Set Me Free

Ult group BTS, ult biases Jimin & Yoongi. No, I do not ship Yoonmin romantically.

[ktownshizzle]

Hot & Bothered | myg — date no. 6

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: You’re horny af one night so you login to your fave hook-up app for a quick fix. You match with Min Yoongi, expecting a cocky rapper with a filthy mouth, but instead, you get a soft-spoken man in a designer shirt and a gummy smile. He keeps asking you out, but there’s no kiss, no sex, nothing. Each date winds you up tighter than the last, your patience (and your lingerie) hanging by a thread, and now you can’t tell what’ll snap first: his restraint or your self-control. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, smut, strangers to lovers, non idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut... ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: Someone is wearing a Tank Top™️, Someone is a Grade A Meddler, Yoongi ponders committing murder towards this someone several times, real ARMY would know the iconic move in this scene, minor talk about blood, mention of pain kink, overuse of the pet name ‘baby’, kissing, grinding, ass-man Yoongi agenda lives on! ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 4.2k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Tea and Aqua. Thank you, my loves! ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Here it is y’all. This has some tooth-rotting fluff because these two just live rent-free in my head and they’re playing house already. Yoongi’s POV was so fun to write. Now you know MC's not the only one who’s hot & bothered. Enjoy~

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Date No. 6: The Fuzzy Sweater

Yoongi gets home earlier from his work trip than scheduled and doesn’t tell you. The reason is embarrassingly simple: he wants to see your face without warning, wants to catch you in that soft little smile you always give him when you’re not braced for it, wants to stand on your doorstep and feel you, his baby, fold into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And tonight? Yup, he’s bringing that pack of Trojan gathering dust in his nightstand. It’s about damn time.

Usually he’d opt for a simple t-shirt and jeans, but when he opens his closet, there is a secret weapon staring back at him. He takes the hanger out and sets it atop his bed.

So he showers, gives the patch of trimmed hair down there an extra rinse, and changes into the sweater—the fuzzy stripey one. The one that turns him into a walking, talking plushie. When he slips it on, oh yeah, it feels so fuckin’ nice. It’s super soft. Stupidly inviting. He knows what he’s doing. If you touch it (him), he’s not responsible for what happens next.

Min Yoongi. Master of Seduction!

He drives over with his heart in his throat and his stomach tight, already mentally choreographing how your reunion would go. He imagines you opening the door, your shock melting into happiness, he imagines pulling you by the waist, your arms going around his neck before you even think about it. He imagines kissing you hard then you’ll giggle and say wait, come inside. And he’s gonna take that literally, cumming inside your warm, wet…

Fuck. He needs to get it together.

By the time he’s standing at your doorstep, he’s practically vibrating with anticipation. He shoves a hand inside one of his jean pockets and adjusts the semi sitting at an awkward angle against his boxers.

Tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, palms a little sweaty, he raises his fist, knocks once, twice—and breathes.

When the door opens, everything goes to hell.

It isn't you at the door.

Nope.

It opens to a guy. A tall guy with annoyingly good hair and a face that would be punchable if it weren’t… honestly, pretty.

Yoongi stares at him. The guy stares back.

Who the fuck is this dude?

There is a ringing in his brain that sounds awfully like a hundred cymbals crashing all at once. He feels something unpleasant twist in his chest, sharp and territorial, the kind that makes his pulse spike and his expression flatten. He’s about to lose his shit, actually.

The guy blinks again, slow and unbothered, like he lives there. And the fact that he is wearing a fuckin’ tank top, half-soaked and clinging to his chest…

Yoongi feels his blood pressure rise by ten points.

Seriously.

Who. The. Fuck. Is. This. Dude.

The guy in your doorway looks him up and down, casual as anything, and asks, “Uh… are you Yoongi?”

Oh, hold up. He knows. Yoongi opens his mouth to respond, something neutral and normal lined up on his tongue, until movement behind the stranger hits the corner of his eye.

You appear.

Completely wet.

Hair dripping, cheeks flushed, white T-shirt plastered to your breasts like a second skin… the stuff of his fantasies. He sees the outline of your bra and his mouth dries up so fast he probably needs to lick some of the moisture on your face to hydrate.

Interestingly, despite the suspicious optics, your smile is not a guilty smile. Not a caught-fucking-another-guy smile. Just bright and unbelievably happy to see him.

But Tank Top™ is still there, raising his bicep to lean on the doorway, arm pit hair now pointing menacingly at Yoongi and for one horrible, dizzying second, all Yoongi can think of is: Oh. I’m killing this dude. I’m absolutely killing this dude. 

“Yoongi!” you gasp, lit up from the inside, and you cross the space between the two of you immediately, throwing your arms around him. Huh. Just like he imagined.

Your body hits his fuzzy sweater and he feels the cold instantly, but he doesn’t even care because you’re hugging him so tight he forgets how long it’s been. And then you kiss him, firm, warm, in the mouth. So eager he forgets his name. But he’s frozen in place and of course you notice.

“What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? What’s wrong is he almost nuts at the sight of you in that wet fuckin’ t-shirt.

And also, who the fuck is that guy? That’s what’s wrong.

Yoongi jerks his gaze back to the dude, still standing there, still damp, still too close to you.

The stranger lifts his brows like really?

You blink, finally remembering introductions.

“Oh shit! Sorry. Yoongi, this is Tae, my best friend. He lives across the street. Tae, this is my… umm. Yoongi.” 

You’re blushing furiously. It’s not lost on him that you weren’t able to put a label on who he is in your life and Yoongi feels the strongest need to fix that. My Yoongi sounded nice, though, he’s not gonna lie.

Then finally you address the elephant in the room, gesturing to yours and your friend’s drenched bodies. “This is what happens when your shower decides to explode. He came over to help me fix it.”

Yoongi feels like an idiot. A relieved idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. You did tell him you were not interested in anyone else. Hehe.

You slide your arm through his, completely oblivious to the mental gymnastics you’ve put him through in all of five minutes. “Come inside, baby. I didn’t know you were already in town.”

Baby. That word hits him like a warm hand on the chest and his jealousy drops several notches instantly.

You tug him in and he follows without resistance. You help him out of this jacket. And even as he walks past Taehyung, he gives him one last sidelong glance, competitive without meaning to be.

“Is it fixed?” Yoongi asks, standing in the center of your living room. Cause if it is, he can leave, right?

Taehyung grins. “Yeah, it’s done.”

“Tae is great with tools,” your head pops up from behind the fridge door, before you close it shut with your hip. “Very handy.”

Oh he’ll show you handy. He once installed six bidets in one day. Yoongi pulls at the collar of his sweater a bit. Pretends he didn’t hear those damn praises aimed at another man lest he overheats again. Yoongi knows he is phenomenal with tools—he’s gonna have to show you some time. Maybe there’s a loose door hinge somewhere. He will be on the lookout. Trust.

“We’re binge-watching Physical Asia today, Yoongi.” your sweet voice interrupts his thoughts. “You should join us.”

Taehyung scratches the back of his neck. “Nah, I should go.” My guy. At least he has the decency to know when to fuck off. 

“It’s fine. Baby, it’s fine, right?” You turn to him, balancing three bags of chips across your chest and a bowl of salsa on top and Yoongi just nods like a bobblehead even though he wants to scream HELL NO. 

“I’ve been hanging out with Yoongi’s friends, too. Honestly, you should meet them, Tae. I feel like you’ll get on with them quite well. Especially Kookie and Chim.”

Kookie and Chim! How did those dipshits get a nickname? Oh yeah, they added you on Insta. Guess you’re friends now, which is actually kinda cute. Yoongi gets distracted for a moment before he remembers where he is.

Taehyung takes the salsa bowl from you and places it on the coffee table, while you set the chips beside it.

“I’ve spinach dip also, any takers? No? Okay, I’m heading upstairs to change. Tae set the TV up. I’ll get you a clean shirt.” 

One with sleeves, Yoongi hopes.

When the sound of your footsteps fade, Taehyung turns to him. “You okay, man?”

“Mm.” Yoongi sits on the couch. “Good.” 

Yeah, this is not how he planned this day to go. But he pretends he’s not embarrassed. Pretends he’s not already plotting how to reclaim every inch of your attention the moment you two are alone again.

Because god, he missed you.

And now that he’s here—fuzzy sweater and jealous heart included—he’s not letting anyone else stand in the way! Not a fuckin’ chance.

Yoongi plucks his phone from his backpocket from getting squished between his buttcheek and the cushions and places it on the coffee table.

The screen lights up and it’s just a notification from the Boy Scouts GC, so he’s ignoring that because it’s probably just Hobi talki—

“That’s a nice photo of Y/N.”

Shit, he forgot to change his lock screen! Idiot!

Yoongi retrieves his device, replies as coolly as he can manage. “Yeah, uh, it’s from when we went hiking,” he mutters as he changes the lock screen back to something far less incriminating: the Samsung Default wallpaper.

Tank Top™ is still grinning at him like the cat that caught the cream. Just to add insult to injury, he quips, “Yeah, I heard you pulled a muscle or something. Was it your leg, or your back?”

“I’m fine now, thanks.”

“We go way back, Y/N and I,” Taehyung says casually, slouching backwards like he owns every piece of furniture in your house. “She used to have the fattest crush on me in college…”

Yoongi’s brain: If I stab your best friend with chopsticks, will you still like me?

“I’m kidding. We’re almost siblings at this point,” Taehyung smiles, raising his brow. “Oh you look like you’re about to swing.”

“Do I?”

“She likes you, you know.” Taehyung says, and Yoongi would be lying if he said that didn’t make his heart soar. “But she’s never had a boyfriend before and I’d hate it if her first one turned out to be a real douchebag.”

Wow. Shots fired. He’s protective. Not hostile. But definitely testy… and still talking.

“Like, if they strung her along for shits… Wasted her time… Y’know what I’m sayin’, dawg?”

Yoongi inhales, keeps his eyes on the TV, because he can already imagine how your best friend is looking at him. The side of his face is burning with the heat from Taehyung’s gaze. 

“Look, man,” Yoongi finally responds and makes eye contact against his will. “I’m not here to play games with her.”

Taehyung’s nodding, curious.

Honestly, this is so fuckin’ uncomfortable for Yoongi that he almost wants to yeet himself out of your house. Like being interrogated by not your father was not on the agenda, but he’s not backing down. 

“I’m not messing around with her. Just takin’ my time because she matters to me. That’s it.”

Taehyung’s brows rise, not mocking, not teasing this time. He nods once. “Alright.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile, but the tension on his shoulders loosens just enough that if someone were watching closely, they’d see it.

“I won’t snitch about the lock screen….” Taehyung snickers.

That kinda makes Yoongi laugh. Kay. Maybe he isn’t too bad after all.

 “Want a beer, hyung?”

Yoongi nods. “Sure.”

Just then, you thunder down the stairs, bright and sunny and carrying a tee, totally unaware you just walked into the tail end of a territorial pissing match cosplaying as polite getting-to-know-you.

Thing is, when you come down, Yoongi’s soul lifts because of your cute little fit.

A stripey cotton long-sleeved sweater (kinda matching his, actually and you know what that means in SK).

But then there’s your piece de resistance.

The tiniest lounge shorts designed to give him the biggest erection. 

Yoongi thinks you play dirty–using your fashion expertise as a weapon and he is so damn weak for it.

You drop onto the couch beside him, leg grazing his slacks and he has the most severe need to press any part of his bare skin against your plush thighs that his hands almost start to tingle.

Taehyung hits play and the show is on. Honestly, it’s a very interesting show. He knows Kook has been obsessed with it since Season One. But Yoongi is very much distracted. He occupied himself with nachos to keep him from doing inappropriate things.

Mid-way into the first episode, you pull out a throw from one of your ottomans and shake the blanket out to drape across your lap. You offer him one side and say, “Here, let’s share.”

Yoongi is chuffed as hell, because getting under a blanket with you, he can enjoy your warmth and maybe, just maybe, he can let his fingers wander. Then he sees Taehyung helping himself to the other corner and the plan goes to shit. SMH.

At least he finally has something covering those damn arms.

So now the blanket stretches across all three of you, a compressed row of body heat. Grrreat.

Yoongi tries to be super normal and 110% chill about the fact that your weight is settling so nicely against him, your fingers even start stroking the fine hairs by the sleeves of his sweater like you are meant to. 

It feels nice like this. Almost domestic. But because Yoongi is apparently a caveman with zero control over his urges, he feels the tips of his fingers quaking at the thought of stroking the skin on your inner thighs. 

You’re none the wiser. Just vibing, happy, watching and talking about the show.

But of course, your bestfriend knows. Taehyung fucking knows the chaos inside Yoongi’s mind.

Taehyung leans back, one arm casually draped over the backrest—behind you. Not touching you (because he doesn’t have a death wish), but close enough that Yoongi’s entire nervous system lights up like an electrical fire. Taehyung tilts his head daring Yoongi to make a move or else.

Yoongi has two choices: This is war or this is war.

Subtle, trying to remain dignified, Yoongi slides his arm behind you on the couch—mirroring Taehyung’s, but is instead claiming the space and setting his palm on your shoulder. Taehyung retracts his arm joyfully and leans the opposite way, even ridding himself of the blanket.

Your pretty eyes flick up at Yoongi, lashes fluttering in that surprised but welcoming way as you snuggle closer to him.

Taehyung is smirking at the TV and Yoongi wants to murder him and thank him in the same breath.

The night wears on. Yoongi has knocked back three bottles on a fairly empty stomach at this point, so he’s feeling a little more subdued. 

Physical: Asia flashes into a new challenge.

“Pfft!” Taehyung scoffs, placing his wine glass down. “That’s easy peezy lemon squeezie.”

Yoongi laughs to himself, remembering Kook who loves to say that phrase. Maybe you were right that your friend groups would get along.

“Real quick hyung, let’s try that!”

Yoongi replies, neutral. “Why would I want to?”

Your face lights up instantly. “OH MY GOD PLEASE DO IT.”

“Nah,” Yoongi mutters. “No dice.”

“Come on,” Taehyung grins, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I go low, just lean back on me. So easy.”

“That’s not even what they’re doing,” Yoongi argues, but Taehyung is already standing up, stretching his back, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for limbo.

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi says.

“Absolutely yes,” Taehyung counters.

Yoongi shoots him a look, but Taehyung, who apparently has no sense of danger, takes him by the wrist and pulls him upwards.

You clap your hands before you take your phone out, obviously wanting to document this catastrophe waiting to happen.

Dead. Yoongi is actually dead. He sighs, long and suffering. “Fine. ONCE.”

Taehyung brightens like he just won a prize. He squats and bends. “Okay! Hyung, lean your back over me and we lock arms—”

Yoongi stares. “I changed my mind.”

“Baby, don't be a coward,” you say in a sweet, but teasing voice, and that does it.

Yoongi steps into position, butt to butt with your best friend before he leans back tentatively, awkwardly, like a man preparing to die for the woman he lov—wait, who said that?

“C’mon hyung,” Taehyung’s voice shakes him out of his reverie. “Just trust me.”

Yoongi clenches his jaw and shifts his weight backward and suddenly Taehyung locks an arm under his and bends, and Yoongi’s feet are off the ground.

“OH MY GOD,” you squeal, filming everything with your phone. “You’re actually doing it.”

“WHAT THE SHIT!” Yoongi’s voice cracks, sprawled like a starfish as he stares at your ceiling.

Yoongi continues to screech like a water buffalo. “Fuckkk—put me down—my sweater is riding up! TAEHYUNG-AHH!!”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, tears in your eyes, as Taehyung finally lowers him back onto the carpeted floor. Then, somehow, Yoongi starts laughing too, joining both of you back on the couch. 

“Wow, hyung. You’re very bendy.”

You high five Taehyung before you wiggle your brows at Yoongi in a mock-sleazy way, ending it with an exaggerated wink. “You’re not the only one who’s flexible…”

“Ayoooo!” Taehyung hollers and laughs like a hyena.

Yoongi bites his lip to suppress a smile. “Quit it.”

Because this “date” couldn’t have gone any weirder, Yoongi wakes up the next morning with only fragments of memory. Him being spun around by Taehyung while tipsy. Your lovely smile and your supple thighs under the blanket. After weeks of long work hours, exhaustion finally won. He must’ve fallen asleep on the couch at some point—he can feel it in his neck, the dull ache of an unfamiliar pillow.

Then he becomes aware of something else.

You stir against him, lifting your head just enough to look at his face before settling back down, cheek pressed to his chest. “Hi baby,” you murmur, already smiling. 

“Hi,” he mumbles, voice rough and heavy with sleep, eyes barely cracking open. “How’d you sleep?”

“So well. I thought I was hugging a cloud.”

That does something to him. Something quiet and deeply satisfying. He exhales, one arm tightening around you without thinking, palm resting flat against your back like it’s always belonged there.

This wasn’t his idea of a sleepover. But why does it feel so right?

He blinks again, more awake now. The room is bathed in early morning light, and finally, no sign of Taehyung. Just you and him and this bliss.

“Guess I make a good pillow,” he says, voice low, still lazy.

“You do,” you hum. “Ten out of ten. Would swipe right again.”

He lets out a tiny huff, fingers brushing absently through your hair. You’re even prettier in the morning, when your cheeks are puffy and your eyes are a little droopy and your tummy is… growling?

That was loud.

“Better feed your pet,” Yoongi jokes.

“Yahhh,” you say, burying your face deep into his chest again like you’re trying to go inside his heart. (News flash: you already might be.)

“C’mon, let’s get you some food…”

“Yeah… M’starving,” you admit, though you make no move to get up.

He tilts his head down, presses a gentle kiss to your hair. “Shall we make breakfast?”

You groan but smile, finally untangling yourself from him. He watches you pad toward the kitchen, still in those shorts, and now the only thing in his brain is: that ass.

“You coming?”

“Mmh, give me a second.” Yoongi frowns at his crotch as his muscles tighten.

When he looks up, you’re observing him, and there’s mischief in the way you mouth, “Perv.”

He narrows his eyes. “It’s morning. I can’t fuckin’ help it.”

A little later, you’re side by side at the counter. He cracks eggs while you rinse fruit. He can’t help but thank his lucky stars that this normal, gentle thing is now part of his life, and he wants more of it, more of you.

“C’mere, baby…”

Your weight sinks against him just right, the couch dipping under the shift as you straddle him. His fuzzy sweater traps your warmth, your thighs bare against his trousers, and his brain latches onto the sensation of your softness, your scent like it’s something to catalogue and revisit later. 

His palms travel the smooth expanse of skin from your leg up, higher, higher towards your ass, squeezing with both hands without restraint. Your hips roll forward instinctively as you continue to devour his mouth.

Your lips make their way down his jaw, towards the sensitive skin under his ear. He exhales through his nose, slow, measured, pretending this is normal. Pretending he hasn’t been imagining this exact moment for weeks.

“I need you to ruin me,” you mumble in between sliding your tongue against his neck. Wet. Messy.

“Yeah?”

Fuck! This is it…

Your fingers slide into his hair and he makes a low sound before he can stop himself. You kiss him again, sloppy and decisive. Soft sucks, teasing bites, and slippery swirls. He can tell you were feral, and he loves it so damn much.

Yoongi is about to let you have your way with him when suddenly, you shoot up from his lap.

A trail of curses follows you as you disappear to the bathroom leaving Yoongi baffled. Did he do something wrong? He suffers for a solid 10 minutes before you come back wearing sweatpants instead of those cute shorts. 

“Sorry, baby. I’m about to be unbearable, so I might need to kick you out.”

A fly could enter his mouth right now and he wouldn’t notice.

You sit on the opposite chair, crossing your arms over your chest. “TMI, but I just got my period, so…”

“You need me to go to the pharmacy?”

You smile. “It’s okay. I will ask Taehyung to drive me later.”

Yoongi places a fist atop his heart. “You wound me.”

“What?”

“You think some blood and whining will spook me.”

“You have not seen me in the throes of pain, Yoongi. Trust me. It’s better this way.”

Yoongi’s ears perk at that. Partially because you said something about pain and that’s something he likes to dabble on. But that’s a conversation for another time.

“Get dressed, we’re going to Olive Young.”

“No, thank you.”

Wordlessly, Yoongi stands up and goes to your coat closet. He wears his baseball cap and takes his jacket and zips it up while you watch with watery eyes, because you seem to think he is leaving.

When he is all bundled up, he takes yours, the white puffer with brown fur trim and walks over to you. He takes your wrist gingerly and slides your arm on one hole before you get the picture, slipping on the other by yourself.

He stands in front of you, zipping it all the way up to your neck, then pulls your hair free where it bunches at the back, smoothing it down with careful fingers.

Then he decides his cap would look better on you, so he places it on top of your head. Cute.

Keys dangling on his index, he gestures to the door. “Ready?”

Olive Young is a labyrinth so Yoongi tails you like a puppy, because he could seriously get lost in all these hypnotic beauty aisles.

You make your way to the female wellness section and he decides to take his phone out.

A box of something pink catches your eye, and you tuck it under your arm.

Yoongi looks at the shelf strip and types.

“Are you answering emails? You can sit there and wait if you want.” You purse your lips, pointing to that little bench near the elevator where two guys (boyfriends, presumably) are waiting for their girls.

“Ah no,” he shows you his screen where he’s been listing the things you’ve put on your basket. “For future reference.”

Your face twists into something unreadable and then suddenly you’re hugging him, cold-mottled cheeks squishing against his black puffer. Then, he hears the tiniest sniffle.

“Don’t cry.” He says it gently, thumb brushing under your eye. There isn’t much there, just a twinkle in your eye you’re trying to blink away. 

You shake your head against his chest. “I’m not. I just—” You exhale, shaky. “That was really sweet.”

“Aish..” His arms come around you properly then. One hand settles at your back, the other resting over your hair, fingers threading through gently. You fit there too easily. Like you’ve done this before. Like you’re supposed to.

Between you pulling on his jacket and crying into his chest over something so small and human, something in him solidified. But he can’t tell you yet.

He rests his chin lightly on the top of your head, eyes unfocused, heart doing something dangerously earnest.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, not even sure if you hear it amidst the store chatter and the kpop song blasting in the speakers.

When you pull back, cheeks still flushed, eyes fonder now, you smile at him like you did.

And Yoongi realizes, with a quiet certainty that settles deep in his bones, that he’s not going anywhere.

He just hopes you aren’t either.

Date no. 7 >

A/N: Soooo… who’s gonna tell me these two aren’t the cutest? Starting a list of who wants to fuck H&B!Tae because y’all know he’s a stud.

Anyway, last chapter is in the works and you’ll get a one-way ticket to Hong Kong and that's on me. (I can’t believe this is about to end. I'm already feeling the sepanx.)

If you enjoyed reading, please leave me a note or reblog with your review. It’s the best way you can show your support. Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

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[redrose10]

Neighbor/Cat Dad Yoongi x Female Reader

Enemies to FWB to Enemies to…

Warnings: Swearing, over drinking to forget, small hint of non-consentual touching, general angst, Smut (the most smut I’ve ever written 😳), unprotected sex, oral-both receiving, very tiny hint at depression and suicide

Word Count: 9,863

This is definitely a little more mature than I usually write, but I still hope everyone likes it! This is one of my favorites I’ve ever written.

You hated Min Yoongi. You hated him since the first night you moved in next door to him, since the exact moment you realized the walls in your new apartment were thinner than advertised and that your neighbor believed that the middle of the night was an acceptable time to emotionally assault others with bass-heavy melancholy music.

His music was always too loud. Not fun loud. Not accidentally caught in a good song loud. It was the kind of loud that seeped through walls at midnight, all low beats and melancholy piano, like he was personally determined to permanently haunt you with his playlist.

That first night, you tried to ignore it.

You were exhausted. Surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. Your mattress was on the floor, your back ached, and the cookie dough ice cream in your freezer was calling your name. You told yourself it would stop soon. That no one was rude enough to blast music past midnight on a weekday.

You were wrong. By twelve forty-seven, your patience had snapped clean in half.

You marched out into the hall barefoot, hair in a messy bun, irritation buzzing hot under your skin. You knocked once. Then again. Harder. By the third knock, the music cut off abruptly.

The door opened.

Min Yoongi looked at you like you were an inconvenience he hadn’t scheduled.

He was dressed in all black, black T-shirt, black joggers, black socks, and somehow managed to look both half-asleep and fully awake and judgmental at the same time. His dark hair was tousled, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses that were questionably attractive. He took you in with one slow glance, from your barefoot feet to the spoon still clutched in your hand.

“Yes?”, he said flatly. “Your music.”, you replied, already more annoyed by his tone, “It’s too loud.” He blinked. Once, “No it’s not.” You stared at him, “I can feel it vibrating my couch.”

He scoffed, “That sounds like a you problem.” You scoffed back at him, “Are you serious?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing, “Do you usually introduce yourself by complaining?”

“Well, do you usually introduce yourself by being inconsiderate?” Something flickered in his eyes, irritation, maybe. Or amusement. It was hard to tell.

“I’m Y/N. I just moved in.”, you continued, “And I’d really love it if my first night here didn’t involve your emo-boy playlist rattling my walls.” His jaw tightened, “You could’ve texted the building manager instead of stomping over here like you own the place.”

“I don’t have their number yet.”, you shot back, “But congratulations…you’re my first official complaint when I do get it.”

Silence stretched. Thick. Uncomfortable. “I’m Yoongi by the way.”, he sighed, turned, and lowered the volume just enough to prove a point rather than fix the problem.

“There.”, he said, “Better…princess?”

The nickname did more to you than it should have so you narrowed your eyes at him, “Barely.” He met your gaze, unimpressed, “Get used to it.”

You stared at him in disbelief, “Wow. You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re extremely impolite.”, he replied coolly, “Knocking on my door in the middle of the night dressed in your pajamas.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless, “Unbelievable.”

“Good night.”, he said, already closing the door.

It shut firmly in your face. You stood there for a second, stunned, then stormed back to your apartment and ate your ice cream straight from the container out of spite.

From then on, everything about him irritated you.

Yoongi, in your professional opinion, was cold and mysterious. Quiet in a way that felt intentional. The kind of man who nodded instead of waved, who never held the elevator for fear of having to have any hint of a social interaction with another human, who looked like he judged people for breathing incorrectly. He wore black like it was a personality trait and never smiled.

And you? You were, according to him, a stuck-up brat.

You’d overheard that one through the thin apartment walls one night when he was arguing with someone on speaker named Jungkook after you had spent five minutes banging on his door to quiet it down. She’s always complaining. Acts like she owns the building. She’s stuck-up and a brat. “Well…you have always had a thing for brats.”, the guy on the other line said, “I’m sure you can shut her up one way or another.”, he finished with the smirk in his tone clear.

You choked on your wine and added rude and has shitty friends to the growing mental list titled Reasons Min Yoongi Is the Worst.

So when there was a knock on your door at 10:51p.m. on a Thursday, your first thought was a polite murderer. Your second was an insomniac yet sweet old lady needing to borrow a cup of sugar to bake cookies that she would hopefully share with you. Your third was that you were not wearing a bra and whoever this was had better be worth it. You yanked the door open, irritation already loaded and ready to fire.

And there he was.

Min Yoongi, standing in the hallway in a black coat, those stupidly cute glasses he always wore barely hanging onto the tip of his nose, hair slightly mussed like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes looked tired. Not cold, just…worn. In his arms was a black cat, bundled awkwardly against his chest like an afterthought.

The cat blinked at you. Slowly. Judgingly.

You stared. Yoongi stared. The cat stared.

“…What.”, you said finally.

Yoongi cleared his throat, “I…I need help.”

You almost laughed. Almost. Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor and apparently loved irony more than you loved sleep.

“You’re knocking on my door.”, you said, “At night. Voluntarily…for help.” His jaw tightened, “Y/N please don’t make this harder than it already is.” You crossed your arms, “That’s rich, coming from you.”

The cat shifted, pressing its face into his coat like it wanted to disappear. Yoongi glanced down at it, then back at you, “I’ve been called out of town last minute. For a business trip. I can’t back out.”

You waited. Nothing else came.

“…And?”, you prompted.

He sighed, “My usual cat sitter is busy.”

You blinked. Looked at the cat again. Sleek black fur. Wide gold eyes. One ear tipped slightly, like it was also curious about what you’d have to say next.

“That’s a cat.”, you said slowly.

“Yes.”, he nodded.

“You’re a cat dad?”

“I…guess so...”, he nodded again while his irritation with you was clearly growing.

“You’re asking me to…watch it?”

His shoulders lifted in the smallest, most reluctant shrug you’d ever seen, “Yes…temporarily and out of desperation.”

You laughed this time. A short, loud sound, “You think I’m a stuck-up brat, remember?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, “Yes I do think that. I also think you’re…responsible.” That threw you off. You tilted your head, “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you feed the strays by the dumpster every morning.”, he said, “And that you carried Mrs. Han’s groceries up three flights of stairs when the elevator broke. And that you yell at me for my music almost every night, which means you’re home most of the time, which means you don’t disappear for days.”

You stared at him. He shifted, clearly uncomfortable, “I pay attention to things.”

The cat chose that moment to stretch, the cutest tiny little paws pressing into his chest, a soft mrrp escaping its mouth. The cat knew what it was doing by putting on a show.

Your resolve cracked. Just a little. Like a hairline fracture you pretended not to notice.

“What is its name?”, you asked. His expression softened instantly, “Sugar.” You laughed because of course he ironically named a black cat Sugar.

You sighed, stepping back and opening the door wider, “How long?”

“Three days. Maybe four.”, he said. “And if I say no?”, you questioned. His mouth twisted, resigned, “Then I’ll figure something else out.”

You looked at Sugar again. The cat met your gaze, unblinking, like he already knew you had lost.

“Fine.”, you muttered, “But only because he’s cute and…if he scratches my couch, you’re buying me a new one.” Yoongi nodded immediately, “Done.”

You took the cat from his arms before you could change your mind. He was warm. Solid yet soft. He purred almost instantly like a traitor.

Yoongi hesitated in your doorway, “I’ll text you with instructions. Food. Nap requirements. Sensory time. Vet number. Emergency contacts.”

“Relax.”, you said, “I’ve kept tiny humans alive. A cat should be easier.”

He huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. It startled you both. When he turned to leave, he paused. “Thank you.”, he said, softer than you expected.

You didn’t answer. You just watched him walk down the hall, coat swaying, shoulders still tense like he was bracing for something.

You closed the door and looked down at Sugar. “Well...”, you said, “Your dad’s kind of a jerk. I just want you to know that.”

Sugar purred louder as if to say, “I know but he means well.”

You had a strange feeling, unwelcome and persistent, that this was not going to stay simple for long.

Watching Sugar went…annoyingly well. That was the first problem.

You had fully expected chaos. Scratched furniture. A cat that hissed at shadows and judged you from high places like a tiny gargoyle. Given his owner, you had assumed Sugar would be aloof, emotionally unavailable, and maybe secretly plotting your downfall.

Instead, Sugar was a cuddle menace.

The very first night, he’d leapt onto the bed, kneaded your thigh like he was three days behind at the biscuit factory, and promptly curled up against you with a purr that sounded like a malfunctioning engine. By morning, he had migrated to your chest, warm and heavy and completely unapologetic about it.

“You are not supposed to be this affectionate.”, you told him, scratching behind his ears. Sugar blinked slowly, the universal cat language for another servant to be mine now.

The days passed easily. You fed him, brushed him, learned that he liked sitting in the bathroom sink while you got ready and that he would scream—actually scream—if you gave him anything less than six treats at a time. You talked to him more than you cared to admit. Complained about your job. About your exes. About one particular man next door who played music too loudly and pretended he didn’t care about anyone or anything.

Sugar listened. Sugar purred. He rubbed himself around your ankles every morning and every night to make sure you continued to stay in his love trance.

By the time there was another knock on your door four days later, you felt…weird about it. Like you didn’t want things to change.

You opened the door to find Yoongi standing there again, travel-worn and tired, one hand stuffed into his pocket and a dark glass bottle in the other.

“Hey.”, he said. “Hey.”, you echoed.

Sugar bolted past you before either of you could say anything else, skidding slightly on the hardwood as he launched himself at Yoongi’s legs. Yoongi dropped to a knee instantly, setting everything down to scoop him up.

“Hey, buddy.”, he murmured, voice melting into something soft and fond that didn’t match the man you had built in your head at all. Sugar headbutted his chin. You watched, arms crossed, heart doing something stupid in your chest.

“He was…fine.”, you said, too quickly, “Didn’t cause any trouble.” Yoongi looked up at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I didn’t think he would.” You snorted, “Liar.”

He stood, cat secure in one arm and held out the bottle. You recognized the label instantly. Your favorite wine. The one you only bought on special occasions because it felt too indulgent to be a regular purchase.

“As a thank you.”, he said, “For helping. And for…you know…everything.” You hesitated before taking it, “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”, he said simply, “I wanted to.”

Your fingers brushed when you accepted it. The contact was brief. Electric in a way you absolutely refused to acknowledge.

“Sugar likes you.”, he added, almost like an afterthought. You shrugged, “He has good taste.” That earned you a quiet huff of laughter. It made you feel weirdly good.

And then it was over. He left. Sugar went home. The hallway returned to its usual silence, broken only by bass-heavy music a little too late at night and the familiar irritation that followed.

Things between you and Yoongi still stayed mostly strained after that with little hints of something brewing. Polite nods in passing. Short, clipped hellos. The occasional passive-aggressive note about noise levels slipped under his door and under your door an equally passive-aggressive apology note that somehow didn’t sound apologetic at all.

Life went on. Until four weeks later, there was another knock. This time, it was earlier. Early evening. You opened the door already suspicious. Yoongi stood there, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders tense like he was bracing for rejection.

“I know this is short notice again.”, he said, “But I have another trip. Just two nights.”

You glanced past him instinctively.

“No Sugar?”, you asked. His mouth twitched, “He’s in the carrier in case I had to move on to plan B. I didn’t want to…assume.” You sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. For effect. “You’re lucky he’s cute.”, you said.

Relief washed over his face before he could stop it. “Thank you Y/N.”, he said again. You stepped aside, already making room, “Same rules as before.”

“Which are?”, he questioned. “If he scratches my couch you buy me a new one. An expensive one. Maybe leather.”

Yoongi smiled, really smiled this time. Just a small one. But it lingered, “Deal.”

The power went out on a Tuesday night, which felt unfair in a deeply personal way. The day had already been unkind enough. You were halfway through reheating three day old leftovers when your kitchen lights flickered once…twice…and then surrendered completely. The building fell into a hollow quiet. Rain battered the windows, wind howled down the hallway vents, and somewhere next to you, a door opened.

A knock followed. Hesitant. Almost too polite. You already knew who it was. You opened the door to find Yoongi standing there with Sugar’s carrier in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked irritated in that tightly wound way he got when things were out of his control.

“Power’s out.”, he said, as if you hadn’t noticed. “So I see.”, you laughed.

Sugar meowed mournfully from the carrier.

He shifted his weight, “I can order you dinner or something. As a thank you. Since…you know the powers out and everything.”

It was awkward. Clumsy. Clearly rehearsed and abandoned halfway through.

You opened your mouth to answer, but his gaze drifted past you, to your counter, where the bottle of wine he’d given you weeks ago still sat, unopened. The label caught the glow of the emergency hallway lights.

Something shuttered in his expression.

“Actually..”, he said quickly, “forget it. You probably have plans. I’ll just…Sugar, come on.”

The subject changed so fast it left whiplash.

“Yoongi.”, you started, but he was already stepping back, pride reasserting itself like armor.

“Good night.”, he said before quickly entering his apartment.

You watched him walk away, frustration buzzing under your skin, the storm raging on outside.

For the next couple of months, this strange almost-thing settled between you two.

You watched Sugar here and there. Sometimes for a night, sometimes for a weekend. The handoffs got easier. The conversations longer and less about the cat. You learned Yoongi drank his coffee black and slept a concerning amount of too little. He learned you hummed when you cooked and pretended not to like his music choices even when you recognized the songs.

You still argued. Still snapped. Still complained when the bass crept too loud. But now there were pauses. Lingering looks. Words swallowed at the last second.

The line between dislike and something else blurred. Then one night, when Yoongi came to pick Sugar up, you surprised both of you.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?”, you asked.

He froze, hand still on Sugar’s carrier.

“And…we could open a bottle of wine.”, you added, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. Yoongi hesitated long enough that you almost took it back.

“I don’t want to be a burden.”, he said quietly. “You’re not.”, you quickly replied, “I’m offering.”

He agreed. Carefully. Like the decision mattered more than it should have. Dinner was simple. Comfortable in a way that scared you both. The wine was already half gone when the shift happened.

You were sitting closer than before, not touching, not quite, but close enough to feel the warmth of him through the couch cushions. The room felt softer, edges blurred by alcohol and laughter that concerned you both. Yoongi’s voice was low, relaxed in a way you hadn’t heard before, and you found yourself watching his mouth when he spoke instead of listening to the words.

You stood to refill your glass. When you turned back, he was already looking at you through those stupid glasses you’d come to deeply love.

The moment of silence stayed. Dangerous.

You didn’t plan the kiss. You just…stopped thinking. Stepped into his space, fingers brushing his arm like you were testing the temperature of something you already knew would burn.

You leaned in anyway.

The kiss was tentative at first, more question than answer. When he kissed you back, it was careful, restrained, until it wasn’t. His hand came up to your waist pulling you to straddle his lap, steady and grounding, like he was anchoring himself before he let go. You didn’t move away. You kissed him further, your hands tangling in his hair.

Then he pulled back. Just enough to breathe.

“Y/N.”, he said quietly, “I…I need to say something.” Your heart thudded, “Okay.”

He didn’t let go of you. That somehow made it worse.

“I’m not looking for anything serious.”, he said, “I don’t…do relationships. If this happens, it’s just sex between neighbors. Nothing more.”

The words landed heavier than you expected.

“Oh.” you said.

You searched his face for hesitation, for regret, for something that said he didn’t really mean it. But he looked honest. Guarded. Afraid, maybe, but firm.

You swallowed, “Right.”

“I don’t want to mislead you.”, he added. You forced a small smile, “I appreciate the warning.”

There was a moment where you could’ve stopped it. Where you could’ve stepped back and said no, said you wanted more than that, said you didn’t want to be the kind of person he used as an escape.

Instead, you nodded. “Okay.”, you said, “Then…okay.”

Something flickered in his eyes, relief tangled with something darker, but he didn’t argue.

Your transition onto your knees was a blur of frantic hands and discarded layers. You quickly undid his belt with ease sliding the fabrics down just enough for him to spring free. Yoongi was a man of few words, but the way he moved, deliberate, intense, spoke volumes. He leaned back against the sofa, legs spread, pumping himself a few times with practiced ease, watching you with an intensity that made your skin flush.

The "stupid" glasses were slightly crooked now, reflecting the dim light of the apartment, but his gaze remained fixed on you.

"Y/N," he rasped in excitement of what was to come, his free hand coming rest on top of your head, fingers weaving through your hair. It wasn't a command, but an acknowledgment that he was ready to move forward.

You stilled at the sight of him. Large, the tip angry red and already slick from the precum you watched him continue to spread up and down his shaft. You had never seen anything like it and you wanted him so badly. Yoongi suddenly stopped his movements worried that maybe you had changed your mind.

“You don’t…you don’t have to if you don’t want too..”, he started.

But you looked up at him, defiant and wanting, before leaning forward. When you took him into your mouth, Yoongi’s head hit the back of the sofa with a muffled thud. A low, guttural groan vibrated through his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated release.

You were meticulous, using your tongue to trace the length of him, learning the rhythm that made his hips twitch involuntarily.

His breath came in shallow, jagged hitches. His knuckles were white where he gripped the fabric of the sofa, his other hand tightening slightly in your hair, guiding you with a desperate sort of friction but never enough to hurt.

Every time you looked up, you caught his expression, eyes blown wide behind his lenses, teeth sunk into his lower lip to keep from waking the rest of the building.

He was trying to stay detached, trying to keep it "just sex," but the way he called your name, breathless and broken, suggested that even if he didn't want a relationship, he was completely undone by you.

The air in the apartment felt heavy and charged as he finally reached his breaking point, his body racking with a shudder as he came, his warm seed sliding down your throat, that seemed to pull the air right out of the room. When it was over, he stayed there for a long moment, chest heaving, looking at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever allowed to touch him.

He didn't let the distance last though. Yoongi reached down, his large hands catching you under your arms and hoisting you up with surprising strength. He didn't put you back on your feet; instead, he maneuvered you until you were the one leaning back against the cushions, your legs draped over his shoulders as he settled between them.

"My turn.”, he whispered. The gravel in his voice sent a fresh spark of heat straight to your core.

He didn't rush. Yoongi approached you with the same quiet, focused intensity he gave most of his life, observant, rhythmic, and devastatingly effective. He started with the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his breath hot against your skin, his thumbs tracing the line of your lace underwear before hooking into the fabric and dragging it down.

When he finally pressed his face to you, you let out a sharp, fractured gasp, your fingers digging into the upholstery of the couch.

He used his tongue with agonizing slowness at first, tasting you, learning how you reacted to every flick and pressure. He found the exact spot that made your toes curl and stayed there, relentless.

The only thing louder than your heartbeat was the wet, rhythmic sound of his focus and the low growl he made in his throat when you arched against him.

You reached down, trying to pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his dark hair. He let you guide him, but he didn't stop until you were shaking, your breath hitching in a way that bordered on a sob.

He looked up then, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, his mouth wet and his expression completely wrecked. He saw the way your eyes were rolled back, the way you were hovering right on the edge, and he gave you a small, ghost of a smirk, the first sign of the confident, playful neighbor you never thought he could be.

He used his fingers to open you further, his tongue swirling in a devastatingly fast rhythm that pushed you over.

The climax hit you like a wave, sudden and all-consuming. You called his name, not like a neighbor, but like someone who was already dangerously deep in this. Yoongi didn't pull away; he held you through the tremors, his forehead resting against your stomach as your breathing slowly returned to the room.

Eventually, he shifted, crawling up the length of your body to collapse beside you on the narrow sofa.

“I’m not finished with you yet.”, he said before kissing your lips, the taste of yourself still prominent.

When he moved and settled back between your thighs, the blunt pressure of him against your entrance made your breath catch. He paused, his arms bracing his weight on either side of your head, looking down at you with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. Embarrassment crept in. You tried to turn your face away, but he stopped you.

"Look at me.”, he rasped, his voice a low vibration that you felt in your chest, “I want to see your face as I fuck you.”

As you met his gaze, he finally pushed forward. He moved slowly at first, his jaw tight as he filled you completely, stretching you until you felt like you might break. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, a mix of a groan and a curse, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply. The sensation of your tight walls too much for him.

The pace didn't stay slow for long. He began to move with a relentless, driving rhythm that matched the frantic beat of your heart. Every thrust was deep and purposeful as if he were trying to leave a permanent mark on you.

The slap of skin and the friction of the sofa became the only soundtrack to the room. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase every inch of space between you.

His glasses had long since been discarded, and without them, his expression was exposed, vulnerable, fierce, and entirely undone.

"You're too much Y/N.”, he whispered against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder, “I told myself I wouldn't do this... that I wouldn't let you in like this."

He shifted onto his knees while moving his grip, his hands sliding under your hips to tilt you upward, changing the angle until you were sobbing his name into the quiet room. He wasn't holding back anymore, the quiet, reserved neighbor was gone, replaced by a man who was claiming everything you were willing to give as his.

The friction built into a blinding white heat. You felt the tension coil in his muscles, his back arching as he hit his limit. “Please Y/N.”, he begged between gasps, “…I can’t hold out much longer…please come with me.”, he groaned as he reached between you both rubbing your clit with all he had left. You came with a cry of his name, squeezing his cock so tightly his hips stuttered from the sensation. With one final, devastating surge, he collapsed against you, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps as he came, filling you to the brim, the force of it shaking both of your bodies.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sound was the synchronized, heavy thrum of two hearts slowing down. He kept his face hidden in your hair, his hands still clutching your hips as if he were afraid that if he let go, the reality of what this meant would come crashing back in.

You told yourself it was fine, that you were an adult, that you had agreed to this. That you could handle it being only sex. But you knew you were trying your hardest to convince you’re of that.

The last thing you remembered was slowly drifting off to sleep while trying to reach out for Yoongi with no success.

In the early morning light, you woke up covered by a blanket but to an empty apartment. The cushions were cool where he’d been. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat up slowly, a dull ache settling in your chest as reality crept back in. His jacket was gone. His shoes. Sugar’s carrier.

On the counter, the wine bottle stood empty. The glasses rinsed. Placed neatly by the sink like an apology that didn’t quite count.

You stared at it longer than you should have. You had agreed to nothing more. You told yourself you hadn’t expected anything else.

Still, as you wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been taken with him when he left and that agreeing hadn’t made it hurt any less.

After that night, nothing was supposed to change. That was the rule. So you tried your best.

You still watched Sugar.

The first time after that night, Yoongi dropped him off without stepping inside. He lingered in the doorway, eyes flicking past you like he was afraid of seeing evidence of something he didn’t want to name.

“He’s got his food measured out.”, he said, “He’ll probably steal your pillow again.”

“Figures.”, you laughed.

Your fingers brushed when you took the carrier. Neither of you commented on it. He didn’t stay. Didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention the wine or the way he’d left before sunrise. You told yourself that was good. Clean. Exactly what you had agreed to.

Sugar, the traitor that he was, slept curled against your ribs that night, purring like he was trying to fill a space.

The second time it happened, because it did happen again, it was quieter.

Then the third and fourth times happened. On the fifth time Yoongi texted instead of knocking.

Can I come over?

You stared at the message longer than you should have. When you opened the door, he didn’t look at you right away. He set Sugar down carefully, then straightened, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You okay with…us staying for a while?”, he asked, like it was a casual night in, “Just tonight.” You nodded, “Yeah of course.”

It was different this time. Slower. Less urgency, more familiarity. You knew the slope of his shoulders now, the way he exhaled when he finally relaxed. He knew how you liked your hands held, how you went still before you melted.

He laid you back against the pillows of your bed, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. Yoongi didn't hover; he sank into the space beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traveled from your knee up to your hip, his thumb hooked into the waistband of your shorts, dragging slowly across the skin there.

"You're so warm," he whispered, his voice a gravelly low vibration that seemed to settle right in your chest. He started with your breasts, running his hands across them, mesmerized at the way your nipples perked from his touch. His fingers went lower and lower until he entered them into your wet folds. He groaned at the sensation.

He continued to fuck you with his digits while he kissed you this time, it was deep and rhythmic. He tasted like cherries and coffee. He moved over you with a heavy, grounding grace, his knees slotting between yours. He took his time, peppering small, stinging kisses along the column of your throat. “That’s it.”, he nearly growled, “Fuck yourself on my fingers.”, he gasped as he watched you arching your back to get yourself off with his hand. Your own hands tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck as you came down from your high.

As the layers between you disappeared further, the air in the room seemed to thin. He entered you with a slow, singular focus, a low groan escaping him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. It wasn't about the friction; it was about the weight of him, the way his heartbeat thudded against your ribs, perfectly in sync with your own.

He moved with a steady, deliberate pace that forced you to feel every inch of the connection. Every time he pushed forward, his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing the feeling.

The only noise was the rhythmic creak of the bed and the hitch in your breath. He kept his hands locked with yours, fingers entwined and pressed into the mattress, anchoring you both to the moment.

When the tension finally broke, it wasn't an explosion but a slow melt. He held you tightly, his muscles trembling slightly under your touch, breath coming in ragged, hot puffs against your skin.

You didn’t talk about how to handle the morning. He still left before it.

After that, it became a pattern neither of you acknowledged.

Yoongi traveled. You watched Sugar. Sometimes Yoongi stayed the night in your bed still leaving before the morning. Sometimes he didn’t stay at all and left soon after. Sometimes you argued over nothing and everything, about his music, about your work schedule, about who bought the wrong flavor of cat treats or who stole whose coffee mug.

Sometimes you still ended up in bed anyway.

That was the complicated part.

He would show up tense and closed off, only to soften when Sugar climbed into his lap or when you handed him a drink without asking. You’d tell yourself you could keep it casual, that you were fine with what it was.

But then he’d do things that didn’t fit the rules.

He’d stay long after Sugar fell asleep, talking quietly on your couch about your day or where you grew up. He’d remember how you liked your pizza and that you hated white chocolate. He’d brush his thumb along your wrist absentmindedly while watching tv like it belonged there.

And then he’d pull back. Every time.

You hated that part. You hated how good he was with Sugar, how careful, how gentle. You hated that seeing it made your chest ache. You hated that you started to feel relieved when his trips lined up with your weekends, that you caught yourself wondering if he missed you when he was gone.

One night, after he left, you sat on the edge of your bed and stared at the door, anger curling tight in your stomach. You hadn’t asked for more. You knew you couldn’t. But you were starting to want it.

Maybe that’s what made the fights come back sharper. More personal. Words slipped out that shouldn’t have.

“You don’t get to act like this doesn’t matter.”, you snapped one night as he was putting his belt back on. “Y/N…I told you what this was.”, he shot back, jaw tight, “I was clear and honest from the start.”

“And yet YOU keep crossing the line!”, you cried. He froze. You struck a nerve that he had been trying to hide.

Sugar watched from the arm of the couch, tail flicking like he was taking notes on what not to do.

After that, things fractured deeply again. Yoongi stopped staying over. He stopped asking you to watch Sugar. The music went low. The hallway felt colder.

You hadn’t just agreed to sex. You had agreed to fall quietly whether he did too or not. And it hurt more than you ever expected it to.

You had been trying to learn to live again without Yoongi and Sugar in your life. One morning, laundry bag in one hand and grocery list in the other, you stepped into the hallway and stopped.

Yoongi stood by his door, saying goodbye to a woman. Her hair was tousled. His shirt was haphazardly buttoned like he threw it on without a care. A bright bruise, fresh, was on his chest. She smiled up at him, familiar and easy.

Your chest went cold. Yoongi looked up. Your eyes met.

The woman kissed his cheek and walked away without a glance in your direction. The elevator closed behind her, leaving just the two of you in the hallway, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down hard.

Yoongi’s expression flickered, surprise, guilt, something sharper. You tightened your grip on the grocery list and quickly walked away from him not trusting your eyes not to betray you any further. She got to stay with him until the morning. That hurt, maybe more than the fact that he was with someone else entirely.

After seeing Yoongi with that woman, something inside you snapped, not loudly, not all at once, but enough that you stopped caring how carefully you’d been holding yourself together.

You went out. You drank more than you meant to. Then more after that. You laughed too loudly, let a stranger buy you shots, let yourself believe that wanting to feel wanted was the same as being fine.

It wasn’t.

You barely remembered getting back to your building. You remembered fumbling with your keys. Remembered the hallway tilting. Remembered a man you didn’t know with his hands where you hadn’t invited them to be, his weight too close, his breath hot with alcohol and impatient.

You were pinned against your own door when it happened.

Your laugh stopped sharp. “No please stop.”, you said, but it came out wrong, slurred, unsteady, useless.

The door next to you opened. “What the hell is going on?”, Yoongi’s voice cut through your drunken fog like ice water. The man turned, annoyed, “Hey man, mind your own business.”

Yoongi took one look at you…your unfocused eyes, your unsteady legs, flushed cheeks, your skirt that was hiked up higher than he knew you would’ve been comfortable with, and the way you weren’t pushing back so much as trapped, and something dark and furious crossed his face.

“She’s too drunk.”, Yoongi said flatly, “Get your hands off her.” The guy scoffed, “She’s fine.” Yoongi stepped closer, “Stop touching her…now.”

Something in his tone made the man hesitate. Yoongi didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He positioned himself between you and the guy without touching either of you at all. He was solid and immovable.

“Leave.”,’ he said again.

The man cursed under his breath, muttered something about not being worth the trouble, and backed away. The hallway felt suddenly too quiet as his footsteps disappeared down the stairs.

Your knees buckled as soon as he was gone. Yoongi caught you by the waist, steadying you without pulling you close. “Easy.”, he said. You shoved at his chest weakly, “Don’t…don’t touch me.”

His hands dropped immediately.

“You don’t get to play hero now.”, you slurred, anger flaring hot and misplaced for the moment, “You don’t get to act like you care about me now.”

He didn’t answer. You lashed out anyway, words sharp and ugly, fueled by hurt and humiliation and alcohol. You called him names you didn’t mean. You accused him of things he didn’t do. Your voice cracked on the last one.

Yoongi didn’t say a word. He never got angry. He didn’t even so much as sigh.

He unlocked your door, guided you inside without force, and sat you on the edge of the bed. He handed you a glass of water and waited until you drank it, watching you like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

He knelt in front of you then, careful, respectful, and gently cleaned smeared makeup from your face with a wipe. His touch was light, almost reverent, like he was trying to give you a silent apology.

When he stood, you caught his sleeve.

“Stay.”, you whispered, “Please.”

He hesitated.

You continued, “Please Yoongi. I’m really drunk and I’m scared and…there’s so much going on in my brain right now.” You started to cry. Hard.

“Shhh okay I will.”, he said quietly, “I’ll stay.”

Relief washed over you, heavy and warm. You curled onto your side, exhaustion pulling you under fast. The room felt safer with him there. Comforting.

As sleep just about took you, you heard footsteps.

Soft. Careful.

Then the click of the front door. You didn’t have the energy to go after him.

By morning, the apartment was empty just like you expected it to be. Your head was pounding. Your stomach was turning. Your heart was filled with embarrassment as the night before came back to you in short bursts.

You got a delivery that you hadn’t ordered. A large coffee and a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel with extra hot sauce just how you liked it.

You knew who it was from and that gesture hurt a lot. More than it should have.

You waited two days. Long enough for the headache to fade. Long enough for the embarrassment to settle into something quieter and heavier. Long enough that avoiding him started to feel worse than facing him.

When you finally knocked on Yoongi’s door, your heart was pounding like you were the one who’d done something unforgivable.

The door opened almost immediately.

He looked tired. Not hungover-tired like you, but worn. Like he hadn’t slept much since that night. His hair was softer than usual, falling into his eyes, and for a split second you almost said his name the way you used to in your head.

Almost.

“Hey.”, you said. “Hey.”, he replied.

Silence stretched between you, awkward and brittle. “I just…”, you exhaled, “Can I talk to you? For a minute.” He stepped aside, “Yeah.”

You didn’t go far in. Just stood near the door like you weren’t sure you deserved more space than that. “I wanted to thank you.”, you said, “For…stepping in. The other night.”

He nodded once, “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do.”, you insisted, “You didn’t have to. Things could’ve gone worse. And I…”, you swallowed, “I was out of line. I was drunk. I said things I didn’t mean.” He leaned against the door, arms folded loosely, eyes on the floor, “You were upset.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.”, you shook your head. “No.”, he agreed quietly, “It doesn’t.”

The honesty stung, but you deserved it. “I’m sorry.”, you said, “For yelling at you. For calling you names. For putting you in that position. I was angry that you kept leaving before the morning. You would never stay with me. Like…like once the sex was over you got what you came for and you didn’t need me any more.”

Yoongi was quiet for a long moment.

“That was never the case. I…I was worried.”, he said, “And scared. And…I didn’t know how to stay without making things worse.”

You nodded slowly, “I thought you always left because you didn’t care.” He shook his head, “No…I left because I care too much.”

The words hung between you, dangerous and unresolved. He straightened then, like he’d made a final decision in that moment. “Y/N…I’ve been thinking about us.”, he said, “About everything that’s happened.”

Your chest tightened.

“I think it’s best if we stop.”, he continued, “…Completely.” You felt like the floor dipped beneath you, “Stop…what?”

“This.”, he said, gesturing vaguely between you, “Whatever we turned into. The sex. The fighting. The nights in. The half-in, half-out.”

“So you want to go back.”, you said slowly, “to hating each other?”

“No.”, he said almost too quickly, “To before it was complicated. Before I hurt you. Before I crossed lines I didn’t know how to take back.”

You crossed your arms, bracing yourself, “So what…neighbors who argue about loud music and pretend nothing happened?”

“Yes.”, he said softly, “Because that’s safer. For both of us.”

Safer. The word felt like a verdict.

“I didn’t ask you to protect me.”, you said, hurt creeping back in despite your best effort. “I know.”, he replied, “But I’m doing it anyway.”

You searched his face for doubt, for regret, for something you could push against.

You found resolve instead.

“…Okay.”, you said, even though it scraped on the way out, “If that’s what you want.”

“I think it’s what we need.”, he said.

You nodded once, sharp and decisive, because lingering would only make it worse.

“Thanks again.”, you said quietly, “For the other night.” He met your eyes then, something raw flickering there, “Anytime.”

You stepped back into the hallway before either of you could say something you’d never be able to take back.

The door closed gently behind you.

And just like that, you returned to the way things were before, only now, you knew exactly what you were missing.

After that day the tension came back sharper. Meaner than either of you intended. Attempts to see if you actually went back to hating each other or if there was still something else there. Like a bruise you kept pressing just to see if it still ached.

You were hurt. That was the part you didn’t say out loud. Hurt and angry and stupidly embarrassed for ever thinking that you could mean something more than convenience of sex to someone who laid it all out for you from the start.

And Yoongi?

Yoongi pretended none of it bothered him.

He went back to being clipped and cold. He barely looked at you in the hallway. His music crept back up in volume, usually not loud enough to complain about without looking petty, but loud enough to feel deliberate. When he passed you, his expression was unreadable like you were just another neighbor again.

So you did what you’d always done. You fought. You snapped about the noise when it got to that point. He snapped back about you being a dramatic pain in the ass. You accused him of being inconsiderate. He accused you of always needing control. Old habits resurfaced easily when neither of you wanted to admit how badly missing the new ones had hurt.

He never asked you to watch Sugar again. He knew better.

Then one morning, the weather turned vicious. The wind howled outside, cold seeping through the cracks in your door, rattling the windows like it wanted in. You were halfway through pulling on your favorite comfy sweater when frantic knocking shook your apartment.

Not annoyed knocking. It was panicked knocking.

You opened the door already scowling and froze.

Yoongi stood there, hair disheveled, coat half-zipped, eyes wide and frantic behind his glasses in a way you’d never seen before. His breathing was uneven, like he had been running.

“What do you want?”, you snapped, hand already tightening on the door knob.

“I can’t find Sugar.”, he blurted, “He…he must’ve gotten out when I got my new desk delivered.”, Yoongi continued, words tumbling over each other. “The door was open for a few minutes and I didn’t see him and I’ve looked everywhere. He never goes far. He always comes when I call.”

Your anger flared hot and immediate. You started to shut the door.

“Please Y/N.”, he said.

The word cracked. You paused.

Yoongi swallowed hard, eyes glassy, “I know I don’t have the right to ask you. I know I messed things up. But I can’t…”, his voice broke, just barely, “It’s freezing outside and it’s supposed to snow tonight. I can’t lose him.”

You exhaled sharply, fury and concern tangling into something painful.

“Fine.”, you said, “Let me grab my coat.”

You spent the entire day searching.

You walked block after block, calling Sugar’s name until your throat hurt. You checked under cars, behind dumpsters, inside stairwells. You knocked on doors. You posted flyers. The cold seeped into your bones, but neither of you complained.

Yoongi grew quieter as the hours passed.

By the evening, his shoulders sagged. His voice went hoarse. When you finally went back to his apartment to regroup, he sank onto the couch.

“He’s never been gone this long.”, Yoongi said, rubbing his face with both hands, “I should’ve been more careful.”

You stood in the living room, scanning the space absently, habit more than hope.

Then you saw it.

Something black. A flinch of something moving. Just barely visible beneath the TV stand. “…Yoongi.”, you said slowly. He looked up, hollow-eyed, “What?”

You crouched, heart pounding, and reached carefully beneath the stand. Your hand touched something soft…and furry. A familiar meow answered you.

“You have got to be kidding me.”, you breathed as Sugar wriggled free, stretching like he hadn’t just caused emotional devastation to you both.

Yoongi froze.

Then he was crossing the room in two strides and dropping to his knees, scooping Sugar up and squeezing him tight much to the dismay of the cat. He buried his face in his fur, breath hitching, hands shaking.

“God.”, he whispered, “You stupid fucking demon cat from hell. You scared the shit out of me.”

Sugar purred loudly, unapologetic. You watched, something in your chest softening despite yourself.

“You’re…a good cat dad.”, you said quietly. Yoongi’s ears turned pink instantly. He didn’t look at you, “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

For the first time in months, the silence between you didn’t feel like a weapon. And Sugar, the little menace, curled contentedly in his arms like he’d planned it all along.

Yoongi sat on the floor for a long moment, Sugar cradled against his chest like something precious and breakable. When he finally stood, he set the cat down gently, making sure he wasn’t planning anything before turning to you.

“Y/N…I think I owe you more of an explanation.”, he said. You crossed your arms, not defensive but protective, “You owe me honesty.”

He nodded. Once, “I know.”

He didn’t pace. Didn’t deflect. He dropped onto the couch, eyes fixed on the floor like if he looked at you too long, he might lose his nerve.

“I don’t let people in.”, he said, “Not really. I never have. It’s easier to keep things contained. Predictable. There’s…usually…less hurt that way.”

You stayed quiet.

“I thought I could keep our relationship strictly about sex. When I realized I was falling for you and I had lost control .”, he continued, voice low, “It scared the hell out of me.”

Your chest tightened.

“I didn’t know how to handle it.”, he admitted, “So I did what I always do. I ran. I picked fights. I made you the enemy again because that felt safer than wanting you.”

You swallowed hard. “Is that why I saw you saying goodbye to that woman that one morning? You just wanted to replace me?”, you asked, even though you already knew the answer wouldn’t fix how it had felt or change anything in the past.

He looked up then. Straight at you. His eyes were honest in a way that hurt.

“She was an old friend. We’d been…casual, on and off, but I never had the feelings for her that I do for you. I thought if I distracted myself, the feelings I have for you would…just go away.”

Your jaw clenched.

“They didn’t. We didn’t even go all the way that night. I couldn’t do it.”, he said quickly and defensively, “It actually made everything worse. Because the entire time, all I could think about was how I wished she was you and that’s when I knew I was gone. I felt stupid. Guilty. Like I’d already ruined something I didn’t know how to protect.”

The anger you’d been carrying didn’t disappear, but it shifted. Softened at the edges.

“You should’ve talked to me.”, you said quietly. “I know.”, he replied, “I was wrong.” The admission sat between you, fragile and real. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore Y/N.”, he said, “And I don’t want to pretend you don’t matter to me when you matter more than anything.”

You moved closer before you could overthink it. Before fear could talk you out of it. “You don’t get to run every time something scares you.”, you said. “I don’t want to.”, he replied, “Not anymore.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you leaned in.

The kiss was different this time, slower, steadier. No tension snapping, no anger fueling it. Just warmth. Familiarity. Relief. His hands came up gently, like he was asking permission even now and you let yourself melt into him.

When you pulled back, Sugar chose that moment to jump onto the couch and settle in, tail flicking smugly. You huffed out a laugh, “He really is the worst.” Yoongi smiled, soft, unguarded, “Yeah…but he saved me.”

You met his eyes, “Us, maybe too.”

The silence of the apartment changed. It was no longer the heavy, cautious quiet of two people negotiating a truce. It was the thick, electric stillness of two people who had run out of words and excuses.

Yoongi didn't let go. His hands slid from your face down to your waist, his grip tightening as he pulled you flush against him on the couch. The heat of his body burned through your sweater and the apology he’d just given felt like it had been the final barrier holding back a flood.

"I've spent every night for the last few months thinking about how you looked in bed.”, he rasped against your ear, his voice dropping an octave, rough and stripped of its usual cool, “And every day hating myself for letting you get away."

He didn't wait for a response. His mouth crashed back onto yours, but the gentleness had been replaced by a starving, wreckless need. His tongue slipped past your lips, deep and demanding, tasting of coffee and a desperate, bottled-up hunger. In one surging motion, he pulled you off the couch. You barely had time to gasp before he was backing you into the hallway wall. The thud of your shoulders hitting the drywall was followed by a low, primal groan as he pressed his entire weight into you, his hardness a blunt, undeniable promise against your thigh.

His hands were everywhere at once, tugging at the hem of your shirt, finding the soft skin of your waist, kneading with a possessive intensity that made your breath hitch. He hiked you up, your legs instinctively locking around his hips, and he didn't miss a beat, carrying you toward the bedroom with a focused, almost predatory intent.

When you hit the mattress, the friction of his dark denim against your skin was a jarring, delicious contrast to the softness of the sheets. Yoongi moved over you like he was reclaiming lost territory. He stripped his shirt off in one fluid motion followed by his jeans, the muscles of his back tilling under the dim light, and when he looked down at you, his eyes weren't just tired, they were dark with a craving that made your toes curl.

He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot on your neck that he hadn’t forgotten and as his hand slid lower, certain and demanding, you realized the music wasn't the only thing about Min Yoongi that could make your world consistently shake.

Yoongi reached down, his fingers finding you, slick and ready. He let out a shaky, jagged breath at the feel of you, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Tell me.”, he hissed, his thumb catching on your center, "Y/N tell me you want this as much as I do."

"Yoongi, please.”, you begged, your fingers digging into the muscles of his forearms.

He didn't make you ask again. He guided himself to your entrance, pausing for a heartbeat as he looked into your eyes, searching, needing to see that you were truly there. Then, with a low, guttural growl, he buried himself inside you in one deep, soul-shaking thrust.

The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of fullness that made your head fall back into the pillow. Yoongi stayed still for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so hard the bone jumped. He looked like he was in pain or maybe just finally at peace.

"God Y/N, you’re so tight.”, he choked out, his voice cracking.

He began to move, his pace slow and agonizingly deep at first, before the rhythm took over. Each thrust was a reclamation, a signature written into your skin. He wasn't the cold, stoic guy you once knew. He was raw and unraveled, his breath coming in ragged hitches against your neck.

As the tension coiled tighter and tighter, Yoongi’s pace turned frantic. He gripped your hips, his fingers leaving faint marks as he drove into you with a desperate, rhythmic force. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, chasing the peak that was hovering just out of reach.

When it finally broke, it was violent. Your vision blurred as waves of heat crashed over you, your name falling from Yoongi's lips like a prayer as he came, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against you, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own, the silence of the room finally replaced by the sound of two people breathing as one.

The storm outside continued to rattle the windowpanes, but inside the room, the air had settled into a heavy, peaceful warmth. The intensity of the last hour had bled away, leaving behind a quiet that finally felt safe.

Afterwards Yoongi didn't pull away. He didn’t run. Instead, he collapsed further, softly agaisnt you, his forehead resting in the crook of your neck as his breathing gradually slowed. He felt heavy and solid, his skin radiating a heat that made the rest of the world feel miles away.

After a moment, he shifted, rolling onto his side and taking you with him. He tucked your head under his chin, pulling the duvet up until it covered both of your shoulders, creating a small, dark cocoon. His movements were slow and gentle as if he were handling something incredibly fragile.

"Are you okay?", he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your neck.

"Yeah.”, you breathed, Tangling your fingers in the soft dampness of his hair, “Better than okay."

He let out a long, shaky exhale that felt like a surrender. He began to trace idle, nonsensical patterns against your bare arm, slow circles and light lines that made your skin tingle. It wasn't the touch of a man who was satisfied and ready to sleep. It was the touch of someone who couldn't quite believe you were still there.

"I missed you. More than I knew how to say.", he mumbled against your hair.

Then he started peppering tiny, soft kisses along your jawline, slow, sleepy ones that lingered. He looked nothing like the cold, judging man in the hallway now. His features were softened by the shadows, his eyes half-closed and soft with a vulnerability he’d spent months trying to hide.

"I'm not going anywhere.”, he promised, his arms tightening around you, pulling you so close there wasn't a breath of space left between you. He tucked his legs around yours, anchoring you to him, “Tomorrow. The day after. I’m staying."

Just as you were drifting off to the sound of his steady heartbeat, a familiar weight landed on the foot of the bed. A soft mrrp echoed in the dark, followed by the rhythmic thumping of a tail.

Yoongi let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh. He reached out one arm, eyes still closed, and felt around until his hand landed on Sugar’s fur, dragging the cat upward until the three of you were a tangled pile of limbs and soft breathing.

"See?", Yoongi whispered, his voice thick with sleep as he kissed your forehead one last time, “Even the cat knows you’re stuck with us now."

Permanent Tag List: @kam9404 @itsmina29 @amarawayne @coffeedepressionsoup @tea4sykes

[httpknjoon]

man on willpower | myg

plot | that time on tour where popstar tries to understand how her bassist can be on willpower.

w.c | 3.8k

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | fluff, humor, enemies to lovers, slow burn

note | something's happening!! i really enjoyed writing this, just giggling the whole time haha!

main masterlist | series masterlist

This is torture.

Whoever thought of styling your bassist in a very tasteful way shall be brought in front of you, just so you can scream to their face for an hour straight. Yoongi stood out amidst the most basic outfit one could think of: a black shirt, a black leather jacket, and ripped, baggy jeans. He looks like a real rockstar. Your eyes travelled down the silver rings in his fingers, unconsciously biting your lower lip hard. It’s crazy, you can even hear your own breathing.

“YN, please stop checking him out.”

You heard Cal’s worn-out voice next to you, but that didn’t stop you from staring. At this point, you can just admit that you’re being shameless, staring heavily at your bassist, who’s in the middle of doing a photoshoot with the rest of the band. You sat on the makeup chair, your look was already done, and you were just waiting for the go-signal to join them. 

The photoshoot is for a Singaporean cover of a certain magazine. Of course, you would be in the cover. But the team also wants to feature your live band that has been making waves online with every show.

Cal sighed after seeing that you resumed your most recent recreational activity since the time you and Yoongi talked privately for fifteen minutes in your dressing room. The one where Noah bet that you two fucked. Like an old sister, she cupped your cheeks, making your lips pucker, to make you turn your head to her.

“You should stop, really. You look like you’re already stripping him off in your head,” she whispered to make sure no staff would hear it.

“Well, I hope he can feel that,” you shrugged off.

Your manager’s brows scrunched together, “What?”

You didn’t say anything. Instead, she noticed you again watching Yoongi heavily. You even licked your lips and swallowed a lump in your throat as he posed in front of the camera. 

“That’s it,” Cal took your wrist and pulled you with her in the private dressing room, away from present ears. “What the fuck is going on, YN? What happened that night?!”

You looked at her and exhaled, “Nothing!”

“Nothing? Your nose is flaring,” she states, mentioning that one quirk you do when you’re lying. “I won’t let you out if you won’t tell me anything– or at least, something. Because by the way you are embarrassingly acting right–”

“Nothing, Callie! That’s the problem. Nothing happened– nothing is happening!” you stomped your foot like a bratty kid who cannot have her favorite candy.

Cal places her hands on her hips, looking at you like a helpless case. For a second, she scanned you to guess what went on with that “talk” with Yoongi. But she is so tired of guessing and predicting between you and your bassist, she just said,

“Okay, tell me what happened that night.”

“Fifteen minutes, Cal. Yoongi and I have to talk about something.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, you took Yoongi’s wrist and pulled him with you to the nearest door, your dressing room. He dumbfoundedly followed you, while everyone’s heads turned in your direction, as it was a rare sight. You clicked the lock, ensuring you and Yoongi would have the privacy you both needed. 

No one spoke immediately. Instead, when you turned around after locking the door, you see Yoongi simply looking at you with his hands shoved in his pockets. The only sound that can be heard is the noise of the people outside your dressing room. You can hear Noah saying something that made some people laugh, but it’s not really audible. Yoongi didn’t really move, frozen on the spot, waiting for you to say something. It’s frustrating.

“What the hell is your problem, Yoongi?” you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest.

He shrugged, “I don’t know, you tell me, YN. You’re the one who pulled me here.”

It was like him popping Mentos in a bottle of soda. Your heels clicked on the ground as you stepped forward, “You are fucking confusing me.”

You see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. You continued, “You were the one who made it clear that I should stay away when I tried to talk to you, which I did by the way. Even when we are doing songs together, I try to have another person present just to not make things too awkward for us. And now, you can just come up to me before the show to check on me? ”

You noticed how his stare got sharper as you ended your sentence. He licked his lips before speaking, “But you were the first one who made it clear that we’re just co-workers who fucking flirts a lot, YN. I was the first one who tried to talk to you, and you pushed me away, which hurts me, by the way. And I’m sorry that I did the same thing. I acted cold and pushed you away, too. I’m sorry. But for Pete’s sake, YN, I really didn’t like how I was thinking about you so much because you didn’t show up the whole day.”

It’s your turn to stay quiet now, Yoongi took the lead. For the first time, the elephant that has followed you and your bassist in every room you’re in together is going to be addressed. That fucking elephant is probably tired from following you two from the United States to different Asian countries.

“Look, YN. I–” he paused, sighing, “I like you… A lot. Somehow, in between the childish fights and late-night song-making, I found a reason to–”

“Yoongi,” you called his name, voice a bit deeper. Like you were trying to regain control of the situation.

“What?” he looked at you expectantly, ready to hear you out even though you had interrupted him. But nothing came out of your lips.

Instead, you took three sharp steps, closing the gap between you two. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket and dragged him down before he could even process it. The moment your lips crashed onto his, it was rough, like you two were making up for lost time. All the pent-up anger, frustration, and desire were revealed all at once. His lips were as warm as the last time you felt them. Impatient, you softly bite his lip, making his breath hitch.

When he finally caught up, you felt Yoongi’s hands find your waist. He wanted to take control like before in your hotel room. But not today, you thought. Your palms spread over his chest. Then to his jaw and cheeks. It got sloppier and deeper with your uneven rhythm. You walked him backwards until he stumbled down to the couch.

Yoongi barely had a second to steady himself before you followed, straddling his lap, lips already finding his again. This time, it has gotten more desperate. Your mouths kept missing and finding each other, breaths mixing. Your fingers threaded through his hair. The moment you grip it, you can feel the vibration on his chest and lips. The low groan instant made you grip harder.

His hands moved again, firmer this time, holding the curve of your waist as you were moving too much. Basically, feeling him up. You pulled away when you felt him squeezing your waist harder. Catching your breath, you dumbfoundedly looked down at him.

“Yoongi,” you breathlessly called his name. He looked dazed himself, your lip gloss all over his swollen lips. “I like you too. You know that, right?”

“Mhm.” he nods, looking up at you with the stars in his eyes.

A small smile made its way to your lips, and he smiled back. He held your cheeks softly before pulling you in for another kiss. This time, it was slower. Less rushed than the one earlier. It was soft and gentle. It was the kind of kiss that slowed down your quickened heartbeat. Your hands rest on his shoulders, feeling him relax under your touch. Slowly, your lips trail kisses from his lips to his jaw and down to his neck. 

“YN–” 

His voice cracked halfway through your name, low and warning, but it only made you smile against his skin. You felt his pulse jump beneath your lips as you pressed another kiss, softer this time, right where his jaw met his neck. Your hands began to travel down, and when you got a touch of the cold metal of his belt, you felt Yoongi gripping your waist as if to stop you. 

“Wait,” he whispered, exhaling sharply. You could hear the restraint in his tone, obviously trying to hold himself together. “I don’t think we should do this here—”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” you immediately agreed, giggling. “We can go straight back to my room while everyone is partying–”

“No, I mean, I was thinking…” You tilted your head, still straddling him. Your heart pounded against his. His hands were still on your waist, just to hold you in place. “…maybe we should take things slow.”

You blinked, lips gaping, because surely you misheard that. Slow? You almost laughed, but then you saw the way he was looking at you with sincere conviction.

“Yoongi,” you breathed out, almost unbelieving, “you know that we were literally dry-humping just seconds ago, right?”

A small chuckle escaped him, breathless but amused. “Yeah, I noticed.” His thumb brushed your waist in slow, absentminded circles, a habit of his that you are starting to notice.

“Then why—”

“Because if we don’t stop now, I won’t.” His voice was firmer this time, quiet but sure. “And I don’t want the first real thing to happen before I even took you out for a date.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling as you tried to process what he just said. His hands were still firm on your waist, thumbs drawing idle circles on your skin like he was trying to calm both of you down. It’s sweet. He’s being sweet, it makes your heart throb. But there are a lot more things throbbing than your heart now.

“So, you want to take things slow?” you repeated, quietly hoping for a very small false confirmation. “Are you serious?”

Yoongi’s mouth curved into a soft smile as he tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “I’m always serious with you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just stared at him. His hair was a mess because of you. His lip gloss-slicked mouth because of you. His pupils, dark and blown wide, definitely because of you.

And still, he wanted to wait.

You both sat there for a while — your knees still bracketing his hips, your fingers still tangled in his shirt. The world outside was still loud, still moving, but in that tiny dressing room, it was just the two of you trying to catch your breath and your sanity. You swallowed hard, still straddling him, 

“You’re gonna drive me insane, aren’t you?” you said, voice breathy, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

Yoongi’s smile deepened just a little, enough to show that hint of smugness he can’t quite hide. “Yeah,”

Laughing, you playfully hit him on his chest. He laughed too, catching your hands. You turned your head down, wordlessly admitting your defeat. You felt him softly kiss your knuckles before letting go and holding your chin to make you meet his eyes.

His eyes darted briefly to your lips again, like he couldn’t help himself. “One more?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer. You just leaned in. This kiss was soft. Just slow, deliberate movements, the kind that sends assurance to you. His lips brushed against yours in gentle intervals, softer each time, until it felt like breathing. You could do it all day, you won’t mind.

And when you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, whispering, “This is already driving me insane.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out with a lazy smile. “Me too.”

“I think I’m way past insane, Cal.” you told your manager, nails almost gripping your already-styled hair, “It’s only been three days and ooh… the things that I want to do to him–”

“Please spare me the details, YN,” she cuts you off with a grimace. “It’s only been three days and you’re acting like you’re in withdrawal.”

“Because I am! I don’t think I can be celibate with him around, Callie,” you desperately told her, hiding your face in your palms.

You hear her laugh as she softly removes your wrist away from your face, “I don’t think it can be called celibacy if it’s only been three days, hon.”

You glared at her, making her laugh even more, “Cal, he is such a gentleman. It’s so hot.”

Your manager blinked. “You’re complaining that he’s hot for respecting your boundaries?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, hands thrown up. “Like, who does that? Who kisses you like that and then says, ‘let’s take it slow’? He ruined my entire sleep schedule, Callie. I close my eyes and I see him saying that with his stupid, calm face! I even had to check if I’m ovulating because what the fuck?!”

The day after that night in Manila, you flew here to Singapore for your next show. For your “first” date, you visited an art museum and a botanical garden. The rest of the band came too to avoid suspicion, and Cal won’t let you two go alone. Although you haven’t told them yet about your new situation with each other, the band knew better and let you wander around the same area alone. You learned that Yoongi likes photography too. He often took pictures of you with his own camera during the ‘date’. He also never let you bring out your wallet when you tried various local foods. You don’t even have to say anything because he literally buys things you just look at a little bit longer.

Callie snorted, shaking her head. “You’re in trouble.”

“I know.” You groaned, flopping back in your chair. “He’s all... patient and thoughtful and—ugh.”

“What are you up to?”

Noah watched from your bed as you dried your hair in the bathroom. He can easily see you since you left the door open, so you can chat easily while you get ready. After the photoshoot earlier, your best friend decided to join you in your hotel room just to chill. 

“Nothing, Yoongi’s coming. We’ll try to produce and record the first demo for the lyrics I showed you earlier,” you explained while running your hair through your airwrap.

“And you’re wearing that?” 

You looked at him through the open doorway. “What do you mean by that? I’m in my robe, my pajamas are underneath.”

“Girl, I can see the strap of your quote-unquote pajamas,” Noah said, deadpan, scrolling on his phone in his hands. “And all can say is that thing is thinner than spaghetti. How subtle, my love.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s hot in here.”

“It’s hot because you want it to be hot. You are literally in the greatest room in this hotel, you have the control of your air conditioner,” he shot back. “Don’t act innocent.”

You pretended to ignore him, unplugging the airwrap and tousling your hair in the mirror. You reached for the small tube of strawberry lip gloss near the sink, applying it to your lips. You popped your lips together before speaking, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m ridiculous? You’re literally blow-drying your hair like it’s a date,” he teased, getting up from your bed, just to lean on your bathroom doorway.

“It’s not a date,” you said, though your tone wavered a little, squinting at him.

Noah hummed knowingly. “Right. You just happened to do your hair, your lip gloss, and your silver silk satin top and cami shorts are for a totally professional session with the guy you fucked in your dressing room days ago.”

“You know, that’s not true. I’ll sue you if that rumor reaches the media.” You grabbed your phone and glanced at the clock. “He’s coming in five.”

“Five minutes?”

You nodded.

Noah sighed dramatically, “Alright, I’m leaving before I have to hear you two turn song lyrics into foreplay.”

“Out!” you pointed toward the door, laughing despite yourself.

He grabbed his keys and muttered, “Just don’t blame me when your ‘demo’ ends up being six minutes of heavy breathing.”

You rolled your eyes as he left, but your stomach twisted just a little. Because five minutes suddenly didn’t feel like enough time to calm the hell down. You unwrapped your robe, hanging it behind the bathroom door. You took one last glance in the mirror, checking yourself out. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have picked this set. It’s too… slutty? Maybe you are being too obvious. You hate to admit it, but yeah, you look like you’re trying. Still, you tugged at the hem of your shorts, tried to convince yourself you weren’t overdressed for a “work session.” You were even wearing perfume, even though you’re just doing the work in your room.

Suddenly, a knock came, three light taps.

You froze for half a second before forcing your voice out. “It’s open!”

You walked out of the bathroom just when Yoongi stepped in. His laptop bag was over his shoulder, hair slightly damp like he’d showered right before coming over. He looked comfortable in his casual clothes: plain white shirt, grey sweats, silver chain with the charm hiding underneath his shirt.. Effortless. Annoyingly effortless.

“Hey,” he greeted softly.

“Hey,” you replied, pretending to be busy yourself with cleaning up the desk he would put his stuff on. You could feel his eyes scan the room before his gaze landed on you. Briefly. Too brief for your liking..

It was like he didn’t even notice your look or what you were wearing. Not even a blink or a quirk on his lips. He just took his seat by the desk, opening his laptop like nothing about this situation was tense. You watched him behind as he set up.

“Let’s go over the melody again?” he said casually, like he was so ready to work.

“Okay,” You nodded with slumped shoulders, sitting beside him where the mic was set. The space between your chairs felt tiny, even though it was probably three feet in between. You could hear his quiet breaths, the soft clicks of his mouse, and the faint hum he made when thinking. You could only wish you could be as calm as he is.

Ten minutes in, you've already lost focus. You were supposed to be recording the said demo, but you kept messing up the lyrics you wrote and were reading from your own phone. Your tongue is like struggling to function at the moment. But, Yoongi is patient and just gives you a thumbs up whenever you apologize.

The only rhythm you could follow now was his fingers tapping the desk or your heartbeat trying to keep up. By the fourth time you are recording, you accidentally said bees instead of please. Your vocals were a little shaky, too. Yoongi glanced at you then,

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, just… hot,” you said, reaching for your bottled water on the desk. 

He nodded, though you caught the flicker in his gaze before he turned back to the screen, “How about I’ll clean up this melody first. Then you can have a five-minute break. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sounds great.” You forced a smile before removing your headphones to stand up.

The air in your room felt suffocating for you. So, you decided to open the door to your balcony and let the fresh breeze come in. You stood in the doorway just to quietly inhale the air, hopefully to knock some sense into you. You’re drowning with these feelings, and Yoongi is probably chilling behind you. You can hear his little noise: his throat clearing, small sighs, and small movements on his chair. And he is so fine– so okay, you want to know how.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Yoongi,” you said, your voice sharper than intended. You turned around to see him already looking at you.

“Yeah?”

“How do you—” you started, then stopped, shaking your head. “How do you act so normal?”

You feel pathetic, asking that question. Like, are you really this desperate? You asked yourself.

His brows pulled together. “Normal?”

“Yeah,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “You’re just… calm and collected. Being so mature with all of this. Like this doesn’t mess with you at all.”

He blinked slowly, confusion and amusement drawn across his face. “You think I’m calm?”

“You’re literally so focused on working like we’re not sitting very closely with each other!” you snapped, your frustration cracking through your restraint. “Do you not find me attractive, or are you just immune to… this?”

That last word came out soft. Small. Maybe a little insecure. You had the same feeling you have when you were in middle school, where everyone is getting Valentine’s Day candy except you. With shame growing inside of you, you turned away again, hiding your frown from him. You feel so stupid and childish for feeling as such around him.

Behind you. Yoongi’s lips parted. His expression was unreadable for a second. Then you heard him push his chair back slightly, enough to turn toward you.

“You really think that?” he spoke, voice lower, behind you. Like he is a strong coming.

You swallowed hard, still not looking around. “It just feels that way.”

For a moment, it just silenced.. Then, there is another cool blast of air again that makes you hug yourself. But slowly, you felt some familiar arms wrapped around your waist. You can instantly feel his warmth from his touch.

“You have no idea how hard it is to act normal around you.”

Your breath hitched, not just from his confession. But with how warm his breath is next to your ear. His chin almost rests on your bare shoulders.

“I can’t look at you too long without losing focus,” he continued, thumb tracing circles over the silk fabric on your waist. “I can’t even breathe right when you wear things like this.”

Your heart stuttered. His words hit lower than they should’ve. Then, before you could say anything, his lips brushed your shoulder. Barely. Like a ghost of a touch. But it was enough to make your skin erupt in goosebumps.

He lingered, breath warm. Then another soft kiss, higher this time, right where your neck met your shoulder.

“Yoongi…” you whispered, but it came out as a plea, not a warning.

He hummed against your skin, the sound low and vibrating. “You wonder how I’m so strong,” he murmured, his breath fanning your jaw. “Truth is, I’m not.”

You could feel the smile against your skin before he whispered again, slower:

“I just really, really don’t want to mess this up.”

His hand slid from your shoulder down to your wrist, squeezing gently like an anchor. He pressed one last kiss on your shoulder before pulling back.

“Let’s finish the demo.”

SERIES TAGLIST

@busanbby-jjk @jimingirl95 @treacherqus @jajabro @marnz1990 @ktownshizzle @notarshia @m00njinnie @thelilbutifulthings @tarahardcore @livisdoingfine @jungshaking @eridanus-lynx @enthralled-bandit @goodnight-n-go-home @ronyiboniyy @jimeg629 @lveegsoi @madussthoughts @jalexad @ryryvna @kiki-zb @kam9404 @rtyuy1346 @chxmachxps @enfppuff @nessas-archive @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @b3lla-hq @libbieminie

[cigarettesuga]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ don't get it twisted ୨ৎ ( myg. )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after their late-night studio hookup, yoongi wakes up still feeling her — under his skin, in his mouth, everywhere. she’s not his, not officially, but she’s everywhere. and when he sees her again at work, dodging his eyes and pretending nothing happened, he starts to realize just how badly he wants more than just her body. when she shows up with food, teasing smiles, and that fucking scent that doesn’t belong to him… it spirals. there’s jealousy, confessions whispered into lips, and a whole lot of filthy, possessive sex that tastes suspiciously like love.

featuring⠀idol!yoongi x producer!f!reader⠀・ themes⠀friends with benefits turned into messy feelings ending in emotional smut fest, heavy tention, angst, smut, fluff ・ wc⠀11.4k⠀・ lu's note⠀part two is finally here and it’s filthy and tender all at the same time. brace yourself, bc this is basically porn with a little bit of plot at the beginning. it took me forever to decide whether to just write this as a quick follow-up or stretch it into two more parts, but honestly? i think i love the way it turned out like this. likes, comments or anything to let me know you’re enjoying the content i make are so very appreciated. so pls pls pls let me know how you liked this follow-up to “too good at pretending.” your support means the world⠀・ navi

warnings⠀・explicit sexual content, oral sex (f + m receiving), unprotected penetrative sex (she's on the pill but still risky behavior), cum play / cum on skin (thighs), cum eating kink, facial / swallowing kink (reader shows him before swallowing), dirty talk, vocal yoongi, praising + slight degradation, public-ish sex (after-hours at hybe), overstimulation, grinding, soft edging, eye contact kink, intense intimacy, possessiveness, jealousy, soft dom!yoongi energy, subtle sub!reader moments (begging, obedience, oral fixation, emotional conflict in the form of "is this still casual?" (spoiler: is not), confessions masked as dirty talk, mutual longing, soft aftercare, gentle teasing, fwb arrangement falling apart in the most delicious way

he wakes up with the taste of her still on his tongue.

the early morning light cuts sharp through the blinds in his apartment, painting pale, angular lines across the rumpled sheets tangled around his legs. it’s quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty, like it’s carrying all the things left unsaid from the night before. yoongi blinks against the brightness, one arm slung over his forehead, already aware that sleep’s long gone.

she’s not in his bed. she never was.

he’s alone, and it’s fine. it’s normal. this is how it works.

but his brain is still playing it all back like a track stuck on loop — the way she whimpered into that blanket, how her hands trembled against his chest, how her voice cracked when she said his name like it meant something. the lace still bunched around her thighs. her hoodie barely covering the flushed skin underneath. the mess she made of him — in more ways than one.

he shifts onto his side with a quiet exhale, staring at nothing, jaw ticking slightly. she’s not yours, he reminds himself. not really. never was. but last night?

last night, she felt like it.

it wasn’t supposed to be like that. not with her half-sprawled over the couch, face pressed to the cushions, sweat cooling against her spine while he held her like something he’d miss in the morning. not with the way her voice got all soft and half-sweet when she mumbled “that’s gonna be hard to top,” and he pretended to roll his eyes even though his chest felt too tight.

yoongi sighs and drags a hand over his face. his phone’s somewhere on the floor, probably dead, and he knows he should get up. shower. check in with the team. respond to emails. exist. but all he can think about is her — how calm she looked when he zipped up his hoodie over her bare skin, how easily she smiled like none of it complicated things.

he gets up eventually. shuffles to the kitchen, makes coffee he doesn’t really want. leans against the counter in just his sweats and scratches at the back of his neck like it’ll do something about the heaviness sitting between his ribs.

it wasn’t just the sex. it never is with her. it’s the way she moves, the quiet moments in between, the way she’s the only person who can pull a fucking laugh out of him when his head’s a mess. she’s loud and chaotic and takes up so much space — and still, he always wants more of her. even when it drives him insane.

he doesn’t know what he expected. that she’d call? text? pretend they didn’t spend half the night wrapped around each other trying to pretend it wasn’t emotional?

maybe.

instead, there’s nothing.

and that’s fine. it’s how they operate. no strings. no promises.

except now she’s everywhere in his head — her voice, her breath, her body, the way she looked back at him with that glassy, wrecked expression like he’d ruined her. like she wanted him to.

he leans over the sink, watching steam curl from the mug in his hand, and exhales slowly.

this is dangerous.

he knows it.

he always did.

but something about last night — the way she let him hold her afterward, the way she curled into him like she trusted him with the quiet — it hit somewhere deeper than it was supposed to.

yoongi presses the mug to his lips and doesn’t drink.

just stares out the window, wondering if she’s awake.

wondering if she’s thinking about him too.

probably not.

she’s got deadlines. demos. an inbox full of producers waiting to work with her. he’s just the guy who showed up when she was stressed. who made her come so hard she couldn’t speak. who left handprints on her hips and walked out like it didn’t change everything.

he should shake it off. he will.

eventually.

he finds his phone under the edge of the bed after returning to the room, face-down and clinging to life with 7% battery. the screen lights up with a soft buzz as it registers movement, a handful of unread messages — none of them from her. he tells himself that’s a good thing. a relief. means they’re both on the same page. detached. unaffected. not thinking about the way her voice cracked when she came apart in his hands.

his thumb hovers over her contact anyway. he doesn’t even have her saved under her name — just a nickname from a stupid inside joke they made when she first started working at the label, something only she would understand. something that feels a little too fond now.

what would he even say?

“how’s the mix coming along?” “good seeing you last night.” “you okay?”

no. too obvious. too boyfriend.

and yoongi — god, he’s not her boyfriend. not even close. he’s the guy she calls when she needs to let go. when her brain’s too loud and her body’s too tense and she needs someone who won’t ask questions. he’s the guy who knows what kind of wine she likes but not who she was before she came to seoul. he’s the guy who kisses her like he means it but never stays past 3am.

except he did stay. last night. or at least long enough to make it complicated.

he locks the phone screen with a sigh and tosses it onto the bed.

his hand runs through his hair as he stands in the hallway, eyes unfocused, still half-stuck in memory. she had her hoodie halfway on, hair a tangled mess, skin flushed, panties ruined. she was leaning over the couch, eyes glassy, mouth open — her fingers clutching the cushion like she was holding on for dear life. he was buried in her, hips snapping forward, sweat dripping down his neck, and she was looking back at him like she fucking owned him.

and maybe she did. maybe she still does.

yoongi huffs out a breath through his nose and heads toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to fuck’s sake. the moment the cold water hits his skin, it shocks his system, draws a sharp inhale from between clenched teeth — but it’s better than the alternative.

because his dick? yeah. still hard. again.

it’s been like this since the friends with benefits deal started — this recurring morning wood that feels more like a symptom of her than anything physiological. it’s her voice in his ear. her hands under his shirt. her scent still lingering on his fingers hours later. it’s her.

and sure, yeah, he could jerk off. he has. he does. but it never hits the same. because his body doesn’t just want release — it wants her. her warmth. her weight. her voice when she says his name like it’s a secret.

he stands under the water longer than he needs to, hands braced against the tile, jaw clenched like he’s trying to ground himself in anything but the feel of her nails dragging down his spine. pathetic, he thinks. this isn’t what you signed up for.

but it’s already too late.

because yoongi — quiet, guarded, impossibly private yoongi — is starting to want things. dangerous things. like the sound of her laugh when she’s tired. like the way she hums when she’s deep into a track. like waking up to her beside him instead of a memory.

he shuts off the water, the silence hitting heavy around him again.

maybe she’s not thinking about him at all. maybe she’s already buried in her work, earbuds in, sipping iced coffee and dissecting vocal layers like last night never happened. like she didn’t fall apart on his lap, whispering yes against his mouth like it wasn’t just about the high.

he dries off in silence, towel slung low on his hips, steam still curling in the mirror.

he won’t text her. not yet.

he’ll wait. he always does.besides — she’s not his.

he’s just the one who keeps pretending that doesn’t hurt.

yoongi sees her before she sees him.

he’s walking down the hall on autopilot, barely paying attention to anything around him — not the interns rushing past, not the sound of muffled bass leaking out of a rehearsal room down the corridor, not the endless buzz of HYBE in its usual quiet chaos. but the second his eyes catch on her frame — leaned slightly against the wall outside one of the smaller editing suites — his body tenses like it knows. like it’s already reacting before his brain can fully catch up.

and she looks… different.

not bad. never that. but off. not in the way her hoodie hangs half-off one shoulder, or in how her sweatpants are cuffed unevenly like she dressed in a rush. no — it’s something in her face. her posture. the way her arms are crossed too tightly over her chest, phone clutched in one hand like she forgot she was even holding it. she’s not scrolling. not listening to anything. just… standing there.

thinking. spiraling, maybe. exactly like he was this morning.

yoongi slows his pace, considers walking past like he didn’t see her, like he’s busy or distracted or actually trying to stick to the five things he said he needed to get done today. but then she shifts — leans her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed for just a second — and the urge to go to her overrides whatever pride he has left.

he clears his throat gently as he approaches, hands stuffed in his pockets, expression calm. detached. casual.

don’t act weird. don’t ask anything you don’t want the answer to.

“yo.” his voice comes out low and steady, like he hadn’t spent all morning overthinking her moans. “you alive?”

her eyes snap open, and for a split second — just one beat — he sees it.

the flicker of panic, or maybe surprise, something unguarded in her face before she pastes on a quick, sheepish smile.

“barely,” she says, shifting her weight, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “you know how it is. deadlines, caffeine dependency, existential dread.”

yoongi lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, but he doesn’t miss the way she fidgets — the way she avoids looking directly at him at first, eyes darting back to her phone even though it hasn’t lit up once.

he doesn’t ask. doesn’t press. but he notices.

and that alone is enough to twist something tight in his chest.

“you waiting on a studio?” he asks instead, nodding toward the door beside her.

she shrugs. “yeah. i think there’s a mixing session still going on. should be out any minute.”

a pause stretches between them — not awkward exactly, but not easy either. and yoongi hates that. hates how he can feel the difference, how something unspoken hangs between them like a draft neither of them wants to acknowledge.

but then — just like that — she softens.

maybe it’s the way he’s watching her. maybe it’s the way his tone never changes, never pushes. or maybe she just missed him too.

because she lets out a quiet breath, eyes finally meeting his, and says, “by the way… you still owe me for the trauma of almost getting caught by some poor intern last night.”

yoongi blinks, caught off guard for a second — then he huffs a soft laugh through his nose.

“you mean you owe me,” he counters, tilting his head slightly. “i had to walk out with your fingerprints all over me. i looked like i’d been jumped by a very determined groupie.”

she bites back a grin, eyes twinkling just a little. there she is.

“well,” she says, voice lilting now, flirtation curling at the edges of her words, “i am pretty determined.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow at that, his smirk sharp but slow, blooming like smoke across his face. his heart’s doing something annoying in his chest, but he plays it cool, lets the silence settle a beat before he leans in just slightly — not too close, but enough to make her breathe a little slower.

“yeah?” he murmurs, eyes flicking from her lips back up. “i noticed.”

she looks away, laughing under her breath, and it’s subtle, it’s small — but it’s there. that shift. the thaw. her arms uncross, her body leans just a fraction closer to his without realizing.

and yoongi — well. he still doesn’t know what’s going on with her. why she was so dodgy at first. why her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes until just now.

but he knows this:

whatever she’s avoiding, it’s not him.

not yet.

and for now, that’s enough to make him stay a little longer.

yoongi leans his shoulder against the wall beside her, his posture easy but his eyes anything but. he’s studying her — not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she’s never really needed the full weight of his stare to feel it. it’s in the way he turns slightly toward her, how his fingers drum lightly against his thigh like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t. he glances down the hallway, then back at her, voice smooth, unbothered.

“you end up doing anything with the track?”

she pauses. and he notices that, too — the half-second delay before she answers. like she’s sorting through all the possible ways to respond before landing on the one that gives away the least.

“uh…” she exhales a small laugh, tilting her head. “not really. i was kinda distracted yesterday.” her mouth twitches like she might smile, but she doesn’t let it land fully. “haven’t had the time to change anything else.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips twitching just slightly. “distracted, huh?”

she shoots him a side glance — quick, but not defensive — the kind of look that says don’t start. but her cheeks give her away, that faint flush just beneath her skin that she pretends doesn’t exist. she shifts again, now more relaxed, fingers brushing through her hair like she’s trying to give her hands something to do.

“yeah, you know,” she says, voice a little too casual. “just… things.”

yoongi hums. it’s low, amused, maybe just a little smug. he can still hear her voice in his head — soft and breathless, whispering yes, right there like it was meant only for him. the idea that she couldn’t finish the track because she was too busy falling apart in his lap makes something dark and satisfied curl in his gut.

but he doesn’t push it.

not directly, anyway.

“well,” he says, glancing at the closed door beside them like it owes him an answer, “let me know if you need help finishing it. i’ve got a few... ideas.”

the way he says ideas — slow, a little rough, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth — it’s not exactly appropriate for a hallway conversation. but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t roll her eyes or walk away or pretend she doesn’t know what he’s implying.

instead, she presses her lips together, like she’s fighting a grin, and leans just slightly closer.

“do your ideas come with another fire hazard warning?” she asks, tilting her head like she’s teasing — but her voice is lower now, softer, the flirtation deliberately buried beneath layers of fake innocence. “because that couch might still be drying, min yoongi.”

yoongi exhales a laugh, not loud, but real. it catches him off guard a little, how easily she can do that — drag him out of his head, make him forget he spent the morning trying not to miss her.

you’re not supposed to miss her, he reminds himself again. this isn’t that kind of thing.

but it’s hard to remember that when she looks up at him with those eyes, when she says shit like that with a straight face, when she acts like she’s not dragging him deeper into something they never named.

and still — he doesn’t say anything else.

not about the night before.

not about how quiet she looked when he found her.

not about how good it feels to make her laugh.

he just pushes off the wall, hands back in his pockets, head tilting slightly.

“just saying,” he murmurs, eyes still on her, “you could probably sample some of those sounds you made. turn it into a synth line or something.”

she scoffs, but it’s breathless — and her smile this time? yeah. it lands.and yoongi walks away with the ghost of it still clinging to him.

yoongi’s studio is cold when he steps in — not in temperature, but in that still, slightly hollow kind of way that lingers when it’s been empty too long. the air’s stale from last night, a faint echo of synths still ringing in the silence. he doesn’t bother turning on the main lights. the blue LEDs lining his monitors are enough, casting the room in that familiar low glow that always made it feel like a world apart. separate from reality. quiet enough to breathe in.

he drops into his chair with a sigh, spinning slowly once before leaning forward, elbows on the desk. the song on the screen isn’t new. not even close. it’s one he started months ago, maybe longer — moody and slow and layered with too many half-formed ideas. it’s got no destination, just a vibe. it reminds him of rainy nights and restless fingers and things left unsaid. basically, it reminds him of her.

he doesn’t say that out loud, of course. wouldn’t even say it to himself if it weren’t already a fact clawing at the edge of his thoughts.

he queues the project up anyway and starts fine-tuning a few synth patches. adjusts the EQ. nudges a vocal sample an eighth note forward. it’s all mechanical, methodical — a distraction. a half-hearted one.

and then the door opens with a soft knock that’s already halfway pushed open, because only one person enters like that.

“yo,” hoseok calls, his voice the same warm, light tone it always is — like sunshine pouring into a dim room. “you alive in here?”

yoongi barely glances back. “physically.”

hoseok lets out a chuckle and steps inside, already dropping into the second chair like he owns it. his hair’s messy, face fresh, dressed down in sweats and a too-expensive hoodie that only looks effortless. days like this — in between releases, tour planning still months off — they get to breathe. kind of. stretch their limbs, catch up, check in on old projects and worse habits.

“working on anything new?” hoseok asks, peering at the screen.

yoongi shrugs, clicking aimlessly through the stems. “just polishing old shit.”

“gonna release it?”

yoongi hums. “probably not. just… filling space.”

hoseok’s quiet for a moment, just watching him. the air shifts slightly — not tense, not heavy, but perceptive. yoongi knows that silence. knows hoseok’s thinking something but giving him time to get there first.

he doesn’t. so hoseok does it for him.

“so… you and (y/n), huh?”

yoongi pauses. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look over. just drags the waveform a little to the left and hits play.

a low synth hums through the room, heavy with bass. atmospheric. slow burn. just like him.

“what about us?”

“don’t play dumb, hyung. i saw you two in the hallway earlier. i’ve heard you two. you think walls here are soundproof? please.”

yoongi exhales through his nose, lips twitching. “should’ve worn headphones.”

“should’ve kept it in your pants,” hoseok says, grinning.

that earns a full laugh — low and brief, but real — and yoongi leans back, finally meeting his eyes.

“it’s not like that,” he says.

“yeah?” hoseok quirks an eyebrow. “looked a lot like something.”

yoongi goes quiet again, eyes flicking back to the screen. the waveform’s looping now, the beat repeating every few seconds. he doesn’t hear it.

he hears her.

“yeah, well… i was kinda distracted yesterday.”

he presses his thumb into his lower lip, jaw tight.

“it’s complicated.”

hoseok nods slowly, more serious now. “you like her.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

yoongi doesn’t answer. because he does. more than he wants to admit. and it’s not just the sex. it’s her voice in the booth. the way she fights for her mixes. the way she can go from shouting across the room to whispering something filthy against his throat in the span of ten minutes. it’s how she always makes things harder — and somehow easier, too.

“you’re not exactly good at hiding shit,” hoseok says after a beat. “not with her. you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

yoongi’s heart lurches, but his face doesn’t move.

“and what if i am?”

hoseok shrugs. “then maybe stop pretending it’s casual before she walks away for real.”

that gets him.

yoongi swallows thickly and doesn’t answer.

just stares at the screen again.

like the waveform might give him a reason to do something before it’s too late.

the music’s long stopped, but he’s still sitting there — hunched slightly in his chair, eyes fixed on the screen like it’ll offer up an answer he hasn’t already dissected a thousand different ways in his head. the studio has sunk into that kind of deep stillness only late hours can create. no voices in the halls. no random knocks. even the building’s subtle mechanical hum feels distant, dulled under the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

yoongi doesn’t realize how much time has passed until his stomach lets out a low, sharp growl that physically pulls him out of his spiral. it echoes in the silence, ridiculous and needy, and he exhales a dry laugh through his nose, rubbing his face with both hands. fuck. how long has it been? eight hours? ten?

he glances at the time and winces. of course.

he pushes back from the desk slowly, spine stiff, legs numb from being curled under him too long. everything feels a little off-kilter — his body, his thoughts, even the way the air sits in the room. it’s like time’s been suspended in here, and the second he steps out that door, it’s going to catch up to him all at once.

his stomach growls again and he grumbles under his breath, rummaging half-heartedly through the snack drawer he always forgets to restock. nothing decent. just a crushed protein bar and gum that’s long expired. he considers ordering food, but even that feels like a decision he’s not ready to make. like his brain’s too preoccupied chewing on something else.

hoseok’s words won’t stop looping.

“you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

he thinks about the way she looked in that hallway earlier. how she tried not to meet his eyes at first. how her voice dipped low when she flirted. how her smile faltered for half a second when she thought he wasn’t looking. and he thinks about the night before — how natural it felt to be around her, even when her moans were echoing off the studio walls. even when he was saying shit he wouldn’t say to anyone else. even when he kissed her hair like he meant it.

because he did. and he’s not sure how long he’s been meaning it, but now that he’s realized it, there’s no unknowing it.

yoongi leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the floor but not really seeing it. would it really be that bad if he wanted something for himself, just this once? if he stopped pretending that whatever the fuck is happening between him and her isn’t turning into something real?

it’s a dangerous question. he knows the answer already. it’s yes. it’s always yes.

because this thing they’ve got? it was built on boundaries they both agreed to. no labels. no expectations. just fun, she had said, eyes lit and smile mischievous the night it started. and he had nodded, quick to agree. because why the hell would someone like her — loud and electric and alive in all the places he’s muted — ever want someone like him?

but still. there are moments. fleeting ones. like the way she lingers after they fuck, half-tucked against him, eyes glassy and unreadable. or how she always plays him the real version of her demos, even the unfinished ones. or the time she reached for his hand in a crowded elevator and didn’t let go until they hit the lobby.

yoongi drags a hand through his hair and lets out a low, frustrated sound.

she’s not in love with you, he tells himself. she would’ve said something by now. ended it. laughed in your face.

except… maybe she wouldn’t. maybe she’s just as scared of ruining it as he is.

and suddenly everything starts to feel confusing. like the lines are blurring faster than either of them can keep up with. like they’ve both been balancing on a wire stretched too thin, pretending not to look down.

he swallows, throat dry. maybe it’s the hunger. maybe it’s the exhaustion. or maybe he’s finally just sick of lying to himself. but right now — in this empty room, with his heart pounding harder than it should — all he can think is:

what if i already lost her and didn’t even realize it?

and worse —

what if i haven’t lost her yet, but i will… if i don’t do something soon?

he grabs his phone. his fingers hesitate over her name again.

but this time — this time, maybe he doesn’t want to wait.

the knock is soft at first — more of a tap, really — but in the silence of the studio, it sounds almost like thunder. yoongi’s head lifts, eyebrows tugging together, not expecting anyone this late. he sets his phone down, heart in his throat for no good reason, and crosses the studio in slow, measured steps. when he opens the door, it takes everything in him not to let that sharp, startled smile break too wide across his face.

she’s standing there, hoodie zipped up halfway, a takeout bag dangling from one hand, and that familiar, irritatingly smug smirk playing on her lips like she already knows what he’s thinking.

“look at you,” she says, brushing past him before he can even get a word out, “alive but barely, i assume.”

he doesn’t stop her — never does — just closes the door and watches as she makes herself at home like always. she drops the bag on the tiny coffee table he’s never used for actual coffee and then turns to face him, hands on her hips.

“you didn’t answer your texts, you haven’t eaten, and you look like you’ve been brooding about god-knows-what for at least eight hours straight. so,” she says, lifting the bag with a flourish, “your savior has arrived. congratulations. your digestive system won’t fail you today.”

yoongi lets out a laugh, low and genuine, dragging a hand over his face as he moves to join her. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and you’re one stomach cramp away from passing out,” she shoots back, already unpacking the containers. “i should start charging you for emotional labor.”

he raises an eyebrow. “this is emotional labor?”

“you have the social awareness of a houseplant,” she says, grinning. “yes. it is.”

they settle onto the floor, knees bumping as they sit side by side in that unintentional kind of closeness that always seems to happen between them. like no matter how big the room is, they always end up in each other’s orbit. he watches her unbox his favorite dish without needing to ask what he wants — like she knows. like she’s wired to know.

and for a moment, it’s easy. too easy. the jokes, the way their arms graze, the way her voice softens a little when she hands him chopsticks. it should be mundane, but it isn’t. it never is with her.

but then it hits him.

a scent — subtle but undeniable. something unfamiliar. it cuts through the usual notes of soy and ginger and her shampoo, and it’s not hers. it’s cologne. a man’s.

yoongi goes still for a second, eyes narrowing just slightly as he breathes it in again, trying not to overreact but already spiraling. it’s not strong, but it clings to her — on the sleeve of her hoodie, near her neck. and it’s not his.

she doesn’t miss the way he stiffens. she never misses anything about him. her eyes flick to his face, then down to her own clothes like she already knows what he’s picked up on.

“oh — that?” she says, nudging his knee gently with hers, tone light but cautious. “it’s not what you think.”

he looks at her, expression unreadable, but the jealousy’s already burning somewhere low and sharp inside him, like a slow boil he doesn’t know what to do with.

“been working with yeonjun,” she continues, fingers playing with the edge of the takeout lid. “on one of the tracks i told you about. you know how he is. touchy, all over the place, dramatic as hell. hugged me like four times in an hour and spilled coffee on my hoodie, so i borrowed one of his. it’s nothing.”

she’s watching him now — carefully. like she’s waiting for a verdict. like she’s not entirely sure he believes her.

yoongi doesn’t say anything at first. he looks down at the food in front of him, then at the edge of the sleeve she’s tugging at absentmindedly. it’s stupid. he knows it. it’s ridiculous how fast the thought of her with someone else can unravel him.

but still — that voice in his head won’t shut up.

you’re not her boyfriend. you don’t get to care.

except he does. even if he shouldn’t. even if it hurts.

“he’s loud,” yoongi mutters finally, picking at the edge of the takeout container. “and he wears too much cologne.”

her lips twitch, just a little. “yeah,” she says. “i like yours better.”

he looks up then, eyes catching hers in that heavy, too-long way they always do when things start to slip between the cracks. she’s smiling, but her gaze is steady. honest. and maybe a little nervous.

she nudges his knee again.

“don’t get weird about it.”

yoongi exhales slowly, something unspoken loosening in his chest.

“not weird,” he says, voice soft. “just hungry.”

but they both know what he really means.

they eat mostly in silence, the kind that isn’t awkward — more like lived-in quiet, something gentle that exists between people who know each other too well to need constant talking. the food is warm, comforting, grounding in a way that makes the chaos in yoongi’s head slow to a manageable hum. for a while, the only sounds are the rustle of containers, the soft clink of chopsticks, and the occasional, lazy sip from shared soda cans.

she’s cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, her wrist brushing against his every time she reaches for something near the middle. she’s focused, for the most part, but her eyes keep flicking toward him — little glances that say she’s thinking something, maybe a lot of things, but doesn’t know how to start saying them.

yoongi’s sitting back against the couch now, long legs stretched out, one arm resting across the seat cushions behind him. he’s not touching her, technically — but it would take the slightest movement for his fingers to find her shoulder, or her hair, or her hoodie collar. and he’s watching her, openly, a lazy half-smile playing on his lips that he doesn’t bother hiding. because she said something stupid. ridiculous, really. something about how the drums in her demo sounded like “a washing machine having a panic attack” and how she was going to “maybe rebrand as an experimental laundromat composer.”

“what the fuck does that even mean?” he asks, still grinning.

“don’t act like you wouldn’t stream it,” she says, chewing the last bite of dumpling. “i know your niche little taste.”

he scoffs lightly. “i’d stream it just to clown on you in the comments.”

“exactly,” she says, pointing a chopstick at him like she’s proved a point. “engagement.”

he snorts, shakes his head, leans a little heavier against the couch. “so the demo?”

she shrugs, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “i mean... it’s still a mess. but kind of a beautiful one? i think i needed last night, actually. i was stuck. in my head. needed to… get out of it.”

he hums at that, a quiet acknowledgment, but his eyes flick away for a second. because yeah, she did get out of it. she got under him, over him, and inside his fucking brain. and now they’re here again, sitting close, joking like nothing about it cracked anything open. but it did. he knows it. and maybe — maybe she does too.

he opens his mouth to say something — maybe another joke, maybe something a little more honest — but he never gets the chance.

she kisses him.

not in that frantic, breathless way that usually comes after too much tension and too little distance. not the way she does when she’s climbing into his lap or tugging at his hoodie, all teeth and heat. this is... different.

it’s soft. casual, almost. like a pause in a conversation, like punctuation. like she just wanted to shut him up for a second — or maybe just needed to feel him without all the buildup.

her lips press gently against his, warm and slow. her hand settles on his thigh, thumb brushing absently against the fabric of his sweats, not suggestive, not teasing — just there. grounding. familiar. and it catches him off guard because there’s no real hunger in it, not yet. just intimacy. quiet affection disguised as a throwaway moment.

he doesn’t move, not right away. just lets it happen. lets her kiss him like it’s normal. like it means nothing. like it means everything.

when she pulls back, barely, her face hovers close — her breath still mingling with his. her fingers still resting on his leg. and for a second, neither of them says anything.

yoongi just looks at her, the smile slow to return this time, eyes soft and half-lidded.

“that was random,” he murmurs.

she shrugs like it’s nothing, like her heart isn’t beating out of her chest. “you looked too smug. it was annoying.”

he chuckles, eyes still on her lips. “sure.”

“don’t get ideas,” she adds, reaching for another dumpling like she didn’t just change the temperature of the whole room.

but he does.

he has.

and now he’s stuck with them.

she's licking soy sauce off her thumb when she asks, too casually, “do you have plans when you go home?”

yoongi’s mid-chew, eyes flicking up at her like he’s trying to decide whether she’s joking or baiting him — both, probably. always both with her. he swallows slowly, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and leans back again against the couch, stretching out like a cat settling into warm sun. his arm slides higher along the cushion, closer to her shoulder now, and he smirks, head tilted just slightly.

“you know it’s late, right?”

she shrugs, unbothered, lips twitching as she looks sideways at him. “best things happen when it’s late,” she says. “yesterday’s a good example.”

the words hit like a loaded trigger, pulling a visible shift in the air between them. the quiet settles differently now — thicker, slower. her voice has that edge again, that deliberate softness that sounds like innocence but hides all kinds of trouble beneath it. and yoongi? yeah, he’s already moving closer.

he props one elbow on the back of the couch now, turning fully toward her. his knees bend just a little, thighs open. the way he looks at her is heavy, something simmering behind his lashes as a slow grin stretches across his face — a smile that says i know what you're doing. and i’m not stopping you.

“so what,” he says, voice roughening just a notch, “you bring me dinner, make me laugh a little, kiss me like that, and now i’m just supposed to fuck you again?”

she giggles — that little gasp-hiccup sound she only makes when she’s been caught red-handed but still refuses to play innocent. her eyes flick down to his mouth, her hand trailing back to rest on his thigh again, fingertips just barely digging in through the fabric of his sweats. she’s not answering. doesn’t have to.

yoongi leans in — lips ghosting just over her cheek, the shell of her ear — close enough to make her skin prickle.

“you get needy when the sun goes down, huh?” he murmurs, breath hot. “always showing up with excuses. food. fake concern. pretending you’re here to babysit me when you know damn well you just want me to lay you out again.”

her breath hitches, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

his mouth finds hers again, but this time there’s no hesitation — none of that soft in-between from earlier. it’s hungrier now, like they’re picking up where they left off last night. like he’s been thinking about this since he watched her walk away, sweat-stained and glowing and satisfied. his hand moves instinctively, resting on her hip, thumb dragging just under the hem of her hoodie, lazy and unhurried.

he breaks the kiss to murmur against her lips, “you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

her eyes flutter, but she nods, biting her bottom lip just to keep from moaning at how good his voice sounds when it dips like that — low and secret, like a promise.

“what part are you stuck on?” he asks, eyes heavy, his free hand now dragging up her thigh with just enough pressure to make her shift. “me pulling your hair? or when you came all over my fingers before i even got inside you?”

she exhales hard, laughing through it, but she’s flushed now, knees turned inward like she’s trying to contain the heat blooming low in her belly. it’s no use. he already knows. he can read her like a language he’s memorized in every form.

he kisses her again, slower this time, then pulls back just enough to whisper:

“say please, baby. i’m still full from dinner — but if you ask real nice... maybe i’ll still have you for dessert.”

and just like that —

yoongi’s night is no longer his.

it’s hers. always has been.

“please,” she breathes, voice smaller than before — not playful, not sarcastic. real. the kind of soft that only surfaces when the guard drops, when want curls up from her belly and takes the reins of her mouth. “yoongi, please. i’ve been thinking about you all day… couldn’t stop. couldn’t—” she exhales, eyes fluttering, “i can’t wait anymore.”

and that—god, that—does something to him.

yoongi’s breath stutters, his fingers tightening where they rest on her thigh. there’s a fire building slow and low in his stomach, the kind that doesn’t rush — the kind that simmers, burns, because it’s not just about lust. it’s about the way she looks at him when she says things like that. like he’s the only one who’s ever been able to pull her apart in just the right way. like she needs him to be the one to get her there, every time. like she’s already unraveling from the idea alone.

he shifts as she climbs between his legs, her hands working slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact — her gaze warm, serious, a little bit mischievous. she presses a kiss to his jaw first, featherlight, then down to his throat, her lips brushing his pulse point.

“you always take care of me,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “let me take care of you.”

yoongi groans low in his chest, head dropping back against the couch with a dull thud, already undone by the idea before she’s even touched him. his hoodie bunches slightly as she tugs at the hem of his shirt, her fingers grazing over his skin in teasing strokes. she moves lower, slower — kisses trailing down like breadcrumbs, soft and hot, until she settles where he needs her most.

and then—

then, her mouth is on him, slow and warm and devastating, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of him. like she’s saying thank you with every breath, every drag of her tongue. she wraps one hand around the base of him, the other braced lightly on his thigh, grounding herself as she works. the sounds she makes are quiet, eager, reverent. she takes her time. she wants to. because yoongi’s always been so careful with her — always patient, always knowing exactly how to touch her, how to ruin her in all the right ways.

and now it’s her turn.

yoongi’s hands bury in her hair, not rough — more like he’s anchoring himself. his lips part around a curse he doesn’t finish, his whole body going taut with restraint. because she knows what she’s doing, knows exactly how to undo him. and she does it with intention. with purpose.

with care.

and maybe that’s what breaks him most —

not the pleasure, not the heat, not the slick sounds and the pressure building too fast to hold —

but the fact that it means something.

even when they’re pretending it doesn’t.

his fingers slide through her hair, gentle at first — reverent, almost — before curling tighter at the nape of her neck. he brushes the strands back from her face so he can see her, the way her lips stretch around him, eyes glossy and half-lidded, her cheeks flushed with heat and want. she looks wrecked already, mouth full of him, but still so fucking pretty it almost hurts.

yoongi bites down on a groan, hips twitching the slightest bit, restraint clawing at every muscle in his body. fuck, she looks good like this. like she belongs there, between his legs, sinking deeper into whatever quiet madness they’ve been building for months.

“look at you,” he mutters, voice a slow drag of smoke, deep and rough in the back of his throat. “fuck, baby… always so eager for it.”

her eyes flick up at him, and that’s when he knows—knows—she’s loving this just as much. he can feel it in the way she shifts, subtly squeezing her thighs together, in the soft, messy sounds she’s making around him. muffled whimpers that melt against his skin. she’s getting off on it. on the way he talks to her. on the way she knows he’s watching every movement, every hollow of her cheeks, every trembling inhale.

“you like being my good girl, huh?” he breathes, thumb grazing her jaw, the corner of her lips as she bobs her head slowly. “bet you’re soaked already. fuck—are you?”

she whines low in her throat, the sound vibrating through him, and yoongi’s eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed. he’s not gonna last if she keeps making noises like that. but god, he loves it. he loves knowing she needs the filth just as much as the touch. that she’s getting wet just from his voice, from the weight of his hands in her hair, from the control he gives and takes in the same breath.

“wish you could see yourself,” he grits out, voice low and hungry. “so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth. like you were made for it.”

her rhythm falters slightly, a soft shiver coursing through her as she presses closer, takes him deeper — because of what he said. and yoongi groans again, the sound ragged now, falling apart.

“yeah… that’s it. just like that, baby. just like that.”

and somewhere deep in his chest, it twists — not just lust but something else, something more dangerous. something that says this is more than what we said it would be.

but he doesn’t say that.

he just watches her fall apart for him, mouth full, eyes glazed, and knows —

she’s his.

even if neither of them has dared to say it yet.

she doesn’t move right away when he finishes — just stays there for a moment, breathing through her nose, eyelashes trembling, lips parted around him like she’s trying to leave a mark that’s more than just physical. and when she does finally pull back, it’s slow, teasing, her tongue dragging along the head of him like she’s savoring the last taste.

then she looks up — really looks up — and opens her mouth slightly, showing him what he gave her, a wicked little smile curling at the corners of her lips before she swallows without breaking eye contact.

it’s filthy. it’s devastating. it’s so her.

yoongi feels his whole body jolt at the sight, like the tension that’s been coiling up inside him has found a new place to spark. he lets out a rough, breathless laugh — low and disbelieving — before pulling her up by the jaw, not roughly but with a kind of urgency that surprises even him.

he kisses her. hard.

no hesitation, no space between them. he kisses her like he wants to memorize the taste on her tongue. like he wants to remind her that it’s not just about what she did, but how she did it — the way she gave it to him, the way she always does, without asking for anything back but still deserving everything.

and he gives it.

his hands are already sliding beneath her hoodie, palms warm and greedy against her back. the fabric rides up as she shifts closer, climbing into his lap without a word. he doesn’t ask — he doesn’t need to. she’s already moving how he wants her, like she knows. like she feels it.

he tugs the hoodie over her head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind them, forgotten. her bra’s simple — soft black cotton, no lace, no shine — but fuck, it fits her perfectly. the kind of thing that isn’t made to seduce but ends up doing exactly that anyway.

his hands pause for a second. he just… looks.

she’s straddling him, bare above the waist except for that small piece of fabric, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. her fingers are in his hair now, slow, thoughtful, threading at the roots like she’s not sure if she wants to ground herself or pull him closer.

and her eyes — they’re searching his face. not teasing, not playful. serious. soft. like she’s trying to memorize him too.

yoongi swallows thickly, his hands sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the underwire.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, quiet, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

she doesn’t say anything. doesn’t have to.

the way she leans in to kiss him again, slower this time — deeper — says it all.

yoongi’s hands are all over her now — slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to map her body from memory even though he already knows it better than his own. he palms the curve of her ass through her sweats, fingers spreading, squeezing, grounding her onto his lap. her body responds instantly, instinctively — hips rolling once, twice, like her muscles remember the rhythm before her mind can catch up.

he groans into her mouth when she does it again, this soft grind that presses her right against where he’s growing hard all over again. his fingers dip lower, sneaking beneath the waistband of her sweats, and it’s like she melts right into his hands. like her body wants to be held there.

"fuck," he mutters into her mouth, "you know what you do to me, don’t you?"

she breathes a shaky little laugh, forehead pressed to his, her hands still in his hair, nails grazing his scalp just right. “you sound surprised.”

he doesn’t answer — not out loud. instead, he helps her shift back just enough for him to start tugging her sweats down. she lifts herself slightly, letting him ease them over her hips, down her thighs. her underwear’s a delicate scrap of fabric, damp and clinging and completely in his way. he doesn’t waste time — peels them off with a practiced ease, sliding both pieces down her legs, letting them get tangled around one ankle like they always do when they get too impatient to bother properly.

she sits back on his lap, now bare from the waist down, still in that soft black bra, and he exhales hard through his nose — not even trying to hide the way his eyes drag down her body.

“jesus, you’re—” he starts, then just groans, pulling her into him again like he needs her closer, like even skin to skin isn’t enough.

he kisses her deep — messier now, open-mouthed, hungry. one hand cups the back of her neck while the other returns to her ass, squeezing hard as he rocks her against him, making her gasp into his mouth.

it’s not rushed. it’s not frantic. it’s just them — steady and knowing and hot with everything they haven’t said yet.

and god, he could lose himself in it.

maybe he already is.

their bodies are flushed, sweat starting to gather in the small spaces where skin meets skin — under her thighs, his hands gripping the back of them, her chest pressed to his, her breath warm against his jaw. she’s moving in slow circles on his lap, bare and wet and leaving a mess on him, that slick, sticky evidence of how much she wants him — how long she’s wanted him.

yoongi can’t stop watching her face.

she’s breathing heavy, lips parted, eyes locked on his like she’s balancing between control and surrender. and she’s doing this thing — this fucking thing — where she grinds just right and then pulls back the second he thinks he might slide into her. the tip of him keeps slipping through her folds, catching for a second, teasing that sweet ache of friction, and then she rolls her hips up and away again, dragging a whimper from both of them.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” he grits out, voice dark, jaw tense.

her nails trail up his shoulders, one hand slipping around the back of his neck, the other flat on his chest, steadying herself. she leans in close, close enough that her lips brush his, her breath shaky. “i want you to need me,” she whispers, barely audible. “like i do.”

and that sentence? that one sentence nearly undoes him. because fuck does he.

he's needed her in every version she’s shown him — loud and teasing, quiet and wrecked, undone in his hands or breaking him apart with just a glance. he’s needed her since the first time she kissed him and acted like it didn’t mean anything.

his hands move instinctively — one sliding up her back, the other unclasping her bra like he’s done it a hundred times before (because he has). he tosses it aside without looking, eyes never leaving hers.

and then he kisses her again.

not like before — not teasing, not playful. this kiss hurts. it’s full of things neither of them are brave enough to say. it’s heavy with the weight of all the feelings they’ve kept buried under sweat and moans and half-laughed excuses.

his tongue slides against hers, and she gasps, moving faster now, grinding harder. he grabs her hips and guides her, dragging her down against him, and they both groan — heads tipping back for a second before they look at each other again.

and fuck, the eye contact. it’s too much.

their foreheads touch, noses brushing, panting into each other’s mouths. they’re so close to breaking. so close to letting it all spill out.

but neither says it.

not yet.

not out loud.

so instead, they stay here — teetering on the edge, breathless and desperate, wrapped in each other’s silence.

pretending it’s still just physical.

pretending they’re not both already in too deep.

her fingers wrap around him, slow and sure, and it’s like the room holds its breath.

yoongi’s chest stutters as she lines him up, her forehead pressing to his, and for a second they’re still — just breathing, both of them trembling with restraint. she doesn’t look at his face. not right away. her eyes are locked down, staring between them, watching how he disappears into her inch by inch, slick and hot and so fucking close it sends a shudder through her entire body.

her brows twitch upward in a soft, desperate kind of pain — not from discomfort, but from overwhelm. her mouth falls open around a quiet, strangled sound, something raw and completely real that slips out before she can stop it. it’s not the first time he’s been inside her — not even close — but something about this time feels different. maybe it’s the silence. the eye contact. the tension they've been choking on for weeks. months. maybe it’s the way neither of them’s bothering to pretend anymore.

because she’s shaking, and he’s gripping her hips like a lifeline, and then—

then she says it.

“i don’t want anyone else to have you like this,” she whispers, voice thin and cracking at the edges. her breath ghosts over his lips as she moves, the words punctuated by the slow rise and fall of her body. “i’m done pretending, yoongi. i don’t—fuck, i can’t.”

the confession splinters through him, sharp and blinding.

his hands slide up her back as she moves — slow at first, then faster, her hips snapping down in short, messy bursts. there’s nothing graceful about it. it’s frantic. possessive. like she’s trying to stake her claim on him with every wet slap of skin against skin. like she’s branding him with her body, letting him feel what she hasn’t had the nerve to say until now.

yoongi groans — guttural, broken — and digs his fingers into her waist as she starts to ride him harder, pace faltering with every moan she swallows back. her eyes flicker to his then, glassy and dark, and he can barely hold her gaze without falling apart.

“mine,” she says again, almost like a warning, like a plea. “you’re mine.”

he nods — fuck, he’d do anything for her right now — and brings his forehead to hers, their noses brushing as they move together in this messy, electric rhythm. every push, every drag, every breath feels like a vow neither of them has the guts to say out loud in plain language.

but it doesn’t matter.

because her body says it for her.

and his, god help him, answers back like it’s been waiting this whole time.

yoongi’s mouth finds the curve of her neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses dragging along her pulse as he pants against her skin. she’s still moving on him, slower now, deeper. every roll of her hips making his breath catch, making his hands grip tighter at her waist like he’s scared she might slip away despite what she just said.

he groans against her skin, the sound raw and low in his throat. needy, in a way he hasn’t let himself be — not until now. his teeth catch her earlobe, a soft bite that makes her shudder, and then he says it:

“fuck—i’ve been wanting to hear you say that.” his voice is wrecked, voice box vibrating against her neck, and his arms wrap tighter around her like he’s trying to fold himself into her, bury all the things he’s never admitted. “for so long, baby… you have no idea.”

she breathes in sharply, head tipping back, and he uses the opportunity to kiss down her throat, to press his lips to the hollow of her collarbone, to feel the way she trembles from the inside out.

and then he pulls back — just enough to look at her.

really look at her.

his hands slide up her back, fingertips tracing her spine, and their eyes lock again in that heavy, charged silence. her hips keep moving — slower now, drawn-out, grinding deep like she wants him to feel all of her. like she’s memorizing the way he fills her. her chest brushes his with every shift, and she’s still watching him. like he’s the only thing anchoring her.

“say it again,” he whispers, voice low but clear.

she leans in, mouth brushing his as she moves, as she grinds with purpose now, deliberate, claiming every inch of him.

“you’re mine,” she breathes, barely audible.

“all yours,” he answers without thinking.

and fuck, the way they move after that?

it’s not about getting off anymore.

it’s about knowing.owning.

holding each other in the most vulnerable way they ever have — naked and honest and right on the edge of something they can’t undo.

her forehead presses to his, and she doesn’t stop moving — slow, grinding, so deep it’s like she’s trying to carve him into herself, like she wants to memorize every ridge and throb, the way his breath catches, the way his lashes flutter when she tightens around him just right.

and then she whispers it.

into his lips.

into his soul.

“say i’m the only one,” she pleads, voice trembling. “please.”

and she is. she is. he doesn’t even hesitate.

his mouth crashes into hers — desperate and full of heat, his hands splaying across her back like he doesn’t want to let a single part of her go. he kisses her like it’s the only way he can say what he’s feeling without unraveling. not soft, not teasing. hungry. raw.

and then he moves — not away, never away — but with her.

he shifts, gently guiding her down onto the rug that cushions the floor below them, the tiny coffee table shoved just far enough to give them space. she’s blinking up at him, wide-eyed, lips swollen from his kisses, chest rising and falling like she’s about to break. he strips off the last of her clothes — her bra already gone, but her socks, her hoodie tangled around her arms, still in the way. and his — his shirt’s gone in a second, and his sweats follow, tossed somewhere into the growing pile around them.

“you’re the only one,” he says against her skin, voice thick, reverent. “the only one i think of. when i touch myself. when i wake up. when i hear a fucking melody that sounds like you.”

he grabs her ankle, lips brushing over the thin skin there, and starts kissing his way up — slow and reverent at first, then hungry when he reaches the bend of her knee, the inside of her thigh. she gasps, her legs twitching around him, and he hooks his arms under them, pulling her closer like she belongs wrapped around him.

“you’re it, baby,” he murmurs, kissing higher, closer, nearly to her core. “no one else. no one fucking touches me like you do. no one knows me like you do.”

and maybe it’s the way she trembles when he says it. maybe it’s the way she looks at him now, like she believes him.

maybe it’s the truth in his voice that finally makes her body let go of the tension she’s been carrying since the moment they met.

because now?

it’s not about pretending.

it’s about claiming.and he’s more than willing to let her do the same.

he doesn't rush it—no, not at first. he hovers there, above her, between her legs, one hand splayed across her waist like it’s anchoring him to the present, to her. their eyes meet, and there’s a beat of stillness, thick and charged and warm, where neither of them says a word. their bodies are flushed, skin tacky with heat, but it’s the emotion in the air that makes it almost unbearable.

then, with a soft breath and a quiet, reverent kind of groan, he sinks into her again.

and it’s everything.

she gasps, arching up to meet him, her hands flying to his back, her nails dragging across his shoulder blades, not to hurt—but to hold. to keep him right there. and yoongi… yoongi moves. faster than before, a little harder, but still tender. every thrust is measured but needy, like he’s trying to burn this version of her into memory.

his mouth finds her ear again, his breath hot and uneven. “you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice cracked and low. “like you were made for me.”

and then his hips snap forward, deeper this time, dragging a strangled moan out of her lips that has his head spinning.

“so fucking tight,” he growls, one hand slipping up her ribs to cup her breast, thumb grazing over her nipple. “you always take me so good… no one else gets this. no one gets this from me but you.”

she cries out at that, clinging tighter, and he kisses her—open-mouthed, messy, not even pretending to be composed anymore. she’s unraveling beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in like she needs him to stay, like she doesn’t want to risk even a second of separation.

his forehead falls to hers again, noses brushing, sweat dripping at the temple. “you’re it for me, baby,” he murmurs. “you hear me? all this—" he rolls his hips again, and she keens, "—only for you. only ever been for you.”

and there’s a truth in it that tastes like something permanent.

like something they've both been too afraid to say.

her hands cradle his face now, and he kisses her again. again. like it’s the only language that’ll carry everything he means.

and as their bodies move in sync, as the rhythm builds and the heat coils, the words he keeps spilling into her skin blur—between filthy and loving, between “you’re so fucking wet” and “you’re everything,” between want and need.

because for yoongi, with her, there’s never been a line.

just her. only her.

she comes undone with his name on her lips — not yelled, not screamed, but breathed out like a secret, like a confession she’s been carrying in her chest for weeks. her back arches, fingers digging into his biceps, eyes squeezing shut as her thighs tremble around his hips.

yoongi watches her fall apart, watches the way her body stutters and spasms, the way her mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. and that’s it for him — the breaking point. the way she looks when she finishes, all flushed and ruined and clenching around him like she doesn’t want to let go.

he pulls out just in time, jaw tight, breath shallow, barely choking out a curse before he releases thick and hot across her inner thigh, hips still twitching as he grinds against her skin. he could’ve come inside — he knows she’s on the pill, they’ve had that conversation — but there’s something so primal about this. about seeing her messy and wrecked, painted in him, like he marked her.

he stares at the mess for a beat — her legs trembling, her chest heaving, the slick between them sticky and raw — before leaning down without a word, mouth open, tongue dragging slow across her thigh to clean it.

and fuck, she jolts.

her eyes snap open, still hazy with the aftershocks, only to find him there, on his knees, licking himself off her like it’s nothing. like it’s everything.

the sight alone makes her throb all over again.

yoongi finishes what he started, kisses up her thigh, across her hip, then her stomach. and when he makes it back to her mouth, she’s already reaching for him, already tugging him closer.

and when she kisses him this time, it’s dirty and sweet all at once, her hand sneaking between them to wrap around both of them — his length, still slick, still sensitive, and hers, her arousal still warm on his skin.

she kisses him again, deeper now, still catching her breath — and her hand moves between their bodies, slipping down to wrap around him, slow and deliberate. he twitches under her touch, still sensitive, still slick from everything. and then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she slides her fingers lower, brushing through her own arousal, their mess mixing on her skin.

yoongi watches, breath caught in his throat, as she lifts her hand between them. her fingers glisten, coated in both of them, and then—

then she brings them to her mouth.

her tongue flicks out, slow and purposeful, licking across her fingers like she’s savoring every bit. tasting them both. tasting this — whatever they just crossed into.

his groan is instant, guttural, completely wrecked.

and she just grins, lips slick and eyes wild, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him.

“we’re fucking insane,” she whispers, lips brushing his.

and they both crack then, laughing — not hard, not loud — just breathless and loose and wrecked, tangled up in something that feels like relief.

like they finally let something out they didn’t even know they were holding.

he kisses her again, grinning against her lips. “yeah,” he murmurs. “but that was so worth it.”

and it was.

god, it was.

he doesn’t let her go. not after that.

his arms wrap around her again, pulling her flushed against his chest like he's afraid she’ll evaporate if he loosens his grip. his lips brush her temple, his breath still uneven, but his voice—his voice—comes out soft. low. vulnerable in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to be in so long it almost feels foreign.

“say that you meant it,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the curve of her spine. “please.”

he swallows, presses his nose to her hair. “because i don’t think i could take it if that was just… a weird kink. or some fucked-up moment of too much intimacy.”

she’s quiet at first. her fingers are tracing slow circles over his ribs, and then she shifts just enough to look up at him — really look. her cheeks are flushed, lashes damp, eyes so sincere it knocks the wind out of him.

“i do,” she says, voice steady but soft. “i have for a while.”

yoongi's breath catches.

and then he’s kissing her. everywhere. her cheeks, her nose, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. all of it. frantic, relieved, grinning. like he just found out the universe wasn’t playing a joke on him after all. like it’s real now. and she’s just laughing softly, tangled in his lap, letting him love on her without saying anything else.

until she leans her head on his shoulder, still kind of sticky and disheveled, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, and mumbles—

“so… what now?”

he exhales a breath of a laugh, kisses the side of her head again.

“now,” he starts, glancing at the door like it might fly open at any second, “we clean up before someone like hoseok comes through that door and finds us like this—” he gestures vaguely to the pile of clothes, the mess, them on the floor, still glowing like a pair of sinners caught in the sun.

she groans, face burying into his neck, giggling like she knows it’s a close call.

“—then,” he continues, more seriously this time, “you let me take you out on a breakfast date tomorrow.”

that gets her. she lifts her head, blinking at him like he’s said something profound. “breakfast?”

he nods. “yeah. like pancakes, coffee, awkward first date questions we already know the answers to.”

her smile softens into something that makes his chest feel too small.

“okay,” she says. “yeah. i’d like that.”

and for once, yoongi’s not thinking ahead.

not worrying.

not pretending.

he just nods and holds her tighter, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14

[jung-koook]

'Are You Sure?!' main trailer

[jung-koook]

I’ll melt your heart into 2

[gwkie]

(灬♥ω♥灬)

[minyoonjin]

just how fast the night changes.... :') | for @jung-koook

{bv4 cr. 0613data}

[miinkook5813]

[jung-koook]

240507 - RM 'Come back to me' Poster Pre-release Track #Comebacktome May 10, 1PM (KST) | 0AM (ET)

[flytomyroom]

"So wouldn't it make sense if I was yours? And you could call me your baby But we say we're just, say we're just"

FRI(END)S by V

[jung-koook]

actor jungkook ♡

[jung-koook]

“Rainy days I’m thinking ‘bout you”

[jung-koook]

jungkook doing 7 with his fingers is so cute 🥹

[attackonjinminkook]

I’ve been gone for a minute.

Long post ahead, but just wanted to chat and let some thoughts off for various things.

JUNGKOOK, SEXUALITY, AND SEVEN

I’m coming back very confused at some of the conversations on here because gender neutral lyrics aside, the music video wasn’t. Jungkook could have easily decided not to include anyone else but himself and Latto in the mv, but he didn’t. He chose a very famous South Korean actress. He chose the song. He chose the explicit version of the song. At the very least, Jungkook clearly likes women and this song, despite not being written by him, is performed with a woman in mind. Changing “him” in Latto’s verse to “her” and not “them” in his GMA performance was a deliberate choice.

I think we need to start re-examining and/or shedding some of the strongly held beliefs we had about Jungkook (BTS is general), his sexuality, and his relationships. If you don’t want to, cool. Keep trying to connect those dots, however big or small, to make things make sense for you within those beliefs.

As for me, I have always maintained that I could be wrong about what I thought I was seeing because we only see a very small fraction of their lives. As much as they’re filmed, they don’t live even as much of 5% of their lives on camera, so what we’re seeing isn’t remotely close to the totality of their reality. We get glimpses into their world, and it’s human nature to try drawing conclusions about what we see from those glimpses. But, we can never know everything about them or think we can. We can never know everything inside their heads no matter how much they share. Even though they share so much of themselves, there is a still a wall, a boundary that only those within their inner circle can see. We are not in that inner circle.

JIKOOK. CHILE… Y’ALL CAN HAVE IT.

I tightly hold onto the absolute truth that we don’t/can’t know everything about them and I held onto my presumption about his potential romantic partnership with Jimin very loosely. I’m letting my presumption go for good because I was probably wrong. I have said from the beginning that I was okay being wrong, and that I love their deeply held bond regardless of that because I love BTS, period. This isn’t about bi-erasure, because that is always a potential, but this is about listening to Jungkook. And also listening to Jimin because I had these same thoughts back when Face dropped and I read the lyrics.

In my opinion, Jikook is not something people outside of Jikook should be fighting to prove. It shouldn’t be that deep for you. I lose nothing by returning to the thought that they aren’t anything beyond extremely close friends. I’m not waiting on the day that they prove me wrong either. That day will likely never come. But what about all these years of evidence?! Well, today is today and today Jungkook and Jimin don’t seem to be fuckin on each other (if they ever have at all, which doesn’t seem like the case in my opinion). All the matching “give me a ride” lyrics and possibly matching necklaces from music videos/photo shoots styled by their shared team are, in my opinion, nothing burgers. Continue to believe what you want to believe tho.

RIP ME OUT THE CASKET, I BEEN AKKIN BRAND NEW

Anyway, I absolutely love Seven. Latto chewed like I knew she would and was perfect for the song. The mv was hilarious because it looked like all that girl wanted was for her coochie to have a fuckin break from being beat in every hour seven damn days a week, but Jungkook was persistent lmaoooo. I know that’s not what the mv was about, let me have this looool. The ending scene made me happy and hopeful that Jungkook has found love and great sex with someone he can comfortably share his world with. Since I’m fucking grown the explicit version is my preference and matches so much better with Latto’s verse. Black women just go so well with the Tannies, idk what to tell y’all.

I’m so proud of Jungkook and as the most popular member of BTS I’m ready to see more of the records he’s going to break as a soloist. He’s already broken some iTunes record set by BTS or other members of BTS, and I’m so excited for him. His album is going to be a history maker.

BILLBOARD, LIKE CRAZY, PAYOLA, AND YOU

I know there are concerns about what Jungkook has been given over the other members but I would like everyone to maintain some perspective: this is not a competition between members. It seems that BigHit Music has tried different strategies with each solo release to see what will impact that corrupt af Billboard Hot 100 chart, with all their blatant sabotaging and rules changes, to make hits that stick like grits. Like Crazy is undeniably a perfect song for mass consumption and was clearly made with that in mind. Fandom buying pushed it to Number 1. I’m almost certain BigHit wanted to see how Like Crazy would do on the Hot 100 with fandom support alone, but it broke a barrier that I’m sure even they didn’t anticipate. I would argue that even if Like Crazy had been sent to radio, like all other BTS title tracks, it wouldn’t have been given radio spins anyway. Dynamite and Butter also had weak radio support and became a gp hit in spite of it. Dynamite and Butter were kept high on the charts due to fandom and general public buying digitals, physical copies, and streaming until Billboard changed the rules for counting digitals.

Like Crazy was pushed out of the top 10 the next week, where it was predicted to stay due to digital sales, but remember that Billboard is always in control of how it measures success, NOT the artist or the fans. Like Crazy had little radio support, which again would have happened if BigHit sent the song to radio or not, and Billboard HEAVILY weighs radio because they expect for record labels to engage in payola if they want their artists to be seen as a success. ARMYs called radio stations and put in online requests for Like Crazy and you know what we got called? “ANNOYING”.

“Organic hits” with millions of radio spins don’t exist; it’s all pay to play. If you look at the top 20 on the Hot 100 for any given week only a few of acts are matching in weekly sales, streams, and radio. They’re otherwise getting very few sales, small to moderate streams thanks to playlisting, and ridiculous radio numbers. Big names have already played the game and their labels continue to play as they jockey for positions within the top ten. So yes, Like Crazy deserved more, but Billboard wasn’t going to give it more unless BigHit shook hands with the devil.

SO, NOW WHAT?

BigHit collects their data and continues to build their strategies to put their artists on the Hot 100 and sustain them. They’re trying something else with TXT and The Jonas Brothers. Other labels in the 2010s like SM, JYP, and YG would do this as well when they would pay a well known Hot 100 charting artist (usually a Black r&b singer or rapper) to feature with their k-pop group and see if the American market would bite. It never worked. But now in the age where k-pop is more known, Bang PD believes that having white, chart darlings Jo Bros on a song will finally allow them to get their foot in the door on radio. TXT doesn’t have the single sales to overwhelm the weight of radio on the Hot 100 in the same way that BTS and Jimin does or they would have been on it by now. The only fourth gen groups to see the Hot 100 are NewJeans and FiftyFifty (with questionable methods). If they can’t even get TXT on the radio alongside the Jo Bros with a short summer bop, then it’s going to be extremely hard for more k-pop artists to crack the Hot 100 without BigHit involving themselves in payola.

This is where I believe BangPD is exhausting his connections within the industry, namely with Scooter Braun, so the BTS members can finally get the radio spins they deserve. They sent the song to radio, but it doesn’t guarantee that it will get played even with Latto on the song. And because Billboard recently changed their rules again, it remains to be seen whether Jungkook’s Seven sales will be able to overwhelm any lack of radio.

I hope it does. I want to see Jungkook at #1 on the Hot 100 and to stay in the top ten not because I think that arbitrary chart should be as important as it is in the music industry, but as a hot steaming “fuck you” to Billboard. Instead of pitting the members against each other, turn your eyes to the corrupt machine that is the music industry.

Have a nice day, girlies! 😚

[jungkookverse]

아포방포10 Project 💜

[setmefreeyoonmin]

Alright so… I haven’t been on here in a minute…

I don’t think Jikook are together anymore. There’s no denying GCF Tokyo, their chemistry, sexual tension, and protectiveness. The was a relationship there and I don’t know the full dynamic.

I think the relationship has changed. I speculate that they were romantically involved, especially being in such close proximity of each other for work. But I think the pandemic happened and things drastically changed for them on an individual level.

FACE has allowed Jimin to really express himself. You can tell that he went through so much pain. Multiple people hurt him. The pandemic changed plans he had for his career, relationships with friends, possibly family.

I think we also saw through Jungkook’s reclusiveness before the lives, that he was probably going through it as well. He said he hadn’t left his apartment in 6 days? His career plans were changed too.

Which leads me to believe that whatever happened between them was mutual. They needed to focus on themselves for a bit. As a group, they’re on hiatus, focusing on solo activities. They’ve been busy (and I love that for them) but they both have enlistment coming up. That’s another two years of being apart.

I can’t let what I want cloud my judgment of the reality of the situation. I love Jikook; I really do. I’ll support anything the two decide to do, whether it’s together or apart.

I’m really looking forward to Jungkook’s official album. I wonder if they’ll be a song on it alluding to what happened and where the relationship stands now.

P.S. Letter is Jimin’s farewell/enlistment song. He wrote that for ARMY. Why else would the track start at 6:13? He didn’t meet Jungkook on that day. They met long before and their relationship didn’t blossom until much later. He probably asked Jungkook to do vocals with him because of how their voices melt together. I mean Lights and Heartbeat are such a perfect examples of how their voices just sound so good together.