Angel? Devil? @sunoooze - Tumblr Blog

Jan 2

party 4 u | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You’re committed to your New Year’s resolutions, ready to kick things off with a clean slate—and a safe, if slightly dull, date to your friend’s New Year’s Eve party. After the chaos of the past year, you need this reset. Everything is going fine… until you spot your ex at the party. Min fucking Yoongi. You didn’t know he’d be here, and you definitely didn’t expect him to look that good—or be so hell-bent on wrecking all your plans.

✧ TAGS/WARNINGS: exes to lovers, non-idol au, angst, smut (minors DNI!), anger/pining/heartbreak/all the things that generally accompany a life-changing breakup, first date awkwardness but make it excruciating, many instances of MC internally slandering the EDM genre sorry EDM fans, drinking but no one gets shitfaced, they're at namjoon's party and he catches many strays but is ultimately not featured in the fic lol sorry namjoon, yoongi is playing mind games bc he's jealous should we kill him?, kind of open-ended but still technically a happy ending at least to me, nsfw warnings under the cut!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: aaaaahhh i’m SO excited to share this fic as part of the church of yoongism’s #DON’TDROPTHEBALL collab! my very first collab fic FINALLY! thank you a million times to the church gc for nominating me to write Thee Smut Fic of the collab, although i’d argue there’s much more angst here… oops! anyway

extra thanks to K @ktownshizzle and yaz @agust-doll for beta reading and helping me through the final stretch of writing this bitch, because it was giving me TROUBLE for the better part of december. i couldn’t have gotten it done without y’all!

here’s to a yoongi-filled 2026 (when is yoongi gonna fill m—💥💥💥)

✧ WORDCOUNT: 7.3k words

✧ NSFW WARNINGS: dirty talk, oral (f. receiving), one (1) instance of thigh slapping, anal fingering (f. receiving) (SURPRISE?), spit as lube (don't do this lmao) but i promise they're as safe as they can be about it, protected penetrative sex, riding

The last few hours of the year are slipping away, and you’re determined for a clean slate.

It's been a rough 365 days. Like, comically bad. A new calendar year feels like a cosmic permission slip to shed your baggage and become someone new. Someone who isn’t haunted by the ghost of a relationship that crumbled suddenly and spectacularly back in January. Someone who doesn’t freeze when a certain song plays when she hits shuffle, or instinctively reaches for her phone when something funny happens, only to remember that there’s no one on the other end anymore. You’re trying to leave all that behind.

The idea of starting over has never been more appealing.

So you put in effort tonight. You're at Namjoon’s annual New Year's Eve party, which is always guaranteed to be a good time. Your outfit was a calculated decision: cozy but cute, warm enough for the December chill, but revealing enough to signal your interest in getting laid tonight. This particular skirt-sweater combination (with the thigh-highs!) has yielded results in the past. Fantastic results.

But you're not thinking about the past tonight. It's dead and buried, as far as you're concerned. Fresh start!

You even brought a date tonight. Seojun.

You matched on a dating app a few weeks ago. He was one of the few who didn’t lead with a gym selfie or a fishing pic, and you exchanged enough messages about interests and holiday plans that you were at least confident he wasn't a serial killer.

He seemed nice. Normal. Not particularly funny, but humor doesn't always translate well over text. He had a dog in his profile, used punctuation correctly, and he works a desk job that likely won't send him gallivanting around the globe if things happen to get serious down the line. The bar is subterranean, but still—you're optimistic. Or at least open-minded. Isn’t that what starting over is all about?

Now, though, you’re sitting with him on Namjoon’s couch, drink in hand, trying to keep the conversation alive without fully disassociating.

“So,” Seojun says, catching your eye, “you said you’re into music, right? Like...all kinds?”

You nod. “Yeah. Pretty much everything. Depends on the day.”

“Oh, cool. I’m really into EDM. Like, hardstyle and future bass, mostly.”

Yeesh. Don't you dare compare, you remind yourself. Music taste isn't necessarily a dealbreaker. Not everybody will meet your standards in that department, and that's okay. Besides, your past relationship is evidence that compatibility isn't always enough. You could learn to appreciate hardstyle EDM. Possibly.

“Nice," you offer politely, taking a sip of your drink to mask the way your lip curls in distaste.

“Yeah, not a lot of people get it,” Seojun says, chuckling to himself. “It’s like—some people just hear noise, but to me, it’s spiritual, you know? Like, it speaks to my soul.”

“Does it?” you hum. You glance toward the kitchen, where Namjoon is talking with a few people you recognize vaguely from last year. They look like they're having fun. You wish you could relate.

Seojun doesn’t seem to notice your drifting attention. “So, what’s your five-year plan?”

"Huh?" you ask, puzzled by the sudden subject change.

“Your five-year plan! You know—career goals, travel, relationship stuff.”

You don’t quite know how to answer that. You used to be a woman with answers to those kinds of questions, but after your breakup… It just doesn’t seem appropriate to tell Seojun that your current life plans are completely centered around moving on from your ex. That seems like a date two conversation, at the earliest.

“Um… I think I’m just trying to make it through the next five hours right now,” you offer.

Seojun laughs like you’ve said something wildly clever, but it doesn’t feel like a win. You check the time on your phone. Still an hour and some change until midnight. You can do this.

Your drink is watered down now, mostly ice, but you sip it anyway. It gives your mouth something to do. Gives your hands something to hold. Seojun keeps talking, moving on to a story about his trip to Berlin last summer—how the club scene changed his life, how you haven’t really danced until you’ve danced at Berghain. You nod every few seconds to feign interest, but internally, you’re floating miles away. You wonder if any of Seokjin's mini quiches are still up for grabs on the snack table, and if it’s socially acceptable to stuff six of them into your mouth at once.

It's terrible, but you really wish you had the guts to fake a phone call. Or a bathroom emergency. Or that you had one of those friends who knew how to rescue you from a dud first date just by glancing at your face across the room. You used to have someone who knew you that well.

You sigh quietly and glance toward the door—

And freeze.

Instantly, it’s like all the oxygen gets sucked straight out of the room.

No. No fucking way.

There’s a moment—half a second, maybe—where your brain simply refuses to process. It must be a trick of the light. A lookalike. Some kind of figment conjured by the universe as a test of how committed you are to the fresh start you’ve been clinging to all night.

But no. He’s real. He’s here.

Noticing the panicked expression on your face, Seojun pauses mid-sentence. “Everything alright?”

You don’t answer him. You can’t. Your eyes are locked on the man standing across the room, rings glinting as he tips a bottle of something into a solo cup.

Yoongi.

Your ex.

Last you heard, he was still in Los Angeles, living it up. Fulfilling all of his lifelong dreams without the dead weight of a relationship holding him down. You didn’t check up on him often. The less you knew, the better, honestly. But clearly, he’s not in California right now. That is abundantly fucking clear.

Apparently Namjoon didn’t think that was a detail worth mentioning when he invited you.

“Hey,” Seojun tries again, “you okay?”

You snap your attention back to him, heart still hammering in your chest.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Yeah, sorry! Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

Seojun cranes his neck and follows your line of sight. “Friend?” he asks curiously.

You pause. Ex-boyfriend, emotional wrecking ball, the reason you haven’t had a real relationship in almost twelve months. You bite down on all of that.

“Old friend,” you say instead.

To your knowledge, Yoongi hasn’t seen you yet, and for that, you're thankful.

You wish you could say your first thought was something cool and evolved like, wow, I’m genuinely happy he’s doing well. But it wasn't.

It was oh, fuck.

It was he looks good in the kind of way that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor and that's just evil. Not good like your memory of him—sweet and sleepy and smiling against your neck. Not even good like he looked the last time you saw him, both of you red-eyed and raw, voices hoarse from the fight that set the end of your relationship in stone.

His shoulders are a little broader than you remember, like he’s been working out more—filling out his clothes better than he used to. His jawline is more defined, his hair slightly longer, a tousled black that curls a little at the nape of his neck. Even from here, you can tell he’s wearing a fucking tank beneath his blazer, which is just—

God, it’s all so unfair. You want to cry. You want to hurt him. You want to climb him, even though you really shouldn't.

Seojun glances down at your mostly-empty cup, oblivious to the emotional earthquake happening in your body.

“You want a refill?” he asks, already rising. “I was gonna grab another.”

You nod, distractedly handing him your cup. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Same thing?”

“Yep.”

The moment Seojun disappears toward the kitchen, your body betrays you.

You should stay put. That would be the reasonable thing to do. You’re not supposed to look at Yoongi, much less speak to him. You spent months trying to stitch yourself back together after he left. You burned the pictures. Archived the texts. Stopped listening to his playlists. Reclaimed your bed, your body, your fucking life.

And yet, you're moving. Walking. Your feet make the decision for you before your brain can veto it, slipping through clusters of partygoers, heartbeat climbing with every step. You just—you need this. Some form of contact. Some confrontation. Something.

You still feel the breakup as if it happened yesterday.

It was supposed to be a celebration, actually. He got the job—the one he’d been dreaming of, working toward for years. An A&R gig in Los Angeles. A dream foot in the door, the kind that could change everything. You were so proud of him. You remember telling him that, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt, kissing him on the mouth like you could pour all your support into it.

And then he sat you down.

The pride had to coexist with grief, then, when he looked at you, expression tight, and said he couldn’t risk doing long distance. That it wouldn’t be fair to either of you.

He didn't even ask if you’d come with him. He didn't even try.

You haven’t seen him since. No texts. No calls. No heartbreaking exchange of stuff left at each other's places. Just silence and the occasional punch in the gut when he popped up on your feed, tucked in a candid shot beside artists you used to listen to together in his car.

And now he’s back, when you’ve done everything in your power to move on. Dressed hot. Showed up. Brought a date. Took steps.

So you follow the pull. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s self-sabotage. But some irrational, reckless part of you—some part that clearly didn’t get the fresh start memo—needs to see him up close. Needs to know if the past year has really changed anything. If you’re really over it.

He spots you before you can decide what the hell you’re going to say. His gaze lifts lazily from his cup to your face, and he freezes for a split second—but recovers remarkably fast.

“Wow,” he says, familiar and devastating all at once. “Look at you.”

Part of you desperately wants to run in the other direction. Or punch him.

Instead, you plant your feet and find your voice. “I didn’t know you were back in town," you say in lieu of greeting.

He shrugs one shoulder like it’s nothing. “Flew in last week. Namjoon didn’t mention I was coming tonight?"

You shoot a look toward the kitchen, where your so-called friend is laughing over a bottle of Prosecco. Like he didn’t set you up to have a cardiac event in the middle of his living room. Traitor.

“No,” you say flatly. “Guess he thought it’d be fun to blindside me.”

Yoongi has the audacity to smile, just a little. “He probably figured we’re both adults.”

Ha! That's fucking rich.

You look away, grasping for something neutral to say. Anything that’ll get this conversation back under control before you start yelling—or worse: crying.

“Is it a short trip?” you ask.

“I don't know,” he says. “Supposed to be two weeks, but... I’m thinking of making it longer. Maybe coming back for good.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He nods. “L.A. is fine. Great for work. But it’s not home.”

Home. You think of shared takeout containers on his couch. Lazy Sunday mornings in bed. Fingers laced together in the middle of the night. You used to be part of what he called home.

You don’t know how to respond. Yoongi coming back to Seoul—living here again—would be a disaster you’re nowhere near ready for. So much for your resolutions. So much for clean slates and new chapters and all the little mantras you whispered to yourself while swiping on Seojun’s profile.

How are you supposed to get over someone who might be in the same coffee shop as you on a Tuesday afternoon? Who might show up to Jeongguk's birthday or Taehyung's gallery opening or that ramen place you used to love together? How are you supposed to move on when he’s just going to be around?

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“That’s great,” you say. “Really great. For you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, gaze searching.

“Yeah. Totally.”

You want to scream. Tonight? He chose tonight to show up with his soft eyes and confusing declarations and home on his lips? You spent all week psyching yourself up for a symbolic New Year’s Eve that marked the end of this chapter. You told yourself you were okay.

You were okay.

Across from you, Yoongi shifts, leaning one shoulder against the wall like he’s settling in. Like he’s in no rush to leave you alone.

“So…” he says slowly, lifting his chin toward the kitchen. “Your date. How’s that going?”

You bristle. How long had he been watching you before you saw him? “Fine.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “Didn't really look like it.”

Your lips part in disbelief. The audacity of this guy! “And what the fuck do you know?"

“It's just an observation," he says with a shrug. "He doesn't seem like he's your type, that's all."

You scoff. “Oh, and you think you know my type?"

“I used to, yeah.”

Hm. You don't like that.

"Yeah, well, people change," you huff, petulant. "Isn't the new year all about learning from your past mistakes?"

"Is that what I was?" Yoongi asks. "A mistake?"

He's studying you so closely your skin burns. It makes you want to go for the jugular.

"Maybe."

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone too fast for you to examine it.

“I’m not holding you hostage, Y/N,” he says, and his voice is light again. “You’re free to go back to your date any time.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I got that.”

“Then why are you still here?” he asks, head tilting slightly.

That shuts you up.

Because you don’t know. Or—no, you do know. You just don’t want to say it. You don’t want to admit that seeing him again has thrown you off-center. That part of you is still raw, still unfinished where he’s concerned. You don’t want to admit that he still looks good, smells good, sounds good. That he still holds power over you, even after almost a year of zero contact.

Yoongi's expression is unreadable but intense. It's driving you crazy, how hard it is to tell what he's thinking. It didn't used to be this hard.

His eyes flick down—barely. Just a glance at your legs. The thigh-highs. When they come back up to meet yours, his lips curve into the smallest of smirks.

Ah. There's an expression you remember.

“You look good," he says.

You glare. “Don’t.”

“Why not? It's true," he says. “You look beautiful."

You cross your arms. “This is messed up, you know that?”

Yoongi lifts an eyebrow. “What is?”

“You! Talking to me like this. Looking at me like that.”

His lips twitch. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want to eat me.”

Yoongi laughs, shaking his head. "I’m sorry,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s just—I remember this outfit."

Your face burns instantly. You know exactly what he’s remembering.

Date three. A night that ended with you in the back of his car, skirt hiked up, sweater tugged off, breath fogging the windows. Those fantastic results this outfit yielded? Yeah.

“I’m sure you do,” you say tightly.

You want to stay mad. You are mad. But god, the way he talks to you—it’s like he never left. Like he never broke your heart and moved to another country. Like he knows you better than anyone else in this room.

And maybe he does. Maybe you haven't changed as much as you thought you had in the past year.

You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that the way he’s looking at you makes your pulse quicken. Because Seojun is here, and Seojun is nice. Safe. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about how it used to feel to be pinned beneath this man.

It doesn't help that you haven’t been properly fucked in longer than you’d care to admit, and you’re starting to doubt that Mr. Berghain in the kitchen has it in him to wreck you the way Yoongi always did.

“You looked incredible that night," he murmurs. "Couldn’t stop touching you.”

The implication is hard to ignore. You're wearing the same thing tonight, after all. You shift your weight, arms folding tighter across your chest.

“I’m not trying to ruin anything,” he adds, finally dropping the intense shtick for a second. “I didn’t know you’d be here. If I had…”

“What?” you challenge. “You wouldn’t have come?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. Maybe I still would’ve. I think I’ve been hoping I’d see you again. That I’d get a chance to say something.”

“Say what?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

Yoongi’s eyes don’t leave yours. “That I missed you."

Fuck.

“What am I supposed to do with that, Yoongi?” you ask weakly, all of the fire draining out of you at once.

“You could tell me to fuck off. Go back to your date,” he murmurs, a faint, sad smile playing on his lips. “I wouldn’t blame you. I deserve that.”

You say nothing.

“But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still thinks about me,” he takes a step closer, eyes locked on yours, “I’d do anything to remind you how well I still know you.”

Your body betrays you, thighs clenching and breath hitching. For a second, just one second, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to let him kiss you again. To let him touch you.

Your mouth opens—

“Hey!” Seojun’s voice cuts in from behind you, bright and oblivious. “Sorry, I got caught up."

Shit!

Even with all the times you reminded Yoongi that you’re here with someone, you honestly kind of forgot Seojun was even here.

You whirl around, startled, and there he is, holding two fresh drinks with a smile that tightens something in your chest. He looks so harmless. So earnest. So utterly unaware of the tension surrounding you and Yoongi in a thick cloud.

“Thanks,” you say, managing a weak smile as you take your drink from him.

You glance over your shoulder, but Yoongi has already stepped back, his expression carefully blank again. He gives you a nod, then turns, disappearing into the crowd. You allow yourself to be dragged back to the couch, sipping your drink to soothe the ache.

“So,” Seojun says, settling back into his usual easy rhythm, “where were we?"

You force a smile. “You were telling me about Berlin,” you remind him, trying to reintegrate yourself into the moment.

“Oh, right!” he says enthusiastically. “Okay, so the night I went to Berghain, I almost didn’t get in, right? They’re super picky about the vibe, like you can’t look too eager, but you also can’t be too cool—it's this weird balance. And I…"

You try to listen. You’re nodding, humming, doing all the right things. But every cell in your body is humming. You’re hyper-aware of Yoongi’s presence. Your skin prickles, like his gaze might still be somewhere on you, tucked between your shoulder blades, buried in the place at the nape of your neck where he used to press his lips.

It’s not fair.

Seojun’s voice drones on. Your eyes wander with your mind again, searching for Yoongi.

You spot him near the hallway, steady and familiar and still within the throng of moving people. He’s talking to someone you don't know, laughing at something they said, gums showing, and your chest tightens.

God.

How can someone who wrecked you still affect you like this? Still be this beautiful and infuriating?

But it’s not just how he looks. It’s how you feel when you look at him.

Alive.

For the first time in months, your body feels like it’s been reawakened. Like every nerve ending has jolted back online. You’re too warm, too flushed, too aware of the space between your thighs and the memory of his mouth on your skin. You hate yourself for it.

You hate how fast your thoughts begin to spiral.

Because under all the hurt, all the unresolved anger, all the nights you cried into your pillow and swore you’d never forgive him—there’s still a flicker of that old desire. The kind that makes you want to remember what it felt like to come undone beneath him. What it felt like to be wanted so deeply, so completely.

Seojun's story has trailed off into awkward silence. You blink, realizing you missed an entire anecdote.

“So, uh… any fun trips you’ve taken lately?”

He’s trying—really trying—and you feel like shit for not giving him your full attention. You don't like the kind of person this makes you. The kind who strings someone along for distraction.

“No,” you say after a moment. “Not really.”

"Okay…"

It's fucking painful. You’re not just wasting his time—you’re wasting your own. You wanted to prove something tonight. That you were over it. That you could laugh with a stranger and kiss someone new and go into this new year lighter. But you just feel worse now. Like you're trying to slap a fresh coat of paint over a foundation that’s still cracked.

Seojun nudges you gently with his elbow. “Y/N?”

“Sorry," you say, shaking your head. "Sorry, I just—my head’s kinda spinning. Long day.”

“Oh,” he says, instantly concerned. “You wanna go? Or just sit somewhere quieter?”

You shake your head. “No, no. It's okay."

But he doesn’t look convinced. You watch helplessly as he follows where your gaze had been just moments ago and finally puts two and two together. Not that you've made it hard for him. God, you feel like a bitch.

“Ex?” he asks, quieter now.

You sigh. "That obvious?"

"Kinda."

To his credit, Seojun doesn’t push. He just leans back, letting the music and the party fill the silence between you.

“I get it,” he says eventually. “You don’t owe me anything, by the way. If you wanna leave, or go talk to him… I don’t know, I won’t be weird about it.”

You look at him, surprised.

“That’s… really nice of you,” you say, meaning it.

He shrugs. “I’ve been on enough dates to know when someone’s heart isn’t in it."

You wince. “I'm really sorry."

“Hey,” he says with a small smile, “you showed up. So it isn't a love connection. At least we tried, right?"

“Seojun…” you start, unsure where you’re even going with it.

But he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. “It’s okay. Seriously. I think I’m gonna take this as my cue to fall madly in love with those mini quiches. They’ve been giving me eyes all night.”

You laugh, and Seojun moves to stand. “They’re pretty amazing. I wouldn’t blame you.”

"Happy New Year, Y/N," he says.

"Happy New Year, Seojun," you respond in kind, smiling apologetically up at him.

He disappears into the crowd, and then it’s just you. Alone on Namjoon’s couch, half-finished drink in hand.

For a minute or two, you just sit there, trying to make sense of the cocktail of guilt and relief that’s churning in your stomach. Seojun didn’t deserve that—your inattention, your distraction, your drifting eyes. He deserved someone who was actually ready to move on.

But evidently, you’re not. Not tonight.

You down the rest of your drink, then set the cup down on the low table in front of you. You let out a breath, smooth your skirt down over your thighs, and stand.

If Yoongi wants to win, he can. You’ll let him. You’ll give him this one night. You don’t want apologies or explanations or drawn-out conversations about what could’ve been. You don’t want closure. You just want his hands on you. You want to stop thinking and just feel.

Because the past year has been brutal. Lonely. And Yoongi—no matter how angry you may be at him—is the only person at this fucking party who can fix it. Even if it's only for a little while.

He sees you coming, of course. Straightens instantly when he sees the look on your face.

“Hey,” he says when you reach him. “You okay?”

Impatient, you grab his wrist, fingers wrapping around the familiar shape of it, and tug.

His brows lift, lips parting. “Where are we—”

“Shut up,” you mutter.

You wind through the party, weaving through clusters of guests, past the kitchen and down the hallway where the music fades and the voices thin. You know Namjoon’s place well enough to find what you’re looking for—his guest room. You push the door open and pull Yoongi in after you, shutting it with a quiet click behind you.

A soft lamp glows from the corner. There’s a queen-sized bed with an unmade blanket, a desk pushed up against the far wall. It smells like laundry detergent and incense, and as far as you can tell, nobody else at this party has taken advantage of the free bed tonight. You hope Namjoon's traitorous ass won't mind that you're about to fix that.

You turn the lock.

“Y/N,” Yoongi starts, voice gentler now, “what are we—”

“I don’t want to talk.”

You crowd his space and back him toward the bed, hands fisting in the lapels of his blazer. His breath catches, and it’s a sound you remember vividly. A sound you’ve missed.

“Are you sure?” he asks. "What about your da—"

You kiss him.

You kiss him like you’re starving, like you’ve been crawling through a desert and he’s the only source of water. It’s rough and messy and born from frustration and longing and a year’s worth of unsaid bullshit.

You bite his lip, and he groans low in his throat, hands gripping your hips to pull you flush against him. You shove his blazer off his shoulders. He shrugs it off without protest, mouth never leaving yours. Your fingers tangle into the soft strands of his hair and tug hard.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s spinning you, walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You fall with a soft bounce, legs parting on instinct, and Yoongi sinks to his knees on the floor instantly.

He gets your clothes off before he does anything else. Your sweater is pulled carefully over your head, your skirt following down your hips to be tossed into a pile on the floor.

You nearly forgot what you put on beneath the layers—a black lace bra and matching panties, complete with little pink bows. It's a set meant to be appreciated. For Seojun to appreciate, originally. The second Yoongi sees it, he makes a noise in his throat and runs both hands up your thighs, fingertips running over the elastic of your thigh-highs.

“Shit,” he breathes, taking you in.

You lean back on your elbows, already breathing unevenly. “Wasn’t supposed to be for you.”

“Yeah,” he says, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and dragging them down slowly. “Funny how shit works out, huh?"

The lace slides past your knees, down to your ankles. Yoongi lifts your legs one at a time, slipping them off with care. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just above the stocking line, and you swear you could scream.

Your bra is next. He reaches around you with a practiced motion, and the clasp gives way. He pulls the straps down your shoulders and lets the cups fall away, then tosses it with the rest.

He pauses to look at you, all spread out and flushed and breathing heavy. The tension in the room pulls tight as wire.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Even better than I remembered.”

Before you can answer, before you can say anything clever or cruel or cutting, Yoongi dips his head and mouths at the inside of your thigh. His teeth graze your skin, and then he licks a stripe up to your center. You moan, hips twitching, and he hums like that reaction is exactly what he wanted.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hands flying to his hair to grip at soft black strands. “Yoongi—”

His hands curl around your thighs, holding them open, keeping you steady as he laps at you like he’s starved. He sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue, and your whole body jerks in his hold.

He’s smiling. You can feel it against your skin.

The way he’s touching you now takes you instantly back to the early days of your relationship, when your time together largely consisted of learning each other.

The honeymoon phase.

Everything was fresh and new and fun, and within the four walls of his bedroom, Yoongi coaxed out of you desires you didn’t even know existed in you. It was something about his confidence, his lack of embarrassment. He knew what he liked and wasn’t ashamed, so why would you be?

The more time you spent between his sheets (and on his kitchen counter, and on the rug in his living room, and in his shower, and in his car), the more comfortable you felt asking for things. Things you knew you liked. Things you were curious about trying.

As if he can read your mind, Yoongi lifts his head, looking up at you from between your legs. A finger slips through your folds, starting at your clit before dragging down, down, down. Your breath hitches when his fingertip, slick with your arousal and his saliva, circles the tight ring of muscle past your entrance.

“Still like being touched here?” he murmurs, watching you closely.

You wish that you could posture as if you’re completely unaffected, but fuck. He knows all the right buttons to push, and he uses it like a weapon.

His eyes darken when you whine. “Use your words,” he says, snapping the elastic of your stocking with his free hand.

“Y-yeah, yes,” you gasp, spreading your legs wider. “I still like it.”

"Yeah? You want it?" he asks, sinking his middle and ring fingers deep into your cunt before you can answer.

It’s so sudden, so instantly pleasurable that you cry out, your head tipping back against the mattress. But before you can get used to it, he pulls them out.

His free hand slides under your ass, pushing you upwards so he can see your hole properly. Gently, he runs his fingers, slick with you, down the cleft of your ass, waiting.

“You want me to touch you here, baby?”

“Y-yes, fuck, yes, I want you to!”

“Yeah?” Yoongi grunts, his voice husky and wrecked as his eyes fix onto the way your hips push into his hand. “Just one finger, alright? Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Mhm, just—“ You moan when he spits directly onto your hole, his middle finger rubbing it in before he pushes just the slightest bit. “God, yeah.”

“S’good, baby?” he asks, sinking his fingertip in slowly. It’s a lot, and honestly, without lube, it kind of hurts. But Yoongi’s moving so carefully, watching the look on your face, and the pleasure far outweighs any discomfort.

You nod, pressing your lips together. “Good,” you repeat, because it’s all you can manage.

“Tell me if it stops feeling good, okay?” Yoongi says, dipping down to lap soothingly at your clit.

“Okay.” Your eyes squeeze shut. “Ffffuck, Yoongi, keep doing that.”

He hums, licking into you with intent. His tongue parts your folds, and your fingers slide back into his hair, pulling as he tastes you as deeply as he can. The sensation relaxes you enough that his finger finally sinks in all the way to the knuckle, and you moan.

“Full,” you gasp. Your brain feels like mush.

Yoongi pulls back, slick lips pressing to the inside of your thigh. “Taking it so well, baby," he praises, mouthing at your skin. "Wish I could do more.”

“Mhm. Me too."

“Never got to fuck you here,” he murmurs as he slides his finger out the slightest bit just to fuck it back in, pulling a needy whine from you. “I know we talked about it.”

The thought sobers you momentarily, brings you back to reality. The reality that Yoongi isn’t yours anymore. That there are plenty of things you never got to do with him, because he left you.

You sit up on your elbows. “Yeah, well,” you huff, regaining a bit of your composure even as your chest heaves, “that’s your fault.”

Yoongi pauses his movements, looking up at you again. “I know.”

“You missed out on a lot of shit.”

“I know,” he repeats, staying completely still. “You wanna stop? We can talk about it, but that’s not really a conversation I wanna have with my finger in your ass, Y/N.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, glaring down at him. Because what would be the point? Talking about it won’t change the fact that he dumped you, that he didn’t think you were worth a few months of distance. And it certainly won’t change the fact that he isn’t yours now.

“No,” you mumble, frustrated. “I don’t wanna stop.”

“Are you sure?”

“Shut up and make me come,” you snap, lying back again.

“Y/N—“

“Yoongi, seriously, I’m fine. Just fuck me, okay?”

That finally shuts him up.

Yoongi eases his finger out of you with care and stands without another word.

He pulls off his tank in one smooth motion, revealing a body you used to know intimately, a body you used to wake up beside.

You stare, shameless, at the way his muscles flex. He’s been working out, the bastard. He’s a little leaner now, more definition in his arms, his stomach—but the familiarity is still there. The appendectomy scar above his hipbone. The dark trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton. He’s deliciously hard, the strain in his boxers evident when he undoes his belt and shoves his jeans down.

You sit up on your elbows again as he digs through his wallet, pulling out a condom. Of course he has one. Of course he’s prepared. You try not to think about why he’s prepared—if it’s for you or if he’s just… always ready now. Just in case.

He catches the flicker of something in your expression but doesn’t comment. He just tears the foil open with his teeth and rolls the condom on with a practiced stroke that makes your mouth water.

"You wanna ride me?" he asks roughly.

“Yeah," you breathe.

“Come here, then.”

He lies back on the bed, head hitting the pillows, thighs spread open. His hands fall to his sides like he’s giving you full control, but the look in his eyes is anything but submissive.

You straddle him slowly, knees on either side of his hips, hands braced on his chest. You can feel the twitch of him against your inner thigh, the sharp inhale he takes when your slick folds brush against the tip of his cock.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands settling on your hips, holding you steady. “You’re so wet. Fucking dripping."

“Wonder why that is,” you deadpan, but your voice is breathless.

You reach between you, grasp him at the base, and guide him to your entrance. You press your forehead to his, breathing in his familiar scent as you lower yourself onto him inch by inch.

You pause halfway down. It’s been a while. He’s always filled you up so deep.

“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—fuck, forgot how big you are.”

He laughs a little, breathy and wild. “Don’t stop now. You can take it.”

His words spur you on. You sink down slowly until you’re fully seated, bottoming out, thighs trembling slightly. You stay there for a moment, both of you catching your breath, adjusting to the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming fucking intimacy of it.

Then you start to move.

Slow at first, just shallow rolls of your hips. Yoongi groans beneath you, letting his hands slide up to your waist, your ribs, your tits—palming them like he’s starving. His fingers tweak at your nipples and you arch into it, bracing yourself on his chest, fingers flexing against the sweat-slick muscle of his torso as you start to bounce.

The rhythm builds fast, and the burn in your thighs is welcome, grounding. Yoongi’s eyes are on you the whole time, burning into yours.

“Just like that,” he pants, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “Fuck, you feel so good. Missed this pussy so much."

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re too far gone, hips stuttering, clit dragging against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Between that and the way he plays with your tits, you can barely think straight anymore, overwhelmed by sensation.

Outside the door, the party continues—bass thumping, laughter spilling down the hall, people downing drinks and killing time.

And then, far away, someone shouts, “ten!”

You barely register it. You speed up, chasing.

“Nine!”

Yoongi’s eyes are still locked on yours, jaw slack, sweat beginning to bead at his temples. He thrusts up into you hard, meeting your rhythm now.

“Eight!”

You cry out. The burn in your thighs is killing you, but you don’t stop. You can’t. You’re so close it’s unbearable.

“Seven!”

Yoongi sits up suddenly, arms wrapping around your body to pull you tighter against him. His mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, leaving molten kisses everywhere he can reach.

“Six!”

“Yoongi,” you whimper, grinding down with desperation. “I’m gonna—oh my god—”

“Five!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me feel it."

“Four!”

You ride harder. He slips a hand between you, thumb circling your clit fast and sure and perfect.

“Three!”

“Yoongi—fuck—fuck—”

“Two!”

You clamp down around him, thighs shaking, vision tunneling. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, stealing any breath you might've had left. You cry out, head thrown back, nails digging hard into his shoulders.

“One!”

Yoongi groans through his teeth and comes with you, thrusting deep, hips jerking erratically beneath yours as he spills into the condom.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Outside, the party erupts in cheers and shouting. The sound of champagne corks and confetti poppers. People celebrating a new year, fresh starts, kisses stolen at midnight.

And you're here, hidden away with the ex you swore you'd leave behind.

Yoongi shifts beneath you, and his hands cradle your jaw. You lift your head, and for a second, you just look at each other.

Then he kisses you.

You sink into it, lips moving slowly together, and Yoongi sighs against your mouth, arms tightening around you. When you finally pull back, your noses still brush. He’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to smile.

“Happy New Year,” he says quietly.

You huff a soft laugh. “Yeah. Happy New Year.”

Your body is sore already, your thighs aching from how hard you rode him, but you don’t move. Not yet. His cock is still inside you, softening slowly, and neither of you seems eager to break the connection.

Eventually, he exhales a deep breath. “I lied earlier.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“When I said I was thinking about moving back. That it wasn’t decided yet. That was bullshit.”

Your stomach knots instantly. “Okay…”

“I’m not here for two weeks. I’m not testing the waters.” He swallows. “I have a place. Signed the lease last week. My stuff’s already getting shipped in.”

You stare at him. What the fuck?

“I’m back,” he says, firmer now. “I live here again. L.A. is done.”

L.A. is done. The words cut through your orgasm-induced haze instantly.

“Why would you lie about that?” you ask, brow furrowing in confusion. In hurt.

“I didn’t know how to say it."

You sit back, sliding off him, needing a little distance to think, to breathe. You pull the rumpled blanket up over your chest and try to ignore how cold you feel without his hands on you.

“I knew you were going to be here,” he continues, tying off the condom and fumbling to pull his underwear on in your periphery. “I asked Namjoon if you were coming, and he said you were."

Another thing Yoongi lied about.

"Fucking Namjoon," you mutter, closing your eyes. You really need to exchange some words with that guy. "Since when is he your co-conspirator?"

"It's not his fault," he says, and you feel the mattress dip as he climbs back onto the bed. “It's mine. He just felt bad for me. I showed up with full intentions of groveling like a motherfucker. And then I saw you on the couch with some guy, looking so… gorgeous and out of reach, and I panicked. I thought maybe I’d lost my chance.”

“You did lose your chance. Seojun had fuckall to do with it."

“I know. I know. But if you’d let me—I want to try to earn it back.”

Your chest aches when you open your eyes again. He’s never looked more serious. More earnest.

“I’ll grovel now, if you want me to,” he says, taking your hands in his. “I’ll get on my knees and beg you to forgive me for being a fucking coward. For walking away like it was easier to lose you than risk doing long distance. For not even asking if you’d come with me.”

You clench your jaw, willing yourself not to cry.

“I just—I miss you,” he says, and the words crack at the edges. “God, I miss you. I’ve missed you every day. Nothing made sense without you.

"L.A. was everything I wanted on paper. The job was amazing. I met the right people. I made progress. But everything I thought I was chasing didn’t mean shit without you. I’d be sitting at some industry party, talking to someone I used to dream about meeting, and all I could think about was how I wished I could text you about it. How much you would’ve laughed at the weird shit people wear in Silver Lake. You were the first person I wanted to tell everything to. Always.”

Your heart aches.

You want to believe him. Yoongi, by nature, has never been much of a talker. He doesn't normally spill his guts like this. Instead, he shows people how he feels.

That, you suppose, he's already done. Moving back. Signing a lease. Showing up tonight. The sex. But maybe he doesn't think it's enough. Maybe he knows you need to hear the words this time, even if it makes him uncomfortable.

“Yoongi,” you whisper, but he isn't done.

“I should’ve fought for you. I should’ve asked you to come with me. I should’ve been braver. I look back at that night and I want to kick the shit out of myself for being so scared of losing you that I made it a guarantee.”

Your tears flow freely now, and Yoongi's hands immediately come up to cradle your face, wiping at them gently.

“I know this doesn’t fix it,” he adds. “I know it’s not enough. I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight. I just—I needed you to know. I’m staying. I’m not running anymore. And if you’d even consider giving me the chance to fix things, I swear I’ll do everything I can.”

You're already softening, despite the way part of you wishes you could hold onto the anger that's been fueling you all night. But the way his fingers lace with yours, familiar and gentle… It feels like coming home.

Maybe this year won’t start as a clean slate, you think. Maybe it starts with a second chance.

a/n 2: is it even an aqua glossdebut fic if there isn't an impassioned speech at the end? i think not!

happy new year, glossdebut nation!!! i hope you all have an amazing 2026 🥳🍾🎉 this is just the start (literally) and i’m so excited to share what i have in store for the rest of the year!

as always, feedback is always appreciated, so please leave a comment/reblog or send something into my askbox if you enjoyed! <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future fics!

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