Word Count: 9.9k | read on ao3 | Part of the Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series!
Synopsis: You’re just returning Yoongi’s shirt. That’s all you’re doing. And that will finally be the end of it. That’s what you tell yourself. Every time you see him.
Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Aaaaaaangst, idol!AU, exes but still lovers, one-night stand, implied cheating/infidelity, smut (hair pulling, breast play, oral [f receiving/m giving], unprotected sex). Fic idea inspired by Caretaker by Shelley ft. SZA, fana hues’ beautiful album flora + fana (these tracks specifically when they’re in bed toward the end), and the track known as Shirt by SZA. Check these tracks out and more on the Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series playlist (Spotify | YouTube). If you’re curious, couple’s backstory based on this song shuffle game.
Author’s Note: It’s an angsty fic, but it was written to celebrate some milestones! Thank you so, so much for reading with me! I’ve loved hearing from all of you, and even getting to know some of you quite well. Hanging with y’all has been super fun, and surprisingly, delightfully meaningful. As always, thanks for stopping by. 💜
It won’t change anything. Staring at the lock. Fiddling with your key card. Looking up and down the hallway. Tapping your toes. It won’t change anything because you can’t change. Whenever you catch wind of the next tour, and you get the series of texts leading you to a door like this one, you always, always walk through it.
For as certain as you are that you are going to walk through this one, there’s a sneaking suspicion that this shirt isn’t the real reason why you’re here.
But you brought it anyway.
You squeeze it. You didn’t even bring a bag for it. And just as your fingers constrict around the familiar, damp, worn, cotton roll, you feel your throat muscles cushioning your wind pipe as you swallow an uncomfortable mass of saliva, nerves, anger, guilt, and intrigue as best as you can.
The door beeps before you’re ready. The card reader is a sensor, not a slot.
You push.
Yoongi looks about the same. That’s probably the weirdest thing. There are dozens of music videos, fashion shoots, and film clips playing on some of the tallest skyscrapers in the world. So, it makes sense that to most people, seeing him in person is akin to ascent, an experience unreal and rare. He likes to leave people with things, stickers and sketches on sticky notes, evidential artifacts that later become tools of transubstantiation.
Whenever you see Yoongi, though, you see him like you see your reflection. Real, and you, but not really you, and somehow, only you.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
You can’t even tell who says it first.
When you teeter back a little on your feet, he jumps up from the edge of the bed. It seems the door caught him off-guard, too.
He strides over to you and holds the door open with his right hand. You can tell he’s just showered. Hair blow-dried, but casual. Already wrapped in his soft flannel.
“Come in.”
The door falls freely behind you. There’s hissing from the hydraulic closer. It sounds like someone shushing. Like the room wants to hear you better.
“I’m always late,” you sigh quietly.
Unnecessarily.
He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. His eyes slowly travel down from yours, to your chin, to your curves, to your legs, to your feet. His eyes linger on your soggy Jordans.
“Damn,” he mutters at the devastating loss.
“It’s OK,” you reassure him.
“I’ll get you another pair,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
“I can easily get another pair,” you remind him as gently as you can.
He clicks his teeth. “I didn’t even know it was raining.”
There’s nothing heavier than a knowing, locked gaze.
You try to shrug off some of the weight. “Brought you something,” you say, striding over in your soggy sneakers to the desk just in front of him. “Managed to keep it dry.”
The FG logo is clearly visible through the cage that your fingers make around the shirt.
His eyes brighten and follow your hand as you gently place it, logo up, on the desk.
“Still have that thing?” he chuckles.
You shrug.
He tilts his head and smiles. “You could’ve just thrown it out.”
“Didn’t know if you’d still want it,” you tell him.
He takes a deep breath, and then he lets out a decisive grunt.
“You know what I want? Dinner.”
You smile and reach for the zipper of your coat. The tab sticks, but you get it down in a series of jagged motions. It’s frustrating when a zipper snags. It’s even more frustrating that zippers snag mostly on themselves.
He walks over to join you at the desk. At first, you think he’s going for the phone. But his fingers reach for your zipper near the bottom of the track, and he slides it down in one, easy motion.
You twirl as he helps remove your coat.
Like memorized choreography.
He stares at you for a moment, eyes lingering at your stomach, unhidden by your tight, black crop top.
He licks his lips.
“You were saying something about dinner?” you joke.
“What do you want, like, a white pizza?” Yoongi asks, draping your coat over the chair before picking up the hotel room phone. “Something with mushrooms or figs or hot honey, whatever bougie shit you’re so in love with?”
You roll your eyes, starting to kick off your ruined sneakers, and nudging them so that their toes tap the far wall. “Don’t pretend you hate it,” you say, catching his pointed glance back at you. “Let’s not forget that I was the original taste-maker out of the two of us.”
“Mmhmm.”
That signature grumble. Teasing, but relenting.
You’ve missed hearing it.
“Can I get one of the fig and arugula pizzas with the bacon and— yeah, that one.”
He looks over at you.
“Yes, a large. To share.”
You grin proudly.
“And steaks,” he continues.
Like you always do, you walk over to the window to get a glimpse of his view.
When you’re forty floors up, everything looks incredible. But it also seems unnecessary. Yoongi used to love making music underground, in graffiti-soaked tunnels long abandoned by the city. It’s weird to see him being lifted so high by the same people who always threatened to shut him down.
And it’s weird to hear him talking now. Saying these things.
“The truffle ones, yeah. Can you add lobster to that, too? And what are your desserts? Anything with that edible gold stuff? Yeah. Or wait, back up? The other one? Yeah, that one. The fancier, the better.” There’s a pause as he listens. And then— “Sorry, no, double it. All of that’s for two.”
Your heart aches when he says “two”.
You wonder how often he orders for “two” nowadays.
He mumbles a thanks and hangs up. Plastic hits plastic as you see a taxi nearly miss a pedestrian trying to catch a street car.
Yoongi looks up from the desk and over at you as you peer down at the city streets, still bustling, having no time even to acknowledge the tempest swirling around it.
“Sit down,” Yoongi offers softly, leaning on the chair where he has draped your coat. He frowns at the sofa and chairs in the corner. They look cool, but they’re uncomfortable. “Sit on the bed.”
You shrug, and you speak without turning. “My pants are wet.”
“Hyung’s the one who cares about that kind of stuff,” Yoongi says, grinning playfully. “C’mon. I want you to be comfortable.”
You turn around to face him. And you smirk.
“Fine.”
You unbutton your jeans and wiggle your hips out. Yoongi’s eyes widen as he watches the way your fingers curl around your thigh to help you smooth the denim down your legs.
The socks come off too.
Yoongi follows as you straighten back up, body on display, doing some teasing of your own, still wearing that crop top and, apparently, a pair of cherry red, silk panties. A high cut. Showing off your gorgeous, curvy thighs. Your natural waist. Your competingly soft skin. He sighs as you drop your socks on top of your crumpled jeans. He wonders what else you’ll drop.
Your playful smile is still so, so cute.
But he unfortunately has also seen the tattoo at your ankle.
And it doesn’t hit you until he clears his throat.
“How is…”
Yoongi’s eyes flick up to check your reaction before burying themselves back in the sand. He knows his name. You scream it in bed when Yoongi’s not around. Yoongi can hear it in his dreams.
Nightmares.
You tuck your tattooed ankle behind your naked one.
“Good.”
And you leave it at that.
Yes, you concede. You usually scream when it comes to good things. But this, especially now, with Yoongi, you whisper.
Yoongi nods once, glad. Glad that you still understand each other. Glad that you’ve gotten this part out of the way. Glad that guilt is so quick to disappear. Glad that, as his eyes land again on the too familiar letters on the front of that shirt, he realizes that he never really feels guilty. Nor do you. There won’t be a need to confess. Even if God is watching, there’s no Fear of him here.
He walks over to you and wraps you up in his arms.
“Been going crazy all day,” he whispers, as your bodies reconnect. Remember. Re-live, and relieve. “Where were you sitting?”
“Nosebleeds,” you tell him, moaning a little when his hand creeps up your thigh, hooking through one of the leg holes and into the panel at the bottom before running up the front. “I kept out of sight.” His hand flattens at your hip and slides around, grabbing for your ass and pulling you even closer into him. “You looked so good on stage.”
“Thought about you the whole time,” he mumbles, lips finding your neck. Hands finding your still-covered breasts. “Fuck, when am I not thinking about you?”
“I know,” you admit. “Me too.”
He secures his grip on your hips, both hands squeezing. And then tugging. Pulling you toward the king-sized bed.
You don’t budge.
“C’mon,” Yoongi whispers.
When you brush back his hair and see how deep, and dark, and wanting his eyes are, you follow.
There was a time when sharing a bed with Yoongi wasn’t something you had to be coaxed into. It was just the end, or the start, of another day. Bodies groaning when the world called you back to it.
You’d say something like, “Why did I agree to this?”
And he’d say something like, “Maybe we just cancel.”
You’d play out the whole day that you would have if you did cancel. The food you’d share. The songs he’d write. The chapter you’d finish.
But on this particular day, you’d made a promise to a friend to go out for a change. To leave your shell of domestic bliss and reintroduce yourselves to the world. Sure, it was her birthday, and the more people who came out, the more food and drinks and presents there’d be. But it was your presence that she really wanted.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, trying to roll away.
“We’ll be late,” you warned.
“We won’t be late,” he murmured into the pillow.
You let go of his arm, but he grabbed your wrist before you could leave him completely. Your body rebounded back to him, your heels slamming the floor.
“Yoongi,” you chuckled. “Seriously!”
“Seriously.”
He pulled you back into the bed with him. Made you straddle him. Squeezed your naked thighs.
“We’ll be late,” you repeated.
He looked up at you, sleepy, and smiling.
“We won’t…”
Yoongi walked his fingers up your thigh and to the hem of your shirt.
“Be late,” he smirked.
He gave your shirt a little tug.
--
You were an hour and 47 minutes late.
You weren’t particularly missed. Your friend knew you’d show, and Yoongi’s six friends were proving to be delightful entertainment.
“This one’s cute,” you heard your friend’s sister sigh, taking Jungkook’s jaw in her hand and shaking it back and forth.
He squeezed his eyes shut and giggled as she pressed a kiss onto his cheek.
“You mean we’re not all cute?” Jin demanded, placing his fists on his waist, his beer bottle tilting a little in his grasp.
“My fault we were late,” Yoongi apologized, walking over to your friend and giving her a hug. He was careful not to step on her skirt.“Happy birthday.”
“Aw, thanks, Yoongles!” she squealed. And then she reached out for you, wiggling her fingers in excitement and hopping eagerly over to you.
She smelled like honeysuckle.
“Happy birthday,” you breathed, relaxing into her arms. “You look great!”
As she raked her fingers through your hair and tucked your hair behind your ear, your three small studs up from your lobe and your double-helix gleaming in a bit of light, she let out a long, “Thaaaaank youuuu.” She laughed when she did it, slightly uncomfortable with the compliment. Just happy to see you.
She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and came to your side. You hung your arm on her hip.
You watched as Yoongi stepped over legs and bodies to clasp Namjoon’s outstretched hand in greeting, before finding himself being swallowed into the couch, Jimin and Taehyung dog-piling and laughing at Yoongi’s protests.
As you watched, you laughed as Taehyung tugged at Yoongi’s ear, and Yoongi grumbled about him disturbing the matching double-helix piercing that matches yours.
And, as you watched, your friend told you, “Yoongi’s looking… good,” sounding somewhat surprised.
Not because Yoongi never looked good.
Yoongi always looked good.
But there was something particularly good about this good.
You couldn’t help the smirk that popped out.
Your friend turned to you, and upon catching that smirk, realized.
“Is that why you were late?”
“Is Hobi not here?” you asked, looking around.
“Don’t change the—!”
“Didn’t see him when we walked in.”
Your friend huffed. “He’s over in the corner, talking to one of my friend’s co-workers.”
You turn and see Hobi sharing the cushions in the corner with a cute girl. She speaks incessantly, eyes widening with whatever exciting story she’s telling him, upper body bouncing as the story gets more thrilling, chest heaving as she takes gulps of air to keep going.
“That’s the quietest I think Hobi’s ever been,” you mentioned.
Your friend squinted at you. “Don’t hold out on me. It’s my birthday. I want every detail.”
“Fine, I’ll tell you when we’re done,” you said, as Yoongi’s gaze met yours again.
Eye-fucking is an art form that not a lot of people are comfortable with. In some ways, it’s more intimate than regular fucking. Your body, to some extent, can lie. Or, rather, what you learn about someone else’s body is up for interpretation, buried in context both personal and social, tangled with intuition, and assumption, and escape.
But a person’s eyes?
They always tell the truth.
Eyes are clear. Eyes have no defense. Eyes offer the kind of way in that you aren’t sure you can get out of.
Yoongi’s eyes knew how to get inside of you. They held you. Stroked you. A tilt of his head, and a quick lick of his lips, and you knew that he was imagining eating you out, quick to lap up every bit you give him, and always hungry for more.
Jungkook sang a ballad. Taehyung sang a theme song. Jimin sang one of the songs that you’d heard on the radio over and over again.
Yoongi kept eating.
People crossed your lens, but you and Yoongi always found each other. Didn’t matter if you were across the room or literally sitting on his lap. You always knew exactly what you were doing in his mind. When he shared it with you, it became the truth.
While Jin told a story about his most recent, somewhat unsuccessful fishing trip, you and Yoongi happened to be on opposite ends of the couch.
“No bass, but lots of trout,” Jin shared. “And the sea was pretty rough. Right Yoongi?”
He smacked him on the shoulder, and Yoongi nodded. “Rough.”
A quick blink and smirk meant that Yoongi was thinking about fucking you from behind.
He liked the way his skin slapped against your skin. The way it felt and looked, sure, but moreso the way it sounded. He might’ve come right there if he thought about it too much, in that way that apparently only few others could, able to play it back with extreme precision. The way your skin hit his, that sharp, crisp sound, loud, and resonant, and high, getting higher as he pumped harder, mimicking how tight you felt around him.
And the way your bodies sounded as you came apart.
Loud, ridiculous squelches. Obscene. How wet you got. How wet he got. How much wetter you made each other. Sometimes, with just yourselves. Sometimes, with oils, or lube.
Or soap.
Or candle wax.
Or melted chocolate.
Or paint.
“You OK?” Hobi asked him.
Yoongi finally blinked, and upon release, you urgently had to reach for your drink.
“Oh,” Yoongi answered, watching you fan yourself, “no, just thinking.”
Hobi smiled. “About?”
Yoongi mumbled, “Just about painting our accent wall thing.”
“Ooh, yeah, that came out great,” Hobi nodded along.
“Yeah.” Yoongi grinned. “Came great.”
The best was when you were sitting on his lap, though. When the eye-fucking got intense enough, you could feel him. He’d get so hard when you were looking down at him in the middle of a crowded room. One steely glance from him, and you knew that he was imagining you both, at home, in bed, your body on top of him, wrecked, gladly taking his cock as he pumped up and into you, grunting past your ear and fisting your hair as he cradled the back of your neck.
When you started to shift your body in tiny ways, just to get a taste, Yoongi gripped your thigh so tightly.
You asked him to do it again when you got home.
“I like when you grab me there,” you whined, wriggling around in your bed as he pulled off your pants.
“You dooo?” Yoongi purred playfully, tossing your pants away and crawling on top of you.
“I like when it hurts a little,” you pout.
“Yeah?” he kneels by your side, and you laugh when he slaps your thigh.
“Yoongi,” you whispered, looking up at him and biting your lip.
His hand rested against your still clothed pussy, your panties already drenched, but your pussy still too sensitive to touch with full force.
All he did was press his fingers against you, and you hissed, turning to your side and looking up at him with need. A tricky situation you always found yourself in with him. Hours and hours of eye-fucking Yoongi got you so pent up that you had to start off slower than usual. But hours and hours of eye-fucking Yoongi also meant that you needed it more than ever.
“Fuck, I want it so bad,” you confessed.
“Let me give it to you, then,” he told you, his fingers starting to swirl.
Slow. Not much pressure to start.
When your legs straightened out in surprise, he knew to ramp up the speed.
Pressure came back into the equation when you started to moan, your body stretching longer and longer across his lap, longer and longer shadows into night.
Your next, huge gulp of air, pushed out in breaths meant to steady your heart, tells him that you’re close.
He pressed his palm against your front and starts to milk your clit, massaging it between his index and middle fingers like you showed him once, and then swimming through your folds, fabric getting caught between your lips, as he circles, unyielding.
He pushed his mouth onto yours to collect your screams.
You came like only Yoongi could make you. You felt like you were losing your mind.
You didn’t need your mind for much longer.
The night was just getting started.
You stare up at the hotel room ceiling, fingers twirling your hair, chest rising and falling, your cherry red panties stained with your sweat and cum.
Yoongi walks his fingers up your body and places them against your lips.
You lock eyes with him.
And you suck his finger clean.
He bends down to you and kisses you, stroking your hair back, fingers clearing strays as he goes. Soothing. Calming.
You close your eyes.
You could fall asleep.
But when his palm rests at your hairline, you open them back up again.
He tilts his head.
“What does he tell you after?”
You sigh.
You bend your legs, dig your heels into the mattress, and push yourself up, resting your back against the pillows by the headboard.
Yoongi leans back, his elbow propping him up
“You really wanna know?” you ask.
“No,” Yoongi admits.
You cross your arms. “Because, y’know. We said.”
He reaches for your foot. Strokes it. Runs his thumb over your tattoo.
“I know.”
Three knocks at the door mean that two steaks, two lobsters, two fancy desserts, and one large white bougie pizza are ready for you.
You get out of the bed and go into the bathroom to take the immaculate robe that you know is hanging behind its door, and Yoongi gets up to get the food.
You hear him mumble more “thank you”s.
You don’t come out of the bathroom until you hear the second lock latch, and Yoongi sigh in appreciation.
He wheels the cart of food over to the uncomfortable seating area.
The judgmental, disapproving grimace on his face tells you everything you need to know, but you chuckle and ruffle his hair anyway.
“It’s fine!”
“But, it’s like, the bed is so, so great?” he complains. “Why is every other piece of hotel furniture so terrible? And obnoxiously so?”
He gestures to the seating area. There’s a set of blue chairs. Three of them. Circular, with low half-circles for backs. Velvet seats. Metal body. No arms.
“Like, what the fuck is this, right?”
You laugh. “The sofa, then?”
“Only marginally better,” Yoongi grumbles, plopping two pieces of white pizza onto two plates.
He hands you one, and you both make yourselves comfortable on opposite ends of the couch, legs sprawling inward. Toes tickling each other.
You make sure to pick the end that lets you press your tattoo against the sofa’s back cushion.
But no matter how hard you try, Yoongi always has his questions.
“You’re happy?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say, grinning, “including, and very much so, in this particular moment.”
He smiles.
You chew.
“And you have everything you could ever want?” he asks.
You soften. “Well, obviously not everything.”
Yoongi reaches for your left hand.
You move your plate to your right hand and sit up, extending it to him.
He kisses it. You run your thumb over his.
And then you both lean back, picking up your slices of pizza.
“I think I’m getting different things,” you remark through your bite. A bougie statement from the upper crust.
Yoongi knows how to navigate the double-talk, too. You learned together.
He lets your words simmer. You only think that you’re getting different things? Are you getting different things, but giving the same things? The things that were meant only for him? What do you mean by different?
“Like?” he asks.
It’s overwhelming to descend from this cloud when you get a chance to ride it, but you try to imagine your condo about five miles from here. The more you try to force its image, the foggier it gets. You can’t really see it from the ground, and you don’t really see it from the sky either. So you try to think of how you usually get home.
You can access it from either the red or brown lines. Purple, sometimes. Like the express train. But always the red and brown, without fail.
“Consistency,” you say. “I don’t think I understood how much I lacked that.” You almost hear the chime of train doors closing. “How much I need that?”
Yeah, you think. Consistency. Like a train chugging along.
“Wish I could give you that,” Yoongi mumbles.
“You also give me something different,” you mumble back, eyes not meeting, but that familiar fire in your voice encouraging.
But you and Yoongi know that the problem is that someone who lives the kind of life that you live often needs more Same. A person who has the Same schedule every day. The Same commute. Goes to work at the Same place. Wears the Same clothes, which you take equal turns fluffing and folding and put in the Same closet on the Same day every week. Tells the Same jokes at the Same dinner parties at the Same time every month with your friends so increasingly Same that at this point, even you can’t tell them apart from one another. Fucks you the Same. Kisses you the Same. Loves you the Same.
Yoongi gives you Same in other ways. You were thinking similar things as you reached for the last copy of a prized vinyl in your favorite record store. You shared nearly identical notes to the ones in your own heads for early drafts of his music, and your writing. And when you shared those notes, you had twin flames burning within your bellies, flames that combusted when your bodies met in ever-changing flickers. Even now, you’re in his room, but his room could be anywhere. Everywhere. You show it on your faces with separate smiles and sneers, but you both see life, existence itself, as one big, confusing, wonderful, out-of-control fireball.
And you both still think that, though it is ultimately necessary…
Same is boring.
“Yoongi, write me a rap!” you’d call out.
And he would. Right there and then. Tongue twisting like it would inside of you later. Rhythms as playful as the giggles he’d save for only you. Pull from only you. Placement slightly ahead of the beat. Eager. Joking. Not full of shit, even when he’s talking it.
Your first piece was published in a local. It was a call to action, stanzas bursting with bravado, as well as disdain for the kind of people who spend their lives deciding rather than making things happen.
“Yoongi, give me a beat!” you’d call out.
And he would. Right there and then. Hi-hats and bass and snare, through his voice in beatbox, or through MIDI tracks from his speakers. Always thoughtful. Layered. Diverse. Unexpected.
Your eighth piece was published in a small literary magazine still getting its legs. It was an ode to your vibrant city. The one that brought you Yoongi. Where you’d built a life together, buzzing with a never-ending supply of electricity. The same kind that shook the bridges and tunnels that would deign to let him and his friends showcase their growing craft.
“Yoongi,” you called out that day, “play me a ballad!”
From the next room came a mash of discordant piano notes. But it wasn’t a cause for concern. They were actually the first notes of finality that you’d heard after thirty or forty minutes of dispirited wandering.
And then.
A melody started to make itself known. Lower in pitch, and fuller as a result.
The timbre changed from piano to vibraphone.
The same melody started to play.
Something inside of you shifted.
When Yoongi joked around, he could show off his impressive dexterity. But when Yoongi played with more intention, he could make people cry. Fall in love. Stay in love.
You knew from experience.
His legato, flowing notes hugged you like his arms would around the back of your computer chair.
The melody kept repeating, never quite resolving.
“And why are there so many minor 7th chords?” you vocalized, furrowing your brow as you typed the last of your sentence. “It sounds so tortured?”
The word came to you so quickly.
Yoongi laughed and called back, “You’re such a sad girl, so I’m writing you a sad, rolling ballad!”
“Who says I’m a sad girl?”
“You do!” he cried out. “All the time!”
You huffed. “Well, I’m not!”
“Read me the last line you typed!” he challenged you.
Your eyes sunk when your brain caught up with what you were reading.
“But can anyone ever really know the parts of you that are so heavy with ugliness and rejection and resentment that you worry what you might do if you make them known to yourself for any longer than minutes at at time—”
Yoongi’s music admittedly fit extremely well.
“Wow,” you sighed, “OK, damn, Yoongles. Talk about a read.”
“Ha!”
“You’re right,” you admitted, laughing, “I clearly need to take a break.” You locked your computer and got up from your creaky desk in the just-a-foot-too-small bedroom.
You stopped just short of crossing fully into the living room, caught off-guard by a shirtless Yoongi making overdramatic faces at you to go along with his heartache of a melody.
You leaned in the doorway.
“Yoongi?”
He slowed to a fermata and squinted as he held the chord.
“What do you want to eat?” you asked, crossing your arms.
He sprinkled in a G7 chord, and his eyes lightened as he hung his jaw open in a smile, gazing happily.
Hungrily.
At you.
“Yoongi!” you laughed, his thought crossing your mind.
Yoongi giggled and switched off his keyboard. “Anything,” he told you, honestly. Genuinely. Like everything he’d ever said to you. “Whatever you want.”
“Actually, we should probably wait a while to eat,” you realized. “Your show’s kinda late.”
“You’re still coming though, right?”
“Of course,” you said, smiling. “I love when you guys perform at that venue. You always end up meeting cool people. Finding new inspiration.”
“So what if it’s in a landfill?” Yoongi laughed, picking up whatever shirt he left hanging on the edge of his keyboard the day before, his taut arms rising, and his shoulders and neck so easily sliding back into their homes.
“A renovated landfill,” you said, following him into the kitchen, “that now sells chai lattes for $10 a pop.” Your eyes followed as he opened the pantry door. “Hang on, I thought we might wait?”
“Just a snack,” Yoongi said.
He pulled a box of biscuits from the pantry. Simple, buttery, toasted biscuits with pretty, delicate, embedded almond slices from a nearby bakery that you loved. If that night’s show went well, Yoongi could get you something else from the bakery next time. Your birthday was coming up. Something chocolate, and something unexpected, but that you liked. Maybe with lavender.
Before he took a snack for himself, he pointed the box to you.
You grabbed a biscuit and started to munch.
“What were you thinking of?” you asked.
Yoongi reached into the box. “What?”
“When you wrote that piece for me, just a second ago,” you said, smiling softly. “Like, what were you actually thinking about?”
He bit into his biscuit and started to chew.
“I don’t know. I was just thinking about what we sound like.”
You blinked. “We?”
“You,” Yoongi said.
“You said, ‘what we sound like’,” you pointed out.
Yoongi waited before swallowing the last of his biscuit.
“Well… then… maybe it is what we sound like.”
--
Even when Yoongi wore the same shirt all weekend, he still looked immaculate. Like everything that was on his body was put there on purpose. He looked how people were supposed to look. He was a walking Warhol Campbell’s soup can, and everybody else was dull, dented metal being sold at a discount.
You tugged uncomfortably at your sleeve, itchy at your elbow.
“They’re killing it tonight!” someone next to you cheered.
You turned to see a group of friends excitedly chatting and pointing to the makeshift stage. One of them singled out Yoongi, jumping up and down and turning their friends with a lustful sigh.
You laughed to yourself and turned back to Yoongi on the stage. As he was hitting his verses and choreography perfectly, he still found the wherewithal to send you a tilt of the head and a lick of his lips.
Something inside tightened, and the rest of the crowd started to fall away.
The only thing that you could see clearly was Yoongi’s body, his favorite FG logo just barely hidden under the red bomber jacket that he borrowed from Hobi.
You’d seen Yoongi in his most private moments, lucky enough to be the one he shared them with, and taking you on thrilling journeys in search of them.
But even you had to admit that there was nothing like seeing Yoongi come alive on stage. It always stung to think, but you could tell by the shadow in his eyes that he always wanted more.
Wanted it more.
Still.
It felt good to know that maybe you got as close to that as someone ever could.
The group of friends to your left suddenly exploded into screams, which caught your attention. One swore that Yoongi was tilting his head and licking his lips while gazing right at them.
You wondered if he was.
--
“And Namjoon said that when he called the number on the business card, he got an answering machine! With muzak and everything!” Yoongi exclaimed, unlocking the door and leading the way in. “He’s so charming when he’s talking about our music. Our goals. He’s a leader for a reason.”
You giggled and turned behind you, locking the door back up for the night. “What label was this again?”
“I don’t even remember, but this is a great first step!” Yoongi exclaimed.
He scooped you up into his arms, planting kiss after kiss all over your face.
You’d never seen him so excited.
You’d never seen the afterglow of a show permeate this deeply.
“I’m so proud of you,” you laughed happily, as you nestle into his chest.
The FG logo stared back at you.
“But I can’t believe you wore this shirt to the show,” you laughed. “You’ve been living in it all weekend. If you’re going to be meeting important record label people, you have to be more intentional.” You roll your eyes. “Cleaner.”
Yoongi pulled away from you and laughed.
“I’ll get there eventually. The person who gave us the card was honestly just some rando,” Yoongi said, walking back toward his keyboard. “We’ve got a loooong time before we’re meeting record label people for real.”
He sat down and stripped off his shirt, letting it fall on the floor, next to his feet.
The steaks and pizza have disappeared. The lobsters are just shells.
You’re still in your robe, swiveling around in one of the horrid blue chairs, as Yoongi watches you from the sofa, both of you balancing chocolate, lavender, and gold-flake sundaes in your hands.
“What stood out to you?” Yoongi asks.
You frown.
He’s so glad that you frown. Everyone usually showers him with affection when he asks people about the show. He knows they’re just so excited that they don’t realize that they haven’t actually answered his question.
“Was Taehyung injured?” As you turn, your ear facing Yoongi, you eat another spoonful of ice cream. “I noticed that he wasn’t moving his hips as much while he was dancing.”
“Yeah, he’s been sore,” Yoongi says, watching as the back of your head comes into view. “He said it felt like he pulled something early, so he toned it down for the entire show to keep it from getting worse.”
“Ugh, I know it kills him when he doesn’t get to ham it up,” you lament, digging into your sundae for more hot fudge.
Yoongi scoffs. “Jungkook is getting more daring, too,” he points out.
You face him head-on, smile wide. “I saw! The button?”
Yoongi just shakes his head.
“He played it really well,” you say, shrugging. “It seemed completely accidental. But I’ve seen the schemes. Know how the sausage gets made.”
“Sausage,” Yoongi laughs naughtily. “Hmm.”
He looks down at his empty pizza plate.
“Sau-sage!” he says again, but in realization. While nodding and raising his eyebrows. Adding it to his insatiable list of cravings.
And then he turns toward you.
Yoongi watches as your ear faces him again. You start to slow, so you kick at the floor to keep spinning.
“Tell Tae that I hope he gets better,” you say, chuckling, “and tell Jungkook that I hope that whoever found his button is a loving and merciful soul, and doesn’t go too hard on the voodoo sex doll they make with it.”
But then your spoon clinks against your glass as you plant your feet on the ground. You look slightly to the side to glance at Yoongi.
“Or, well… you don’t have to tell them I said that, but… I hope they… I hope they’re—”
“They’ll be glad to hear from you,” Yoongi says with a kind smile. “They miss you.”
He leans forward and places his empty sundae glass on the coffee table.
“They all do,” he adds, softly.
You dig a little into your glass, chasing an almond.
“They’re asking for another couple hours.”
Rehearsal usually carried on without your permission. Dancing always turned into drinks, which turned into more drinks, which turned into the guys dropping a drunk, sleepy Yoongi off on your doorstep and happily cheering for you through the lock at 3 AM.
The fact that Yoongi called, before midnight, on video, and looked so deeply apologetic, meant that he was sorry about something else.
“That’s OK,” you said. “I’ll eat our leftovers from yesterday.” You smiled a bit. “Not going out to dinner means that I can probably power through another chapter.”
“That scratch on your sneakers,” he reminded you. “I still haven’t gotten around to buffing it out.”
“It’s fine.”
“And the squeaky keyboard drawer at your desk.”
“Not a big deal—”
“There’s gotta be a screw loose, which means—”
“Yoongi.”
“—that the drawer isn’t properly sliding on the track—”
“Yoongi.”
Yoongi puffed his cheeks out and frowned.
“How about I save both things for when you’re back home with me?” you asked, swiping on your most charming smile.
Yoongi opened his mouth to say something.
But someone called him back to rehearsal.
--
“They’re extending the tour.”
You weren’t surprised. Tickets sold out much faster than anticipated, and the resale value was starting to skyrocket. Though Yoongi asked daily, the now dozens-thick management team just barely remembered to keep a comp ticket for you.
Your name was misspelled.
“More cities?” you asked, as excitedly as you could. “Multiple dates?”
“Both,” Yoongi admitted.
It struck you strange that it sounded like an admission.
“Well, that’s great!”
You started to pace, staring at your too-full hamper of laundry, and your laptop angled slightly on the coffee table, your charger just barely long enough to reach the closest end to the couch.
“How much longer?” you asked.
“I don’t know,” Yoongi admitted, again.
You weren’t talking about the tour.
--
“They’re asking me to move.”
You knew this day was coming. Jungkook’s hand-drawn fliers were quickly replaced with printed copies of volunteer-designed social media banners, which were quickly replaced with a new, bright, agency-designed logo.
Brand consolidation.
Jungkook pouted at the term.
So did you.
“Where?” you asked.
When Yoongi handed you his phone, you were anticipating a list of neighborhoods, or at most, some kind of map. You weren’t expecting a password—protected listing for a gleaming, state-of-the-art condo, the last remaining unit on a floor where six identical others had already been taken off the market.
This one was already off the market as well.
You had seen the new black key card in Yoongi’s wallet weeks ago.
There was only one.
--
You didn’t cry when you moved out of your shared apartment.
You didn’t cry when you spent the first night in your best friend’s spare twin bed.
But as you unpacked the last of Yoongi’s shirts into his new dresser, in his new bedroom, in his new condo, you knew it was only a matter of time.
Not days. Not hours. Not minutes.
Seconds.
A shame.
You were holding it together pretty well.
“Alright, all done,” you muttered quickly, zipping out of the bedroom and making a beeline for the front door that you didn’t have a key for.
“Wait! Where are you going!”
Yoongi darted after you, catching you near the elevators.
“Hyung’s making dinner at his, and we were thinking about going out to…”
When you turned around to face him, fat tears streaming down your cheeks, dropping from your chin like rain off the roof of a forgotten shed, he broke instantly.
“W-we were,” he tried again, sniffling even before the tears came, “t-thinking about going… going out to the c-club and…”
“Celebrating?” you asked weakly.
Yoongi shook his head.
He pulled you into him, desperate.
“I can’t come with you,” you whispered.
At the time, you didn’t know why you whispered. It wasn’t a secret. It was much later that you realized that you whispered because of how hard it was to get out. It wasn’t going to be a declaration. Certainly not a willing one. You needed to get it out on a technicality.
Yoongi nodded.
Wrapped you up in his arms.
Kissed you.
Wrapped you up in his arms again.
Kissed you again.
You wish you hadn’t been crying so hard.
Maybe then, you could remember what it felt like.
And you could spend your life holding onto the precious memory of the lowest you’d ever felt, instead of constantly trying to chase the high.
The hotel bed is amazing.
The mattress conforms to your shape as you lie back, stretching every fold within you into a straight line.
You start to yawn.
“Saw your latest piece,” he tells you, from the couch.
Your yawn disappears, the vapors of it trailing outward through your nose, tears less relief from exhaustion and satiation, and more stinging. The smell of acetone during a manicure. A too-cold soda drunk too quickly.
You sit up. Jostled. Body leaving wrinkles in the sheets.
“You did?”
“I better have,” Yoongi replies, checking the publication date on, yes, your most recent work. “I’m subscribed to all your sites.”
You blink quickly. He’s never brought up your writing before.
“You are not.”
“Am too.”
He pulls out his phone, or whatever phone he’s been given to use that month, and begins to read.
Your words don’t sound weird in his voice.
You notice that his thumb didn’t have to reach far to pull up your work. It didn’t even swipe the screen after he pressed his thumb to the sensor.
In some ways, you are still home to him.
You close your eyes to remember as much of it as you can. You pretend that he is reading from just over your shoulder. The image that your mind conjures is so vivid that you know immediately that the memory will keep. You will pretend he is reading proudly from his phone during brunch. You will pretend he is reading to you in bed from the physical copy that the magazine will send you. You will pretend he is reciting his favorite, memorized lines while you’re both in his car, on the way to meet his friends, at the next show.
Yoongi smiles at you.
“What?” he asks.
Your eyes slowly open, giving way to your blissful smile.
“Your voice,” you say.
He stands and walks toward you.
“What about it?”
“Sounds good.” You smile as he slowly crawls onto the bed with you. “Sounds even better when it’s saying my words.”
“The words even look pretty,” he tells you, showing you his phone screen. “From the font that you went with to the order that you put them in.”
You notice a bright, golden star in the upper right corner.
The page is bookmarked.
Your page is bookmarked.
“And they mean things.”
Yoongi gazes into your eyes, his nose an inch away from yours. It stays an inch away from yours, as the rest of the room slides back, walls growing to your left and right, the backdrop behind Yoongi shifting from a navy blue wainscotting to a blush pink swirled ceiling.
“That’s what I love most about them,” he murmurs, as he hovers over you. “How full they are.”
You sigh when his lips hover over yours.
And then he crawls down your body, tugging at the belt of your robe.
You sit up a little to remove it. Shed your cocoon. The same way he coaxed you out when you first met. Just with his touch.
All you needed was his touch.
His touch told you that he loved your body. Didn’t see what you were so worried about. What was there to be worried about? Skin as brown as the almond biscuits you so loved. Body full with them, and only them, even when he was able to afford more. And just like those biscuits, as he had more, he wanted more.
“I don’t seem to say as many words when I’m around you,” you say.
Yoongi nods, eyes following your naked, shifting legs as you roll left and right to get the robe completely off of you. He knows too well the freakish way you just happen to understand each other. No matter where he is, he feels like, is completely convinced, that he can hear every single one of your thoughts.
But he’d never tell you that.
He wouldn’t want you to worry.
“I can appreciate them all the same,” Yoongi points out.
“They don’t get drowned out?” you ask, tilting your head and smiling with amusement. “The fan chants? The squeals?” You giggle. “The demands for marriage?”
Yoongi runs his finger along your inner thigh. He dips it into your panties, still moist.
Yoongi tastes you first, on his finger.
You think about how many people want him. How many people he’s fucked.
How you count them as wins, too.
“Speaking of drowning,” he mumbles, making you blush.
You know that he’s wondering. Wondering whether you melt this much for… him.
He pulls your panties down your legs, and you take two unnaturally steady breaths, trying to get ready.
His tongue still knows you so well. Snaking through all the folds that you usually keep so hidden and closed, in an effort to be and stay “perfect”.
How? you wonder silently. How does he still know?
“Could never forget,” Yoongi tells you, knowing the folds in your brain just as well. He feels those folds pushing back at first, and then relenting, walls flexing back with monstrous surprise, and then rushing back in to fill the gaps. Like when a crowd slowly parts for him. When that crowd transforms into an audience. All of those eyes slowly turning to see him. Realizing who he is. Making way for him. Immediately longing for him when he passes by. Seams coming together again in his wake, as he makes his way through. It’s an everyday occurrence at this point. He secretly loves it. But he has to admit that it still always feels best when his audience is just you.
And you feel his magnanimous presence. Sliding around. Caressing every square inch of you. Telling you it’s OK. Better than OK. Enjoy it. Let go. If you ever need him to remind you how, he’s here. He’s always, always here.
“Jesus,” you sigh, shaking your head from side to side.
The corner of Yoongi’s mouth points into your right lip with sharp satisfaction.
You squint at him. “Eyes?”
“Mmm?” he rumbles into your depths.
You tug at the roots of his hair. “Look in my eyes while you eat it.”
He chuckles and moans against you, neck straining as he readjusts, head angling up and showing you his pupils as
The ends of his hair brush against your hands like overgrown stalks ripe for harvest.
He eats you, eats at you, ripe for the same.
His fingers at first like thin stems rustling in the autumn breeze, helping to give way and let the fruit drop. His fingers then turn into shovels in the soil to uncover what is good and sacred and nourishing.
Tongue like baskets to be balanced on hips and heads later to furnish the dinner table.
Lips savoring you like the last sticky bits of sundae.
Sundaes.
Sundays.
How many have there been now?
“Want you,” you whisper, your hand relaxing in his hair, letting the rest of the crops that you can’t take with you fall back to the ground.
“But…” Yoongi looks at you questioningly.
You shake your head again, and he knows to crawl up your body, placing gentle kisses at your exposed stomach, your still-covered breasts, lips teasing at your scooped neckline as he unzips his jeans and kicks them off in alternating shuffles that sound like a sail whipping in the wind, lips knocking on the door just under your chin as your head tilts back, and then lips finding home when your head tilts toward him again, being met with your grunt as he lines up and pushes slowly, slowly, slowly into you, while he pulls you into a sticky, hungrier-than-ever kiss.
Sundaes.
Sundays.
How many has he had?
Your legs tighten around him. Unfamiliar eyes might think you’re trying to lock him in.
But Yoongi knows better.
You’re freezing.
Yoongi slows, understanding that he doesn’t need to fight the frost with brute force, and knowing that letting it happen will let grow the thaw.
“What happened?” Yoongi asks.
You like the way he asks this question. Not, “What are you thinking?”, or “What’s wrong?”. You hate “What’s wrong?” He already believes that whatever you say is real and important and devoid of any fault.
This simple, black, long-sleeved crop top is ribbed, and you like the feel of running your fingers up and down the columns of cotton. It’s soothing. Helps you figure out how you wanna say it.
“I counted the minutes.”
He pouts at you.
“I counted the minutes, and then I counted the minutes I spent counting the minutes…”
“I’m right here,” Yoongi says. “We’re together.” He reaches up for your face, his thumb gently grazing your cheekbone, swooping back into your hairline. “Right now.”
You smile uneasily. The most difficult part of seeing him is feeling just how much time has thrown you out of sync. It’s torturous to misstep and be forced to recalibrate your footing with someone who once made you feel like you were flying.
But Yoongi’s gentle, massaging fingers at your temple help ease the pain.
You close your eyes and get lost in it. His hand on your cheek. His other hand running up and down your thigh, to help you turn. To help you get out of your head. By giving you something to do, rather than think. His torso, which you’re about to, and then, with a gentle, caring squeeze and lift of your thigh, are, straddling. His thick cock still inside you, and still throbbing with want.
Always throbbing with want for you.
You press your palms on Yoongi’s chest and bend to him, lips nuzzling and feeling before opening and joining. Tongue swims against tongue and teeth. Bites just spur you on.
He wants to give you more of them.
He claws at your top, making you laugh a little at how eager he is to keep going. To keep you going. To keep you on track. To keep you chugging along.
You somehow feel warmer when the fabric leaves your skin.
Even warmer when your bra disappears.
Warmest when his hands cradle the swells of your breasts, nipping and wringing and fondling and cherishing.
His hands slide down your body to your hips, and he shows you how to move them. Not because you don’t know how to move them. But to remind you to move. That you can get what you want, what you both want, when you trust your own movements.
When you trust him, and when you trust yourself.
Winding, slow. Clenching. Moaning.
Now, you’re tight not with anxiety but excitement.
Now, your face is pulled in all sorts of directions not because of too many errant thoughts, but because of this layered heat, growing from a simmer to a steam. It floods you. Makes you sweat. Fills the spaces that your thoughts have been chased out of.
That you’re continuing to chase out.
With more and more fervor.
You lift with the steam.
You melt and drip back down.
You lift again.
You melt and drip back down.
With each lift, the cloud grows bigger.
Drips become raindrops, falling heavier.
Faster.
Each drop of your clenched, gripping, strong, knowing muscle onto his hard body showers Yoongi’s sturdy, turgid cock with more and more of your desire, coating him, lathering him, cleansing him. Telling him that it’s OK to feel. That he can be overly-passionate. That it doesn’t always lead to a burn out, though, when it does, that there is always a way out. You will always be here to give one to him.
Your hips roll forward and back, body sighing and stretching, showing him all the ways he can take you.
As you ride, his left hand touches your navel. Squeezes your folds of skin there. It feels like fresh, soft pillows and blankets unevenly stacked in the closet. He moans and runs his hand up those blankets, grabbing every so often as his hand slides up your body and rests, palm flat, between your breasts. His index, middle, and ring fingers spread and separate. His index and ring fingers stroke up and down at the border of each of your breasts. His middle finger strokes the center of your chest.
His cock starts to twitch inside of you.
As you shiver and grunt with pleasure, he moves his hand left, and then right, to each of your breasts. His fingers do the same with your nipples, which run rough and smooth in alternating stretches along the marble column of his middle finger.
Your moans are better than any song he will ever write.
Do you know?
Yoongi looks up at you, his left hand reaching out and brushing your hair behind your ear.
“Fuck,” he sighs. His face changes. Tenses. Lips rake under teeth. Mouth corners pull back as he takes a celebratory breath. “Fuck.”
His thumb rests alone on the tragus of your ear, his eyes instead focusing on the bright gold double helix rings at the middle lobe.
In the same place where he only has two faint scars.
No matter what, ink will always fade.
Kept long enough in the beginning, a piercing will last forever.
His eyes snap to yours.
You slide your fingers between the backs of his fingers, cradling his hand in yours, clutching his forearm with your free hand as you ride, squeezing him tight, pressing the pulp of his palm against your flushed cheek, and curving your lips to press a kiss at his wrist.
Eyes locked to his, you nod.
He grunts and quickly brings his other arm to nestle at your other temple, holding your head in his palms. You grasp both of his forearms and whine as he starts to bounce you, bodies meeting harder, faster, your cunt and his grip so tight that your brain might cave in.
You cry out and snap in half, collapsing on top of him. His hands curve around your body, running over your breasts in their journey across your back and to opposite ends of the beautiful landscape that is your torso, forearms pinning you down, against him.
Funny.
For how well you know each other, you always seem to be against him one way or the other.
Yoongi’s thrusts knock you forward. The vacuum of your joint seal pulls you back.
You can feel how full he is.
So full that he’s close to exploding.
When you realize that you’ve closed your eyes, you pry them open again, and you see the soft, brown leather of the headboard, tiny, sand brown lines etched into a deeper mahogany, growing near, then far, as if zooming in and out on a map meant to help you navigate this.
You feel a soft bite surround the point of your chin. It brings your head down, and you see Yoongi gaze at you before opening his mouth back up again to trace your jaw with his tongue. To part your lips. To kiss you.
The world that you were supposed to navigate goes dark.
This is where you and Yoongi belong. Where you make sense. In the dark, in the dark. Undercover, under covers. Bound by the lines of linens.
How many times have you met here? How many times does it take an ordinary person to memorize a body? And just how extraordinary is Yoongi?
You whimper, lips still locked, and Yoongi nods for you both. His kiss becomes softer, yet, somehow, more distracting. The way a whisper draws you in. Brings you closer. Carries the weight of a secret. The gentler he kisses you, the more he’s able to convince you that your sex is not a cacophony but a lullaby. You’ll forget until you see the bruises in the morning.
Which is drawing nearer, and nearer, he thinks, as he grunts and sucks on your lips before opening his mouth to gasp at you.
The first of your tears fall.
He catches them, like snowflakes, once frozen but now melting on his tongue. Licks up your cheek to lap them up.
His head tilts into the corner of his pillow, and you chuckle a little sheepishly before moaning Yoongi’s name. Your eyebrows gather and tent. Does he know what he does to you? Does he care?
“Yoongi?” you sigh desperately.
Neither of you need an answer before you fall apart.
--
You’ve shifted in your sleep.
You don’t know how many minutes have gone by when you wake, and you try to stop yourself from counting them now.
Yoongi’s lips are buried in your navel, his nose hidden. Only his eyes greet you, wide and blinking. So graceful. That slight curve of his lids, quick to plump and rise before taking their time to descend to meet his cheeks. His eyes are wings that always loft to a soft landing.
They let him take flight now, his head rising, hands folding, and then his chin resting on his knuckles on your stomach.
“You cried,” he says.
You smile fondly. “I always cry.” You bite your lip, and your eyes narrow. “And you always point that out.”
He turns onto his side, his lipstick-kissed wrist propping up his bedhead. “Why do you think you do that?” he asks with a small grin.
“And you always ask me that,” you laugh, looking back at the TV screen and flipping the channel.
Yoongi smirks as you proceed to tell him what else he always does. What else you always do. What else always ends up happening.
The slow transition from bodies talking, to you talking, to the TV talking. The progression from pure bliss, to comfortable nostalgia, to complete silence.
The criss-crossing of bodies during the gathering of clothes.
How you always reach for the shirt that you brought to return.
How you always put it on.
The fond gazes. The soft kisses. The ones on your lips. Then your cheeks. Then your forehead.
You always linger. As each second passes, you always hope that his lips will stay on you for a second more.
After Yoongi zips up your jacket to the top in one smooth moment, and then closes the door behind you, it occurs to him that there are a couple things to add to the list of what he always does. Things that you don’t know.
That the minutes that you’d left uncounted aren’t uncounted at all.
That he has kept a running total of every single minute spent gazing at you as you sleep.
Synopsis: You’ve just been laid off, and all you want to do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget. Unfortunately, the neighborhood block party is tonight, and the festivities turn downright chaotic when the entire city loses power. Don’t fret, though. Jungkook will help take your mind off things for a while. Part of the Party Favors collection with @mochilatae / Roomie (more on that soon)!
Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Strangers to lovers, FLUFF with a capital FLUFF, comfort, smut (starts out with cute, vanilla sex, turns into very hard smut, fic post will have more details here), drinking / drinking games, mentions of drugs (weed edibles).
Release Date: Friday, June 10 at 7 PM US Central | READ IT HERE!
Preview:
Eyes wet with steaming, streaming tears, you let the bodies push you back.
Back to the elevator.
Back down to the lobby.
And back to the curb outside.
Where he looks up and finds your twisted, nauseated expression.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You didn’t see him when you stepped back onto the sidewalk. Even now, you only see him in parts.
Bent fingers clutch his hoodie’s drawstring, pulling left, then right. The denim of the jacket over it shifts slightly as he does. Full lips rest against each other lightly, an interrupted, absent-minded whistle reforming into more words.
“You dropped something.”
Reblog this post, reply/comment on this post, send me an ask, or just generally reach out (ao3, ig, twitter), and I’ll add you to the BLACKOUT taglist. You can also add yourself to the BLACKOUT taglist, any of my other fic taglists, or my permanent taglist!
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Synopsis: For all four years of high school, they watched Hobi watching you from afar, listening to him going on and on about how you smile, or the way you toss your hair. For one semester, they went through hell, scheming and planning ways to get Hobi anywhere in your magical orbit. But it’s only now, a decade later, during a visit home for Christmas, that you’ve finally noticed him. There’s no doubt about it. There’s only one way for Hobi to win you once and for all. It’s time to resurrect Project Dream Girl. But is it too late, now that Hobi’s engaged?
Word Count: ~35k | read on ao3
Genres, Content Warnings, & Themes: Christmas fic, childhood friends, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, pining, angst, slow burn, eventual smut (oral sex [m and f giving and receiving], edging, rough sex, unprotected sex, penetrative sex)
Author’s Note: A late Christmas present for you all! Based on this incredible ask and the story that came with it! Really hope you enjoy this soft, precious Hobi, and that you all have a very happy holiday season! Submitted to @ficscafe ’s #ficscafe holidays event!
Also Tagging: @dvalitaes @pinkleopard3 @holdingontomythoughts and @xjoonchildx — hope it’s OK that I tagged you 😬 I ended up writing it after all, and I hope it makes you smile!
The drive in was as treacherous as ever, the threat of spinning out on black ice making the back of your neck cold and clammy, and forcing your fingernails into the pulp of your own palm as you gripped the steering wheel both out of fear, and as a buoy.
It’s not just the winter storm aftermath that’s got you frazzled, though. Five empty coffee cups are stacked into a cupholder meant for just two, and this is the second cupholder’s first day on the job. You have a latte every day, not an espresso for every hour on the road.
A shame, too. The road is usually such a good friend, spending all that time with you, preserving your honeymoon phase by still thrilling you with surprises at every turn. But its current, frosty demeanor is repugnant, especially as the uneasy, more-than-just-bitter-caffeine-hitting-your-stomach feeling that, for some reason, grows with every additional childhood landmark takes up more of your windshield.
Your legs were shaking when your darling parents threw their arms around you. “Cold?” your mother asked. When you shook your head no, she asked, “Tired?”
“Let’s let her settle in,” your father replied, smiling good-naturedly and patting your mother on the shoulder.
“Just need the bathroom,” you chuckled. “Had a lot to drink. Need to go to the store after that, though.” You feel the same zing in your brain that you felt when you remembered on the drive, when you scratched your arm and felt those weird bumps that seem to appear out of nowhere from time to time. “Forgot lotion.” You feel another echoed zing, this one bringing along with it the experience of getting out of the car. You turn your calf to the side to show your parents the run. “And I got caught on the door. Need a new pair of stockings.”
When your parents let you go, you scamper quickly to the first floor powder room, with the chip in the mirror from the time you accidentally bashed the ladder into the glass while you and your mother were repainting the walls.
“Is there anything I can pick up while I’m there?” you call back to them, shifting your hip left to avoid the stair banister that you always knock your elbow on at some point, making sure you have full use of your icy cold fingers to undo the buttons on your trench coat.
“Maybe your dad’s blood pressure medication?” You softly snort at your mother’s sweetly hopeful lilt, just like eyelashes batting, as you reach the powder room and flip on the light switch.
“Let’s let her settle in!” your father repeats, as you close the door behind you and smile fondly about the man of so few words that he’ll squeeze the juice out of each of them.
The sense of a sort of mission adds to your frazzled state by clouding your mind. You’ve typed the list on your phone, complete with checkboxes to click along the way. Still, as you whirl into the store where you got your first cashier job, you keep muttering to yourself: “Lotion. Stockings. Pills. Lotion. Stockings. Pills.”
This is how you find yourself struggling to remember Hobi’s name while you’re at the pharmacy, waiting to pick up the last item on your list, standing in line behind Min Yoongi.
“It’s kinda short for Hoseok,” Yoongi explains.
“Hoseok!” you exclaim, his smile beaming back into your mind. “Oh my god! That’s right.” You mimic the voice you first heard it with. “Hobi to us. His friends.”
Yoongi brightens at your spot-on impression of him, and you smile happily as you bask in the glow.
“So you do remember him,” he replies, as you nod.
“I remember your version of him,” you tease. “Hobi this, and Hobi that.” Yoongi’s low purr comes so easily to you. “Oh, uh, I don’t know if you heard, but Hobi got dance captain in the musical this year. He’s really good. You should come check it out.” You giggle in your own voice before returning to his. “Hey, uh, did you see Hobi went to the tennis regionals and won? It was really cool. You could drive down to the finals with us if you want to watch.”
The corners of his mouth stretch down and out. “Ha. Right.”
“Are you all back in town for the holidays?” you ask, still grinning.
Yoongi clears his throat before mirroring your grin. “Yeah,” he says, “though Hobi never really left.” He blinks a few times. Quite quickly. And he speaks in a sudden, uncharacteristic blast. As if he can’t get the thought out fast enough. “In fact, uh, we were all gonna get together at Hobi’s for dinner tonight! You should join us!”
You furrow your brow a little. The line shuffles forward, but you’ve still got a little while before you’re served.
“Oh, well… that’s very kind…”
You look down at the lotion and stockings that you’re holding with your over-confident hands, wishing you had a basketful of things to use to cobble some sort of excuse together.
“C’mon, it’ll be, uh, fun,” Yoongi tries again, looking down at your hands with you.
Your gazes meet again when you look up.
“Isn’t it a little last minute?” you ask.
“Hobi tends to do things a little last minute,” Yoongi replies, though you aren’t sure why he’s trying to hold in a laugh.
“What kind of dinner is this? Are there place settings and stuff?” you say clumsily. “I wasn’t part of the plan, so—”
“You’re always part of the plan,” Yoongi tells you.
It’s your turn to blink quickly. “Huh?”
“What I meant is, uh, you’re always welcome to join us,” Yoongi says nervously, flinching when he notices the line moving forward.
“Oh.”
Yoongi watches your face and realizes something. Something crucial. It had never occurred to him before, but maybe you’re unsure about the why. Why you should join them. So, as the next three people get their prescriptions filled, he lists out all the reasons.
“C’mon. Uh, all the guys will be there. We can take a trip down memory lane.” Then again, you so rarely accepted their invitations. Memory lane might be more of a dead end. “And we can catch each other up on life since then.” So many aspects to a dinner, Yoongi realizes. “The food will be, uh… there will be lots of food.” Though you haven’t really eaten much with them. “And we can make or bring different stuff, so let me know if you have any dietary restrictions or preferences.” What else could possibly keep you from dinner? “Plus, it’ll be at Hobi’s house, so you don’t have to worry about crowds or waiters or anything.”
“Just Hobi and his friends,” you repeat, chuckling.
Your still sort-of-puzzled expression makes so much more sense to Yoongi now. It feels silly, making that realization here and now, next in line at the pharmacy. But, always quick to be fair, especially to himself, Yoongi remembers that all the other invitations were made a decade and change ago. When none of your brains were fully formed. When all Hobi had to guide him was his heart.
“I mean, we’re all friends,” Yoongi replies. “Aren’t we?”
Dinner with friends. How long has it been since you last had dinner with friends? How long has it been since you last had friends? Does it count if they’re technically someone else’s friends? Wait, is Yoongi your friend? How does their group work? If you’re friends with one, are you friends with them all? Was that how it always was?
“Sure,” you say, smiling uneasily.
“Cool! Let me give you the address,” Yoongi says quickly, before your obviously thinking-twice brain thinks too many more times.
The person in front of Yoongi leaves the line with their prescription and veers off into the aisle that now houses chips and dips but used to house simple office supplies and stationery back when you worked there.
“Next,” the tired pharmacy tech calls out, eyeing the gap between Yoongi and the counter.
“Hang on,” Yoongi tells you, before whirling around and sorting out whatever he’s in line for.
It’s a quick transaction, one that Yoongi mutters through as he pulls out his phone from his coat pocket and texts, chin wrinkling as he scrolls through his screen.
Yoongi grabs the small, white paper bag that the tech had placed on the counter, eyes still downcast and confusion still looming.
He looks up at you as you approach the counter.
The pharmacy tech’s eyes dart from you to Yoongi. “Sir, can you leave the counter?” the pharmacy tech asks him. “Patient privacy.”
“What’s your number?” Yoongi asks you.
Startled, the pharmacy tech continues, “Sir, I just said—”
“It’s OK,” you say. “It’s not— We’re just—” You point to Yoongi, and then to yourself, finger bouncing back and forth. “We’re friends. Sorta.” You shake your head. “Anyway.”
You turn to Yoongi and give him your number quickly, before turning back to the pharmacy tech and asking for your father’s medication.
Yoongi’s eyes glimmer with some recognition.
“How’s he doing, by the way?” he asks, watching the pharmacy tech going to get your order. “Your father? He was in the hospital a few years ago, wasn’t he?”
You smile, genuinely touched by his concern. “We are friends, aren’t we, Yoongles?” you ask fondly.
Yoongi’s chin unwrinkles as he juts it out proudly. He’s seventeen all over again.
“He’s doing well,” you say happily. “It was a minor stroke, and his recovery went as well as it could have. He’s doing better about taking things a little slower, though he’s as stubborn as ever.” You tilt your head. “How’d you even know about his stroke?” As Yoongi presses something on his phone and then shoves it into his pocket, you hear a quiet ding! from inside of your purse. “Not like you had my number.”
“Hobi told me, actually,” Yoongi says, his eyes widening. “He visited him at the hospital.”
“What?” you ask, surprised.
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, smiling. “Ask your father.”
You and Yoongi chat a little more as you move from the pharmacy to the general check-out area, your twin, introverted souls scanning and sacking the rest of your purchases in the otherwise empty self-service kiosks.
You walk outside and linger by the doors for a bit, checking your phone to make sure that the text you received was, indeed, Yoongi’s. The address sounds a little familiar. You wonder how many times you’d seen or heard it for it to be familiar. You’ve never actually been.
“Swing by around 8,” Yoongi tells you.
You smile. “See you then.”
He throws up a wave and a smirk, as you get in your car and head home.
Once you disappear into the vanishing point on the horizon, Yoongi races to his car, throwing his new toothbrushes, toothpaste, floss, and vitamin D supplements into the passenger seat before summoning the council, blowing into the conch shell that is the camera-shaped icon in the top right corner of the group chat.
They assemble like they always do. Namjoon picking up on the first call, concerned that something terrible has happened. Jin complaining about being interrupted, when really, he’s excited for some attention. Hobi busting in with a shrill, “AAYYYYYYY!” that makes everybody grumble about how loud he is. Jimin smirking, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, ready for a mug of tea, and equally ready to leave if it isn’t served piping hot. Taehyung checking himself out on his own screen while absent-mindedly greeting everyone. And Jungkook pouting about how the video call made his clan lose their round.
Voices overlap eagerly and heatedly, making Yoongi squinch his eyes and pull the screen away from so close to his face.
Still, despite the chaos, he doesn’t miss a detail. He even remembers your preferred brand of lotion, and that the stockings that you bought were fishnets.
That sets off another explosion of voices, but Jimin’s voice slashes through, just as your car door slashed through your stockings and gave you a reason to come to the store in the first place.
“Hey! Guys!” he exclaims. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we did this in person?”
“We don’t need to be doing anything at all!” Hobi butts in. “Because, again, for the millionth time, I’m engaged! To be married!”
“So?” Yoongi moves his phone closer to his face again. “What about me?? I didn’t listen to all your whining and simping, or embarass myself by asking all your Dream Girl questions—”
Jin cackles, as everyone but Hobi and Yoongi soften fondly at the term. “Aaah, Dream Girl!”
“—during our group project work, only for you NOT to get closure on this!”
Hobi shakes his head sadly. “I can’t keep doing this with you.”
Namjoon’s voice of reason lands the conversation back onto the ground. “Hobi’s right. We’re not kids anymore. Our decisions have consequences.”
Hobi echoes, “Exactly.”
“And permanence,” Taehyung agrees.
Hobi smiles and chirps, “Thank you!”
“So you should take this opportunity for an out from your engagement to that mean, snooty, and, frankly, boring woman, and ask Dream Girl out,” Jin argues.
Hobi’s face disappears from the screen as his neck goes limp, unable to hold this conversation up anymore. “Guys—”
“Why the long face?” Jungkook teases.
“Don’t start with the horse jokes.”
“Thought you’d be happy to see Dream Girl again.”
Hobi’s head sinks lower, completely out of frame.
“She still look the same?” Jungkook asks in sing-song. “That sweet, heart-shaped face?” He giggles. “She still smell like bubble gum?”
Jimin laughs and, with a glint in his eye, adds, “She still do that thing where she scratches her head and leans her neck before flipping her hair?”
They all mimic the motion, Jimin reveling in the feel of it, Jungkook focusing on getting it exactly accurate, Taehyung folding it into his own preening, Jin conveying the drama, Namjoon conveying the appeal, and all of them copying Hobi’s moaning, rabid reaction.
This time, Hobi’s empty screen instead moans, “STOP!”
“She’s still all that, and more,” Yoongi replies. “And she’s here for a whole month.”
“A month?” Despite Hobi’s resolve and composure, a twinge in Hobi’s voice, and the shaking of Hobi’s barely perceptible cowlick in frame, indicates that he’s at least a little nervous, and suddenly so. He raises his head to rejoin the conversation. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Yoongi says. “I’m asking.” He smirks. “I’m asking if Project Dream Girl is finally a go.”
“No!” Hobi exclaims. “Shut it down!”
Amongst murmurs, Yoongi replies, “How quickly you forget.” He smirks. “This is a democracy. We are seven. Let the people speak.”
Hobi’s voice keeps catching on his tonsils. “Wha— How— Democra— What do you mean by—”
“Everyone cast your votes now,” Jin says, Yoongi’s smirk spreading onto his face. “I vote Yea.”
“Yea,” Jimin seconds with a wink right into the camera, intended for Hobi’s square, and seemingly hitting its target perfectly, given the way the corner of Hobi’s mouth angle down.
“Yaaaaaay!” Jungkook echoes, which narrows Hobi’s eyes.
More of Hobi’s face disappears, but Yoongi’s lips part more and more happily with each additional “Yea”, said in Namjoon’s rumbling warmth, and Taehyung’s whispery, floaty cloud.
“Hobi?” Jin asks. “Last chance to change your vote.”
“Nay!” Hobi desperately screeches, his face coming back to vivid, angry life.
“Neeeeiiiighhh!” Jungkook teases, making the rest of the boys laugh.
Hobi huffs through puffed cheeks and flapping lips, which doesn’t help the annoyingly unshakeable comparison, as Jin cheerily proclaims, “The Yeas have it!”
Everyone cheers.
But Jimin’s voice cuts through again, like a whistling kettle. “Alright, where do we start??”
Yoongi hums with such self-satisfaction. “Tonight. I invited her to dinner.”
From the way Hobi clomps up the stairs to the attic, Yeong-ja can already tell that he’s upset. When she sees his phone jostling in his front t-shirt pocket, Yeong-ja knows that a video chat with the boys is what has upset him. But she still doesn’t know why he’s entering the formal dining room while clutching the long, oak, dining table extender in his strained arms, and carefully setting it down in the corner — especially now that she has already finished arranging the napkins for five out of the eight place settings.
Yeong-ja’s voice always has a bit of an edge in it, but it’s particularly apparent when she asks, “Wait. Why do you have that?”
“Someone else is coming to dinner,” he says.
He says it quietly.
Unnervingly quietly.
The edge in Yeong-ja’s voice gets just that much sharper, like one crisp rake of the knife across a diamond stone.
“Who?” she asks, shifting in her seat at the head of the table.
Hobi moves from one side of the table to the other, unlocking hidden latches as he goes.
The last time Hobi’s ever had to think of you feels so far away. And yet. He still knows. He still knows that there aren’t enough words. There just can’t be. There can’t be enough words in any language, or all the languages, to sum up the reason why he is now sliding Yeong-ja’s perfect place settings to one end of the fancy dinner table. So, he goes for the bare acceptable minimum, which just happens to be, “Someone Yoongi had a class with in high school.”
Yeong-ja eyes her festive, now-misaligned placemats, plates, silverware, and napkins.
“Yeobo,” she says, “the table already sat eight.”
“And now, it’s going to seat nine.”
Yeong-ja blinks at the odd number. “Well, technically, it’s going to seat ten. Are they at least bringing a date?”
Hobi simply shrugs, his back facing Yeong-ja as he walks over to the corner against which the table extender is resting. He guesses no, especially if Yoongi has started plotting, but hiding his face completely is his best bet in keeping secret the concern that he hadn’t thought to ask Yoongi if you were bringing a date; his worry that if he asks Yoongi to ask you now, that you might bring one; and his ultimate fear that after all these years, he’s realized that he still doesn’t want you to have one at all.
Hobi only looks dutiful as he turns around and sets the extender in the middle of the table.
The wooden plank locks into place with a bright, happy sound.
Yeong-ja frowns at it.
“What?” Hobi asks.
“Did the table always look like this?” Yeong-ja asks. “I don’t remember it feeling too big when we bought it.”
Hobi reaches for the first of Yeong-ja’s place settings, talking through his thoughts.
“Well, we’re almost never in this room.”
Hobi sets the golden charger plate down a little too roughly, making the porcelain plates on top, and the holly-decorated napkin ring, jostle and clang.
“And when we are in this room, it’s usually just when your parents are in town. Or the guys.”
Hobi sets the second golden charger plate down even more roughly, to where the napkin ring almost rolls off and onto the floor.
“In fact, I wonder why we even bought this table when entertaining people is usually more trouble than it’s worth.”
Hobi reaches for a third place setting, but Yeong-ja stands quickly.
“Let me do that,” she interrupts, annoyed. “You’ll chip a plate if you keep going.” When Hobi moves to protest, she adds, “Why don’t you just go back to the attic and get the two spare chairs?”
Hobi sighs and heads back toward the attic.
“…Yeobo?”
Hobi pauses, placing his hands on his hips before turning around to face her, hoping that by some miracle, his too soft heart hasn’t crept onto his face.
“Yeah?”
Yeong-ja tilts her head. “Why are you so… mad… about it?”
Hobi relents, shoulders finally falling. “Oh, yeobo. I’m sorry. I’m not mad.” He flashes her a smile. Something more recognizable. “Just… annoyed at the last minute addition.”
He’s careful not to clomp up the stairs this time. Years together, and he still forgets that living with a person inevitably makes them a barometer. Eyes and ears that take in the atmosphere. That read things. Read you.
He shuffles into the attic and eyes the extra chairs, fit together like L-shaped Tetris pieces, balanced on each other like yin and yang. The upholstery is a little dusty, but when Hobi runs his hand over the fabric, he sees glimmers of gold that have dulled in the matching floral patterns of the chairs downstairs.
He looks around to see what else has been weirdly but perfectly preserved.
Heavy, ornate trunks hold Yeong-ja’s family heirlooms. Jewelry. Instruments. Her grandmother’s wedding dress, received just earlier that month.
Hobi steers clear for now.
Simple boxes hold memories of his own, pushed farther back into the attic. Further back into time.
The same dust from the chairs collects at his knees as he rummages through his keepsakes. Vinyls. Trophies. Photo albums.
Yearbooks.
He plucks your high school class’s senior yearbook from the stack and chuckles softly as he flips through the pages, pausing longer on the ones that he dog-eared, and grinning to himself when he finds the reasons for those dog ears. They’re mostly photos of the guys. One of Yoongi mid-jump shot. One of Namjoon on stage with the debate team, a mic in his hand. Jimin and Taehyung playing ping pong. Jin and Jungkook wrestling. A group shot, with Hobi in the center, holding his tennis singles first place state trophy, its gleam slightly dimmer than his proud smile.
Hobi runs his fingers down the right edges of the pages, noticing that there is one more dog-eared page in the back.
Yeong-ja’s voice calls him back to the present. “Yeobo!”
Hobi lingers on that folded corner, fingers teasing the bend. “Yes?”
“Yoongi’s here!”
You lift your knee a little to see how your new stockings look on you. It’s a tighter pattern. Conservative. More herringbone than a true fishnet, actually. Your dress probably looks fine without them, but you hate having bare legs, especially in the winter.
When you step out of the en suite bathroom where your mother marked your height in the doorjamb until you were about fifteen, you find your mother standing there with the same light in her eyes.
You stumble backwards, nearly tripping over your unshoed heel. “Eomma! You scared me!”
She rolls her eyes and uses her index finger to pick up the three hanger hooks that she had just set down on your bed.
“Eomma!”
“You haven’t had time to unpack,” she observes, “so I pulled a couple of my old dresses—”
“Eomma,” you chide, striding over to her and frowning.
“They’re not that old-fashioned!” she insists. “And it’s better than showing up to dinner in the same thing you’ve been wearing for twelve hours straight.”
You sigh and take the first dress from her, holding up the hanger so that the neckline of the dress sits next to yours. Where her dress stops, your torso and legs keep going, and going, and going.
“I’m a full five inches taller than you!”
“You’re overexaggerating.”
You gesture to the markings in the doorjamb. “Care to measure?”
A smile breaks through your mother’s determined face. “I’m just trying to help you look your best.” She cups your cheek lovingly as you tilt into her soft, warm palm. “You’re such a star. Let yourself shine.”
You sigh and acknowledge that, yes, perhaps it would be better if you wore something that didn’t reek of corporate life. But that doesn’t change the fact that the three dresses that your mother pulled for you hang more like t-shirts on your frame.
“Then help me pick something out from my closet,” you say, taking your mother’s hand and dragging her over to the other end of the room.
You flip through some outfits and even consider a pantsuit that you’d forgotten about, one that you accidentally left the last time you were home. However, once your darling mother’s eyes settle on a gray cocktail dress with a silver, beaded belt, you know the search is over.
“I wish I still had my figure,” your mother sighs wistfully as you quickly slip out of your dress and into its replacement.
“Eomma.”
“I know I’ve still got remnants of it somewhere in here.” She pokes and prods her softer curves, made rounder by family, love, and time. She smiles proudly at you once you’ve reappeared through the dress’s neckline. “I’m glad you’ve put your inheritance to good use, though.”
Before you walk back to your bathroom to have a look in the mirror, you place a kiss on your mother’s cheek.
She sits on the edge of your bed, giving you small tips here and there. Like that you should go with a berry lipstick rather than your usual dull maroon. And don’t be shy about using the shimmery eyeshadows rather than the matte neutrals you usually dust on. Actually, there might also be a berry pump in the back of her closet that you can borrow.
“Eomma, my feet are two sizes bigger than yours!” you call out to her, as you finish your eyeliner.
“Meet you downstairs!” she calls back.
As you make your way to the living room, stately black kitten heels defiantly in hand, your father smiles up at you from the couch.
“You look great!” he exclaims, his remote control-holding arm lowering slightly.
“Thanks, Appa,” you say, walking over to him and pressing a careful kiss to his temple.
You have a seat with him, on the other end of the couch, strapping yourself into your shoes before your mother can say anything.
“Fancy.” Your father watches your fingers work the buckle. “Where are you going again?”
“Not too far,” you say. “I’ll probably walk.” You grin to yourself, thinking about how you used to walk the few miles to school.
“I can drive you if you’re tired,” your father offers.
“No, I think the walk will do me some good,” you say. “And these shoes are better than high heels for walking.”
“Alright.” Your father smiles as you sigh and sit up, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Who are you seeing again?”
“Some guys I knew from high school,” you answer. And then Yoongi’s voice comes back to you, that low purr equal parts cautious and attention-grabbing as it delivers a small detail. “You might still one of them, I think,” you say. “Jung Hoseok?”
With lifting recognition, your father’s eyes alight, eyebrows tent, forehead wrinkles, hairline shifts back. “Ah, yes! Hoseok! He’s a kind person.” Your father leans forward and places his remote on the table. “He visited me after I had my stroke.”
The word doesn’t feel so heavy now. Not when your father can flip through channels to find his shows. Not when your father can offer to drive you. Not when your father is able to form complete sentences, with just a hint of a delay that only you and your mother notice. You almost miss his explanation because you’re too busy thanking whatever force it is that’s out there that gave you this second chance. This extra time.
“He came to visit me quite often, actually.” Your father smiles, and words interestingly start to flow out of him. “Brought some of his friends with him from time to time. It was nice to have people pass the time with. Gave Eomma a breather. Watched some games.”
You should be happy. But a lightning bolt of guilt threatens to rip your stomach from the inner wall of your skin.
“Now, don’t pout,” your father says gently, reaching for your hand and squeezing it.
“I would’ve flown home that night,” you tell him, like you’ve told him over and over again in the days and months and years since.
“And lost your job?” Your father pats your hand as he releases it and leans back in his seat. “Then where would we be?”
You’re glad that your generous paycheck was enough to keep your retired parents more than afloat. It kept the medical bills at bay, with plenty of buffer to spare. It kept the foreclosure sign from being hammered into your lawn. It also kept you from being able to see your father until months later, when the worst of it was over. But maybe it also kept you from falling apart after seeing him go through that worst bit. At least, that’s what your father is saying to you. What your mother always reminds you. What you tell yourself.
“I’m glad you had some pleasant company,” you try, a tooth here and there peeking out from your pout.
Your father grins, coaxing the rest of them out from behind your lips.
“There we go,” he says, eyes laughing. And then he stands suddenly, like he so beautifully and thankfully can. “I haven’t seen Hoseok in a long, long while. Why don’t you bring him something from my collection?”
As he scampers off, your mother shuffles down the stairs, taking some of the extra time you’ve all been gifted for her right knee.
You join her near the bottom stair, which is just a little higher than the rest. You hold your hand out to help her.
“I’m fine,” she insists, hiding her right knee behind her left, as if that will solve anything. “You were right about the heels. They’re too small for you. But look!”
She opens her palm to show you two rose earrings, stained the same deep berry as your somehow still intact lipstick.
“You always borrowed these for picture days!” your mother chuckles, already brushing your hair back.
Her fingers are cold against the back of your ear. You roll your eyes as she replaces your standard gold studs. “Eomma, it’s been so long since then.”
“Whisky should be good, right?” Your father reappears in your rolled eyes’ periphery, clutching a fancy bottle. “Take this with you.”
“OK, OK, I’m not a doll, I’m a human, that’s enough accessorizing,” you say, as your mother’s hands fall away and threaten to re-fluff your hair one more time. “Thank you for the earrings.” You turn to your father and take the bottle. “And thank you for the whisky. I’m sure they’ll love it.”
“Tell the boys hi,” your father says, as he and your mother move like one being toward the door to see you off.
“And sweetie!” your mother chirps, as you start down the porch steps.
You turn around and look up at them, face softly illuminated by the lamps that it took your father double the time to install because he screwed them in upside down by accident at first.
Your mother’s eyes glow in their light. “Have some fun,” she says, meaningfully.
“It’s uncanny.” Yoongi shakes his head a little. “She looks exactly the same.”
“We all look exactly the same,” Taehyung says lazily. “It’s only been a few years.”
“Ten,” Namjoon corrects. “More than.”
“So what’s ten years? It’s not fifty,” Taehyung points out. “Did you think we’d all be gray by now? Have hip replacements? We’re only in our 30s for god’s sake.”
“You might’ve been blessed with a baby face, but we aren’t all as lucky,” Hobi laments.
Jin and Jimin protest in chorus. “Who says??”
“Don’t get all self-conscious now,” Jungkook replies, poking Hobi’s cheek before adjusting Hobi’s lapel. Jungkook smiles at the soft and expensive feel of Hobi’s plaid suit jacket, brown in hue and accented with lines of berry and navy, all placed on top of the white sweater he was originally wearing by itself. “You look great, especially with that jacket on, and your face hasn’t collected so much as a freckle.”
Hobi grins. “You think so?”
Yeong-ja’s voice whips through the air, as loud in the living room as it is in the kitchen. “Alright, boys, it’s 8:02 and the table is set, but I don’t see butts in those seats!”
“Does she have to be so…” Jungkook squinches his eyes, frowns, and wiggles around while keeping his upper body tight and restrained.
“I know,” Hobi replies, “but she—”
“And she’s kinda…” Jimin rolls his eyes like he rolls his head, dramatic and all-encompassing.
Hobi huffs. “She can be, but we all have our—”
“Then there’s the…” Jin widens his eyes and makes stabbing motions with an invisible knife in his pained fist.
A golden gowned Yeong-ja makes her fanciful way into the living room and misses Jin’s motions, instead startled at the sight of Hobi in his new outfit.
“Yeobo! You changed after all!” she says, smiling fondly. “You look pretty decent!”
Hobi blushes, and then he blushes at the fact that he’s not blushing for her.
“What’s this?” Yeong-ja asks, gesturing to the yearbook that Yoongi is flipping through.
“Oh,” Hobi mutters, “uh—”
“Found it in the attic,” Yoongi pipes up, technically not a lie. “Thought it might be fun to look through together.”
“I’ve never seen you guys so excited to run into anyone from high school,” Yeong-ja comments, leaning on the back of the couch behind Hobi and circling her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “From the way you talk about it, high school seemed like a hellhole.”
“Pretty familiar with hellholes?” Jin scoffs.
“Yeah, they’re like all your weird jokes,” Yeong-ja complains.
Before Jin can respond, Hobi takes Yeong-ja’s hand and kisses her wrist. “Thanks for making dinner for all of us, yeobo.” He eyes each member of the gang pointedly. “I’m glad. We can. All spend. Some time. Over the holidays. Together.”
The gang begrudgingly gets his point.
“Yeah, thanks for having us, Yeong-ja,” Yoongi mumbles.
“Been a while,” Namjoon replies.
“Means a lot,” Jimin adds.
“Very kind of you,” Taehyung admits.
“Looking forward to the meal,” Jungkook says.
“Can’t wait to get into that roast,” Jin laughs uneasily, just in case Yeong-ja had seen his invisible knife.
Yeong-ja smiles happily, kissing Hobi’s head before standing up straight. “Well, if you all can keep the weird jokes to a minimum, and if your friend shows up sooner rather than later, I’m sure tonight’s dinner will be wonderful.”
Before the group starts up again, she eyes the yearbook in Yoongi’s curled fingers.
“Show me some pictures,” Yeong-ja replies, walking over to Yoongi.
“Uh, have you not seen our yearbooks before?” Hobi asks, as Yoongi quickly shuffles to a page with a group shot.
“I don’t think so,” Yeong-ja remarks, sitting on the arm of Yoongi’s chair. “I’ve only seen your grad pics.” She frowns. “You were so plastered.”
The guys start to laugh, as Yeong-ja yoink!s the yearbook out of Yoongi’s fingers, though he’s quick enough to catch the folded notebook pages that fall from the back cover.
He stashes them in his pocket as she smooths her hand over the page with the photo of Hobi’s tennis win. “Aw,” Yeong-ja gushes. “Look at you. So happy.”
“So proud,” Jungkook laughs. “See how his chest is puffed out?”
“He looks like a goofy peacock, gloating like that!” Yeong-ja jokes.
Jungkook’s smile settles into a thin line. “Well, I mean, he kinda just won state and broke a record doing it, so…”
Yeong-ja flips to another page, one of Hobi leading Jimin and a whole squad of dancers in rehearsal. “Yeobo, you look ridiculous in this picture!” she giggles. She peers down at the text accompanying the photo. “Dance captain??” she questions. “This must have been in an alternate universe!”
Jimin frowns. “The musical actually won awards for dance that year,” he points out. “Hobi choreographed the whole thing.”
“He did?” Yeong-ja eyes Hobi, throws her head back, and laughs. “We got kicked out of our dance class because of his two left feet!”
“Maybe he was tripping over yours,” Jimin grumbles.
Yeong-ja senses the slight, narrowing her eyes at Jimin and preparing something else to say, until Jin smirks and tells her, “Turn the page.”
Hobi realizes that Yeong-ja’s nearing the last dog-eared page of the book, and as the spine cracks a little wider, he knows it’s too late to tell her to stop.
“Wait, which picture…”
Yeong-ja’s eyes fall to the picture in the center. A shot of Hobi handing you a carnation. Yeong-ja didn’t know cameras could capture that soft look in Hobi’s eyes. And she didn’t know that look could look so soft.
She finds herself growing softer as she looks at your face, so pleasant and happy.
Simple.
Simply drawing you in with how warm and inviting it is. Beautiful, yes. But more than that. Special in some way.
Even though she catches your name in the caption, she quietly asks, “Who’s that?”
“That’s who’s coming to dinner,” Jin says, turning to Hobi with a smug grin.
Two polite knocks tap the door, and Taehyung jumps to his feet. “Ah, she’s here!” he says, striding over, the rest of the group at his heels, save for Hobi and Yeong-ja planted in their seats.
You laugh as the guys welcome you into the front room, handshakes turning into warm hugs as they greet you. Thankfully, you don’t need many cues to help you remember, and it’s oddly satisfying at how quickly it all comes flooding back. Jin was always this funny. Yoongi was always this smooth. Namjoon was always this courteous. Jimin was always this giggly. Taehyung was always this charming. Jungkook was always this sweet. And they were all always this handsome.
“Hobi and his fiancée Yeong-ja are in there.”
As the swarm around you clears, Yoongi directs your gaze into the adjacent living room.
Hobi takes a breath and swivels around, clutching onto the back of the couch as an anchor.
You stand before him, backlit and sparkling, the silver of your belt just noticeable enough to match the silver in your eyes. So many questions bubble up to his lips. Wait, are you wearing those rose earrings you loved so much? Do you still wear them for special occasions? Hang on, hang on, maybe he should start with — how are you? Yes, how are you? How are things? How is life? Is it treating you well? He hopes it’s treating you well. And how exactly is it that you are standing here, now, in front of him, as if it weren’t an absolute miracle?
“Hi!” you greet happily.
Hobi stands, vocal cords gripped by an ocean of time.
Until Yeong-ja’s undercurrent moves her to rise and say, “You look exactly the same.”
“What?” you laugh.
Hobi clears his throat. “The same, like, uh—”
He walks over to Yeong-ja and takes the yearbook from her suddenly limp hands. “We were reminiscing,” Hobi explains sheepishly, holding up the yearbook and wrapping his arm around Yeong-ja’s waist.
“Well, I mean, we all look the same,” you laugh. “We’re only in our 30s.” You smile at the guys around you. “And you’re all as handsome as ever.”
Taehyung shares a gloating grin with the others.
Hobi leads Yeong-ja to the front room, where she finally attempts a smile. “Anyway, I’m Yeong-ja,” she says, extending her hand. “Like Yoongi said, I’m Hobi’s fiancée.”
Hobi firmly shoves the yearbook back into Yoongi’s hands.
“Nice to meet you,” you say through Yeong-ja’s handshake, shivering in her ice-cold grip, and raising your eyebrows a little at the unexpected feeling. “I’m—”
“A little late,” Yeong-ja points out.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” you say. “I got distracted on my walk…” As you let go of Yeong-ja’s icicle for a hand and igloo blocks for words, the weight in your other hand suddenly feels heavier. “Um, but maybe this will make up for it?” You hold up your father’s gifted whisky and try a contrite grin.
“Fuck, now we’ve got ourselves a party!” Jin exclaims, taking the bottle and whirling over to the drink cart set up in the fancy dining room, with Jimin, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon whooping and celebrating along.
Yeong-ja scowls at Jin’s cursing. “It won’t go with the meal, unfortunately,” she points out, redirecting her gaze at you. “I’ve already picked out a great bottle of merlot.”
Yoongi stands next to you, frowning at Yeong-ja. “Whisky goes with everything,” he says. “And we all hate merlot.”
“We’ll have both, then. The merlot during, and the whisky after,” Hobi replies, squeezing Yeong-ja closer to his side and catching her gaze as she turns to him. “Love your eye for detail, yeobo,” he adds, giving her a smooch on the cheek.
Yeong-ja smiles, satisfied.
She turns back to you and sees Yoongi hovering at your side, a little like Hobi is hovering at hers. Her eyes linger on the yearbook in his hands. Her smile grows bigger. And she finally softens. “Well, hurry up now. Give me your coat so that we can get this so-called party started.”
“Uh, thanks,” you say, quickly shrugging off your trench coat and offering it to Yeong-ja.
The hall lights catch the sparkles in the rest of the silver of your dress, and it seems like the room brightens in your glow.
Yeong-ja sours slightly, until she catches Yoongi biting his lip and staring at a politely smiling Hobi.
When she turns to the hall closet, and you follow, both of you miss how Yoongi’s bite turns into a smile, and Hobi’s smile turns into him chewing his lip as if that were his dinner.
Yeong-ja leads the rest of you into the formal dining room, smelling of food, and, overpoweringly, of cinnamon, from the tall, red candles sitting on the china display case in back. The table is, admittedly, impeccably set and adorably decorated. The roast looks delicious, accompanied by all the typical side dishes, potatoes and bread and other roots and carbs to help fill you up, and all sorts of salads to cut the fat and grease. There are even some banchan scattered in the mix, recipes no doubt passed down from previous generations, for a sense of familiarity and tradition.
“Yeong-ja, this is wonderful,” you say, as you join the group, placing a hand on a chair at the end of the table.
“Thanks,” Yeong-ja replies. “Took some time to prepare, but it turned out great!” She eyes your hand on the chair closest to you. “But, uh, that’s actually my seat.”
“We’re really doing assigned seats,” Jimin says dully, pulling out the chair.
“Come sit here,” Yoongi replies quickly, gesturing for you to join him at the other side of the table.
“I think we were planning for you to sit in the middle,” Yeong-ja attempts, eyeing the hastily wrapped napkin just a little more wrinkled than the others, placed atop the table extender. She hasn’t forgotten the comments about the merlot, and her frustrated glare has already caught Jungkook reaching for the wrong spoon to start. Her shoulders shift toward your intended spot, desperately hoping to keep things from going too far off the rails.
“This is middle enough, right?” Yoongi asks, sitting one away from Hobi, and motioning for you to sit in the chair between them.
Hobi frowns at Yoongi, but Yeong-ja seems to soften at the look on Yoongi’s face. “That works,” she says, suddenly smiling at Yoongi, who frowns at her in confusion.
You make your way toward Yoongi. “Well, uh, Yeong-ja, Hobi, and, well, Yoongi, I guess, thanks again for inviting me—” Yoongi nods as he pulls your chair out for you and helps you into your seat. “I didn’t expect to have any plans while home for the holidays. Haven’t really stayed in touch with anyone since graduation, so it’s a nice surprise to get to see you all.”
You look back up to Yeong-ja, who is still standing and assessing everyone’s movements at the table.
“Yeong-ja, your dress is gorgeous,” you offer.
When she snaps her head up at the compliment, everyone else lets out little sighs of relief. “Thanks!” she chirps. “I actually changed it after Hobi spilled some food on the other dress I had on. I told him to make sure to carry the serving platters at a perfect 90-degree angle, but—”
“M’lady,” Jin says, suddenly appearing at your side and handing you a glass of your father’s whisky.
“Oh, thanks Jin,” you say, “but I think we were going to have the merlot—”
“We all hate merlot,” Jin repeats absent-mindedly, continuing to pour everyone glasses of whisky.
You catch Yeong-ja’s annoyed stare and insist, “I’d actually like to have some merlot, if that’s OK?”
Jin nods quickly. “Sure! But uh, hang onto this. For after.” He leans forward and whispers into your ear, “You’re going to need it. Trust me.” He sets your glass of whisky down before reassuming his place at the drink cart.
After more shuffling and chatting, everyone finally gets seated at the table at 8:27, all of them (save you, Yeong-ja, and Hobi) stubbornly holding their full glasses of whisky.
Namjoon stands, and snapshots of a younger version of him start to come back to you. Instead of a brandy, he should have a mic in his hand.
“A toast,” he begins. “To friendship, and to love.”
“To friendship and love,” everyone echoes, though Hobi sounds a little stiff when he says it, and Yeong-ja stumbles over her words so badly that she bails on joining the cheer.
“Our gang rarely gets time together,” Namjoon pushes on.
“Except for the group chat, and the daily video calls,” Yeong-ja snorts.
You smile brightly, but you nix the giggle as the rest of the gang furrow their brows at her.
“But thankfully,” Namjoon goes on, as if uninterrupted, “we’re able to see each other now, and, in one happy surprise, even get to pick up where we left off.” He smiles at you, and you feel your heart grow. And then he looks at the group fondly. “Coming home for the holidays always reminds me of the bond that we have. The home that tethers us. And the love that comes from friendship. The love that I hope continues to grow.”
He smiles at Hobi, who just pushes his lips out.
“Cheers to that!” Jimin exclaims, bringing his glass to his lips.
Everyone follows suit, though you and Hobi grimace a little at the bland taste of merlot on your tongues. He catches your eye for a moment, and you share smirks — his, thankful, and yours, understanding.
Always so understanding.
“Let’s dig in!” Yeong-ja calls. Her voice is a little strange. More like an instruction rather than an invitation.
The guys start to clamor for the side dishes, fighting over the bowls with the smallest portions.
“Does anybody want to carve?” Yeong-ja asks expectantly. Her eyes fall to Jin. “What about you? You were so excited a second ago.”
Jin grunts unhappily.
“What, are you already too drunk to help?” she prods.
“No,” he mumbles, getting up and taking the handle of the carving knife into his fingers, focusing on the roast so that he doesn’t accidentally carve anything else.
He cuts the roast into perfect slices, so you’re not sure why he’s wincing. As everyone passes their plates to him, you notice that everyone else is wincing as well.
You brace yourself as you dig in.
It’s worse than you hoped.
Though there’s seemingly nothing for there to clash, the rawness of the roast does not mix well with the blandness of the merlot.
“Mmmmmmm,” you force out, trying to use your teeth to separate raw meat from the little that is cooked.
“Good?” Yeong-ja asks the group happily.
Slight murmurs buzz around the table, which seem to please her for the moment. You reach for your napkin, but it’s too lovely for you to spit the raw meat into. You’ll have to chipmunk it, eyes quickly scanning for somewhere to deposit what you gather by the end of the meal.
Yoongi slips something into your hand under the table.
A sliver of paper towel.
You quickly fold the paper towel into your napkin, bring the napkin to your lips, and covertly spit everything out. You shoot a look of gratitude to Yoongi, one that he complements with a gummy smile, showing you that he’s done the same, and showing you the way forward as he spoons some potatoes onto your plate.
“So, when was the last time you were home?” Yeong-ja asks, eyes wide open as she takes you both in.
“Well, I honestly haven’t been back much since I left,” you answer. “And I—”
“That was graduation, right?” Yeong-ja asks, leaning forward in her seat.
“Oh, yes,” you answer. “When I went to college, I—”
“Funny, the guys haven’t really mentioned you before,” Yeong-ja asks.
“Jeez, Yeong-ja, didn’t know you were so good at grilling,” Taehyung says flatly, making Jin snort-laugh into his brandy.
“It’s true, though,” Yeong-ja goes on, the zinger flying over her head. “Yeobo found your senior yearbook when he was going out of his way to get the extra chairs for you out of the attic—”
Hobi closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.
“—but I really only saw one picture of you anywhere near the guys.” She smiles, canines looking sharper, pupils looking narrower. “Yeobo was giving you a flower?”
The bright red carnation pops into your mind, its stem carrying with it Yoongi’s name and a simple message: “This flower is already dying. Down with capitalism.”
You laugh expecting to be the only one laughing, but brightening when the rest of the guys start to snicker.
As you turn to Yoongi fondly, you share, “Y’know, yours was the only carnation I ever got for Valentine’s Day.”
“No shit?” Yoongi remarks, the rest of the guys just as befuddled as he is. “As popular as you were?”
“Popular?” you cackle. “Please. You were winning all the prizes—” Namjoon’s dimples are your prize for the compliment. “Awards—” You smile at Jimin and Taehyung. “And trophies,” you finish, looking at Jin, Jungkook, Yoongi, and then, Hobi.
“And still, nobody knew who we were,” Hobi chases. “They misspelled my name three different times in the yearbook. Class valedictorian, however—”
“Wait, back up. Yoongi gave you the flower?” Yeong-ja actually looks happy when she speaks this time. And relieved. A bomb defused. Or even better. Hers is the smile that lips form when a bomb doesn’t go off at all.
You move some raw meat around on your plate. “Yoongi and I were in Economics together our senior year,” you explain. “We didn’t even really talk until we were put in the same group for our final project.” You look around at the group. “I didn’t really hang out much with anyone, let alone you guys.” You smile. “It was nice, getting to know you all a little. Made the end of senior year fun.”
The rest of the group piles on with more memories. Study periods spent chatting in whispers. Ping pong at the rec center. Volunteering at the animal shelter. All the basketball games and wrestling matches you started attending, now that you sort of had friends to cheer for.
“Catching Hobi’s breathtaking win at state was amazing,” you say.
“Hobi was down sets in every match, until he would go on to rally,” Yoongi points out. He turns to Hobi and grins. “But the final was the best rally of them all.” He turns to you. “You got there a set before the winning shot, right?”
You sigh. “Ah. I missed most of the matches that day because I had my tutoring job, but, oof, that final was a real—”
When you casually turn to Hobi, he’s somehow smiling softly at you from two points in time: here and now at this admittedly weird dinner, and from the center of the tennis court, as he drops his racquet, having just scored a beautiful ace that sliced through the night air like a falling star, the camera flashes accompanying it like more galaxies in the distance.
You always found it strange that his eyes chose to land on you to celebrate that amazing moment.
Strange, but… stirring.
“A real what?” Yeong-ja asks, furrowing her brow, and lowering her voice.
She’s clearly sensing danger of some sort, but you don’t know what it is that you’re sensing. And you don’t know what the guys are sensing either, as they watch you and Hobi awkwardly tumble back into the present.
“Um, a real nailbiter,” you say.
You lean back in your seat as Hobi leans back in his.
When did either of you lean forward?
“So that carnation,” Yeong-ja circles back. “It wasn’t from yeobo?”
You look back over to Yoongi, who’s rolling his eyes.
“I was just delivering them,” Hobi finally explains. “Volunteering with student council. The carnations were our school tradition for Valentine’s Day.” He looks over at Yoongi, who’s now reaching for his whisky. His voice is quieter when he says, “I was just delivering Yoongi’s message.”
Yeong-ja finally sits back in her own seat. “Hmm.”
As the raw roast dinner turns into a burnt pie and watery coffee dessert, Jin reaches for his fourth whisky. “This is so good,” he announces to the table. “You just had this on-hand?”
“Oh!” you smile happily and fold your napkin carefully on your lap. “It’s actually from my father’s collection!”
Fond looks appear on the guys’ faces as they clamor for some updates, and you’re excited to report that he’s doing very, very well.
“He remembers that you all visited him in the hospital,” you tell them. Your eyes land on Hobi again, like they so often have been doing as the night has progressed. “You really cheered him up while he was there.”
“That man from a few years ago?” Yeong-ja asks, looking across the table at Hobi. “You said he was a friend?”
“He is a friend,” Hobi says happily.
“Well, he’d love to see you,” you say. “All of you. It really took his mind off things. He’s grateful for the time you spent with him.” You smile meaningfully. “And I’m grateful.”
“Hospitals can be pretty miserable places,” Hobi agrees. “Talking with him and your mother took my mind off of things, too.”
Yeong-ja’s lips thin even more as she mashes them together.
“Speaking of which, I should go,” you say, sudden awareness creeping in, your stomach somehow feeling how much the time has shifted. “I’d like to catch my parents while they’re still up. Say goodnight. Spend some time with them.”
“I can give you a ride!” Jin offers eagerly, though you suspect it’s less out of chivalry and more for the chance at an escape.
You chuckle. “Are you even able to drive?” You look at the rest of the group. “Are any of you able to drive?”
“Generally? Yes. Tonight? Well…” Jin says, looking over at an already asleep Jungkook and Taehyung.
“I liked walking anyway,” you say, glad that your scenery isn’t chock-full of skyscrapers or bumper-to-bumper traffic or gaudy airport lounges. “The air here feels good in my lungs.”
“A walk sounds nice,” Yoongi replies. “Let’s all walk with you.”
“Does she need a whole procession?” Yeong-ja scoffs. “And of idiots, no less?”
“You can stay,” Jimin says, somehow a little too directly, and still, given the hit, a little too nicely.
Yeong-ja huffs and stands. “No, why don’t you boys go escort our lovely guest home, and I’ll just put everything away by myself. I’m more than used to it.”
Hobi’s sudden defense startles even her. “Yeobo. We always offer to help you. With everything.”
You feel more than just the passing of time in your stomach. You feel a knot forming, and so do the rest of the guys, that strange air starting to seep back into the room.
Yeong-ja’s eyes narrow at Hobi. “Yeah, but you and your stooges always do it wrong.”
“If you’re gonna make such a big deal about it, then we’ll stay and help clean up,” Hobi says firmly.
You, Jin, Jimin, and Yoongi start to stack your dishes, the piles uneven due to how full of food they still are.
“No,” Yeong-ja says firmly. She turns to you. “Since we’ve stolen so much time from you and your parents, why don’t you go on and head home?”
Yoongi sighs and turns to you. “Here, why don’t I walk with—”
Yeong-ja tucks her chair in, the arms knocking against the underside of the table. “Hobi here can cool off by escorting her home,” she says, with venom. “You can even say hi to your friend.” She stands. “In fact, take the rest of the pie. And the rest of you, do your best to help me with these dishes without breaking anything. Taehyung, Jungkook—” She walks over and shakes them awake. “Time to clean up.”
Jin downs another swig of whisky as everyone starts following her orders.
As you stand, Yoongi secretly grabs your folded napkin from your lap and gives you a small smile. “Please tell your father hi from all of us,” he requests. “We’ll try to see him while we’re in town.”
Nervous and apologetic smiles. Half-hearted thank-yous for dinner. And then, you’re left to walk into the front room alone, listening to the rest of the group snipe at each other as they clear the table.
It’s a lot to take in, especially when paired with the look of annoyance on Hobi’s face, as he exits the kitchen with the pie tin and walks toward the closet for your coats.
He doesn’t miss the look of consternation on your face, either. “Fun hang,” he says sarcastically.
You chuckle, and with the warmest voice you can muster, you say, “Always, with this group.”
Hobi’s hand lingers on the closet doorknob. You think you see a reflection of his smile.
He opens the closet and starts to sort through all the wool, leather, and fleece. Your idle eyes take in the front room, and you notice the yearbook on the hallway table.
You wonder where yours is.
Hobi startles you when he pops up at your side, offering both your trench coat and the pie tin.
You awkwardly go for the pie tin first, and then change your mind and go for the coat, until Hobi laughs at his own ineptness. “Sorry, that was— I didn’t mean to— haha, um— here!”
He extends the pie tin to you.
After you take it, you both look at your trench coat, still in Hobi’s hands.
“And, uh, here, let me,” he offers clumsily.
Your trench coat magically open, lining out, shoulders perfectly even with yours, fabric billowing out in one sweeping, matador-like motion. You smile to yourself as you think about Hobi’s graceful tennis serve. The fluidity to his dancing. It’s something to appreciate. A person better with movements than with words.
“Thanks,” you reply, turning your back to him and moving your hair over your shoulder.
He knows it’s a mistake the minute he offers, but he follows-through, helping you slip the coat on, smiling to himself as you place your free arm in one sleeve, and transfer the pie tin to free up the other. He watches the back of your exposed rose earring catch the light as you move. “I remember those,” he says quietly.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
You aren’t sure why you’re blushing, but you feel your cheeks glow when you feel Hobi reach for your hair, gathering it to straighten your collar, and letting it fall back over your trench coat.
You turn around and face him.
“Remember what?” you ask, beaming unexpectedly.
“Those earrings,” he tells you, matching your smile watt for watt. “You used to wear them for, like, special things.”
“How did you know?” you ask, surprised.
Hobi smiles and bites his lip, as if eager to share a secret. He blinks a couple of times to think, and then he sees the yearbook you were just flipping through. He reaches over for it and turns to one of the first dog-eared pages. He points out the row that contains your senior picture, hair tucked behind your ears, both rose earrings on full display.
You click your teeth at the thought of your sweet mother as you run a finger over your picture.
And then you look up at him.
You linger.
“Ah, my coat!” he says suddenly.
He turns around and walks back over to the closet.
And you choke down the strange question that you were going to ask.
Why that page was dog-eared, when his senior picture was on the page before it.
Hobi insists on carrying the pie tin after all, needing something in his hands to occupy himself. There’s no telling where they might be otherwise. In his pockets, sweating. Bumping against yours awkwardly as you walk. Yearning to grab your right in his left.
You clear his thoughts away for a moment when you ask, “You guys get to see each other often?”
“We still talk all the time,” he starts, weirdly nervously, “but everyone’s always away and working.”
He shares the details that you thought you’d get over dinner. Namjoon you already know a little about, having seen him on political commentary shows while waiting to board flights. Hobi’s details for the others start to fill your fuzzy sketches with rich color. Jin can hold more than his fair share of whisky, with a sommelier’s palate like his. Jungkook’s perceptive eyes and freestyle wrestling career have led to a buzzing career in sports production. Taehyung can technically work from anywhere given the right setup, but he feels his best voice acting happens in his favorite booth at the studio. Jimin’s clothing boutique is getting ready to open a third location, and while the expansion is exciting, it’s also nerve-wracking. And Yoongi started his non-profit organization years ago, but it’s only now that he and his traveling troupe of traditional dancers and musicians have received the kind of grants and donations that allow them to share stories on a broad scale.
“They always make it home for the holidays, though,” Hobi adds, smiling.
He takes the pie tin in his left hand and crouches a little to clear some snow-weighted branches, placing his right forearm over your head so that nothing falls on you.
You wonder what having that forearm around is like on a more regular basis. Would your stockings have ripped if, instead of you kicking it to hold it open, Hobi had been there to hold your car door open for you?
His right hand snaps back onto the pie tin. “Everyone was glad to see you,” he goes on.
“Yeah?” you laugh.
“Yeah,” Hobi admits, “Yoongi mentioned the whole thing at the pharmacy in the group chat.” He looks at you thoughtfully. “How does it feel to be home?”
“It’s strange,” you say, wondering if your brain is a little obsessed with that word tonight. “Like…” You look over to Hobi, unable to place him anywhere except this town. “Well, have you traveled much?”
“Not really.” He raises his eyebrows. “We did go south to the coast to visit my parents earlier this year for a long weekend.”
“OK then,” you nod, “maybe you know what I mean. How it’s kind of like you’re in a parallel universe.” You feel your new stockings on your legs. “Nothing gets lost in translation, but their local brand names and store chains feel odd on your tongue when you say them.”
“Same but different.” Hobi smiles. “Parallel universes.” So that’s where you’ve been, he thinks. Exploring galaxies.
“Wait—” Your elbow juts out and taps his, and he feels confetti explode all around him. “Where are your parents now?”
“Oh, uh.” Hobi clears the squeak from his throat. “They usually come back to the house for the holidays, but this year, they’re overseas for a few months visiting my sister and her family…” Hobi sees in his mind’s eye Yeong-ja and Ji-woo louring at each other over a dinner not unlike the one you’ve just had. “We decided to chill here. Have a bit of a quiet holiday for a change.” He pushes his lips out again. “Or, at least, that was the plan.”
He shakes his head and lets the winter air wash out more of the brandy-fogged thoughts from his brain. When he does, he remembers something you said earlier, and it warms him more than the brandy did. Almost burns him. He had forgotten how simultaneously thrilling and exhausting it is to remember everything you say.
“Anyway, you just got in today?” He dares to turn to you. “You said you got distracted on your way here?”
Your eyes grow with excitement, beautiful and happy. “Yeah! I— I actually think it’s around this corner…”
You quicken your pace a little and look around the bend.
“There!”
You point over to a mural painted on the side of an old brick store. It might have been a clothing store or a bookstore when you were growing up, but now, it’s probably something else.
Hobi smiles, watching you take it in. “Wanna see it up close?”
The two of you look both ways to cross the street, even though the roads have long been empty for the evening. And you scamper over, even though the sidewalk is more ice than concrete during this time of year.
The mural depicts the main square of the town, including city hall, the smattering of surrounding restaurants and shops, and the sun rising brilliantly in the distance, bathing the town in purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows, so much like the scenes you saw on your peaceful, solitary, early morning walks to school.
“I hadn’t seen this before,” you say, pressing a hand to the brick.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been back,” Hobi remarks.
You glance over at him and grin.
“I mean, y-y’know, like you said. And this mural has been here for a while, so, like, of course you haven’t seen it…” Hobi uneasily kicks at some snow, the toggles at the bottom of his coat bouncing.
The shell of him is a dapper, considerate gentleman, but so many of the boyish wisps of the younger Hobi you knew still seem to be there. His cheeks even puff up the same way when his lips pull together to grin happily at your warm gaze.
And his cheeks fall when yours suddenly do.
“Yeah, I’ve… I’ve been a little overwhelmed at work,” you confess. “I couldn’t even get home to see my father until months after his stroke. And I only stayed for a week.” You turn to Hobi. “I, uh, work in finance. I don’t know if I said.”
“You didn’t really get the chance to,” Hobi says bitterly. His eyes grow shallow, and he takes a breath, letting the air, your air, fill his lungs. “But you didn’t have to, though. Your father bragged about you,” he laughs. “To everyone in the hospital. To everyone in the town. He still does. Fancy schmancy Economics degree.” His cheeks puff up again, with your reflected starlight from all the galaxies you’ve been visiting. “Is it really bragging when we all knew you’d go on to do such amazing things?”
You lower your eyes and kick at some snow yourself, the guilt starting to feel less like a weight on your shoulders and more like the town’s overly positive murmurs, hidden in their quick, surprised-to-see-you glances.
“What’s amazing?” you ask. “Crazy hours? No time with family? It’s not as big of a deal as it sounds, believe me.” Your eyes settle back on Hobi. “Let’s talk more about you. What do you do?” You laugh nervously. “God, that sounds so cringey. I’m sorry. I can’t believe I don’t know.”
Hobi shrugs. “Not much to know. Just data entry. For the city.” He walks over to city hall on the mural, pointing to the west side. “My office is somewhere in here.” He smiles. “But I also volunteer on the community board. We’re the ones who painted this mural, actually.”
“Really?” you ask brightly. You think of Hobi volunteering with the student council. Always helping. “Well, it’s absolutely gorgeous. You captured everything just the way I remembered it. It felt like a portal to the past. I couldn’t stop staring.”
When you finally tear your eyes away, you find Hobi gazing at you.
Your eyes lock for a time.
Why do your lips feel tingly?
Maybe it’s because you feel like there are other things that Hobi wants to say.
What he chooses is, “Well, let’s get you home.”
The pie tin crinkles as Hobi grips it tighter and slowly starts back toward the path to your house.
You kind of wish he’d stay put.
Maybe that’s the sort of thing you have to navigate when you’re with someone who’s better with movements than with words.
Walking wordlessly with Hobi isn’t terrible, though. It’s been years, and you don’t really know him all that well. Whatever you did know kind of eroded with time. Yet, there’s a certain comfort that he brings. A comfort in somehow knowing. You don’t care how he knows the path to your house. You’re just thankful that he knows it, turning a blind eye when you momentarily doubt yourself on whether to go right or left at any given moment.
You see that your parents left the porch lights on for you, but you can tell that the TV is still on in the living room.
“Good thing,” you say to the blue and white shadows dancing on the window that you and your cousin broke when you were kicking the soccer ball around.
“Huh?” Hobi asks.
“I don’t have my own set of keys,” you laugh. “It’s a good thing my parents are still awake.”
Hobi chuckles, watching you snake up the clear side of the walkway, covered by a short ledge jutting out from the roof, and climbing the porch steps.
He mimics your steps, but he’s perfectly happy standing in the ankle-deep snow, just before the bottom step.
You knock on the front door, polite even at your own home, and your parents are there in seconds, throwing it open and hugging you just like when you had first arrived into town.
Your father’s eyes catch Hobi just behind you.
“Hey! Hoseok!” your father exclaims.
Hobi smiles and gives a little wave.
“Come up here,” you invite, extending your hand out.
Hobi waits for a moment, and then nods. He’s never come this far before. He wants to remember every detail. How the wood of your porch steps feel under his feet. How much snow shakes off with his weight. How warm it must be inside your house, given the wave washing over him through the still-open front door. How your hands are never ice cold, even when they’re reaching out to brush some snow that had fallen from the overhang of that ledge gutter and onto his neck.
“You OK?” you laugh, as your mother extends her similarly warm hand as well.
“I’m fine,” he chuckles, as you both brush him off. His eyes find your father’s. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”
“Good to see you, too,” your father cheers, clapping a hand on Hobi’s shoulder.
Hobi is so overwhelmed that he just shoves the pie tin toward your father, who looks at you, amused, but confused.
“Hobi was kind enough to walk me home and bring us some pie,” you explain, as your father accepts the gift.
“A thank you for the whisky,” Hobi replies, tasting some of it on his tongue.
“You finish the whole bottle?” your father asks.
“More or less,” Hobi admits, worried.
Your father turns to you and smiles. “Good!”
Hobi finally starts to relax when your mother takes the pie tin from your father and adds, “You’ll have to join us for dinner some time, then.”
Both your and Hobi’s stomachs growl at the prospect of any dinner, though yours growls stronger, knowing how good of a cook she is.
Dinner reminds Hobi of duty, though, and it starts to call him back. “I’ll let my fiancee know,” he’s sure to say.
“Are the boys still in town?” your father asks. “Maybe we can find a time before they leave? Open up another bottle in my collection?” You’ve never seen him so jovial.
“They’d absolutely love to see you.” Hobi extends his hand for a handshake, and he finds your father’s hands to be the warmest. He smiles happily. “I’ll round them up.” He turns to your mother and smiles gratefully, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he nods toward you. “Thanks for sparing her for a night.”
Your mother chuckles, charmed. “Thanks for the pie. We’ll go put this inside,” she says, holding up the tin and placing a guiding hand on your father’s shoulder.
When left alone, you and Hobi lock eyes again. The cold is so bitter. You wonder if he feels it, too. Curious things, his eyes. Bright, yet sad.
Yours, too, Hobi thinks. The way you gravitated toward the mural and its sunnier, warmer days. He wonders what else might’ve tumbled out, had you both kept talking. Maybe that means leaving right there and then was for the better.
He holds out his hand. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “It was fun catching up.”
“It was.” You tilt your head at Hobi’s hand. Instead of taking it, you look up at him and ask, “Am I gonna see you again?” The way it sounds coming out of your mouth. You’re getting flustered. “I mean, the gang?” You feel yourself blushing. “Before whatever my mother plans for dinner?”
Hobi’s hand slowly falls back to his side. “Oh. Um, I don’t know.” His lips wrinkle, and his teeth start chewing nimbly, as if stripping flesh from fishbone, needing to be delicate and careful lest he get cut. “The community board has a lot of projects leading up to Christmas, so I’ll be sorta busy.” His eyes deepen as he tacks on, “But it’d be cool if we did get to see each other again at some point.”
“Cool,” you say, nodding. “Um, well… night.”
And then, you do the unexpected. The unthinkable.
You hug him.
You wrap your arms around him and actually hold him close to you.
And he holds you in return. Bodies pressed up against each other.
Strange.
Stirring.
You pull away, transformed.
But Hobi somehow looks the same. He looks the same as he’s always looked. And he looks at you the same way he did from the center of the tennis court. He looks at you the way he’s always looked at you.
“Night,” he says quietly.
He turns on his heel in one exquisite motion and heads down your porch steps, leaving the way you both came.
As you walk inside and close the door behind you, you stare at the empty hallway, hearing your parents digging into the apple pie, and then subsequently commenting disappointedly that it’s over-baked. Between their verdict and the clatter of their spoons in the sink, you take a moment to climb the stairs and look around your room and see more than just the new bedspread that your mother prepared for you, or the suitcase you dragged along with you. You see all the things that made it your room.
Including your senior yearbook.
You walk over to your bookshelf. You don’t know what tells you to look at the inside of the back cover, but you do.
Taehyung told you to have a great summer. Jin signed his name in huge, looping letters. Jungkook drew your school mascot giving you the finger. Jimin signed his name and decorated it with little stars and silly, smiley faces. Namjoon wrote a long and touching message about how heartwarming and meaningful it is that you both got to share time together in this journey called life. And, given your choice of major, Yoongi drew a picture of Karl Marx frowning disapprovingly and telling you, “Booooooo”.
But written there, in small, uneven handwriting, sitting like a whisper in the bottom corner, is a message from Hobi that reads, “Wishing that all your dreams come true.”
Your parents call down for you, asking if you want any coffee.
But before you can answer, you mumble a quiet, simple, surprised, “…Huh.”
Just as Hobi is turning the second corner that completely hides your house from sight, staring down and following his ice-cold feet while whispering to himself, “…Shit.”
Your mother’s smiling face greets you happily.
Too happily.
“Don’t you love this bedspread?” she sighs. “400-count thread. And it’s bamboo!”
“Early,” you croak, rolling over in bed and hiding from the sun. “Loud.”
“You have a visitor,” she whispers, pulling your arm out from under the covers.
“Tell them to come back later!” you groan, snapping your arm back inside. You all may still look relatively like your teenage selves, but hangovers in your 30s are a million times worse.
“Hurry up!” your mother insists. “It’s one of the boys! That cute, shrewd, little one! He’s been waiting!”
You try to make yourself as presentable as possible, tying your hair up as you waddle down the stairs and startle to find a catastrophic-looking Yoongi leaning in your front doorway.
“You remembered?” you ask sleepily.
Yoongi tries not to lean too hard on the double meaning when he answers, “Project.”
You start to remember, too. During the last semester of your senior year, Yoongi spent a few Saturdays walking to your house, sitting at your kitchen table, and fighting you on every paragraph and slide in your Economics project, as he ate the taquitos and pizza bagels your mother would make for you.
“Saw your dad a minute ago,” Yoongi mumbles, his voice rumbling from his chest and scraping everything upwards along with it. As painful as it sounds for him to speak, his voice is still smooth and pleasant to your ears. “He looks well.”
“Mmhmm,” you say, offering a bit of a smile as you scratch your shoulder and open your mouth wide.
Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut at your ensuing yawn, the force of all of your tired muscles jam-packed into one fierce wall of sound. As you force the rest out in a breath through rounded lips, the top of the bridge of his nose crinkles.
Wincing, you whisper, “Sorry.”
“Nope,” he winces. “Me. I’m sorry. To wake you.”
When Yoongi opens his eyes again, you offer more of a smile, now that your face can handle it. “I’m happy to see you,” you reassure him. More of your thoughts threaten to spill out, but you grab them just before they leap off the tip of your tongue. Instead of asking how Hobi is, or where he is, or why he’s not there with him, you manage to say, “Had fun last night. Thanks for inviting me.”
Yoongi’s eyes give you a skeptical once over, a look that sends you right back into your classroom, when your teacher preached on the benefits of trickle-down economics.
“You know why I invited you to that awkward as fuck dinner, right?” he asks.
Is that what this is? An attempt at an explanation of some sort? If an explanation is needed, it definitely doesn’t need to come from Yoongi, and it certainly doesn’t need to be delivered to you. “I mean,” you begin to point out, “it’s not your fault that dinner was awkward as fuck.”
“But do you know why I invited you?” he asks. “And why it was awkward to begin with?”
You blink heavily to clear your eyes and get a better look at him. He leans forward a little, slumping around your wall, shoulders hunched and neck bending this way and that to see if your parents are around.
“Really,” Yoongi sighs as he straightens and mulls things over. “So we’re doing this.”
Yoongi always was a master of intrigue.
“What are you talking about?” you ask.
He seems aggravated. “I’ve got another invitation for you,” he says. “Come have breakfast with us at the diner by city hall. We were planning on just walking around town and shooting the shit.” Yoongi grimaces. “Nurse our hangovers together.”
“OK,” you say, nodding your head at the prospect of bacon, bread, and Bloody Marys.
You reach for your trench coat on the hook and wrap it around you, fingers too sleepy or lazy to worry about buttons, clumsy fists saving them by tying your belt tight around your waist.
You’re pretty sure Yoongi’s stride wasn’t like this in high school. Was it always this fast? Aside from his time on the court, your memories of him contain more of a lackadaisical, almost comical, mosey. Yet, on this morning, flames might as well be melting the snow in Yoongi’s wake.
“Can we— Can slow down?” you gently ask, your breath fogging, and your eyes squinting to keep the sunlight out.
“Actually, can you speed up?” Yoongi asks, burdened.
You stop in your tracks, on the same part of the sidewalk where you liked to draw your hopscotch squares. “I’m sorry, are you annoyed with me?” You frown. “You don’t have to feel obligated to invite me to things just because we knew each other forever ago.”
Yoongi sighs and whirls around, marching back to you and huffing.
“You mean you’re not just playing dumb given the circumstances?” he demands. “You really don’t know?”
“I don’t know what I did to deserve whatever this is,” you challenge.
Yoongi slumps. He scratches his head. “Ah, OK, I’m sorry… It’s just that…”
In all the time that it took to get to you that morning — the shower he took, the shave he had, the headache, and the groaning, and the stumbling over his friends’ sleeping bodies, and the finding clothes to borrow, and the painful, cold walk to your house — Yoongi still hadn’t decided whether he was going to tell you, but here it comes, thoughts spilling out of his mouth rather than yours.
“Hobi was really glad to see you,” he says, in the softer voice that you’re more familiar with.
You stiffen at the mention of Hobi’s name. “Well, that’s good,” you manage to squeak.
“No, but he was, like, really glad to see you.” Yoongi watches as the muscles in your cheeks, where the yeonji gonji might go, tighten and dimple happily. “And it seems like you were really glad to see him, too.”
You take back the smile and force a frown.
Yoongi narrows his eyes back at you.
But then you surrender.
“My mother said you were shrewd,” you admit.
Yoongi’s eyes stay narrow, but that smug smirk makes its first of what will likely be a million appearances for the day.
“As are you,” he says. “So forgive me for being so frustrated to find out that after all of these years, you have never so much as suspected that Hobi was, and still is, madly in love with you.”
Hobi sneaks his fingers behind his round, black frames and rubs his eyes in insistent circles. Everything is still way too blurry.
Jimin rolls his eyes and leans forward, snatching the glasses from their perch on Hobi’s nose. He pushes two, throaty, open-mouth breaths that condense on the lenses and starts wiping them down using the soft hem of a borrowed tennis team sweatshirt.
“Aw, now my sweatshirt is gonna have stains on it,” Hobi groans.
Namjoon leans forward to reach for the cream and sugar at the end of the table, but the collision with Jungkook’s elbow spills syrup on both of their borrowed musical show shirts, remnants splashing onto the text denoting Hobi’s dance captain status on Namjoon’s version. Immediately after impact, Namjoon blinks at Jungkook, and then they blink at Hobi.
“Why are you all even wearing my stuff??” Hobi complains, as Namjoon and Jungkook reach for napkins, and Hobi yanks off his baseball cap, scratching his head in annoyance before replacing it higher on the crown of his head. Presumably to vent more of the angry fumes.
“We needed to change,” Taehyung says innocently, wide-eyed and soft-voiced, banana chocolate chip muffin bites clumped in his left cheek, and banana chocolate chip muffin crumbs falling onto the stitching of the borrowed Senior Class of 2006 shirt.
“So you went into my attic?!” Hobi grunts with aggravation. “You have clothes! At your houses!”
Jimin nods along, handing Hobi his glasses back. “Yeah, and we crashed at your house, so—”
“We’re getting distracted!” Jin snaps, rolling up the sleeves of Hobi’s student council hoodie and leaning forward. He meets Hobi’s eyes and furrows his brow. “Tell us again what events you’re volunteering for so that we get the schedule exactly right.”
“I ask you every year if you want to volunteer, and you all always bail,” Hobi says.
Jimin pushes a plate of bacon towards him. “We definitely want to help this year,” he says, with an earnest, knowing grin. “Promise.”
Hobi sighs, relenting at the smell of that crispy, applewood bacon, sourced ethically and locally from the nearby farm. “Fine.” He reaches for a strip and chews on it as he talks. “It’s really just the three big ones that need the most volunteers: the winter carnival tonight, carol singing tomorrow for Christmas Eve, and the play on Christmas Day.”
Jimin looks like he immediately regrets being so earnest.
“What do you need us to do?” Namjoon asks, as Jungkook clumps their syrupy napkins together.
Hobi tilts his head toward the square outside, where people are already starting to set up. “Well, there are still a few carnival booths that don’t have back-up support. We want two people at each station so that people can take breaks or manage bigger crowds. Especially for the hot chocolate booth.”
“OK, so we’ll manage the remaining booths,” Jin says, nodding. “What about the carol singing?”
“Just want more people to join,” Hobi says. “All your usual standards. No practice or anything.” He smiles a little, just for himself. “We’ll be singing by the mural.”
“Done,” Jin continues. “And the play?”
“Need people to be around to help out generally,” Hobi answers. “Hand people props. Make sure kids don’t fall off the stage.” He slumps a little. “Spread the word, so that there’s actually an audience.”
“Is it The Twelve Days of Christmas?” Jungkook asks eagerly.
“It’s always The Twelve Days of Christmas,” Taehyung yawns.
Jungkook hums happily and wiggles side-to-side in his seat.
“Where’s Yoongi?” Hobi wonders suddenly. “I don’t want to rattle off all these details again just for him to put it to a vote.”
Jimin grins again, that same knowing smile. “Oh, don’t worry, Hobi. You know how good he is with plans.”
You usually like walking in complete silence, but you’ve never walked in complete silence with someone before. You’ve only traveled a couple of miles, but you almost expect to look over and see your empty apartment rather than the diner edging into view.
Suddenly, you find yourself bursting with questions.
“Love?”
“Love.”
Yoongi stares straight ahead, hearing Hobi’s voice listing every single thing that he loves about you. He echoes each sentence, starting with the little things, like how Hobi loves the way your smile widens first at your right cheek, and then at your left, and ending with the big things, like how Hobi wishes that you’d be a little looser. That, if you’d let your ultimately petty anxieties and frustrations go, maybe you’d feel lighter.
“H-he knows that about me?” you stutter.
“There’s a power to his observations, isn’t there?” Yoongi says with reverence.
You almost feel Hobi’s gaze on you now. Warming you. Protecting you from the odd arctic blast shuffling through the vent in your trench coat, or through the strands of Yoongi’s hair.
“But why me?” you mumble.
Yoongi searches through the responses that he’d memorized over the years, from the high school admiration to the off-hand mentions of you throughout the years since. “Because you’re his Dream Girl,” Yoongi finishes, simply shrugging.
How you could be anybody’s Dream Girl is beyond you.
“He’s in there?” you ask nervously. “Right now?”
Yoongi just nods, though you see that his smirk is still in full effect.
“He told you how he felt?”
“I just gave you the CliffsNotes.”
Even with Yoongi rattling off the proof, you ask, “And he still feels this way?”
Yoongi’s head exaggeratedly rolls around with a furiatingly mocking circumference. “Oh yeah.”
“He told you that he still feels this way?” you clarify.
After years of clutch free-throws and three-pointers, Yoongi’s long been able to mask his flinches expertly, reincorporating them into the motion he wants, which at this point, is an elegant turn, as he faces you and walks backwards.
“Can’t you tell?” he asks.
You finally let yourself smile, your heart filling and threatening to overflow. But the tap shuts off. You’re the one who turns the knob.
“But… it’s too late,” you say quietly. The strange energy with which Hobi sent you into the sky must dissipate somewhere, and you suspect that Yeong-ja isn’t exactly welcoming the blast.
Yoongi’s eyes meet yours. “This kind of thing is unshakeable. I’ve never seen someone more in love, and he just happens to be in love with you.”
You sigh. “What’s the point of bringing this all up now?” you ask, tamping down the erratic pulse in your veins. “This is an impossible situation. I feel guilty even entertaining any sort of thought that—” You shake your head. “I don’t even want to talk about this anymore.”
As Yoongi swivels his hips to cross the main street with you, a self-assured “OK” falls from his lips, which then form a grin. “But I’m telling you. I don’t think this is the end of it.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Bet?”
“Against an economist?”
Yoongi’s nostrils flare. “Scared to put your reputation on the line?”
You glower. “Bet.”
“I guess we’ll see, then.” Yoongi chuckles. “Dream Girl.”
Eyes narrowing, you spit out, “You know, my mother also calls you the little one.”
“Not little in the ways that count.” Yoongi’s confidence is magnificently enticing. “That’s not all your mom said, though, is it?”
You roll your eyes.
Yoongi reaches out for the handle and holds the diner door open for you.
“Go on. What else does she say about me?” he teases.
You sigh, unable to help it. “That you’re cute,” you mumble.
As you walk inside, he serves you a toothy, gummy grin, with a side of a winningly arched eyebrow.
You feel Hobi’s eyes on you as soon as you clear the booth wall by the entrance.
Hobi’s head swivels toward the group, and all of their heads lean into the center of the table.
“What is she doing here??” Hobi whispers. “If Yeong-ja so much as sniffs her anywhere on me—”
“Who said she’d be on you?” Jin teases, making Hobi turn scarlet. “Besides. After last night, we felt that we owed her a decent meal.”
You miss all of this as Yoongi chats with you, leading you to their favorite table.
“Have a seat. Anywhere you like,” Jimin offers, as Yoongi pulls out the two chairs closest to you, and you smile at the subtle dig.
“Oh, that’s OK,” you hesitate. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“We ordered for 8,” Taehyung insists, as Jungkook nods, his mouth full of pancakes. “And there’s more coming.”
Jungkook tries to say something, bits of pancake fluff sticking out of his mouth.
You look at him, quizzically charmed.
“We got one of everything,” Taehyung translates, as Jimin laughs softly and rubs the crown of Jungkook’s head with his hand.
As you take a seat next to Yoongi, you grin at the entire group, unable to tell whether you’re really seeing them, or flipping through more pictures from your yearbook. “Hang on. Why are you all wearing Hobi’s high school stuff?”
Hobi has been gazing at you this entire time, a soft smile on his lips. When you turn to him for an answer, he looks startled.
“Oh, uh,” he garbles, sitting up and blinking.
“Suffice to say we’re all still hungover,” Jin replies, nodding insistently at Hobi. “In fact, Hobi was just asking why you were here.” Jin bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. “Right?”
“Uh, y-yeah, I just was… well I was asking because I didn’t expect you to see you here because, uh…” Hobi looks at you so worriedly that you can’t help but smile again. He settles into his body, knees no longer bouncing, speech no longer rushed. “I mean, we walked home kinda late. And we had all that whisky. So I thought you might want to sleep in.”
He gazes at you, and you feel the whisky in your veins.
“Did you sleep OK?” he asks.
A hush falls over the group as they wait for your response.
You let yourself gaze back only for a moment when you say, “I did.” You look at the rest of the group to make sure you don’t cross any boundaries. “I was basically out as soon as my head hit the pillow.” You yawn and push out the rest of your sentence. “Thanks for inviting me to breakfast. Even though I didn’t get the memo about the dress code.”
“Aw, you look great,” Hobi says softly. “Like always.”
Your head automatically turns to him, and your lips automatically smile gratefully. “Well, that’s…”
You catch Yoongi wiggling his eyebrows at you in your periphery, and you crinkle your nose. “That’s very nice of you to say, Hobi. But I definitely don’t.” You laugh sheepishly. Self-deprecation is only making you cuter. “I haven’t even showered yet! So gross!”
Your neck stretches out from your trench coat’s collar as you take your hair down, shaking it free, and back, away from the table.
“See? So greasy!”
You scratch your head and lean your neck to your left to give it a stretch before flipping your hair the other way to re-do your bun. The stretch feels so good that a little bit of a satisfied hum comes through your pressed lips.
The guys watch you with rapt attention.
And then they all slowly turn to Hobi, barely able to contain themselves.
Flushed, Hobi jumps to his feet, his knees hitting the underside of the table and rattling everyone’s plates. “Cool, well, I’ve gotta go!” he says suddenly, dragging his voice up from the floor with a struggle. “We, uh, have a project—”
The guys start snickering.
“A community project, uh meeting,” Hobi spits out.
“Hobi just recruited us to volunteer at the winter carnival tonight,” Namjoon tells you. He grins evilly. “Would you wanna join us?”
The group falls over themselves, trying to get you to say yes, even starting to chant “Yes”, as Jungkook slowly choo-choo-trains a plate of blueberry waffles across the table toward you.
Laughing, and even though you catch Yoongi’s smug face again, you say, “Uh… sure?”
Hobi’s eyes widen.
There’s a chance butterflies might escape as you look up at Hobi and open your mouth to ask, “What do you need volunteers for?”
Before Hobi can backpedal, Namjoon says, “Wanna sling hot chocolate with me?”
Feeling safe knowing that you’ll be with Namjoon all evening, you nod and say, “Hot chocolate sounds perfect. We’ll be able to stay warm.”
Namjoon looks back at Hobi. “So warm.”
“Alright, well, sort the rest of the booths out amongst yourself, and I’ll see you all tonight!” Hobi says quickly, shoving his hand into his back pocket. He pulls out some indeterminate amount of cash and hands it to Jin angrily.
Jin’s high-pitched giggles chase Hobi as he rushes out of the diner. As he arranges the bills into a neat stack in his hands, Jin turns back to you and says, “Well, looks like breakfast is on him. Wanna order anything else?”
“No, I think I’ll just get some coffee to go,” you reply. “Bring some back for my parents.” You turn to Namjoon. “I’ll meet you at the stand tonight?”
Namjoon gives you a dimple, and you laugh softly.
Jungkook nudges the blueberry waffles even closer to you. You stare at it a little, and then look at the six grinning faces around you. You take one and laugh lightly.
You place your other hand on Yoongi’s shoulder as you stand. Your eyes say, Nice try.
His eyes keep saying, We’ll see.
You get up and walk to the counter to order your coffee.
Unbeknownst to you, the guys watch as you munch on your blueberry waffle and fall in line, and then, when they’re absolutely sure you’re out of earshot, they crowd together, more of Hobi’s clothes getting sugar and coffee and syrup and butter on them.
“You got the schedule?” Yoongi asks solemnly.
“Carnival tonight, carol singing tomorrow night, The Twelve Days of Christmas the night after that,” Jin answers.
Yoongi pulls out the piece of notebook paper that he was able to save the night before.
The piece of notebook paper that will hopefully save their Hobi.
“Project Dream Girl 2.0 has to right its predecessors’ wrongs if we have any chance of success,” he states firmly.
“The last plan was a semester long, and we failed. You really think we can do it in the next three days?” Taehyung asks.
“We’ve just gotta focus the energy,” Yoongi says. “And I think everyone can tell there’s a lot of energy.”
The group murmurs in agreement as he unfolds the paper, their collective writing, and some of Jungkook and Jimin’s doodling, further bridging the gap in time.
Yoongi taps on the main three points of the first project. “Obviously, the Valentine’s Day carnation thing was too subtle,” he says. “We played it too safe, or maybe we were trying to be too clever, pretending the message was from me. This won’t work if we don’t force more straightforward, direct interactions between Hobi and Dream Girl over there.”
They all glance your way, but you’re too busy finishing your waffle and catching up with the diner owner as you place and wait for your coffee order.
“We’ve gotta run interference,” Yoongi replies. “We have to keep Yeong-ja away at all times.”
“Ugh,” Jimin remarks. “Annoying.”
“But it makes sense,” Namjoon adds.
Yoongi moves onto the next bullet point. “Just asking her to attend the musical didn’t work either. She only went to one show, and she kept getting accosted by all of our teachers asking her about her college plans. So we’ve gotta make sure she stays engaged. Participates.”
“Got it,” Jungkook replies dutifully, as Taehyung crosses his arms and gives one, curt nod.
“We got the closest with the tennis match. That one came down to bad timing,” Yoongi replies. He mumbles the next words with zero remorse. “That tutoring job. Those stupid kids.” He takes a deep breath. “Hobi clearly needs help moving things along. We can help give context to things. Direct the conversation a bit. Get him to express himself more.” Yoongi smiles at Jin. “What you did earlier. Getting him to talk. All that saccharine shit that came out after. That was masterful.”
As Jimin mimics you tossing your hair again, and Jungkook gazes at him with hearts in his eyes, everyone laughs, and Jin smiles proudly. But definitely not humbly.
“So that’s it? That’s why we failed? It all came down to a lack of focus, and poor timing?” Taehyung asks. “Isn’t there anything else we can do?”
“Project Dream Girl’s biggest weakness wasn’t the timeline, or the strategy,” Yoongi says. “It was that Dream Girl wasn’t in on it.” He smiles. “And now, she kinda is.”
The group’s eyes find you again, starting to scoop up your three coffees, and turning to glance out the bay window, watching Hobi head toward city hall.
“Will they have hot toddies?” your father asks. “I like hot toddies. I even like the name. ‘Toddies’?” He sniffs.
“You just like the whisky,” your mother points out.
Your father’s train of thought keeps chugging. “Like, attractive, tiny guys named Todd?”
“Have you already had some today?” you ask from the backseat, making both of your parents laugh heartily.
Your father finds non-snow-covered-tree parking pretty easily, swooping into a spot not too far from the entrance to the carnival. They both get out of the car, but you frown and struggle with your door handle. “Appa!” you call out. “Eomma!” You knock on the glass window. “The child locks are on??”
“Ah, sorry,” your father apologizes before they walk too far. He walks back to the driver’s side and opens the door, pressing the button on the panel that will free you.
You step out of the car, looking much more presentable, and comfortable, in your jeans, sweater, puffy coat, and boots, the added shimmer of your highlighter and eyeshadow making you pop against the night sky, dotted with winter stars, and all sorts of Christmas twinkle and tea lights.
“Really?” you ask with a pout. “The child locks were still on when you dropped me off at school.”
Your father swings an arm around you and kisses the top of your head as the three of you head toward the carnival.
“After we get your hot toddy, we’d better get a head start on the food,” your mother replies excitedly, eyes widening. “Mrs. Park said she’d be making bungeo-ppang. And Mr. Gwan’s nearly perfected his new hodugwaja recipe.”
“He still runs the bakery?” you ask.
Your mother nods and runs a tongue across her lips in anticipation. She turns to your father. “If it’s as good as he was bragging about last week, I might leave you for him.”
“Hell, I might leave you for him,” your father says, raising his eyebrows and licking his lips as well.
“Well, you two have fun,” you laugh. “I’m gonna go find Namjoon.”
“Save us some hot chocolate for later!” your mother calls to you, as your father lovingly pokes her stomach and wonders aloud whether or not they’ll even have room for it by then.
It’s easy enough to navigate through the small crowd, and tall, broad, plaid button-upped and puffy-vested Namjoon isn’t exactly hard to miss, even while sitting down and hunched over the table at the hot chocolate booth.
“Hey,” you say, as you approach him.
He keeps his eyes on his laptop for a moment before scooting forward and pausing the video he is watching on his laptop. Turning to you and smiling happily, he says, “Oh, hey!” He turns into mush. “You look so pretty. Hobi’s gonna think so.”
You blush. “Huh?”
He stares at you with a goofy smile for a full minute before you slip your hands into the back pockets of your jeans, rise up on your tiptoes, look around awkwardly, and say, “Sooo…”
Namjoon startles and clears his throat. “Sorry! So, uh, where are your parents?”
“Walking around and checking things out,” you answer. “Getting food.”
“They’d better get to Mr. Gwan’s first,” Namjoon remarks. “He’s already about to run out, and the huge crowd hasn’t even hit yet.”
“Oh snap.” You pull your phone out from your coat pocket and text your mother quickly.
Luckily, she sends you a picture of her and your father in line, as Mr. Gwan happily prepares their order.
“They’ve secured the bag,” you say, grinning and showing Namjoon the adorable photo.
As Namjoon takes your phone from you and gushes at your parents, you put your phone back in your pocket and look around. The booth is fully stocked with twin, large, professional, metal hot chocolate dispensers, whipped cream cans, and big bowls of marshmallows, graham cracker dust, candy canes and peppermint shavings, and other toppings.
“Seems like this was an easy enough setup,” you comment, as Namjoon hands you back your phone.
“I didn’t do a thing, actually,” he admits. “And, apparently, all we have to do now is, uh… keep putting out cups, and make sure nobody steals anything, and, uh…” He looks up at the sky. “Uh… call the community board leader when we run out of hot chocolate, and… there was one more thing Jimin and I were supposed to do…”
You smile, raising your eyebrows slightly. “You OK there, Namjoon?”
“Oh, yeah! I’m goooood. I was just watching a movie. I thought we could watch something Christmas-y while working the booth.”
It’s only then, when Namjoon’s eyes snap back to yours, that you see how red his eyes are. He leans into you urgently. “OK, also? Full disclosure: my sister and I got high before we came here.” His wide eyes blink just once. “Please don’t be mad.”
“Mad?” You crack up laughing. “You got anymore?” you ask, wiggling your eyebrows.
Namjoon scratches the back of his head. “Ah, fuck, I’m sorry. We smoked the entire blunt.”
“Alright,” you joke, playfully rolling your eyes, “I won’t be mad if you save some for me next time.”
“You’re so much cooler than Yeong-ja,” Namjoon sighs contentedly.
You let the weird comment hang in the air, dodging it as you walk around the table and take the seat next to him. “Well then, what are we watching?” you ask.
Namjoon’s eyes light up. “It’s a series called Extreme Engineering Catastrophes!” he says excitedly.
“Very Christmas-y,” you comment.
“Well, I was watching one of those cheesy holiday movies a little while ago, but I got kinda bored,” he admits.
You chuckle as Namjoon unpauses the video, turns up the volume, catches you up on the current catastrophe, and fills in the details with his own notes, providing historical background that led to all the mayhem. Political influence. Labor protests. Forced shortcuts.
And Namjoon finds it refreshing that you actually ask questions. Usually, the guys literally leave him to his own devices.
You’re so absorbed that you don’t realize how quiet your stand has grown until someone asks, “Are there more cups?”
You and Namjoon look up and see Jimin, in one of his red, signature boutique sweaters, staring at Namjoon’s forehead, and tapping the bare table.
“Ah, right, more cups,” Namjoon says quickly.
“I think a shipment has just arrived,” Jimin tells him. “Maybe we can go, uh, get some.”
“Oh, I’ll go with you,” you offer.
“No, I’ll go,” Namjoon says, standing. “They might be heavy.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Paper cups?”
“Can you just hang out here in case anybody comes?”
“But… there aren’t any cups?” you point out.
“We can’t leave the booth unattended,” Namjoon dutifully recites. “I’ll be right back!”
Jimin leans over and does something with some strands of your hair, slightly moving them out of your face, and gives you a little wave before grabbing Namjoon by the elbow and talking quickly into his ear, the two of them scampering off into the thickening crowd.
You furrow your brow and look around your stand. There are unopened boxes of extra graham crackers, candy canes, and whipped cream cans. So there must be other things there, too.
You reach for the tablecloth and lift it up to check.
There are four boxes of 500-count paper cups under the table.
“Where’s Namjoon?”
You look back up and see Hobi standing there, frowning.
“He and Jimin went to go look for more cups, but…”
You bend over, top half disappearing under the table, missing the way Hobi’s eyes widen at the sight of your ass poking out and wiggling. You remerge with an already-opened box, just half of one sleeve of cups having been used, and hold it up, confused.
“…They’re right here?”
“Ugh,” Hobi sighs. “And Jimin was here, too? He went missing ages ago!”
He pulls out his phone to post a warning in the group chat.
Hobi (7:42 PM): If your two assholes don’t get back to your booths, I’m going to kill you!
Taehyung (7:42 PM): Who are you talking to?
Yoongi (7:42 PM): Whichever one of us has two assholes.
Jin (7:42 PM): 🤣
“Dammit!” Hobi exclaims suddenly. “They promised they were going to— All the booths are supposed to—”
Hobi runs through all the details he had covered that morning, anger starting to build in places of promises dismantled, an engineering disaster all its own.
But you soften him with one reassuring smile.
You rip open the rest of the sleeve of cups that you had pulled and start setting them out. At the sight of more cups, people start to head your way and make their own drinks.
“All the booths are supposed to what?” you ask, fanning out the accompanying paper cup holders.
Hobi huffs. “All the booths are supposed to have two people. Those idiots. I swear.”
You look at him, and for some reason, think of Yoongi’s smug grin.
Hobi sighs and joins you on the other side, grabbing another sleeve of cups and hastily setting them down.
“I’ll just hang here until he gets back, I guess,” he mumbles, looking around for snippy community board officials.
“Don’t let me keep you,” you insist.
“No, I…” Hobi trails off, when he sees your golden eyeshadow. “Um, I mean… I don’t… I don’t want to leave you…”
You tilt your head, the light shimmering off of your lids as you move.
“Alone!” Hobi adds quickly. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
You stand next to each other. Hovering. Smiling. Watching as people make their hot chocolate. Some stick with marshmallows, while others reach for the whipped cream. Some dump in everything but. One empties their flask first.
When the crowd dissipates, you turn to Hobi curiously and grin. “How do you make hot chocolate?” you ask.
Hobi rubs his eye behind his glasses, the top of his yellow beanie flitting back and forth. “Me?”
“Yeah,” you say. “What kind of toppings do you like to put on?”
“I’m a purist,” Hobi says defiantly.
“What!” You shake your head. “No. That won’t do.”
“Oh, it won’t?” Hobi laughs.
“Listen,” you say, reaching for two cups, “I get it.” You pour them three-fourths full, and then you center them between you. “I was a purist once. Didn’t even like the milk chocolate mixes. Only made it with 80% cacao.” You reach for the whipped cream cans and spiral two perfect clouds on top. “But there’s nothing wrong with having a little fun every once in a while, right?” you ask innocently, giving Hobi a wink.
Hobi wonders what it would be like to be able to freeze a moment. Not just take a picture of one. Actually freeze a moment. He wishes he could make it happen right then, when your eyelids shut, and your tongue separates your teeth with that right-cheek-led smile.
Some people approach you and make their own cups as you talk.
You reach for one of the spoons in the peppermint shavings and sprinkle some into the whipped cream. Next comes the graham cracker dust, matching your golden eyes.
“No marshmallows?” Hobi asks, laughing.
“With the whipped cream?” you ask. “That would be overkill. And marshmallows don’t give a firm enough canvas to paint on.”
He laughs again, and you pick up the two colorful cups, handing one to him.
“Shall we?” you ask, gesturing to the empty chairs behind you.
Hobi nods, and you both take your seats.
He eyes the laptop screen. It’s paused on a shot of someone in glasses and a blazer, mid-sentence.
“What are you watching?” he asks.
“Oh, this is Namjoon’s,” you reply.
“Please don’t tell me that it’s one of his documentaries,” Hobi says flatly.
“It’s about, like, bridge disasters?” you laugh, as you reach over and unpause the video.
“OK?” he chuckles. “Odd, but OK.”
“It actually is kinda interesting,” you muse. “We watched, like, five of these horrible accidents, and it always comes down to some design flaw, and, like, people taking shortcuts, or columns not being reinforced by steel or something.”
“Hey, now. Spoilers.”
You giggle and turn back to the screen, as Hobi brings his cup of hot chocolate to his lips and steals one more glance at you.
“The Almö bridge was supported by an arch, which, at the time, was the longest arch in the world,” the host narrates. Then, B-roll plays of a thin man wearing frameless glasses walking intently toward the camera while looking over his shoulder at a harbour.
“Ooh, I bet this guy knows a ton about arches,” you joke, at the sight of him.
Hobi chokes into his hot chocolate, whipped cream dolloping on his chin, and peppermint shards and cocoa spilling out and onto his hoodie, threatening to widen to puddles when diagrams of arches show up all over the screen, as the thin man keeps making arches with his hands while talking.
“Ahhh, I’m sorry,” you laugh, reaching over to the coffee table for some napkins and leaning over to dab the droplets. “Haha, that was dumb.”
As you reach up to wipe his face, Hobi grins, just happily looking up at you, until you slowly realize what you’re doing.
“Sorry,” you say again stiffly. You sit back and hand Hobi the napkin instead.
“You’re…” Hobi just watches you, bewildered by how simple it all is. “You’re incredible.”
Usually, your chest is tight with anxiety. Hard deadlines, huge ledgers, and a revolving door of co-workers who are meaner and more inept than those that came before them. But now, your chest tightens due to warmth. A different kind of anxiety. The kind that tells you that you’re playing with fire.
“Hobi,” you say, unsure. “I… I don’t want to make things, like, weird, or anything, but… I’ve been…”
You clear your throat and take a breath.
“I’ve been—”
“I’ve been looking for you!”
You feel your hot chocolate slosh around in your cup when you and Hobi, startled, whip around to find Yeong-ja dragging Namjoon and Jimin up to your both with her.
“Yeobo!” she says through a grit-toothed smile. “Didn’t you get my texts? Calls?”
“Sorry, we were just…” Hobi gestures to the rest of the crowd by the booth. “Y’know.”
From the look on her face, Yeong-ja doesn’t know.
“Working,” Hobi answers.
“This is a self-service booth,” she points out. She glances at you before adding, “Why are you even here? You said you were helping with the horse carriage rides.”
“It’s my fault,” Namjoon pipes up. “I was, uh, looking for cups.”
Yeong-ja points to the cups on the table. “These cups?”
“Wow,” Namjoon says, placing his hand on his chin. “Isn’t it funny how the things we search for are often right in front of us, all along?”
Hobi scowls.
“Save it for the political pundits,” Yeong-ja says. “God knows how you tend to go on and on and on.”
“But we were having such a great conversation!” Jimin insists. “Namjoon did so great on that show!” Though Jimin slaps Namjoon on the back, Jimin is the one who winces. “Absolutely riveting!”
“What was the topic I was speaking on?” Namjoon asks dubiously.
Jimin ignores the question and pulls on his sweater. “And I was telling you both about how I’m almost sold out of all my Christmas designs—”
“Honestly, Jimin, I’m surprised you’re opening another location because those cheap sweaters look like they shrink in the wash,” Yeong-ja says quickly. She ignores Jimin’s death stare and whispered curses as she turns back to Hobi.
“Mr. Gwan ran out of hodugwaja. I was waiting for you.”
“Yeobo, I was working,” Hobi replies. “Speaking of which, Jimin, can you please go back to the ring toss game? Jin’s starting to rig it so that nobody beats his high score.”
Jimin gladly takes the chance to scurry away.
“This isn’t work. You’re volunteering to be here.” Yeong-ja eyes you. “Either way, I’m sure you’ve done enough to earn yourself a visit to the hot toddy stand, at least?” she asks, turning back to Hobi. “We’ll get just one. A virgin. To share.” Her eyebrows knit. “No more alcohol for you. You looked like absolute shit this morning.”
Hobi’s eyes set into thin lines. “Then I guess I’ll stick with this hot chocolate.”
Yeong-ja looks apoplectic.
“Relax, I’m going with you,” Hobi replies begrudgingly.
He rounds the table and joins Yeong-ja at his rightful place on her hip.
“Nice to see you again,” she unnecessarily lies to you.
“Cheers,” you say with a smirk, holding up your hot chocolate at eye-level.
She smiles too broadly before she whisks Hobi away. And Hobi sinks when he turns back and watches you making Namjoon his own serving of your perfect hot chocolate.
The only drink in the world that matters.
“What’s with you lately?” Yeong-ja asks.
But Hobi genuinely doesn’t hear her. He’s too busy thinking of his own question. And it hurts that he can’t seem to answer it.
He just can’t remember the last time he and Yeong-ja laughed together.
You set two cups of somehow still piping hot chocolate down on the kitchen table, next to a small bag of somehow still crispy hodugwaja.
The winter carnival always did work its magic, blanketing the town in an ultra-festive spirit.
“I had to hide those in my bra,” your mother giggles. Her eyes widen suddenly and seriously. “People were getting combative.”
“Tell me about it,” you mumble as you slip off your jacket and hang it on the back of your chair.
“We saw the rest of the boys,” your father tells you, as he washes his hands in the kitchen sink. “Yoongi gave me a run for my money at the free throw game.” He moves to dry his hands on the towel hanging off the oven door. “But we didn’t see Hobi.”
“He was busy,” you choose to say, unsure if you’d be able to explain things even if you thought it was worth it to do so.
“He does so much for this town,” your mother observes, joining you at the table. She opens the bag of hodugwaja as you push her marshmallow and graham cracker dusted hot chocolate towards her. “Always volunteering. Making things nice. Making things better.”
“Cheering people up,” your father adds, standing next to you for a moment and plucking his cup of hot chocolate from the table. You smile as you watch him drink. He’s a purist, too.
Your father smiles back at you as he sips. He lowers the cup from his lips and says, “If I may, he seems to cheer you up quite a bit.”
“He does,” your mother laughs. “It’s nice, seeing you smile.”
You ignore the knot in your stomach that has continued to tangle since the previous evening, and you choose to focus on the entire reason you’re back home in the first place.
“He cheers you up even more,” you say, as your father sits next to you, forgoing his seat at the head of the table. “You really like those guys.”
“I do,” he laughs. “They remind me of me and my friends.”
“It was kind of them to visit you in the hospital,” you say. You lean forward and rest your head in your hands. “Hobi just happened to know you were there?”
“He said was there for some other appointment, and he said he recognized our name on the nurses’ station board,” your father answers. “He knocked on the door to say hi. And then he just kept visiting after that. Just chit-chattin’.”
“What kind of stuff did you talk about?”
“Well, mostly you,” your father begins. “Your work. How much you’ve accomplished. How little you’ve changed. How proud we are of you.” He beams. “Hobi had so many questions about you. How you were doing. When you’d be back in town next.” And then he straightens, as he sets down his cup. “Wait, you haven’t talked about this with him?”
You shake your head. “Not in detail. We haven’t talked since high school.”
“But I gave him your number,” your father says.
“What?”
“I hope that’s OK,” your father says, eyes growing.
“That’s fine,” you reassure him. “But… well, he never called.”
“Huh.” Your father shrugs. “Well, maybe he remembered that you were really busy. We told him about how lonely you found the city. How stressed you were. How hard you’ve been working.”
“You did?” you ask, a little embarrassed.
“He seemed so concerned,” your mother interjects. “Almost like he wanted to drive or fly up to see you.”
You melt.
“He said all this at the hospital?” you ask.
“Do we have to keep talking about the hospital?” your father asks. “This is supposed to be a happy time, and you’re supposed to be on vacation.” He grins. “So, are you going to be hanging out with them more?”
It’s probably best to drop it for now. “Apparently,” you answer. “Namjoon said something about caroling tomorrow.”
“Wonderful!” your mother sighs. “You have such a beautiful voice, and it’s been so long since we’ve gotten to hear you sing.”
“I just don’t have a lot of green things,” you say, almost apologetically.
“Guess you’ve missed two dress code memos, then,” Jimin jokes, smoothing the fabric at your waist.
Jimin’s flagship store brings more life to that little corner of town than the hardware store before it, or the arts and crafts store before that, and it’s bringing more life to you now. The emerald green dress that he’s picked out for you hugs your curves nicely. You particularly like how it accentuates your quirks, like your strong thighs and calves, and your broader shoulders. You think of all the dresses you’ve had to squeeze into for work events in the past. How they felt more like cages rather than stages.
“This is definitely the one,” Jimin anoints, taking your hand and slowly spinning you to show you off to Jin and Jungkook.
You can’t help but peacock a little, with the way they all smile and gaze. Jungkook even raises his phone to snap a picture.
“Make sure it doesn’t shrink in the wash,” Jin jokes from the nearby couch, wiggling his feet on the armrest as he lazily flips through a catalog.
“You heard about that?” you ask.
“Yeah. Ugh. What a bitch,” Jin says outright.
You gasp. “Jin!”
“It’s true, though,” Jimin replies, eyes deepening as he relives the hit. “Yeong-ja’s trash.”
“OK, I don’t want this to turn into anything other than me getting something suitable to wear for this caroling thing,” you warn.
Jimin takes a few steps back, standing next to a texting Jungkook, checking your silhouette at different angles and in different light. “Unclench that tight ass. Yoongi already told us that he told you,” Jimin says, as if this whole Dream Girl revelation is nothing.
“Stop complimenting me!” You wish you could stop your cheeks from blushing or your frantic eyes giving you away.
“Aw, the green brightens a little when you do that!” Jimin giggles excitedly.
You step off the platform and away from the mirror. “The dress was already fantastic enough to make the sale,” you say. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Jimin says, chasing you, “and I mean it. But, hey, maybe you wear the dress to a work event next year? Drop my name to another name that could—” He nudges his elbow into your side. “—make some things happen?”
“You’re incredible,” Jungkook says to Jimin, shaking his head and making you think of Hobi’s gentle, hot chocolate-covered words.
You hear two notification ding!s, and Jin and Jimin have to do everything in their power not to reach for their phones while you’re staring all three of them down.
Yoongi’s stories swim in your mind. “Stop. Plotting.” You narrow your eyes. “I mean it.”
Jungkook just grins.
“Shoes,” Jimin says suddenly, moving to the far wall to scavenge for the answer. “No offense, Dream Girl, but those kitten heels are awful.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Do you even know their story?” Jin presses on.
“No,” you say. “And I don’t really want to—”
“They met through Hobi’s sister,” Jin says. “They were college friends.”
You frown. “Were?”
Jin grins at your seeming interest.
“Whatever.” You dismissively wave him off. “Jimin, you said something about shoes?”
“Ever since they got serious, though, Ji-woo noticed that Hobi would change in little ways,” Jin shares. “He got even quieter and shier. Including with us!” Jin eyes widen. “And you know he’s not like that with us.”
Jimin walks over to you with a pair of pointed toe black flats. “There’s still a bit of a heel to them,” he explains, showing you the soles. “Gives you more support.”
You’re grateful for it as the four of you walk the seven or eight blocks over to the mural.
“Ji-woo and Hobi don’t even talk anymore,” Jin continues. “And it’s not because of any issue between the two of them. Yeong-ja just doesn’t want Hobi to talk to anybody outside of her and their family.” He shakes his head. “You see how thrilled she is whenever we come home,” he laments. “It’s this weird, insular, control thing.”
“It all sounds very tough, but honestly, I just don’t feel comfortable not hearing this from Hobi,” you say, adding quickly, before Jin can grin at you again, “not that I need to hear it at all!”
“Just trying to break the ice a bit,” Jin offers. “Give you some, uh, context. Hobi wouldn’t have had any other way to share it.”
You feel a pang in your gut and see Hobi’s smiling face, lit by the twinkle lights at the hot chocolate booth.
“But he did,” you say sadly. “My father gave Hobi my number, but he never called.”
The guys stop walking and turn to you, surrounding you with questioning faces.
“He told me last night,” you say. “He gave Hobi my number when Hobi went to visit him at the hospital.”
Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook exchange confused glances.
“What?” you ask.
Jin’s eyebrows crinkle slightly.
“That was around the time they got engaged.”
“Please,” Hobi begs.
“Hmm?” Taehyung asks.
“Just… please don’t?” Hobi asks.
“Thought I was doing you a favor,” Taehyung says.
Hobi allows himself one more look at the picture that Jungkook snapped of you, not in the actual text of the group chat, but as the new group chat icon.
“She’s like our little mascot,” Taehyung says affectionately, grinning at your face.
“Yeong-ja’s gonna be here any minute,” Hobi whispers. “It’s all fun and games until Christmas is ruined.”
“She’s ruined Christmas plenty enough,” Yoongi grumbles, as Namjoon nods along. “I mean, you’ve been so miserable.” Yoongi looks into Hobi’s eyes, letting the project plans and everything else fall away for a moment. “Why are you even fighting for her?”
Hobi is speechless. Not just because he can’t come up with an answer right away. But because you, Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook are walking up to the mural, and he can’t believe how little Jungkook’s camera was able to capture of you. How cruel it was to flatten you into two dimensions. How impossible it was to force you into a bubble as small as a lens. You shouldn’t be measured in pixels. You can only be measured in the galaxies you’ve traveled.
“Hi,” you say, a little awkwardly.
Everyone chirps their excited greetings and fawning compliments.
And Hobi just smiles.
One of the community board leaders kicks things off by thanking all the volunteers. “Loving this sea of green!” they cheer in a happy, bright voice. “We know you all are so busy with your own celebrations, so thank you for sharing your time for our little tradition.”
It’s a sweet tradition, one you remember from childhood. It’s very simple. The color scheme is a relatively new addition, but everything else is the same. Nothing too fancy. Just a group of people who like to sing, and some sheet music, speaker, and an old set of risers borrowed from the high school.
“In about twenty minutes, the crowd is expected to start gathering. When they do, I’ll share a quick, holiday message, and then we’ll kick things off. First up is Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, then Silver Bells, then Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and finally, Sleigh Ride,” the community board leader explains. “All you need to do is sing and have fun!”
“See?” Yoongi whispers over to Hobi. “Sing and have fun.”
Hobi rolls his eyes.
“For now, just hang tight and let any of the people in red know if you’d like some water or tea,” the community board leader adds. “We’ll warm up in a few minutes. Excited to get to sing with you all!”
As the group of carolers starts to mill about, Hobi leads you all to the risers.
Your group aims for the front middle, chatting aimlessly as you do. But every time you try to sit down, the guys shuffle around, jostling you a bit, or changing their minds about who they want to stand next to, until you and Hobi are surrounded by them, Yoongi and Jin pushing you side-by-side.
Hobi clears his throat nervously. “Hi,” he whispers to you.
Your automatic smile is getting harder to fight. “Hi.” Your words are getting harder to fight, too. “Green really suits you. I like how it brings out the brown in your hair. Some of the brown in your eyes as well.” Your eyes widen too late. “Um, I mean, if that’s OK to say.”
“You…” Hobi clears his throat again. “You look…”
He doesn’t know what is or isn’t OK to say. He can barely say anything.
“Great, as always?” you joke.
Hobi grins sheepishly.
“Jimin did a great job on this design,” you say.
Hobi raises his eyebrows. “Jimin?”
“Yeah,” Jin chimes in. “We were at his boutique, finding green things to wear.” He leans forward so that you can see him from Hobi’s other side. “We were just talking about your parents, right? Your dad?”
“Oh,” you say, feeling a little regretful. “Um, yes.”
“Did they enjoy the carnival?” Hobi asks hopefully. He starts talking too fast. “I asked Mr. Gwan to make sure to save your family some hodugwaja, since you hadn’t been home for so long, and because your mother likes walnuts. I was wondering if your dad liked the hot toddies? Tried to suggest a whisky he might like, but I never found out if they went for it. Oh! And I’m glad that they positioned the free throw game a little closer to the entrance like I asked, y’know, so that he wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the far end of the square—”
Your heart fills with every tiny detail of how Hobi tried to make things nice. Make things better. For your parents.
For you.
“They loved it,” you say. “Really.”
“Good.” He smiles, relieved. “Good.” He sighs, his breath forming a little cloud. “Your dad didn’t get too tired?”
“No,” you share. “Actually, we all stayed up pretty late, just snacking and hanging out. He told me more about your, um, visit.” You glance at Hobi. “More of what you, uh, talked about.”
Hobi’s mouth shrinks into a small circle. “Oh?”
Sensing a shift in tone, Yoongi taps your upper arm with the corner of a bright red folder.
You look over and see that more people have joined you on the risers, and people are starting to pass out sheet music and lyrics.
Yoongi hands you the whole stack of folders.
“Don’t you need one?” you ask.
“I’ll be over there.” Yoongi motions to the keyboard off to the side.
“Cool,” you say, grinning. “Given your work, I should’ve put two and two together.”
You take a red folder off the top of the stack before passing the stack to Hobi.
Your hands touch for a moment, and you kind of forget where you are.
But then you remember what you wanted to ask.
“Yeah,” you pick up with Hobi, “he mentioned something that I wanted to talk to you about—”
The community board leader starts to walk toward the front of the risers, and Yoongi jumps to his feet.
“I think we’re about to start warming up,” Yoongi says brightly. “Save those voices for the show, you two.”
Yoongi takes his place at the piano, and the community board leader invites you all to stand and sing the first few lines of each song to warm up.
Your group grins at Yoongi jauntily playing the start of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, his head twitching this way and that, and Jungkook sneaking a picture of him, much to the community board leader’s dismay. But they can’t do a thing about it, raising their arms to cue you into the song.
It’s not long before you start the real thing. You search the growing crowd for your parents, nervous when you don’t see them at the very beginning. But Hobi soothes you by tapping the back of his hand against yours and giving you a small smile.
As you sing, you and Hobi turn to each other in surprise.
His voice is pleasant and full, stronger than you thought it might be, given how soft-spoken he’s always been with you. He sings, low and simple, almost as if he’s always singing just underneath the surface. And he sees every single note through, crescendoing each phrase gently, and closing each phrase safely.
Your voice sounds easy and light. Like everything you do, it just seems so effortless, floating rather than resonating. But you work hard to sustain and support, mindful of your breaths and making sure that the lines sound more like full conversations rather than fragments. Regardless, each note has your undeniable sparkle.
It matches the sparkle in Hobi’s eyes when he hears you. The sparkle in your eyes when you see him.
And it matches the sparkle in your parents’ eyes when they see or hear you do anything. They give you silly waves when you see them walk up to join the now very full crowd, and you happily wave back, the back of your hand grazing Hobi’s and making him chuckle through the last, “won’t you guide my sleigh tonight”.
Everything mixes into a wonderfully spirited afternoon. You hear the silver bells. You feel the anticipation of Santa Claus’ arrival. And the wind on your face feels like air rushing past on the most invigorating sleigh ride of your life.
As your group breaks off to greet their parents, friends, and family members, you look over at Hobi and smile.
“That was really nice,” you say.
“We had a great turnout!” Hobi cheers excitedly. He points over to an elderly woman in a wheelchair, accompanied by someone in scrubs. “That’s Mrs. Yoon. I was especially hoping to see her here. She really loves this tradition. She shows up every year, even with how hard it is for her to get out of bed.” He smiles at you. “Wanna come say hi?”
You catch your parents speaking with Taehyung and the Kims before turning back to Hobi and saying, “Sure.”
You follow him over to Mrs. Yoon, who smiles brightly once Hobi is close enough for her to see and recognize him.
“Ah, Hoseok,” she says warmly. “Another wonderful performance.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Yoon,” he says. “You enjoyed it?”
“Yes!” she cheers. “It really feels like Christmas Eve!” Her eyes fall to you. “Yeong-ja?” she asks, adjusting her glasses. “You look so great! I didn’t even recognize you!”
You bite your lip as Hobi corrects her, even pointing your parents out in the crowd, though she most likely can’t see that far. Her ears, however, perk up at the mention of your father.
“How is he doing?” she asks.
You nod. “Very well. Thank you for asking.”
“Good.” Mrs. Yoon turns to Hobi. “I’m sorry that I, uh… Don’t, uh, don’t tell Yeong-ja I said—”
“No worries, Mrs. Yoon,” Hobi says, leaning down to hug her.
She pats his back and whispers something in Hobi’s ear that makes him blush fiercely red upon standing.
Her aide moves behind her and grips her wheelchair. “I think that’s my cue,” Mrs. Yoon replies, making her aide chuckle. “Merry Christmas!
“Merry Christmas,” you and Hobi both greet, as she takes her leave.
You turn to Hobi. “Speaking of, though,” you say, “where is Yeong-ja?”
Hobi shrugs. “I didn’t see her. She would’ve walked straight over to me if she were here.” He says that last part with a bit of an edge.
“Well…” You take a deep breath. “Wanna come say hi to my parents again? Check in with the Kims?”
“Sure,” Hobi says. “I’m right behind you.”
You nod and linger for a moment, before walking toward the burst of laughter coming from your parents and the Kims.
Hobi pulls out his phone and checks for any missed calls or messages. When he sees none, he presses “Yeobo” in his contacts.
“Everything OK?” Yeong-ja asks.
“Just about to ask you the same question,” Hobi replies. “Where are you?”
“At home, getting ready.”
“Getting ready?” Hobi shakes his head. “The show just finished.”
“Huh?” There’s a pause. “Ugh, that motherfucker!”
“What??”
“Jimin!” She sighs. “He texted me that you were starting an hour late!”
The story behind Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer has grown on you over time. What started out as a simple tale with a hidden moral now feels like a reaffirmation of what’s actually happening in your life. A message about amazing things being hidden in plain sight. And those amazing things being able to guide you.
After pouring your coffee, you look around the kitchen, and into the rest of the house, wondering how you can keep the Christmas cheer going.
The front door opens, and you see your father shuffling in with a snow shovel.
“Appa!” you exclaim. “Did you shovel the rest of the walkway?”
“What if people come to visit?”
“Who?” you ask quizzically. “And if it bothers you that much, we can get someone else to do it!”
“Who else would do it?” he asks, shaking snow off of his coat. “I meant to get to it earlier this morning, but—”
“We can just walk under the ledge on the roof, like always!” you exclaim. “And you really shouldn’t be putting your body under such physical stress—”
“The stroke was years ago,” your father reassures you, “and I’m fine now.”
“I know that.” You raise your eyebrows at him. “But, please, don’t do anything else for the rest of the day? Or tomorrow, either?”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” he chuckles. “Just pour me some coffee.”
You mix in two tablespoons of cream. No sugar. Exactly like he likes.
The mugs lead you into the living room, where your father is sitting back on the couch and turning on the TV. He smiles happily when you hand him his mug, and he finishes his long gulp with a satisfied, “Ahhhhhhhh.”
“Tastes good?” you ask.
“Tastes even better when someone else makes it for you,” he jokes, going in for another sip.
You shake your head and take a sip of your own.
“Where’s Eomma?”
“She went out to get pineapple rings, and cherries.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “For the ham she made. She said it looks too naked without the decoration.”
Now you understand the faint smell of brown sugar in the kitchen. You should have known. Ham is another Christmas Eve tradition that your family has never broken.
But you realize something else.
“Why didn’t we decorate this year?” you ask, looking around your living room. Your mind fills with childhood memories of knick-knacks and bobbles, Santas and angels and reindeer and snowmen, sprinkled through the entire house, and essentially t-shirt cannoned onto your gaudy, tall, technicolored Christmas tree.
“We haven’t decorated for a few years now,” your father admits. “Everything’s up in the attic.”
You start to stand. “Well, why don’t I bring some things down, and—”
“For one day?” your father asks. “All that mess? You told me not to do anything for the rest of the day, or tomorrow either.”
“I’m going to do it,” you clarify, setting your mug on the coffee table.
“No, don’t,” your father tells you. “Everything’s so cluttered and disorganized. Let’s just keep our Christmas quiet and do presents after our ham dinner.”
You like that you open presents on Christmas Eve. You used to do it at midnight, a holdover from your mother’s family’s traditions. But with your parents getting a little older, you’ve adjusted that time. And with all of you getting a little older, your presents look less like huge boxes under the tree, and more like small, meaningful things. Tiny boxes of expensive trinkets. Cards with gift certificates and checks. Things easily sent by courier.
“I got you a necklace,” your father tells you.
You laugh. “Appa!”
“What?” he asks playfully.
You smile. “Well, I got you a watch.”
“Ooh!” he squeals. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“I got Eomma a scarf and a small clutch.”
“Small clutch means big name,” he mentions, as you look at your feet and smile humbly. “I got her a diamond ring.”
You brighten and grin at your father. He’s always had such wonderful taste in jewelry.
“I wonder what she got us,” you say.
You both pause for a moment.
“Silk tie,” your father guesses.
“Shoes,” you guess. “Especially after the stockings, and that whole kitten heels thing.” You sigh. “She’s probably gotten me something dressy but practical. Maybe something I can wear when I have to give presentations at work.”
Your father nods. And then he gazes at you. You think there might be tears in his eyes.
“It’s really good to have you home,” he says
“You’ve had her number?”
Yoongi could throttle him.
“You’ve had her number this whole time?”
Yoongi could throttle him, or slap him, or punch him, but his hands are too busy gripping the handle of the dolly, keeping it steady while waiting for Hobi to finish unloading the last of the risers that they had folded up just the day before.
Hobi shoves the last of the folded up metal off the ramp and onto the wooden platform of the dolly with a thunk! and straightens, dusting his hands off, and then wiping his palms on the sides of his jeans.
He lazily holds the far side of the dolly handle and walks at Yoongi’s meandering pace, through the same double doors you started and ended four years of your life with. The sports trophies are still there. The banners from shows and events past hang in the alum hallway leading to the auditorium. On the stage, remnants of the criss-crossing tape Xs are still in the same spots where he did six back-to-back sauté fouettés to crazed applause during the big number. Your eyes lit up when you saw him fly.
Yoongi stops on one of those Xs now, parking and locking the dolly in place.
“It’s been years, Hobi.”
“I know.”
“And we’re still having this goddamn conversation.”
Yoongi feels like the point lands harder when he blinks at Hobi’s chosen jacket for today: the letterman jacket that Yoongi had found in the attic.
Your high school even smells the same.
There’s a faint tinge of floor polish, a whisper of bleach, a waft of mechanical metal, and cold. Just cold.
“I made my choices.”
“I just don’t understand them.”
“You don’t need to.”
They lift with their legs, which makes it a little harder for Yoongi to make sure the risers sit level, so Hobi crouches down a little.
“Your back.”
“It’s fine.”
They set the risers down and click all the latches into position, the last one coinciding with a burst of laughter echoing from backstage.
Hobi looks over and sees the door to the ensemble room hanging open, kids giggling as they practice their lines with their teacher and some watchful, happy parents.
“Cute.”
Yoongi frowns at him. “You can understand why I’m annoyed, right?”
Hobi sits on the bottom step, and Yoongi joins him, both of them resting their elbows on their spread knees.
“Look, Yeong-ja and I have been arguing since the carnival,” Hobi says, exasperated. “I know Jimin said he got the times mixed up, but—”
“He didn’t,” Yoongi replies bluntly. “That was just phase 2 of Project Dream Girl.”
Hobi buries his head in his hands. “Yoongi.”
“Don’t Yoongi me.” He glares at Hobi and shakes his head. Everything really is the same. “You love her. We’re getting you to her. I don’t know why you’re so frustrated.”
Hobi nearly rips his hair out as he jumps to his feet. “I’m marrying her!” he exclaims. “Deal with it!”
“Are you telling me that, or yourself?” Yoongi challenges, watching Hobi pacing across the stage. “You still haven’t answered my questions. Why are you fighting for Yeong-ja? Why are you marrying her in the first place?” His eyes catch the light. “Why didn’t you call??”
“I did call!” Hobi booms. “I called, and I texted! For months! ‘Hi, it’s Hoseok from high school! Saw your dad at the hospital!’ ‘Hobi again! Just reaching out to see if you’re OK!’ ‘Wanted to see if we could catch up!’ ‘When are you in town next?’” His arms stretch out to his sides. “Nothing!” His wingspan is intimidating. It’s a lot of nothing.
Yoongi narrows his eyes. “Nothing?”
“No response.” Hobi shakes his head. “Not one.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “That doesn’t seem right.” He looks up at Hobi. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
Hobi mutters, “You would know better than I would.”
Yoongi’s never seen a resentful Hobi before. Probably because there’s nothing else in his life that he would feel resentful about.
Hobi comes to a stop, stage left. “She’s clearly just being nice to me. Maybe for the holidays. Maybe so that she has something to do during her vacation. But not because she actually feels anything.”
A long, drawn-out sigh streams out of Yoongi’s mouth. “She does.”
Hobi shakes his head. “I know you’re trying not to hurt my feelings, but—”
“I talked to her.” Yoongi blinks once. “I talked to her on our way to the diner. She knows. And after learning about the hospital… seeing how you’ve been with her parents… how you are when you’re with her…” Yoongi holds his gaze steady. “She’s starting to have feelings for you, too.”
Hobi isn’t sure what is happening. Yoongi’s face is getting fuzzy. Kind of melting. Gone. In fact, all lines, curves, and edges are gone. Everything is soft. Too soft.
“Please stop with this Project Dream Girl nonsense,” Hobi pleads. “I have a shot at being with someone who cares enough to fight with me. Who cares enough to answer me back.”
“Hobi.” Yoongi looks disappointed. “That’s not what you think love is.”
“It’s the closest I’ll ever get.”
“Bullshit.” Yoongi stands and walks over to Hobi slowly, his stride matching the length of each sentence. “Why suggest the whisky?” he challenges. “Why move the free throw game? The hodugwaja?” He points his toes at Hobi’s toes, facing him dead on. “And why do you think she keeps showing up?”
Hobi furrows his brow.
They both reach down to their pockets when their phones chirp and vibrate and learn that the guys are on their way to the school, the last of the props and costumes in tow.
“Just stop it,” Hobi says weakly. “Get it through your head. It’s done. I’m done.”
He walks to the edge of the stage and hops down, heading through the back doors to meet the guys.
Yoongi soon follows.
Silence is nice, but overrated. Like plain hot chocolate. Whistling is great. Humming is actually pretty fun. Singing, even better. Maybe it’s not so great when you’re just trying to ride the elevator or as you’re questioning whether your rideshare driver will safely get you to point B. But it’s wonderful when you need to add some decoration to a cozy, quiet home.
And Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer has a pretty catchy tune.
“Eomma!” you call out as you swing your trench coat on. “Appa! I’m heading over to the school! I’ll see you for lunch!”
“Have fun at the play!” your mother calls, as your father yells, “Be careful!”
Singing is pretty fun while driving as well, and you’re able to get through both Silver Bells, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and a lyrics-forgotten version of Sleigh Ride substituted with “doo doo doo”s and “boop boop boop”s before parking next to the high school auditorium.
As soon as Taehyung sees you, he takes off running for your car.
“Hey!” he greets you, panting a little, and sliding in a patch of ice next to your door.
“Hi,” you chuckle, closing your door and pressing the lock, your car beeping the two final notes of Sleigh Ride in perfect time.
Taehyung grins, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas,” you echo, following him back to the two large SUVs backed up into the small driveway leading to the hallway next to the auditorium. The trunk and back doors all hang open, with just a few boxes left to unload.
“How was your haul?” he asks.
“Pretty solid,” you admit, adjusting the pendant of your father’s gifted necklace in the notch between your barely-there collarbones. Feeling a little self-conscious at Taehyung’s impressed and approving gaze, you tear your hand away and ask, “What about yours?”
“Lots of socks,” Taehyung says coolly. He shrugs, the knit cable on his frame shrugging along with him. “And sweaters.”
You aren’t sure if his arms are as bulky as the sweater sleeves that puff out around him as he hands you a box of swan headdresses to bring inside, but when the box slips a little in your hold, you learn that they absolutely are.
“You got it?” he chuckles.
“Yeah,” you squeak, hoisting the box back up.
Taehyung can’t help but notice your eyes scanning the hallway as you both walk, looking happy, but not happy enough, as you see Jungkook easily lifting two small bass drums, Jimin trying to hula-hoop all five of the gold rings, Jin cackling at him as he repositions the fake pear tree that he’s carrying on his back, Yoongi just on his phone and texting while sitting on a stool next to a papier-mache cow, and Namjoon desperately trying to collect all the pipes on three real bagpipes, discordant, deflated hums of failure seeping out of them.
“He’s on the stage,” Taehyung whispers to you, as he hoists up his box of six tacky yard flamingos, spray-painted white. “Teaching the lords how to leap.”
Your heart does a little leap, imagining Hobi laughing and smiling in the spotlight, looking on as ten children in tights leap across in unison.
Your heart does a bigger leap, seeing Hobi trying to collect ten rascals running chaotically around the stage.
When he sees you, he stops what he’s doing, suddenly uncaring that one rascal is about to fall off the end.
“Hobi!” you cry out, dropping the box and rushing over to him.
Both of you grab the kid in time, Hobi by the collar, and you by the waist of his pants. Once the kid regains his footing, he shakes you both off to give chase to the nine others.
“PLEASE! BE! CAREFUL!” Hobi yells out at them.
Hobi’s as-of-yet unheard stern voice, paired with his disapproving glare, seems to have scared the kids for the time being. They all clump together and quiet down, sitting in a blob and holding hands, settling down to play some kind of clapping game instead.
“This is— I’m—” Hobi lets out a breath that he had been holding as he turns back to you. “This is hell. I’m in hell.”
“Whatever game they’re playing now seems much safer,” you comment.
“No,” Hobi says, eyes widening. “This is how it started.”
The kids shift from their excitedly murmured rhyme into counting claps with loud shrieks, and then, two of them jump up, chasing each other around the circle as the other kids try to fill in the empty spots, making it harder for them to find a place to sit.
And then all of the kids end up running around again.
You laugh as you take a few steps back to the box of swan headdresses, collecting the ones that fell out and placing them back inside. You carry the box back to the edge of the stage, where Hobi is frowning and watching to make sure none of the kids die.
“Where are their parents?” you laugh, as Hobi takes the box from you.
“Some are backstage, fixing some of the other kids’ costumes. Most just dropped them off for a couple of hours of quiet until the play.” Hobi sighs. “I don’t know why I signed up for this.”
“It’s nice that you did,” you reassure him.
You move to hop up onto the stage, but Hobi backs away.
“Uh, I’ll go take these into the back room,” he says, holding up your box. “Mind if you watch them for a little bit?”
Since you’ve been home, you’ve been basking so unabashedly in Hobi’s warmth. It makes this sudden gale feel downright icy.
“Oh!” You nod. “Uh, sure. Whatever you need.”
As you near the hour that the play is supposed to start, you keep trying to check in with Hobi, give him little, inviting smiles, or comment on tiny things, easier to talk about than the big feelings between the two of you. But all that ends up happening is Jungkook and Taehyung running back and forth between the hallway, or other rooms, with more props for you to hand to Hobi to bring backstage.
In fact, Taehyung and Jungkook give you more than a few more things to do, which eat up the quiet times in between. Glue gun some fallen gems back onto a skirt. Sew a sash into place. Attach more pears to the so-called pear tree.
Things seem to settle as the kids are rounded up and their parents reappear. Everyone’s costumes are on, and secure. No one is running. Everyone is looking at Hobi, who is going through the list that today’s community board leader had sent out, making sure that final checks are complete.
And then, the auditorium is suddenly full. Of more parents. More family. More friends.
You and your friends pack together in the wings, stage right, to give them room. And to finish your duties for the day.
“We just have to send the kids out on their cues,” Hobi tells you, his face backlit by the soft, golden, stage lights.
“That’s it?” Taehyung asks.
“You need all seven of us to be here just to do that?” Jungkook echoes.
“They need to stay in their groups,” Hobi explains. “We need to make sure all the kids are ready to get out there when their group is called.”
“Alright, well, Jimin and I can keep them busy in the back room,” Taehyung replies. “Jungkook and Jin can walk them backstage?”
“Namjoon and Yoongi can keep them quiet as they help them get through the wings,” Jungkook adds.
Yoongi turns to you and Hobi and grins. “And you two can send them off.”
Hobi shakes his head, his hair fluffing around him. “No, uh, I can help wrangle—”
“You’ve been wrangling all morning,” Jimin laments piteously. “Let us help.” He smiles coyly. “We want to help.”
“Then I can—” Hobi’s eyes find Jungkook and Jin. “I can help walk them—”
“You’ve been on your feet for hours,” Jin soothes, as Jungkook smirks.
“What if I—”
“We’ve got this,” Namjoon tells him, so solemn that he can’t even spare a dimple.
Hobi meets Yoongi’s eyes. “Sending the kids out means just sitting here,” Hobi says, eyes pleading. “You could just sit there, on that stool, every now and then saying, ‘Go’.”
“But you’re the one with the checklist, and you know the program,” Yoongi says. He turns to you. “And the kids have seen you both. They’re familiar with you.” He turns back to Hobi, his smile growing bigger and wider. Almost creepily so. “So, you two should stay here. Together.”
You turn to Hobi, slightly confused, but shrugging it off. “Sounds like a plan.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Yoongi retorts for some reason.
As the rest of the guys laugh, Hobi just sinks.
Watching from the wings gives you more chances to do more humming and singing along. The first part of the show is done by the high school drama club, who do a sweet rendition of Twas the Night Before Christmas. The second part of the play is done by the middle school chorus, who sing more Christmas carols. The last part of the play is done by the groups of elementary school kids, sweating and picking their noses, quickly running out of patience and/or interest.
The two most precocious children of the group, the ones hoping for stardom but probably more realistically destined for catalog modeling, play the two main characters in the song. A girl in a cute, sparkly dress, starts singing the lyrics, and a boy in a vest and pantaloons laughs and smiles, presenting each of the twelve gifts for each of the twelve days as they enter the stage, and shooting fond, hopelessly romantic gazes of admiration to the girl, his true love.
You’re too busy watching and giggling at them when Yoongi leads the two kids in white tutus and turtledove wings to Hobi, whispering, “That kid is doing a great impression of you.”
You also miss Hobi slamming his elbow into Yoongi’s side.
Namjoon ushers in the next few groups, bringing you three kids wearing feathers and, questionably, French maid outfits; four kids wearing feathers and, weirdly, holding up four gigantic, 90s-style cell phones, and each of the five kids in golden onesies attempting to hula hoop those gold rings across the stage.
“Jimin,” Hobi mutters under his breath, as the gold rings keep catching on their waists and slamming to the floor.
Yoongi reappears, still rubbing his aching side, when the groups start to get bigger.
And the rest of the group joins in on chaperoning when the groups get even bigger.
They snicker and banter backstage, poking and prodding, sometimes louder than the kids.
It’s actually a better time than any of you had expected.
But Hobi’s favorite part of the day is watching you watch the kids.
You “aww” at every single one of their adorable costumes, with their funny, punny plays on the lyrics. The stage lights catch on your beautiful new necklace, and so do the residual costume sparkles in your hair and cheeks, which wave and bubble as you laugh with the audience, louder and louder at each instance of the kids having to remember to jump up and act again when their groups are re-sung on every verse.
He’s almost sad to give you the cue to send out the twelve drummers drumming.
But your laughter keeps him from frowning.
It takes all morning to get to this point, the final, adorable bow.
And yet, in a blink, the auditorium is empty again.
You and Hobi clean up the stage, collecting all the random props, odds, and ends and putting them into the designated black bins that the community board leaders have left for you, choosing to sort through them after the holidays are really over.
“How cute was that one maid-a-milking?” you ask. “The one on the stool? She really took her role so seriously!”
Hobi mimies squeezing the fake cow’s udders, the concentration on her face. When you laugh, he relaxes and says, “The first girl sang her heart out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that maid goes on to be the next superstar. Such dedication to her craft.”
You both walk back to the wings, to the small side table where you had left your belongings.
“Oh! I didn’t ask,” you say suddenly, turning around to face Hobi.
Your nose collides with his chest as he bumps into you. He hadn’t expected you to stop walking like that.
You laugh together, and he reaches out to rub your nose.
Just as quickly, he retracts his arm, looking a little nervous.
“Um,” you say, unsure if the freeze has thawed, “did you have a good Christmas?”
Hobi tries not to look too sullen. “It was fine.” He loves the way your lashes curl up and graze your upper lids. “Better now.” He lets himself tumble into a smile, and sneaks a peek further down, at your collarbones. “Looks like you definitely did.”
You laugh a little, as you readjust your necklace. “From my father.”
“You’re beautiful.” Hobi clenches. “I mean, it’s beautiful.” Hobi squeezes. “I mean— Uh, well, did your p-parents come? To the play?”
You brighten. Who wouldn’t, in his floodlights? “I think they were skipping this one, but let me check,” you say, reaching for your phone in your trench coat.
You try not to freak out at the red dot alerting you to one missed call, and the words in your mother’s after-the-fact text message.
“They went to the hospital,” you read robotically.
You lock eyes with Hobi.
“I-I’ve gotta go,” you say.
“I’ll drive you,” Hobi says, reaching for his jacket, neatly folded and resting on the small side table.
“No, that’s OK, I have my car,” you say, already having put your trench coat on, and feeling for your keys. When they jingle, you lock eyes with Hobi again. For so many reasons, you do not want to go to the hospital at all.
“I’ll check on you later,” Hobi says. “Call Yoongi if you need anything at all.”
You nod.
And then you’re off.
Your father was fine during your cherry, pineapple-y, ham dinner. You hadn’t seen him or your mother that morning, but you heard them talking in their bedroom. Not about anything serious. Your mother even laughed after they called back to you.
The tinsel garland on the nurse’s station is already starting to fall apart.
You shout over the chaos for your father’s room number, and the charge nurse yells a number back at you.
You zip through the halls, picking up bits of data from placards on the wall and signs hanging from the ceiling.
Finally, you hear your mother’s soft laugh again, and you swing into the room where your father is lying in bed, looking just a little worse for the wear.
You choke back tears. “Is it another stroke?!”
“No!” your mother sighs, rushing to your side and hugging you. “Oh, sweetie. No. No, no.”
You bury your tears into her chest, trying to calm your heart down.
“Everything’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s his arrhythmia. He felt like something was off, so we came in to check. They want to run some tests overnight to see what’s going on. That’s all.”
You peek over her shoulder at your father, who is trying his best to keep it together, not because he’s in any discomfort, but because he can’t stand seeing you fall apart.
You collect yourself quickly and walk over to him, stroking his hair.
“Appa?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, reaching for your wrist and patting it.
“I told you to take it easy.” You shake your head. “I even made you coffee. Why did I make you coffee??”
“It’s a congenital thing,” your mother reminds you, from just over your shoulder. “It just happens.”
You sigh. “Why don’t you two tell me these things?” You turn to your father and hug him gently, careful not to disturb any of the wires snaking out from his body. Your next sentence even comes out in a whimper. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?”
“Didn’t want to bother you,” your father says softly.
“It’s not a bother,” you explain to him. “It’s talking. It’s basic communication.” You raise your eyebrows. “Don’t you want me to know things?”
Funny what hospitals can do. He sees you at seven, and seventeen, and seventy. His voice sounds the same, young and old, all his years between his words. “I want you to live your life.”
“Can’t we live it all together?” you ask. “That’s why I’m here.”
Your father takes a shaky breath. And that’s when you realize what he’s been trying to tell you. What he’s been trying to say, in his way.
You watch him as he gathers his words. He’s always so, so careful with them.
“I want you next to my hospital bed only when it’s really time,” he replies.
You watch him sadly. “But how will we know?” you ask. “How will we know if I’m not here, every time?”
Your father watches as you straighten, your broad, strong shoulders evidently able to carry more than he thought. Your tears weren’t weaknesses. Your tears were just expressions. You can handle the edge of the hospital bed at any time. For him.
“OK,” your father says. “OK.” He pats your elbow, and lets you hug him a little tighter.
“You’re not in any pain?” you ask, wiping your tears away.
“A bit of tightness in my chest,” he says. Even this tiny admission is a huge leap forward. “But no. No pain.”
“I’ll be staying with him overnight,” your mother begins.
“Me too, then,” you say.
Your mother knew you’d interrupt her. “No,” she says, as gently as she can. “Go home. Go relax. Maybe help us out by doing a bit of cleaning?” She strokes your hair and tries to soak up more of the worry that’s painting your face. “There’s no danger. Nothing’s wrong. They’re just observing him. That’s why we’re cozy in this private room, and not in the ER, or in surgery.” Her logical way of thinking helps you get back to baseline. “They only let one visitor stay overnight, anyway,” she continues, “and if anything scary seems to be happening, I’ll call you right away. Not after the fact.”
You nod. “But I’ll go home and get you toiletries. And a change of clothes. And food! Food for later.” You take a breath. “Something good and healthy.” You eye your father. “With vegetables.”
Your mother smiles, and your father pouts.
Hobi swings his legs so hard that the back of the SUV is bouncing up and down. His phone catches the sunlight every now and then, shooting rays into Yoongi’s eyes.
“Just call her,” Yoongi says, trying not to rub it in that you’re saved in Hobi’s phone as “DG”.
The dig wouldn’t land anyway. All Hobi can see are the unanswered text messages right-aligned on the screen.
“I don’t want to disturb her,” Hobi mumbles. He looks so worried. “What if it’s bad?”
“Then you might not get a response,” Yoongi says. “But this time, at least you'll know why.”
Hobi looks back down at the ghosts of rejection past.
“Fair point.”
Jungkook feels like he’s about to tweak his shoulder, still twisted around and staring at the back of Hobi’s and Yoongi’s chattering heads.
“Uh, kinda need to get going!” Jungkook calls out. “These are due back to the community center soon!”
“Ah, sorry Jungkook!” Hobi calls back, as he and Yoongi hop off the back of the car.
Yoongi reaches up to slam the trunk door down, slapping the back window twice, followed quickly by the sound of the gear shifting back, and Hobi clicking his teeth as he stares at his phone.
Jungkook, and then Jimin, back the two SUVs down the driveway, the rest of the gang in tow and fighting over the radio stations in both cars.
Yoongi and Hobi hang back, waiting for the last of the crowd to finish visiting with each other before locking everything up.
As Yoongi turns to wave goodbye to the guys, Hobi presses the call button and raises the phone to his ear.
Yoongi spins back around, eyes widening at the phone stuck to Hobi’s face. He sticks his hands in his coat pockets and raises his shoulders, lips being chewed behind the zippered-up top of his puffy coat.
Hobi’s eyes fall at the message. “The number you have dialed is not in service.”
As Hobi brings the phone down to his side in defeat, Yoongi’s shoulders fall. He crinkles his nose and gathers his lips into a messy lump on the side of his face.
“Hopefully it’s not too serious,” Yoongi says gently.
“Hopefully it’s not serious at all,” Hobi says, frowning and putting his phone back into his pocket, and walking back toward the school. “She probably just has bad service.”
But Yoongi's face is still crinkled. “Bad service? At the hospital?” He tilts his head and jogs a little to catch up with Hobi, who is almost at the double doors. “Did it go straight to voicemail?”
“The number you have dialed is not in service,” Hobi repeats.
Yoongi shakes his head and places a halting hand on Hobi’s shoulder. “Hang on a sec.”
Yoongi takes his phone out from his pocket, pulls up your texts, and calls you.
You pick up right away.
“Hey, just checking in,” Yoongi explains. “Hobi said your parents were at the hospital. Is everything alright?”
Yoongi holds Hobi’s curious stare as you explain what happened, which also explains something else.
“Glad to know he’s OK,” Yoongi responds. “Call us if you need anything. Hobi’s particularly worried. He said he’d check on you this evening.”
You tell him a warm thank you before hanging up.
Yoongi’s not just holding Hobi’s stare. He’s grasping both of Hobi’s pupils with both of his fists.
“What number do you have saved for her?” Yoongi asks, going to your contact information.
Hobi pulls out his phone and compares it with Yoongi’s.
The last two digits in your phone number are switched in Hobi’s phone.
A group of kids jump suddenly when Hobi cries out, “I got the goddamn number wrong?!” The last of the crowd finally disperses as Hobi continues on. “How could I have gotten the number wrong?? Her mother used her father’s phone to text it to me! I just copied and pasted and—”
“Pull up the text,” Yoongi says urgently.
But Hobi can’t find it.
“I don’t get it?” Hobi asks, frowning. “I mean, I know it was years ago, but I don’t really clear my inbox or anything…”
Yoongi’s shrewd eyes narrow.
“I think it’s time for you to talk to Yeong-ja.”
The door slams so hard that it rattles on its hinges.
“Yeo—”
Hobi clears his throat.
“Yeob—”
Hobi can’t even bring himself to say it anymore. “Where are you??”
“In the laundry room!” she calls back, already annoyed.
Hobi marches into the laundry room, footsteps matching the slightly off-balanced dryer’s thud! thud! thud!s.
“Look, I’m so sorry that I didn’t come to the play,” Yeong-ja grumbles, “but your friends took all your clothes out of the attic, and they’re all sticky, so I figured I would—”
“You went in my phone?” Hobi demands again. “You went in my phone and deleted a text? Changed her number?!”
The entire drive home, Hobi felt the quicksand around him sucking him in, deeper and deeper. The fact that Yeong-ja looks caught just clinches it. Her face is the last, ugly, globbing gulp of the earth fading to black, pulling him out of the sky toward her evil, molten core, swallowing him alive.
Her arms fall slightly, and her lips disappear into her mouth.
This conversation will not save her.
This conversation is the first unraveling. The beginning of the end.
“You know, at first, I thought all this was about Yoongi being interested in her. But then.”
Yeong-ja shrugs.
“Fine, I’ll explain,” she adds, her voice still so direct and commandeering despite.
“You’d better!” Hobi exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air. But Hobi kind of already has some of the answers. She couldn’t just delete your number altogether. All that would do is warrant another visit to your father. “How did you even—” She must know everything now, to go to these lengths. But where did she get the information? “What even made you think to do any of this?”
“Ji-woo.”
Hobi was expecting to hear your name at some point in this conversation, but the mention of his sister just breaks his heart even more.
The two wrinkles at Yeong-ja’s inner eyebrows form deep caverns, connecting to all the wrinkles on Yeong-ja’s face, from her forehead to her chin, an intricate cave system hiding years of secrets tunneling deeper and deeper.
“She told me that you were in love with some girl. That when we went to visit Ji-woo and the baby, you noticed that her father was there. That he had given you her number. And that I might need to prepare myself. That even though we were finally dating, you’d never commit to me as long as you knew this girl was out there, somewhere. That she was your dream girl.”
Yeong-ja laughs. Laughs.
“As if there’s such a thing as a dream girl,” she spits.
And she goes on, laughing and spitting. Laughing and spitting all over Hobi’s broken heart. Laughing and spitting as if he’s the fool, when she’s the one who’s laughing and spitting. If he’s a fool, she’s the reason he became one.
“There’s just people, Hobi! And you and I were going down this road. A real relationship. You would have missed out on this real relationship if you kept your empty head in the stupid clouds!”
“What relationship? A relationship that sucked everything else up?” Hobi demands. “A relationship where all we do is fight, and then seethe, and then fight some more?”
He bangs his fist down on the dryer, the sound louder than the thud!s emanating from inside and making Yeong-ja jump and back away.
“I haven’t seen my sister in years! I barely talk to my parents!”
“I let you talk to those imbeciles,” Yeong-ja mutters, throwing more of Hobi’s sportswear into the open washer.
“Let me?!” Hobi echoes.
“You were never going to call her!” Yeong-ja counters. “You were going to hold onto this asinine dream girl bullshit, and I was going to, what? Wait around? Leave with nothing? After all that time I had invested in you? All that time that I took to make you mine? All that time that I—”
“YEONG-JA!” Hobi cries out.
At the sound of her name, she finally stops. She finally comes down from whatever untouchable throne she believed she was on. Of course she looks this terrified, eyes so wide that they take up half of her face. No matter how much she braces for it, the impact will completely destroy everything.
Because when Hobi says it this time, he really means it. His voice is seven-men strong. His frame is reinforced with steel. He stands, looming, like the end.
“Get it through your head,” Hobi spits back. “It’s done. I’m done.”
Though she tries to fight him off, Hobi gets hold of her left wrist.
But her engagement ring is gone.
“What—”
Hobi glares at her.
Yeong-ja stares at the pile of Hobi’s clothes. “It— I-I—” She looks at him helplessly. “It must’ve gotten lost somewhere?” she tries, pulling her hand from his grip and starting to sort through his dirty high school laundry. Tears finally roll down her cheeks. “Let me just—” She’s never sounded so pitiful. “Let me just find it, and we can, uh, t-talk more about—”
“Call your parents,” Hobi says. “Tell them you’re moving in.” He shoves his hand into his letterman jacket pocket and holds out his keys to her.
“Leave the ring, and take the car.”
You’d never actually been in your attic. And your father was always the one responsible for all the physical chores around the house.
But with no one at home on Christmas Day, and nothing to do except wait, stuck with the knowledge that your father will likely need to rely on someone else to shovel the walkway or bring the Christmas decorations down from here on out, you decide to get some practice.
And your father had already shoveled the walkway.
Lugging everything down and putting the proper boxes in the right rooms was exhausting and terribly messy. You celebrated heartily when you realized that all there was left to do was decorate, until you made even more of a mess unpacking and assembling everything.
You sweep up the last of the mess and wonder if the extra dinner you bought needs to be reheated.
But you feel equally warm and full at the sights and sounds of your hard work on display.
Nat King Cole’s voice softly echoing through the house. The string of lights wrapping around the banister. The tchotchkes and doo-dads in, you think, their usual places. And the fully decorated tree, with an added nostalgic touch of some old ornaments you had made for your mother in elementary school. A popsicle stick framed photo of you. A googly-eyed Rudolph. A Santa that really just looks like red and white mangled clay.
Something’s missing, though.
“Fuck,” you mutter, upon realization.
You’ll need to get the ladder back out from the shed. And you’ll need to go back into the attic to find the star for the top of the Christmas tree.
For some reason, you think you hear your father call from downstairs.
“Appa?” you call back.
“Uh, sorry! It’s, uh… well, it’s Hobi?”
You bolt upright, luckily missing a beam that definitely would have knocked your father out.
“One sec!”
You carefully tiptoe down the wobbly, not completely properly unfolded attic steps, and catch sight of Hobi in the middle of your living room, taking off his letterman jacket and looking around at your handiwork.
You’re so, so happy to see him.
And he’s so happy to see you gazing like that at him for once.
He doesn’t really know what to do with that attention.
“The door was unlocked,” he says, pointing his thumb back. “I called a couple times, and then I knocked, but—”
“I needed the ladder,” you say, thoughts disorganized. “The shed. Went outside.”
“Wait…”
Hobi looks around, understanding, but furrowing his brow as he puts together the fresh feeling of the decorations with the sweaty strands of hair tucked behind your ears, and dust-covered sweats. “Did you just now do all of this? Alone?” He blinks. “Where are your parents?”
“They’re staying the night for observation,” you reply. “Everything’s fine, but I couldn’t just sit here and— and—”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Can I help?” Hobi asks, walking up to you, stopping at the bottom stair. “What can I do?”
You take a deep breath and smile. “Sorry. Yes. I just wanted to give my parents something nice to see when they got home. Y’know. Spruce up the place.”
Hobi chuckles, and you feel proud.
“I’m pretty much done,” you say, “but I just need some help finding and placing the tree topper.”
“OK,” Hobi replies, looking at you expectantly.
You bask in his glow for a little while. Until you say—
“Right.”
You turn to climb the stairs.
“The decorations are up here.”
You lead him to the hallway, and he smiles a little when he sees the door hanging down from the ceiling, the same flimsy steps leading upwards as the one in his own family home.
He climbs them so easily. Light on his feet. Never worrying that he’ll fall.
You follow him and linger on the top step, watching Hobi rummaging around while carefully placing his weight on the right beams. Like your father knows how to.
“A gold star?” he asks.
You nod and smile. “Yes!”
Hobi reaches into a box and pulls it out, grinning back at you when he sees you nodding.
You both head back downstairs, and Hobi watches as you shakily climb the ladder that you’ve positioned by the tree. He holds the frame steady for you, arms ready to catch you if you fall.
“Is this you coming to check on me?” you ask with a grin, as you fix the top pine needles into a more natural and balanced arrangement.
Hobi shifts his weight, telling you with his body. But he also thinks through his words. He wants to be more purposeful with them. Like your father might.
“I know I said I’d call…” Hobi says. He wants to grab your ankles. Your calves. He could. They’re right there, in front of him. “…But I wanted to see you.”
You pause.
“You had all this time,” you say gently.
You’re grateful that you have to look down at the ladder rungs. Holding Hobi’s stare when you say this might make it impossible to come out.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Hobi wants to explain everything. All the mix-ups that have led you down this path. But he knows that it’s not just about switched numbers and outside forces. It’s also about how long he chose to wait. How long he chose to gaze at you from afar, when you have been more than within reach since the day he first saw you.
Hobi looks thoughtfully at the nearly-completed tree, gazing at the way you’ve placed all the different bobbles and figurines. Like with everything else in life, there’s no one right way to decorate a tree. But like with everything else in life, you’ve somehow managed to find the perfect arrangement.
“You see all of these ornaments?” Hobi asks, gesturing to your handiwork. He looks up at you, balancing carefully on the ladder. “Do you think these ornaments dare to talk to the star on top?”
You chuckle to yourself. “Do you think ornaments talk to each other?”
Hobi quiets the voice that the rocking horse nearest to him neigh!s at the playful elf smiling from two branches up. He thinks of Jungkook briefly. And then he smiles a little.
You turn in Hobi’s silence.
Hobi eyes the star hanging from your delicate fingers.
“How do you talk to a dream?” he asks, gazing up at you. When you fail to answer, he continues with, “You don't. You can’t. You just revel in it. Bask in it. Thankful for the time you get with it. Hope that some of it stays with you for the rest of the day. Wish for longer.”
You place the star on the top of the tree, and then you climb back down the rungs before you respond. You want to look up at him when you say this.
“I’m not a dream girl,” you say. “I’m just me.”
Hobi shakes his head. “You have no clue. All the games. All the chatter. I’m even standing here, telling you, right now. And you still have no clue.”
You don’t mean for tears to well up in your eyes. “Does it even matter?”
But, suddenly, nothing matters. Nothing matters except the feel of Hobi’s hands in your hair. The feel of Hobi’s arms around you, less pulling you in, but reaching for you, as if trying to catch you. The feel of Hobi learning that you’re not going anywhere. That you’ve always been here. And that feeling, that realization, amounting to one of the best kisses you’ve ever had, his soft lips adorning you with years of nostalgic, pent-up, real, love.
You pull away. “It’s too late,” you say, feeling guilty and wretched.
“It was more than just this,” Hobi tells you firmly. “Everything with her was off. Wrong.” He laces his fingers into yours. “But not now.”
You swerve his kiss, but Hobi takes it happily. He’ll take a lifetime of you swerving his kisses if it means getting to see the want in your eyes when you look back.
“Are you sure?” you ask, blinking back more tears.
“I’m sure,” he tells you. “As sure as I am about you.” He smiles. “It has always, always been you.”
He strokes the damp strands of hair tucked behind your right ear, their ends slightly tangled in the back of your rose earring. You feel the hair slip through the holes in the metal, bending your neck a little to the left to help it free. Your hair runs smooth through it, and through Hobi’s adoring fingers.
You look up at him, and you lean forward this time. You tiptoe. He holds you as you do it. And as you gently press a kiss to his cheek.
It slips down to a kiss on his lips.
And then you’re in it again.
This perfect world that Hobi created for you.
You take his hand and lead him upstairs.
He keeps his eyes on you as he pushes the underside of the attic door up, the steps folding automatically, and the latch catching as the thin wood flattens against the ceiling.
You lead him into your room, guiding him to your bed.
You wondered, upon learning about this little project, whether Hobi would be curious about your room. The posters that still hang. The picture frames that are collecting the same dust that you have on your sweater. The dried potpourri that your mother still insists on refreshing monthly, nestled in a tiny, light orange bowl on your dresser.
But right now, Hobi’s uninterested in everything else.
He just looks at you. Only sees you.
“Can I have a second?” you say, nervous, and sweating even more.
Hobi just nods, sitting there on your bed, so peaceful. All of his time is yours. It always has been.
You disappear into your bathroom. Strip off your clothes. Wash your face. Quickly brush your teeth. Contemplate reapplying your makeup, but settling for a natural look instead. You soap and rinse a washcloth to clear the little bit of sweat under your arms and on the back of your neck. Should you shower? Will you be sweating again soon, anyway?
You smirk at yourself at the thought.
But then you catch yourself in the mirror. You don’t see the comfortable but cute, silk, floral bralette and light yellow panties that you had changed into after you got home for the evening.
All you see is you, too.
“Even more evidence that I’m not a dream girl,” you sigh, as you leave your bathroom and try to forget the reflection that you saw in the mirror. “Flab. Freckles.” You glance at Hobi, who’s just sitting on your bed, staring at your body, probably recalculating his decisions upon seeing all of your stretch marks and scars. “Faults.”
Hobi just keeps staring.
You take a shaky breath, and Hobi rushes to his feet, walking toward you, softly taking your hands. He kisses the back of them, and then starts to kiss up your right arm. You start to chew your lip when he approaches a particular patch of skin, small raised bumps that your lotion still can’t seem to get rid of completely.
He doesn’t kiss them. He kisses past them. They don’t even register. He’s just kissing you.
He kisses up your neck, not remarking on the small scar you have just under your chin. He finds your jaw and draws you in, taking more of your attention, bringing him into whatever world he always seems to be in when he’s with you. The world where his hands keep swimming, uncaring that you have some extra bits of you on your stomach, or around your bust line, not even noticing the small keloids on the backs of your shoulders, and easily finding your collarbones and caressing them with his fingers, and then his lips, even under the extra flesh. And, what some might call tiny patches of discoloration, what you call freckles, all over your body, Hobi sees stars.
Hobi doesn’t understand how you can travel so many galaxies and not know this world.
The world where you are a dream girl.
His dream girl.
You feel his hands on your ass, and he grunts as he hugs you closer to him.
His lips flirt with your earlobe. “Been wondering.” The shockwaves of excruciating angst echo from his mouth and into your ear. “Can I…”
He runs a finger under the fabric of your panties, tracing the cleft of your left bottom cheek.
“Can I find out?”
You laugh softly as you tighten your arms around him, pressing your body into him.
He grunts again, slipping his hand under your panties and upwards, the fabric stretching and smoothing against you. He paws at you as he envelops you into an even deeper kiss, sucking up everything that he can taste, his entire body sucking you into him with the fervor of a hunger finally being satiated.
Walking backwards, Hobi leads you over to your bed, ankles hitting the bottom of your bed’s frame and prompting him to fall back. You climb on top of him and straddle him, your hands following as the backs of his arms slide against your duvet. You realize that his arms are still clothed with fabric, and then you lean back on your calves, kneeling on top of him, and smiling as he gazes up at you.
You tug on his sleeves, and he sits back up so that you can pull his sweater off of him, and then the shirt on underneath.
Cords of lithe muscle greet you, perfectly set on his proportioned frame. It’s been years since Hobi’s really danced, but his graceful abs have stayed loyal and true. You run your hands over his chest, appreciating how he’s filled out. Lived more life. Become stronger, and yet, softer.
All for you.
Hobi laughs softly at your wide, curious eyes, shaming yourself for not having seen before. He forgives you, or perhaps, tells you that there’s nothing to forgive, as he pulls you back into his kiss, like whipped cream and peppermint freshly mixed into hot cocoa. Sweet. Filling. Delicious.
You feel yourself starting to move your hips.
“How do you like it, dream girl?” he whispers to you. He palms your breasts in his big, soft hands, fingers smooth on your silk bralette. “Tell me.” He licks your left nipple, tongue wetting that silk, tracing you over and over again. “Wanna give it to you. Want it to be perfect.”
“Surprise me,” you whisper. “Like you always do.”
He nods, nosing into your breast as he continues to lick and suck through silk, kissing across your chest to your other breast and doing the same.
Your hips mimic his tongue’s movements, swirling on his rising cock, wetness seeping through your stained, yellow panties, and making a mess on his pants.
He pulls the silk cup off of your right breast and smiles, letting his tongue dart out and catch your nipple, lips soon following and circling around it, perfect pressure, then too much pressure, then, increasingly, not enough.
While his mouth continues working, tasting, feasting, his hands clasp down on your hips, and he starts to move you back and forth, rolling your hips toward and then away from him, as he widens his legs to make room for himself. You moan, feeling him grow beneath you, jutting up into you more and more, separating your wet, sticky lips and starting to burrow deeper.
You propel forward on your knees, and Hobi arches back with you, his left arm swiftly sliding diagonally across your back, from your right hip bone toward your left shoulder blade, hand gripping you there before sliding back over and finding the base of your skull. He cradles you there, and you feel so secure in his hold that you start to move with more intention. You slide your body closer to his trunk, your entrance taking in more of his bulge, and your waking clit rubbing against those perfect abs.
Your hips switch to infinity signs, craving more and more pressure against your clit.
Hobi seems to know, like always just seems to know. His right hand rubs your left knee, and as he slides it up your thigh, you buck into him again. His thumb slides between you, finding your clit and moving in slow circles, giving you another tempo to match your pace and flow to, and, when added to his fingers massaging your scalp, and his tongue still caressing your nipple and breast, making your breaths heavier, and shaky.
His right knuckles start to press into you as he works his index finger into your pussy, aiming to roll your clit between its pad and the pad of his already soaking thumb. You whimper at the feel of him teasing you, his lips smiling into you as you move against him, and feeling his hot breath on your skin as he laughs softly at your squeaks and whines.
You need more. Hobi knows you need more.
But he doesn’t know how badly you need it until you bend your neck to the side, arch back, push your chest out, shake your hair behind you, letting it tickle the hair on his arm, as you reach for the clasp of your bralette to undo it, all the while, letting out a long, low, needy moan.
“Shit,” he grunts, pausing his movements to bring his hands up and pull the straps of your bralette down and off of you.
Once your bralette hits the floor, you grind deeper into his lap, driven by feeling more of Hobi’s jaw and lips and arms and rising cock against you. He keeps working no matter where you let your hands roam. You grab the back of his head with both hands, running your fingers through his soft hair. You let them hang around his neck. He doesn’t get distracted, already used to having such focus with you. A man always on a mission. Particularly when it comes to you.
But when you clasp his shoulders…
And you start to bounce…
“Fuck,” he hisses.
You find yourself nodding. You agree. The pressure. The tension. Not just now, but for the past few days. Years, for him. It’s all leading somewhere. It has to happen.
You place your hands on either side of his face, thumbs in the outer corners of his eyes, opening them up and directing his gaze. You look at him, fondly.
“For real,” you whisper back, always so touched at how gentle he really is with you.
He grips you with his right forearm and stands. Picking you up is as easy as a dream. He unbuttons his jeans with his other hand, and he crouches a little to try and get the waist off of his hips.
Sensing the struggle, you place the soles of your feet on his jeans and try to slide them down, making Hobi laugh, and then hum in appreciation when it works.
He sits back down, and he shakes his pants and boxers down off of his ankles before reaching for your hips. He tosses you left and right, pulling your panties down. Down your thighs. Down your calves. And then, down onto the floor.
You climb off of him, and Hobi looks at you in confusion, wondering where you’re going. It’s unparalleled by the sheer ecstasy he feels when you wrap your drooling mouth around his cock, looking up at him with eager-to-please eyes.
Hobi swims in your gaze as you let your tongue swim against him, broad and curving around his underside, stroking him as you move your head back and forth, teasing him to come hither. When he starts to pump, slow and easy, you go to work, gathering your hair behind you, and feeling him take the strands in his palm for you, so that you can use your mouth and both hands to make sure his entire shaft gets some piece of you.
He can’t get enough.
He moans your name softly, telling you how good it feels with each hiss or click of his teeth. The way your nose brushes against his lower torso. The way you tilt your head down and bring your chest up, pulling his cock out with a kiss on his crown every time, before diving back in for another gulp. And the way you tongue every crevice underneath that crown, before taking one long lick down his shaft and sucking on his balls.
Doing it to Hobi does it to you. He sees how wet you are, dripping onto your bedroom carpet, unable to focus on anything except his cock.
He wants to focus on you, too.
Before another threat of losing it completely, he pulls you up and onto his lap, licking up the strands of your spit on your chin with his tongue, tasting himself on you and spitting in your mouth to try and find the taste of you again.
Your hips seek each other out again, as well.
You start with shallow strokes, wetting his head with your slick. There’s so much more coming.
Your knees press into your mattress, which starts to creak under your slight bounces.
Hobi searches for your lips. How he isn’t tired given all the work he’d put in at your chest, you don’t know. But he could do this forever. Travel and explore your body. He’s so, so curious to see how right he’d gotten it.
The tip, slipping into you easily now, edges further and further into you, and you’re having more and more trouble keeping your neck still, your head a spinning top, circling around, only able to maintain any sense of control with Hobi, his heart, his body, his cock, your axis. He’s grunting, trying not to lose it, holding as much back as he can, choosing instead to let you spin out of control.
Another stroke of your clit with those two, sopping wet fingers, and you do.
“Want you deeper,” you growl, before even the first waves leave you, feeling needy, and greedy, and unashamedly so.
Hobi nods and kisses you, sliding out of you with some reluctance, holding you close to him as he picks you up and places you on all fours on your mattress, a hand on you at all times as he lines up with you, worried that any time or space away from you will pry you from him yet again.
You low as he sinks back into you, flesh on fire, tissue twisting as he fits more of himself into you, halfway down his length. He forces his hips back, pushing only as far as your walls will let him for now, both of you hissing and moaning at the simultaneous pleasure and pain.
He grabs at your hips, grabbing past the extra as if it isn’t extra. As if it was always meant to be there. As if you would be incomplete somehow without it.
A deep moan seeps out of him. And then, “Spread for me.”
When you do, words fail him. He’ll get better at them with time. Or not.
He slowly pulls you back to him, more of him inside of you, waking you back up, shaking you back into action as you meet him halfway.
“More,” you sigh over and over, as you start to roll your hips through your movements, aching to take more of him into you, “more,” and aching worse at the fact that you can’t just yet, “more,” each of your sighs a plea to your body to give you what you fucking want.
If Hobi’s proved anything, it’s that patience is a virtue. He’s perfectly content to watch you struggling around him, twitching and trying, because he, as he tells you, sees where you’re headed so clearly.
“I can’t,” you whimper deliriously, though you’re certain you’ve done this before. “Fuck, why can’t I—”
“You can,” he tells you in a whisper, bending down to kiss your back. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You whine and let your head hang until something, a tingle, or a shock, sent to you by the way Hobi’s cock buries into your folds at a low, forward angle, snaps your head back up, and you start to push back against him. Still not as deep as you want, but closer.
Hobi notices. He starts to pump into you, watching your hips move below him, nearly biting his bottom lip plumb off when you have the audacity to clench in an attempt to get you there.
You snap your hand to your clit, trying a finger, some of your fingers, all of your fingers, your palm, your wrist, desperate for that explosion to finally bloom around you the way you want.
Your body comes back to you with a suggestion, and you gladly take it, shivering as the second wave envelops you.
“C’mere,” Hobi mumbles, flipping you over and throwing your legs over his shoulders.
“Oh god,” you whine. You’re starting to just know, like he just knows. And it’s a dangerous thing, seeing the bigger picture with him.
His tongue’s perfect point aims with such precision, flicking your clit, slow, and then fast, and then faster, inside of his mouth as he cushions it with his lips, widening his mouth and groaning as he kisses your lips to cool you off, edging you, and making your walls throb.
“Hobi,” you sigh, running your hand through his drenched locks. “Hobi. Hobi.”
He knows you’re about to come, but he snaps back anyway.
You pout and moan his name over and over again, but he shakes his head.
“Mmm. I know. But trust me.”
You squeeze your eyes tight, letting the tears fall, mourning the waves that never came.
But then he stands.
And he pulls your hips down to the edge of the mattress.
And you’re crying for a different reason.
It isn’t that he’s too much, though he is thick, and longer than most of the others you’ve known. It’s really just coming down to timing. Getting to know him. Make space for him. Feel him.
And when you wait for that timing, it pays off.
He climbs on top of you and burrows, all of him now, into you, deeper and deeper, until you feel the base of his cock press against your flesh, his balls warmly resting against your skin, and then slapping as he picks up the pace.
“Fuck, yes,” you sigh. “Yes, yes, yes.”
This is what you’d been waiting all this time for. And it was more than worth the wait.
That fathomless stroke, long, and firm, so heated, and focused, and dangerous that with each pound, you worry that your ribcage might fall apart.
You let out a howling cry, eyes springing open with tears, Hobi’s sublime face blurry until you blink.
He reaches up and wipes your tears away with his thumb.
“Stay with me, dream girl,” he whispers, as he leans down to kiss you.
You nod through your kiss. You want to tell him that from now on, you will always, always stay with him.
Deep, plodding strokes, spaced farther and farther apart, making you slide higher and higher up your mattress, the pressure mounting so tensely between each pump that you feel like you’re coming unhinged.
You both moan and grunt on each one, pitch rising higher and higher.
Until he murmurs. Strained. Breaking.
“Come.”
You let out a final moan as he empties into you, and your body shakes, none of your parts knowing where they want to go, spasming and flinching as indescribable pleasure blossoms across your bodies. He litters kisses all over you, grateful grunts, and reassuring words, telling you how good you did. How good it felt. How good you are.
How perfect.
When your heartbeat finally settles, you turn to Hobi, who has collapsed next to you. You manage a tired, satisfied smile when you find that he has been running his hand up and down his chest, eyes barely able to stay open.
Hobi finds it weird to dream about you, open his eyes, and then find you staring back at him.
“Hungry?” you ask sweetly.
Hobi raises his eyes and looks far away. “A little.” But then he finds you again. “The diner?” He frowns at the thought of the guys’ championesque smirks as the two of you stroll in. “Maybe not.”
You smile. “I bought some kimchi-bokkeum-bap yesterday. Never got around to eating it.”
“Why not?”
“Had something else instead.”
“Mmm.” Hobi hums and reaches for your hand, pulling it to him and kissing it. And then his eyebrows shoot up. “Kimchi-bokkeum-bap kinda sounds perfect, actually.” And then he rolls into you. “But not yet, please.”
You laugh as he scooches forward to kiss your shoulder.
“How did you sleep?” you whisper.
“Good. Dreamt about you. In Jimin’s green dress.” The wrong image pops into his head. “I mean, the dress that Jimin—” He shakes his hair out his face. “Ugh, you know what I mean. The dress you wore to the carol singing thing.”
He closes his eyes as you chuckle and turn your head back up to the ceiling. “Speaking of,” you say softly, staring up at the popcorn pattern, “what did Mrs. Yoon whisper in your ear?”
“That we made a nice couple.” Hobi raises his head a little to catch your eyes. “And, uh… she very graphically told me that… uh… we would also make nice babies.”
He buries his head back into your pillow.
“Are you seriously getting shy right now?” you laugh, charmed. “We just fucked!”
“Still.” Hobi’s words are muffled by the pillow. But he keeps one eye on you.
“Do we really have a whole month of this?” he asks you.
You smile. You’ve already told him. And you’re about to tell him again. You want so much more.
Until you hear the front door open.
And your father really calls for you.
“Shit!” you whisper, as both you and Hobi scramble out of your bed. And then, to your parents, you yell, “Be right down!”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hobi mutters, getting dressed. He stares at you frantically. “W-where should I—?”
Your mother knocks on your door. “You still sleepy? We brought home some breakfast!”
“Dammit,” you whisper, pulling on the last bit of your right sweatpant leg. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I think the only option is the window.”
“OK,” Hobi says, a glint of worry in his eye, though his voice is steady and strong, trying to psyche himself up for the drop. “That’s fine. That’s fine.”
“Sweetie?” your mother asks.
“This is not fine!” you whine to Hobi.
“It’s fine. I promise.” Hobi means to kiss your cheek, but he kisses the tip of your nose in the crazed frenzy. “I’ll call you later.”
You nod quickly, as Hobi reaches over and opens your window. He grimaces as he looks down at your front yard. And all that snow.
“Sweetie? You OK?”
As Hobi gets into position, you crouch a little and crack your door open, careful to hide him from view as he gets ready to jump. “Eomma?” you ask.
She smiles happily at you. “Good morning.” She wedges her face through your door and gives you a kiss on the forehead. “Sleep OK?”
“Mmhmm!” you exclaim.
“OK, well, let’s go have some breakfast,” your mother tells you.
As you join her in the hall, you hear a quiet floof! from outside and below your window.
You walk down the stairs, arm in arm, though you keep looking back to your bedroom door.
“Good morning,” your father greets you, kissing your cheek.
“These decorations, sweetie. They were a lovely, lovely surprise,” your mother adds from behind you, stroking your hair.
“I just wanted to make you smile,” you tell her. You turn back to your father. “How are you feeling?” you ask, eyes wide, and heart thumping.
“Great!” your father tells you. “Everything was fine, but they’re going to make some adjustments to my medication.”
He hugs you back, even tighter than you hug him.
“So that means I can have an unhealthy breakfast,” your father surmises.
“Whatever, Appa.”
“Is Hobi joining us?” he asks.
You freeze.
Your father pulls away, and you see your mother grinning just behind him, trying her best not to laugh. “Where’s Hobi?” he asks, looking around.
“Uh, Hobi??” you ask.
Your father points to the jacket draped across the couch back, JUNG clearly on display.
Your erratically beating heart stops and sinks into your lower intestines. “Oh.”
“Where is he?” your father repeats. “We have tons of food!”
You blink quickly at your father.
And then you rush outside, seeing Hobi still struggling to get up.
“Hobi!” you call out to him, running into your yard, barefoot and barely dressed.
“What!” His eyes go as white as all the snow covering him when he sees you running to him, and then tackling him back down into the snow, laughing and kissing him.
“They invited you in for breakfast,” you tell him warmly, voice purring in your chest, pressed against his.
“P-please tell me there’s coffee,” Hobi chatters. “I’m c-cold.”
But you don’t feel a thing.
All you feel is Hobi underneath you, tickling you, and then saying, “OK, no, but s-seriously, it’s so, s-so cold.”
You get to your feet and help him up, bringing him up the porch steps again.
Your mother frowns at you as she yanks him into the house, dusting him off and throwing him onto the couch in the living room. “What is wrong with you??” she exclaims. “You let him jump out the window?!”
“I wasn’t sure if I could have—” You cough. “If having, uh, a guest, would be OK?” you say awkwardly.
“Jesus!” your mother mutters. She sighs and looks piteously at Hobi. “I’m getting you dry clothes and some blankets. I mean, for crying out loud.”
“T-T-Thank you,” Hobi chokes out.
You apologetically wrap Hobi up in his letterman jacket as your father laughs at the two of you.
“Did you think the no dating rule was still in effect or something?” he asks.
“The child locks are still on in the car,” you mumble. You feel Hobi’s adoring eyes on you, and you smile back at him when you add, “And we’re still… figuring it out?”
“Took you long enough to get this far,” your father replies. “Sweetie, ever since you got back into town, everyone in the town has been asking about you two. Especially that Mrs. Yoon.” He smiles. “I’ll make you both some coffee,” your father says, walking into the kitchen. “And, Hobi, please, the least we could do for you is make good on that invite to dinner.”
He smiles at Hobi.
“Stay.”
Hobi just grins back.
Once your father is out of earshot, you whisper anxiously, “Oh god, this is a lot. I’m sorry. You really don’t have to feel obligated to stay.”
“Are you kidding?”
Hobi, still shivering, turns to you and smiles.
“I finally get a real date with my dream girl, and you expect me to say no?”
You laugh and wrap Hobi up in your arms, covering him with your entire body, trying to warm him back up, as your collective teeth chatter through a warm, sweet kiss that makes up for a decade full of every single one he’s imagined.
Author’s Note: Something fun, sweet, and sexy written for a fic exchange with dear, dear Shenee! Hope I incorporated everything well enough to give you a smile! Sending you and all of GAF love, plus comforting nods, smiles, and locked eyes from Hobi 😎
Taglist (italics means I wasn’t able to tag for some reason but will get you the fic!): @apprentlyeveryusernameistaken @awinkies @babycoffeefire @bluejin0812 @btseditsworld @btsrecsandmisc @codeinebelle @dearbambideer @downbad4yoongi @dreamamubarak @dvalitaes @effielumiere @elyte @greezenini @hajimabutdont @helenazbmrskai @hobi-love @hobiiiiiworld @imaginativedreams @jkkit @kflixnet @liz820 @lynnloveslokiredacted @m-yg93 @miscelunaaa @missbickerbocker @mochilatae @morti13 @neinyasficrecs @pb-n-juju @purpleheartsfortae @reliablemittenmain @rurugoeson @skyys-universe @smkxth @somewhereofftheglobe @soraiaimnida @squishybabyboycas @sunnietee @svgahigh @virgorisingproblems @xjoonchildx @yoongihan @yuugehn
Hobi and his gang spill out of the club like his laughter spills out of his mouth. Joyful, even in a disastrous downpour.
“Your rideshare here yet?” Namjoon calls, gripping the taxi’s door handle and leaning his weight away to throw the door open for the group.
The gals shriek and giggle as their puddle-ruined heels serve their last purpose in helping them dive inside. Headlights shining from the opposite lane of traffic produce silhouettes of bodies crawling over bodies, the girls piling onto Jungkook and Taehyung’s laps in the backseat.
Hobi shakes his head, hair now sopping wet. “Didn’t call one!” he calls. “Thought I’d just walk!”
Namjoon’s eyes widen. “What?! B-but it’s—” He lets go of the van’s door handle and gestures around, the storm bountiful enough to start pooling in his hands as he waves around. “It’s—!”
Hobi grins. “I’m good!”
Namjoon shrugs and dumps the buckets of water that have collected in his outstretched hands.
“Suit yourself.”
Namjoon jumps inside and shuts his door. Jin has already hopped in the front seat and slammed his. Yoongi, unsurprisingly, didn’t even come out tonight. But Jimin still has one foot planted on the concrete.
“Hobi-hyung, just get in the taxi with us!” he calls out.
Hobi gestures to the tallest tower in their immediate vicinity. “Not even a block away!”
The protests are building now. And the driver’s voice is joining them.
“Text when you get inside, then!” Jimin calls back, lifting his foot and getting into the van. Before he closes the door, he turns in a small circle and pops his head open one last time. “And have something warm before you sleep! Soup!”
Hobi nods and waves, though it’s getting harder to see him through the storm.
As the taxi pulls away, Hobi jogs a little, light on his feet, Gene Kelly-ing his way from street lamp to street lamp.
But then he spots something.
A figure. At the bar on the corner. Drinking alone.
Hobi frowns and jogs over to the bar’s entrance, reaching for the door.
But just before he grips the handle to open it, he places both of his hands on his soggy lapel, straightens his soaked blazer, and smooths back his sopping wet hair.
“So then, I told them that that was the whole point of the piece,” you continue, “to seem out of place! It’s why that piece is made of iron instead of stained glass, and why it’s so large and weird and mismatched! To be a stark contrast that makes you stop in the middle of the gallery and kinda wonder, y’know, what the hell is this exhibit about? Because that’s the feeling! The feeling of losing myself completely and feeling this gnarly wall come up, making me question everything! That’s the feeling I get with when I am completely entranced in something, anything, anything that takes up more time and energy and brain space, because what should take up more time, energy, and brain space in my brain but me—”
The bartender abruptly walks away.
“Where are you going?” you call out after him.
He returns with a bottle of beer and looks up, somewhere behind you.
At someone behind you.
When your eyes land on him, they narrow.
“You’ve gotta be fuuuuuh-huh-huhhhhh-cking kidding me,” you grumble, whipping straight back around and opening your tight, puffy eyes too big, too soon.
You squinch them tight in response.
Maybe if you squeeze them tighter, you’ll disappear.
“Hey!”
You don’t turn around.
The bartender places the beer on the coaster next to you.
Hobi places his hand on your shoulder, and you take in a deep, deep breath.
You cannot take this. You cannot take Jung Hoseok not only draped in all black, wearing what appears to be a mesh shirt underneath his blazer — with sparkles on the cuff of his right sleeve?! — dripping wet with sexy night time rain that made his hair slick back and part to the side, forehead on display, bangs coming to sharp points at his right brow.
You are now forced to turn around. So you do.
And he does it.
The thing.
Where he turns to you, and, through his bangs, locks eyes with you, then feigns turning away but does it all again, tacking on a playful smirk for extra destruction.
“What was that?” Hobi teases, sitting on the stool next to you. “I was saying hi.”
If you speak above a mumble, you will cry again. “Didn’t recognize you.”
He tilts his head down and smizes. He knows better, and he knows that you know that he knows better.
“What are you even doing here??” you ask.
You venture a sideways peek at him. You pray that you don’t see a nipple. Because, you swear to god, if you see a goddamned nipple—
He snorts. Not mockingly. Charmed. “Apparently, I’m drinking.” He looks back up at the movie playing silently on the far wall. “And you’re, apparently, watching 10 Things I Hate About You?”
“Clueless.”
“Sorry, I don’t know romcoms very well.”
“No, it’s the movie Clueless,” you grumble.
He chuckles.
You frown at him. How dare he.
“I can’t believe you’re talking to me, now, on today of all days, while I’m in this Rugrats tee shirt, and not at Jimin’s party while I’m being bubbly and intelligent, holding a canape in my left hand and posing in my favorite, fancy black dress that hugs my hips and ass beautifully!”
Hobi raises his eyebrows.
And then he takes his beer bottle with his right hand, where the body just starts to curve into the neck, index and middle finger curved around the label, the pad of his ring finger resting on the glass, and his pinky tucked away.
“Tonight’s not a fancy night,” he says.
“No, it isn’t, but you…” You let your gaze linger. You think you see nipple. You ignore it.
His beer bottle is still in the air. “I wanted to strike up a conversation,” Hobi admits to you, “but you were busy retconning Alex Mack. I didn’t want to interrupt such important work.”
Your jaw opens a little. He saw you?
And he was… listening?
“I’m glad you heard,” you say out loud. “I was right.”
You pick up your old fashioned, and the two of you clink.
Hobi leans his head back, nose rising, but he stares into your eyes as you both drink.
He drags his sparkly sleeve across his lips and sets his bottle back down.
“So,” Hobi says, “why are we drinking? Celebrating?”
Either Hobi is mean, or he really is Clueless. “Sure, celebrating,” you say, as Hobi starts to smile. But that smile stops in its tracks when you add, “Welcome to my wake!”
“What do you mean?”
You can’t go into the details again. Not when you definitely see nipple. And through still tear-blurred eyes, no less.
“I’ve had a day,” you decide to say. “A day that is a very decisive day. And I see doors closing. And I don’t like that they’re closing. So I’m sitting here and drinking until one opens.”
“The only one that will open is the one they kick you out of,” Hobi says, nodding at the bartender, who is tapping his watch.
Hobi starts to down the rest of his beer, and you watch him curiously.
“You’d do better to stand outside and open your mouth,” you tell him. “Jimin texted me something about the club tonight? Knowing how you dance, your body’s probably only 5% water at this point.”
Hobi sets the bottle back down on the bar and smiles at you. “So you’ve seen me dance.”
You really need to stop talking.
Hobi places some cash, too much cash, on the bar, pinned to the coaster by his bottle.
“C’mon. I live by here.”
“I live by here,” you say.
Hobi brightens, though his cheeks are getting a little red. “So we both live by here.” He bites his bottom lip. “Come over, then.”
“What? Why?”
And then Hobi does the thing again.
Where he turns to you, and, through his bangs, locks eyes with you.
But instead of faking a turn, he reaches for your hand.
“What is it that you do again?”
You stare at all the sneakers on his wall, in little cubbies, like it’s kindergarten, and no one has left feet. Neon pinks. Camel browns. Galaxy blues. And one, frankly, diarrhea green.
You hold your breath and frown at that one.
“They’re not all winners,” Hobi says, leaning on his shelf and placing his arm in front of the diarrhea green skater shoe, in a clumsy way to hide it.
It’s cute.
His eyes follow your tilting neck.
“I had a day today, too,” he says, leaning on the wall now, brushing back his blazer and stuffing his other hand in his pocket. “Tons of proposals for a big account. All of them got rejected. And here I thought I was finally on the precipice of the ultimate promotion.”
You snort. “So you went to the club and danced it out?”
“Well, yeah,” Hobi says, startled, “what else is there to do?”
You roll your eyes and turn around, continuing your investigation of his high rise loft, the storm nicer and gentler 30 stories up and against double-glazed glass, the thunder a buzzy bass beat instead of a whip crack, the rain a gentle pitter patter instead of the rat-a-tat of enemy fire.
Of course someone this high up could have that kind of perspective.
“Very Live Laugh Love of you,” you mutter, eyes settling on a Snoopy figurine.
“Y’know, it doesn’t actually come from an optimistic place.”
He sounds annoyed.
You frown. Jimin always says how Hobi is their group’s sunshine, and he’s certainly proving to be some kind of warmth and light and energy.
“Where does it come from, then?” you ask, genuinely intrigued.
“Laziness. And pride.” Hobi picks up the diarrhea green sneaker and looks at it thoughtfully. “I see things before others see them. Most people don’t see them at all. I feel like you get that.”
You find yourself nodding. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“So you must also get how frustrating it is,” he goes on, straightening and letting his arm swing down, hand still gripping his shoe, other hand still in his pocket, that arm pinning his blazer to his side as he strolls toward you. “Visionaries like us simply don’t have the time to waste convincing everybody of what they’re ultimately unable to see. It’s not our fault they’re unequipped, so why should we let their opinions matter? It’s unfortunate, but we have to ride out the ebbs and flows so that we last long enough to play the game at times to get to where we ultimately want to be. Bright, sunny optimism doesn’t serve that. It steers you away. Distracts you.” He smiles. “But Machiavellianism, on the other hand…”
“Ohhh, I get it,” you say, laughing “you’re a psychopath.”
“Am I?” he chuckles, as he reaches you. “Or am I merely stating fact? I’m seen as too lazy to do anything I don’t want to do, and I’m seen as prideful for believing in myself.”
He sets the shoe down next to Snoopy.
The color doesn’t look so bad in this light. You realize you haven’t really seen it on a shoe before.
“The point is, I know what the fuck I’m doing. The sooner people catch up, the better. And the happier they’ll be.”
You inhale sharply. Now, Hobi is not just warmth, and light, and energy.
Now, Hobi is sizzle. And heat.
He leans into you.
“I remember that dress,” Hobi growls into your ear, voice low, something you hadn’t heard before. “I remember thinking that I wanted to rip it off of you. But you probably wouldn’t let me. And that made me want to do it more.”
His lips don’t taste like beer. They taste like rain.
HIs blazer comes off and lands on the hardwood floor with a slap.
You wonder if his hand will make the same sound on your ass.
“Don’t rip the tee,” you plead, as it comes up and over your shoulders. “It’s—”
“Vintage, I know,” Hobi mutters, lips landing on you as soon as its collar is done separating you from each other.
As you grab and grope for each other, he dances you into the bedroom.
His hands are cool against your chest, but it’s refreshing. It’s something different. Different than the hot water bottles that you’d been cuddling in your apartment all weekend, or the sweaters and blankets your mother kept piling onto you.
The mesh shirt is gone.
So are the bra, and pants, and panties, and boxers.
One sock.
The other.
Two more.
You lie back on his bed.
“No,” he tells you. “I don’t want it like that.”
“Wha—”
He flips you over, and you keen.
The slap sounds exactly like his blazer hitting the floor.
And it feels like the whip of thunder outside, though his voice is helping to muffle it into something so exquisite that you’ve forgotten to share how you like it.
It feels good.
It feels good not to have to keep telling someone how you like something.
“Spread those knees,” he commands. “Ass up. Higher.”
Your palms are a little clumsy on his mattress. It’s a bit lumpy? “Need to get my bearings here a bi—”
“You won’t need them.”
He places his right palm on the top of your spine, just where your body starts to curve into the neck, index and middle finger curved into the backs of your shoulders, the pad of his ring finger resting on your sable skin, and his pinky tucked away.
No, tonight isn’t going to be fancy.
He pushes you into the mattress, and you grunt.
His hands spread you apart.
And then you feel his tongue.
Circling you.
Sliding inside.
The best is when he moves his head from side to side as he eats you out, and when you start to ride his face, pushing back to feel his entire profile against you, he does the thing, snapping his head to the side that caught his attention, and licking, moaning, slurping you up and spitting you back onto yourself, and drinking you back up as it dribbles down your thighs.
He’s good at it.
And when you look back, eyebrows raised and bottom lip pinched between your teeth, he says, “Tell me.”
You whine as he starts to part your lips with his fingers, palm upturned, pads of his fingers stroking and rubbing.
“You feel so good that I think I might cry again,” you whimper.
He chuckles. “Then cry.”
You moan, and he lets out a high-pitched sigh that falls into another hungry grunt as his mouth latches onto you again. His tongue flexes. Really flexes. He’s a renowned master of isolation of movements. His tongue tip flicks against your clit so quickly that it feels like your favorite vibrator on its highest setting, while the base of his tongue lays flat against you, keeping you nice, and wet, and warm.
His lips come together, and he starts to suck.
“Shit,” you sigh. “You’ve gotta be fuh-huh-huhhhh-cking kidd— ah!”
The first wave shivers through you. Hobi does his best to suck your orgasm out of you.
You’re babbling and clawing his mattress, which you no longer care is lumpy. You don’t care about anything. All you feel is overwhelming, completely self-indulgent, somehow simultaneously meaningless and incredibly meaningful joy. Pure joy.
You laugh. Why are you laughing?
“Fuck, the way you push me,” you say. “How you spank me. How you handle me. I love it. No one else has gotten it right. Gotten it the way that you do. Especially this. Fuck.”
He beams and you can feel it on your skin. “Mmm, I can already tell you’re gonna take me well,” Hobi says, lining up against you as the last of your shivers play out.
“How did you learn how to do it like this?” you ask.
“I just like it like this,” he says simply. “You’re delicious, by the way. But you probably already knew that.”
You giggle and wiggle your ass as he gives you another playful slap, and a kiss as a chaser.
He lines up, and he presses into you, straight, and long, and deep.
You feel your body resisting at first, but quickly giving way, though not much.
“That feels incredible,” you whimper.
“You feel incredible,” Hobi pants back.
He clutches your hips, and you feel yourself completely in your body, letting it tumble forward, then back, your neck swaying, forehead pushing into his bed, drool and nonsense bubbling out of your raw lips.
He’s starting to slam into you now, and you turn your head, pressing your cheek onto his sheets, sweat pooling, and wicking, and splashing back onto you.
Pitter patter.
“Hobi,” you whine.
He takes a full breath and lets out a whoop. “Should’ve done this sooner,” he tells you, voice strained. “Should’ve—” This one’s a particularly smooth and full stroke, and you both moan through it. He starts to pump faster. “Should’ve just ripped that fucking dress off of you when—”
You reach back, hand flailing for him.
He takes your wrist, and then the other, and crosses them over each other, pinning them to the small of your back.
You howl.
And he revels in it. Your noises are like songs of worship to him. He could never get tired of them.
He falters a bit, starting to feel heat creep up from the backs of his ankles up into his shoulder blades, curling his body over yours, pressing your body into the mattress, and folding you into yourself as he fucks you. He wants your moans to fill his bedsprings. Wants to hear them when he writhes in bed and touches himself to you later, after you leave, in anticipation of when you get to do this again.
You come.
He pulls out and empties against your lips, pressing his crown into your thigh.
He grabs a handful of your ass and digs his nails in, making you squeak and shake.
Once you let out a satisfied sigh, he helps you turn over, uncaring that his cum will get on his sheets. And you chuckle when he flops on top of you, kissing you, hands massaging your breasts, thumbs and knuckles rolling your nipples, pinching and pulling and releasing to see them bounce.
“Fuck, that was amazing,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut as you say it, for emphasis. “Exactly what I needed.” You smile when you open your eyes and see him.
And both his nipples.
“You’re fun,” he tells you, stroking your cheek.
You are fun. You are fun and smiles and joy, all over again.
“Please,” you say. “You’re fun. Incredibly, incredibly fun.”
You lean up to kiss them, lick them.
He laughs in delight.
But then, he places his hands on your shoulders and lays you back down.
“Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?” you ask, reaching out for his arm as he stands. “We’re far from done with all the fun.”
He lets you take his arm. Leans down toward you. And, surprisingly, offers you not one of his panty-soaking quips, but a kiss to your temple.
You widen your eyes in surprise.
He anticipates each of your questions.
“Oh, I know. But I’m gonna make us some soup first. Because it’s cold. And raining. And you’ve had a day. And I’ve had a day. And Jimin told me to.” He smiles. “And he’s always right.”
Word Count: 11.2k | read on ao3 | Part of the Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series!
Synopsis: There’s a new nail technician at Nouveau Nails. His name is Min Yoongi. And he knows exactly what you need.
Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Strangers to lovers, some fluff, some angst, some smut (massaging, semi-public sex, and, uh, well, feet)
Author’s Note: Part of my Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series, and based on a real-life, incredibly hot nail technician at my salon that I absolutely have a crush on. The first time he gave me a pedicure, he stopped randomly and paused my manicurist before she started painting my nails. He got up and came back with a different bottle of pink. He switched out the shade of pink she had picked to ensure that it would match the pink I picked for my toes. And the last time I saw him, he gave me an extra few minutes on my massage. I’m too shy to ask for his name, and I go too infrequently to feel like it warrants a standing appointment. But whenever I call to make an appointment, part of the fun is wondering whether I’ll get to see him. He’s… um… very good. And he’s obviously a Yoongi. Come book an appointment with him.💜
Her voice is never the same, but whoever answers always has a bright, cheery tone. You’ve wondered if that was because the entire staff was naturally that friendly, or if the owner was that stingy on sharing tips.
“Is Friday at 3 available?” you ask her hopefully.
“Yes, what would you like to get done?”
Hours are easily spent browsing, but you always end up going with the design that prompts the search. Negative space. Abstract watercolor splashes. Pinks and light oranges on a nude canvas. Matte. “Dip manicure with gel designs, please?” You catch sight of your excited, wiggling toes. “And a gel pedicure?”
“Can I have your phone number?”
You recite the digits clearly and comfortably paced so that you don’t have to repeat yourself, before adding, “Uh, do you still have that punch card thing going on?”
“The loyalty card promo? Oh, yes, and we have your phone number on file to verify that you came in. Do you happen to have the physical card with you?”
Your index and middle finger knuckles flip positions, turning the punch card over from the side with four out of five nail emoji stamps to the side with the Nouveau Nails logo, their address, and, crucially, because you never remember to save it as a contact, their phone number.
“Yes, but do I need to bring anything else to take advantage of the promo?” you ask.
“That’s all, and, uh, also, pedicures and manicures count as one punch each, so you’ll get a new card, if that makes sense?”
“Thanks!” you say, smiling through your voice because it feels like an accomplishment somehow, but then immediately cringing at your own excitement, trying to move on from it by asking, “So, do you need anything else from me?”
“No, just confirming that we’ll see you Friday at 3 for a dip and gel manicure and a gel pedicure, and that you’ll get it at a 20% discount with the loyalty card promo?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
In the keyboard-punctuated silence that follows your statement, you realize that the entire conversation you’ve just had consisted completely of gently crafted questions. What do you want? Can you have it? Is it too much of a hassle to get it in a way that works for you?
“Any additional questions?” she asks, still bright.
“No — thank you!”
“Alright, see you on Friday at 3!”
When you arrive, you immediately wish you hadn’t made your appointment for Friday at 3.
Because Friday at 3 is when spring break apparently started.
And, on Friday, at 3, seemingly everyone in your neighborhood between the ages of 5 and 50 is at Nouveau Nails.
Usually, at this phase of your appointment, you’d be signing in using the tablet perched next to the vase of always-fresh orchids on the front desk, anticipating an hour and a half of relaxation after another hectic week while secretly trying to guess which of the women washing and filing and painting had answered your call. On Friday, at 3, however, each of the women have four times as many hands and feet to buff and polish, and the tablet is four torsos away.
One of the Nouveau Nail staff members cuts between you and the torso in front of you. Her smile is hidden behind her mask, but her eyes, sparkling with apologetic recognition, give her away. “Busy today,” she whispers.
“Good for business!” you whisper back.
She nods happily before reaching out for the nearby table and grabbing a spiraling tower of sample nails with sample colors.
“We can get you started on your pedicure, though!” she tells you. “Have a seat in Chair 4 when it frees up.”
You nod, though it could be mistaken for a groove, as you pull your headphones from around your neck, the closed-back cans slipping comfortably over your ears, the leather worn where it needs to be.
It takes half a song to sign in, but as you do, a sense of normalcy starts to descend. You spend a few minutes admiring the fresh orchid at the desk, largely ignored, but always evoking a quiet beauty appreciated in moments like these, when someone is close to it and paying attention.
The shop can be busy and loud. It doesn’t mean that you need to be.
When you turn to make your way to Chair 4, though, something catches you off-guard.
A new staff member, crouched over the end of the chair, turning on the basin at its foot.
This new person is a he.
A he with black ash for hair, and draped in a cream-bodiced, black-necked sweater that has got to be too warm for the fire-marshall-chastising amount of people stuffed in this salon.
He takes a moment to check the temperature of the water pouring from the basin’s spout before scooping up a small notepad and black marker. He draws something on it. An afterthought. A touch-up to something already fully realized. And when he’s satisfied, he sets the notepad back down under his stool before the basin is even half-full.
Furrowing your brow, you walk toward the chair anyway. You hate to have preconceived notions, but, perhaps even more than this spring break crowd, you weren’t expecting a he.
It probably isn’t very hard to do a simple pedicure, you tell yourself, even though you yourself do the worst job.
“Hi,” you say with a polite smile. “I’m—”
When he turns around, his pout blushing with color and his tired eyes filling with warmth, you forget.
“Uh, I’m… uh…”
“Are you our 3 o’clock?” he asks, smirking a little.
You nod again, though you don’t hear it so much as understand what his lips are curling to say. He says something else, but you can’t make it out. Squinting, you tilt your head and try to replay it in your head.
He points to his ear, and then you realize that beats are still flowing into your brain.
“Sorry,” you say, reaching for your right ear.
Usually, at this phase of your appointment, you’re deep into the third or fourth song in your relaxation playlist, laying down stress and burdens from the week behind, envisioning positive outcomes for the week ahead, manifesting as much success and strength as you can, and reminding yourself of your power through others’ lyrics. But on Friday at 3, you are holding your phone and trying to pull your headphones down at the same time, essentially doing too much with your right hand, to where you almost drop your phone into the basin full of water.
He bends forward quickly to catch it, just in case, but your phone luckily doesn’t fall completely out of your grip.
Nothing ever does.
“Sorry,” you chuckle again, shaking your head at yourself.
You pause your music and stick your phone in your leggings pocket for safekeeping.
Now that he’s sure that you can hear him, he says, “I was saying that I liked your headphones.”
“Oh, thanks. They were a gift. And they’re great.” You grin and tap the label on the right ear cup, laying flat against your collarbone. “Technics.”
“Nice,” he says. “Though I’m more of a Grado fan, myself.”
His arm rises, and his fingers unfurl as his flat palm turns up.
“Have a seat.”
You shove your phone into the pocket of your leggings for safe keeping, and then you slide onto the seat at the right side of the chair, where its arm is up in the air. You take a moment to remove your shoes and socks, and as you swivel in your seat to rest your bare feet on the basin lip, he gets up and walks to your side as you get comfortable.
“Want anything to drink?” he asks. “Water, soda, wine?” He presses his lips together. “The frozen margarita machine is broken after—”
Happy, sugary laughter bursts forth from the group of women in chairs 5, 6, and 7, their nail technicians all exchanging looks.
He turns to you again.
“Well, it’s broken after over-use.”
You smile gently. “Nothing to drink for me. Thanks, though.”
“Of course.” He sniffs. “Gel pedicure?”
You nod.
“What color are we doing?”
“Same.”
You wiggle your toes, and he chuckles.
“OPI Big Bow Energy,” you explain. “It’s my usual.”
He chuckles again. “Alright. Big Bow Energy it is.”
He pulls the arm chair down, wiping clean the button panel of massage chair settings down for you as the arm clicks in place. “Make yourself comfortable,” he tells you. “I’ll be right back.”
He walks off lazily, heading to the back of the salon. You wonder what “the back” looks like. Everyone always emerges from “the back” with a wooden tray containing a small jar of fake flowers and three tiny bowls of neon-colored scrubs and creams that smell amazing and feel divine on your skin. When he emerges, he also has a mask hanging off of his left ear, and a lollipop in his closed mouth, the small round head of candy bulging out of his right cheek.
You wonder what flavor it is.
“Lucky,” the woman in Chair 5 chirps.
When you turn to look at her, Chairs 6 and 7 lean forward. They all have the same, faint waft of frozen margarita floating from their identically frantic smiles.
Chair 5 nods over to your nail technician, who is sorting through the polish rack for your Big Bow Energy.
“We’ve been coming here every Friday afternoon trying to get him,” Chair 5 explains. “So unfair that you just waltz right in and get him on your first go,” Chair 6 adds with a groan.
“Oh,” you comment, “I’m actually a regular custom—”
“It’s been months,” Chair 7 complains, “and each time we’ve come here, we get stuck with other people.”
You can’t help but glance at the team working on their nails.
They are unimpressed.
Suddenly, the Chairs’ eyes grow wide.
“Can I get you ladies something else to drink?”
He catches you off guard, sneaking up at your right side like that. That’s probably why you shudder a bit. It’s not because of the deep timbre of his voice rumbling through the leather of your still-turned-off massage chair.
The Chairs sing a chorus of “no that’s OKs” and “we’re just fine”s and “thank you so much”es.
“Wonderful,” he says.
And then he leans down to you.
“I brought you a water, just in case,” he mumbles, that voice starting to rumble through your bones now, and carrying through your flesh when he switches the massage chair on to its full-body relaxation mode.
As the rollers start to knead into your muscle, you watch him set the small bottle of water down onto the tray on your seat’s right arm before carrying his tray of flowers and color back to his stool.
The Chairs watch in unabashed lust, but you don’t join them. It’s not that you don’t understand what would drive these women to rearrange their weekends to assemble and descend upon the salon. Anyone would savor the way he rolls your leggings up to the knee and lets his hands run down your calves. Anyone would luxuriate in the way he cups water in his hands and lets it trickle onto your ankle to feel out the temperature. Anyone would enjoy the way he, after your slight nod of confirmation, gently picks up your left foot and carefully sets it into the basin.
It’s just that you appreciate the quieter, unexpected things.
Things like how, as The Chairs’ coded but obviously horny chatter is fanned by an awkward but charitable grin.
Things like how he winces at the prospect of more chatter building.
Things like how he catches your eyes with a prescient look and taps his right ear as he squeezes your right foot, signaling to you that you’ll probably have a more relaxing time listening to your music as he softly submerges your right foot into the basin.
You smile at the warm water surrounding you. You pull the right ear cup back on, and you use the controls there to pick up where you left off.
Effervescent, gleaming notes are lofted by a mellow but clapping, exuberant beat. A reflection of the joy that the grind can bring. The song slides into your ears, and it’s only then that you start to feel that it truly is spring break. You haven’t celebrated it as such for years now, but as you look around the nail salon set to this soundtrack, you can appreciate the happiness that you initially overlooked. The shared grins between mothers and daughters at peace. The giggles and elbow-high-fives between best friends. Even The Chairs, who are seemingly having the time of their life despite the fact that he is at your feet.
A slow, crawling pleasure travels up your legs, and you watch as he reaches for the flower and color-adorned tray. he dips his fingers into the first of three bowls, scooping out a bubblegum-colored sugar scrub. He strokes the dollop onto your left leg first, adding pressure bit by bit as he exfoliates your skin, careful to press with the knuckle of his thumb or the pads of his fingers where he can already sense tension. Paired with the rollers swimming into your back and shoulders, you can’t help but close your eyes and soak up the experience. Just for a moment.
You open them again when you feel his fingers sliding between your toes, taking care to loosen up and cleanse even the most unseen of parts.
It strikes you as… odd? Interesting? Maybe even delightful, the way that he smiles as he works. You wonder if he’s smiling because he seems to be patiently entertaining the questions that The Chairs keep flinging at him, or if, like you, he is reveling in what you are sharing.
What he is doing.
What you are feeling.
The track changes, and as if on cue, he reaches for the next bowl, this time painting onto you an electric blue, a soothing cleanse that helps rinse everything away. It matches the soulful song in your ears, one seducing you to submit. Submit to his calm power in how he angles you this way and that. Submit to his skill, as he cleans, trims, and shapes your nails.
He squeezes your right ankle and looks up at you, pausing his work for a moment.
You raise your eyebrows and pull back your right ear cuff.
“Relax,” he purrs, chuckling a little.
“Huh?”
He cradles the heel of your foot, his fingers wrapping securely around your Achilles tendon and resting at the bottom of your calf. “I feel you trying to help me,” he explains. “Don’t move. Just relax.” He squeezes again. “I’ve got you.”
You laugh a little. “Right. Sorry.”
He shrugs and smiles, and before you can hear the next tactless squawk from one of The Chairs, he nods his chin up to your headphones.
You smile appreciatively, eyes crinkling, thrilled at not just the wonderful way that the suds he’s creating are evaporating every residual worry carried in your legs, but in the unspoken way he can sense how to help you rid yourself of every other source of stress.
As the soulful song shifts into its bridge, something spurred on and more calculating than the ballad-like verses before it, you start to wonder just how he has developed this sense. Is it innate? It can’t be something purely derived from training. People who truly know people start not with classes but case studies. Less education, more experience.
It’s been a while since you’ve experienced anything.
What kind of… experience… does he have?
He tugs on the basin plug, releasing the water that has so perfectly cradled you, allowed you to float in this limbo where you neither have, nor crave, any control.
And as the next song plays, you watch as he dries your fresh skin, and reaches for the last of the bowls, a limoncello yellow salve, citrus in smell, citrine in spirit, both of you smiling with joy as you catch each other in a passing glance.
He’s talking again. You wonder what he’s saying, but you also don’t know if the words are really meant for you, anyway. They’re being casually tossed over to his right, to The Chairs.
You don’t know if you want to hear words from him that aren’t meant for you.
What is meant for you, though, is the way that he is caressing your legs, working out every knot, every bulge. What he isn’t saying in words, he’s saying to you in touch, echoes of what he told you before.
Relax.
You close your eyes and fall back into your song, letting its rays wash you now, and enjoying the warmth wrapping around you like the heated towel that he’s now wrapping around your legs.
You lie there and indulge in the absence of just how much weight he has taken off of you.
When the air cools around your legs, you open your eyes again and see that The Chairs have left. Three more people are slowly taking their places, starting with the far end.
You wonder how many of them also attempted to get an appointment for Friday at 3.
Before the new Chairs can usurp the conversation, you slide your headphones off of your ears and sit a little straighter in your chair.
“Enjoying it so far?” he asks you, setting the towel in the empty basin and positioning his stool to face you more directly, now that there’s a little more space.
“Yes, thank you very much,” you sigh. “Feeling… relaxed.”
“Good,” he says, nodding.
He dries your feet and sets the balls of your feet on the pad at the basin lip. And then he takes each of your toes in the towel pinched between his thumb and forefinger, taking care to dry each nail completely.
“Now you’re ready for more of that Big Bow Energy.”
You laugh, and agree. “Don’t make fun,” you say. “I need it if I have any shot at making it through the next week.”
“Not making fun,” he says with a smirk. He looks up at you. “I like your energy.”
You hide a smile, bowing your head and using the balls of your feet to propel you upward in your chair again, as he reaches for the bottle of polish.
He paints shorter, more careful swatches onto each nail. For every toe, even your pinkies, he takes particular note of where the polish might lay uneven, or too transparent.
“You have a stressful job?” he asks.
“What job isn’t stressful?” you point out.
He nods knowingly.
“Is taking on the stress stressful for you?” you ask.
He blows gently on your toes, and you feel tension creep back into parts of you. At your bitten lips. At your frozen shoulders, neck, and back. Your clenched ass. Your clenched sex.
He looks up at you with a wicked grin.
“Oh, wait. This is gel,” he says, with a wink.
You know by now that he knows people. So you know that he can tell that you’re clenching. You know that he knows this is gel. And you know that he knows that you’re loving this.
Did The Chairs get any winks while you weren’t looking?
He reaches over for the UV lamp and presses the 30-second button on it, putting it on top of your left set of toes to cure the first coat.
He straightens in his stool, twisting a little to work out kinks in his back.
“Sorry,” you say.
He tilts his head, immediately curious. “For what?”
“Your back.”
“Not your fault.” Something seems to dawn on him. “Maybe a little your fault.”
You laugh a little.
“But sometimes you just have a crick in your back, y’know?” he goes on.
You nod. “Right,” you say. “Right.”
Amused, he moves the UV lamp over to your right foot while he gets started on the next coat on your left.
“I get the sense that you don’t usually let things just… be,” he comments.
“Sometimes.”
“Mm.”
He flattens the polish brush a little to smooth out the dollop of pink on your big toe.
“There’s fun in that, too,” he points out.
“I know. You’re showing me.”
He looks up at your charmed smile, sparkling with promise.
He mirrors it back to you.
“Good,” he says again.
He switches the UV lamp again, and he gets started on the second coat on your right.
“One more coat should do it,” he tells you, pausing his painting to look up at you and add, “One more coat and your energy supplies will be completely refilled.”
You laugh as you think of your phone’s battery icon, filling up with pink.
This part always surprises you with how quickly it happens. When you think of a pedicure, you think of the color. You always forget the steps before. About how a pedicure can be so much more.
When your toes are completely done, he rolls down your leggings, and when his hands reach your ankles, he gives them a quick squeeze.
“All done,” he says. “Thanks for today.”
“Please. Thank you.”
He releases you and stands. “Stay put. Your manicurist will be with you when she’s done.”
You’re almost sad that he’s leaving.
You look down at the tray by his now-standing feet, and you notice that the typical flower jar holding a fake flower isn’t actually holding a fake flower like all the others.
His jar holds a real flower.
An orchid clipped from the vase up front.
“What was your name again?” you ask, turning back to him as he wipes his hands on a clean, dry towel.
“Yoongi.” He smiles. “And what was yours? You never told me.”
“Is Yoongi available?”
You hate that you have an additional question this time, hoping that when you ask it, it sounds like more of an afterthought than the plan that you’ve had built up in your head for weeks.
“He has an appointment at that time,” she replies, whichever she she is, “but would you like to schedule for his next vacancy?”
“Oh, no, that’s OK.”
You try to say it well enough that your terror doesn’t seep through.
The pause that follows is unnerving. You can hear some chatter. Maybe a hint of his voice.
Keyboard clicks help you calm back down.
“Alright, all set for one gel pedicure and one dip and gel manicure this Friday at 3,” she says, but her tone is even brighter. Like she knows something.
Then again, it seems like the entire Nouveau Nails team probably laughs every time they get a call like this about their new star.
“Great,” you say flatly.
You hate the sound of making your intentions known.
Thankfully, the salon isn’t as busy as the last time you came in. It’s even quieter than your usual appointments had been. It’s well appreciated. Less noise to cloud your already whirring mind. Fewer eyes to hide secret daydreams from.
The eyes that greet you, however, are the most open and enticing ones you’ve seen in a while. Yoongi smiles even before you’ve finished reaching for the door, but he doesn’t actually look at you until the bell rings your arrival. You hate to admit that when he looks back down at the pedicure he’s doing, gripping his client’s ankle with his strong fingers, you feel a little betrayed.
His head is down.
Everyone’s heads are down, busy toiling away.
But you know what to do.
You reach for the tablet, noticing the ever-present fresh bouquet of orchids nearby, and, after shooting a side, confirmatory glance that his current client has a fake flower in her jar, you wonder which lucky soul got the real flower today. Is she cooler than you? Does she have cuter feet? A prettier smile?
A better energy?
“You’re all checked in,” one of the shes tells you. “Chair 7.” She smiles. “Have a relaxing time.”
You fight every impulse inside of you to scream and head over to your designated spot. With the manicure tables in the middle of the room, you won’t even be able to ogle Yoongi’s current chair.
One of the shes, a more matronly member of the staff, heads toward you. As you try to catch her eyes with a welcoming grin, she wiggles her hips to get her apron out of the way to sit on her stool. Her gray streaks are pulled up into an inelegant bun, as purposeful as her words. “Let me get your soak ready, and then I’ll go grab your color,” she tells you, not even sparing a moment for eye contact.
Another member of the staff, quite young, and very quiet, joins you at your side. “Can I snap a picture of the design that you want?” she squeaks, as you eye a pair of trendy, flared jeans that you could have been wearing in high school.
Smiling at the wave of nostalgia, you oblige, unlocking your phone screen and showing her what you’re going for. Multicolored swirls of pink, blue, and purple, marbled together with a glossy sheen.
“Cool,” she says as she inspects the picture, and you smile at her approval.
She goes to grab some colors as well, matching the blue and purple perfectly.
But the pink is a little off.
You hate saying something. You hate saying anything, really. Talking is not your strong suit. Not when it has to do with something that you want or need.
So you wait.
You wait until your pedicurist is done with with you, having massaged your aching muscles just enough to get you through the next week. If that.
She makes no eye contact, but you can see in her gaze that you’re something of twin flames. As you watch her uninterested, impatient hands do their work, you wonder when the last time it was that someone gave her a massage. Does someone have food on the table for her at home? Is someone at home at all? Is that where she’s headed off to, as she switches off the UV lamp and disappears into the back with her tray and flowerless vase?
You wait some more.
You wait until your manicurist is about to finish their first step, too. She’s cut and filed and dipped and buffed your nails arguably into nonexistence, but the result is turning out to be perfect so far. More almond than oval. Something with more sustenance than a simple shape.
As you decide that you’re done waiting, that you’re finally ready to say something, that something being that the pink is slightly off, though you wouldn’t be totally upset if she went with that flamingo-y pink, it’s just that you have preferences, and it’s OK for you to have preferences, that’s why they ask you what color you’d like instead of just assigning you one, and you’re paying for the service after all, though, it is a bit questionable of whether you should be paying for this service, as your money and time could go elsewhere, like to more work, or to something charitable, or—
She gets up and walks away completely.
You furrow your brow and stare at that bottle of pink, cocking your head to one side, letting your thoughts rest there like a flamingo would rest on one leg.
And then, it is suddenly replaced with an unopened bottle of Big Bow Energy.
Yoongi’s fingertips even turn the bottle so that the label faces you.
When you smile at the gentle miracle he’s brought you, he smiles, too.
You look up and find him doing just that.
“Wanted to make sure your pinks match,” Yoongi explains, before taking your manicurist’s seat.
You lift your head and let it rest back against your massage chair. All the thoughts that had shifted to one side have disappeared. Maybe they leaked out of your ear.
“No headphones today?” Yoongi asks, as he adjusts his seat.
You shake your head. “Maybe I was in the mood for some conversation,” you dare to say.
You smirk in anticipation of what he’ll say back.
Embarrassingly, perhaps stupidly, you didn’t anticipate him reaching for your wrist and turning it over to inspect his colleague’s work.
You hope you aren’t blushing at the fact that someone in a nail salon is holding your hand.
“I like that you went with the almond shape,” he says. “It suits you.”
You really hope that you aren’t blushing at the fact that someone in a nail salon is giving you recommendations on your nails.
And you really, really hope that you aren’t blushing at the fact that you’re imagining scratching those almond-shaped, nude nails down his back.
“Thanks,” you mumble.
When he unlocks his phone, you notice that he already has the picture that you had given to the technician who had done your base.
“Thought you were working on another client?” you say.
“Was already halfway through when you came in,” Yoongi answers, picking up a clean, rose gold-handled brush and dusting the remnants of dip powder leftover in your nail beds.
“Didn’t know you did hands.”
“I do a lot of things with hands.”
You bite the inside of your mouth in an attempt to bite the smirk off of Yoongi’s face.
“Switched because you said you wanted a design, and I’m the only one in today who specializes in design,” Yoongi goes on.
He takes your hand in his.
And you swear you see a glint of Big Bow Energy in his irises.
“Ready?” he asks.
Yoongi’s marbled manicure has lasted for weeks.
So has the memory of Yoongi carefully painting it onto each of your fingers, focused on getting every single serpentine swirl in every single shade with as much spirit as the last. The experience was, indeed, spiritual. But you’ve also done your part in keeping those moments alive. You replayed him painting your right index finger last Tuesday while you were making coffee in the break room, as you ripped open a packet of sugar. You replayed him painting your left pinky on Saturday while you were in line at the convenience store, and your cashier was digging into his ear canal while ringing you up. You replayed him painting your right thumb on Monday in the middle of your chicken wing dinner, as you sucked some honey BBQ sauce from your skin.
You savored the taste.
You wondered if Yoongi would have savored it, too.
And you’re wondering now, on Thursday, as you bite your right thumb’s nail and wait for one of the shes to answer your call.
“Nouveau Nails.”
It rumbles through your body like it did when you first sat in his chair. Now, it could blast past whatever blockade the convenience store cashier was trying to dig out. Yoongi’s voice is most powerful when unexpected. When you hear it, your heart can’t help but swell and press against the walls of your chest, and your foot stutters on your returning pace from this lap down the hall, your right big toe digging into the floor and cracking the color.
Squeezing your eyes tight, you manage to hold your pained grunt in, choosing to release it in one long, smooth, silent breath.
“Hello?”
“Yes, sorry, I’m here.” You sound so flustered. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting—”
“Oh. Hi,” he replies. Softer, now. Reigned in. Through a smile.
Maybe your voice is most powerful when unexpected, too.
You start to make up rules in your head, lest this energy burn unencumbered. One charmed laugh is all that you’ll allow.
“Hi.”
“Need more Big Bow Energy?”
You laugh again, but this time, you really wish you wouldn’t.
“Yeah, uh,” you fight through more contraband giggles, “I-I was just wondering if I could book—”
“Your usual?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say, a bit too eagerly.
“When do you want to come?”
You have so many answers for that question.
“Do you have anything available this afternoon, or early tomorrow?” you ask, as you look down at your stubbed, cracked toe. “Sorry, I realize that’s late notice.”
“Our last slot is open this evening,” he answers. “Is 6:30 too late?”
An hour and a half until their closing time at 8 should be just enough time to get your usual mani/pedi.
“No, that works. Thanks.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“Uh, that’s for a gel pedicure and a—”
“Don’t worry. I know what to give you.”
Your Big Bow Energy might be leaking through the crack, but your toes curl all the same.
“See you in a few hours.” It’s almost like a command.
“See you,” you say softly.
Yoongi’s already seen you in leggings. All the jeans that you own are skinny jeans, which makes rolling them up to the knee somewhat inconvenient. You don’t really own a lot of shorts, and the ones that you have are a bit old and frayed. So, you stroll into Nouveau Nails in your favorite lemon yellow sundress, its halter top tied delicately behind your neck, your strapless bra cinched tight for added definition into your naturally concave waist, your skirt hitting you around the knee, and your nude, open-toed sandals delicately buckled, the ends tucked into the second band with a little more care instead of impatiently sticking out, like they usually do.
You could stand to have new usuals.
And realizing them in a nearly empty nail salon makes them that much better.
Yoongi smirks at you as you join him at the front desk and start to sign in. He smiles even brighter when he catches you trying to count the orchids in the vase.
He nods over to a chair in the middle of the row. A tray is already set there for you, with a bottle of Big Bow Energy.
“Thanks for squeezing me in,” you say, as you type your number into the tablet.
As he catches the numbers you type, his right jaw tenses. “Always happy to squeeze in.”
You’re grateful for the playful quip. Delicious crumbs of the tasty cinnamon roll that you had for a snack found homes in the corners of your lips, and you as you run your tongue through them in response, you catch a couple.
Yoongi’s eyes follow.
Surprisingly sweet.
“Yoongles!” a voice calls from the mysterious back. “You OK to lock up? My daughter’s recital!”
“Yeah!” Yoongi calls back, eyes unwavering.
Your lips curl up into a smile, and he smiles back.
His eyes lock onto yours. “Her daughter plays the clarinet. Some of the team are going to watch.”
“Love the clarinet,” you say.
“Me too,” Yoongi says. “Clarinet recitals, specifically.” He smirks. “You’re in that chair.”
There’s no point in hiding the smile now. But you don’t share all of it. You hate to admit, but it does kinda bug you that your tray holds neither jar nor flower, and that all the orchids are still in place.
“Go get comfortable,” he says. “I’ll just finish up some things here.”
You nod and walk over to the chair, glad that no one is sitting directly next to you. You take a deep breath as you sit. Each of your knees bend in turn as you angle your legs to the side to take off your sandals. They fall the floor with two short clap!s, and your skirt slides with a soft whisper as you lean back in the massage chair.
Yoongi, wiping his hands on a towel, soon joins you.
“How’s your day been?” he asks, as he sits on the stool.
You shrug.
“Let me see.”
He holds out his hand, still covered by the towel.
Your foot rests there instead of at the cushion at the end of the basin.
He frowns, his wrapping his toweled fingers around the ball of your foot.
“Hmm.”
“Yeah,” you say.
“Leave it to me.”
Your smile goes a little funny when he says it.
As he reaches for your other foot and inspects the rest of your toes, he nods over to the side table, which you couldn’t see from the front desk. Waiting for you is a cup holding a frozen margarita. And a jar. Holding a small bouquet of flowers.
Pink ones.
Real ones.
You reach over and take a flower happily, twirling its stem in your fingers and watching its petaled face spin round and round before grinning at him, as he begins the process of removing the polish from your nails.
Your mind wanders for a while, but there are pit stops where you and Yoongi share a gaze. Or he gives you quiet instruction.
Stop trying to help.
Just relax.
Let him do the work.
You look back at the loss of Yoongi’s touch, once he’s set both of your feet on the basin cushion. He’s turned on the water. The bath is starting.
“We’ll do the manicure while you soak,” he tells you, as you nod. “Can I see the design you’d like?”
You grab your phone from your dress’s pocket and quickly close the group chat where you’ve been giggling about Yoongi, pausing all notifications before you open up a screenshot of the design. White swirls on a nude canvas. A minimalist, modern take on a French manicure.
“Cool,” he murmurs, tilting his head and taking note of how each nail’s design looks sightly different. “I like how the swirls look on you. Kinda reminds me of jewelry that wraps around. Like arm cuffs or ear cuffs. Or like the pattern on one of those old barber shop poles.”
You grin. “Is that how you’re so good?” you ask. “Different references in your head? Associations?”
Yoongi’s never thought about that before. He thinks about it now, as he gathers his tools together. Preparing and arranging his cotton and foil on your nails. “Maybe,” he admits, brightening. As you wait for the acetone to do its thing, Yoongi tests out the different sanders and buffers.“I do like to draw.”
You’d already taken note of the ever-present sketchpad under Yoongi’s stool.
“If you’re not working with a client, you’re usually sketching,” you observe.
Yoongi smirks. “Keeping tabs on me?”
You blush. “Oh! Uh— I just, y’know. Noticed.” You clear your throat.
Yoongi’s eyes linger for a moment longer when he glances at you.
“I used to be a tattoo artist,” he says. “But I kinda got bored with it? I noticed I liked doing smaller pieces. More minimalist stuff. And people wouldn’t really come back to me for more designs. So I thought it might be interesting to switch it up a little.”
At Nouveau Nails, and not just on Fridays at 3, Yoongi gets anywhere from ten to one hundred new canvases a day.
“You don’t have any tats yourself?” you ask.
Yoongi smirks, but he blushes a little too. “You’re really keeping tabs on me, huh?”
You roll your eyes and look away. “Just assumed. Haven’t seen anything on your forearms, and that’s the most common place.” You furrow your brow and look at him. “Unless…” You raise your eyebrows. “Do you do have a tattoo?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
You both chuckle as he pulls the foil rings from your first hand and begins to shape your nails. He carefully considers your fast-growing nail beds. He tilts his head for a moment when realizing that that’s probably why you come in so often. But he’s comforted by the act that you’re keeping the yellow ranunculus that you plucked from the jar laying across your lap.
“So what do you draw in your notebook?” you ask.
Yoongi brushes the dust from your fingers and places your hand down on your knee. You smile as he leans over and picks up his notebook. “Flip through, before we get to the dipping and the painting,” he says, as he offers you the notebook. Once you’ve opened it to one of his more detailed pages, he leans forward toward the table, taking the frozen margarita and handing it to you. “Have a couple of sips,” he says, “before we get to the dipping and painting part.
He licks his lips, leaving them parted as he holds the cup to your mouth to let you drink. His eyes leave your lips and move to your throat as your no-longer-frozen margarita travels down your throat. He looks into your eyes as you open wider for more. The corner of his mouth turns up when you grunt at the last gulp.
The other corner of his mouth turns up at the hollow sound of the paper cup hitting the table.
Your eyes widen. “What’s your favorite thing to draw?”
“I dunno. I just like everyday stuff.”
His subjects show it. An customer’s crumpled receipt, on the floor by the trash can. A child’s sneakers, swinging off the edge of a chair from which a stuffed animal has fallen. Legs in line. All drawn from a stool-level view.
You grip a page corner between your ring and pinky finger knuckles and flip to the next page.
And the next.
And then the next.
His subjects become a little more diverse. A dog drinking from a water bowl on a neighbor’s patio. A cup of tea next to a plate of biscuits. Undone laundry.
Later pages even have purple, pink, and orange hues. Splashes of watercolor. Not completely filled in. Painted first, given that they’re behind the lines.
“How did you decide?” you ask.
Yoongi leans forward to see what you mean.
“Oh,” he says, smiling.
He moves to hand you the frozen margarita again, but you shake your head. “Actually, I think that’s enough for me,” you admit, cheeks and neck feeling warm and prickly.
“One more sip,” he tells you. “For shits and giggles.”
You roll your eyes, and he brings the straw to your lips.
You take a sip.
Your eyes latch from the time the last of the margarita hits your tongue, to the moment it’s swallowed down.
He sets the cup down, chest tense. As if holding something in.
After some time, you ask, “So?”
You tap on the page insistently.
Yoongi nods. “I bought these new watercolor brushes and wanted to test them out. But then I noticed I was starting to run out of pages to sketch on. So I just drew on top of them.” He glances over at the page that you’re on. Because he hit that page with purples, he thought to draw mountains. The brushstrokes determined the composition as well. Where there are unfilled lines, he draws the tops of mountain ranges. He turns the white gaps into snow caps. Something he wouldn’t have thought to do otherwise.
“Pretty,” you say.
“Thanks.”
It’s time to bring his brush to your nails. He starts to mimic the white swirls that he took a picture of from your phone. You especially like watching him control the thickness of the lines not by outlining and then filling in, but by adding or releasing pressure on the brush itself. He sketches with marker, after all.
He finishes the design quickly, and deftly.
“Do you share your art?” you ask. “Aside from, y’know.” You wiggle your fingers, and he chuckles.
He takes your hands in his, and you freeze in place, staring up at him with your jaw hanging slightly open.
His hands feel warm, and slippery.
He starts to run some heavenly mix of essential oils up and down your forearms, and then down to your fingers, taking time to massage each and every single one. He even looses your wrists, and your joints at the knuckles, squeezing your palm or your fingers and turning them in small, easy circles.
You can’t help but close your eyes at one moment, and when you open them again, he’s working on the slightly protruding bone on the side of your left wrist, putting slight pressure in the pads of his index and middle fingers as he rubs it soothingly.
He’s smiling.
Proudly.
“Sometimes,” he says.
You had started to wonder what his social media account aesthetic might look like. If you had to guess, it would be just like his sketches on the page. Pure white backgrounds. Thin, not-quite-black lines for borders. Each post would be a section of a drawing. Not the whole thing. Just enough for you to appreciate how talented he is.
“But not widely just yet,” he tacks on, as he lets go of your hands and cleans the oil from his hands with the towel from before.
Now, you imagine him choosing something more intimate. Maybe he doesn’t have social media at all. Maybe he prefers gallery showings. Or even more intimate than that. A series of moments like this one. Sharing his art with one person at a time. Each moment its own little square.
“I like them,” you say.
There’s a bit of a crackle in your eyes.
Yoongi smiles at the sight as he reaches for a new towel from the stack he’s prepared for you. He chooses one of the ones that he steamed, kept warm in a small, metal container. He wipes you down, and you feel so incredibly refreshed already that you nearly forget about the pedicure.
You made sure to shave before arriving for your appointment. You even went back and plucked the thicker, more stubborn hairs on your ankles. The ones that are almost as thick as the strands on your head. The ones that jump up like exclamation points against your fingers when all you’re trying to do is enjoy the little acts of love that you try to give yourself.
Yoongi’s hands run smoothly up and down as he exfoliates, then scrubs your feet.
He feels nothing but your skin.
Your chest tightens when he reaches over for the massage oil.
His index fingers run up the inside of your left foot, curled and squeezing into the different joints within. He takes his time, almost shaking hands with every muscle in your foot in order to get acquainted. To get those defenses down. To get to know you.
He does the same between your toes. He runs his fingers into each gap, and the knuckles at the tops of his palms meet the balls of your feet as he clasps down. He moves his wrist in a lazy oval, helping your ankles do the same.
You carry lots of tension in your ankles. You have a tendency to lock your legs. If he traveled up your leg a little further, Yoongi would feel the knots in your calves, and thighs.
It’s just that way.
Bracing, like that.
Being ready no matter what.
Yoongi leans his body into his massage, almost as if to offer a different viewpoint.
He places pressure on your ankles in other spots, ones that don’t activate when you’re standing. It’s especially delicious when he follows the heel of your foot and pays special attention around your Achilles heel. It helps to even things out. Open up pockets that can take a little more. Let the sentinels that have been hard at work take a bit of a rest.
His hands are slippery when he runs them up and down your soles. He latches on somewhere around the middle of your left foot. His thumbs press into the center. They move in strong yet gentle circles, with the exact amount of pressure that frees your muscles from clinging to one another with such insistence.
He moves slowly, and carefully. And his stool is moving back and forth. His feet are planted flat on the ground as he straddles the basin, but his knees are working ever so slightly, his hips rocking forward and back. The massage oil is getting everywhere, even dripping down his wrist and forearms.
His tongue is resting in the corner of his mouth.
You imagine his tongue moving in circles.
Strong, yet gentle. Slow, and wet.
“OK, Yoongi! I’ve got the front! Night!”
You both look up and see a hand holding a set of car keys waving and disappearing through the front door.
“Night!” Yoongi calls back, before the door settles again in its frame.
You’re surprised at how dark it is outside, but the glass door and windows go completely black when someone pulls the metal gate down outside.
You hear the chain and lock jingling.
You look around the salon.
All the other stations are clean and closed.
Only you and Yoongi remain.
You don’t know when that happened.
“Just have to put on that Big Bow Energy,” he tells you, when your eyes land back on his, as he’s wiping his arms dry.
You smile, and before it’s completely over, you try to savor the moments you’ve enjoyed so far.
His hands are divine.
Even when all he’s doing is painting on the last of the first coat of pink.
“And what do you do?” he asks, as he swipes the edge of your big toe to direct the polish back to your nail. “An office job?”
“Work from home,” you say. “On calls all day.”
“I can see why. You have a pleasant voice.”
You’ll take it. But you wish you had an impressive vocabulary to go with that pleasant voice. You wish you could tell Yoongi about how gorgeous his voice is. Like silk dipped in chocolate.
“Please,” you say. “Have you heard yourself talk?”
Yoongi grins up at you.
“I wanted to be a radio DJ growing up, actually,” he tells you. “I’d record these little shows for my family on my walkman. Handed my parents old cassette tapes before they went to work. I recorded over one of my dad’s mixtapes once, though. He was pretty pissed at first, but then he said he ended up liking the episode.”
You laugh. “That’s sweet.”
Yoongi grins again.
As you chat, he alternates between painting and switching the UV light from foot to foot, careful to make sure your toes don’t touch the top of the inside of the lamps.
“I wanted to be a translator when I was a kid,” you share. “I wanted to learn a million languages and be able to understand what everyone was saying all the time.”
You smile, feeling more and more comfortable as Yoongi turns on the massage functions, the back of the chair springing to life.
“You know,” you say dreamily, “I have this theory that what you wanted to be when you were growing up says something about the experience that you had as a kid. Because when I was a kid, I never felt like I understood what was going on at any given moment. People talked too fast. Said too many things. Most of it didn’t matter. And it’s hard for a kid to figure out what to listen to, and what to let fall away, you know?”
Yoongi nods. But when his eyes flash up to yours again, it’s the first time he’s ever looked hesitant.
“What do you think about me, then?” he asks.
You shrug.
“Maybe you just wanted to be heard?”
Yoongi nods again.
Slowly, this time.
It seems that it has been a while since someone has heard him.
Or noticed him at all.
He reaches over and grabs something you’ve never seen anyone at Nouveau Nails use before. A sealed, white packet with a clean, drawn logo on it. It’s a picture of a blueberry. In Yoongi’s art style.
“Wanna try one of our new treatments?” he asks. “Something we’re still concocting.” He smiles a little. “An after-care lotion.”
“How much is it?” you ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “On the house. Of course.” And then he clears his throat. “Anyway, um, we’re still figuring out the recipes we want to go with. So far, we only have a couple of kinds.” He keeps his eyes on you but tilts his right cheek over his shoulder. “I could go in the back and get the kiwi—”
“Blueberry is good,” you say, wanting to savor his presence. Not wanting him to go anywhere. Not when the end is almost here. “I like the logo design, by the way.”
Yoongi winks at you as he opens the packet.
Globs of a blue, viscous liquid, with bits of what look like dried blueberry in them, empty onto your skin, some of them dripping into the wet but empty basin.
Yoongi’s hands swim in, his fingers staying firm as your feet and calves run through their circles.
Your skin is starting to tingle.
“Oh,” Yoongi remarks, as your eyes flicker with… something. A mix of intrigue and… concern? He helps fill in the blank. “It warms up when you put it on.”
You look over at him.
Your lips give way to your tongue, and your breath is hot when you release it, warmed by whatever apothecarial magic this is.
He bites his lip.
“Does it feel good?”
You nod and lock eyes with him, watching him rub warm and fragrant blueberries into your clean, soft skin, feeling dizzy and happy. Like fresh laundry tumbling in the dryer.
When he’s done, he wipes you down with the last of the clean towels. And you keep holding each other’s gaze, smiling softly with each movement.
You lean back in your chair. It doesn’t matter that the metal rollers hidden by the leather have stopped moving. You still feel so relaxed. Every muscle in your body is almost asleep.
“Happy with the service today?” he asks.
You smile, feeling so peaceful. “Absolutely. Completely and totally satisfied.”
But your stomach gives you away. It gurgles a little, and you move to throw your hands over it, your knees twitching and knocking the yellow ranunculus off of your lap, but catching it before it tumbles to the floor.
Yoongi chuckles as he wipes his hands on the other side of the towel that he’s just used to wipe you free of the last of the blueberries.
“Hungry?” he asks.
You plop the flower back onto your lap. “I guess so,” you say, mortified.
Yoongi smiles at you, about to polish the blue off of his last finger.
“You know, this lotion is all-natural. Edible, even.”
He smirks and licks his finger to taste.
His head gives an approving nod.
“Mm. Pretty good.”
He sucks the rest off of his finger, mind lost in thought. And then he turns to you, swiveling his hips, facing you dead-on. He picks up your heel, noting some bits of blueberry on your now perfect, big toe.
You hold your breath as he raises your foot to his lips, which curl into a smile when he catches the scent of blueberries.
He wraps his lips around that toe.
He sucks.
You gasp.
“Very good,” he mumbles, his voice shaking the empty basin.
Your other knee turns inward in an attempt to keep from other viscous liquids from leaking onto your seat.
Yoongi tilts his head, and you watch as your Big Bow Energy-covered toe re-enters his mouth, his tongue circling around the base, dipping between it and the next toe, before blanketing everything in his warm, wet spit.
You grunt softly.
“This OK?” he asks.
You nod eagerly.
“Tell me if it isn’t,” he whispers.
His breath tickles your other toes, which wiggle with anticipation.
He starts to kiss down your foot, his tongue swiping your ankle, and his lips forming a pout. His tiny, sucking kisses travel up your calf, and you can’t help but sink down in your seat, your skirt riding up the sides of your hips.
You think he’s going to stand. You think he’s going to kiss you.
You hope so badly that he will.
But, ever the professional, Yoongi knows that your other foot needs the same treatment. Like with art, everything must be balanced. He won’t stop until he knows the job is done.
Your muscles are waking now. Tightening. Storing energy that may or may not be released soon.
You hope so badly that it will.
Your calves and knees have both been bathed in equal parts sugar scrub, lotion, and Yoongi’s spit.
You watch as his fingers tease at the hem of your skirt, lightly resting against your thighs.
“Can I try more?” he asks, hopefully.
“Yes,” you say, nervous, but wanting.
He smiles so gently.
He notices the yellow ranunculus still sitting in your lap, being clutched tightly by your thumb and index finger. He pulls the hem of your skirt up and carefully wedges the fabric there too, between your skin, and the green stem.
You hold your skirt up, and Yoongi takes your hips, staring down at the magenta underwear that you have on, a low grumble shaking up through his throat.
“Pink looks so goddamn good on you,” he mumbles.
He takes a deep breath. Not to get ready. He’s been ready. He’s been thinking about you since he first got the impulse to clip one of the orchids to put in your jar. He takes a deep breath out of excitement.
Finally.
He’ll get to find out what your petals look like.
He pulls your panties down and moans at how gorgeous you are. How wet you are for him already.
He dives right in.
You’re beyond thrilled to find out, too. To find out that, yes, Yoongi likes what he’s tasting. That, yes, he’s the type to luxuriate and savor. And that, yes, he’s been hungry for this, too.
His tongue stretches, careful to round every single curve of you. Up your outer lips, all the way to where they meet in front. Down, and in, to find your bud. When he discovers it, he grunts, and you feel that excited breath pushed out through his flaring nostrils and onto your dewy skin.
Something clatters behind him. The stool, you realize, as you watch it roll away, your panties neatly folded on top. Yoongi straddles the basin instead, his ass planted firmly on the foot rest, and yours sliding further down in your seat as he angles you up in order to get more of you.
His tongue broadens, too. It broadens, and flattens, and the tip curves back, making way for the midpoint somewhere near the front to lead the charge instead. The sides of his tongue make contact with your inner lips, and he licks up and down, every part of your massaged as wholly and sweetly as he did with the rest of your body.
When the tip of his tongue flicks forward again, right against your clit, a hiss breaks through your frozen throat.
Something falls into the palm of your hand.
A piece of green.
A part of the ranunculus’s stem.
Your delicate, almond-shaped nails choked it off in your hold.
You gasp in surprise when you feel Yoongi suddenly grab hold of you tighter, and his tongue starts to move faster. Each roller coaster hill that his tongue makes sends your hips bouncing up and down. Soon, you shiver and come, and Yoongi grunts through your inescapable orgasm. The high sends you, laughing, into the clouds.
“Sexy,” he mumbles, his lips buzzing against yours.
“You’re good at that,” you mumble back, glad that when you hear it, it makes sense.
He starts to lower your skirt, placing a kiss on your flesh before rising and placing his right foot on solid ground. “Glad to know.”
“Can I… uh…”
You bite your lip as you watch him rest his weight on his right foot and shakes his left.
“…Can there be more?”
He plants his left foot down.
“You want more?” Yoongi asks. It comes out so nonchalantly, but he’s secretly hoping that you mean what he thinks it means.
“Please,” you whimper, squirming in your chair.
Yoongi nods his head upward and smiles.
You’ve been so caught up in your own relaxing pleasure that you miss how much of Yoongi’s want has been translated into other parts of his body. The sweat at his temples and chest. The streaks of red on his lips, where his teeth have tried to scrape up as much of you as possible. The thick, hard outline of his cock in his pants.
He unzips his pants, unable to keep things calm anymore. Unable to keep things balanced.
He pulls you down further, your body bending more at your lower back than at your waist, your legs splayed over each arm of the massage chair.
It opens you up completely to him.
With your legs split, he can now kneel on the free end of the chair. He rolls your knees in his palms and grunts, eyeing you, sizing up to see if you’re really ready for him. The grunts get heavier, and the strokes he gives his cock get tighter and faster, as he watches you pull the string of your halter top loose, your dress now less a dress and more a needless yellow band around your torso, giving way to the beautiful black bodice of your strapless bra. He rests his left palm on your right knee and curls around it. He leans there, angling so that he can get his pants completely off. When he slides into you at that angle, unable to wait until the last of the frayed ends of his jeans whip past his own big toe, he places his weight on your right knee.
That weight gets transferred to the massage chair button panel.
And the chair springs to life.
It’s like you have four pairs of hands all over you, groping you, twisting you, pulling you into all sorts of sinful shapes.
Yoongi pumps into you, none of his effort wasted, all of it sent right through you, strong, but with know-how, and utmost care. His upper body does most of the work, dragging him along your body.
You’re so tight.
It forces him to go deliciously slow.
It’s all-consuming, his slow, hypnotic, relaxing, but tight rhythm.
Each rhythmic drag ends in a hiss or moan from both of you.
You being so fucking tight makes everything else tight. Tight gasps of air through grit teeth. Tight whines and whimpers through clenched throats. Tight grips of your knee, and his side, and his shoulder, and the back of your head.
He looks down at you, tortured.
And then he kisses you.
Everything until this point has been so delightfully pink, growing into maddening magentas and even reds.
Now, they taste pink, and yellow, and purple, and orange.
And blue.
Usually, first kisses make you excitedly nervous. Like spring break. Slush against your lips too soon when you tilt back your frozen margarita. Ice cubes jokingly tossed down the back of your shirt. Belly flops into the freezing swimming pool on a balmy day.
This kiss, though.
This kiss is a complete surrender.
This kiss wraps you up in blueberry pie. Lavender latte. A different kind of spring break. A winter vista with deeper and deeper purple crags in the distance, sparkling orange and gold glints here and there as the sun sets. Not a belly flop into the pool, but a shared soak in a hot spring.
His tongue moves exactly like it did when it was inside of you.
You moan against him. He does the same. Their timbres shift as you open your mouths, and then close them against each other, around each other, before opening them again, trying to speak and breathe at the same time, filled with too much to convey at once.
When your heads snap backward and away from each other, you realize you don’t need to speak.
Yoongi’s eyebrows rise higher and higher and higher until the drop suddenly, face filled with consternation. He bites down on his lip and moves faster. You turn your head to the right and find your knee hovering close to your lips. You bite down on it, and Yoongi groans at the sight.
He reaches down to pull your strapless bodice down, freeing your breasts and watching them bounce between the inner wall of your chest and the cup of your bra.
He pulls on your hair a little, your neck bending right, and you moan through the burst of tingles at your scalp.
His hand runs down the side of your face.
And when you sense his thumb close to your mouth, just dipping in where your nose meets your cheek, you part your lips slightly and look right into his eyes.
He pushes down into your face a little, and hops up, before tracing the outline of your lips with his thumb.
You nod, and then, you take his thumb into your mouth, lapping at it gently.
Yoongi groans and looks up at the ceiling, before squeezing his eyes shut and then looking back down at you with such force that his hair collects in a V in front of his forehead, and sweat trickles onto your face and chest.
You suck his thumb the same way your body sucks his cock deeper and deeper into you. With as desperate of a need. With as eager of a desire to please. With the exact kind of mind-blowingly delicious, warm, wet tension that Yoongi will absolutely need to feel again and again.
His strokes start to level out now, and you feel him against your inner walls. You almost want him to break through. To split you completely open.
His body rolls even when he’s racing, hips working so deftly. He almost looks proud of them, giving it to you like this, his upper body rigid, heart keeping time, eyes smirking with bravado at how well he knew you. And, almost, suspicion, at how surprising you turned out to be.
You let out a cry and slam your hand down on Yoongi’s hand on your right knee. He angles his wrist back and pulls his fingers out before moving them forward again to lace them into yours. He does the same with your other hand. Balance.
Another warning cry seeps out of you.
Yoongi bends down to kiss you, collecting whatever it is that you want to say with his lips.
“Mmhmm,” he tells you, as your lips are locked.
He pulls away.
“Me too,” he whispers.
You nod quickly.
“Yeah?” he whispers. Urgent.
You nod again, even faster.
He grunts, and bites down on his lip one more time, his hands squeezing yours so tight that they’re turning red.
He growls as he thrusts.
It’s so good.
It’s too good.
When you start to lose it, he loses it completely.
You squeal, which drops into heavier and heavier sobs of pleasure long-fought for. Your breasts quiver with each cry.
Yoongi whines weakly against you, slumping down, his cock sliding out a little and releasing cum into the basin.
He takes a couple of quick, pitter-patter steps back, catching you off-guard and making you laugh.
And he smiles as he lowers himself to you again, resting his head on your breasts.
You wrap your arms around him and kiss the top of his head, as he licks at your nipples and presses kisses into your flesh.
“Holy shit,” you finally mumble.
“I know,” Yoongi says, dazed. “All that Big Bow Energy.”
You giggle, and he takes another taste of your nipples, gently massaging your oversensitive skin. Still telling you to relax.
“Well, safe to say that the new treatments will get rave reviews,” you say, making Yoongi honk. “Tell me if you experiment with more ideas. I’ll try every single one of them out. Especially if they’re on the house.”
When you giggle at your own joke, Yoongi quickly turns to you.
And he smirks.
“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious, and wondering if you do need to pay after all.
Yoongi takes a couple more pitter-patter steps back, his cock springing out of you. Still hard. Still ready.
He drags his right hand diagonally across his chest and strips his damp shirt off, tossing it behind him. You watch as it lands on the foot of the stool he had kicked away earlier.
And when you look back at him, his toned body, glistening with sweat, he sneers.
“If you’re down for more experimentation,” he says, voice like thunder, “then let’s go in the back.”
Synopsis: A chartered flight on a private jet. Back-to-back meetings in skyscraping VIP rooms. Dinners with caviar as appetizer and dessert. Ferragamo soles touching nothing but plush, red velvet, from limo to hotel suite. For record label owner Jung Hoseok and creative director Min Yoongi, this is simply business as usual. So they’ll order their usual nightcap. And you’re more than ready to serve it to them.
Word Count: 6647 | read on ao3 | Part of the Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series!
Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: PWP, music industry!au, sex work, roleplay, rough sex, some degradation, slight nipple play, overstimulation, squirting, spitting, oral [m receiving / f giving, f receiving / m giving], threesome, group sex, spitroasting, voyeurism, exhibitionism, BDSM, one (1) pussy slap.
Author’s Note: My entry for the Suits & Ties collab! Thanks @sugakookitty and @hobisuniverse for hosting! Dedicated to @yuugehn for being so generous, kind, and encouraging — especially since you were the one who suggested I give this event a try! I really hope this Sope satisfies 🍽️
Jung “Hobi” Hoseok is not a very patient man. But he doesn’t have to be.
He was more than patient as he gathered his daydreams up one by one over the years and stitched them together in a quilt of emotion, expression, and evolution. There’s no arguing that Daydream Records has become a monopoly, back deals and favors leading to Hobi essentially owning at least 5% and, in one case, almost up to 90%, of its competitors. But for as long as he and his right-hand man, creative director and extraordinary producer Min Yoongi, can get away with it, Hobi will keep dreaming.
Keep dominating.
He stands in the middle of the board room filled with cowards, all of them already shuddering, not even at the prospect of what he’s about to say, but that anyone clad in blue Louis Vuitton has anything to say to them at all.
He looks right at Yoongi, whose room-scanning eyes are as tight and intimidating as the black sapphire Armani leather jacket and pants seemingly painted onto his mother-of-pearl skin.
Yoongi glances back.
Behind him stand his direct reports, the rest of Hobi’s core team.
Kim Namjoon, head of Innovation, folds his gray, Prada-suited arms and tilts his head slightly to the left. His narrow, shrewd eyes see all from behind a pair of thin, aluminum glasses. Intelligent as he is handsome, Namjoon is responsible for helping Daydream Records artists to shape-shift, whether that means transcending into a new era, or a new sound altogether.
Kim Seokjin, head of Media Relations, sniffs quickly and looks expectantly at the crowd. Everyone in Seokjin’s life assumed he’d grow up to be a model, and weren’t surprised when he turned out to be one who was often swathed in Hermès and on the cover of Vogue, but they didn’t anticipate that he would also create models. Specifically, strategic ones that governed the Daydream Records approach to organizing album press releases, staggering newbie debut stages with heavy-hitter comebacks, and planning artist appearances and performances on talk and variety shows.
Park Jimin, head of Public Relations, swooshes his hair back, fluffy tufts of it separating in the middle and falling gently to the side. Everywhere his lithe, Chanel-dripping body goes, whispers follow. Ones of admiration, mostly, given his heavenly good looks. But also ones of intrigue. Jimin knows the truth behind every single industry scandal. He even helped to create some of them, especially in rare dips when the usual buzz that surrounded the Daydream hive was low.
Kim Taehyung, head of Content Strategy, brushes some lint from his shoulder. Nothing but his skin is allowed to touch his physical form, covered in Gucci from head-to-toe. He clearly disapproves of this office suite. But in truth, he just misses his office back home, somehow also littered with Gucci furniture and office supplies, and serving as the central hub for not only the music department, but the art and design departments, and all content peripherals, including magazines, webtoons, and, most importantly, movies and shows for online streaming platforms.
And Jeon Jungkook, a Balenciaga-wrapped whiz-kid who, at just 24, has already released seven chart-topping solo albums, single-handedly putting Daydream Records on the map, and parlaying his experience as the label’s first globally successful megastar, as well as his insane skills and hard-earned networking connections into his cushy position as head of Talent Acquisition. Every artist already wants to be him. They have to start by impressing him enough to get him to come to a show.
Hobi takes a moment to feel proud about this top-notch team. The team that he built. That his daydreams conjured.
He thinks about how they all got here. Yes, the top tier of the industry. But also, this moment.
A chartered flight on a private jet. Back-to-back meetings in skyscraping VIP rooms. Dinners with caviar as appetizer and dessert. Ferragamo soles touching nothing but plush, red velvet, from limo to hotel suite.
This is simply business as usual.
Hobi arches an eyebrow.
They blink, unimpressed, in response.
So, Hobi turns around and ends the meeting like he ends every meeting.
Savagely.
“If you don’t get this merger together within the next 24 hours, then you will never see or hear from me again.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“Ever.”
The cowards have already begun calculating how quickly the losses will turn into bankruptcy, and then, nonexistence.
Hobi’s eyes curl happily.
“Have a wonderful evening.”
**
“What a clusterfuck,” Yoongi grumbles.
He finally gets to collapse into the armchair in the central common room linking all eight rooms in the Presidential Suite on the top floor of this hotel. He takes a moment to take one deep breath, and then it’s back to work. His zippers jingle as he reaches over to the matching armchair next to him and picks up his laptop. He opens it and adjusts the external web cam attached on top to join the last call of the day.
“I’m livid,” Hobi sighs, slumping down in the matching sofa across from him.
The webcam rotates to follow his movement. Yoongi waves in front of the camera so that he can coax the lens back to him.
Hobi looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes for a moment and listening to Yoongi typing. Fast, but also quiet. Like a jar of mismatched, forgotten buttons being spilled. It’s comforting.
He lazily looks over to the far corner. “Not to mention, I’m still extremely pissed that every time we stay here, we have to pay for that extra, empty room.”
Yoongi continues to type. “Do you want me to look up your net worth again?”
Hobi rolls his eyes. And he sees the menu on the low, square, glass table between them.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“I could eat.”
“Should we ask the guys?”
“Everyone else is in for the night, it seems,” Yoongi observes, looking around at the five silent and locked doors around them.
Hobi’s lips curl into a pout. “The food at that place we went to really sucked, though, didn’t it?”
Yoongi shrugs. He sets the laptop on the coffee table and takes the menu, starting to peruse their selections. “What I really want is a drink.”
Hobi’s daydreams never let him down. His mind races quickly to more memories of the last time they were in this city. The last time they were in this hotel.
And the last thing that they ordered.
“A nightcap, then?” Hobi asks.
Yoongi opens his mouth to reply. Sarcastically, no doubt. Hobi could already see the “That’s what I said” already forming on Yoongi’s lips.
But after years of working side-by-side, Yoongi’s mind catches up way faster than anyone else’s. Sometimes even races faster.
So, in place of those sarcastic words comes one of Yoongi’s curling, knowing smirks.
**
XX (1:42 AM): Location C. #4. With a smile.
Admittedly, you were kind of reveling in the idea of a quiet night in.
But Location C calls pay comically well.
And being called in so last-minute will translate into additional benefits.
You (1:43 AM): ❤️
You stand. You stretch.
The popcorn bowl and murder mystery novel go on the coffee table.
You blow out your living room candles.
A quick shower, like always. Your playlist is interrupted with a series of ding!s carrying with them all the details about the appointment.
When you step out and wrap the towel around you, you pick up your phone and send heart after heart, agreeing with them all. Nothing you can’t handle.
Makeup takes forever, but with more experience, you’ve shaved off a good chunk of time.
An easy change, for once.
Chef whites atop black dress pants and black flats. You wonder when you last wore this outfit. And when you last washed it. You never wear it for more than about two or three minutes. There’s always so much to do.
The hotel is only a few blocks away, but given the late hour, a car is sent for you anyway. The cook with the muscles and the chin dimple winks at you when he lets you in the back.
You aren’t sure how he’s involved in all of this.
You don’t ask any questions.
You don’t really need the answers.
What you need is his dick in your pussy.
He gestures to a cart with a silver, covered platter, all ready for you. As you grab its handle and make your way toward the service elevator, you turn back, toss a “Thanks, babe,” over your shoulder, and blow him a kiss.
He grins and wrings his towel as he wipes his hands.
You wonder when you’ll finally get to fuck him.
The elevator takes you right to the common room door.
You leave the cart at the side and knock.
“Room service!” you call out.
You run your tongue over your teeth for a quick lipstick-food-and-everything-else check, before you forget. And you run through the details that you’re supposed to remember. What to say. How to say it. When. These guys are supposed to be in the music industry. They’ll appreciate your virtuosic performance.
Your pussy clenches at the thought.
From a sea of nighttime blue, two smoky eyes greet you.
They catch you off-guard.
The cook downstairs fades into a distant memory.
It’s been a while since you’ve been this intrigued. Work is still work, after all.
“You ordered a #4 with a smile?” you confirm.
He opens the door wider, but he remains in your way, his eyes running over you like yours are him. He looks good in leather. And leather always looks good on people who have its qualities. It keeps its shape no matter what. Even in danger. Most people get hung up on the danger part, but other people, people like you, know that leather’s surprisingly more protective than initially perceived. It’s not just about restraint. It’s also about freedom.
He finds it unfair that he can’t deduce anything about you. The chef’s whites are a nice touch. Shows attention to detail. Which he and Hobi have in spades.
Your pants look a little tight.
What does your ass look like in them?
He flicks his right temple back, deeper into the room. His lips barely move when he talks, so it surprises you, how full and deep his voice is.
“Inside.”
You wheel the cart into the room and survey your surroundings. No clothes strewn about. No trash. There’s an open laptop on the coffee table, and a couple of throw pillows are misaligned on the sofa, but that’s it. Whoever these guys are, they must have only just gotten in, or aren’t planning on staying long.
Two more eyes meet you. Brighter than the other’s. But just as discerning. If not moreso.
This one is staring up at you from the couch. At one end, his heels are propped up on the arm rest. At the other, his arm is bent behind his head. He readjusts it as he watches you with mild interest, as you approach the coffee table in front of him.
He presses his lips together when you bend down to lock the cart’s back wheels. Your fingers slide down each leg, folding your body in half, breasts falling up your chest as you tumble forward, their curves making themselves slightly known through your clean, white uniform.
You meet his eyes and pout slightly as you straighten. He narrows his eyes as you walk toward the cart’s front wheels to lock them next. When you bend over, you hear the man on the couch’s soles meeting the carpet, and his body sitting up. When you stand and straighten again, you see the man in leather who greeted you at the door, arms folding confidently as he gives an approving nod.
You turn around to face the man from the couch. He squints his right eye. Despite your immaculately firm, picture-perfect, and juicy ass, he isn’t completely sold yet. But that isn’t necessarily your fault.
“It’s been a day,” he says. When he speaks again, his voice is much, much firmer. Kind of scarily so. “Our order better be right.”
The silver platter rings out with a zing! when he lifts it from its tray.
One long, thick, bundle of rope.
One brand-new roll of silver duct tape.
One black leather ring gag.
And one full bottle of Yamazaki single-malt whiskey, with two shot glasses upturned on the closure.
The glasses clink against each other and the bottle as the man from the couch swipes it from the tray. He checks the year on the label. And then he says, “I guess this is acceptable.”
He takes the two shot glasses in his free hand and sets them on the cart. He starts to unscrew the bottle.
“Oh, let me do that,” you say, reaching out for the bottle.
But he the way that he turns and frowns causes you to freeze in place.
“Sir.”
“Huh?” you ask. Your voice sounds weak and pitiful.
He clears his throat. “Let me do that, Sir.” His eyes sear into the man in leather. “Yoongi, I thought you were clear.”
“You know me, Hobi. I’m always clear,” Yoongi answers, keeping his eyes on you.
Hobi turns to you. His frown feels like a gut punch. “So this is just an example of your lack of professionalism, then?”
You widen your eyes. “I-I, I was just trying to provide the level of service that we’re so well-known f—”
Hobi sounds so disappointed when he sighs.
The neck of the Yamazaki bottle taps the first shot glass. As he pours, he says, “I thought this might be the one thing that goes right on this trip. You usually deliver.” He tilts his head. “I’m losing patience for people who don’t deliver.”
You force a gulp of spit down your throat.
Hobi watches the muscles in your neck flex.
“Save it,” he tells you, before you even think about daring to open your mouth again.
He turns back to the table and pours the second shot.
When he raises his hand, you flinch.
Yoongi chuckles as he joins you at the cart, taking the shot glass in Hobi’s raised, outstretched hand.
They lock eyes as they down their drinks.
“Apologies,” you say, lowering your head, “I just—”
“Who told you to talk?” Yoongi asks, irritated. “You gonna mess this up even more?”
“No!” you exclaim.
Hobi frowns.
“I m-mean, no — ah — Sir!”
“Now you’re just being patronizing,” Yoongi says.
He sets his shot glass down on the tray with such finality, making sure that you know the end of that sentence is a period and not a question mark.
“I promise I’m not,” you snivel. “I’m just h-here to—”
“Here to do as I say,” Hobi snarls. “To do as I please.”
Yoongi takes Hobi’s shot glass and sets it down next to his before reaching over for the duct tape.
“Or, better yet,” Hobi says, as he removes and tosses his jacket to the side, “to fuck as I please.”
You only realize that some old throwback is playing from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. Or maybe one of the bedrooms, off to the side? The tone clashes with the moment. All the same, it’s violently interrupted by the sound of duct tape being peeled and ripped from itself. The sound is sharp. And rough. And somehow playful. Like saw teeth against corrugated metal. Jagged edges against jagged edges set to Jagged Edge.
Hobi’s eyes darken. “Strip.”
You furrow your brow. “You want me to—”
“He said strip,” Yoongi grumbles, walking over to you and plastering the tape over your mouth, “and shut up.”
He reaches for the top button of your collar, but Hobi slinks beside you. He places a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder.
“Hang on,” he says. “I wanna see her do it.”
With trembling fingers and pleading eyes, you hesitate.
Hobi cocks his head, growing heavy with expectation.
You freeze.
He swipes the bottle of Yamazaki and pours nearly half of it all over you.
It’s cold.
You sniffle.
With nowhere to go, the air from your sniffle-fueled whine puffs out your cheeks.
“There,” Hobi says, tossing the bottle somewhere onto the ground. It lands with a dull thump and rolls into the darkness. “Now you have to strip.”
Now you’ll have to wash this uniform when you get home, more like it.
You lock eyes with him.
Sometimes, you can see the shift, that unmistakable flip from everyday life into something more primal. You relish in the feeling of being the catalyst for the change.
This time, you judge that there is no shift. He is always this demanding.
Because he is always right.
When you lock eyes with him, he sees you judging.
You know what fear looks like.
You think you see a little of it, which means that he had a heart at some point.
They all had a heart at some point.
But the fear quickly dissipates when his insistent hand lunges forward for your collar.
He grabs the fabric and pulls you into him.
Everything smells like whiskey.
He throws you over to the sofa, where you fall onto the cushions, bumping the throw pillows, which slide off and land onto the carpet.
He strides over and pulls you back up again by that same collar.
You grip his forearm.
There are so many veins in it.
Your chef’s whites come off easily. Hobi has no regard for the buttons that pop off, or the stitches that rip. Forget putting it in the laundry. You’ll have to buy a new uniform altogether.
Yoongi has a tougher job. Your pants are tight, but his strong hands yank them down easily. The seams at your legs rub your skin red and raw.
You feel those strong hands force you out of your socks and shoes.
Now all that’s left is your simple bra and panties. Cheap and plain. You already knew they were going to go in the trash at the end of the night, one way or the other.
Hobi runs his hands down your chest, palming your breasts still in your bra, and massaging them. Your nipples are already so sensitive, and they buzz at his touch. The buzz is so strong that you lunge forward, reaching out for his shoulders. He grips your hips, which wiggle involuntarily as his fingers squeeze.
He lets out a quiet laugh as he rights you. Your bare feet welcome the plush carpet. You’re usually in boots or stilettos or, in one case, moon shoes. Your toes wiggle and spread out, trying to grip as you stand up straight.
He unclasps your bra and tosses it aside.
His cheek rests against yours as his voice rumbles into your ear.
“Nipples sensitive, huh?”
You squeak, but then you feel twin, thin strips against them. You look down and see Yoongi laying pieces of duct tape over them in little Xs before stepping back into the shadows.
“Tonight is about what I want,” Hobi reminds you.
You sigh when Hobi runs his thumbs over them and you only get a fraction of the buzz that sent you lurching.
Hobi places his hands on your shoulders and shoves you slightly.
He loves how easily your knees bend.
“Face down.”
You grunt as you readjust, your belly smoothing over the cool fabric, while your nipples so achingly can’t.
Yoongi holds you down, wrists gathered behind you, legs bent behind you, almost everything behind you until you see Hobi returning to you, his knee bumping the laptop and spinning it around as he walks over to you, rope in hand.
Hobi thrusts it forward to Yoongi.
The frayed end of it tickles your back.
You squirm.
Yoongi chuckles, getting the hog-tie right on the first go.
You try to turn your head back to see him. When you can’t, you wonder if he can do it with his eyes closed.
But both of their eyes are roving over you.
Zippers are being unzipped.
Buckles are being unbuckled.
Snaps are unsnapped.
Hobi stands in front of you, stroking his waking cock.
“That ass,” he admires. You feel him searing your flesh there, until it’s redirected right into your worried-looking eyes. “You think just because you have an ass like that, you can do whatever you want?”
You shake your head furiously. “Mm-mm!!”
Hobi’s palm lands under your chin, nearly choking you.
He looks evil.
“Liar.”
You take a deep breath and let the shiver run down your spine.
“She’s already so wet,” Yoongi says, with something close to pity.
Hobi laughs.
“That’s what I fucking thought. How’s it taste?”
“You want dibs?” Yoongi snorts. “Sir?”
Hobi disappears from view, but then you feel his tongue swiping up your pussy, making your ass bounce and twitch, your legs kicking back until Yoongi’s strong hand meets you mid-air and wraps around your ankles.
Yes, you taste sweet. You always taste sweet. But Hobi can actually taste the actual arousal within. His neck cranes forward, lips burying into your deep purple, and then deep pink. His jaw widens, and you can almost feel the back of his throat opening up to drink you in, as well as give his tongue free range to explore. You feel him slide his tongue into your opening, darting in and out at a steady, quick pace.
You’re mewling.
“Let me get in on that,” Yoongi says, unable to stand by and just watch.
Hobi laughs. With Yoongi, he’s always happy to share.
You hear them shuffle around.
Yoongi moves much slower. Much, much slower. You feel his nose close to your ass. You feel his chin rub against your clit. You angle your hips up to try and rub it against him. He grunts when he notices, and he grabs both of your thighs to hold you steady. Hold you open. His tongue widens and flattens. He laps you up. Collects you in his mouth. Spits in you. Laps it up again. Groans at the mix of all of the tastes.
As he eats, your throat strains with more noises drowning in your own saliva.
You feel Hobi’s tongue again.
At the same time.
The two of them.
Always sharing the work.
They leave you for a moment. Tangle in each other. More wet strokes. Grunts, hot and light. Knowing chuckles.
Your unanswered pleas are punctuated by Hobi’s dick smacking against your ass cheeks.
“Fuck, Yoongi, you know that I love being right,” Hobi says, pressing the tip of his cock just by your entrance. “People are lost. They love when someone else is in control. When I control them.”
You can’t help but try to use your thighs as leverage to push back against him. He’s not even inside you, and he already feels so goo—
“Unh-unh,” Hobi repeats, “tonight is about what I want.”
You hear him hock a loogie and spit onto your ass. His dick slides into the pool. You feel it dripping into the cleft.
You moan.
But then there are too many moans.
And hums.
More than just three.
A chorus of them.
Low.
Urgent.
They’ve taken place of the music.
Is the chorus coming from one of the rooms?
Is it coming from all the other—
“Shit,” Hobi sighs through grit teeth, sliding the tip through your cleft and into the space that your thighs make for him.
He grabs the ropes at your wrist, pulling you up and bending you farther back.
You hear wet stroking.
You wish you could reach down and do the same.
Fuck.
“Take her,” Hobi instructs.
Yoongi’s hands must be strong. It’s evident enough, given that there’s only one hand gripping the rope at your wrists, and you’re letting your body weight hang where it hangs. But his strength becomes downright irrefutable when you feel his fingers mashing into you, moving in circles, and then sliding into you. He’s met with so much resistance that he has to hiss. And that’s just for his fingers.
“Grease her up a little for me,” Hobi instructs.
Yoongi lets the rope slip through his fingers, and you bob forward a little, but he catches you again in his hand, gripping even tighter. You know because some of your hair gets caught in his grasp.
You like it.
Hobi leans down and pulls the tape away from your lips, letting the end dangle from your right cheek.
When he swoops his hair back through clawed fingers, you get the impulse to want to kiss him. The way the thin light bounces off of his soft yet stern face. The way his command showcases his vulnerability. How everything about him seems to be so balanced.
Do people know how much work it takes at your core to be that balanced?
He finds the bottle of whiskey.
He takes a swig from it.
Pours more all over your body.
Pours some on his own. Everything from his chest down.
You scowl as he teases.
He leans down and cradles your jaw in his free hand.
“How much can you take?” Hobi asks.
And that’s when you realize what’s really going on here.
The roleplay. The costumes. The illusion of submission. All of these things are part of it.
But what he’s really getting off on is knowing that you have to pretend that you don’t like it.
What would someone like that want to hear?
Why do you want to give it to him so badly?
“Are you asking how much I can take, or how much I actually want?” you sneer, your brain screaming “all” to both.
Hobi hums. Like he can tell.
And then he squeezes your cheeks together.
You open your mouth.
He sticks his dick in.
Just as Yoongi sticks his fingers inside of you.
Your delighted moan is just as muffled as when the duct tape was still in place.
“Fuck, you can take it all, can’t you?” Hobi groans, as he keeps sliding his length farther into your mouth, farther into your throat, feeling you readjusting so that you’re able to grab breaths here and there as he starts to pump. “Wonder how you found out.” He spits in his hand and starts to massage his balls while you continue to suck his whiskey-covered dick.
This is a different kind of whiskey dick. One you wouldn’t lament at all.
He groans as he fondles himself.
He leans back.
His shoulders relax.
The bottle of whiskey slides down precariously, bit by bit, his grip releasing as you suck.
And as you suck, and he rubs, he lets his thoughts race.
What kind of—unnhh, fuck—what kind of person knows that? You like to— shit, he’s almost all the way— fuck.
He sets the bottle of whiskey on the table, next to the laptop.
He lets go of your jaw and grabs the back of your head to pull you closer. Push himself in deeper. “Who else knows?” he grumbles and grunts. “Who else knows how deep you—”
He lets out a moan as he feels you nose the right cum-gutter of the V of his torso.
“—Fuck, who else knows how deep you can go?”
You’re gobbling him up. Would suck on his balls if he would fucking hand them over to you.
Hobi doesn’t fight the smirk that his racing thoughts can’t keep out. He has to be right about you.
“Dirty, nasty little thing like you,” he mutters. The pretense has been shot to hell. “How much you need it. Look where you are now.”
You know you’re right, too.
He had a heart.
Something or someone broke it.
That’s why he’s in the Presidential Suite.
You only gag when he pulls out. You gag every time anyone pulls out. It’s like you get sick at the thought of someone not filling you up.
That thought is gone when Yoongi pounds into you, as Hobi uses his hand to spins his dick in slow circles to ravel your spit around and around.
Like twirling cotton candy around a paper cone.
Hobi would probably find that comparison too sweet.
He almost tells you so when he slides back into your mouth, starting to thrust again. How incredible it feels. How tight. How excruciatingly wonderful. Stuffed so full, and no one cares if you just take it. And you take it so well. You’re so pliant and willing. Every square inch of the skin that they touch makes room for them, from each tiny throbbing capillary in their cocks, to each slight turn of your hips or slight twist of your lips.
Before he loses control, he places his cock next to your mouth.
“Pout for me.”
You do, pushing your lips out, letting him run his cock over them, slightly between them, and then slapping it against your cheeks.
Yoongi slaps against your cheeks as well.
“Shit!” you cry out, surprised at yourself, as Yoongi lets out a curling, deep moan. If you don’t come soon, you might go insane. “Please!”
Hobi frowns, only glaring at you. “I don’t like people who beg.”
He rips the remainder of the duct tape from your face, making you cry out again, and steps out of view.
You want him back immediately. Want his length in your throat so far down that you can’t make a sound.
But Yoongi’s hands grip your waist, and that desire shifts into a desperate wish that you could turn around to see his smoky eyes fixed on the folds of your skin surrounding the rope that he’s tied. How you’re turning red. How red that red must be, if he can see it in the dark.
He loves red.
So do you.
You see it everywhere.
In flushed cheeks. In lovers’ bruises.
Behind your eyes, as Hobi’s cock slid against the deepest wall of your throat and packed pleasure into your body. And then again, now, as Yoongi’s cock hits the deepest wall of your pussy, releasing it all over again.
You come.
You were wrong.
You’re going insane no matter what.
“Aahh, fuck!” Yoongi exclaims through your tortured, open-mouthed moans, his hands squeezing your forearms and ass, blooming redder and redder.
The chorus of moans and groans surrounding you get a bit louder.
You all struggle to keep your voices down.
Freedom comes to you in the form of a ring gag made of leather.
Once Hobi gets it in place, you can moan all you want.
Yoongi shoves you forward and steps back, taking shallow, uneven breaths.
But he’s quickly replaced by Hobi’s swollen cock, making you twitch and sigh.
“I thought I told you to grease her up,” Hobi grumbles and glancing at Yoongi.
“She’s so tight,” Yoongi mutters. “I would’ve come if you hadn’t—”
Hobi says that he sees what Yoongi means. But it comes out as one long, surprised, agonized, “Fuuuuuuuuck.”
You arch back. Try to move your hips. Dig them into the sofa cushions. Hobi’s flat, heavy hand helps.
You want him to fuck you until you’re embedded in the fibers.
He snaps his hips.
You’ve never felt thrusts like this before.
So powerful, and yet, so effortless.
He’s still talking through them.
“Help me flip her over. Wanna see those tits bounce.”
With a spent Yoongi’s help, Hobi spins you around his dick.
Like cotton candy.
You pinch the handle. Clench around the stem.
You start to tear up.
Moan.
Moan after moan after moan.
A chorus of moans join you.
“Ooh,” Hobi laughs, looking down at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You hear that?” He grunts again, this one coming from the pit of his stomach. “Aren’t you glad you came out to play?”
You meet his eyes and nod, desperate.
Your weight rests uncomfortably on your joints, your arms and legs still tied up behind you. But for each uncomfortable point of pressure comes a wave of serene bliss, all commanded by the head of Hobi’s cock.
You hear whispers through the walls. “Fuck”s and “holy shit”s.
Chanting.
Like prayers.
Yoongi divines an idea from them.
He stands over you at the other end of the sofa. He’s found
gathering your breasts together and leaning down to pump his rigid cock between them.
You turn left to move your chin out of the way. But you wish you could feel more.
“Mm,” Hobi moans, leaning forward. Reading your mind.
His strokes become quicker. Somehow even more eager. Like he hasn’t thrust like this in a while. Hard for you to believe. It’s just so ingrained in him, it seems.
Your skin feels so silky around Yoongi’s cock. Fucking you makes him feel pampered. He wants to return the favor. Imagines soaking you in a bath. Lathering you in lotion. He’ll gladly settle for lathering you in something else, though.
You whine.
Yoongi strokes your hair back with his thumb. His other palm busies itself with your breasts.
You whine again.
Yoongi watches as your drool starts to drip down your neck.
He wants it in his mouth.
You whine urgently, squeezing your eyes shut.
“She grip you like this?” Hobi chokes off, as he twists out of you, to the side. “Fuck, Yoongi, she’s—”
“I know,” he oozes, low and tight in his chest, as if his voice box is buried in pebbles next to his lungs. “Make her come again. Wild. I’m telling you.”
Hobi smirks at you. “Maybe we turn it up a notch and see how wild it can really get.”
Yoongi nods. Your sweat would be enough, normally. But he wants your spit, can barely take watching you dribble all over that gag. He wants his spit, but he’s been panting so hard that his mouth is dry.
He leans back and sees the whiskey on the table.
He pours it over your chest. And then he slides in and out of the space between your breasts, chasing his orgasm with more intention.
It happens when you open your eyes and gaze at him.
His cum spills everywhere, giving him everything he needed just a moment before. He lets his cock swim in it, sliding, grazing, bumping into your breasts, your stomach, the couch.
“Yesssss, shit,” Yoongi growls, panting as he wipes himself on you, finally resting his spurting tip just under your right breast.
You wish you could feel more.
You try to feel more.
You push out your chest, but your nipples still scream for air.
Hobi bends down and rips the duct tape X from your left breast.
A tortured, blessed “Hnnggg!” escapes from your throat.
Everything that you have control over clamps shut.
“Ho, fuck,” Hobi whimpers, grabbing your hips and ramming into you.
Yoongi’s eyes are as wide and black as his favorite vinyls. He rips the other X off of your right breast, where his cock is still leaking.
You let out another cry, which chops into shorter and shorter bursts, separated by your nostrils hungrily snatching at the hot, dank air around you.
Yoongi’s lips cushion your right nipple. His tongue finds every terrain, smooth and ridged. He sucks your breast into his mouth. Bites a little. His other hand glides across your stomach and massages your other breast. You feel his moans on your skin. They come from the back of his throat.
You buck forward, out of control.
Yoongi pops your breast from his mouth. “Fuck, Hobi,” he says, looking up at him. “Look at her. She’s shaking.”
Hobi knows. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since he asked about your grip. He angles down, burying his cock into you, slam, slam, slam. His back will hurt. There will be an armrest-shaped bruise across his lap tomorrow.
Yoongi’s hand lands on your clit.
“Mmmm!!” you yelp, lips mashing down around the gag. “Mmmm-hmm-hmm-hmmmm!”
Hobi leans down, his thumbs digging into your gut as his fingers stay wrapped around your hip bones. Like he’s choking the lower half of your body.
It’s almost too much.
You know what happens when it’s almost too much.
You douse Hobi in your juices as you come, having nowhere to go, and yet, thrashing wildly and freely.
Hobi and Yoongi sigh and grunt. There is no intention of softening your high, which comes as sweat pours into your eyes, making you tear up.
“Filthy.”
“Making a damn mess.” Hobi’s eyes come alive. “Fuck, fuck, her walls keep flexing, and I—”
And then his eyes roll back. But you don’t see them do it. His head hangs forward, hair falling with it and obscuring your view.
You can’t fixate on just one image anyway.
You’re too busy trying to put the pieces of your mind back together again.
Long, exhausted groans, far too many, start to overlap.
Hobi speaks. “Fuck, that was good.”
He slides out of you and slaps your pussy in thanks. It twitches with aftershocks in return.
You hear the glass of the Yamazaki bottle slide along the length of the table, until it’s lifted abruptly before falling off the ledge.
Glug, glug, glug.
A refreshed sigh.
Hobi gives more instructions, though you can’t make those out. He’s too far away. And it’s like you’re underwater. Clarity comes and goes.
A door closes.
Yoongi comes into your view, bending at a 90-degree angle.
He gently helps you turn onto your side. He undoes the knot at your wrists. He pouts as he works, lips untangling only when the rope finally does.
He rises a little, as the rope, and your arms, straighten with newfound slack.
Release.
Yoongi helps you scoot up the couch, allowing your legs to unfold and stretch.
And then, Yoongi kneels next to you, gazing at you.
“You played the part beautifully,” he whispers. “He’s definitely gonna pay you extra.”
You snort. You expected that. With the performance you gave? This late? And last-minute? He’d better pay extra.
But then, Yoongi offers something unexpected.
His smoky eyes, catching you off-guard like they did when he opened the door. They search you.
Yoongi leans over you. Thinking.
You tilt your head back. Knowing.
And then he bends down, his fingernails sliding through your hair, starting just above your ear and then curling into a fist to tilt your head back even more. His mouth meets yours, drinking from your whiskey- and cum-coated lips, sucking so hard, as if he almost expects more to come out of them.
There’s a loud smack when he finally pulls himself away from you.
He looks at the echoes of rope on your skin.
He traces some of the lines with his pruned fingers.
“Fucking you was like creating art,” he murmurs, reveling in the sight.
He rises a little, letting your hair free and watching your head lean fall back to the sofa cushions.
The snake of rope slithers behind him as he disappears through a door. Different than the one you heard close just before.
Brain hazy, and body finally feeling exhaustion creeping in where dopamine and adrenaline are starting to leave, you rub your wrists and glance toward the laptop still sitting on the glass table.
The small camera is aimed at your heaving, dripping body.
The light is still on.
You make direct eye contact.
After you slowly lick your lips to collect the last of Yoongi’s spit, you take a loud, showy gulp with great satisfaction.
It’s like water.
You sit up.
Rest the soles of your feet on the edge of the, much like you, ruined, sofa.
Spread your legs.
Dance your fingers around your entrance, Yoongi’s cum dripping down your stomach and meeting Hobi’s cum as it leaks out of you.
Introducing a short, three-part series in honor of Yoongi’s 30th birthday month (which I also happen to share lol). Maybe I’m also writing it as a small birthday gift to myself. Either way, here’s to celebrating your 30s.
Welcome to the decade, Yoongles. Just like you, it gets better and better.
Here’s more about the fics! | read on ao3
Pink Toes is based on a real-life, incredibly hot nail technician at my salon that I absolutely have a crush on. The first time he gave me a pedicure, he stopped randomly and paused my manicurist before she started painting my nails. He got up and came back with a different bottle of pink. He switched out the shade of pink she had picked to ensure that it would match the pink I picked for my toes. And the last time I saw him, he gave me an extra few minutes on my massage. I’m too shy to ask for his name, and I go too infrequently to feel like it warrants a standing appointment. But whenever I call to make an appointment, part of the fun is wondering whether I’ll get to see him. He’s… um… very good. And he’s obviously a Yoongi. Come book an appointment with him.
#4 With a Smile is my entry for the Suits & Ties collab! Thanks @sugakookitty and @hobisuniverse for hosting! The title comes from this moment of bewitchment in one of my favorite movies, High Fidelity. The theme of the conversation at the tail end of that clip, the conversation about dating a musician, is further explored in the next fic, Shirt. @yuugehn, thanks again for telling me about this collab and inviting me to try writing Yoongi and Hobi together, especially because I feel like Yoongi is the first member whom I channel my ideas through, and Hobi is the last member who I’ve gotten to really know. Hoping this fun little story brings, at the very least, a bit of a naughty smirk.
Shirt is inspired by what people seem to call “Bloodstain” or “Shirt” by SZA (when is she releasing the whole track???). I’ve had this idea lodged in my brain for a while, and it seems to want to burst forth now. It’s meant to describe the push and pull, the ebbs and flows in life, the things that we consider core but that we drift away from, and then back to, from time to time. Maybe it’s how I feel about the creative process. Maybe it’s how I feel about Yoongi. Maybe it’s how I feel about fandom in general. Maybe it resonates with something you feel. Whatever it is, like always, I hope you process and enjoy.
3(0) for 30 Spotify Playlist | YouTube Playlist
Hope you all enjoy! And don’t forget what Yoongles himself says:
Genres, Content Warnings, & Themes: New relationship, dirty talk, hard smut.
Author’s Note: Written for a steamy ask from anon. Also, despite the banner imagery, starring this purple hoodie Jin in the second half of the story specifically for wonderful @virgorisingproblems. Hope you enjoy!
Permanent Taglist (italics mean I couldn’t tag for some reason!): @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld @greezenini @missbickerbocker @dearbambideer @helenazbmrskai @morti13 @skyys-universe @somewhereofftheglobe @imaginativedreams @dreamamubarak @m-yg93 @elyte @awinkies @yuugehn @jkkit @lynnloveslokiredacted @Sunnietee
“But have you ever been there… for her?” Yoongi asks again.
Jin looks around at his surroundings. The time of day changes. The bar changes. The table changes. The seats change. The drinks change, like now, always at the behest of some disembodied hand that randomly pops into view from time to time. But Jin is always surrounded by the same six drunk faces. And it’s rare for him to be so confused in present company.
The slower cadence with which Yoongi repeats the line doesn't help to elucidate things, nor does Yoongi's insistent look, nor his raised eyebrows, nor his pushed out lips, still forming the “R” at the end of “her”.
“What are you talking about?” Jin scoffs, furrowing his brow and leaning back in his seat. “I just told you an entire epic. I was Homer. You were my… my…”
He grimaces and shakes his head around.
“Whatever those campfire dudes were called. Anyway, I just told you an Iliad-length tale of how many times I made her come, with excruciating detail of how I made her come, how every fold of skin on my dick all the way up to every fold of skin in the prints of my fingers—”
Jin never misses an opportunity for great hand comedy, so he dazzles his fingers here, before curling them into fists to pound them on the table for effect as he adds, “made her scream, and you have the nerve to ask me if I’ve—”
Air quotes should drive the point home.
“Been there for her?”
“The fact that you’re leading your response with romanticizing your dudes and glorifying your dick doesn’t bode well, for you, and for her,” Namjoon admits, exchanging knowing glances with a smirking, drinking Yoongi.
Jimin and Taehyung seem to be in on whatever secret this is. The only ones who aren’t are Jungkook, who is staring at Jin’s chest, and Hobi, who passed out about half an hour ago. Jin will have to remember that for later, though it doesn’t exactly encourage him to know that the only friend that he has left is only his friend because he couldn’t hold his liquor.
“You made her come,” Namjoon goes on. “Great.”
“Not just great,” Jin grumbles, “fantastic!”
“Fantastic,” Namjoon continues, though, from the way it sounds, Namjoon couldn’t have been listening closely to the details. “What our esteemed colleague is trying to express is that there are many different ways a girl can come.”
“You think I don't know that?” Jin can't help but snarl when he asks it. The alcohol is getting to him, but it doesn't take much to let the ever-simmering rage bubble over. “Again, I just—”
“You just schooled us in how to dick someone down,” Jimin tries, leaning forward in his seat. He clasps his hands together and tilts his head. He even grins in that winning, boyish, flirtatious way that he always uses when he's trying to get something out of someone. Even his hair is part of the plan, those bangs just effortlessly swooshing by his eyeline. If Jimin thinks this makes him seem more like friend than foe, he is sorely mistaken. “But have you explored other parts of the body? Specifically, parts of her body?”
Jin doesn’t just know every part of your body. He beholds it in other dimensions, like a synesthete. In colors, specifically. Your collarbones are white, when his teeth sink in. Your hips are blue, when his hands take them. Your cheeks are red, when his lips land on them. And your ass turns from red back to gold, when it gasps for breath from its relentless, punishing meetings with his palm.
Instead of listing all the shades he sees in the mosaic swirling around him and starting to take the place of these six idiots’ dumb grins, Jin shrugs and says, “Duh!”
“Well, do you find yourself exploring them in exactly the same way?” Jimin asks, punctuating his question with another perfect bang-swoop.
Jin shakes the hair out of his eyes, rough and angry. “What’s it to you??"
Jimin raises his hands and presses his back against that of his seat.
Taehyung moves forward to take his place.
“No offense, hyung, but as epic as your sex is, well… frankly… we’ve heard it all before,” he replies. “Every bite around the mole on her back. Every shift of your hips as you rail her from behind. And then, eventually, every time you gather the sweaty strands of her hair in your fist before she—”
“Screams your fucking name,” the rest of the group joins in, startling Hobi awake.
Jin looks at Hobi, who smacks his lips.
“Must’ve dozed off,” Hobi mumbles, smacking his lips. “Were you just talking about the ponytail part?” He grins sleepily. “That’s always my favorite part. Was it epic?”
Jin has never frowned so hard in his life, the muscles in his chin quivering under the weight of all his anger, and his gang's laughter, and Jimin’s bang-swooshes swooshing, and Hobi's annoyingly innocent eyes fluttering with grave concern.
“Don’t be mad, hyung!” Namjoon says gently. “We just want, y’know, we want you to—”
“Have better stories,” Jimin can’t help but tease.
“Have better sex,” Yoongi corrects.
Yoongi’s eyes lock with Jin’s, and instantly, Jin feels it. Yoongi’s sage insistence. The accompanying look is eerie. Disarming in the most thoughtful of ways. Saying that if Jin could set his almighty sword down for just a moment, he might actually learn something.
“Well… like… what… what kind of… like…”
This is embarrassing. How do you learn something when you don’t even have the words to form the question?
The group hushes as they all turn to their youngest, eyes wide and filled with promise.
“Fingers!” Jungkook pipes up.
Jin sighs. “Huh?”
Jungkook bounces in his seat, but he can’t muster much more than that either. How do you try to explain something when the person you’re talking to is usually the one explaining things? Plus, Jin has that super scary look on his face, and Jungkook would just rather not.
“You talked about every fold in your fingertips,” Yoongi picks up. “You ever use those fingertips all over her body?”
“Sure,” Jin says, but it comes out uneasily. Only faint brushstrokes of color appear in his mind, rather than the Rothko-sized swaths that usually consume his brain at the thought of you.
“Everywhere?” Yoongi asks.
“Sure?” Jin answers.
The six others aren’t sure where to look. Jin's voice usually commands direction, rather than fading into the background noise of other groups at other tables with other drinks.
“It’s a new relationship,” Jimin thankfully reminds everyone. He meets Jin’s eyes and smiles, like the true friend that he is. “Maybe once you talk it out, you’ll find out more of what she likes, and you’ll be able to…”
Jin doesn't need much of a prompt to echo, “Be there… for her.”
Jin’s calm, happy smile is something you’re quickly realizing is a must-have to truly start your weekend. The way his lips shrink into a bit of a pout. The way his eyes curve up and curl in, letting his long, sweet lashes fan out. The way his broad shoulders relax, offloading whatever worries that might have piled up over the week to make space for your gentle arms.
So this frazzled, squinched-up, teeth-gnashing tangle of trepidation is not something you would ever expect.
Soft, comforting tones would be best. Go easy.
“Hi,” you breathe, eager, but quiet. Smile just as big, but eyebrows ever-so-slightly raised.
You reach out and smooth your fingertips over his soft, purple hoodie. You run them up from his stomach, up his body, resting just below his neck in the stitching of the yellow letters that, funnily enough, spell your name.
“You OK?” you ask.
His left hand grips yours and presses it into his chest, your palm curving around his pec. His eyes are focused on you, but he seems lost in thought. He softens, but he still chews his lip.
“It’s just brunch, sweetie,” you say with a gentle smile, as he crouches down into you to steal more of your embrace. Your bodies slowly sway side to side, wobbling you back and forth over the threshold, feet dancing from the front porch to your entryway and back again in lopsided time. “It’s just my friends.”
Friends.
What kinds of conversations do you have with your friends?
Do they think he uses his fingers enough?
Jin anxiously tightens his hold on you, resting his head on your shoulder. “You look pretty,” he whispers into your neck.
Your soft laugh gets choked off when he tightens his grip on your body.
“Jin,” you chuckle, wriggling a little to make more room. “Jin, I can’t…”
When he pulls away slightly, giving you the spaces that you seem to want, he whines a little. His eyes don’t glimmer with their usual cheery sparkle. They seem… You’re not sure how they seem, actually. You’re still learning each others’ patterns. Each others’ expressions. Frustrated doesn’t quite describe it.
Wounded.
That’s closer.
You might not fully know each others’ expressions yet, but you don’t need to know exactly what’s running through Jin’s mind to feel his heart twinge in your chest.
Your hand leaves the curve of his pec and finds the bend of his jaw. “We don’t have to go,” you offer, angling his face toward you, trying to get his eyes to refocus. “We can just stay here and—”
You’ll learn that a sense of duty always helps Jin plant his feet on solid ground again, like he does now, stamping the heels of his sneakers firmly back on the porch.
“No, no, I’m sorry.” The words come in swift whispers, hurrying to outrun the outside eyes and eavesdropping ears of momentary embarrassment. “I wanna meet your friends. I wanna—”
His eyes don’t quite sparkle, but the little crinkles in the corners are a good sign.
“I wanna be there for you.”
You smile and run your hand back down from his jaw, down his chest, and down to his hip, giving him a squeeze back, tight, like he had just squeezed you, before you run your hand up your long, white-sleeved arm, landing on your shoulder to readjust your purse strap.
“I’m excited for you to meet them,” you say, shrugging that shoulder as you pull the leather band closer to your neck. “And they’re excited to meet you.”
Their grinning faces are certainly a promising sign. And their genuine laughs, full and warm and echoing, are starting to clinch the win. You’d know. You’re able to elicit the same ones. And you take it as a particular point of pride that Jin’s puns and turns-of-phrase have brought them out before the first round of drinks.
Soon enough, Jin’s body stops twitching and starts settling into yours. Just as you calmed his chest, and softened his bite, you ease his back with slow, soft circles. On your next pass, you gently press your short, manicured nails into his skin. He takes a deep, refreshed breath at your touch. Looks at you with a caring gaze. Places his hand on your thigh. Squeezes.
Jin looks around at the six faces surrounding you. They’re admittedly pleasant company. All of you are so beautiful, and kind, and sweet. Most importantly, though, you’re endlessly interesting.
Topics range from the petty to the philosophical. The girl with the shawl shares witty quips that would float beautifully in the warm sunlight of Namjoon’s library. The girl with the long earrings talks entertainingly with her hands, slender hands that Jimin would enjoy watching as they loop and bob, or maybe even swoosh caringly through Jimin’s bangs. The girl with the big, opal ring follows every word, a conversational chameleon game enough to follow Taehyung’s random, winding roads.
The girl with the freckle on her nose detonates sentences like fireworks and wiggles like the shimmer in her bright pink eyeshadow, something Hobi’s keen eye would never tire of. The giggly girl would easily vibe with Jungkook, her strategic mind on display with her Valorant phone case, and the way she strategically positions empty plates on the table in such a way that the waiter is never troubled too much with service.
And the pleasant girl with the wavy hair even frown-laughs like Yoongi, who would count her charming, amused murmurs like medals.
Still, it’s best not to get too comfortable. The last six-ring circus that Jin was in tore him apart.
“You know,” the girl with the long earrings replies, as she reaches for her glass, “I was beginning to think our friend here was overdoing it. Putting you on a pedestal.” She exchanges a teasing, knowing glance with you. “But after having met you, I think she might’ve been underselling.”
“A good strategy,” Jin says.
You complete his thought for him by adding, “Undersell and overdeliver.”
Tingles travel up and down his forearms when you wink back at him.
And his ears turn the same shade as his sangria-stained lips, which are pulling into a similarly sweet, if not hesitant, smile.
“Oh, I bet you deliver every time,” the girl with the long earrings jokes, looking around the table.
Even though the girls squeal excitedly, Jin can’t really interpret the coquettish but ultimately silent grin you send to them in response.
You don’t bring it up, but if you did, Jin wouldn’t disagree that he’s pretty weird on the drive home. He stutter-steps the gas a couple times. Keeps changing the music. Settles on a podcast instead to try to keep talking to a minimum.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to you. He’s practically bursting with words once you’re both fully inside your apartment. He’s even jumpy as he trails you to your bedroom.
“I just wasn’t sure how to phrase it,” he finally says, as he stands next to your bed, eyes following you to your clothes rack. “And I didn’t want to have too serious of a conversation in the car. I really wanted to talk it out.” He softens. “Check in with you.”
At this, you pause. You hang your purse on the end of the rack and peer at him through the full-length mirror just beside it. “Check in?” you question. “Like, to see if we’re OK?”
“Yeah.”
Your eyes widen hastily. “Are we not OK?”
The irony of the question. Both of you are so worried about each other’s answers that you’ve missed that you’re completely comfortable with asking the question in the first place.
“We’re more than OK!” Jin exclaims. You smile immediately as his eyebrows shoot up. “Things are fantastic!”
“Good,” you laugh, though you quickly re-furrow your brow and ask, “so, then, why were you so nervous?”
Jin knows he could bail right now. He’d know exactly how to. Save himself the embarrassment. It’s not like what the guys had to say rang true, anyway.
But he’s curious.
Not just about what might happen if he explores more of you.
He’s curious about what makes you tick.
What makes you… explode.
Not bailing feels antithetical. It’s the strangest thing, being in a relationship where things are so good between you that he wants to know how to make you feel even better.
“I, uh, worry that I’ve been maybe… kinda… one-note?” he asks. “Y’know. In the…”
He looks over at your bed. And then back at you. He gives you another look that you know you’re going to treasure. Eyes open, lips in pout. A puppy with his tail between his legs.
“No,” you say reassuringly, voice low, almost at a purr. You walk over to him and wrap him up in a hug, kissing his neck, just under his jaw. “That’s been good.” You sigh. “Really good.”
“I wanna do more,” he mumbles, running his hands over your ass.
He grabs both of your ass cheeks. Kneading them.
Needing you.
He pulls you into him. The pieces of you that are touching him — your breasts, your hips, your sex — illuminate fiercely. You sigh, placing your right temple just under his left collarbone, watching his Adam’s apple rise and fall as his hand traces down your fly.
“Good,” he purrs, “but I wanna do more of what you like.”
You can’t help but smile.
“I like you.”
Jin chuckles before groaning, “Mmm, I like you, too,” as he undoes your zipper. You sigh as he wraps you up in his left arm, right hand busy with your button. Your pants sit a little lower on your waist, and you feel him start to slide his fingers into your cotton panties, stroking the front of your flesh gently with the side of his index finger’s knuckle. Gently.
Questioningly.
Your teeth sink into your lower lip as your neck cranes left, pulling your body in front of his and giving your hands more room to roam his body.
But Jin steers you back into his chest. He doesn’t have to pull hard. The way his hand is circling your flesh, then sliding down, fingers parting to surround your entrance before sliding back up again, has made you delectably malleable.
“Seriously,” he whispers, continuing to massage you slowly. “Tell me more.”
The room is starting to fade. And the faint, slightly electronic buzzing that usually accompanies total silence is getting softer.
“Doesn’t seem like you need me to tell you anything,” you answer honestly, swaying a little.
Colors swirl magnificently around you. Even with your eyes shut, he wonders if you can see them, too.
His chest rises to cradle your cheek. The breath makes his voice fuller. Resonant, and rich. “Tell me,” he says, as velvet and slick in tone as your velvet is slick to touch. “Tell me what no one else knows.”
“You want me to—”
A gasp catches in your chest as Jin’s finger slides through your folds, and back again. Coaxing you. Rewarding you. Perhaps dangling a bit of another reward just out of your grasp.
Your eyes flutter open, and you’re met with Jin’s lidded but determined gaze. He keeps his finger’s rhythm steady as he pulls you into a kiss, but when your hands trace his sides down to his hips, he pulls his hand from you altogether.
A new whine seeps out of you. It’s not like the clear ring of his name from your parted lips. It’s a dulcet hum wrinkled slightly by the scrunching of your chin and muffled by the puffing of your cheeks. Flushed pink haloes you. He wonders if you’ll keep tiptoeing to the edge with him. He’ll feed the embers as long as you’ll allow. He wants nothing more than to see that adorable, wanting face again, and again, and again.
“I’m serious,” Jin says, a bit of concern creeping back into his voice. “Tell me what I’m missing. Tell me what I don’t see.”
Jin’s knuckles are no stranger to your flesh. But you’ve admittedly wondered what it might feel like to have him play with you a little more. What it might feel for him to twirl you. Dip you. Caress you.
Unleash you.
You tilt your head and examine him, head to toe. Few others have actually asked. And fewer still have delivered.
“What if I show you?” you ask.
Jin nods eagerly, pupils darkening as your excited glow lets more color into the room.
You slowly unbutton your white top, smiling when Jin’s mouth hangs open as you reveal the full brightness of the fuschia push-up bra you have on underneath. You wiggle out of your pants and underwear, kicking them over to the side. Your ankle knocks the angle of your mirror down a bit, and you turn back to inspect it. Which gives you an idea.
“Lie back on the bed,” you tell him.
Jin jumps onto your mattress, leaning back against the headboard, limbs sprawled out and ready to engulf you.
You bring the mirror closer before you crawl into his lap, and then you turn to lie back against his solid chest.
“You look while you touch yourself?” Jin breathes, watching as you bring his right hand up to your mouth.
You graze your jaw with the backs of his knuckles. “This is more for our little show-and-tell,” you say, tossing in a grin before adding, “though I have in the past.”
He moans as you open your mouth and wrap your tongue around his fingers, pulling them inside to soak them. The trail of your spit breaks when his fingers near your chin on their way down to your dewy, warmed flesh, guided by your soft, expert hand.
He nuzzles into and kisses your neck, tongue gliding up and down, lips coming together to suck and pinch, drawing giggles out of you as you place his wet fingers between your folds and against your clit.
Your gentle, appreciative grunt tells Jin that things are already getting better. And he stays warm, open, and obedient as you swirl his fingers around. He keeps going exactly as you’ve shown him, even after you let go of his hand to better revel in the lusciously creeping heat spreading up your body. You guide it through your toes and calves, into your thighs, throughout your torso, higher still to your chest and arms. Heat gets trapped where Jin is sucking on your neck. You need both of your hands to shake your fingers through your hair in order to help some of that heat dissipate.
“Mmm, a little more pressure,” you whisper, as you twist your hips. “Play with me. Part my lips a little. Nice, wide circles to start.”
Jin’s hand feels heavier, and hotter. And he works at the speed you showed him, neither dragging out of nervousness, nor rushing out of excitement, not even at the captivating sight of you blossoming for him.
“Feels good?” he mumbles, into your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you sigh, eyes rolling back, and head soon following. You shiver and start to move your hips in tandem to Jin’s sublime, sinful rhythm.
Jin looks at your bodies in the mirror, his still clothed, and yours so beautifully naked, your soft, natural skin contrasting his commercial purples and blues. He loves watching your clit dance, and the bold outlines of his shape keep him focused. You’re starting to come undone, and he wants nothing more than to hold you. Support you. Give you what you need.
“What else?” he whispers eagerly.
You moan as your feet start to slide against your sheets. “Play with my tits?” you say, voice slightly weaker than before.
He knows your nipples are sensitive, but he doesn’t know how much more sensitive they are like this. He learns quickly, when his forearm has only barely brushed against your bra, and your hips buck up in response. The lesson is cemented when you inhale sharply as Jin dips his left hand into your right cup.
“Hurts?” he checks.
“No,” you murmur in bliss. “Keep going.”
He massages your breast with his fingertips, grazing, then pinching your nipple as your body rolls in waves. One really good pinch has your jaw hanging open, aimed toward his, and he steals a kiss, his tongue soothing you there while his fingers flatten to soothe you at your chest.
You break your kiss with a squeal.
“F-faster?” you ask, hips moving more exaggeratedly. “Tighter circles now, and—”
Your forehead nearly bashes into Jin’s jaw, which clenches as he rubs your clit with more focused ferocity.
“Fuck, that feels amazing,” you whine, nodding and shutting your eyes, bringing the back of your head to his shoulder again. You can feel his hoodie getting damp, and you’re about to apologize for sweating all over him, but his hand moves to your left breast, his pawing and clawing rendering you speechless.
All you can do is reach back for him, hand running through the hair at his left temple, and grabbing in sheer excitement.
You turn your hips to the right a little, and Jin’s wrist presses into the space between your bone and your flesh. That slight bit of pressure, plus the bind of your bra misaligned and flicking against your sensitive nipples, has you faltering.
You look in the mirror and lock eyes with him. You’re so glad to see that familiar sparkle.
Jin may seem more like his old self with you, but what brings a smile to his face is experiencing a new side of you. Hearing new moans. Watching your body, as well as your reflection, moving in new ways.
And he’s a quick learner.
He doesn’t need to be told, for instance, that he should take your swollen clit between his fingers and roll it. When he does, your eyes shut again, and your head loops and swirls the way his skin does in his fingerprints.
Touch is not the only sense bringing new information. He’s even starting to see new colors, no longer primary in nature, but more evolved. Mahogany to maroon to mauve, the color of your flesh when heat and pressure move through it. Bursts of glitter where the tips of his fingers alternate between the room’s heating air and your heated sea, the inside of the knuckle of his thumb working with the inside of the top knuckle of his forefinger.
When he glances at the two of you in the mirror, your body writhing in ecstasy, and his eyes shining with lewd delight, he thinks that it looks like he’s sending you little finger hearts.
“Wanna know more,” he murmurs.
He licks your cheek, and your body starts to shake. He grunts as he uses his body to cage you in, looping his ankles around yours, and clasping his other arm even tighter around you. Ironic, perhaps, as he had wanted to unleash you. But now, he’s realizing that he wants to unleash something from within.
“More about you.”
His hand grasps your chin, fingers and thumb digging into your cheeks, forcing your gaze to meet his in the mirror. He holds you there for a moment so that you can see what he sees.
“More of you.”
There aren’t just colors now. There’s enticing, immeasurable depth to every part of you now. Your bright, ravenous eyes. Your licentious, loose lips. Your voluptuous body. Your vivid clit, nearly bursting at the way Jin’s fingers are now starting to milk it.
“What turns you on.”
You celebrate the sybaritic, Jin’s alluring voice, and his decadent fingers swirling in your opulent shine. You don’t mean to whine so much, but your whines aren’t the reason Jin’s free hand snakes up between your breasts to clutch your neck, a collar to go with the cage.
“How you turn yourself on.”
You have to agree that you look exquisite like this in the shimmering mix of the glow of the late afternoon sun, the thrill of the familiar, and the augur of something newly, beautifully devastating.
“How I can turn you on.”
His flexible fingers and wriggling wrist don’t seem to tire of winding you up, so you keep spiraling, confused about why the astonishing blitz of a daze hasn’t set on yet. You need to lunge forward. Your veins are screaming. Your pulse is a straight line. Where else is there to go?
“How I can be there for you.”
His arm digs in just below your stomach, and you cry out at the interlocking of the final, missing piece. The added pressure sends you into overdrive. Your heart is working so forcefully that each one of your senses is heightened. As streams of ambrosia spill out of you, you see a melding of forms in the mirror. The smell of hard work deliciously paying off. The savor of Jin’s lips and tongue and sweat and saliva being emblazoned in your taste buds. The feel of more fabric around you dampening. The sound of your juices filling each capillary in your sheets.
When that sound is replaced with a reverent silence, you slowly lean your head back onto Jin’s shoulder.
“H-have you, uh,” you nervously, arduously sigh, “have you ever made a girl… squirt… before?”
Jin just shakes his head. He can’t rip his eyes away from you, taking in every square inch of your body, your juices clinging to the soft hairs on your skin like morning dew on still-sleepy grass. Will you let him drink from the lotus next time? Let him not just eat, but feast?
“It happens sometimes,” you admit. “When I get really, uh, excited.”
Jin rests his cheek against yours.
“Weird?” you ask meekly.
“Gorgeous,” Jin whispers. He nudges your cheek with his and nods toward the mirror. You grin happily at his mischievous face when tells you, “Want it all over my face next time.”
His hand lazily massages your mound, careful not to touch your clit again just yet, in an attempt to help ease you down.
You turn to face him.
“Where did that come from?” you ask, nearly voiceless, but smiling brightly.
Jin shrugs, and you see him go back to whatever anxiety-ridden cave he was in earlier.
Wanting to balance everything out with a little more resolve, you ask, “Seriously, Jin, is everything OK?”
“It’s fine, I just…”
Jin leans forward to kiss you, but you both keep your eyes open. Feeling caught, he pulls away.
You study each other for a brief moment.
You don’t know it, but you’re telling yourselves the same thing.
That this is what it looks like when it means more.
Now isn’t the time for pride. “I just didn’t realize that I knew so little,” Jin says shyly.
“You know more than you might realize,” you counter. “It’s never been that intense.”
Rising a little, Jin asks, “Never?”
You smile and shake your head.
“I mean it, y’know,” Jin squeaks. He scoots his hips down a little, taking you with him, making it easy for you both to lie flat together, with you straddling his still-clothed thigh. “When I said I wanted to know more. Do more. Be there. For you…”
He takes a deep breath, and you run your hand over his chest, playing with your name in yellow stitching again.
“I wanna keep going to brunch,” he says, trying to sound like he’s just decided it, though each sentence he tells you sounds more and more like he decided it long ago.
“Good,” you say, your heart waking. “I want that too.”
Jin hums happily. You follow his eyes as they catch on the ceiling.
“Is there something else?” you ask.
Jin tilts his head. “Well, now, I’m wondering…”
“Wondering what?”
He smiles and wiggles his leg, your clit jolting against his thigh.
