection.

The rush of wind in your ears isn’t quite loud enough to drown out Yoongi calling after you as you bike away. “It’s only weird if you make it weird!”

When you somehow make it to Astor Place in one piece, you dock your bike and quickly sprint to the building, well aware that you’re already late. It’s only once you push the studio door open that you realize how truly frazzled and out of breath you are, and though you keep your gaze fixed on the floor, you can feel every pair of eyes in the room on you. You hold a hand up in an apologetic wave and hurry to find your seat.

Trying to collect yourself, you begin to unpack your materials as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the class. You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear Kim Taehyung’s voice beside you.

“You’re sweaty. Why are you so sweaty?”

He’s got an eyebrow cocked when you look over, and you give him the most powerful death glare you can muster, enough that it must actually scare him. “Shutting up now,” Taehyung murmurs, voice shaking slightly as he returns to his own sketches, and you huff an exhale as you attempt to catch up to the rest of the group.

Class passes surprisingly quickly once you manage to get your breath back, much in the same way it did the week prior: you do your best to compartmentalize the body in front of you from the human person you have a giant, embarrassing crush on. It goes decently well in the moments where Jimin is frozen in a fixed pose, just lines and curves and light and shadow for you to emulate. During the breaks when he comes alive again, you hide out behind your easel, trying to ignore Taehyung’s inane bullshit and wishing you could disappear entirely.

The second your professor dismisses everyone for the day, you stuff your things back into your bag, hoping to once again speed-walk out of the room.

But despite your better judgment, you can’t help yourself this time. As you get to your feet, you glance up to watch Jimin pull his dressing gown back on, only to realize his eyes are already on you.

You’re distinctly aware of how much of a mess you must look from biking over, and the fact that you almost assuredly smudged charcoal on your face when you reached up absentmindedly to scratch an itch mid-sketch.

Jimin’s plush lips turn up in the smallest of smiles, and the bottom drops out of your stomach.

With a hard swallow, you avert your gaze from his, sling your bag over your shoulder, and quickly make your escape through the studio door. You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat even after he’s out of your sight, and your hands shake like a leaf all the way to your next class.

~*~

That night, sleep evades you until the early hours of the morning, and it feels like you’ve only just begun to doze off when the harsh noise of your alarm pulls you up from dreaming. You roll over in bed and glare accusingly at your phone, then shut it off, promptly letting the waves drag you under once more, seminar be damned.

It’s nearly noon when you finally make it out of bed and stumble into the living room in your sweats. Namjoon is curled up in his reading chair, a feat for someone of his size, surrounded as always by his massive stack of ever-changing ‘to read’ books. He glances up from the one that’s open on his lap, clearly surprised to see you.

“No class?” Namjoon’s voice is rough-edged, like he’s only just woken up himself.

“Skipped,” you grunt. His eyes track you as you cross the room and collapse face-first onto the couch.

“Is this about the penis?”

The cushion muffles your groan. “Not you too.”

You hear the distinct fluttering sound of Namjoon closing his book and shifting in his seat to give you his undivided attention. “Seems like you want to talk about it.”

You turn your head to the side to take in your roommate. “Maybe. Are you gonna give me the same stupid advice your boyfriend did?”

He smiles softly, one dimple flexing at the corner of his mouth. “I can try to be gentler.”

You huff as you flip onto your side, pressing your palms together and slipping them under your cheek. “Sounds like you’ve got the details already, so please. Enlighten me. Tell me how I’m supposed to handle seeing this guy naked once a week in the name of art.”

“Didn’t William Blake say ‘Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed’?” Namjoon poses it like a serious question, brow creased as if in contemplation, and you roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Joon, did he? I said enlighten me, not write me a thesis.” You reach up to grab a couch pillow and fling it in his direction, missing by several inches. “Did Blake have anything in there on dealing with a naked crush and trying not to make it weird as fuck?”

“Well, does he seem weirded out by it?” Namjoon counters, patient as ever.

“I don’t know.” You shrug unsurely as you play back your last interaction with Jimin. “He smiled at me yesterday, at the end of class.”

Namjoon steeples his fingers together, leaning forward slightly in his chair, interest clearly piqued. “Okay, and what did you do?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I… threw all my shit in my bag and ran out of the room.” When you crack an eye open again, you can see Namjoon trying and failing to keep the smug smile off his face, his dimples giving him away.

“Maybe you could try smiling back next time?” he gently suggests.

You sigh, because you know he’s right. “You make it sound so easy. What’s next? You’re going to tell me to talk to him?”

He laughs a little. “I’d quote another poet, but I fear you might launch more projectiles at me.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Let’s hear it, nerd.”

Namjoon clears his throat for dramatic effect before launching into a recitation. “‘It’s cool, not tryna put a rush on you / I had to let you know, that I got a crush on you.’”

There’s a wide grin on his face as you sit all the way up. “Did you just quote Biggie Smalls at me?”

“Hey, I appreciate all forms of poetry.”

You feign annoyance, but you can’t quite hide the smile beneath it, and you get to your feet as Namjoon continues to mumble a verse of Crush on You under his breath. “Whatever. I need to do laundry.”

“Oh—” Namjoon pauses to interrupt himself. “Lucky’s closed, by the way.”

Already halfway out of the living room, you whip around again at the mention of the laundromat you’ve been exclusive with for the last few years. “What?”

He nods solemnly. “Me and Yoongi found out the hard way last week. They’re putting in an Equinox.”

Your face twists in disgust. “A stupid bougie gym?! You’ve got to be kidding me. Where am I supposed to wash my fucking clothes?”

“We found a place a few blocks up. Quick Clean, or something like that.” Namjoon shifts to dig his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll send you the address. It’s not bad, just a little more expensive.”

“This is such bullshit,” you groan as you stomp back into your bedroom, the day already off to a terrible start.

In a gentrification-induced rage, you angrily shove the contents of your overflowing laundry hamper into the giant yellow IKEA bag hung up in your closet, just barely managing to fit it all. Glancing at the mirror on the back of the door, you briefly consider changing out of your sweats, or at the very least doing something with your hair, but you shrug it off— it’s not like you’re trying to impress anyone at the damn laundromat.

You grab your headphones off your desk and sling them around your neck, double-check that your sketchbook is still tucked into your bag, then lug everything out to the front hallway. You pull your slides off the shoe rack and slip your socked feet into them.

“Bye, nerd!” you call over your shoulder to Namjoon before the front door slams shut behind you.

By the time you make it to the weird new laundromat, you’re sweaty and pissed off. You knew the walk to Lucky’s by heart, but you had to do this one while looking down at your phone GPS and trying not to get hit by a car. Not an easy feat while carrying every article of clothing you own over one shoulder.

You miss the way the nice old man who owned Lucky’s would greet you warmly and sneak you a cup of coffee from his pot in the back, the way his cat would roll over on the front counter for belly rubs, the way there was always a deeply entertaining telenovela playing on the ancient tiny TV.

The stupid Quick Clean has none of these things, just a shitty pile of magazines in the seating area and weirdly sticky floors. You slam into the front door a little harder than is necessary to push it open, the bell tinkling violently overhead as you enter. The only compliment you can give the place is that it’s relatively dead, save for a couple people on their phones or half-asleep in chairs as they wait on their stuff, and two guys in the corner loading armfuls of wet clothes into a pair of dryers.

You grab a machine a respectful distance away from them and swing the door open when a laugh that’s nearly musical gives you pause. Unable to shake a sense of familiarity, you glance over at your neighbors again, just in time to see one of them reach up to run a hand through his honey blonde hair.

Your IKEA bag hits the sticky floor with an audible thud as panic kickstarts your heart.

This isn’t fucking happening. Of all the laundromats in New York City, you did not just manage to stumble into the one currently being used by Park Jimin.

But even before you can catch a glimpse of his profile, you’re already certain it can’t be anyone else. You’ve spent too much time familiarizing yourself with the slope of his neck, the definition of his forearms, his dainty hands. There’s no mistaking them, adorned today with several silver rings that catch the dim fluorescent light as he grabs more of his clothes from the washer.

The desperate need to turn around and run rises up in your chest, just as before, but this time you steel yourself. You can’t keep running away forever— particularly not when you pulled on your last clean pair of underwear this morning.

A rush of heat floods your face at the thought of the many pairs of underwear in your bag that will soon be sent spinning around this washing machine, where Jimin could easily see, but then it occurs to you that you have seen his penis. Maybe the trade-off will put you on slightly more equal footing.

But you really don’t need to be thinking about Park Jimin’s penis in this laundromat right now.

Shaking your head slightly to try and banish the thought, you set about your laundry routine, trying not to drop any unmentionables on the floor when you dump the contents of your tote into the washer. You dig quarters out of your bag and slot them into the machine, then press the button to start the cycle.

With a final exhale to steady yourself, you turn to look over your shoulder again, only to find Jimin leaning up against the empty dryer next to his, unabashedly watching you with a small smile on his face.

It occurs to you now that you couldn’t have put less effort into your appearance if you tried, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of every random stain on your sweatpants and your extremely fashionable socks and slides combination. Jimin’s just in a white t-shirt and a pair of distressed jeans today, but literally everything looks fresh off the runway on him. You suppress the urge to walk out the door and go lay down in traffic, and instead take Namjoon’s advice: you smile back and even lift your hand in a shy wave.

You drop into an empty chair across from your machine and watch as Jimin starts to cross the room to join you, his eyes never leaving yours. Before he can make it, you suddenly become aware of someone else sliding into the seat beside you.

“You didn’t tell me she was cute, Jimin-ah!”

Eyes wide, you turn to see Jimin’s friend sprawled out next to you, one arm draped lazily over the back of your chair. His wavy dark hair peeks out from under a lime green beanie, and he’s swimming in an oversized long sleeve tucked into baggy pants, cinched tight at the waist with a Gucci belt.

“Jung Hoseok,” he gives you a nod. “Friends call me Hobi. You can call me whatever you like.” The way his wide smile pulls his mouth heart-shaped makes you giggle a little, slightly dazed by whatever the fuck is happening right now.

You hear Jimin sigh as he takes the open seat on your other side. “Please ignore Hoseok’s tendency to come on way too strong. If it makes you feel any better, he’s as gay as they come.”

Hoseok flicks his wrist just so. “Guilty as charged.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” you say with a shrug, your gaze flitting from Jimin to Hoseok and back again. “I have two gay roommates, so.”

Hoseok hums, clearly interested. “Gay together or gay separately?”

“Gay together.”

He narrows his eyes. “Open to a third?”

You can’t help but laugh at the unexpected question. “Uh, I’d have to ask.”

He looks like he’s going to say more, but Jimin interjects. “Hoseok— can we get a minute?”

Hoseok’s lips pull together, fish-like, and he nods as he gets to his feet. “Say no more. I’ll just, uh…” He fumbles, looking around for something to do, then crosses the room to take the open seat next to the sad pile of magazines. “…do a little light reading.” He picks up one at the top of the stack, holding it up for you both to witness. “Oh look, the queen died!”

You bite down on your bottom lip to suppress another laugh, but Jimin’s face is surprisingly serious when you look back at him. “I just want to say one thing,” he murmurs, voice low, “and then I’ll leave you alone.”

Nerves settle in the pit of your stomach like a heavy weight. “Jimin,” you start, and when he opens his mouth to keep talking, you blurt out the first thing you can think of.

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison, and there’s a beat where you both blink, equally taken aback by the other’s apology. It’s quiet apart from the rumble of the laundry machines and the distinct sound of Hoseok smacking the magazine over his mouth, clearly more invested in your plot line.

You break the silence first. “Wait, why are you sorry?”

Jimin’s eyes drop down to the floor, one black boot toeing nervously at the tile. “I figured you were upset with me because I didn’t warn you.”

Your eyes widen in surprise when you play your initial conversation back. “Oh my god— when I said graduate studio art, you… you knew.”

He nods, somewhat remorseful. “I was kind of hoping that maybe it would be a different class, but. Yeah. I figured. I’m really sorry, I should’ve—”

“No, no,” you interrupt. “I get it. I’m not mad, obviously I didn’t even put it together until right now.” You pause for a second and can’t help but smile a little. “And, I mean, how do you just casually work that into your first conversation with someone? ‘Great talking to you, ready to see my dick in five minutes?’”

Jimin’s head tips back when he laughs, his cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink. “Right.”

You can feel your own face grow hot as you realize what you’ve just said. “God, sorry, I didn’t mean to— clearly I don’t know how to handle this. That’s why I wanted to apologize, for avoiding you and being weird.” You twist your hands uncomfortably in your lap. “I’ve just never been in this situation before, and I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to talk given… the…” Every cell in your body screams at you not to say the word ‘dick’ again. “Yeah. I thought it might be easier to keep my distance. Keep it separate.”

Jimin’s eyes drift back up to find yours, and his casual beauty is so stunning, it’s enough to knock the air out of your lungs. He shrugs softly. “I mean, maybe it would be. But I don’t want to.”

“Great,” you manage a laugh, still breathless. “Because I nearly died on a Citibike the day I didn’t take the subway.”

He laughs, too. “Not gonna lie, I missed seeing you on the train.” You’re not expecting it when he extends a hand out. “Friends?”

You realize belatedly that he’s offering a handshake, and you gently take his hand in yours. His skin is soft and warm, a contrast to the cool metal of his rings that press into your palm as he squeezes.

“Friends,” you echo with a smile, squeezing back.

There’s a sudden thump and a cackle as Hoseok falls out of his chair with a peal of laughter. “You are so fucking weird, Jimin-ah!” he gasps from his spot on the floor. “Who shakes hands?!”

The two of them keep you more than entertained until the buzzers on their dryers sound a second apart from each other. You learn that Hoseok and Jimin are roommates, that they met as dance majors in their undergrad program, and that Hoseok now works as an adjunct instructor and freelance choreographer.

“Because some of us decided we wanted to actually make money instead of digging ourselves further into debt,” he explains with a sly grin and smack delivered to the back of Jimin’s head.

You watch as they meticulously fold, Hoseok regularly leaning over to redo Jimin’s work and chide him about wrinkles, and then they stack the clean laundry back into their bags and head for the exit.

“Bye, new friend!” Hoseok calls as he maneuvers the door open with his foot, and Jimin pauses at the threshold, the bell overhead tinkling gently.

“So… guess I’ll see you on the train?” he asks, like he’s still a little unsure, and your heartbeat flutters.

“Guess so.”

“Cool.” He gives you one last soft smile before he disappears after Hoseok. The bell sounds again when the door shuts behind him, as if to snap you back to reality.

The floating feeling in your stomach doesn’t quite dissipate even long after Jimin has left the laundromat. While you wait on your clothes, you flip to a blank page in your sketchbook and start on something new: the outline of a hand extended in mid-air, rings glinting like an offered promise.

~*~

The next week, Jimin is waiting for you on your morning subway ride, the dance bag that he usually keeps tucked between his legs set on the bench next to him. When he sees you step through the train doors at 51st, you watch him reach over to swing the bag down to its rightful place on the floor, freeing up the space. An open invitation.

You can’t help but feel a little shy as you sink down next to him and murmur your thanks. There’s something about being this close to him that just makes your mind go blank, puts you at a loss for words entirely.

To your surprise, he doesn’t try to strike up conversation either. Instead he plucks one fancy bluetooth earbud out of his ear, gives it a diplomatic swipe across the fabric of his joggers, then holds it up, pinched between his fingers in front of you.

Another invitation, you realize dumbly.

The corner of your mouth turns up as you pluck the bud out of his hand and press it into your own ear. The music that must have paused itself upon the earbud’s removal resumes, and your smile grows when Jimin quickly unlocks his phone to restart the song from the beginning.

An acoustic guitar and a light, pretty voice fill your ear, underscored by a gentle yet driving beat, not unlike the rumble of the train beneath your feet. It’s like the rest of the world fades away to nothing as you stare down at his sneakers next to your shoes, hyper-aware of the mere inch or two of space between you in this moment.

As if to prove your point, the train comes to a sharp stop, enough to make you slide a little on the bench and then you’re suddenly not just close but touching, all the way down, an unbroken line from shoulder to hip to knee.

When you look over in surprise, Jimin is already looking back at you. You swear you can feel warmth radiating out from him at every point where your bodies press together.

After another dazed moment, you come to your senses enough to scoot over, breaking the contact with an embarrassed laugh as you feel your face grow hot.

Your gaze drifts back down to the floor, only to snap up again at another brush of contact, this one not initiated by you or by the motion of the train. Instead, you realize Jimin has spread his legs an inch wider to purposefully touch his knee to yours again and leave it there. You blink softly as you look over at him, but he’s staring firmly out the window of the subway car now, smiling with just his eyes.

For the rest of the ride, you think of little else but Jimin’s knee pressed against yours and the pretty pink flush in his cheeks.

You stay in comfortable silence, music floating in your ears as you exit the train at Astor Place together, until you reach the studio, where you finally return the borrowed earbud. He smiles as he tucks them both back into the case, then pushes open the door and gestures for you to enter first.

Jimin shoots you a final look before your paths diverge, and you sink into your seat with a small, dreamy sigh. Your bliss is short-lived when you hear Taehyung’s voice over your shoulder.

“That was fast.”

You whip around to shoot him a look. “What was fast?”

He makes a face, like it’s obvious. “You’re already banging the model and it’s been, what, two weeks?”

Taehyung’s just close enough that you can lean forward and smack him on the arm, and he hisses in a way that has to be an exaggeration. Thankfully he seems to take the hint, and manages to actually keep his mouth shut as the professor commands everyone’s attention at the center of the room.

When Jimin emerges in the usual black satin, you try to keep your composure, but you can’t ignore the chill that dots up your spine when he lets the fabric fall to the floor.

Nevertheless, you sink into the routine of class, the thrill of Jimin’s naked body now equal parts familiar and exhilarating. The only difference is that today, when you’re dismissed, you make no effort to quickly pack up. You instead purposefully take your time, adding a few extra details to your last sketch before you finally start putting things away. Your gaze flickers up distractedly to see Jimin pulling his dressing gown back over his body as he moves to close the distance between you.

“Hi,” he says simply when he reaches your easel, and you smile.

“Hi.”

“Sorry, is, uh— is it okay that I talk to you, when I’m—” He gestures vaguely to his lower half with one hand, using the other to keep himself covered.

You swallow hard at the thin layer of fabric and everything you know lies beneath it. “Yeah, it’s okay,” you say, hating how breathless you sound.

“When are you done with classes today?”

It takes an extra second for you to remember your own schedule. “Uh, six.”

Jimin fidgets with the satin material in his hands, clearly a little uncomfortable. Or maybe nervous. “Would you… want to get dinner after? With me?”

Your stomach flutters as you nod. “Yeah, yes. I’d like that.”

~*~

When you emerge from your last class, you find Jimin waiting for you on Astor Place, and you’re not expecting it when he greets you with a single question: “Do you like sushi?” You answer affirmatively, and he nods over his shoulder. “Then let’s walk this way.”

You end up tucked into two seats at a place you’ve never been to before, where rolls and other plates of food zip past you on a steadily moving conveyor belt. Jimin shows you how to pop the plates out from their protective domes, and you gather a small feast of options on the table between you to share.

“So,” you start with a nervous smile, chopsticks hovering in midair. “Can I ask the obvious question?”

He quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“What made you decide to nude model?” The words alone send fresh waves of heat and nerves through you, sparkling in your chest. “Or have you done it before?”

“I haven’t,” Jimin confirms with a shake of his head, then he pops a piece of sushi in his mouth as if to buy himself time. He chews, bringing a hand up as he speaks with his mouth still half-full. “Do you want the real answer?”

You nod, and his adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. There’s a look on his face like he isn’t quite sure what to say, and then he exhales a weighty sigh. “I’ve struggled with my body for a really long time. Especially in undergrad.”

Your eyes widen slightly— you weren’t expecting such a serious response.

“Dance doesn’t typically have the best culture for that to begin with,” he continues, “and I’d spend literally all day staring at myself in a mirror, so I would just… pick myself apart. Always convinced I wasn’t good enough, that I needed to lose more weight, always.”

The thought of it makes your heart ache, but you let him talk.

“I’m through the worst of it now, so please don’t feel like you need to be worried. But I have some friends who’ve done this kind of thing before and it seemed like, I don’t know, a good challenge?” His brow creases, contemplative. “I really love art, so I thought maybe if I did it, I might be able to see my body in a new way, through the eyes of other people. Of artists.” He pauses, then nods, like he’s said his piece.

It takes you a second to respond. “That’s… beautiful, Jimin.”

He looks down, clearly a little uncomfortable. “Sorry if that was too heavy.”

“I can take it,” you say softly, and it’s enough to make him glance back up in surprise. “Thank you for telling me.”

A faint color floods his face. “Thanks for listening.”

You eat in a silence that’s oddly comfortable, and when you both reach for the same piece of sushi and end up knocking chopsticks together, he lets you have it, picking up the thread of conversation again as he smiles. “What got you into art?”

You make a face, chased by an unsure shrug. “Is it bad if I say it’s the only thing I feel like I’m good at?”

Jimin laughs a little. “I don’t know that I believe you.”

“I mean,” you lean back in your seat. “Maybe not the only thing, but I’ve just never been able to see myself doing anything else. I’m not cut out for the corporate life, as much as my parents wish I was. Art’s always been the thing that I go to in my free time. When I’m feeling so much that it’s overwhelming, or so numb that it’s like I can’t feel anything, the act of creating something just… brings me back to center again.” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’s an outlet, I guess.”

“Well, if it helps, you’re very good at it.”

“Thanks,” you say with a small smile. “But it’s not even about being good, at least not to me. Maybe it sounds weird, but I don’t really have any interest in being the best. It’s art, so it’s all subjective anyway. I just wanna make stuff.”

Jimin smirks as he adds another empty plate to the growing stack in front of you, tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek before he speaks. “I could stand to be more like you.”

“Your turn,” you shoot back. “Why dance?”

At this, he actually brings a hand up to cover his face, and his voice is muffled under his palm when he responds. “I can tell you exactly why, but it’s embarrassing.”

You shift a little in your chair to get a better look at him. “Don’t be embarrassed! It’s not like I—” you cut yourself off before you can very obviously finish the sentence with ‘haven’t seen your dick’, and you shove a piece of sushi in your mouth to shut yourself up, so fast you nearly choke.

Jimin laughs loudly into his hands, and then you’re laughing too, dropping your head down on the table to try and chew your food without asphyxiating.

“Okay, okay,” he gasps when he can finally manage to take a breath in. “I’ll tell you.”

He sets his chopsticks down, overly serious. “When I was little, I was obsessed with Titanic. Specifically the scene where they dance together, and Rose rises up on her toes in front of everyone.” There are practically stars in his eyes as he recounts the moment, and you can’t bear to cut him off. “I just thought she was so beautiful, and I wanted to be like that. Almost broke my toes trying to go en pointe barefoot like an idiot.”

You’re silent for a moment, and there’s a flicker of panic in Jimin’s face, like he’s worried he overshared. “I have to be honest,” you say softly. “I’ve never seen Titanic.”

His eyes nearly pop out of his head. “What?!”

Already expecting the reaction, you grimace and nod. “I know, I know. Everyone gets mad at me for it. Go ahead.”

Jimin’s eyes flit from your face to the remaining piece of sushi on the plate between you, then back again. “I mean, we can go solve this problem right now, if you want.” He pauses, then admits with a giggle, “I have it on DVD.”

You shrug, trying to act casual despite the way your pulse has started to quicken. “They canceled my morning seminar for tomorrow, so I’m down.”

He leans forward to steal the last piece of sushi with a smug smile. “Then let’s get out of here.”

It’s a short train ride back to Jimin’s place, and you make it in the front door just in time to see Hoseok slipping out of what looks to be his bedroom. You barely process him as the same person— tonight his dark hair is swept off his forehead, and he’s in nice dress pants and a white button-down, unbuttoned just enough to display the delicate spread of his collarbone.

“Hi kids!” he calls in greeting, and you wave back as you kick your shoes off.

Hoseok crosses to grab a mirrored pair of aviators and his keys off the table by the front door. “Daddy’s going out. You two have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He pauses for a moment, like he’s waiting for a joke to land, then cracks a grin. “By which I obviously mean do whatever the fuck you want.”

As Hoseok pulls the door shut behind him, you follow Jimin into the living room, where you perch nervously on the edge of the couch while he disappears into the kitchen. “Do you like prosecco?” he asks, raising his voice slightly to be heard.

“Uh, I think so,” you say unsurely. “I don’t think I ever developed enough of a palette to have wine preferences.”

“White and sparkling?”

“Sounds good,” you respond, and then you hear the distinct noise of a cork popping before he returns with a bottle and two glasses in hand. He sets everything on the coffee table as he takes a seat next to you, then leans forward to fill both glasses nearly to the brim.

Jimin’s face flushes when you giggle softly at the pour. “Sorry— I like to drink. You don’t have to finish it all.” You shrug and take a healthy pull from your glass. It’s crisp and light, with little bubbles that fizz and pop all the way down. 

“Hoseok calls me a lush,” he admits with a shy laugh as he picks up his own drink and turns to face you, sitting back against the arm of the couch. You shift to mirror him, curling your socked feet up under you. He takes a sip, then seems to think better of it, leaning forward to set his glass down on the table again. “I did want to tell you something. A couple of things, I guess.”

The sentence makes your stomach twist, and you try your best to ignore it. “What’s up?”

Jimin’s lips press together for a moment, as if he’s trying to figure out how to word whatever he’s about to say. “I’m not, like, trying to be presumptuous by telling you this but I just— I don’t want it to go unsaid and then come up later and be a whole big thing, so. I just want you to know that Hoseok is my ex.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but certainly not that.

“We dated freshman year of undergrad, for… maybe three months? It was the kind of thing where I knew I was bi in high school but was too scared to act on it, so when I moved to New York I just, like, dated the first gay person I met? Which was probably a little shitty of me. We quickly realized we work much better as friends, and it was a very mutual thing. No hard feelings.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up. “And you’ve lived together since then?”

“No, no,” Jimin replies quickly, and he nearly grimaces as he continues. “At the end of last semester, I, uh… I got out of a pretty bad long-term relationship.” The way he says it makes your heart sink a little. “And she and I lived together, so Hoseok was extremely gracious and offered to take me in.”

He reaches for his glass of wine again, then pauses with it halfway to his mouth. “Ideally the number of exes I’d be living with would be zero, but. You know. This is definitely the better option, at least until I can figure out what comes next.”

A pause settles between you while he takes a long drink and you try to process all this new information. “I’m sorry about the breakup,” you say softly, and he shakes his head as he swallows.

“Don’t be. It was a very good thing. Long overdue.”

“Well,” you correct yourself, the corners of your mouth pulling up. “Then I’m sorry that it took so long.”

At this, he smiles back. “Me fuckin’ too.”

After one more sip, Jimin sets his wine back down on the coffee table, then rolls off the couch— surprisingly graceful— to retrieve Titanic from the small collection of movies lined up on the shelf beneath the TV.

“Ready?”

“This better have a happy ending,” you murmur over the edge of your wine glass. Jimin laughs so hard he nearly tips over.

He settles next to you again as the movie starts, painted pretty in the blue glow of the TV, and you try your best to watch the movie, but it’s hard to keep your eyes off him. Partway through you notice him grab a pillow off the back of the couch and hug both of his arms around it, curling up small.

Cute, you can’t help but think to yourself, and you can feel heat settle in your face as you try to refocus on the story.

When you reach the dancing scene Jimin sits up a little, lips parting slightly, that same starry look in his eyes as when he explained it initially. The mental image of a younger version of him equally enraptured by the moment nearly makes your chest cave in.

The movie goes on, and you’re draining the last of your second glass of wine when out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin’s eyes go wide. Jack and Rose are closely examining a rare diamond necklace, and you don’t understand what he could be reacting to until Kate Winslet delivers her next line.

“Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.”

Your eyes go just as wide as Jimin’s, and you let out a laugh of disbelief that’s nearly a scream. “Oh my fucking god, Park Jimin! You did this on purpose!”

“I swear, I didn’t! I didn’t even think about that part until right now!” He shakes his head desperately as he gasps for air, and he doubles over with his own laughter, rolling right off the couch, arms still clutched tightly around his pillow.

“I literally cannot believe this.” You dissolve into giggles as you sink to your knees on the floor beside him, close to tears.

It takes time for you both to recover, but Jimin eventually manages to pull himself back up to sitting, shoulders still shaking slightly with laughter. He lets the pillow drop to the floor and presses both of his palms down into it as he leans towards you. “But hey, maybe that’s why I like you.”

He’s so magnetic, so beautiful, you can’t help but lean in, too. “You like me?”

There’s a warm glow of color in his cheeks, and you’re not sure if you can blame it entirely on the wine. “I do.”

Your lingering smile slowly starts to soften, and now your heart feels like it might pound out of your chest. “So what, you’re Rose and I’m Jack?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, his voice barely more than a whisper as he murmurs, “Uh-huh”. Imaginary violins swell in your head as you surge forward to close the distance and press your lips to his.

Jimin’s lips are soft and warm, and your head spins as you sit up on your knees and lean into the kiss. While his mouth moves gently against yours, his palms press to the small of your back, and the heat of his hands radiates through the thin fabric of your shirt. You wrap your arms over his shoulders, partially for balance and partially in an attempt to pull him closer to you.

He tilts his head, and you whimper against him when you feel his tongue trace delicately over your bottom lip. He returns a breathy noise back as he licks slowly into your mouth, like he’s taking his time, like he’s not in any rush.

Even though you can feel your arousal starting to build, heavy in your gut and slick between your thighs, you realize: you want him to take his time with you.

You’re surprised at the loss when he suddenly leans back, just enough to break the kiss, still keeping you held close. “Is it, um—” he clears his throat, then tries again. “I don’t… want to go any further. Than this. At least not tonight. Is that okay?”

Your eyes search his, and you’re a little breathless when you manage to get the words out. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’m good with that. With whatever you want.”

“Okay.” You exhale a laugh when he reaches over to find the remote on the coffee table and pause the movie. “I want to keep kissing you, if that’s alright.”

“Yes, please,” you murmur against his lips.

Jimin shifts a little, and you follow his lead, letting him tip you backwards onto the floor, your arms still looped around his neck, one hand now tangling in his honey blonde hair. He drops a forearm down to the carpet beside you, his other hand coming to rest at the curve of your waist, knees bracketing your hips as he covers your body with his.

He alternates between sucking on your lower lip and gentle passes of his tongue into your mouth, the hand on your waist tracing a lazy path down to your hip and back up again. Something pulled tight inside you starts to slowly unwind, blooming open as you sink into the rhythm, into him.

It’s been such a long time since you’ve just kissed someone like this, without it feeling like part of a race to get naked. And you’ve never been kissed like this in your life— so soft, so attentive. It’s enough to make you dizzy, even with your back pressed flat to the floor.

You lose track of how much time passes as you trade open-mouthed kisses on Jimin’s living room carpet, until he finally pulls away again. Still in a daze, you shift the hand in his hair to gently cup his face, not quite able to believe that he’s really real.

“God,” Jimin breathes, laughing quietly to himself. “I really like you.”

You smile as you blink up at him. “I like you too, Jimin.” 

Rolling over, he drops down onto the floor next to you with a blissed-out sigh. He stretches his arms overhead, spine arching like a cat, then lifts up again to glance back at you. “Do you want more wine? ‘Cause we’re only like halfway done. This movie is stupid long.”

“I could go for more,” you answer with a shrug, still smiling.

In one swift move, Jimin flips his legs over his head and effortlessly somersaults up to standing, and your eyes go wide. “How do you fucking do that?!”

“I’m a trained professional!” he calls over his shoulder as he sashays into the kitchen. You giggle a little. “I would break every bone in my body.”

He’s humming prettily to himself, and you hear the sound of the fridge opening and closing, followed by the pop of another bottle being uncorked. You pull yourself back onto the couch as he rejoins you and pours fresh wine into both glasses, and a sudden curiosity urges you to ask a question. “Is Titanic your favorite movie?”

Jimin shakes his head, but says nothing, and the strange hesitant expression that flashes over his face just makes you that much more intrigued.

“Let’s hear it.”

His eyes flit over to you, then back to the wine glasses. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t!” you exclaim, lifting a hand when he scrunches up his nose, doubtful. “Promise.”

With a reluctant sigh, Jimin sets the bottle back down on the table, staring straight ahead as he admits, “It’s The Notebook.”

You press your lips together, trying desperately to keep your mouth in a straight line. At least you manage not to laugh. “I— wow. Really?”

He nods like the reaction is expected, picking up his wine glass and settling back against the couch cushions. “I don’t know, there’s just something about it. It’s comforting, to me.”

“You’re such a romantic,” you murmur, gently nudging his thigh with your foot until you coax a smile out of him.

“You know what?” Jimin’s voice is thoughtful now, more self-assured. “I am.” He takes a sip of his drink before he continues. “For a long time I didn’t want to be. Or thought that I couldn’t be. I used to always try to be so. I don’t know. Masculine, I guess. I think some of it had to do with denying my sexuality, but even once I got around to accepting that, there was still this part of me that would just never allow myself to be… soft.”

His gaze drops down to the wine in his glass, and you sit up, tucking your legs underneath you to scoot closer to him until you’re side by side. “I like you soft,” you say simply, and he looks over at you, still smiling.

“If we watch The Notebook I will cry.”

“That’s okay.” You lean into him to seek a kiss, made sweet from the wine. He hums a little against your lips before you pull back. “Same time next week?”

~*~

Just like that, you fall into a regular routine with Jimin: sharing his headphones on the morning train, sketching out the shape of his body in studio, then picking up takeout and wine to bring back to his place and split over a movie. As predicted, The Notebook does make him cry, and when you show him Kimi no Na wa the week after, hot tears stream down your face at the final scene, the way they always do.

He takes your head in his hands as the credits roll, his thumbs swiping at errant tears on your cheeks. You chase a sniffle with an embarrassed laugh. “Okay. We’re even now.”

On your fourth movie night, partway into Moulin Rouge, something emboldens you when you see Jimin reach for his usual couch pillow. You lean over and gently pry it out of his grip, then shift to tuck yourself into his side and curl your legs up in his lap instead.

“Better?”

“Mm-hmm”, he murmurs as he ducks down to nuzzle against your cheek. “You’re warm.”

These nights end the same way each time: you ride the train home with a wine-soaked buzz in your brain and flushed, kiss-bitten lips, your fingertips brushing over your own mouth at the memory of his.

Once a week quickly turns into more. The two of you coordinate laundromat afternoons where you listen to music together as you wait for your clothes. You usually end up drawing to pass the time, and sometimes Jimin dozes off, head tipping over onto your shoulder so gently that you can’t help but smile down at your sketchbook.

At his request, you help him dye his hair pink in his tiny apartment bathroom, and it somehow suits him just as well as honey blonde. You both get dizzy from laughter and cleaning product fumes as you desperately try to scrub the bubblegum stains out of the tile before Hoseok comes home.

When you finally introduce Jimin to your roommates, the four of you crammed all-too formally around the kitchen table over Yoongi’s cooking, the interaction feels like a cross between a job interview and a prom date meeting your parents. You choke on a piece of chicken that you nearly inhale when Namjoon offhandedly refers to Jimin as Subway Boy, and Yoongi smiles wide enough to show his gums as he gladly recounts your months-long crush in great detail while you bury your burning face in your arms.

But Jimin takes it in stride, laughs into your mouth as he kisses you over the sink while the two of you wash the dishes.

“Subway Boy, huh?”

“I will drown you,” you murmur as you pull away, brandishing the spray hose like a threat.

It’s easy and slow. This blossoming something, a nameless but undeniable spark, the calm comfort of Jimin’s arms wrapped around your waist, his fingers intertwined with yours, his head dropped down on your shoulder.

~*~

You dig your phone out of your pocket as you shoulder open the door to the dance building, pulling up the text from Jimin to double-check his practice room number. A train delay made you slightly later than your agreed-upon time, but you know the takeout bag of Indian food dangling over your wrist will easily earn you his forgiveness.

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s the only one left in the room when you find it, nor that he’s still reviewing the choreography with an expression of severe focus. You hover in the doorway, waiting for him to look up, but he’s entirely concentrated on his own reflection in the mirror.

His movements alternate between delicate and powerful, explosive and restrained, and you have to hold in an outright gasp when he launches his body into an aerial and lands it effortlessly. But then his feet falter in a split second of hesitation, and you can see his expression tighten, clearly frustrated.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself as he rubs a hand over his face, and he doesn’t even try to keep going with the rest of the dance. You take the opportunity to step a few more paces into the room, and his eyes jump to you in the mirror.

“Hi,” you say softly, suddenly a little nervous to be intruding on the moment. The corner of Jimin’s mouth turns up, but his eyes seem far away, and you can tell he’s still raging at himself in his mind.

“Hi, sorry,” he sighs. “I just— can’t get this. It’s like my body isn’t doing what I tell it to.”

“You need food.” You try to say it gently as you cross the room, holding up the smiley-face adorned plastic takeout bag. “And perhaps the enigmatic charm of Rachel McAdams.”

This seems to shake him out of his thoughts, at least a little. “I do like her.” He steps close enough to slip his arms around your waist and pull your body flush against his. Sweat glistens on his collarbone in the dim practice room lighting. “But I like you more.”

You roll your eyes as you playfully smack a hand against his solid chest. “Stop lying.”

“‘M not,” he insists as he presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. “Rachel McAdams has never once brought me masala dosa.” You giggle despite yourself, and when his lips drop down to your neck, it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

A spark ignites in your chest that doesn’t go out, not on the subway ride back to your apartment, not through dinner and a movie, and certainly not once you’re most of the way through the second bottle of wine. As the credits start to roll, you waste no time, turning in Jimin’s lap so you can properly straddle him and take his face in your hands.

You trade decadent, easy kisses, and Jimin’s hands settle at the small of your back, his thumbs massaging gentle circles into your hips. A shiver rolls up your spine when he shifts a little and you realize you can feel a growing bulge through the fabric of his joggers, pressed firm against your thigh. He breathes a soft sound into your mouth as his tongue slides over yours, and you’re so overwhelmed, you barely register the sound of keys in the lock or the front door opening.

It’s Jimin who reacts first, turning his head to break the kiss as his cheeks flood with color, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see Yoongi storm past, heading for his room. He lifts a hand up to his face to shield you from view as he goes.

“Don’t stop on my account!” Yoongi’s voice is dripping with derision. “By all means, continue fucking on our shared furniture!”

“We’re fully clothed, asshole!” you snap in response as Yoongi slams the bedroom door behind him, hard enough that it rattles in the frame.

When you look back down at Jimin, his face is twisted in an expression you take to be embarrassment. You drop your head down on his shoulder with a frustrated groan, the moment successfully killed.

“Do you…” you pause, turning your head to the side but continuing to ask your question into the fabric of his shirt. “We could go to my room, for more privacy, if you want?”

He hums his agreement, and when you peel yourself off the couch and head for your room, he follows. You spin back around to face him in the doorway, so fast he nearly knocks into you.

You brace your hands on the doorframe as you survey him. “We really don’t have to… do anything, if you don’t want to. We can just talk.”

Jimin nods, and you step aside to let him enter first, pulling the door closed behind you as you follow. He takes a few tentative steps into the room, and you walk past him to drop down onto the floor next to your bed, then pat the carpet to encourage him to join. There’s a flash of something over his face, and then he sinks down beside you. It’s only now that you realize how quiet he’s gotten.

“What is it?” you ask, suddenly a little nervous.

He stares down at the soles of his feet, pressed into each other, his knees tipped open like butterfly wings. “Does it make you feel bad? That we’re not—”

“No,” you answer immediately, and the honesty of it resonates in your chest.

“I know we’ve been hanging out for a while,” he continues, voice low. “And I do want to, you know. Hook up.”

“Jimin,” you lean forward to place both of your hands over one of his, settled atop his knee. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. When you want to, I want to. But I like everything we’ve been doing, too. It’s not like we’re not… intimate.”

His gaze flits up from the floor to meet yours. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t want you.”

You close your fingers around his hand, pulling it off his leg and up to your face so you can brush your lips over his palm.

“I don’t think that at all,” you murmur against his skin. “Promise.”

There’s a hint of a smile in his eyes when you look back up at him. “Okay. Sorry, I know it’s stupid. Like why do I need reassurance from you when I’m the one being difficult?”

You press your cheek into the warmth of his hand, toying lazily with the rings on his fingers. “Why are you so convinced that you’re difficult?”

Jimin huffs a small sigh. “This conversation has not gone this well in the past.” His eyes drop to the floor again, and after a moment’s pause, he keeps talking.

“My ex and I struggled a lot with…” he shakes his head, as if he’s trying not to say ‘everything’. “Sex. With me wanting it, with us having enough of it. I think it gave me a complex. I could be physically, you know, ready, but then as soon as she’d touch me I’d get in my head about everything and freak out and immediately want to stop.” He pauses, worrying at his bottom lip.

You pull his hand into your lap, your fingers delicately tracing over his in an attempt to provide some comfort. He shrugs when he starts to speak again. “And then, I don’t know, I guess she was just trying to share her side, but... she would make me feel so bad about it sometimes. Because I was genuinely trying so hard but it was like I was never good enough.” Another pause, and this time he sniffs a little. When his eyes roll up to stare at the ceiling, you can see he’s holding back tears. “It felt like she didn’t want me anymore, not if there wasn’t sex. So I left.”

“Jimin,” you breathe, and he flashes you a small grimace, clearly embarrassed by his own dramatics. With a grunt of effort, he turns sideways and flops backwards onto the floor of your room, and you scoot closer to him, your hand still playing with his.

His gaze roams over the ceiling as he sighs. “I don’t want you to think I was this perfect person and she was some awful bitch. She loved me a lot, and I’m sure she was struggling with not feeling wanted either, in her own way.”

Your voice is soft when you interject. “Two people can just be… incompatible. It doesn’t mean either of them is a bad person, or that it’s anyone’s fault. Sometimes things just don’t work, no matter how hard you try.”

Jimin’s mouth pulls up on one side as he shakes his head, eyes squinting. “How did you get to be so smart?”

You can’t help but laugh a little, lacing your fingers together with his in your lap. “Years of making terrible decisions.” You give his hand a gentle squeeze before you ask a question. “Did you struggle with this before, or just with her?”

His mouth twists slightly, unsure. “Yes and no? Both? My desire has always… fluctuated, I guess. Been a little shy.” A smile spreads over his face, and he hums a note. “Like, you know how people say love at first sight isn’t a thing? That it’s just lust?” You nod, prompting him to continue. “I think, at least for me, it’s the opposite. I can fall for somebody, and fall hard, like that.” He snaps loudly with his free hand. “But lust… I don’t know, it takes longer. It’s like a slow burn thing.”

You nod again, processing his words for a moment before you respond. “Well, I’m in no rush.”

Jimin sits up, voice thoughtful as he untangles his hand from yours, and it’s clear he’s getting more comfortable opening up to you. “Right after the breakup, I did a lot of research. I found this term, demisexual, that felt pretty accurate.” He shrugs. “But I don’t know. I mostly just think that... I am who I am. And the people who get it will get it. Like you.”

Before you can even speak, he sweeps an arm under your calves to drag you into his lap in one swift move, and you squeak a little in surprise as your world tilts.

“Demisexual. I like it,” you giggle as he guides your legs to wrap around his middle. His hands slide up your thighs, grabbing at your hips to tug you closer so he can trail kisses along your neck.

“Biromantic demisexual, technically,” he murmurs, head tipping up to find your mouth again.

You drape your arms over his shoulders and hum against his lips as he kisses you. “It suits you.”

Another soft noise escapes you when Jimin manages to maneuver to standing with you still in his arms. You tighten your grip on his shoulders and your legs around his waist, and his hands shift down to your ass to firmly hold you up. You squeeze your eyes shut automatically in fear of being dropped, then flutter them open again when you feel your back press into the soft cushion of your bedspread.

Jimin is hovering over you, forearms dropped down to the bed on either side of you. His eyes search yours for a moment, and then he leans in to kiss you again, so fiercely this time that it leaves you breathless. You can’t help but whimper as his tongue slips into your mouth.

When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to your collarbone with a groan. “It’s late,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over your neck. “I should go.”

You nod responsibly, despite how desperately you want him to stay.

You walk him out, and his sweet parting kiss leaves your heart hammering in your chest, enough that you slump against the frame with a sigh once you shut the door, your knees suddenly weak.

Light on your feet, you follow the faint noise of the TV to find Yoongi in the living room with Planet Earth on at a barely audible volume. He glances at you, his mouth a flat line, then reaches for the remote to turn the sound up a few notches. You drop down on the couch next to him, and it’s silent for a moment, save for the calm narration and the crinkling plastic of him tearing open a bag of Turtle Chips.

“How’d it go?” he finally asks, voice monotone.

“It’s good,” you answer softly. “We’re good.” You fold your legs up under yourself and sneak a look at Yoongi out of the corner of your eye. You’re still a little pissed, but you also want advice. Damn him for knowing everything.

“Have you heard the term ‘demisexual’ before?”

Yoongi nods, still chewing as he replies. “Yeah. Like asexual spectrum, right?”

You shrug. “I guess. It’s new to me.”

He shoves a few more chips in his mouth before he continues. “Is that what your Subway Boy is?”

“I think so, yeah.”

There’s a long pause while you watch penguins march across the screen, and you think that might be the end of it. Then Yoongi clears his throat. “You know, I’m somewhere in there too. Not completely asexual, but definitely not… not.”

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

Yoongi snorts. “Don’t act so shocked. These walls aren’t that thick.”

“Is Joon?”

He smirks, like you’ve just told a joke. “Decidedly not.”

“Oh.” You blink, trying to process. “How do you deal with it?”

Yoongi makes a face, like he’s never thought about it before. “We just communicate, I guess. Be respectful even when we don’t necessarily understand. And, like, Namjoon watches porn, and surprisingly reads quite a bit of erotica—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off. “I don’t need all the details.”

He huffs a dry laugh at your discomfort. “It’s not always easy, sometimes it’s frustrating for both of us. But we make it work. We love each other.”

You chew a little at the inside of your cheek, and then you can’t hold in the question any longer. “Is it weird that the idea doesn’t bother me? Jimin said it was a huge issue with his ex. Like, does that make me on the… spectrum?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I mean, you might be? But not necessarily? I don’t know, sex matters different amounts to everyone. Some people don’t mind not having it that often. You don’t have to put a label on it unless you want to, you know?”

“Yeah, makes sense.” You nod slowly as you digest the idea. “Thanks, Yoongi. I appreciate the education.”

His only answer at first is a noncommittal hum, and then he points a finger at the few inches of wine in the bottle you left sitting on the coffee table. “Gonna finish that?”

“It’s all yours,” you say. “Consider it atonement for going to first base on the couch.”

Yoongi grabs the bottle by the neck and immediately drains it. “Apology accepted,” he grunts as he sets it back down. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you.” He extends his bag of chips in your direction and you happily reach in for the biggest handful you can manage.

~*~

During your next movie night, Jimin can’t keep his hands to himself.

They pet up your thighs, your legs draped over his, then slide up to your hips, fingertips tracing patterns over the waistband of your leggings and toying at the hem of your shirt.

His mouth has a similar problem: he leans in to press kisses along the line of your jaw, then down the slope of your neck, sucking delicately at the spot that makes your nipples tighten and sends a shiver through you.

“You’re missing the movie,” you remark, raking a hand through his peachy-pink hair, shadowed at the roots where his natural color has started to grow in. He’s typically good about keeping himself restrained until the credits roll, but you’re barely halfway through Pride & Prejudice, haven’t even cracked a second bottle yet.

“Fuck the movie,” he growls against your skin, and you bite back a whimper when his teeth scrape over your neck. You can’t ignore the way your core is starting to ache from his insistent mouth.

His lips find yours again, and you giggle softly into him. “You’re in a mood.”

“Just been thinking about you,” he murmurs between kisses. It surprises you a little when he suddenly pulls back so he can look you in the eyes. “Should we— do you want to go to my room?”

The air hangs still and heavy between you, and you worry at your bottom lip for a moment. “Are you sure?” When he nods, dark brown eyes blinking up at you, your mouth turns up at the corner. “I’d rather we not traumatize any more roommates if we can help it.”

You lean over to pause the movie before sliding off his lap and getting to your feet, and then you reach your hands out for his and pull him up next to you. “Come on.”

Jimin’s bedroom is so perfectly him that it relaxes you, feather-soft comfort every time you step inside. His bed isn’t made, because it never is, the thick white duvet pushed down on one side where he stumbled out from beneath it this morning. He keeps it dark, blackout curtains drawn to support his night owl lifestyle, and the room is bathed in the warm glow of fairy lights he’s strung up along the ceiling. A myriad of posters and art prints and polaroids are taped to the walls, some beautiful, others sentimental— he even managed to coax you into tearing a few of his favorites out of your sketchbook. You still don’t think they’re anything special, but nevertheless, it makes your heart squeeze in your chest to see them on display with everything else. Like they belong here in this room, like you do too.

The door clicks as it shuts behind him, and then his mouth is on yours again, kissing you dizzy while he backs you up until your knees hit the edge of the bed. He guides you to lay down, and his hand slips beneath you to drag you up the bed with him as he crawls over you.

His hands come up to tug at your shirt. “Can I take this off?” he breathes.

You nod, staring up at him and not quite able to believe any of this is real. “You can do anything you want to me.” With a smile, he lifts the hem of your shirt, and you sit up a little so he can pull it the rest of the way off.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Jimin murmurs against your skin as he kisses down your neck, over your collarbones, then down between the valley of your breasts. His hands slip down to palm at your tits, squeezing gently, and he mouths at the stiff peaks of your nipples over the thin fabric of your bralette. You untangle briefly, only for as long as it takes to get the lacy thing off of you entirely and tossed over the edge of the bed.

You shiver a little as the air hits your bare skin, and then the warmth of his body covers you again, and he ducks down to close his mouth over your nipple and suck. The plush softness of his lips and the firm suction combined are enough to make your eyes roll back, and your spine arches up beneath him when he drags his tongue in a circle over the sensitive bud.

“Shit,” you groan. Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, and it feels like your only tether to reality.

It’s easy to believe it’s the waiting, the anticipation of this moment, that makes every little touch light you up like a live wire now. But something tells you it will always feel like this.

While his lips shift to your other breast, one hand slides down to cup your clothed pussy, rubbing gentle friction into your center. You circle your hips to press yourself against the flat of his palm, sighing at the brush of indirect contact and the heat that thrums through you from the pressure on your clit.

You feel Jimin’s weight shift on the mattress as he kneels next to you, and his lips find yours again at the same time his hand slips into your leggings, two fingers tracing the seam of your panties to make you whine softly. If he couldn’t tell before, he must be able to now: how wet you are, enough to drench the lacy fabric so it clings to your cunt, dripping arousal to show how badly you want him.

He’s surprisingly forceful when he tugs the damp fabric to the side, but so gentle again as he slips one finger and then a second into your tight heat. Your mouth drops open as he curls them up to rub at your g-spot, stroking into you over and over while your cunt squeezes tight around him.

Your head drops back on the pillow and you groan. “Oh, fuck, Jimin.”

You can hear how soaked your pussy is as he pumps into you, and the wet squelch of his fingers working inside you would make you shy if it didn’t feel so overwhelmingly perfect. The pleasure edges your breathing with soft sounds, and Jimin swallows them when he kisses you again.

He shifts slightly for a better angle and then you feel the heel of his palm grind down against your clit. It’s enough to make your hips buck up under him with every press of his hand, his insistent touch shooting sparks of arousal through you.

It’s been so long since anyone has touched you, and you’ve wanted this with him so badly for so long, but even still, it surprises you how quickly he can bring you to the edge.

“Jimin,” you break the kiss to gasp against his mouth, unable to believe how close you already are. Close enough that all you can do is cling, to any part of him you can reach: his hair, his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt. “Jimin, Jimin, fuck.”

“Look so fuckin’ good like this,” he groans, and he says the next part softer, like it’s just for him. “My girl looks so pretty on my fingers.”

The pace of his movements doesn’t falter, nor does the heavy weight of his palm as he ducks down to capture your nipple in his mouth again. Your pussy pulses around him, sucking him in to the last knuckle with each thrust of his hand, and your nails dig desperately into his forearm as you feel your orgasm crest.

His teeth graze lightly over the tight bud of your breast, and it’s enough. With a final whine, the arousal that’s been coiling inside you snaps, and your back arches up off the bed as you come hard on his fingers.

Jimin’s fingers keep stroking you through it, the flat of his palm rubbing rough circles against your clit again and again and again and it feels like you might never stop coming. You moan as it rolls over you, wave after wave, until his touch is so overwhelming that you have to pull your trembling thighs together, and he finally relents.

Spent, your body sinks heavy into the bed, and you can’t help the dazed giggle that flutters out as afterglow starts to bloom behind your ribs.

Jimin hovers over you, dropped down onto his forearms, full lips pressing indiscriminately to your flushed skin, all over. You snake a hand through his hair to pull his mouth up to yours, and he kisses you slow and deep.

When you break apart, you tip your forehead to his. “Can I touch you?” you ask, still a little breathless.

“Please,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours again before he pulls away with a small, embarrassed smile. “My pants hurt.”

You sit up on your knees and he does too, and you bite down on your lip as you reach for the hem of his shirt. He helps you pull it over his head, and then there he is, beautiful as ever. Familiar, yet somehow all new.

Jimin shivers and whines when your hands run across the bare skin of his chest, teasing over his soft brown nipples before starting to trace a path down to his stomach. You lean in to kiss him, and he outright groans into your mouth when your fingertips tease along the band of his boxers that peeks out over his jeans. You gently bring your palms to his hips to guide him, and he’s pliant for you, shifting backwards at your suggestion until he’s seated, leaned back against the headboard.

Your hands shake slightly as you unbutton and push down his jeans, and you hear him exhale a ragged sigh of relief. He’s so hard, you can understand why the tight denim must have been painful: his dick is still straining even now, a thick outline pressed into the fabric of his underwear, and there’s a dark patch that clings to his tip where he’s started to leak precum.

You tug his boxers down with enough force that his length smacks heavy against his stomach, and he makes a strangled noise in response, eyes squeezing shut. His hips jerk violently beneath you, and your jaw goes slack as you watch his cock twitch, and keep twitching, until a steady pool of milky gloss has leaked out over his stomach.

“Shit,” Jimin hisses as he comes practically untouched, and he gasps for air to try to speak. “Fuck fuck fuck— ‘msorry, thought I could—”

You can see him starting to spiral, can feel the panic starting to heat up inside his body, so you take his face in both of your hands. “Jimin.”

“This has never happened before— fuck, I don’t— this is so—”

“Jimin.” When you say his name again, firmer this time, he goes quiet, his eyes still shut tight. “Look at me,” you murmur, and he does, lashes slow-blinking open. “It’s okay. Okay?” Your gaze searches his, trying to convince him. “I like everything about you. Everything you do. You’re perfect.”

Clearly trying to steady his breathing, his chest shudders with effort, and you gently circle your thumb at the hinge of his jaw. He makes a soft noise as his eyelids drop shut again, his cheek pressing into your hand, letting you carry a little bit more of his weight.

It’s quiet for a moment, and his voice is unsure when he speaks. “There’s tissues… in the—”

“Can I take care of it?” you interrupt to ask, your voice low. His eyes blink open again to look at you, and a dark glint flickers there as the unsaid meaning of your question washes over him.

“Y-yeah.”

You take your time moving down the bed to settle between Jimin’s thighs, and you stare up at him, waiting for any indication that he wants you to stop or doesn’t feel comfortable. But he just swallows hard, his adam’s apple jerking in his throat, and nods.

Leaning down, you drag your tongue in steady, long strokes over the flat plane of his stomach to lick the mess up.

As you get the last of it, you’re surprised to feel his hand cup the back of your head. You don’t resist when he pulls you up for a kiss, then licks into your mouth to taste himself, the salt and slick of his cum sliding between your tongues.

When you break apart to swallow, Jimin’s voice is a whisper. “That okay?”

You nod, unable to bite back your smile. “You’re… really fucking hot.”

He smirks as he finds your lips again. “So are you.” The next kiss is sweeter, and then he pulls back. “If you want, we can keep— or I can go down— I don’t want—” He can’t finish any of his half-started thoughts, and you smile, lovingly running your palms over his thighs, back and forth. 

You want him so badly, more than anything, but you try to breathe through it. You can see the wheels spinning in his head, that self-critical flash in his eyes, the same furrow in his brow that creases when he gets frustrated with himself.

“I’m not saying no because I don’t want you,” you preface. “But I just don’t want you to feel stressed or get in your head about it. I want it to feel good, and I’m in no rush. Next time, okay?” 

His lips are still a little pouted, but he nods, and you lean in to sling your arms around his neck. “C’mere.”

You tug him down to the mattress, and your half-naked bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, hands tracing gentle patterns over bare skin as you kiss.

When you eventually end up with your cheek pressed to his chest, you listen to the sound of his heartbeat settling, his breathing evening out. You speak softly in the quiet of his room. “My roommate’s doing an exhibition on Friday. Will you come with me? I’ve been promised there will be free booze.”

Jimin tightens his grip on your waist, his voice slurring like he’s half-asleep. “Mmm, my favorite person and my favorite thing.” There’s a pause, and he sighs. “That sounded bad. Promise I'm not an alcoholic.”

“I know,” you laugh, dragging your lips over his collarbone, then grunting a little noise of frustration as reality starts to set in. “I have class early tomorrow. I should go before I fall asleep here.”

He whines his disapproval, but when you glance up you can see the fight going out of him, his eyelids starting to flutter closed. You lean up for one, two, three more kisses before you force yourself out of bed to find your bra and your shirt. “I’ll see you Friday?”

“Mmkay.” He inhales deep, like he’s coming up for air. “Text me when you make it home safe?”

“I will,” you promise, and you do.

~*~

Namjoon’s exhibition is laughably fancy for what really just ends up being a room full of gay, overdressed art students. The ridiculous finger foods disappear in minutes— all the broke grad school kids came hungry— but you and Jimin gladly hover around the table of champagne flutes instead, giggles sparkling between you like the bubbles that fizz in your glasses.

You’ve been trying to drag him away to actually take in the art, but he keeps necking his drinks. “You’re supposed to sip it, you demon!” you chide with a laugh as he does it again, picking up a fresh glass and throwing all of it back in one gulp.

He smirks slightly as he shakes his head. “It’s more fun this way. Try it.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the grin that threatens to stretch over your face in the rim of your drink before following suit. He’s not wrong: a rush of warmth creeps up your neck as you swallow, the world softening around you, and it’s made sweeter by the kiss Jimin leans in for. When he pulls back you can see his face is flushing, too.

“Come on, Mr. Park,” you murmur, your free hand intertwining with his as you set the empty glass down and retrieve another. “Take me on a tour.”

Jimin grabs another flute too and then you’re off, and he actually manages to drink this one slowly as you weave through the gallery, the click of your footsteps underscoring the gentle classical music that floats through the speakers. You lean into Jimin in comfortable silence as you take in each art piece, sipping delicately at your champagne, occasionally hooking your chin over his shoulder just for the thrill of being close to him.

“These are all beautiful,” he hums appreciatively as you stand in front of a wide, impressionist landscape, swirls of color that shift into shapes when you step far enough away, but dissolve into unidentifiable blobs of thick-textured paint up close. “Namjoon did a really good job curating.”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod, but your eyes are on Jimin and everything else pales in comparison. He’s dressed up for the occasion, tight black jeans and a white button-down with a leather jacket thrown on over top. His hair is styled, pretty pink strands pushed back off his forehead, and his asymmetrical silver earrings glimmer in the low lighting. The result is so stunning you’ve had a hard time focusing on anything but him tonight.

A thought that’s been running through your mind all evening resurfaces again as you swallow the last of your glass of champagne.

“They should put you in a gallery.” You didn’t necessarily plan to say the thought out loud, but say it you do. Jimin quirks an eyebrow and you decide to double down. “But not here. Somewhere better.”

“The Met?” he guesses, teasing.

“The Louvre,” you counter, and he outright laughs, his head tipping back.

“The Louvre?!”

“You heard me,” you giggle, your body pressed against his side. “You’re art.”

Releasing your hand, he wraps his free arm around you to pull you into his chest, the smile still lingering over his face. “And you,” he murmurs, “are drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.” Your voice is muffled slightly as you speak into his collarbone.

You tilt your head up for a kiss, and it seems to surprise both of you how quickly the atmosphere changes. It might be the more-than-several glasses of champagne to blame, or the fact that you’ve found yourselves in a corner, hidden away from the rest of the exhibition’s patrons, but the soft spark that ignites between you quickly grows into a licking flame at the touch of your lips. It’s heat-blush passion as your mouths move against each other, and you’re trying to keep quiet despite the weight of it, heavy in your core, this shared, unspoken need.

“Jimin,” you breathe into him, overwhelmed by all that he is.

He shifts, nosing at your jawline as he speaks into your ear. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

The suggestion makes you a little unsteady on your feet, your high heels threatening to topple over, and he catches you with a hand to your waist when you falter. “Like, somewhere here?”

“Too far to go all the way home,” he purrs, the hand on your body squeezing gently. “And you look too good.”

Your head swims as he kisses you again, and he pries the empty glass out of your hand, setting it down on the nearest table with his. A hand returns to the small of your back, then slips lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your black dress. His mouth paints a smile over yours, and you grab his wrist. “Follow me.”

Stumbling your way through the gallery, trading laughs under your breath like confidants and kisses when no one is looking, you lead him back to the coat check closet at the front, thankfully left vacant by whichever freshman had been roped in to the thankless job. With a final glance over your shoulder to make sure you’re unseen, you push the door open and tug Jimin inside after you.

As soon as the coat check door closes again, he has you pressed against it, his tongue slipping hungrily into your mouth. His hands skirt up the curve of your hips as he slots a thigh between your legs, firmly pushing up the hem of your dress to grind into your clothed center.

You both freeze where you are at the sound of a moan, one that very distinctly does not come from either of you.

Jimin tries and fails to suppress a nervous laugh. Unable to make out anything in the dark, you reach your hand out, smacking aimlessly at the wall next to you until you find a lightswitch and flip it on.

“What the fu—” The man who made the noise in question flings a hand over his face at the sudden intrusive wash of fluorescents, but you’d know him from his voice alone. Kim Taehyung still has one hand gripped tight to the metal bar of a coat rack, back arched and legs spread for whoever his latest victim is, with his pants and boxers shoved down to his ankles.

Before your alcohol-soaked brain can put together a smug comment about how Taehyung needs to get his ass eaten at home like a normal human, Jimin’s voice surprises you.

“Hobi?”

You clap a hand over your mouth as you realize the man on his knees, pulling his tongue off Taehyung’s rim with a look of utter confusion, is none other than Jung Hoseok. His eyes are wide as dinner plates as his head snaps up to take the two of you in.

“Jimin?!”

“Oh my god.” You start to laugh so hard your knees buckle, and Jimin has to wrap his arms around you to keep you upright. “How the fuck did you two even meet?!”

“Do we really need to have this discussion now?!” Taehyung growls, and it only makes you laugh harder.

“Come on, come on—” Jimin is collapsing into giggles himself as he fumbles for the handle behind you. He simultaneously attempts to pull you off the door so he can swing it open. “Let’s leave them to it.”

You smack the lights off again as you make your escape, Jimin’s grip still hugging tight around your waist as you laugh until your lungs nearly give out. The lobby is thankfully empty, all the attendees pressed deeper into the gallery, so you loop your arms over his shoulders as you recover and pull his mouth back down to yours, unable to stop yourself.

“Let me take you home,” you manage to say in the space between kisses. Your tongue feels heavy when you speak; his is champagne-sweet. “Joon and Yoongi will be here for a while.”

Jimin’s agreement hums, buzzing on your lips. “Wanna take the train?”

You’re grateful the subway car you stumble into is empty, because the pull of Jimin’s mouth is too magnetic to be ignored. You don’t think you could stop kissing him if you tried.

It’s practically a race back to your apartment once you emerge from the station, partially to get out of the cold night air, though you hardly feel it with Jimin’s jacket slung over your shoulders and your body flushed hot from alcohol and desire. As you climb the four flights to your walk-up, both of you giggling and gripping tight to the banister, the spiral of the stairs sends your world spinning. You feel dizzy-drunk on wine and laughter and lust alike, and maybe something more. Something you don’t have words for yet.

It takes you three tries to get your keys in the door, and when you finally manage to get it open, you kick your shoes off and make a beeline for your bedroom, dragging Jimin along after you, hand-in-hand. Thankfully he has the foresight to remember to shut the door behind you, because all you can think about is him: the rich musk of his cologne, the taste of his tongue, the warm blush of his skin under your palms.

The leather jacket hits the floor and you step over it, walking backwards as he licks into your open mouth, shameless.

You nearly fall over when you bump up against the bed and almost lose your balance, and then you reach for the buttons of his shirt at the same time he goes for your dress. The two of you laugh your frustrations against each other as your arms tangle and get in the way.

“You first!” you insist, and he relents, lets you unbutton the starched white fabric of his button-down so he can shrug out of it. Your fingers move to undo his belt and then he takes over, impressively coordinated enough to be able to kiss you while kicking his jeans the rest of the way off, stripped down now to his black boxer-briefs. He pulls your dress up over your head, and then your barely-clothed bodies press together all the way down, the ache in your core now an undeniable throb.

Jimin takes your face in his hands and kisses you again, and you slip one hand between your hips and his to palm at him, earning an appreciative hiss. You rub at him over the front of his briefs, teasing, then dip your touch beneath his waistband.

His cock hangs heavy between his legs, but he’s not quite hard yet, maybe from the cold, so you take him in your hand and start to pump. For fear of too much dry friction you try to go slow, and he groans into your mouth as you twist your wrist a little to circle your thumb over his frenulum.

He buries his face in your neck, and you can feel the heat of his embarrassment bloom against your skin. “Sorry— gimme a second.”

Tilting your head, you press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t apologize. D’you wanna try laying down?”

When he nods, you release your grip on him so he can sink down onto the bed, crawling backwards up to the pillows. Knelt down on the mattress, you settle in the space he makes for you, thighs spread and knees tipped open, and you push his briefs down enough to free all of him.

You hook your thumb and index finger under the head of his dick to pull it flush against his stomach, allowing you better access to drag your tongue in little kitten licks up his shaft. Your other hand moves to massage gently at his balls as you take his tip into your mouth and let it bulge against your cheek, let him slip against the soft wall there to make saliva pool on your tongue, sloppy on purpose.

It’s still not working, not really, and when your gaze flits up to him again, Jimin’s face is pulled into a grimace. Heat rushes up your neck, and you pull your mouth off him and immediately right yourself. You shift backwards a little on your knees as your pulse starts to race. Does he not want this? Did you misread some sign, or push him too far?

Jimin must be able to read the look in your eyes, because he groans as he presses his face into his hands. “It’s not you. Think I drank too much, I don’t— i-it feels good, I—it just—”

You’re not exactly sober yourself. The receding white noise of panic makes it hard to think, hard to know what to say. “I-it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I just—” he tries again. “I really want to do this, I don’t know why— it’s fucking embarrassing.” The blankets muffle the sound as his palms smack flat against the bed on either side of him in clear frustration. You move out from between his legs, still trying to catch up, and a muscle in his jaw jumps as he pulls his boxer-briefs back over himself.

“Jimin,” you murmur. The bed creaks when you shift to lay next to him, to tuck into his side, and you reach up to run a hand through his hair, a little sticky with the product holding it in place. An anxious, thrumming quiet settles over both of you as his eyes flutter closed.

The words finally come to you in the silence; you can only hope they’ll reach him. “I had so much fun with you tonight. That doesn’t go away.” The crease between his brows softens a little, so you keep talking. “It’s not your only chance, okay? I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here.” Your free hand slips into his on the bed next to you. “And I want you with me.”

He sniffs a little, so quiet you nearly miss it, then turns in towards you. Your noses bump together and your mouth turns up at the corners as you continue. “It’s late, and I… can’t promise there isn’t more ass-eating waiting for you at home. Do you want to sleep here?”

Jimin’s eyes blink open, glassy, and then he nods.

“Come on,” you say softly, sitting up and tugging on your still-joined hands. “How about we shower?”

In the bathroom, you run the water scalding hot, and when you both step in you nudge Jimin forward to stand under it first, then press against him from behind. Your hands wrap around his waist to slide over his stomach as you tilt up to reach his ear when you speak. “This okay?”

He nods, hums a little, and you move your hands up over the whole of his body. Hard lines and soft curves, a work of art you know so well, you can see it when you close your eyes as you map his skin with your fingertips. You nuzzle into the place where his neck and shoulder meet, then press a kiss there. “I’m right here,” you say again, not even sure if he hears you.

But his head turns, and you feel one of his hands slide over yours on his chest. “Will you wash my hair?” he asks softly, and you tip forward to bring your mouth to his, convinced you’d do anything he asked of you.

It’s intimate, the way you take your time running shampoo and then conditioner through his silky pink strands, dragging your nails over his scalp and applying gentle pressure that makes him sigh prettily in response. Jimin steps further under the showerhead both times to rinse the product out, and if a few tears slip down his cheeks, they’re lost to the spray of the water where you can’t tell the difference.

But he does manage the ghost of a smile when you reach to grab your washcloth and he gets there first. “Your turn.”

Once your body and then his are scrubbed and rinsed clean, you shut the water off and grab thick, fluffy towels that you dry off and wrap up in. In the dim light of your room, you pull on an oversized t-shirt and boyshorts, then dig out a pair of sweatpants from your dresser. They’re fairly baggy on you, but they fit Jimin perfectly, and the image of him in something of yours makes your heart squeeze tight in your chest.

You run two glasses under the kitchen tap that you set out to ward off any potential hangovers, and you even manage to find a spare toothbrush for him to use. When he emerges from the bathroom again, still absentmindedly toweling his damp hair, you’re sitting on the bed with your feet tucked under you.

“Do you want to watch something?” you offer gently.

He shakes his head as he stifles a yawn. “‘Mtired. Think I just wanna sleep.”

You pat the bedspread next to you, an invitation. “Then let’s sleep.”

Under the covers, you curl up together, soft and warm from the shower, scented lavender and mint from your body wash and toothpaste. Jimin’s legs tangle with yours, an arm wrapping over your waist, and you press your cheek against the hard plane of his chest with a small sigh.

You listen as his breathing slows, each inhale a little further apart from the last, to the point where you think he’s fallen asleep. You feel yourself start to follow after him, and the last thing you hear before you’re dragged all the way down is Jimin inhaling deep, then mumbling softly into your hair. “Thank you. For everything.”

~*~

Light streams in between the cracks of the window blinds, painting warm shapes over your eyelids that gently wake you. You sigh and stretch as you slowly come all the way up from dreaming, your eyes still heavy-lidded. When you roll over with a soft grunt, you find Jimin fast asleep there, his face smushed into the pillow, one arm slung lazily over you.

The corner of your mouth pulls up, and you have to fight the urge to dot kisses all over his face, deciding to let him sleep instead. It takes some maneuvering, but you manage to roll out from under his arm without waking him and slip quietly out of bed, easing the bedroom door closed behind you.

It’s early, and the apartment is still, washed in morning gleam and the gentle hum of New York City traffic on the streets outside.

You stumble into the kitchen with a stifled yawn, swinging open the fridge and leaning down to retrieve a pack of bacon and the half-empty carton of eggs. Humming quietly to yourself, you dig a pan out and set it on the stove to heat.

Arms slide around your waist, making you jump a little before you melt back as Jimin nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You can feel his body through your t-shirt, still warm from sleep and bedsheets he must’ve only just crawled out from under.

Not quite graceful, you turn in his arms and loop yours around his neck to seek a kiss. “Good morning,” you murmur, your voice hoarse on your first spoken words of the day. “How are you feeling?”

Jimin’s mouth is still slurred from waking up when he answers. “‘Mgood. You look good.” His gaze roams down your body and back up, as if to take in your oversized shirt, your bare legs, your hair still messy from sleep. “So cute like this.”

You scrunch your nose slightly as you smile up at him. “Want breakfast?”

A heat starts to pool between your legs as his hands slide further down your back. He pushes your shirt up so he can grip your ass, the thin fabric of your underwear the only thing separating his skin from yours.

“In a bit.”

You can’t help but squeak when, in one swift move, he bends his knees and lifts you off the ground. Impulsively, your legs spread to wrap over his hips, thighs squeezing tight to hold on, and your arms cling around his neck as laughter flutters in your chest. Before you can act on the urge to bury your face in his shoulder, his mouth finds yours again, and the way he kisses you, hungry and deep, makes nothing else in the world matter.

He carries you back to bed, nudging open the door he didn’t quite close all the way with his shoulder, then using a foot to push it shut again. Your muscles unclench when he sits down with you in his lap, and you unwrap your legs from around him, your knees sinking soft into the bed.

You can’t quite shake the thoughts of the night before. “Jimin,” you start, “we don’t have to do this if you don’t—”

“Want to,” his voice is low, ragged edges from sleep. “Doing it ‘cause I want to. I want you. Do you want me?”

You nod, leaning back to look at him, your arms still twined over his neck. “More than anything.”

There’s no rush this time as he shifts backwards up the bed and you crawl over him to settle into his lap again. No tension that’s been building all night, no alcohol buzzing in your systems, no urgency. Just your bodies, half-dressed in sleep clothes, intertwining like they were made to fit together.

Your kisses are sweet and unhurried as Jimin’s hands slip beneath your oversized t-shirt, delicate fingers tracing up your waist. He cups your breasts in his palms, squeezing gently as he licks into your mouth. When he rolls a nipple between his fingers, your breath hitches, sparks of arousal shooting all the way down to your toes. A weight blossoms in your core as you reach for the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head, and you shiver a little in the morning air.

“Beautiful,” Jimin says quietly, reverently, and you take his face in your hands.

“You are too,” you murmur, your eyes searching his. “So beautiful.” Your hands slip down his body as he kisses you again, your fingertips outlining the contours of his chest, gently brushing over his nipples to make him groan into your mouth.

Jimin’s hands come to rest at the curve of your hips as your mouths move together, where he teases his touch under the band of your boyshorts. He pulls back just far enough to ask, “Can I take these off?” and you nod.

You shimmy the thin fabric down your thighs, dropping onto your ass with a laugh so he can tug them the rest of the way off, one ankle at a time. As you sit up on your knees again, his hands come to grip your thighs, and he shifts lower on the bed until he’s laying flat on his back next to you.

“Wanna eat you out,” he murmurs softly.

“Yeah?” You bite down on a small smile.

He hums. “Can I— will you please, uh… sit on my face?”

You can’t help but giggle. No one has ever asked so politely. “Yeah, okay.”

It’s slow, languid, the way his full lips close delicately around your clit when you settle over him, how he alternates with lazy passes of his tongue, not unlike the way he kisses you. The pleasure pulls your spine arched and your head tips back, palms pressing flat to the bed beneath you.

“Jimin,” you gasp, “baby, feels so fucking good.”

His tongue is heavy as it drags down your folds, thick when he sinks it into your cunt to taste the slick arousal that pours out of you and drips down his chin. Your hips rock into his mouth, his nose inadvertently bumping against your clit as he licks you like he doesn’t want to waste a drop. Your walls cling tight, crammed up full of him.

With a slurp and a gasp for breath, he withdraws, his tongue made hot from being buried inside of you, trailing wet warmth as he licks back up your pussy to lap at your clit again. Your arms threaten to give out when he sucks the sensitive bud into his mouth, lips pulsing an insistent rhythm that makes you moan and writhe above him.

“Jimin, Jimin.” The pleasure is decadent, thick, wine and honey, made sweeter by the beautiful boy pressed between your thighs. Emotion bubbles up inside of you to twist with your pleasure, and you tighten a hand in his rose-blush hair as you moan again, nearly a sob this time, a dam breaking.

Jimin hums against you, fingertips digging into the soft skin of your thighs, like he can tell you’re at the edge without you having to say a word, and it’s enough to send you tumbling over it.

“Oh fuck baby, yes, fuck.” Your toes curl tight over the bedsheets as your pussy flutters, throbs, gushes. Your vision whites out as you come hard enough to make your thighs shake, hard enough that your stomach muscles tremble with the effort of holding you up. Jimin’s mouth works you through it, tongue stroking flat and slow to coax pulse after pulse out of you, until everything melts into shaky aftershocks and your thighs clench around him, over-sensitive.

He pulls back when you start to squirm, lips smacking wetly on a final kiss to your pussy, and heat flushes your face at the sound of it. Your limbs feel heavy as lead as you slip off from on top of him and collapse down onto the mattress with a floaty sigh, your pulse still thudding brightly in your ears.

You’re only distantly aware of the way the bed shifts as Jimin slides down next to you. You follow his touch on instinct, turning into him when he pulls you close and presses a kiss to your hairline. Heartbeat still slamming in your chest, mind hazy with morning orgasm glow, you hum contentedly as your eyes flutter open to find him palming at a thick bulge tenting his– well, your sweatpants.

“Looks like it’s cooperating today.” Jimin’s voice is equal parts relieved and embarrassed.

With a lazy smile, you hook a finger in his waistband, tugging playfully. “What do you want to do about it?”

He laughs hoarsely. “I would love to finally fuck you, if you’ll have me.”

“I don’t want anybody else.” The thought spills out before you can worry if it’s too soon to say it, but he just smiles and leans in to kiss you.

At Jimin’s guidance, you lay back against the pillows, a couple of which he grabs to slot under your hips. “There’s condoms in the nightstand,” you say softly, and anticipation thrums in your chest, twinning with your still-racing pulse as you watch him retrieve one, then step out of his sweatpants to roll it on.

He climbs back onto the bed to hover over you, and your breaths come shallow into each other’s mouths. You kiss quietly at the precipice of this moment, like you’re afraid it might not be real, a dream you could wake up from at any second.

“Thank you.” Jimin’s low voice sends a ripple through you. “For waiting for me.”

You press a hand to his cheek, your eyes trying to take all of him in at once. “It wasn’t waiting, Jimin. Really. I’ve loved every second with you. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing.”

“I’m so glad I met you,” he murmurs.

The head of his cock teases your entrance, and you spread your thighs wider, pulling your legs up towards your chest. Still sensitive from your first orgasm, you can’t bite back the moan that spills out of you as he sinks into your tight heat with a cock thick enough to split you open. “Fuck, Jimin.”

There’s a pause when he’s pressed all the way in, his body covering yours, your hands clutching at the broad sweep of his back. He exhales a soft, disbelieving laugh as he looks down to see himself buried in you to the hilt. “God, you’re so tight. Does it hurt?”

You shake your head— you’re so soaked from his tongue and your arousal that it all just feels like melting, a pulsating heat between your legs. When he presses another kiss to your lips, he circles his hips, and you both groan at the feeling.

Jimin’s hands grip your thighs as he shifts and starts to move, starts fucking into you with long, slow strokes that make your pussy flutter, as if to urge him in deeper.

“It’s good?” he checks in again, voice tight, clearly holding himself back.

“So good, baby,” you breathe, “please fuck me.” A smirk flashes over his mouth at your manners, so polite when you ask to take it, and then he snaps his hips into you and you keen. “Fuck, please, just like that.”

He does it again and again, hands pressing down on your thighs to keep you folded up under him as he fucks you. The angle is just right for the thick head of his cock to pound into your g-spot with every stroke, and your back arches as your walls grip tight to him.

Jimin echoes your gasps with his own, swearing under his breath as you squeeze around him. He’s thrusting deep-deep now, and your hips shove up towards him for all of it, your thighs trembling as you take every inch. You’re dripping down his length every time he pulls back, wet enough to soak the sheets beneath you.

The pleasure, the pressure as he fills you up is so overwhelming that your hands reach, clinging to anything they can find. A pillow, the bedsheets, the flexing muscles in his forearms. Your moans come unabashedly now, underscored by the slap of skin on skin, the thud of the bedframe knocking into the wall. “Jimin, Jimin, baby.”

“Yeah,” he pants, choked up like he’s close. “Love it when you say my name.”

You sit up a little, folded legs shifting to wrap over his hips, and your hands come to his face to pull his mouth down to yours. His movements stutter as you kiss him breathlessly, and the brush of your tongue over his must be just enough to make him come undone. With a grunt of effort, he thrusts hard into you one final time, and his shoulders shake as he fills up the condom.

You kiss him again and again, your lips pulled into a smile against his as you tangle a hand in his hair, made messy from sleep and sex. Jimin’s body weighs heavy on top of yours as he drops his head to your shoulder, breath coming in short heat-bursts over your collarbone.

“Fuck. Been a minute.” He presses a kiss there, another to your neck, a third to your jaw. “Do you want to keep going?”

Your eyes widen at the question. “I— can you?”

A soft flush paints color in his cheeks, and he’s suddenly a little shy. “Yeah, I can. If you want. Or we can stop.”

You wrap your arms over his shoulders, your noses bumping. “I kinda felt like I was getting close again.”

He smiles. “Then let me finish what I started.” There’s a bit of shuffling as he moves to the edge of the bed to remove and tie up the used condom, then reaches for the box to retrieve another.

As he tears open the foil and rolls it on, you watch and consider all of him. This body that you know from every angle, that you’ve studied like a textbook, that holds the boy who stepped onto the subway and changed your life and made it better. This body, made to be adored, to be respected and cherished and filled up with love. This body, chosen to be shared with you, to be held by you, to be near you.

That’s all you want, you realize as he rolls over, brown eyes blinking sweetly at you. This body, and all that it holds: the darkness and the light, the pain and the beauty, the soul that so perfectly fits with yours.

“Turn over for me?” he asks softly. “I want to spoon.”

This round is easier, slower, your bodies molding together, shaky from effort and sensitivity. You twist over your shoulder, tipping your head up for a kiss that turns into a shared gasp as he presses into you again. Your walls are swollen enough to be tender, and the stretch of him, the way he fills you up entirely, makes your eyes roll back.

As he starts to grind his hips into you, his hand snakes down between your thighs before you even have to ask. You hook a leg over his to allow him better access and gasp when his cock slides even deeper into you from the new angle.

“So good,” you manage as two of his fingers work circles into your clit, matching the same slow-stroke pace. His tongue slips into your mouth, and with his cock rubbing insistently against your front wall, it doesn’t take much. Pleasure overwhelms you in a hot rush as he so easily pulls you apart again.

“Jimin.” Your voice is nearly a whisper, your walls starting to pulse. Your head tips back against his shoulder as he fucks and rubs you through it, his hums of encouragement buzzing through your body, your hips shuddering. “Baby, oh god.”

Jimin’s strokes start to falter, and then he goes still, your cunt aftershock-fluttering around him as he comes again, groaning your name.

A brush of daylight through the blinds makes your eyes heavy, and they drop closed as you lean into him and breathe through the comedown. You don’t know how long you lay there like that until his kisses pull you back earthside, dotting over your forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw. You tilt your head up and he finally finds your lips again.

With a deep grunt of post-sex effort, he rolls over, leaning off the edge of the bed to deal with the second condom. A shiver dots up your spine at the loss of his body next to yours, and you tuck into his side when he lays down again, throwing an arm over his chest to better nuzzle into the crook of his neck. The heat of his palm makes you sigh as his hand rubs gentle circles against your back.

Something cracks open inside of you, warm like his touch, like the sunlight bleeding through the window. You can feel the rapid pace of his heartbeat under your hand, and it’s everything, all of him, that makes the words rise up in your throat, undeniable.

“Jimin,” you breathe, “I l—”

A loud bang on your bedroom door makes you flinch, and you roll over with a grimace as Yoongi shouts from the other side. “If you’re finished, just so you know, you left a fucking pan on the stove. Could’ve burnt the house down while you were in there deflowering each other.”

Your jaw drops open and Jimin’s eyes go wide, and you collapse against each other in a silent rush of laughter. You’re surprised when Yoongi’s voice comes back, a little softer this time. “Also I brought some bagels back from work. If you want any, better hurry before Namjoonie eats them all.”

The charged moment has passed, and the words sink back down inside of you. Making a promise to tell him soon, you wrap yourself tighter around Jimin’s side with a smile. “What do you think?”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’ll never say no to a bagel.”

“Come on then,” you murmur, tilting up for a final hit of affection. The kiss he leaves on your lips makes your heartbeat flutter, like the shudder of a subway car.

[dovechim]

catch your death (m)

➾ jung hoseok x reader, hybrid au

➾ 5.1k

➾ summary: jung hoseok has always been your number one antagonist. as a snow leopard hybrid, the only one in the kingdom— you’re always just too much for him— too pretty, too cold, too elegant, too weak to match up to his standards of a competent fighter. so when you’re betrothed to him in a very unusual matrimonial ceremony, its natural that your blood should run cold, because you hate him to the core. right?

➾ warnings: exhibitionism, orgasm denial, breeding kink, creampie, cum eating/ cumplay

➾ a/n: happy birthday to our sunshine boy who will always be our ray of hope :”) thank you hoseok, for always working so hard for us, you did so well!! i also dedicate this to @94hixtape, the biggest hoe(seok) i know bc she requested me to write this months ago and also bc like hoseok, she deserves all the love in the world. 

enjoy!!! this will be hoseok’s part for my breeding series :-) 

Keep reading

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

dancing on dreams, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader, (very) minor jungkook x reader

summary: The wrong guy shows up in your car – Jeon Jungkook. Big sigh. He’s drunk out of his mind and blabbering away. Then the right guy who you’re supposed to pick up, Min Yoongi, says Jungkook’s apartment is on the way. Might as well drop off passed-out Jungkook and make sure he’s okay. Or Yoongi could fuck you on Jungkook’s bed. That also works.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language, tiny bit of crack; alcohol consumption; smut (fem reader, fingering, f-receiving oral, penetrative sex); fluff; non-idol!AU - friends with benefits / lovers? with Yoongi; you two fuck slightly on top of and next to sleeping Jungkook, tsk tsk; technically JK is in his red My Time outfit lol

repost, originally called ‘a–dick–ted’  and then I realized tumblr doesn’t like that lmao

–

now playing – don’t threaten me with a good time by panic! at the disco

“I’m not as think as you drunk I am.”

That’s what Jeon Jungkook slurred to you as he flopped into your passenger’s seat, the stench of alcohol so strong you recoiled. He was wearing a thin red blazer and his sheer black shirt was missing half the top buttons, revealing his tan, muscular pecs.

Also, he wasn’t supposed to be in your car.

“Get out.”

Jungkook hiccupped and squinted at you. “Noona! What’s up? I didn’t expect to see you here,” he continued, completely ignoring your annoyed look. “I thought you didn’t party.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s because I don’t. I’m picking someone up. Get out of my car.”

He shot two finger guns at you. “Eyy, that could be me.”

“It most certainly is not you, Jeon Jungkook. Now yeet yourself out of my car, please.”

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[yminie]

esurient | namjin (m)

pairing: Namjoon x Reader, Seokjin x Reader genre/warnings: poly!au, polyamorous relationship, dom/sub undertones, smut, choking, bondage, orgasm denial, overstimulation, spanking, oral (male and female receiving), creampie. words: 6112 summary: The most difficult thing about waking up between two sexy, naked men with an incessant need between your thighs is choosing which of your boyfriends you’re going to rouse from sleep to help your needs.

esurient | adj. | hungry or greedy

a/n: this is a very belated request that belongs to @kiwibummie I hope you like it love! <3

The heat encasing you from either side is nothing in comparison to the heat you feel throbbing between your thighs, and even before you fully open your eyes you can tell it’s far too early to be awake on a Saturday morning. The shine of moonlight still peaks through the blinds across the room, and you almost groan out loud as the rubbing of your thighs sparks jolts of pleasure down your legs, swirling between your hips.

Namjoon and Jin lay comatose on either side of your squirming figure, heavy breaths and the slight snore vibrating through the back of Namjoon’s throat a clear sign of your lone struggle. The glide of their bare skin against yours as you roll from one side the other and inspect their sleeping faces brings forth echoes of your earlier activities and you whimper to yourself as you clench your sore thighs together once more, the slight trickle of wetness from your core tickling your flushed skin.

The younger of the two is facing you, Namjoon’s arm resting against the mattress stretched toward you from where he no doubt had been cradling your waist in his sleep, and you can see the slightest hint of the thatch of hair that sits between his hips peaking from the sheet that drapes about his lap. But you can’t help your hesitance, knowing his penchant for teasing you when you want him most, and soon enough you’re glancing across the bed to the elder.

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[wwilloww]

sh. masterlist

PAIRING ot7 x Reader

RATING Explicit.

GENRE NonIdol!Au. Wilderness!Au. Friends to Lovers. Smut. Fluff. Angst. 

CURRENT WC 72k

SERIES SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no? alternatively, watch the trailer

SERIES WARNINGS added to as each chapter is updated, as well as specified before each chapter: Untimely boner. Handjob. Nipple and breast play. Fingering. Unprotected sex. Size kink. Power play. Dirty talk. Voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Semi-public sex. Dom/Sub dynamics. Sex dreams. Dungeon. Public sex. Masturbation. Oral (f & m receiving). Edging. Orgasm control and denial. Group sex. Oral sex. Bondage and restraint. Praise kink. Cum play. Cum eating. Aftercare. Animal encounter. 

AN This series is something I’ve been working on, bit by bit after long days of work! It’s become a bit of my emotional support smut, so I hope y’all enjoy the ride with me! I upload every 3-4 weeks on the weekends. 

series navigation:

chapter one 

chapter two 

chapter three

chapter four 

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

read with they/them pronouns: 1  2   3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11

bits and pieces (sh. thots m.list)  

Want to chat with the characters? Do you have a fantasy you want realized by the Sh. boys? Tell me about it and I might just incorporate it into the next chapter!  and you can read questions, ideas, guesses, and thots for the series  at #sh. thots

[wishesunderthestars]

Eunoia // Masterlist

eunoia (noun): beautiful thinking, the possession of a well-balanced mind, which exhibits goodwill and kindness

Pairings: Hybrid! BTS x reader

Summary: You are a world famous director and you have dedicated your life to your job.You have everything you could ever dream of; wealth, recognision, talent, your friends and family. But loneliness ins’t cured by success. So what happens when you somehow rescue seven hybrids? Can they fill the void?

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut

Warnings: past abuse, past sexual abuse

Part I

✧ Chapter 1

✧ Chapter 2

✧ Chapter 3

✧ Chapter 4

✧ Chapter 5

✧ Chapter 6

Part II

✧ Chapter 7

✧ Chapter 8

✧ Chapter 9

✧ Chapter 10

Part III

✧ Chapter 11

✧ Chapter 12

✧ Chapter 13

✧ Chapter 14

✧ Chapter 15

✧ Chapter 16

Part IV

✧ Chapter 17

✧ Chapter 18

✧ Chapter 19

✧ Chapter 20

✧ Chapter 21

✧ Chapter 22

✧ Chapter 23

Part V

✧ Chapter 24

✧ Chapter 25

✧ Chapter 26

✧ Chapter 27

[onlyarandomfangirl]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Name: Where Doms Collide 

Relationship: Yoongi, Taehyung, and Namjoon - Yoontaejoon

Genre: smut

Chapter: 1 out of 5

Wordcount so far: 19.6k

Summary:

Taehyung smirks slowly, “Are you gonna leave him to me or are you staying with us?”

“Oh, I’m staying,” Namjoon answers calmly, smiling too.

Pounding. Yoongi’s heart. He’s getting turned on. Just from getting a glimpse of them like that. He feels like prey. When they turn back to him, he gulps.

“So,” Namjoon says, his hand sliding down to the small of Yoongi’s back and pausing there. “What did you imagine us doing?”